The White Prince Goes Forth
(1993)

He hung in an enfolding darkness pierced with ten thousand hard points of light scintillant with diamond fire.

He thought, perhaps, that they numbered as many as those whose souls he had stolen to sustain his own debilitated body. Clenching his deceptively delicate bone-white hand into a fist, he shook it in a futile gesture of rage and frustration. In its scabbard on his left hip, his fiendish sword puled like a beaten whelp.

Once again the white prince had been flung by wizardry and wild necromancy far, far from his own Realm, into the Void: beyond even the influence of his patron Duke of Hell: at the mercy of the winds of limbo.

§

Elsewhere in the multiverse, a cold wind blows and a dark rain falls with dreary insistance from a sky the colour of galvanised steel…

All the soldiers in the trench were sodden despite their capes, the water trickling in to chill their already weary flesh. In the bottom of the trench the muddy water pooled, submerging the duckboards in filth.

“I say, sir,” said the lieutenant, a tall, gangling, clean-shaven Oxbridge type, “this rain’s not cricket!”

“No, Henry,” said the captain, looking sidelong, almost pityingly, at the other officer, “it’s not cricket, it’s rain. You must have seen it before: it’s rained every day for the past week…”

“I’ll say so, sir. And dashed disappointing it is. I don’t suppose there’s a chance of us going over the top yet. And I’m so looking forward to fighting for King and country, to giving the Bosch a damn good licking.”

“Harry, we’ve about as much chance of giving the German army a licking as Private Spats has of becoming cordon bleu chef at the Ritz.” He looked about him at the dull, miserable landscape. “Damn this! I’m going inside to try to get some sleep: wake me when the war’s over!” With which he turned on his heel and ducked into the dugout.

“Begging yer pardon, sir… ?” one of the men, a small, bespectacled, grossly unkempt private, ventured.

“Yes, Spats?”

“Who… who’s Gordon Blurshev?”

§

The white prince’s body was starved of all warmth and vigour, his vitality drained to the lees.

He drove his right hand to the hilt of the black sword which, alone, still possessed energy. As he slowly folded his fingers around it, it seemed to swell in his fist. He did not draw the sword: rather the sword forced his limbs into motion, propelling his arm upwards to brandish it, to challenge the Void. Its blade was a tongue of black fire, and its song a gleeful, keening melisma.

“Your path’s entwined with mine: take us from this place or our destinies will never be fulfilled.”

The white prince’s black sword swung to and fro: his unfeeling arm was wrenched with it and he pitched and yawed wildly. In eight directions it swung, questing – like a pig nosing for truffles. And then it gave a strange metallic yell, almost of delight.

He knew then that the sword had perceived a Realm they might reach – not necessarily their own, but one which would accept them. And, as one lost in a desert must yearn for the foulest oasis rather than none at all, the prince yearned for that Realm!

“Take us there!”

The sword moaned. It faltered, chary.

“Take us there!” he whispered to his sword.

The sword struck this way and that, jinked and darted as if in melée with invisible foes – the prince all but lost his grip on it. It seemed that the hellblade was fearful of the Realm it had found and resisted being drawn towards it. But drawn it was, and the white prince with it; slowly at first, but inexorably; then quicker and quicker until in a mad rush they hurtled towards a landscape accreting from the Void and were flung into a viscous mire of mud and oil and blood and bone.

And blackness enveloped him.

§

The captain, unable to sleep because of the incessant drumming of the rain on the corrugated-iron roof of the dugout, was reclining on his bunk, leafing through a volume of Romantic poetry (Ernest Wheldrake’s Revelry in Carthage, crown octavo, cloth bound), when he was interrupted by a commotion in the trench outside.

“Sir! Sir! We’ve captured a German spy!”

“Good Lord! Isn’t that amazing?” As ever, the sarcasm was lost on Private Spats. The captain swung his legs off the bunk, and stood up. “And where, pray, is this German spy?” He reached for his tunic, draped over the foot of the bed and pulled it on.

“Lieutenant Henry’s escorting him here now, sir.”

“Oh, good. I can hardly wait.” He fastened the last button on his tunic, buckled his Sam Browne.

Moments later the lieutenant and two men led in their captive and, for once, the normally insouciant captain was dumbfounded.

§

He was escorted by three men, two soldiers of the line and an officer, through a kind of moat and into a wooden hut set into the moat’s wall. Inside were two other men: another soldier; another officer.

