The Orphan King (Merlin's Immortals)

by Brouwer, Sigmund

  He began to realize he’d pay with his life to keep Thomas safe in the air.

  Then one of the soldiers yelped and brought his hand to his face.

  “Got more where that came from,” Tiny John yelled with glee. Another rock found its target on another soldier’s face. Not enough damage to put either of them down, but John’s sling provided a satisfying distraction for the knight. He pressed in on one of the soldiers, dropped to his non-sword hand, and kicked outward, feeling the impact of the bottom of his foot against the man’s groin. No chain mail there.

  The man fell to his knees as William bounced to his feet again, whirling his sword in a wide arc of protection.

  “Here I am,” Tiny John shouted. “Can’t you catch a boy?”

  He fired another rock, drawing another oath of anger.

  With a flurry of swings, William drove the third soldier away, then found an open spot in the man’s defenses. He swung for the man’s head, and at the last second gave a twist of the wrist, smacking him solidly with the flat of his blade. The man dropped.

  That left one soldier.

  William squared his body to the man. Now the odds were favorable.

  Except the man who fallen to his knees reached out with a hand and tripped him. William fell sideways, trying to turn to stay facing his final opponent. On his own knees, he parried twice, thrice. But he felt the sword get knocked out of his hands as he parried the fourth blow. With the leverage that came with standing, his opponent had much more power.

  The soldier stood over him and placed the tip of his sword against William’s chest, preparing to shove it forward.

  “Is he over the castle walls?” William asked.

  “You’ll not distract me,” the soldier said, keeping his focus on William.

  But William had distracted the soldier. Tiny John had pocketed his sling and found the broken sword dropped by the first solider. The boy was advancing.

  It was only a stub of a sword, with about two feet of the original four-foot blade.

  But enough.

  Tiny John took a mighty swipe and swung the blade’s edge across the soldier’s buttocks.

  “Take that!” the boy shouted.

  William took advantage of his opponent’s shock, spun sideways, found his own sword, and leapt to his feet.

  But there was no fight left in the last soldier. Tiny John’s mighty swipe had undoubtedly cut deeply into the man’s buttocks, and he was clutching the wound, attempting to staunch the blood loss.

  “And you take that!” Tiny John kicked the groaning soldier who had reached out to trip William.

  Tiny John dropped his broken sword and picked up the one that had fallen from the soldier who had taken the swipe across the buttocks. He struggled with the weight but managed to lift it.

  “Give me that,” William said. “Before you hurt someone with it.”

  “But you’re supposed to do that with a sword.”

  “Not anymore,” William said. “This battle is over.”

  Thomas ached to try to look behind him. Yet he needed all his attention to be on what was ahead. How far from the castle walls? He only knew he was not high enough yet to get over the rough stone.

  He willed his fingers to release the cord. Eighty-one. Eighty-two. Eighty-three.

  A scream pierced the darkness.

  Concentrate!

  At ninety-nine, he stopped the unraveling by swiftly lashing the twine around his wrist in two loops. It felt as if the sudden stop tore his hand loose. With his other hand, he fumbled with the sack at his neck and pulled free a grappling hook. It, too, was attached to twine, and Thomas dropped it like an anchor, knowing there was ample cord remaining attached to the sack around his neck.

  Without the extra weight of the grapple, the kite bobbed upward, high enough to clear the castle wall.

  At the same time, the tremendous pressure on his lashed wrist ceased.

  The rope’s been cut! Katherine!

  “Please, God. Be with us now!” Thomas cried into the black wind, startled that at the moment of his greatest terror, he called out to a deity he did not want to acknowledge.

  The grappling hook hit the surface of the drawbridge and bounced as the wind took the kite. Savagely, with all the anger he wanted to direct at the soldiers who had made Katherine scream, Thomas wrapped his fingers around the twine that unraveled from the sack around his neck. The grapple hopped upward again and clacked against the wall of the gate before spinning away.

  By then, Thomas was over the walls and in sight of anyone within Magnus. A great shout rose to meet him. William had gathered the army!

  Clank. The grapple bounced against the lower part of the walls. Thomas held his breath.

  The kite tore upward so quickly that barely any wall remained between the grapple and the night sky. If it did not catch, the wings of an angel would carry Thomas far, far away from Magnus. Without Thomas, William’s army would scurry homeward. Never would Magnus be freed from …

  Thud.

  Twine spun through his gloves at the sudden lurch of kite against wind as the grapple dug into the top of the castle wall.

  The shouts of people below him grew louder.

  Thomas still did not dare look downward. He fought the twine to a standstill, then looped it around his waist. Then, and only then, did he survey Magnus.

