A/N: I've had this done for a few days now, but the internet connection on my lap top decided to go bananas, and I've only just managed to get it fixed. Just a side note: NEVER use AT&T. They're terrible. Absolutely appalling service. We're supposed to have wireless that extends with a strong signal to the entire house, but I'm lucky when I can even get a weak one. So take my advice, or I think you'll end up regretting it. Anyway, I present to you: Chapter six of Son of Kings!

Chapter 6

Solin felt his breath quicken and his heart start thumping wildly. He had heard wrong, he must have heard wrong, how could he not have heard wrong? Kill the prince? He was committing treason simply by thinking it! It was impossible—why would the prince's own uncle want him dead?

But Captain Drían was still talking, and from what he was saying, it was evident that he had just said exactly what Solin had thought he had said.

"No one can know, obviously." He picked up a knife and began to slide its blade along a whetting stone. "The perimeter guards should be fairly easy to slip past—I intentionally posted them very far apart—and you can get rid of the man on sentry duty at his tent by telling him that you'll relieve him. Take the lad back in the direction of Osgiliath, following the river, and stab him with this."

He held up the long dagger he was holding, and for the first time, Solin recognized its make—it was crude, with a rough bone handle, but its blade was made of iron, its blue tint marking it out as mercilessly strong. That kind of iron could no longer be found anywhere but the mountains surrounding Minas Morgul, and there was only one group that ever ventured there. This dagger was of Gadianton make.

Fingers trembling, Solin reached out to take it. His fingers halted tremulously for a moment, hesitating for the barest breadth of a second, and then they made the final lunge, closing around the bleached bone.

"Good," Drían said curtly. "Am I right, then, in believing I can count on you?"

Dumbly, Solin nodded.

But the captain's sharp eyes had not missed that brief moment of indecision that Solin's fingers had betrayed upon taking the dagger. The soldier saw his eyes flicker up to scrutinize his face. Apparently, Drían decided he needed one final shove to be sure that the task was carried out appropriately.

He turned away, looking as though emotion was starting to get the better of him. Just as Drían had noticed his soldier's hesitation, however, Solin had seen his captain's cunning eyes run a calculating sweep, and to him, it was glaringly obvious that this theatric was just for show.

"It's the prince's health," Drían said hoarsely, his voice strained. "He has a disease, I think, one that affects his mind. Our best healers say that he will not live five years more, and even the elves' attempts at correcting the problem have gone in vain. But there's more." He straightened his shoulders and turned to face Solin, and though he seemed to be fighting back tears, his eyes were entirely dry. "They say that as soon as the disease takes hold in earnest, which cannot be more than a few months away, he will spend the rest of his life in tormented agony that not even the best medicine or magic will relive. He will suffer every moment until he dies."

Liar, Solin thought, but he said nothing.

"Now, with his father gone, he says he would welcome death." He turned away this time on the pretense of hiding his tears, though in reality concealing the fact that there were none. "If you have children, surely you understand—I cannot bear to see my nephew suffer in the way he will. It is… it is for the best that I ask you to kill him. He can have no peace in this life; perhaps he will find it in the next."

Solin waited.

"No man knows what I have just told you," he continued, "save for the healers who have seen him. Keep it quiet—there is no need for his name to be disgraced in death. You may go."

Kill the prince?

"Wait," Drían said suddenly, turning back to face Solin. "Wait. I have something to give you."

The soldier halted. Drían reached down the neck of his shirt and withdrew a small, gold amulet with a piece of jade set into the center. Pulling it over his head, he handed it to Solin. "My brother gave this to me before he died, and now I give it to you as a token of my trust, a mark of gratitude for the service you will render… to me and to my nephew. Now you may go."

Kill the prince?

He's not the prince, Solin thought as he swept out of the tent. He's the king. I've been asked to murder my king.

And as he realized this, the despair started settling in. What was he to do? He had given Captain Drían his word that he would do whatever was asked of him, but he was not prepared for this, never this. Why would he want the new king dead?

He wants the crown. Getting Prince—King Andrin out of the way would make sure it passed to him.

