At last, the fourth day of the tournament had arrived—the morning when Malgorn was to set out on his second task.

  He had been standing in the courtyard for a while already, clad in the light armor he seemed never to take off. It wasn’t the hulking pile of steel he’d worn on the first day, but even so, it looked eccentric to wear armor at all. There was no real reason for it. No enemies lurked nearby, and Malgorn radiated the kind of presence that made anyone with half a brain pick an easier target.

  He was first to arrive. Not even the gang of seven children had shown up yet.

  Just before the eighth bell, the princess appeared. “I see you’re ready, Prince—and eager to get going.” A sly smile played on her lips. She beckoned the children closer from where they were hanging back.

  “I present to you the Band of Troublemakers—your companions on this journey.” Belara pointed to each child in turn, naming their nicknames: Rascal, Red, Bones, Curls, Moose, Apron, and Two-Braids.

  Malgorn’s expression turned lofty and faintly annoyed. He had no idea this very band of mischief-makers had already wiped the floor with Prince Qelmar, whom he’d thought perfect for the job.

  The nearby bell tolled the hour. Princess Belara smiled encouragingly at them all, even Malgorn. “Good luck to all eight of you. Band, Prince—you may set out.”

  The little crowd fell into step and disappeared into the streets of Ghurmaka.

  The Blueberry Delay

  Once they left the city, the trees quickly closed around them. Malgorn knew trouble was bound to find them eventually, but his focus drifted.

  He didn’t notice when Rascal and Red veered off the path into a patch of blueberries.

  “Look—blueberries!” Rascal shouted.

  The rest of the children needed no second invitation. Before Malgorn—usually quick on the uptake—could react, the entire Band of Troublemakers was scattered like bees, happily plucking berries.

  “Children, back here,” the prince called, voice sharp. They heard him—of course they heard him—but they pretended to be deaf.

  When that failed, Malgorn considered grabbing the nearest child and threatening collective punishment. But Princess Belara’s voice echoed in his mind:no physical violence.He groaned inwardly, feeling disarmed. All he had left were threats and his commanding voice.

  He let them scamper a few more seconds, then suddenly roared, “Enough! Back on the road—now!”

  Curls, the closest, jumped at the thunder of his voice and tumbled straight into the blueberry bushes. Moose rushed to help him up and noticed him trembling, berry juice smeared head to toe. The prince’s voice had been so fierce it nearly gave the boy a fit.

  But the order worked. One by one, the children shuffled back to the trail, this time slower, Curls lagging at the rear and clearly keeping as much distance from Malgorn as possible.

  The Stick Fight

  The path led them to the next bit of planned mischief.

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  Malgorn walked in front, unaware when Moose and Bones began tugging at a stick they’d found.

  “It’s mine!”

  “I found it first!”

  “Liar!”

  The stick went back and forth between them, the argument rising fast. Rascal and Curls dashed over to join the fray, grabbing at it too.

  Malgorn turned, debating what to do. He longed to use his favorite method—force—but Belara’s ban still held. And after the blueberry incident, he sensed his earlier outburst hadn’t been ideal. He hesitated. The quarrel escalated.

  Then he stepped in, calm but imposing. He seized the stick, ripped it free, and with a single powerful swing smashed it against a tree trunk. It snapped in two—half flew into the undergrowth, the other half he flung behind him.

  “If you want to fight, at least fight over something worthy. I can teach you proper sword grips and a few strikes when we’re back in Ghurmaka. But not here. Shake hands and move on—we’ve got a long road ahead.”

  No one argued. The boys clasped hands, tempers cooling instantly. The group set off again at a lively pace.

  Malgorn noticed they were marching with the same steady rhythm as when they’d left the city. It felt like he’d handled it well—though he doubted himself. But he was wrong: he’d brought them back in line naturally, without violence.

  Crossing the Stream

  They kept a brisk pace until a wide stream blocked their path. It wasn’t deep, but too broad to jump. Anyone crossing would have to get wet.

  Without thinking, Malgorn splashed through and was out the other side in four strides. Only then did he realize the children weren’t following.

  Bones and Curls sat down to pull off their boots. Rascal just waded in, soaking his footwear, and reached the far bank first. Apron and Red followed barefoot, holding hands with Bones and Curls.

  Only Moose and Two-Braids stayed put.

  “It’s cold,” Moose muttered, rubbing his arms. The dense forest let in little light, and the air was chilly.

  “I’m not going,” Two-Braids declared, stamping a foot. “I’ll ruin my pretty dress. I hate water.”

  Malgorn studied them, weighing how to keep the group moving. His commanding voice had worked before—worth a try.

  “We need to keep going. If you want, I’ll carry you. I’m strong—I won’t drop you.”

  “You’ll crush my dress,” Two-Braids shot back.

  “I’ll get bruises if you grab me,” Moose added. “You’ve got bear paws.”

  “I’ll carry you one at a time, on my shoulders. You’ll stay well clear of the water.”

  “What if you trip on a rock? I’ll fly into the stream, smash my face, break a few bones. Not happening!” Two-Braids folded her arms. Moose copied her defiance.

  “The trail continues on this side,” Malgorn said, his patience thinning.

  “Fine, go ahead,” Moose teased. “We’ll wait here.”

  “You know that’s not an option. We move together. I don’t care how, but by the time I count to thirty, you’ll both be across. My offer stands.”

  He began to count. “One… two… three…” At ten, no movement. “Fifteen… twenty…” Still nothing.

  He closed the gap as he finished. At thirty, silence.

  The children waited, curious. Malgorn acted. He strode forward, scooped them both up—one under each arm—and in a few strides set them down safely on the opposite bank.

  “You’re a mean prince,” Two-Braids pouted.

  “Yeah, who does that?” Moose chimed in.

  “Enough,” Malgorn barked. “You’re across. Let’s keep moving.”

  The Band of Troublemakers started off again, their pace back to the lazy shuffle from the blueberry patch. Malgorn longed to reach their destination quickly, but the slowed march stretched the journey and tested his patience.

  Night in the Settlement

  They reached the small settlement just before half past nine. Nightfall came fast. The children settled around the fire as evening deepened. Bedtime.

  Yet Malgorn sensed unease. He watched them closely and soon spotted the worst of it in Red and Curls.

  Red lay curled up, face hidden. Curls sat with knees to chest, eyes shining with unshed tears. He sniffled, rubbing at them. Then, in a voice so pitiful it could crack stone, he whispered, “Malgorn? I want to go home. Please. I’m scared. I don’t want to sleep here.”

  Hearing him, Red lifted her head and added sadly, “I’m scared too. Please, I don’t want to stay.”

  Malgorn faced the one thing he hated most: pure, childlike fear. He—a warrior hardened by brutal battles—was now confronted by two small children pleading with their eyes.

  Though Ghurmaka and Princess Belara had begun to soften him, the old habits returned.

  “No,” he said sharply. The cold, stone-hearted man stood there again. “We’re not going anywhere. If you’re afraid, stay closer to the fire. I’ll keep it burning as long as I can. Otherwise, close your eyes and sleep. Tomorrow we finish our journey.”

  Curls looked like he wanted to argue, but thought better of it. With quiet resignation, he lay down and pulled a blanket over himself. Red did the same. Side by side, they drew comfort from each other’s presence and made it through the night.