Alfred 2: And The Underworld (Alfred the Boy King)

by Ron Smorynski

  “You can help me?!”

  “Yes, I can,” Tirnalth said. “And you want to learn a new spell to combat them?!”

  “I want to see my mother.”

  “Oh, oh... yes... Alfred, if you see your mother, you may miss, or not be present, in your people’s darkest time.”

  “You said I have this magic within me, that my family does?”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “And that the connection between the worlds, it is space and time – and that the magic has a will of its own?” Alfred seemed to be thinking aloud.

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “If I am changing space and can go see my mother whenever I want, can’t I also change the time?”

  “Uh, oh…well, I, I do not know. I never – that seems like a challenge, I mean like a request, and when you request of magic, it conforms sometimes, but sometimes it does not.”

  “Each time I went there or here, I felt that time had passed – here,” Alfred said, “but I always felt that time had not passed there. I felt an urgency there but not here.”

  “I think... am I following you? You believe you have been setting the time all along?” Tirnalth asked this while pulling out a ghostly pipe to smoke.

  “I think so. I think if I go there, it has an urgency to it. But when I feel the need to return, I think of it as time passed, as in seasons. But this time, I shall not. I shall come back in urgency.”

  “Magic is a stretching of space and time. It seems too risky, Alfred. They need you now! These folk need your lordship, their king! It is no time to experiment with the potential, the power. Everything could be lost.”

  “I can't help it, Tirnalth. It’s as if the magic were calling me.”

  Alfred sighed. Tirnalth got up, fretted and paced, puffing quickly on his pipe. He could see Alfred fading like a ghost, like him. He reached for Alfred. “No! It's your mother calling! Don't go!”

  Alfred seemed distant and unable to hear him.

  Chapter Fifty-Four: A Mother's Calling

  Alfred woke up in his bed. He sat up and felt himself. He had his regular pajamas on. He tugged at them, looking for his armour and gear. He gripped the bed sheets and the bed. It was as if he had awakened from a dream and none of his time in the Westfold was real. Thoughts flashed in his mind. Had he indeed been dreaming? Was it just an intense, repeated dream? He felt overwhelmingly possessive about the notion.

  “Magic, whatever you are, wherever you are, whoever you are, where are you coming from? What is this overcoming me?”

  Alfred quickly got out of bed and rushed to the door. He opened it and peaked out. He saw his mother praying at the table. She was praying in earnest. He saw the tissues and cheap makeup on the table. She was praying, and he knew what for. He came out and stood next to her.

  “Mom.”

  “Alfred?” His mother looked up. She looked awful. Smeared makeup stained her puffy red face, and tears were still coming down.

  Alfred gave her a look.

  “How long have you been gone? How long?”

  “Months,” Alfred said softly.

  “Moments, moments is all. You left with him. You were mice! Tirnalth, the sorcerer, is corrupting you with the dark arts!”

  “Mom!” Alfred waved his arms. It was definitely all real!

  “The black arts, the enchantments, the sorcery, the witchcraft – it will entice you, empower you and take you over!” His mother stood, like a powerful witch herself. Red flashes seemed to spark across her darkened eyes. Shadows with claws and extended teeth seemed to flicker out of the apartment’s normal shades. Alfred could see it all. He saw the potential, even in his own mother, for this dark magic. And it was there, trickling into his mother's fear.

  “Begone, dark spirits!” Alfred yelled. “Begone from my mother! You shall not have her!”

  His mother suddenly wrenched backwards and fell to the floor. She looked up as Alfred waved and punched at the evil shadows she could now see. She gasped at their presence as Alfred yelled again and again.

  “Begone, evil ones! The Father of Light, the hope and goodness of all I claim, rebukes you! Begone!”

  And with that, the spirits seemed to burst out. The dim light of the apartment returned.

  His mother breathed heavily as Alfred helped her back up to sit at the table.

  “What? How do you know of the Father?”

  “Verboden told me, a little. I figured if he is good, then saying his name is good, and good versus evil seems to be, you know, the way to go.” Alfred shrugged.