He was about to clasp the amulet around his neck, but doing so would mean that he had accepted the task Drían had set before him. Instead, he slipped it into the pack on his back, one that he always carried with him.

What am I to do?

Be rational, he told himself. If I refuse, he'll probably have me killed.

But if I carry out his orders, I kill the king of Gondor.

How can he ask such a thing of me?

I gave my word! A soldier doesn't go back on a promise.

Neither does a soldier murder his king.

Solin found himself walking towards the prince's tent.

What are thinking? he asked himself furiously. You're not actually going to do it?

What else am I going to do?

There was one man standing guard outside. When Solin stopped in front of the tent without saying anything, the man coughed expectantly.

Drían will kill you if you don't. He'll have you murdered, or maybe convicted of some heinous crime you didn't commit.

If I refuse, I am condemned.

If I comply, I am damned.

"Captain Drían sent me to relieve you," Solin heard his own voice saying.

"I'm not supposed to be relieved for three more hours," he protested.

Solin shrugged. "That's what he said."

The soldier glanced at the tent, but he sighed resignedly. No one disobeyed orders form Captain Drían, whose authority was second only to Rendeg, and this soldier was no exception. He headed off towards his company's fires.

Silently, Solin pushed aside the tent flap and stepped inside.

Prince Andrin was sitting on the cot, his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. He looked so lost and helpless, and Solin's first emotion was outrage that someone had left the poor lad to cope with his grief all on his own. Surely someone should have comforted him, held him like his father would have…

But then he remembered that he, himself was supposed to murder this boy, and all anger at whoever had abandoned him like this evaporated in comparison to hatred of himself.

Just do it man, he said firmly. Steel yourself.

But looking into those red-rimmed eyes, lit by a single candle, full of grief and pain and fear but nowhere, not once, one bit of suspicion or mistrust, he made up his mind.

"Come with me," he ordered hoarsely.

Without questioning him, Andrin slid off the cot and crossed to Solin. The soldier took his hand, looked into his eyes, and said softly, "I don't want you to make a single sound until I tell you that you can."

Silently, the prince nodded.

"Alright. Let's go."

Leading the boy behind him, Solin slipped through the darkness towards the perimeter of the camp.

They got past the guards easily enough, slipping through the trees when they had their backs turned. Andrin followed blindly, not thinking to question the man who led him by the hand. The grief must be overpowering his judgment, Solin thought as he led the prince through the forest. A normal child would hesitate before he let me drag him out of the camp.

The bright moon, almost full, lit their path through the trees. They could have walked for hours or merely for minutes; each was too absorbed in his own thoughts to note the passage of time.

Finally, trekking through the night, they met the mighty Anduin.

Solin pulled the young prince to a halt a hundred feet from the rushing water. He took him by the shoulders and looked him in the eyes.

"Look at me, lad," he said softly, glancing over his shoulder to make sure they were alone, even though he new they must be at least a mile away from anybody. When he halted, trying to find an easy way to say the thing he knew he had to, Andrin prompted him.

"What is it?"

You're man; you can do this. Just tell him.

He took a deep breath. "You need to run, sire. Leave Gondor, get out of this place. Go to Rohan, Mirkwood, Rhûn—anywhere but here."

The young boy's eyes widened in shock. "You—you want me to leave?"

"Captain—your—there's…" he searched in vain for the right words. "Someone in this kingdom wants you dead, and he will stop at nothing to make it happen. His power is limitless, absolute—as far as Gondor extends. Outside of Gondor, he is powerless. He will not rest until he knows you are dead, and he will find a way to kill you as long as you are within his reach. So get out. Go to Rohan, find someone to take you in, raise you as a man of the Mark."

"But—but who—" Andrin spluttered, "who would want to kill me?"

Had it not been for the gravity of the situation, Solin would have smiled as the boy's unspoiled innocence. "It doesn't matter," he said quickly. "It is enough that he wants you dead. So you must disappear."

He would have imagined a boy this age would start weeping, crying that he had no place to go, that he had to stay, that surely someone would find this man who wanted him murdered and lock him in prison, but Andrin did not follow his expectations. Instead he straightened his shoulders, glared resolutely down his nose the way he had seen impressive adults do, and said, "Is that all I need to know?"

