The Prince Commands: Being Sundry Adventures of Michael Karl, Sometime Crown Prince & Pretender to the Thrown of Morvania (3 page)

The riders were an uncanny mixture of wolf and man, masked completely by shaggy gray wolf skins drawn over the upper parts of their bodies. They cantered silently down upon the train in dead quiet except for the excited yelps of their four-footed companions whom they kept in order with long whips.

Black Stefan had come! The wolfmen spread out in a thin line. They did not seem to expect resistance, for the very good reason, as Michael Karl discovered later, that a confederate on the train had neatly disposed of guns and all other things which might mean trouble for them. He had even drawn the Baron away from the Royal Compartment with a faked message.

There were shouts from the engine now; the wolfmen had been discovered. Michael Karl stood like a spectator at a play watching it all as four-footed and two-footed wolves faded into the blackness by the engines.

He stepped farther out to see the better. There was an unpleasant growl, and Michael Karl's arms were seized from behind in a steely grip.

“Will you come quietly?” inquired his unknown captor, surprisingly in English, “or—?”

The “or” was accompanied by a sharp prick between his shoulders.

Michael Karl suddenly felt his temper slipping. This was what he had wanted, and yet he had an almost ungovernable desire to choke this fellow behind him if he could. He was pricked again very suggestively.

“I'll come quietly,” he answered in English and then hastened to repeat his answer in the few words of halting Morvanian he had learned from Baron von Urdlemann during the past month.

His captor laughed unpleasantly. “I thought you would,” he said scornfully. “None of you baby officers have an ounce of pluck. Down, Dark One,” he admonished something which was sniffing at Michael Karl's boots. “This one isn't your meat—yet.”

A wolfman came up leading three horses and Michael Karl was roughly urged to mount. His wrists had been tied behind him. From by the engine the pack, both four-footed and two-footed, came drifting back.

“Did you find him?” demanded the man who had captured Michael Karl.

Some one mumbled an answer in the negative. There were no other prisoners, and for the first time Michael Karl began to be afraid. As if he had read Michael Karl's thoughts the man beside him grunted through his wolf mask:

“Your friends are all right, little one. We just tied them up and left them for the other train crew to find when they get that brace of logs we left for them off the track and are able to steam down. We're taking you to the Chief. He feeds little things like you to the wolves when he's angry, so you better keep a straight tongue in your head, youngster.”

Michael Karl held on to his temper. After all, in a way he had asked for this. And he knew a trick that Evans, his old groom, had taught him so that when the time came he could go Houdini one better.

They followed some sort of a faint trail up the mountain side. It was quite dark now and the leader, producing a torch, set it alight. This, Michael Karl supposed, was what the writing chaps called an adventure. He would be more interested if he wasn't so cold. This affair would be a lesson to him always to bring a cap along when he went walking in the evening. The Kipling book, which he had wedged into an inner pocket in the cloak, was making itself unpleasant by banging against his ribs. He tried to cheer himself by the thought that he was free from speeches at last, and then he remembered gloomily what the wolfman had said concerning his tongue. Evidently he was slated to talk before the mysterious chief himself.

The four-footed captors were beginning to pay him attentions which he didn't altogether relish. They seemed to think it great fun to jump at his feet or steal up behind and make his horse shy by growling. At first the wolfmen laughed, and then when Michael Karl's horse caused them too much trouble they uncoiled their black whips and snapped them viciously at the narrow gray muzzles.

The wolves seemed to fear the whips, and at the sight of one would slink away. Michael Karl filed that fact away for future use.

They were still going up, but now they took a path along the mountain side so narrow that Michael Karl's one boot scraped along the wall while the other seemed to dangle out over the edge of a cliff. Michael Karl decided that he did not like the mountains.

The trail wound around a rock and Michael Karl caught a glimpse of a light in the valley below. It seemed to interest the wolfmen.

“The Crown Inn,” one of them pointed to the distant light.

Another spat over the cliff in contempt. “The landlord's jelly. He'd run with the hare and hunt with the hounds if he had the courage, but he hasn't, so he just sits there and shakes when he hears the hunting horn. He's a fool and a coward. We'll burn him out some night and good riddance.”