This last was tall, dark, somewhat raffish: some might call him handsome. His eyes widened as the white prince entered, but his jaw did not drop… quite.

The lieutenant was brimming with boyish enthusiasm, his features wildly animated. “Captain! Really… this is quite splendid. Face to face with the Hun at last! And a spy! HQ are going to be absolutely –”

“Harry,” the captain cut in, “what makes you think he’s a German spy? For that matter, what makes you think he’s a German at all? Not even Prussian cavalry dress like that!”

The lieutenant pursed his lips as he considered this. “Well, I’ll admit, he did strike me as being a little curious…” He regarded his captive once more: his bone-white skin and milk-white hair; his gaunt features and oddly-slanted crimson eyes; his black velvet tunic, silk breeches and high boots of soft leather; his black-lacquered steel cuirass.

“’A little curious’? Curious? Harry, he’s bizarre: as bizarre as someone who’s very, very bizarre indeed.”

The lieutenant inclined his head and gave a little shrug of one shoulder. “Well, sir, you could be right… Certainly this is like no cavalry sword that I’ve ever seen.” And he gestured to one of the soldiers who gingerly handed him a long, canvas-wrapped bundle that he’d been carrying.

The white prince, who had regarded this dialogue so far with an amused detachment, became suddenly concerned: his sword!

Henry set the bundle down on the table by the field telephone, and peeled back the canvas to reveal the white prince’s weapon: a long, straight, double-edged sword with a two-handed grip, all black, and the blade incised with weird runes.

It lay there on the canvas, inert.

“It’s jolly strange, sir. Lance Corporal Salmon discovered it half-buried in the mud near to this chap, but when he picked it up it burned the skin off his hands (he’s with the MO now), but he was yelling about how cold it was. It’s a bit rum if you ask me, Cap.”

The captain and Private Spats moved towards the table and peered closely at the sword.

“Sir… ?” He pulled of his spectacles, wiped the lenses on his greatcoat cuff.

“Yes, Spats?”

“You know they say that somewhere there’s a bullet with your name on it?”

“Yes. So… ?”

“Well, if you can say the same thing about swords as they say about bullets… Well, it’s jus’ that all these squiggly marks on this sword… they seem to be an awful lot of people’s names…”

§

The captain stepped back from the table, turned to address the stranger.

“So. Can you explain all this? And just who are you?”

“As to the first, I can, but I do seriously doubt that you would understand my explanantion, let alone believe it. I myself, for whom this is a not entirely unprecedented experience, do not entirely comprehend…”

“Try me.”

“I think not. At least… not yet.”

“Very well. Your name, then. You’ll give me that.”

Strangely, the white prince found it difficult to recall his own name, and when he did, it seemed to be wrong, yet fitting: “I am… Ulrich… von Mirenburg.”

“Von Mirenburg? So, you’re from Wäldenstein? A German by, er, adoption. And your rank?”

“Ah… Fürst – Ulrich Fürst von Mirenberg.”

“Oh, Prince Ulrich. Your highness. Please forgive me, I didn’t realise…”

If the white prince noticed the sarcasm in the captain’s voice, he gave no sign. “Please, may I sit? It’s been a very long time since I have had any… sustenance. I’m really rather weak…”

“Of course, your highness. Please, have my bunk.” And he gestured to the back of the dugout, at the same time executing a rather theatrical bow. With another gesture, he dismissed the two guards. Then: “Harry…”

The white prince, who called himself Ulrich, gratefully moved towards the bunk, stumbling slightly, and collapsing heavily onto the thin mattress. Idly, he picked up the book he found lying there, riffled the pages. Although the script was indecipherable, that it was poetry was clear from the disposition of the words on the page; and although it was incomprehensible to him, still some of the poems seemed oddly familiar.

While musing this, his last remaining strength fled, and he collapsed into a deep slumber.

§

“Harry, look. Has it occurred to you what this man is?”

“Well, I really did think he was a spy, but, well, I’ll grant you, that does seem rather unlikely.”

“Yes, Harry. He’s hardly suited for espionage…” The captain pursed his lips. “He’s about as inconspicuous as a cowpat in a Fortnum & Mason hamper. So, if not a spy, then what… ?”

“I say, sir! It couldn’t be a monumental double bluff, could it? You know: send over someone who’s obviously not a spy; make us drop our guard; reveal our secrets; then nip back over to the Hun lines.”

