LEO & THE BROKEN THRONE: TEASER

Hey everybody,

Here is the prologue and opening chapter to another project of mine, “Leo & The Broken Throne”. It’s a fantasy/adventure book I’ve had in the pipeline for many years now, and I would love to see what you all think of it. Now, I’m aware that this isn’t golf-related, so it may not be of interest to some of you (which is perfectly fine), but, like with Mustang, if you enjoy this and know someone else who might, please feel free to share the link around. Also, if it would be something you’d be interested in seeing more of? You might do me a favour by hitting the ‘like button’ at the top of this post, please, so I can get a gauge on what you all think.

And for those of you who already read this prologue and opening chapter last year? My apologies for possibly making you think that this was some fresh content; but, again, if it’s still something that you would like to see more of? Then you might hit the ‘like button’ as well if you wouldn’t mind, just so I can get as full a picture as possible as to what everybody thinks.

Thank you very much 🙏

Stephen F. Moloney

 

Leo wasn’t born when the Great Exodus of the Old World happened.

 

He wasn’t there to see the Trolls and Giants march across Europe.

 

He wasn’t there to see the herds of Centaurs and Minotaurs sweep across America.

 

He wasn’t there to see the fear in people’s eyes.

 

Leo wasn’t born when the war started.

 

He didn’t see the hatred or the killing.

 

He didn’t know why it ended.

 

He didn’t know why he needed to.

 

– PROLOGUE –

Upon slowly opening his eyes, Edgar, for a moment, struggled to wrap his throbbing head around where exactly he was. He knew he was lying on the ground, that much was obvious; and he knew he was inside because he found himself looking straight up – albeit, admittedly, through rather blurred vision – at a series of beige, water-stained ceiling tiles. But as for how that had all come to happen? He wasn’t exactly sure. The last thing he remembered, he and his twenty-three man squad had been locked in a running battle with a one hundred-strong pod of Cave Goblins that had begun in and around Piccadilly Circus and ended up with them attempting to hold down a position in the heart of where Regent and Oxford Street intersected. And, again, as far as Edgar remembered, things had been going well. He and his squad had thinned the number of Goblins down to where it wasn’t as unfair a fight as it had been when they first engaged them. Plus, the more he thought about it, he distinctly remembered that after the call had been put in by one of his men for reinforcements, another squad from the King’s Shield had, eventually, radioed back saying they were only five minutes out from their location.

But as for what happened then … Edgar was drawing a complete blank.

No matter how hard he attempted to push his brain to remember more, it was just no use. The most that his brain could come up with were mere fragments of images so bereft of any real detail that, ultimately, they just wound up being a source of frustration as opposed to the illumination he was yearning for. With answers still being needed, Edgar – despite his pounding brain’s protestations – very slowly, and very stiffly, pushed himself up into a sitting position. As he took in the sight of his surroundings – with the soreness in his neck and back forcing a pained expression to etch its way across his unshaven face in the process – two things became immediately clear: one, he was in some small, abandoned corner shop; and, two, there was a broken window to his left that, given how he’d woken up, combined with the fact there were shards of broken glass all around where he was positioned, he figured he’d been thrown through.

Two answers, at least. 

But with those answers – and, specifically, the latter of the two – came an even more prevalent question for Edgar: what had thrown him through the window? With thoughts of an eight-foot-tall, two-tonne Cave Goblin coming back to finish him off suddenly flashing before his eyes, all thoughts of how sore he was instantly evaporated for Edgar, and were, instead, replaced by just one: Gun. 