  The kite hung as high as the highest tower. Suspended as it was against the moon, people gathered below could only see the outspread wings of white. They roared, “Delivered on the wings of an angel, he shall free us from oppression! Delivered on the wings of an angel, he shall free us from oppression!”

  Thomas nearly wept with relief. He pulled his crude gloves free and tucked them among the remaining twine in the sack around his neck.

  “Delivered on the wings of an angel, he shall free us from oppression!”

  Thomas could see the villagers armed with hoes and pitchforks, protected by rough shields of tabletops and helmets of pots. As they shouted, they pumped their hands upward in defiance.

  That was the secret to conquering Magnus. Not to find a way to bring an army into it, but to form one from the people already inside. One knight to lead them. One angel to inspire them.

  “Delivered on the wings of an angel, he shall free us from oppression!”

  The roar of their noise filled the sky. There were enough people to pack the market space and spill into the alleys. Thomas could see no soldiers foolish enough to approach the roiling crowd.

  “Delivered on the wings of an angel, he shall free us from oppression!”

  Thomas blinked away tears of an emotion he could not understand.

  “Delivered on the wings of an angel, he shall free us from oppression!”

  It was time to return to earth.

  Thomas found the knife in his inner shirt. He twisted against the shoulder straps and reached behind him.

  Slash. He tore open a slit in the white cloth. Wind whistled through and the kite sagged downward. Another slash. Slowly, the kite began to drop foot by foot as its resistance to the wind lessened.

  As Thomas neared the ground, be began to loosen the straps around his shoulders and his legs. Then, just before the kite could die completely, he released himself and cut through the twine. The kite bobbed upward as Thomas fell. He rolled with the impact and stood immediately.

  The crowd, with William at the front and Tiny John at his side, advanced in a wave toward him.

  “Delivered on the wings of an angel, he shall free us from oppression!”

  Thomas held up his right hand. Instant silence at the front of the crowd. The silence rolled backward as each wave of villagers took its cue from the wave in front. Within a minute, it was quiet enough for Thomas to hear his own thudding heart.

  What do I say?

  William rescued him.

  “Thomas!” he called. “Thomas of Magnus!”

  In a great chant, the crowd took up those words. “Thomas of Magnus. Thomas of Magnus.” Like thun
der, his name rolled inside the castle walls.

  Thomas was not lord yet. Richard Mewburn would not have simply fled into the hills at the sight of an angel. The battle was not over.

  Then Thomas remembered. Katherine!

  He held up his hand again. Again, the silence sifted backward.

  “William,” Thomas cried, “the gate is open and half the soldiers are outside. If you take the gate now, they will be unable to return.”

  William understood immediately. The army was divided already. It took little urging for him to gather a hundred men.

  “Wait,” Thomas cried again. “Find Katherine.”

  The knight nodded and moved forward. One hundred angry men followed.

  Thomas closed his eyes briefly. What had he seen from his perch in the sky? Soldiers scurrying to their last retreat, the keep itself, four stories tall and unassailable.

  Tonight, these villagers were an army, unified by emotion and hope. The remaining soldiers would not fight. They knew, as did Thomas, that tomorrow or the day after these fierce emotions would fade. When that happened, the villagers would no longer be a solid army, prepared to die in a fight for freedom. Then, once again, a handful of trained fighters would be able to conquer and dominate seven hundred people.

  The battle must be won tonight!

  Thomas thought hard. Then it struck him.

  He cast his eyes toward the keep. Unlike the castle walls, it had not been designed for soldiers to fight downward from above. The solution, once it hit him, was obvious.

  “Good people of Magnus!”

  Whatever shuffling of impatience there was in the crowd stopped immediately.

  “Enough blood has been shed within these walls. Enough cruel oppression. Enough pain and bitterness. Tomorrow’s dawn brings a new age in Magnus!”

  The roar began. “Delivered on the wings of an angel, he shall free us from oppression!”

  Thomas held up his hand again. “Our captors, now captive, shall be treated with kindness!”

  To this, there was low grumbling.

  “Do you not remember the pain inflicted on you?” Thomas shouted. “It is double the sin, knowing full well the pain, to inflict it in return.”

  Immediate silence, then murmurings of agreement. “We have a wise and kind ruler!” a voice yelled from the middle of the mob.

  “Wise and kind! Wise and kind!”

  Again, Thomas requested silence. “Furthermore,” he shouted, “we shall not inflict injury upon ourselves by attempting to storm the keep.”

  A hum of questions reached him.

  “Instead,” Thomas shouted, “we shall wait until the remaining army surrenders.” Before he could be interrupted again, Thomas picked a large man from the front of the crowd. “You, my good man, gather two hundred. Arm yourselves with spades and shovels and meet me in front of the keep.” He pointed at another. “You, gather fifty men and all the tar and kindling in the village.”