“I doubt it, Harry. If the Germans wanted us to drop anything and reveal our secrets, I think that they’d send Mata Hari rather than some Harlequin out of the Commedia dell’Arte. No, Harry,” and he leaned towards his lieutenant conspiratorially, licked his lips, “I think we’re dealing with an escaped lunatic. Who else would be wandering round No Man’s Land?”

“A madman, eh, Cap?” Henry was nonplussed. “Well, who’d have thought it.”

“Obviously not you,” he muttered; then: “Why ever not? We’ve enough madmen around here already…”

“So, shall we take him to HQ?”

“To be with the rest of them… ?”

Henry carried on oblivious to his captain’s flippancy. “They’ll be able to look after him, give him, er, psychiatric treatment, you know.”

“Harry. If we take him to HQ with even the merest suspicion that he’s a German spy, it’ll be interrogation followed by a firing squad. The only psychiatric treatment he’s likely to get is a lobotomy with half an ounce of lead. No, Harry. I just don’t know what to do.”

“Er, with respect, sir. I don’t think we can just keep him here. I really think we ought to telephone Captain Deere, and let him know the situation.”

“Very well, Harry. If you must…” He sighed, inwardly relieved that the decision had been taken out of his hands. Let Deere and the General worry about it!

But one thing still troubled him: whatever the man was – spy, lunatic, clown – what on Earth was he doing with a five-foot long, jet-black sword?

§

Ulrich was woken by the grubby little private shaking him by the shoulder.

“Yer ’ighness. Yer ’ighness. Captain A wondered if yer’d like some grub?”

Incongruous images of larvae swam through his mind… then he was fully awake: “If I would like to eat? Yes, yes, of course. I am most grateful. I am so hungry, I could eat a, a horse.”

The captain was already seated at the rough wooden table. “I’m sorry, your highness, we can’t offer you horse: there hasn’t been a cavalry attack in months. The best we can offer you is pigeon. But this is –”

“D’yer think,’ Spats whining voice interupted, ’is ’ighness would prefer some of me rat and cockroach hot-pot?”

“No, thank you Spats, I don’t think he would. Take it from me, your highness, you wouldn’t. As I was saying, I’m afraid this is the Somme, not Derry & Tom’s Famous Roof Garden.”

Ulrich treated this witicism to a blank look.

“Derry & Tom’s. London. Great Britain. Surely an aristocrat such as yourself is cosmopolitan enough to know Europe’s largest city?”

“Gran Br–, Great Britain? Putney…” he ventured.

“Oh, so you know Putney, do you?”

“I know… of it.” The white prince glanced across at the bunk where he’d been sleeping. “I know… knew someone from there.”

The captain stood up as Ulrich pulled out a chair to sit down, turned to the lieutenant. “Not joining us for luncheon, Harry?”

“No, sir, I’d rather not. And…” His long face got longer.

“Yes, Harry?”

“Well, sir, with all due respect, I don’t think that you should be, be… consorting with the enemy, sir! It’s against King’s Regulations.”

“Is it, Harry? But I’m not at all convinced that Prince Ulrich here, is the enemy. Remember?” He moved his right forefinger in small circles by his temple. “Wibble, wibble, wibble, eh, Harry? And in any case, I’d rather dine with this man than any of the madmen on the general staff.”

“Well, that’s as may be… But, thank you, no, I shan’t eat with you. Permission to leave the dugout, sir?”

“Granted,” he said, and dismissed the lieutenant with a negligent wave of his hand. “I’m sorry, your highness. Please eat.”

“Thank you kindly. But first I must beg you for some hot water. I need to prepare an infusion of herbs and drugs, ah, for my health, you understand.”

The captain gestured to Spats to boil a kettle. The white prince set to. He ate slowly, with an economy of movement. After several mouthfuls: “This is… very good.”

“Very good? It’s a banquet compared to what we normally suffer. It’s the first fresh meat that hasn’t fought back in ages.”

Once Spats had come over with the kettle, the captain watched as Ulrich crumbled some dried leaves into an enamel mug, sprinkled some strangely coloured powders (reminiscent of the captain’s service in India), and steeped the mixture with the steaming water. So, he thought, is he more than a madman? An addict, an opium eater? Possibly. But still: why the sword?

The white prince followed his gaze to the quiescent hellblade, now propped inelegantly in a corner of the dugout. The captain turned back to Ulrich, who started a little, betraying his concern.

