Alfred: The Boy Who Would Be King (Alfred the Boy King Book 1)

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Alfred: The Boy Who Would Be King (Alfred the Boy King Book 1) Page 12

by Ron Smorynski


  Tis mired of old, this land we know

  Tis a spirit roaming, like ghosts of old

  Our fathers shall warn in dream and song

  One day we share the same fate be told

  And our children be us, as they grow.

  Abedeyan paused and glanced quickly about...

  Tis mired of old, this land we know!

  Tis a spirit roaming, like ghosts of old.

  We lost the light! We lost our souls!

  One day we share... the same fate be told...

  And our children be us, as they have grown.

  The children raised their heads, watching and listening in wonder, experiencing for the first time an old tradition nearly lost. Were it not for Abedeyan’s magnificent performance, it might well have been lost. The Steward stopped in front of Alfred, ending with a gracious bow. Clapping echoed throughout the hall. Lady Nihan applauded. Then from the passageway came the delightful sound of seamstresses, cooks and laborers, all cheering and clapping too. Everyone in the castle, not awakened by the children’s noise, was now sitting up and alert, enraptured by the sound of an ancient yet familiar song.

  Then, clearing his throat and picking up his lantern, Abedeyan became the official Steward again. “Here here, we all need rest now,” he said. “Keep it down a bit, Alfred. King or no king, I am the Steward here, and we all need our sleep! There is still much to do!”

  Alfred nodded.

  As Abedeyan walked out of the hall, pushing his way through the crowd of happy onlookers, he kept a stern look on his face. But when no one could see as he exited, there slipped a smile.

  Chapter Fifteen: The Dark Forest

  One day after returning from a hunt, Alfred realized that they had done so well in the fields around the farms and Keep that not many wild rabbits, pigs, and goats remained. They had been hunting in the neighboring hillside and patches of trees for some time now, seeing few game animals. Most were small rabbits and pheasants. The farmers had the same diminishing luck. They were setting traps that caught little and admitted that they used their children to hunt whenever there was time. Alfred smiled at this. However, he was concerned about food shortages. If they ran out of game to hunt, they wouldn't keep up their strength.

  More crops sprouted this year than in the past, but harvest time was a ways off. The few stored provisions were running low. More lost folk were coming to the castle, many hearing that the king had come. There would be more mouths to feed.

  Alfred decided to ask the castle folk about the surrounding forests. Everyone warned him about a vast wood to the north, a realm of the goblins and foul beasts. Alfred wondered about this. Would it really be a problem taking his kids there after all their training? He couldn’t get the idea out of his head. He wanted to explore the forest and see how his children would fare against real enemies. Also, he could hear the echoing voice of Abedeyan discussing their meager storage of moldy breads, dwindling game meat, and worm-ridden grain. Supplies might not last until the harvest. Alfred knew he had to do something.

  Verboden had not yet returned from wherever it was he went off to, and Tirnalth was but a muttering bookworm, grunting only a few syllables at a time whenever Alfred tried to speak with him.

  After a few days of fretting and thinking about it, Alfred finally decided it was time. They must go. He did not tell anyone what he was doing.

  “I have an idea,” he said with enthusiasm. “We shall go on a field trip!” Alfred thought this was a pleasant way to explain that they were going somewhere new. The boys and girls looked quizzically at each other, not sure what a field trip was. Children of peasants in dark times did not go on field trips.

  Abedeyan must have surmised what was happening when he saw the boys and girls all fully armed. Three squads of archers and three dozen of the boys with spears all marched out of the castle. The local peasants looked on as if this was a parade, all nodding with agreeable expressions.

  Abedeyan chased after Alfred. “You’re not going to the dark forest, Danken Fuhrs, are you?”

  “Why not? We need food.” Alfred had to skip a step to keep pace with the marching children.

  “It is dangerous! Goblins reside there!” Abedeyan shook his hands and hobbled alongside Alfred. He didn't yell too loud as he didn’t want to upset the castle workers.

  “Well, what do you think I’ve been training them for?” replied Alfred, motioning to the boys and girls.

  “This is child’s play. Goblins are for real!” The Steward leapt in front of Alfred.