"Yes," Solin said, inexpressibly glad that he was taking all of this without question. "Wait—no. One more thing: don't tell anyone—anyone, understand?—your real name. Go by… go by Thylian, at least if you end up in Rohan. Thylian, not Andrin, you hear? That name will be your death sentence if you reveal it. Leave it here to die in your place, so that you won't have to."

The prince nodded determinedly, but Solin could see the tears in his eyes. "Yessir. I understand."

"Walk in the river for the first mile so they won't be able to find your tracks. Then get out and follow it—walk as far as you can every day for seven days. Whenever it branches, take the left fork. Then you'll be in Rohan. Here." From his back he slung a pack that he always carried with him, no matter where he was. "This has two loaves of dwarven crâm in it—one bite is plenty to make a meal of when one is hungry. Not very pleasant-tasting, but it will last you three weeks if you use it sparingly. Here's my cloak; use it how you will. Good luck."

He was about to send him on his way, but he paused momentarily, realizing the magnitude of what was happening. He glanced up at the twinkling stars and down at the rushing river and wondered how nature could ever have turned out something so perverted as man could be, and a moment later he dropped to his knees.

"Whatever happens," he said softly, his voice barely audible over the roar of the water, "to you or to me, I will never forget where my loyalties lie. Perhaps when you are older, the time will come that it is safe for you to return and claim what is rightfully yours. Go now and be safe, my brother—my King."

Nodding because he was unable to speak past the lump in his throat, Andrin pulled the cloak over his shoulders, put the pack on, and scrambled down the bank towards the river.

Solin watched the small figure, struggling in the shallow water near the shore, fighting against the current, until he rounded the bend in the river and was lost to view.

The soldier stood there a moment, pleading silently with any gods that might be listening to spare the boy, wondering what was to become of him—wondering whether he had done the right thing. Perhaps he should have told Captain Rendeg—but what would that have accomplished? Rendeg looked upon Drían like a brother; he would have scorned Solin's testimony against him.

It was the only thing for it, he told himself sternly, and it's already done; it won't do any good to question whether it should have happened. For now, there's work to be done.

Figuring that he had a minimum of two hours before someone came to relieve the guard on Andrin's tent, where he would find that the prince was gone and raise the alarm, he followed a narrow game trail that was hardly visible even with the moon's bright silvery light. Half an hour's patient trekking through the forest, redoubling and backtracking whenever he lost the trail, was rewarded by the sight of a thick clump of undergrowth and fresh markings of deer-prints. Making slightly less noise than a panther, Solin crept through the trees until he came within sight of what he was looking for.

Nestled against the trees and deep into the undergrowth were five or six dark figures, completely unaware of his existence. Silently, he took his bow from his back, strung it skillfully, drew a thick arrow from his quiver, and set it against the string.

There was a twang, and a young buck let out an unearthly scream of pain as the arrow thudded into its side. The other deer bolted, disappearing within seconds, but the wounded one merely lurched in a terrified attempt to flee. With grim satisfaction, Solin advanced on it, drew the Gadianton dagger from his belt, and ended the poor creature's agony. It gave one last squeal of terror and pain, and then it collapsed limply to the ground.

Heaving the dead deer bodily across his shoulders, he began jogging back in the direction he had come. When he finally arrived at the riverside, he let the animal fall heavily and knelt down beside it, his bloody hands plunging the dagger in again and again and allowing copious amounts of blood to spill all over the ground. Once he was satisfied that it could not possibly go unnoticed even by the most inexperienced tracker, he very deliberately dropped the dagger so that it would look carelessly forgotten. Then he took hold of the hind legs and dragged the body towards the river, allowing it to topple down the bank and be swept away by the rushing water.

Finally, he turned and surveyed his work, silently congratulating himself on a job well done. It looked exactly how he wanted it to. There were a few discrepancies—such as the fact that the imprint of the body was the wrong shape and heavier than the prince's would have made—but Solin was trusting to Drían's human imperfections: he would see what he wanted to see.

Wishing that he had never gotten out of bed that morning but satisfied that he had done his duty, Solin turned and trotted back towards the camp of the army of Gondor.