  “Way to go?”

  “Yeah mom, you can't just call me back like this!”

  “What?”

  “You can't just call me back when I am helping the kingdom. There is big trouble there. BIG TROUBLE!”

  “I, I… Alfred, you are just a boy. You are still just a boy. It isn't a game! I can't have you go, not for a lifetime, not for a moment! They have knights and warriors and kings there. Let them fight this evil!” His mother looked exhausted and worn out. Alfred sat across from her.

  “Why you?” she finally moaned.

  Alfred looked at her and felt a calming strength. She stared at him with smeared eye liner.

  “Because I win,” Alfred said.

  His mother blinked. She looked at him then fidgeted and tried to fix her hair. It was a deranged mess after all her crying at the table. She stood and went to the nearby kitchen sink. She placed a kettle on the stove. She washed her face and quickly did her hair. The transformation from vile witch to peaceful queen was almost instantaneous. She pulled her hair smartly into a bun. She dried her face of water and tears. Her face glowed again.

  “Alfred, you have within you the gift, the magic given to our family long ago. But it can also be a curse.”

  Alfred propped his head on one open palm and listened.

  She made two teas and sat back down. Alfred drank his. She sipped hers. “I want you to say something for me. Repeat after me.”

  “What, an imprisoning spell?!” Alfred smirked.

  “Repeat this after me,” she said. “I know that the power of this magic can overtake me. It can corrupt me if I let it.”

  Alfred stared at her and then winced.

  “Repeat it. Say it!”his mother said.

  Alfred rolled his eyes, “I know that the power...”

  “...of this magic can overtake me...”

  “Of this magic can overtake me.”

  “...it can corrupt me...”

  “It can corrupt me.”

  “...if I let it.”

  “If I let it.” Alfred sat up and sensed something, a special awareness. He looked at his mother. “This power corrupted your sister. She used it thinking she could control the Lords of Silver. She misused it, and it corrupted her?!”

  “Yes, Alfred. And if you use it, if you use it foolishly, for power, it will take over and corrupt you too!”

  “Then what must I do? What can I do? How?”

  His mother motioned for him to drink a sip of tea, slowly, as she was doing.

  He followed her, eyeing her as he sipped.

  “Like a cup of tea. Sip.”

  Alfred sipped slowly, gently holding the tiny tea cup. He put up his pinky and danced his eyebrows. His mother giggled. She couldn't help it.

  “Like a fine glass of wine, like the honey in spring, sip. Do not gulp. But even then, Alfred, the magic will call you to gulp. It will call you to partake in its power and even forget its own Creator.”

  “The Father of Light?”

  “Yes.”

  “When you worship the creation more than the Creator, it will consume you and separate you,” his mother said.

  “I want to learn more about him! How?” Alfred perked up.

  “I, I, I don't know.”

  “Is there a book or something? Do Tirnalth and Veboden know?”

  “I suppose. You'll have to ask them. I don't know. It seems much was lost. Our knowledge of the Father was lost when
the land was lost.”

  “Then we must find it. Or, ooh a quest! Quest of the Knights!”

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing, it’s just another neat King Alfred idea!”

  “Alfred, I can sense it already. I can sense you must... remember what I said. Remember what I am telling you!”

  And Alfred was gone.

  She reached out for him, to touch him, but all she saw was the empty silent room. She looked around, hoping to see him somewhere. The dim light bulb flickered. She noticed the shadows. She glanced nervously at the quavering shadows. Were they claws creeping about? She was overwhelmed by nervous ticks. She avoided the edges of her own apartment, where the shadows lurked.

  Under her breath she said, “Father of Light.” Then she quickly put on a coat and left the apartment.

  She found the most gothic and ornate of cathedrals nearby. It was open. Candles were lit, and the place reminded her of her home far away and long ago. It had statues of angels and a lady she did not know. The lady held a baby. There was a huge symbol on the altar, a beam with another across it toward its top, making the two look like a 't'. She did not know what any of this meant, but she knew of churches and knew of worship. The clerics of her realm held gatherings and prayed and sang to the Father in ancient tongues.