  Alfred stopped and looked angrily at Abedeyan. The Steward was taken back. “Child’s play? Oh, so let me get this straight. We have no garrison and no food. There is a good chance of being raided by goblins once we make it to harvest time. And you say this is child’s play!?”

  As Alfred continued his tirade, Abedeyan shook his head and turned around, regretting his incompetence in not preparing better for this eventuality. He ambled back up to the castle.

  Danken Fuhrs was a dimly lit forest veiled in a gray mist. Its thick gnarly trees, dense with dark leaves, threw jet-black shadows on a muddy ground. Because of the density of growth, everything retained its moisture and thusly had a dark wet look. Alfred surveyed the edge of the forest, noting its foreboding appearance, and thought to himself, “Dark Forest indeed, even the shadows are really black!”

  Just as he was beginning to wonder if going into the wood was a good idea, some girls saw mushrooms at the edge of the forest and rushed to gather them.

  “Stay together!” Alfred yelled under his breath. He rushed everyone closer to the girls. “Give me a perimeter,” Alfred whispered. Sergeant Cory and his boys fanned out in a wide circle, and the archers set up behind them in a smaller circle.

  “Okay, Loranna, your squad can pick the mushrooms,” Alfred said. So Loranna and her group quickly shouldered their bows and pulled out sacks to harvest the big mushrooms.

  “Are those safe to eat?” Alfred asked.

  “Of course they are,” said Loranna. “They are Branstools. They have healing powers. These are much bigger than the few found around the farms!” As she spoke, she picked at the forest floor, collecting as much mud as mushroom.

  Alfred peered into the forest mist as he moved from spot to spot among the groups of young soldiers. “See anything?” he asked Cory.

  Sergeant Cory shook his head. Alfred noticed that it was a quick nervous motion. For some reason Alfred sensed something. Perhaps it was just the rustling of broad dark green leaves. In most places and further in, the thick mist shrouded the forest. It was called the Dark Forest for a very good reason. When the mist thinned enough, the sun would send shafts of light through small leafy openings.

  Suddenly, all heard a thundering crackle of wood from within the forest. The sound came from a tree falling and crashing to the ground not far from them. Everyone froze in fear except Loranna. Muddied, she motioned for her squad to drop their harvest sacks, pull out their bows, and retreat into the circle. Alfred motioned to tighten up the formation.

  Then they saw it, a large bear-like creature with a huge beak and oversized claws. It had toppled the tree and was tearing at its bark. It looked ferocious yet busy. Then it stopped and began snorting, its attention turned toward the hunkered down group of children. It stood up on its hind legs and let loose a long ferocious howl. Several of the children dropped to the ground, grabbing their ears. Others rose to dash off. Loranna and the other older girls grabbed the runners and yanked them back in line. Alfred was proud of her, for even he was shaking. The hairy bear-beast with a beak for a mouth advanced like a bull, stomping and raking the ground with each step of its huge mole-like digging claws.

  Alfred yelled “Spears forward!” and ran to the front of the group, going down on one knee to brace himself and his spear. Sergeant Cory rushed to his side, and the other boys came up as well to reinforce him. The creature faced a wall of spears.

  “Archers ready!” Alfred shouted.

  Loranna a
nd her squads rushed up behind them in rows. The first squad was on its knees, the second crouched just behind them, and the taller ones stood in the back.

  Undaunted, the beast lumbered forward, bitter bile seething from its mouth and steam spewing from its nostrils.

  “Row one, fire!” Alfred yelled. A volley of arrows shot at the beast. Most hit their mark though many bounced off its coarse matted fur and thick hide.

  “Row two, fire!” Alfred yelled. Another volley fired with some arrows sticking while others bounced off. The beast seemed annoyed but undeterred.

  “Aim for its head, for its eyes!” Alfred hollered. “Row three, fire!” Arrows converged on the beast’s ferocious beak and small beady eyes. It was now only a few paces away, ready to swipe its huge claws at Alfred and the boys' small spears.

