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would have to travel on
foot. The towns along the border were small, and heavy cavalry would not be
necessary.
    Ivor stepped inside the smithy near the palace.
Hammers were clanging, and the air was darkened by smoke. The furnaces were
working overtime, as were the metal smiths. At the sight of their prince, the
men stopped hammering and bowed their heads.
    “Is my armor ready?” he asked the largest man.
    “It is, Your Highness,” the man replied. Rushing
to the rear of the shop, he approached a boy who was lazily polishing a piece
of plated mail. Slapping the boy on the side of his head, he demanded, “Bring
the prince’s armor, you lazy little good-for-nothing.”
    The boy glared at his master but promptly rose to
his feet to obey. In a flash, he retrieved the prince’s items and handed them
to the smith.
    Inspecting each piece closely as he walked, the
smith presented the armor to Prince Ivor. “Some of my finest work, my lord,” he
said proudly.
    The prince looked it over approvingly. “It will
suffice, I suppose.” Though it was well crafted, Ivor preferred not to give
compliments to those who were beneath him.
    “You,” the smith said, pointing at the youth.
“Carry this for the prince.” He shoved the bundle of armor at the boy, who
struggled slightly under its weight.
    The prince headed out, determined to speak with the
commanders of the army’s various regiments. A manservant spotted the prince and
immediately rushed to his side. Relieving the boy of his burden, he waved a
hand dismissively. The boy rubbed both arms, which were aching from the strain
of the bundle. Shaking his head, he realized there would be no payment for his
services. Why should a prince tip a peasant or even acknowledge him? The boy
trudged away, his head low.
    Finding his officers in the armory, the prince was
pleased to see them already dressed for battle. A map lay on the table near the
men, and they appeared to be discussing the movement of their troops.
    Ivor stepped heavily to draw their attention. The
men stood and bowed to their prince.
    “We will begin our march this afternoon,” he
declared. “Within two days we will reach the border, and my father has
commanded us to raid the villages but not harm too many citizens. The leaders
are to be tortured.”
    “He wants us to spread fear,” the eldest commander
said, nodding. “He’s a clever man.”
    Ivor scoffed. “Personally, I don’t care how many
survivors you leave. A handful can spread the word as well as a hundred. The
torture will have to be quick if fleeing citizens are to witness it. Drag the
town leaders into the street and gut them before you remove their heads. Hold
them high for all to see.”
    “The guts or the heads, my lord?” one man dared to
ask.
    “What difference does it make?” the prince
replied. “Have the troops ready by midday.” Turning to his servant, he asked,
“Do you know how to dress a man for battle?”
    “Yes, Your Highness,” the man replied with
confidence.
    “Good. You may have the honor of assisting me with
my armor.” The prince dressed while his lieutenants dispersed.
    Outside, the eldest man asked, “Do you think our
prince will make a good war leader?”
    A heavily bearded lieutenant replied with a laugh.
“Not to worry. His father won’t stay out of the fighting for long. Let the
prince have his first experience of blood and death. It will do him some good.”
    “Let’s hope he’s listened to his father over the
years,” the old man replied. “I’ve ridden with the king many times through the
years. He’s a natural fighter. The prince knows how to handle a blade, but he’s
a poor leader.”
    “How do you know?” a third man asked. “He’s never actually
commanded anything.”
    “Exactly my point,” the old commander replied. “By
now he should have fought many battles. These years of peace have done us all a
disservice. Our prince will likely charge in without thinking things through.”
    “Well,