A focused Edgar shifted his gaze off of the broken window and began searching the area all around where he was sitting on the floor to see if he could find his rifle. After that initial search yielded nothing, however – and the unnerving thought that he may not actually find it came and went – he turned his attention further into the dimly lit interior of the shop. He quickly scanned the empty shelves scattered around the shop floor, all of which had been left misaligned in the scrum that had taken place the day they were stripped of any and all sources of food, and … relief flooded his aching body. Underneath one of the shelves, one right near the very back wall of the shop, he spied his rifle; it must have slid all the way across the tile floor when he came in through the window. Reinvigorated, Edgar got slowly back to his feet and began to walk, somewhat labouredly, across the shop floor to retrieve his rifle. As he moved, however, the wet soles of his sturdy, leather combat boots squeaked on the tiles beneath his feet, making a highly on-edge Edgar cringe at, what he perceived to be, the obscenely loud noise. He knew Cave Goblins had extremely sensitive hearing. He’d learnt that the hard way six years ago at the very beginning of the war, with the scar running down the length of his torso serving as a permanent reminder of that fact. So, because of that, he knew all too well that a noise, even one as inconspicuous seeming as his boots squeaking, could be enough to draw a Cave Goblin’s attention to his location if they were anywhere, even remotely, in the vicinity – and even with his rifle, that was a fight Edgar wanted no part of.

Finally reaching the correct set of shelves, Edgar folded his gradually loosening out body back down onto the ground until he was on all fours. He reached his arm in underneath the shelves and pulled out his rifle, scraping a trail in the multiple years’ worth of dust and cobwebs which had gathered there in the process. Once his rifle was actually out, though, Edgar noticed there was a tin of something lying underneath the shelves which his rifle had, previously, been preventing him from seeing. Intrigued to see what it contained, Edgar reached his hand back in under the shelves to try and get it. Though positioned slightly further than his rifle had been, Edgar, after stretching his arm to its very limit, eventually managed to get enough of his middle finger onto the tin wherein he could finally pull it out from underneath the shelves. When he got back to his feet – bringing his rifle with him – Edgar looked for a ‘best before’ date on what he now saw was a slightly dented and very dusty tin of tuna. With nothing on the top where one would open it, Edgar turned the tin over and, after wiping away a thick layer of dust, found what he was looking for on the bottom.

‘Best before the twenty-ninth of September 2002.’

Having read the date quietly in his head – and despite the fact it was expired by a good nine months – Edgar popped the tin into the chest pocket on his tactical vest for safekeeping. He’d been at war for long enough to know he shouldn’t assume it was a given he’d get back to base from where he currently was before nightfall; so, any food at all, even expired tuna, was precious to have. Just in case.

 

“EDGAR?!”

 

The sudden loudness of the shout slicing through the silence he’d been cocooned in since he woke up took Edgar completely by surprise – but he knew immediately who the owner of the voice had been. The High Commander of the People’s Army. His Royal Majesty. King Edward.

Or as Edgar knew him, ‘Father’.

It was just starting to rain outside as Edgar turned his attention sharply towards the broken window. Big heavy drops were falling straight down from the sky and splattering against the street in a series of loud pops. But King Edward was nowhere to be seen. After checking how much ammunition he had left in his rifle with a deft, practiced ease, Edgar moved quickly back across the floor of the corner shop and pressed his shoulder against the wall alongside the window. He scanned the street outside in both directions.

Like it had with the rest of London, the war had rendered the street outside practically unrecognizable. Half-destroyed buildings, torn-up streets, and burnt-out overturned cars had become so much the norm on every street in England’s capital that it had become difficult to instantly distinguish one from another, even for someone who had lived their entire lives in London as Edgar had. Upon craning his neck a little further, however, Edgar could just about make out the unmistakable junction between Regent and Oxford Street no more than fifty metres from where he was positioned; a positive, not only because he had a bearing on where he actually was, but it was now also definitive proof that the memories he had of before he mysteriously fell unconscious were, in fact, correct. What was not a positive, though, was that there was still no sign of King Edward in either direction. Realizing he was going to have to venture out into the street to continue his search, Edgar moved the two steps from where he was standing towards the door of the shop, slid back the deadbolt that had been drawn across it, and pulled it open.