“I hear,” said some one behind Michael Karl with a smack of his lips, “that a rich American is staying there. Wants to do some mountain climbing. All Americans are mad.”

“You will leave him alone, you. We are not to get mixed up with foreigners, it causes too much unpleasantness. Those are orders.”

“But,” protested the rebuked one unhappily, “Americans are so rich.”

“They also have Consuls,” said the leader significantly.

Michael Karl stared down at the light as long as he could see it. If he could reach that American—

“Here we are, little one,” said his captor, and they clattered over a bridge into a stone-paved courtyard.

Chapter III

A Prince Meets A Werewolf

Black Stefan's stronghold must have once been a great lord's castle, dominating and levying tribute upon the long valley at its foot. Now when the keep, inner and outer walls, in fact all but the lord's tower lay in ruins, it still had the power to overawe the newcomer.

Michael Karl was pulled down from his horse and stood, shivering more with excitement and cold than with fear, in the light of great pine torches thrust through iron rings on the walls. The wolves were prowling about, sniffing at the prisoner and at a great two-wheeled cart loaded with farm produce which had groaned in over the moat bridge.

There seemed to be no concealment, no hush-hush. Evidently what Baron von Urdlemann had said was true, no one dared to betray Black Stefan to the soldiers.

His captor hurried him across the courtyard through a heavy door and into a long hall whose only furnishing seemed to be an oversized table pushed to one side. Michael Karl had a sudden vision of the wolf pack, two-footed and four-footed, growling around a loaded board while the mysterious Werewolf brooded at the head of his table.

But a moment later, when the fire on the mammoth hearth flickered, he saw a dais at the head of the table two steps high and occupied by a single high-backed chair. It stood, draped with a crimson cloak, like a throne–a bandit's throne. Black Stefan must hold almost royal state. Who was he really?

Michael Karl was hurried across to the hearth and there motioned to seat himself on a bench. Apparently the Werewolf wasn't ready to see him. The wolfman, after tying his feet to one of the bench legs, left him and hurried out.

“Going to report,” decided Michael Karl.

The American at the Crown Inn interested him. Such a man, “mad as all Americans,” according to the wolfman, might be reckless enough to help him if he could once escape the wolfmen.

He stopped thinking about the American and tried to shrug his heavy cloak farther back on his shoulders. The fire was altogether too warm. Burying his chin in the fur collar he tugged at the hooks, but, unfortunately, they held. It looked as if he must play his best card or roast to death. After all, the wolfman might believe that he had tied his prisoner too loosely.

Rolling his thumb across his palm until his hand was hardly any larger than his wrist, he discovered that for once his small hands served him well. He started to free his hands, working by eighths of inches and losing more than a little skin in the process. With a last smarting tug the cords slipped off and he was free.

Michael Karl rubbed his burning wrists and then hastened to unhook his collar and throw aside his cloak before unfastening his feet. As he leaned forward he felt the Cross slide across his breast. Here was hoping that he would not be searched. Should he proclaim his rank or should he pretend to be only an aide-de-camp? Any way around he would get an unpleasant greeting if the Werewolf hated the nobles as the Baron had said he did.

The Crown Inn down the valley, with its American guest, was worth attempting. Catching up his discarded cloak he looked around the empty hall. Why not now?

“I trust you are not leaving us?”

Michael Karl turned slowly. On the dais stood a tall man, wolf-masked like all the rest he had seen, but, somehow different. The newcomer wore authority like a cloak; he was no common member of the pack for all his rough pelt and shaggy mask.

Thre were whisperings and murmuring behind them, the wolf pack was filing in to join the fun.

“Enter the villain,” announced Michael Karl clearly, still impressed by the melodrama of it all. Really it was too much like a certain movie he had once disobediently attended.

“Just so,” agreed the masked newcomer, “only I am afraid that we might differ upon the identity of the villain. Now you, of course, have cast me for that role, while I have quite definitely selected you for the part.”

“Of course, that is to be expected,” answered Michael Karl politely. “But then the audience,” he glanced around at the assembled pack, “are prepared to agree with you.” He wondered desperately just how long they would keep this sort of thing up.

“You are Black Stefan?” he inquired.

The masked leader nodded curtly.

“And you?” Black Stefan's voice had a stern “come to business” like note in it now.