“I don’t think,” he began companionably, “that we really established what you were doing in No Man’s Land. Or why you have such a strange, mediæval weapon as that sword.”

“I do not wish to seem discourteous after your hospitality, but I say again that, if I were to answer you truthfully, you would scarcely believe me. I would only reinforce your conviction that I am a madman.”

The captain’s face said: Who? Me?

“No, sir, I take no offence. I have been thought worse things than that: have been worse things than that…”

“A spy, for example?”

§

There was a sudden, distant booming of howitzers, then the woosh and roar of shells falling about the trenches.

“Bugger. We’re under attack.”

Outside, orders were barked. Ulrich thought, at first, that they were stirring the men against the forces of Chaos.

“Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!”

The captain and Private Spats grabbed for their packs, pulled out their respirators and tugged them down over their faces. The captain paused to say, “I’m sorry, your highness, we can’t spare one for you. Your best bet is to stay here and hope that the wind changes.” Then he drew his Webley and followed the private out into the trench.

Heedless of the warning, Ulrich followed the captain in turn, tarrying only to take up his runesword. It felt oddly cumbrous in his grasp.

In the trenches he was greeted by the sight of the infantry in grotesque masks, goggle eyed and with long snouts. Deep in his mind a memory of another army stirred, the army of… was it Great Britain?… the soldiers all in beast-like helmets. And himself (but it couldn’t be) leading another army against them.

A hazy green vapour roiled over the ground, flooding the trench. A few unfortunates had not found their respirators in time; those who still had any strength left were expending it retching. But Ulrich was unaffected.

From both sides of him came the rat-tat-tat of machine-gun fire. He incautiously looked over the top of the trench to see muddied, blue-clad soldiers, similarly masked, advancing towards them.

Ulrich suddenly gave himself up to the thrilling delight of his battle-lust. Before anyone could stop him, before anyone had even noticed him, he vaulted from the trench and charged towards the oncoming troops, wildly swinging his still leaden hellsword.

As he met them, he swung the runeblade to cut down one and another and another. And with each one, the sword drank the man’s soul so that he died in horrible anguish and new strength flowed into the white prince, strength of a grusomely different kind from that bestowed him by his alchemy. And his battle-lust only grew.

But even as the white prince and his black sword felled man after man after man, all about them ten times that number were falling as the fire from the Lewis guns scythed across their ranks. And soon none were left for the black sword.

§

He found himself again in what the captain had called No Man’s Land, surrounded only by the human detritous of battle.

His mad dash had carried him far from the captain’s trench, and he was uncertain now of the direction in which it lay. In his hand, a living thing once more, the sword emitted a keening wail. It was not yet sated.

He was now lost, seemingly hopelessly. Moreover, he knew that returning to the trench would endanger those who had helped him, so he did not try.

Then through the mist and the last sickly wisps of gas he saw a figure approaching, a tall, gaunt figure (taller and even gaunter than the albino), robed in black, and carrying a scythe.

“SO,” he said, in a voice like slabs of lead falling onto granite, “IT IS YOU WHO HAS BEEN ROBBING ME OF MY HARVEST.”

Ulrich knew himself to be in the presence of a Power of the Higher Planes. “Lord, I meant not to rob anyone, let alone such as yourself.”

“NO MATTER. IT WAS BUT A SMALL PART OF THE HARVEST. THE TINIEST FRACTION.”

“Have you come for me, lord?”

“HAVE I? COME FOR YOU? ARE YOU A KING? OR A WIZARD?”

“I have sat on a ruby throne. And some say I am a sorceror.”

“THEN I MIGHT…” The figure searched within his robes. “NO – YOUR DEATH WILL NOT BE IN THIS REALM, BUT IN YOUR OWN, ALTHOUGH THE MEANS OF YOUR DEATH IS ALREADY CLOSE AT HAND. BUT NOW, ENOUGH! YOU DO NOT BELONG HERE. YOUR SWORD HAS DRUNK DEEPLY ENOUGH TO HAVE THE POWER TO TAKE YOU FROM THIS PLACE. SO, BEGONE!”

And the sword flung itself upwards to the heavens and the white prince with it. And as the world receeded, time there seemed to accelerate, and the ruined landscape was greened over, and finally, just before it faded back into the Void, the white prince (who now no longer thought of himself as Ulrich) saw the green scattered with the bright vermilion drops of poppy heads.

― fin ―