Though his sweep from inside had shown there were no Cave Goblins out on the street, Edgar wasn’t taking anything for granted as he exited the corner shop. He moved in the same furtive, stealthy manner he would in sweeping any street with possible hostiles present, the exact way that had been drilled into him back in his academy days. His eyes were up and going smoothly through his progressions to clear the different areas of the street where a Cave Goblin could possibly hide – which, given their immense size, wasn’t many, but still. And, of course, he had the butt of his rifle pressed hard into the inside of his right shoulder so that if he had to take a shot, it would be a true one. Reaching the middle of the street and feeling confident enough that the coast was, indeed, clear, Edgar relaxed his hold on his rifle and let the barrel point down towards the ground. With an uninterrupted view of the street now at his disposal, Edgar, after seeing there was nothing in the opposite direction either, focused his attention up the street towards the junction. Apart from the burnt-out cars and large pieces of concrete scattered around it – which he now remembered he and his squad had been using for cover in their fight against the Cave Goblins – the junction was completely empty. There were no other members of his squad. And, annoyingly, there was no King Edward.

Frustration began to build up inside Edgar once again. He turned away from the junction and looked down the street in the opposite direction, his rifle falling limply down to his side in the process. He was sure he had heard his father calling him. Convinced. And, to further add to his frustration, from the volume of his voice, Edgar could tell King Edward hadn’t been all that far away either. Yet the fact remained that he still couldn’t see him anywhere. And because he didn’t want to risk calling out himself in case any nearby Cave Goblins would hear him, Edgar felt, understandably, caught between a rock and a hard place. Just as the possibility that he’d actually imagined hearing King Edward calling out to him because of a possible concussion began to gain some unwelcome traction in the darker, more paranoid recesses of Edgar’s mind, however, a voice pulled him from the depths.

“Edgar …”

Unlike his initial shout which had loudly grabbed Edgar’s attention, its urgency desperate to be heard, King Edward, this time, sounded not only close enough where a shout wasn’t even necessary but also seemed noticeably calm – relieved, even. Not wanting to risk missing him again, Edgar quickly turned around and looked back up the street. There was no missing him this time. Standing in the very centre of the junction, his red dress uniform a striking bolt of colour against the palette of grey which surrounded him was King Edward. Seeing that he looked, for all intents and purposes, perfectly fine, a wide, relief-soaked smile creased Edgar’s face as he began to walk slowly up the street towards the junction.

“So, I take it this is where you make me do push-ups for letting my guard down in an active warzone, right?” called out Edgar, his casual tone echoing off the buildings lining either side of the street.

“Normally, that would be the case, yes” replied King Edward, a tired smile curling the corners of his mouth.

Edgar arrived in front of King Edward. Now up close, Edgar could get a better, more in-depth read on how his father seemed overall. Though not showing signs of anything which would contradict his first impression that he seemed physically fine, what Edgar did notice was just how weary his father looked. The big, dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep (Edgar had long suspected that his father hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since what had happened on the Tube back in ’99 … what started it all). How gaunt his face looked, which was made to appear all that starker with the weeks’ worth of white stubble outlining his high cheekbones and angled jaw. And the increased number of wrinkles which had, seemingly, carved their way into his face since the last time he’d seen him; a face that, before the war, had belied his fifty years with its youthful appearance. Yet, in spite of all that, as he stood in front of him, Edgar couldn’t help but get the sense that King Edward was just as relieved as he’d thought he’d sounded when he called out to him that second time. It was almost palpable; like this field of relaxed energy was just emanating out from him and straight in through Edgar’s chest.

“But somehow …” posed Edgar, sounding somewhat curious. “I get the impression that isn’t the case now for some reason. How come?”

“Because it’s over …” answered King Edward, his tone suggesting he was struggling to believe that the words he’d longed to say for years were finally falling from his mouth.

Though the meaning the words conveyed appeared to be straightforward, Edgar was reluctant to jump the gun – not with something like this.“What do you mean it’s over?” he asked quietly. “What is?”

He needed nothing other than crystal clear clarification.

King Edward took a step closer to Edgar. He placed his hand on his shoulder. “The war, my boy …” he said, tears now filling his eyes. “It’s over. They’re gone.”

 

– CHAPTER ONE –

“LEO!!” bellowed Mr. Trowbridge, his large, red face turning an even darker shade of maroon.