Michael Karl wished he could see his enemy's face; fighting from behind a mask wasn't sporting: perhaps if things got too hot he would mention that fact.

“I shall leave that answer to you. After all you can't expect me to be too helpful.”

He fingered his cloak and measured the distance between him and the door. If he could keep this fellow talking he might have a very slim chance. Michael Karl no longer believed that the perfect life was to be found as a prisoner of the Werewolf. “Boys of your age,” commented the Werewolf, “do not usually wear the uniforms of Colonels, especially the uniform of the Commander of the Prince's Own.” Michael Karl made no answer, recognizing the Werewolf's cat and mouse game. The bandit knew who he was all right, he was just amusing himself by pretending he didn't.

“Search him,” the Werewolf commanded suddenly.

His cloak was snatched from his hands and his tunic literally torn from his shoulders. They were rougher than they need be, he thought, as his shirt ripped under their clumsy hands until he was afraid it would follow his tunic.

An unwilling button snapped off, and the white silk pulled open on his breast, allowing the diamond cross with its icy fire to dangle through. At the sight of it they drew back, and the Werewolf leaned forward with a little cry.

“So,” he said quietly, “we are honored in entertaining His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince?”

“Yes,” said Michael Karl simply.

The man on the dais bowed mockingly. “Forgive us for not receiving you with the honor due Your Royal Highness, but it has been so long since one of your illustrious rank has paid us a visit. The last one,” Black Stefan shook his head sadly, “the last one departed somewhat suddenly. You have perhaps heard of Ulrich Karl?”

Michael Karl caught his breath sharply. “The Crown Prince who was killed in the mountains.”

“Just so. He was unfortunate. I have a feeling that all of your family will be unfortunate in the mountains. Your Royal Highness. The mountain air seems very unhealthy for one of your name.”

“Then you killed him?” demanded Michael Karl. He had been told nothing about his cousin except that he had died in a mountain accident.

Black Stefan's mouth smiled under the wolf muzzle. It wasn't a nice smile. “Shall we say that he became displeasing to certain mountaineers who settle their own quarrels? There is bad blood in you, princeling.”

“At least,” Michael Karl faced him, “at least I am not a murderer.”

“No? Then what, my Prince, of the men who have disappeared in your Lion Tower?”

Michael Karl was honestly bewildered. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Erich, tell what you know,” ordered Black Stefan.

The wolfman who had captured Michael Karl mounted the lower step of the dais and turned to face them.

“There was in the bodyguard of the king a certain young man who dared to speak aloud what other men whispered. He disappeared into the Lion Tower two months ago, nor has he returned.”

Through Erich's mask his eyes red with hate bored down upon Michael Karl. His broad hands were playing with a hunting knife.

“Not yet, my friend,” purred Black Stefan. “And now, my Prince, what have you to say?”

“I am not responsible for what the late king did,” said Michael Karl firmly. “I have not even been in Morvania before.”

The green eyes of the Werewolf were burning straight into his. “Morvania has not changed since the feudal days,” said the Werewolf. “The king is responsible to no one, but he is held responsible for the deeds of his ancestors. You are the last of the Karloffs, a mad, bad race. What is there to prevent me making an end to you and your horrors to-night? The country would worship me for it.”

Michael Karl felt an icy curtain of terror slip down upon him. This man was mad. He would do just what he was proposing and smile at the deed. The Werewolf was waiting for something. Perhaps he wanted Michael Karl to beg for his life; well, that he would never do.

“If that is how you feel, well, I'm fairly helpless. am I not? And you have a crew of assistant murderers, if you don't care to soil your own hands.”

Some one caught his skinned wrists, and Erich openly drew his knife. Through all his fear Michael Karl had an insane desire to laugh. It was too impossible, they must be doing it for the movies. Things like this didn't happen in this year of grace even in the most feudal of Balkan states. He couldn't keep from laughing any longer.

Looking straight into the Werewolf's mask he demanded, “How much do you pay your extras a day?”

The Werewolf hesitated. “So you think this is a cinema?”

“Well, really, things like this don't happen nowadays.”

Black Stefan smiled. “I will say this for your kind, they have courage. But a night in the West Room usually brings them to terms. Take him away,” he ended swiftly.

