The Last Noble Prince: Battle for the Golden Mountains

By Jitesh .

What is the true meaning of honour? What is the true duty of a prince towards his subjects? In the fictional land of Pirth, all three kingdoms lust for one thing: The Golden Mountains, a fount of infinite wealth forever eluding their grasp. The Prince and heir to the throne of Corave, the most powerful of these three kingdoms, finds himself at the heart of this struggle, but not because he lusts for wealth. The Prince seeks vengeance, and his only goal is to vanquish the Shadowy Shafer, a vicious leader of bandits, whose horde reigns over the woods of the Golden Mountains, preventing any kingdom from access to their wealth. The Prince finds himself growing to become the strongest and most powerful warrior in Pirth and rises to end the reign of the Shafer, who is believed to be invincible and unbeatable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: One Point Six Technologies Pvt Ltd
• Release date: Oct 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9789388942706

Jitesh .

A teacher of English in a reputed high school in Mumbai and born and brought up in the metropolitan city, Jitesh has always found true love in fiction, particularly in stories of fantasy and science-fiction and through ‘The Last Noble Prince’ presents the reader an enthralling tale that makes one question the true meaning of the long forgotten virtue of honour.

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Chapter 1: The End

‘The highest honour has one sign,

Self-sacrifice for the good of mankind.’

-Lessons from the life of The Prince by Emperor Bhrigern.

It was the year 792PGC. Against the swift wind of the oncoming tempest, it flew. It could sense the possible terror and all it sought was shelter. The merciful Oak with its sturdy branches and the massive shadow of its colossal form was an inviting sight. The nightingale perched upon the strongest of its numerous arms and rested like an infant within the comforting embrace of its mother’s bosom. But from this vantage point, the nightingale could witness an intriguing sight in the distance.

Across the vast moors was an ensemble of men standing upon the wet grass and forming a perfect circle of individuals when viewed from above. Like a ring, their formation was breached from the centre. The nightingale’s keen vision rendered a picture most horrifying for right in the centre lay a man. He was lifeless. Then, the fear of the nightingale materialised as it started to rain and thunder furiously. Water poured from above in heavy droplets and it appeared as if the gods themselves were crying out in grief at the dismal scenario.

The corpse lay in the lap of a man. He was more beast than man with shoulders that stretched long and wide, his massive structure, which depicted signs of a past of intense physical strain and effort, was accentuated by the long mane of white hair giving the brutish body the hint of profound wisdom. Water poured upon his person, sopping not only his hair but also the sturdy bronze armour that covered him from head to toe like a protective cocoon. Drip, drip, drip the water poured from his long white beard that covered his entire face save the slight gap which housed his lips. His eyes portrayed unfathomable sorrow and the warm tears that flowed freely from within them, mingled with the cold droplets of the rain and trickled downwards onto the face of the corpse falling softly upon its closed eyes, its gaping mouth and drenching the blanket of long brown hair that fell in a torrent of wet curls from his head.

‘My son…is dead!’ lamented the pained soul as he caressed the forehead of the carcass that lay on his lap. He sobbed vehemently and the soldiers arched themselves forth, dropping the taller than men spears upon the ground with a Clang. They all were gaping; none of the soldiers could believe what they were witnessing and how such a miserable scenario came to pass. To be man is to ascend beyond base needs and reach the point of being wherein one exists for the good of his fellow men. He, had not only reached this meaning of mankind, but had gone beyond, and given the ultimate sacrifice, the sacrifice of his very life for the greater good. This was The Prince.

The man that stood in the distance knew that he should have been rejoicing; he should have been ecstatic at the death of The Prince. All his life he had struggled for this; all his life was spent in preparing for this, training for this, fighting for this; to lay him waste and to end his existence. But now, he could not fathom why at this moment his heart was only stricken with compassion and grief. Why, instead of mirth, was he suffused with fury for his actions? He could not know. All he knew was that in this particular moment he wanted to honour this man. He knew that even though all his life he had strived to kill him for foiling all his plans and ruining his attempts, he wanted to honour him. He repented now, repented the repugnance he harboured for The Prince.