  She sat at the back, feeling a presence. She felt calm and peaceful here. She glanced at the shadows under the pews and behind the statues but saw no evil spirits. The shadows were not black, just darkened shapes.

  She looked up. A lone man was sitting near the front. She looked down to pray and then slowly looked up again. The man was praying. A young cleric walked by, lighting fresh candles. He spoke a word to the man, as if he knew him. Then the cleric walked to a back room.

  The man stood and turned. It was Wooly. She looked down to avoid his eyes. He stood for a moment. She could just sense it. Then he walked down the aisle past her.

  She prayed as earnestly as she could as thoughts raced in her mind. She couldn't focus. She blinked and white-knuckled her hands, rubbing and gripping them in prayer. She shook out of it and stood. The church was empty. She didn't understand the angels and the woman. She didn't understand the cross. It was similar to their symbol, a post with a circle atop, signifying the loss of their Father. It seemed the same yet different.

  She took a deep breath to calm herself. She left quietly.

  It was late at night and cold when she hurried back to the apartment. Three burly men, boisterous about something, came from the other direction. They saw her. She stopped and tried to go around them.

  The three looked very drunk. They didn't really look evil, but they were definitely not in their right minds. They had similar colored jerseys with big numbers on them. All three looked big and well fed.

  “Hey lady, are you out for a good time?!” They laughed at their own crude joke.

  She stepped aside and past them.

  “Dang lady, rude! Did she just walk past us?”

  “Yeah yeah, leave her. Let's go.”

  “Nah, nah, hey lady? We're going to party. Why don't you come? You look all lonely!”

  This man hurried back after Ethralia. She tried to hurry along. He grabbed her shoulder.

  “Hey? Hey?”

  “Dude! Leave her!”

  Out of the shadow of a doorway, a man suddenly leapt in and grabbed the man's hand. He twisted it and kicked the man away.

  “Yoh!” The other two men ran up.

  Wooly stood next to her and waited. The three surrounded them. Wooly pulled out a small stick and went to work, whacking them furiously. It was quick and effective. He did not break bones or cause blood to flow. He merely whacked them with repeated annoyance.

  “Dude, ow! Ah! Ouch! Stop!”

  Eventually they realized they still had a night of fun, and this was not worth it.

  “What's your problem, sphincter-head!”

  “Leave!” Wooly exhorted with a cringe-worthy face.

  “Yeah yeah, poop! We're going! Friggin freak! See that face? Yeck! Freak! Probably contagious! Outta here!”

  Wooly turned to see that Ethralia had already hurried away. She was at the entrance to her apartment building, punching in the code. Wooly stood in the shadows nearby.

  She turned and immediately went up to him. “Who are you?!”

  Wooly tried to back further into the shadows.

  “Who are you? Who sent you?!” She went up to him and pushed him. “Who sent you? Tell me!” She punched him. He tried to block her blows gently. “Why are you... why are you protecting me? And my son! You are protecting us. You are watching us?! Aren't you?! All this time… Who are you?”

  Wooly stood silent. She could just see the tears in his eyes from the glint of street lights.

  She became somewhat enraged. A flicker of red began in her eyes, and the shadows there became darker. She grabbed at his face. “Take off that mask!” She felt his face and grasped more furiously than even she expected.

  Wooly gripped her fragile hands and yanked them from his face. A scratch lined his scarred skin. Blood trickled.

  “That hurts,” he snarled through gritted teeth.

  She stood and stared at him with a simmering fury. The red flickers and demonic shadows swirled around him. Wooly looked at her with his eyes. She blinked and saw the blood trickle. The red glow suddenly faded, and the dark shadows dissipated.

  She could see his eyes clearly.

  “No! ...Noooo.....” she cried, moaning, and hurried into her apartment building's entrance, closing the metal door behind her.