They hurried him out of the farther door and up a flight of steps worn into deep hollows by the passing and repassing of hundreds of feet. The passage was bitter cold, and Michael Karl longed for his cloak and tunic. By some mystery the Cross still swung at his throat, and it appeared that he was to be allowed to keep it.

Halfway down the corridor at the top of the stairs they were halted by a messenger hurrying after them. He delivered an order in a Morvanian dialect unknown to Michael Karl, whose guards opened the nearest oaken door on the corridor and thrust him in. The American heard the key rasp in the lock and their heavy boots clamping on the stairs in an awful hurry to get somewhere.

The room he stood in was small and dark, furnished, he discovered by the simple method of walking around and bumping into things, with a shaky table, a rude cot and a three-legged stool. Higher than his head a window was a pale square on the wall.

He pushed the table against the wall, supporting its weak leg with the stool and clambered up carefully. A story below his window lay the courtyard and even as he watched, a group of wolfmen mounted and rode furiously out, leaving the yard empty except for wandering wolves, most of whom were waiting patiently by a small door at one end.

Their patience was at last rewarded by the coming of one of the wolfmen, who tossed them great chunks of meat and then stood by, armed with a whip, to keep them from fighting. The meat bolted, they went to curl up in a furry mass near the farther wall.

Michael Karl measured the window, and then went to grope over the cot. Blankets or covers there were none, but after pulling off a stiff hide he discovered to his joy that a woven net of leather strips supported the sleeper. The knots, old and stiff, defied his fingers.

After his fifth attempt to undo one he leaned back against the wall exhausted, only to have something sharp press into his neck. Three of the links of the chain which held the Cross had sharp edges. Michael Karl slipped the chain over his head and set to work to saw the rope below the knots.

Fortune smiled on him at last, for when the thong parted he discovered that he need only to cut one more knot to get the whole thing loose. Cold from the stone floor where he crouched and from the unpaned window above stiffened his hands so that time and time again the chain slipped through his blue fingers and he had to grope around for it in the floor dust.

Once the rope was free he tested as best he could every foot of it. It would be fatal if it were to break and let him down into the midst of the waiting wolves. The cot had served him once and now it must serve him again. He knotted one end of the rope about the leg.

With his stiff fingers he tugged and twisted his snug boots until he managed to slip them off and fasten them about his waist with a couple of turns of the loose end of the rope. Coiling the slack in one hand he climbed his table ladder and began to wriggle through the window. It was a scraping tight fit and for the second time that night he had reason to be thankful that he was slim and small. A man of the Baron's or the Werewolf's size could never have made it.

Gasping as the chill mountain air struck him, he edged through and swung over to dangle against the rough masonry. Inch by inch he gingerly lowered himself, keeping watch on the sleeping wolves.

“If,” he thought, “I ever get out of this, you'll never find me two blocks from Broadway again.” He knew nothing of Broadway, but judging by the Balkans, it must be very safe. Michael Karl was through with adventure, but unfortunately, it wasn't through with him.

The rope didn't quite reach, of course, and he had to hang there, unfasten himself and his boots and then drop about four feet. The plump of his landing sounded alarmingly loud and without looking to see its effect on the sleeping guardians, he stumbled as fast as he could to the door of what he had identified earlier in the evening as the stable. Once in he slid the door to behind him with a sigh of relief.

A lantern was burning dimly at the far end and in its feeble light he sat down on a bale of hay and induced his numb feet to enter the boots, pulling at the black leather tops until they unrolled and fit snugly up around his thighs. They had been made high for campaign wear, fording rivers and so forth.

A row of saddles hung across a rack directly below the lantern. Thanking fate that he had learned to saddle a horse, Michael Karl snatched the nearest one and the blanket which hung behind it.

There were four horses left in the stalls, a rangy gray with a wicked eye, two roans and a black mare. Michael Karl longed for the Duchess who knew how to show her heels upon the occasion. He chose the gray and saddled and bridled him.

In the back of the gray's stall he came upon a find, a peasant's black overblouse, to take the place of his lost tunic. Pulling it over his head he led the gray toward the stable door. He could hear an alarming sniffing from the outside. The wolf pack was awake at last.