“What?!” Leo started, returning his gaze from the pleasant view outside the window to the rather unsightly image of a sweating Mr Trowbridge glaring at him with his beady, little eyes.

Leo never understood why he insisted on having his tutoring lessons in this room because between the climb up the stairs and the almost inhospitable heat, it’s a wonder that Mr Trowbridge was still alive.

“The question, boy! The one I just asked you!” spat Mr. Trowbridge with such ferocity that his double chin continued to vibrate even after the words had left his mouth.

“Question? Oh, yeah … I was just, uh … thinking over my answer,” bluffed Leo in an attempt to try and buy himself some more time.

Unfortunately for him, however, Mr Trowbridge hadn’t been the only tutor to ever survive more than six months of teaching Leo by falling for the various time-wasting techniques he had crafted and perfected on the conveyor belt of other hapless tutors who had preceded him over the years.

“Name the Ten Races that formed the Great Exodus of the Old World?” sighed Mr Trowbridge, exasperation filling his voice. He had become used to asking questions twice.

“Oh!” exclaimed Leo, sounding genuinely surprised. “I actually know this one … uhm … ok …”

Holding up his two hands in front of himself, Leo began to name off the different races with each one getting a finger on his hand. “Dwarves, Elves, Giants, Trolls … Goblins … Centaurs, Minotaurs … Werewolves … and … and … oh what are they?”

“Battle of the White Cliffs?” hinted Mr. Trowbridge, attempting to jog Leo’s memory.

“White Cliffs … White Cliffs … the White Cliffs are in Dover, so … ah!” said Leo, suddenly remembering. “The Merpeople!”

“Correct” replied Mr Trowbridge flatly, “And the final one?”

“Dragons!” said Leo triumphantly.

“Yes, the “Dragons”…” said Mr Trowbridge with more than a hint of skepticism in his voice. “A load of codswallop if you ask me.”

Leo always enjoyed bringing up the subject of the Dragons in front of Mr Trowbridge, especially when he wanted to eat up some time in the middle of class. 

“They could be real, Mr Trowbridge,” Leo would often tease before sitting back in his chair to enjoy the ensuing fireworks.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, boy!” Mr Trowbridge would reply right on cue.

 

And, just like that, the fuse would be lit.

 

“There’s not one piece of evidence that shows a single Dragon made the journey from the Old World at the time of the Exodus. Not one!” he would argue adamantly.

“Why are they part of the Census Lists then? The ones that were taken at the border checkpoints?” Leo would goad, hoping to egg Mr Trowbridge on. And he’d always take the bait.

“Oh, it could be any number of stupid reasons. Some guards looking to have a bit of fun or make a name for themselves by having been the one to have seen and processed a Dragon. More often than not, though, it just boiled down to simple human error; for instance, one account of a ‘Dragon’ being mentioned turned out to be nothing more than a werewolf by the name of Alfred Dragoon who had mumbled the spelling of his name to the guards at the border and, well, even you, Leo, can figure out the rest.”

Today, however, Leo just knew this tactic wasn’t going to work. It was Friday afternoon, he could tell Mr Trowbridge hadn’t gotten through nearly half as much work as he would have liked and that meant only two things: he was either going to try and cram as much work as he possibly could into Leo’s brain in the five minutes they had left or, which felt like the far more likely scenario, he was getting homework for the weekend.

“Now, given we’re very rapidly running out of time …” droned Mr Trowbridge. “For Monday …”

‘Right on time …’ lamented Leo in his head.

“I want one thousand words … ”

“WHAT?!” cried a horrified Leo, unable to contain himself. “But I’ve a King’s Shield trial all weekend!”

“Oh, well, in that case,” replied Mr Trowbridge, completely unperturbed by Leo’s outburst. “You should most enjoy the topic I’ve chosen for you to write about as it’s all about the King’s Shield. So, pen and paper, boy, chop-chop!”

Still reeling from the news of his busy weekend getting even busier, a less-than-pleased Leo picked up his pen and grabbed a journal from inside his schoolbag. 