  Arrows pierced the animal’s head, with many landing in its gaping maw. The beast emitted choking sounds along with snarls. Other arrows skidded along its large beak, piercing deeply into its face. It contorted with fury at the pain, stopping and gurgling, desperately clawing and snapping at the arrows in its bloody, slobbering mouth.

  “Row one, fire!” Alfred yelled. Arrows flew. “Row two, fire!” More arrows flew. “Row three, fire!” Yet more arrows flew. “Charge!” Alfred shouted. The boys yelled and made a great howl as they rushed toward the beast. Clamoring to pull out the arrows in its mouth, the beast left its underside exposed. The boys converged there with their spears, handily piercing its soft underbelly. It fell dead.

  Everyone stood silent in utter amazement and shock. They stared at each other, sweating from the fear. The children ran up to collect their arrows and look at the beast. Alfred put his hands out to stop them and then carefully stepped around the beast. It did not move. He poked at it. Nothing happened. He poked again and again. Nothing. Then he raised his arms and cried out, “Yeah!!!” Covered with dark cold mud, they all yelled and cheered, lifting their weapons in victory.

  There was a huge feast in the hall that evening. Makeshift tables were set up, and a fire raged with large chunks of sizzling meat. The children seemed like children again, huddling around the blaze and watching the biggest piece of meat they had ever seen bubble with delicious juices and smoke with wondrous aromas.

  It had been a chore to carry the great beast back to the castle. Each kid had to shoulder a large chunk of meat, but it was all worth it.

  Alfred and the children rose after the feast and put on a dance for all, from farmers to castle keepers. For the first time in a long time, the adults watched their children dance and sing. It was not a primitive chaotic dance, but a well timed rhythmic display, where the boys were the anchor with percussion and boisterous booming voices and the girls floated light-footed about them, jigging to each new beat. The younger children were like fairies prancing. Much to everyone’s surprise, Abedeyan, the farmers and the castle men joined in, demonstrating the traditional dance of Thanks and Merriment. It was a wondrous occasion. Nothing like it had taken place in many long years.

  After the great meal and dancing, Abedeyan sat among the children. He looked up at King Alfred, wordlessly expressing, in his watery eyes, his joyous gratitude. Alfred smiled back, holding in his own surge of celebratory emotions. Abedeyan then turned back to the children and began telling them the tale of a beast they had killed. It was a story of magical heroic times in the past when knights used to hunt the beast called a Bikehnbahrt. Abedeyan had no idea that he was telling them of heroic experiences yet to come.

  Chapter Sixteen: The Bandits

  Verboden walked along a dark road. Alone in a veiled forest, he shrouded his face with his hood while his eyes darted to and fro. His knuckles were white from tightly gripping his staff. Though he saw no one, he felt the presence of others in the dark mist. It was a night on which others would not dare to travel, not at this hour and not in these dark and terrible times.

  He stopped and leaned against his staff. The crunching of dirt and bristling of grass echoed as dark shadows rose from the surrounding foliage. Sensing that he was surrounded, he softly chanted words to himself.

  “Quickly!” said a voice from the dark, gruff with the sound of spitting. “He is a sorcerer casting a curse!”

  A shadowy figure notched an arrow and fired. Verboden ducked as he flung his staff out, deflecting the arrow. It spun off into the night. A shadow rushed from behind him screaming, flailing an axe and shield. Verboden rolled and twirled his staff, hitting hard upon the shins of his assailant. The ruffian went airborne and landed hard. Verboden quickly leapt up and stepped over him. The downed man, though alive, wasn’t thrilled to get back up.

  The others were cautious but quickly ran up to the fallen man. “Hedor! Did you catch something!?”

  “Aye, a sorcerer!” Hedor, the big one, sat up rubbing his pained shins.

  “I am not a sorcerer! I am a cleric of the Order of Light!” Verboden stepped back from the ragged armed group.

  “Bah!” said Hedor with vile contempt, emitting phlegm and sweat. “The church is dead! Look around you! The land is dead. The people are dying, and you dare come through here in the middle of the night? I don’t think so, my foul enchanter. Take him!”

  The bandits stood still. They seemed too tired to rush. Verboden could see in their eyes and filthy faces that they were worn and gaunt. Many were half naked, torn and tattered clothes hanging on their frail forms. They held rusted and dented weapons. All appeared to have diseases, aches, and pains.