  Chapter Fifty-Five: The Gathering of Evil

  Not far to the north, a long line of wagons could be seen crossing mountains. Furry man-beasts known as bugbears trudged along in the snow. They were hunched over and looked like ugly men with enlarged teeth, huge pointy ears and scruffy coats of hair. Their fur was not thick, lustrous and perfect like that of a bear. It was raggedy and patchy and creased by belts and varied armour pieces.

  Bugbears were not as big as ogres but bigger than hobgoblins, and they were easily larger than the burliest of men. Their upturned noses and bloated furry faces made them look as cruel as they were.

  Riding upon an actual giant bear at the front of the line was their leader, Wargog the Warmonger. He was as big as to be expected, as all man-beasts are. His armour was made of thick-banded leathers, and he brandished a giant clawed hammer.

  Far away, Pep stood atop Sir Murith's shoulders with a spyglass scanning the scene.

  “How many do you think there are?” Murith asked.

  “Looks like a score of a score! At least. And a score of wagons? They have something inside those wagons! Most definitely!”

  “Four hundred bugbears, any one a match for two able men. And the mysterious tunnel beasts? Are they in those wagons?”

  “Must be! It's an army, alright,” Pep said, handing the spyglass down to Murith. “They'll be at your Keep in less than a week.”

  Murith looked through at the distant army. “What's those wagons made of? It isn't wood.”

  “Copper methinks, reinforced,” Pep said.

  They were at a small lookout encampment atop a rocky hillock. Both wore thick furs. Pep quickly buried their small fire and packed up their cooking gear. Inside the small rock enclosure, the farm horse chewed grains.

  “Copper? What kind of wagon is that? Why?”

  “Hold those beasts in, hey?” Pep looked at a copper pot as he packed.

  “We are in the middle of winter. Would they attack us now?” Murith asked this, continuing to look through the spyglass. “And those wagons, they’re able to hold something beastly within? Twenty wagons. That is a most terrible foe indeed, whatever they hold.”

  “Ah, we've dealt with cave wyrms in the Underworld. We'll be ready for them. Hurry, Sir Murith. We must tell the kings that war is upon us!”

  “This isn't your fight, Pep. The gnomes don't have to fight this war.”

  “We like your cooking
. Can't lose that.”

  Murith smiled.

  When the bugbear army reached the snowy rubble of Grotham Keep, Wargog rode up on his bear mount. He had to growl a beastly howl just to get the groggy ogres to come out. All the bugbears were breathing out vast plumes of mist in the cold wintry air.

  “I wasn't even sure anyone was here to greet us!” Wargog growled.

  The War Chief and his ragged band rose from within the few remaining coverings in the inner Keep. Most of the walls and towers were exposed to snow and the chill air. Many ogres huddled under what rock or wooden outcroppings that they could find. They looked disheveled, cold and hungry. They did not have goblins or slaves to feed or care for them.

  Wargog looked at the frozen carcasses of dragons, hyenas and goblins. The ogres obviously butchered them as their only food source. He sneered at their desperate situation.

  Wargog leapt off his bear and petted it. “No sleep this winter, my friend. The witch calls us out.”

  The giant bear growled with affection.

  “We'll need our ogre friends strong and able,” Wargog snorted. He waved a particular wagon forward. It was the chow wagon, filled with many furry goblins who knew their tasks.

  The ogres perked up as the goblins quickly set up their cooking encampment. They rolled out cauldrons and iron ladles. Bugbears immediately set about the task of chopping wood. The bugbears knew their tasks and did them quickly – quite comfortable, as they were, in the snowy woods and icy winds. They were strong, needing only a few chops per thick tree to burst its base and have it come crashing down. Many trees fell with a single bugbear swing. It was a proficient and effective crew.

  Soon enough the ogres were all seated by fires and eating cooked meat from a wagon full of frozen dead animals. The bugbears lined up for their meals as well, setting up many camps with fires across the field.

  Wargog grabbed a cooked leg of meat from a goblin and sat next to the War Chief. Both ate gruesomely from their meaty bones.

  “A boy king we are to get,” Wargog said in grunts. “They hide like puny humans in the caves and attack you from the holes?”