“If His Royal Highness is finally ready?” sighed Mr. Trowbridge, eager to relay the details of the assignment while he still had the time. “Discuss the following in relation to the Battle of Cairo in 2001: One – what two branches of the Mythic Army did the King’s Shield fight in said battle? Two – what were the weaknesses of both sides? Three – what was the final outcome? Four – what would you have done differently if you were in charge of the King’s Shield? And, five, to get you thinking somewhat creatively – what would you have done differently if you were in charge of the Mythics in said battle? And, yes, I will allow substituting one of the branches for another in your plan; excluding, of course, substituting in a race of Giant.”

Just as the last word fell from Mr Trowbridge’s mouth, Big Ben announced that three o’clock was after arriving from down near the Thames. Before Ben even had the opportunity to finish his very first chime, though, Leo had already grabbed his satchel, bolted from his seat, and made his way out through the door of the room in such record time that Mr Trowbridge’s, “I MEAN IT! I WANT THAT FOR MONDAY!”, only just about managed to catch his ears as he rounded the corner down the hallway from the room.

“Another week done …” sighed the now-alone Mr Trowbridge, the mixture of relief and sheer exhaustion in his voice palpable as he collapsed wearily into the chair behind his desk. “Another week done …”

*

Having traversed the acres of plush, red-carpeted hallways which lay between his tutoring room and the Grand Staircase, Leo – after sliding side-saddle down the banister – came to a stop at the foot of the very same staircase until he was looking down towards the, equally grand, Marble Hall. As he leaned against the banister, however, Leo couldn’t help but feel a little conflicted. On the one hand, he knew he should probably just bite the bullet and try to get Mr Trowbridge’s essay done and out of the way. On the other hand, though, Leo also wanted to go see his best friend, Rupert, for, between his homework and his training – which had kicked up significantly in anticipation of that weekend’s trial to see if he could, as planned, skip the final three years of the King’s Squires and enter the King’s Shield academy early – Leo, for the bones of nearly three weeks, had just been too busy to see him. Once the prospect of a furious Mr Trowbridge possibly barking at him first thing Monday morning for not having the essay done flashed before his eyes, however, Leo’s mind was made up – Rupert would have to wait.

But with that decision came another question: how was he going to find out enough about the Battle of Cairo to actually write about it?

Normally, when faced with this kind of assignment, Leo would just go ask Lord Bromley and he’d help him. Having been in charge of all intel during the war, there wasn’t a single battle, no matter how obscure or small it had been, that Lord Bromley couldn’t tell you about. 

Unfortunately for Leo, though, he had said goodbye to Lord Bromley that very morning as he left the palace to accompany Leo’s parents, Edgar and Cecelia, on a Royal Visit to France – a visit which wouldn’t see them arriving back at the Palace until late Sunday night, if not in the early hours of Monday morning. So, practically speaking – barring some kind of miracle wherein he’d actually respond to a text message or take a phone call with him in the middle of managing the visit – Leo knew “just ask Lord Bromley” was a non-runner as an option. But then an idea occurred to him. It was a longshot. But a longshot that might just solve his problem – and all it required was a quick visit to the Palace Library. 

With his plan laid out ahead of him, Leo leaned away from the banister to go about putting it into action. After a long day, however, he couldn’t help but let out a tired sigh at the thought of having to make his way all the way across the palace just to get to the library – the drawback, unfortunately, of living in a house that was 77,000 square meters.

Whilst Leo did, indeed, often think that the Palace was a little too big, he had to admit that he did enjoy how large the hallways were, as they made the perfect place to, as he liked to put it, “experiment with different learning-based activities”, whenever it was too wet outside to do anything else … or if he was just feeling particularly bored.

Someone he knew who didn’t share this same sentiment, however, was Mrs Attenberry, the Palace Steward. Although a very kind woman who had taken care of Leo since he was a baby, Mrs Attenberry was also incredibly strict. Then again, she had to be; being in charge of all the staff in Buckingham Palace was a big job –  one made all the bigger by having to contend with Leo being a perennial menace ever since he’d learned how to walk. Many’s the time she came across go-kart drag races; mountain biking time trials from the top of the Palace to the ground floor; and, even once, a full-blown football match between the House Staff and the Palace Gardeners – a match, incidentally, the much unfancied House Staff nabbed thanks to a last-minute screamer from, the since retired, Ethel Morton.