How could I have hated him so much?

He wallowed within a moment of intense self-loathing. All that he could think were the final words of The Prince. Even now, within his final moments, he [The Prince] had not forgotten his honour; had not forgotten his duty for which he spent his life. Even now, The Prince lived with but one purpose ordained upon him. Inevitably, as if out of a deep impulse goaded by his unconscious psyche rather than his waning conscious hatred, he found himself bending his back low, his hand retreating to his chest as a suppliant in honour of this pure, untainted soul.

The woman that stood beside the corpse was weeping uncontrollably. Her long auburn hair was drenched in the rain like a crimson curtain that clung to her back, strands sticking to her face as if they, too were grief stricken and petrified, displaying no intention to move. Her grief-stricken voice was emanating along the moors. She knew that her soul-mate was dead and she would never see him again. The Princess had lost the only man she ever loved and ever will love. Even her mind was suffused with but the final words of The Prince and the respect which she now harboured for her beloved was increased manifold by his selfless pursuit that knew not the meaning of the word "self". The pain at this loss was too immense to bear. She lamented at the inability to speak to him one more time. She cringed for she knew she would no longer be able to speak to him even though she was, at this moment, ready to sacrifice her entire existence just to say I love you to him; just to speak those words before he left her forever.

The circle of soldiers parted as the army general came forward. Drops of water fell upon him and, no matter how hard he tried, his free flowing tears were relentless. But he did not sob. He wished to honour The Prince, the great soul for whom he held utmost admiration. However, the one with whom The Prince shared the greatest bond, had to be acquainted with this demise. A neigh could be heard: not the loud and flamboyant neigh that befitted a horse of this stature. The general held the bridle firm within his grasp and led it towards the corpse. It was tall and proud and yet the voice of its neigh betrayed the honour of this princely stallion for it, too was grieving. It was lamenting the loss of its master...No, its best friend; its only friend. Slowly, it bent its massive head forward and nudged the face of The Prince in an attempt to awaken and stir him out of his slumber. But quickly the beast realised that the attempt was futile and its friend would never awaken ever again and its heart was suffused with grief such as no creature had ever experienced. The stallion let out a howling neigh as if calling out to the heavens in order to communicate with its friend and somehow speak to him...but in vain.

The king who held his lost son in his lap looked up at the horse and all the men. All of them had tears in their eyes and even the heavy downpour could not mask the grief upon their countenance. He wanted just once to hear his son’s voice and for him to speak those words which he had heard from him [The Prince] and his mother so often and would now hear those words in neither of those voices ever again. How he loved them and how he had lost the only two people most important in his life made the emperor dreary with grief. With eyes that had assumed a crimson hue from crying, the king’s features convulsed and he screamed, ‘BOW DOWN!’

His voice was commanding and heavy. It had not lost the gruesome prowess even with age and the men instantly dropped their shields along with their swords and bows. Quivers were laid down; helmets and helms were lifted and kept aside. The men could now feel the water drenching their hair and face as it fell in full blow upon them.

‘Bow down,’the king repeated in a softer tone this time. ‘Bow down and pay respect to your prince. Make him feel that he who died for us shall never be forgotten. Make him known that we honour his sacrifice, that we shall always cherish his dedication.’

The teary eyed soldiers bent down onto their knees in supplication before the great soul. Even his greatest foe, his nemesis found himself unwillingly bending down to his knees before The Prince in honour. The grieving woman bent down onto her knees. Then, as if in complete unison, all men on the scene bent down before the waning corpse, honouring the dead. A long chant erupted within the moors that shook the very foundations of the land.

‘ALL HAIL THE PRINCE OF CORAVE!’

Chapter 2: Altruistic Tendencies

‘The compendium of knowledge,

Says the one above;

‘Rests only in empathic love.’

-Lessons from the life of The Prince by Emperor Bhrigern.

The year was 772PGC. Pillaging amongst the thick blanket of snow was a wolf. Its coat a lush fur of pearl white that gave it enough warmth through the heavy burden of the snow, which was an integral part of its habitat. With the long and drenched snout against the ice, it scavenged for any creatures or carcasses that the sheer cold may have left for it to devour. Then, a scent wafted in the air. The wolf instantly caught it and bounded forth towards the source, its paws carrying its graceful form at blinding speed.