  “I said take him now!” Hedor advanced, swinging his heavy axe. Verboden caught it with his staff and used the momentum of the axe to twirl it around, tumbling Hedor to the ground again.

  Hedor had rage in his eyes as he rose and pushed his ruffians forward. “Get him! We are many!”

  Verboden noticed that a few of the bandits were younger, barely in their teens. He rushed forward as they huddled with raised weapons and closed eyes. He ably pole vaulted over them, dashing into an area of scattered trees and high grass. The group blinked and looked about confused. Hedor huffed and pointed behind them. They turned to see the cloaked cleric sprinting away.

  Verboden entered a dark thicket, its thick bramble and twisting thorns slowing him. As nimble as he was, he could not get through the dried overgrown bushes before the bandits caught up and circled him again.

  Hedor, huffing and gruffing, had had enough. “Finish this vile sorcerer,” he rasped. “He brought the plague upon us and doomed the land! He is one of them, the vile enchanters! Finish him! Let loose your arrows. Throw your spears! I will hack him down!”

  As the bandits raised their bows and spears, Verboden went down to one knee as best he could in the bramble and chanted a sonorous song. The bandits lowered their weapons upon hearing it, as it sounded familiar. They had not heard such ethereal music in a long time.

  Oh Creator of all,

  hear my call

  bring me strength

  before I fall.

  “You fools!” yelled Hedor, sweeping thorns aside. “He is casting a charm! Now shoot!”

  The bandits raised their bows. With his eyes closed, Verboden raised his hands out, reaching toward the sky. Something round dropped from the trees, landing firmly in Verboden’s hands. The bandits scrambled away. One fired an arrow wildly, almost hitting another bandit. Hedor fell back and got stuck in some thorns. With a painful grimace he chopped at them to get up again. Still, he was paralyzed with fear, breathing hard, and feeling the doom of a demon presence. His companions were similarly stricken.

  Verboden held the ball close to examine it. It was large, brown, grotesquely wrinkled and lighter than it appeared. Verboden exerted no effort in holding it. Digging his fingers into it, he heard a cracklng sound, like that of dry leaves being crushed. The sphere split open, revealing a pattern of small squares of clear six-sided cells. From this set of hexagons, a honeycomb, oozed the shiny syrup of honey.

  Verboden looked up and broke off a piece of the comb, raising it to a young quivering band
it who had his bow taut. The archer, mishandling his weapon, twanged the string, causing the arrow to fall from its notch. Yet he reached hungrily for the glistening morsel.

  “Don’t do it!” cried Hedor, trying to wrest himself free from the thorns. “It’s foul sorcery!”

  The bandit boy touched, with trembling fingers, the oozing parchment of honeycomb. In a brief moment, his filthy fingertips were covered in the gooey syrup. He retracted his hand and suckled his fingers.

  The bandits leaned in to witness what they felt for sure was the boy’s demise. Instead, he grabbed the piece of honeycomb from Verboden and hungrily suckled it. He giggled like a child with, well, honey. His friends immediately began frothing at the mouth, each begging for a piece. Verboden complied as quickly as he could.

  “No! He is putting a curse upon you! It is a charm that will damn you!” As he yelled, Hedor continued to twist and turn in the thorn bed.

  Verboden saved a piece for him and tossed it on his lap.

  “Damn you!” Hedor said.

  Raising his staff high, Verboden spoke more words of enchantment.

  Oh Creator of all,

  hear my call

  bring me strength

  before I fall!

  Hedor tried to raise his axe with one hand but was filled with fear and went limp with exhaustion. With the last word, Verboden swung down hard with his staff. It met the earth with a great cracking sound. Hedor closed his eyes. The bandits peered wide-eyed with syrupy drooling mouths. Hedor opened his eyes, expecting to die. Instead he saw Verboden lift his staff from a hole and pull out a big fat rabbit, dead, and ready to be cooked. Verboden spoke again in chant form, raising his staff and whacking the ground with it. Out bounced another big fat juicy dead hare. In no time the makings of a fire were laid and a spark struck.

 

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