All taking place inside the hallways of the Palace.

And all organized by Leo and Rupert.

On this particular day, though, as much he would have liked to have been engaging in any one of those aforementioned activities – or possibly even testing the feasibility of a new idea he’d had for an indoor, inter-staff polo match –  Leo was focused, purely, on reaching the library as quickly as possible. And it wasn’t long until he did just that. Pushing open the two large, oak doors, as opposed to being greeted by the hushed and peaceful quiet one would come to expect from a library, Leo was, instead, welcomed by the sounds he had become all too used to hearing vibrating out through the walls whenever he’d passed through this part of the Palace in the previous year. Hammers banging nails. Saws cutting through the finest wood in England. Chisels breaking pristine Italian marble. It was a librarian’s nightmare – not including the fact that there wasn’t a single book actually inside the library anymore. But, luckily for him, Leo wasn’t there to get a book. He was there for some information of the ‘first-hand’ variety.

“Are you not finished yet?!” scoffed Leo sarcastically, affecting the accent of one of the many, many toffs he’d met over the years at various royal functions as he crossed the floor of the library. “What ever have you been doing?!”

Having recognized that this “accusation” had been for his benefit, the chief stonemason and foreman in charge of the reconstruction work in the library, Johann, turned around from where he’d been working on a piece of particularly fine Carrara marble and took in the sight of Leo walking towards him.

“Well, please excuse me, your Highness,” replied the warmly smiling Johann, his strong South African accent echoing around the library as he theatrically bowed before Leo with his chisel still in hand. “But you can’t rush perfection after all, now can you?”

“Oh, I suppose not,” sighed Leo, keeping up the act as he arrived in front of the solidly built foreman, whose forearms were bigger – and no doubt stronger – than most men’s biceps. “As you were.”

“Thank you, your Highness!” grovelled Johann, still comically bowing. “Thank you so much!”

At that, Johann came back up into a standing position and, through a warm, familiar smile, spoke in a friendly manner as he reached out his hand for a handshake. “Alright, bud? You good?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty good,” replied a smiling Leo, grasping Johann’s outstretched, heavily calloused hand. “How are you? How is the rebuild going?”

“Well …” answered Johann, placing his chisel back up on the dust-covered workbench alongside the marble. “Me? I can’t complain.” He leaned against the table and folded his arms. “As for the rebuild, though?” he continued, speaking in the exasperated, vaguely tired tone universally used by all foremen. “Yeah, it’s going well – slow, obviously – but ‘well’, all things considered. I mean, to be perfectly frank, any real progress won’t be made until we get the column out of here.”

Upon hearing him mention it, Leo looked off behind Johann and took in the sight of the “column”, in question – Nelson’s. Though probably awe-inspiring for someone first gazing upon it, the sight of Nelson’s Column driven so far down into the floor of the Palace library that it was actually stuck completely in place in a near-vertical position was one that had long since lost its impact on Leo. What hadn’t lost its impact, however, was the shaky video footage from a soldier’s chest-cam Leo had seen showing the gargantuan Farramoor Giant – one of only three to be sighted during the entirety of the war – ripping the column out of the ground at Trafalgar Square during the Battle of London and launching it like a javelin the near two-mile distance across the city towards its intended target … the Palace.

“I can get you a piece if you’d like?”

Leo pulled his gaze sharply from off of the column and shifted it back onto Johann.

“What?” he asked, sounding just as distracted as he had been with Mr Trowbridge.

“Of the column?” clarified Johann. “Like, when we’re taking it out – I can get you a piece. It might be a cool thing to have, yeah?”

“Uh … yeah …” Leo stammered, his brain slowly catching up as he banished the memory of the Farramoor Giant back into the archives of his mind. “Yeah, that would be good, thanks.”