The beast was struck with awe at the unfamiliar and deviant sight before it. Right before it was a youth with long brown hair that flowed down the back of his head and over his forehead. It could witness the sinewy stature of the youth, with the muscles rippling and convulsing as he arched his back. While the boy was neither very tall, nor bestially wide, he appeared to have a rough stature. Ordinarily, a creature would fight for dominion over its territory. But this wolf was a straggler and had been detached from the pack. Wolves, much like humans derived strength from solidarity. A finger can be strong when used to attack. But when five fingers combine to form a fist, the strength is not just increased five times but sixteen times. This is the power of unity where collective efforts do not increase efficiency arithmetically, but exponentially. The wolf, too knew that alone, this powerful human could not be killed and it would itself be mortally wounded. If only the storm had not separated it from the pack, they all would be feasting on warm and supple flesh.

The boy began to turn and the wolf scampered away to hide behind a massive rock, lest the boy consider it a threat and hurt it. The boy held a tall pole. Flecks of snow had settled upon the long sharp nose. His face was clean. Puberty had not played its role yet to bring about any facial hair. Big eyes that were curved upwards like that of a deer were accentuated by a pointed chin and a deep tanned complexion.

The boy’s clothing was rather sparse, considering the freezing sub-thermal temperature of the summit. Adorned with a loose tunic, short sleeved, the knot of which was tied tightly at the chest, he carried a cloak that hung loosely over his small shoulders. A pair of grey breeches that only stretched to his knee formed a part of his entire set of garments. Such clothing would ordinarily be apt for a summer afternoon. But wearing sparse clothing in freezing circumstances formed a part of his training in order to render him immune to climatic afflictions. This course of action was undertaken on the fact that whenever something is taken to the very breaking point and pushed beyond it, only then can it be strengthened.

What does not kill you, makes you stronger.

He depicted man’s intense need to break the barriers posed before him. True happiness can only be achieved through thwarting all obstacles by relentless efforts towards the one goal and finally...reach it.

Atop the long golden pole that the boy held was a triangular green flag upon which was imprinted in an oceanic hue, the symbol of the "Corave Clan". It was comprised of a massive trapezoid mounted upon an inverted triangle. This figure was perfectly bisected from the middle by a long straight line. When witnessed clearly, it emerged like a shimmering outline of a diamond upon the green surface of the flag. This, he planted hard into the frosty surface of the snow and proclaimed, ‘Now, the Corave flag shall wave over the great Mount Morana forever. It shall be the sign that the very first man to scale this treacherous peak and conquer itwas from the kingdom of Corave.’

Mount Morana, the towering peak which had claimed the lives of thousands who attempted to climb it had now been scaled. It was believed among the Coravians that Mount Morana had no summit and that it stretched onward unto the heavens beyond the cloud cover, which it so easily pierced like a mighty sword penetrating its foe’s bosom, and liberating his soul. Climbing it appeared literally impossible for it was steep on all sides and snow-capped, making it an ordeal to climb the slippery surface. Yet now, The Prince had scaled it and completed the final test towards his training. He had done the impossible and his education in warfare was complete years before due time.

A rat that was lurking from its hole in the ground, eyed the bag of grains maliciously. It could hear its stomach growl from lack of nourishment and it wanted to pounce upon the bag. But it refrained from doing so and decided to sit back and wait for the right time when nobody was surveying the goods for that would be the right time to strike and assuage its hunger. The marketplace bustled with the voices of merchants, traders, hawkers, and pedlars, all of whom were bellowing at the top of their lungs, magnifying the quality, affordability, and efficacy of their grains, cereals, spices, flowers, and herbs rather superfluously. Within the corner of this marketplace, just behind the one of the largest sweet shops, which sold a great variety of sweets and delicacies sat an old man. His decrepit and withered form appeared like the last waning rays of the sun shining upon the land before its final demise within its watery grave to give way to the dawn of