something. They’ll hesitate. They won’t want to kill children.”
Rashford, Sam, and the other assassins returned at that moment, their hands and clothes splattered with blood.
Sam was beaming. “It was like slaughtering cattle. They’re so slow. We could rush them, slice their throats, and be gone before anyone could move. It was like a game.”
“And they lost every time,” Rashford said, though he sounded less than happy. “We’ve removed a few guards, but there are a lot of Calidorians still up there.”
The sun rose over the hillside now, revealing the horror of the battlefield, with corpses dismembered and hung up. Rashford didn’t say anything but stared out across the field, and then he turned away with a small shudder.
March, however, had his own work to do. Harold, as always, was concerned about his appearance, especially on the day when he’d have a famous victory, so March had to clean his armor. Once March had polished it to a gleaming brilliance, Harold said, “You put it on.”
It was so bright the enemy could not miss it. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, March understood the plan. The Calidorians would expect the boy wearing this armor to be Harold. When March was dressed, Harold grinned. “You almost look like a soldier now, March. But you’ll never look like a prince.”
“Perhaps if I had a sword,” March suggested.
“Well, pick one up—there’s a thousand lying around here,” Harold said. Clearly he wasn’t going to give March his own silver and gold weapon.
“Archers to the west!” The shout was from the lookout on the wall. “Archers to the east. Take cover. Take cover.”
A swooshing sound came from the west, quickly followed by another from the east. The boys looked up as one, their eyes following the arrows high into the sky and raising the shields they’d picked up from the fallen soldiers on the battlefield. “Yes, use your shields. Protect yourselves. But I want some of you to fall,” Harold said. “And scream. And some can try to run to the wall. Look like we’re panicking. But try not to laugh, boys.”
Harold held his shield up and walked confidently through the field of mutilated bodies. A few of the boys around him screamed and fell to the ground, pretending to be dead. “Keep your shield up, March. You’re not dead yet. Prince Harold wouldn’t fall so easily.”
Harold walked to the center of the field. They were surrounded by bodies, dead and alive. Arrows rained down. One nicked March’s thigh but he felt the smoke heal the wound. Another swarm of arrows came their way, and more of the boys fell with them. March didn’t know how many were faking and how many—if any—had actually been wounded. There were only twenty or thirty boys standing, and Harold said, “Sam, March. Stay with me. We go for Thelonius. I want him alive. My prisoner. But first, it’s time for some acting.” With that, he grabbed at his chest, as if hit by an arrow, and made a dying noise as he dropped dramatically to the ground.
Rashford was standing close, and he looked at March with raised eyebrows before clutching at his chest and grunting and groaning as he fell. March dropped to his knees too as he saw movement to the north. The arrows had stopped falling. “Riders are coming,” he said.
“I can hear their pounding,” Harold replied. “Keep visible, March. And keep watch. Tell us how close your old master is.”
March stayed on his knees. The riders were coming his way. They must have seen Harold’s armor—who could miss it, after all?
“Can you see Thelonius?” Harold asked.
“Yes, but he’s far back, on the edge of the field.”
The Calidorian horsemen made their way to March. But the battlefield was a sea of bodies. It was impossible to deter-mine which, if any, were alive, almost impossible to determine who was Brigantine and who Calidorian. The horses didn’t like walking among the bodies, and some riders were having to urge and kick them forward. Most dismounted, swords held out, stabbing at bodies on the ground. The stench of blood and flesh had intensified overnight, and the flies had begun to swarm in the warmth of the morning sun. The Calidorians were cursing, disgusted by what they saw and smelled. March’s knees were wet from kneeling on the bloody ground. His stomach was churning. He wanted a piss and a shit and to be sick at the same time.
The Wasps should be running in now, but they were nowhere to