“No problem,” replied Johann, reaching down to his side and plucking a small scrap piece of marble from up off the workbench. “But, uh … how about you go ahead and tell me what it is you actually came in here for – cause, somehow, I don’t quite think it was to see how the rebuild is going.”

“Yeah, no, not exactly,” smiled Leo, himself grabbing a piece of scrap marble and rolling it between his hands. “I’m looking for information; specifically, on the Battle of Cairo.”

“Another assignment from Trowbridge I take it?” Johann asked, knowingly.

“Yeah,” sighed Leo, the lack of enthusiasm he had for Mr Trowbridge and his assignments not a secret between him and Johann. “And, given you served in Africa during the war, I thought you might either know something about it or actually have fought in it.”

From the way Johann’s face immediately screwed up upon him finishing that sentence, however, Leo could already tell he’d hit a dead end.

“Sorry, bud,” said Johann, wishing he’d better news. “The Battle of Cairo … that was in ‘01, yeah?”

“Yeah, that’s the one,” confirmed Leo, taking to idly running his fingers along the razor-sharp edge of the marble he had in his hand.

“Yeah, see, at the beginning of ‘01 I got transferred up north to here, so, I wouldn’t have been around for Cairo,” Johann explained. “Have you tried checking the internet?”

“No,” replied Leo, his mind already kicking into gear to try and think what his next move would be. “But, if the other times I’ve tried doing that is anything to go by, it probably won’t yield all that much.”

“Aw, sorry, bud,” said Johann, apologizing once again. “I wish I could be more help.”

“Don’t worry about it,” smiled Leo, waving off the need for an apology. “It’s fine. I’ll figure something out – I always do.”

Leo held out his hand towards Johann and, again, they shook hands with a fluid nonchalance.

“Alright, well …” began Johann, holding onto Leo’s hand for an extra second. “If you get any assignments about battles up here between ‘01 and the end of the war, though?”

“I’ll know where to come,” answered Leo, accepting Johann’s unspoken invitation.

“Good,” said Johann, returning Leo’s smile with one of his own and letting go of the prince’s hand after one final brisk shake. “I look forward to it.”

As he re-closed the door of the library after himself – and his eardrums basked in the relative peace of the hallway – Leo stopped to think. Johann hadn’t been able to help him, though, given the burly stonemason had promised to get him a “particularly big” part of Nelson’s Column when it came time for them to remove it, Leo reckoned his visit to the library hadn’t been a total bust. But, still, the fact remained that he was back to square one: he needed information, but had no means of getting it. In his desperation to get the essay done, Leo considered going to find Mrs Attenberry and asking her if she knew anything about the Battle of Cairo. But, after a few seconds’ worth of consideration, that notion wasn’t long getting dismissed as, even though there were numerous things in Mrs Attenberry’s wheelhouse, the history of obscure battles during the war was, most certainly, not one of them.

With no other ideas coming to mind, Leo, for a moment, indulged himself in being ticked off with Mr Trowbridge for giving him an essay on a battle that hardly anyone would know anything about. Where was the essay on the Battle of Manchester, where the Manchester regiment of the King’s Shield defended the city against a hoard of Merkath Giants for three days until reinforcements arrived? Or the essay on the Battle of the Tyne where just one hundred King’s Shield soldiers had managed to fend off a marauding flotilla of six–hundred Merpeople who had tried to take the city after swimming upriver from the North Sea?

Leo could write an essay on either of those – or any battle like them – easily, be it a thousand words or two. But the Battle of Cairo? Not so much. 

So, with no other alternative coming to mind, Leo made a decision. Once he got back from the King’s Shield trial on Sunday evening, he’d wait up for his parents to return from their trip, and then get Lord Bromley to help him with his essay. It wasn’t an ideal plan by any means, but it would just have to do.

Whilst irritated that he couldn’t get his essay done before the trial like he’d wanted to, the reality of having his entire afternoon now suddenly free quickly eradicated any displeasure Leo was feeling.

Because now he could go hang out with Rupert.

And possibly see about that polo match too.

Photo by Anna Groniecka