the agility required may be beyond many of my men. And we need to bring our horses, obviously.”
“That’s your problem. Do you want me to do everything for you?”
“Not at all, Your Highness. I intend to dismantle the wall. I have the men to do it.”
“Fine. Knock your way through and make a path for the old men to use.”
And Thornlees was dismissed. He hadn’t even had the chance to sip his wine.
Now it was the morning of the advance. The smoke had been dispersed to the brigades. The ladders were hidden at the wall. Thornlees was holding position farther back from the boys’ brigades. His men were ready to join the attack, but, if Harold had his way, March suspected it’d be over before Thornlees arrived.
March helped Harold to dress. The only armor the prince wore was a breast- and backplate, as these pieces helped his chest look wider and shone blindingly in the sunlight. There was a gold sun over Harold’s heart—assuming, of course, that he had a heart. Harold carried two flasks of purple smoke—one on each hip.
Harold inspected the Gold Brigade, as they had to complement the prince’s appearance. Harold even checked that Sam’s sword was sharp and clean, and gave him a spear to carry. “Yes, yes, yes. You’re my star boy, Sam. Now you look the part.” And Sam’s grin almost broke his face open.
Harold turned to March and said, “You’re hopeless with a sword, March. And not much better with a spear. So I’ve had a few of these made especially for you.” Harold held out his hand, on which rested three small pieces of metal, each the shape of a lemon but the size of a large chestnut.
“Thank you, Your Highness.” March wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with them.
“I’ve seen you practicing with your stones. You used them to good effect against the other recruits in the race. These are my design, a good shape to fly fast and true, with more weight to add to the impact.”
March took the metal shot from the prince. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
“Let’s see what you can hit with them. Take a sip of smoke and throw one at . . . my chest.”
“Your chest!” March wasn’t sure what to think of this idea. “But, Your Highness. I don’t want to miss.”
“Then don’t.”
March backed away. Was this his one chance to end the attack? Kill Harold and end it all? He licked his lips.
“Farther back,” Harold called.
March moved away, feeling the weight of the shot in his hand. But also feeling sweat on his palm.
“I hope you’re going to look more fearsome in battle, March. You look like you’re going to pee in your pants.”
March bent down to rub his palms on his trousers and muttered, “Fuck you, Your Highness,” before standing upright, hauling his arm back, and throwing.
The shot zinged through the air, flat and hard, flying to Harold’s face. But Harold had smoke in him too, and he simply moved his head quickly to the side. “Your aim’s lousy. I said to hit my chest.”
March threw again, before Harold had time to say more. The shot hit Harold’s chest with a sharp bang so that he staggered back. “Ho, ho! March. That was a good aim and much more like it.” Harold looked down. “Shits, you’ve dented my armor. Right on the heart.”
March froze—spoiling the prince’s armor and appearance was possibly more dangerous than hurting him.
But Harold laughed. “I rather like it. Shows I’ve seen a fight. I’ve got a bag full of shot for you, March. You’ll be deadly with them.”
March had one last piece in his hand. He could kill Harold now. He could do it; he pulled his arm back.
“Hey,” Sam said as he grabbed March’s arm and wrenched him round.
“Hey yourself, Sam. Don’t you like me getting even a little praise for my skills? It can’t always be about you, you know.”
“It’s not that. I thought you were . . .” He let go of March’s arm. “Never mind.”
March could attack Harold, but actually Sam was right to stop him now. Thornlees would still want to take the wall; the Brigantine army would still come and attack Calidor. March’s one hope of being useful to Edyon was to stay alive and to use his privileged position in the Gold Brigade somehow.
Harold rode out of camp with the Gold Brigade jogging behind his horse. Ahead, the boys’ brigades were lined up. The Bulls were in the middle, Rashford