  With that, Thomas turned and strode toward the keep. He did not have to look behind him to know hundreds followed in a large milling crowd.

  A quarter of an hour later, the two smaller groups joined Thomas and the main crowd in front of the keep. During that time, not one soldier had even ventured to stick his head outside a casement of the keep.

  With the arrival of all the village’s men, Thomas quickly began to outline his plan. The men grasped it immediately. Many grinned in appreciation.

  William approached him with long strides. “Our men have barricaded the remaining soldiers outside the walls,” he said with a grim furrow across his forehead. “Yet there is no sign of the girl Katherine. Alive or dead.”

  Thomas beat his side once with his right fist. This is no time to show pain or mourning, he told himself. He made his face expressionless under the bright lights of hundreds of torches.

  “We cannot forsake the kingdom for one person,” he told William. “When this battle is complete, I will search for her.”

  It took until noon the next day—and three shifts of one hundred men each—to complete Thomas’s plan for bloodless warfare. When they were finished, the keep had effectively been isolated from the rest of the village within the castle walls.

  The men had dug a shallow moat around it, throwing the dirt to the village side as a barricade. Thomas then had the moat filled with tar and pitch and kindling. Standing guard every twelve paces were men armed with torches. There was no shortage of volunteers for the four-hour shifts.

  After the final barrel of pitch had oozed into the moat, Thomas called loudly up at the keep, “Who wishes to speak to the new lord of Magnus?”

  All of the villagers stood gathered behind Thomas. Tomorrow, or the day after, they might resume normal life. Today, however, was a day to behold. A new lord was about to dictate terms of surrender to the old lord.

  A single face appeared in a casement on the third floor. “I am the captain.”

  Thomas said, “Not a single soldier shall die. But we will not provide food or water. You may surrender when you wish. Be warned, however, that should you decide to fight, the moat will impede any battle rush upon the village. And as you struggle to cross the pitch, it shall be set aflame!”

  “We have heard that you deal with fairness,” the captain replied.

  Thomas frowned in puzzlement.

  “One of our men thanks you for his life,” the captain explained.

  The prison guard they had left with Waleran. And what has become of that spy?

  “When you are prepared to surrender,” Thomas instructed, “one of your men must deliver all your weapons to the edge of the moat. Then, and only then, will we build you a bridge to safety.” Thomas paused. “Your lord will also be granted his life upon surrender.”

  The captain said, “That will not be necessary. Nor will a prolonged siege.”

  “What is that you say?”

  “There is a tunnel that leads to the lake. The former lord of Magnus fled with two others during the night. We wish to surrender immediately.”

  Fare thee well, Thomas.”

  “I wish that it were not this way,” Thomas replied to William.

  The knight smiled his ironic half smile. Beside him, his horse, a great roan stallion from the stables of Magnus, danced and shook its mane with impatience.

  “Thomas,” William said, “I have fulfilled my vow to you. Magnus is yours. All that remains is for you to pledge allegiance to the king, promise to pay your taxes, and offer your soldiers to him if needed. You aren’t the first to have gained a castle by power, and no one will risk taking it from you if it is easier for him to let you keep it.”

  Thomas held his head high. He must fight the lump in his throat. “You still dispense advice.”

  “Listen, lad,” the knight growled. “None of us is ever too smart to throw away good advice.”

  Thomas squinted into the morning sun to blaze into his memory his last look at the knight. Not for the first time did he wonder about the scar on William’s face. Or where he was going. Or from where he had arrived.

  An early breeze gently flapped the knight’s colors against the stallion. Behind them, at the other end of the narrow land bridge, lay the walls of Magnus. Ahead, the winding trail that would lead William into the moors.

  “Then I thank you for all your good advice,” Thomas said in a quiet voice. “Without it, I would have foundered.”

  Thomas knew too well the truth of his words. Within hours of forcing the soldiers to surrender, Thomas had discovered a position as lord meant much more than simply accepting tribute as he had naively dreamed. No, the lord of a manor or village was also administrator, sometimes judge, sometimes jailer.

  William had first guided Thomas through the task of selecting his army from the soldiers. Those who swore loyalty remained. Those who didn’t normally were skinned alive by flogging, or worse, if the lord chose. Thomas had not. He did not want any men pretending loyalty merely to escape death. As a result, most of the men had been eager to se
rve a new master.

  Over the last two days, William had taken Thomas through his new tasks as lord. Thomas had grown more confident, and along with that, earned the confidence of the villagers. Had any of them doubted their new lord because of his youth, the doubts quickly disappeared.

  Thomas truly was lord of Magnus.

  As lord, he hid his grief from public view. Katherine had not been found. Nor had there been any trace of Isabelle.

  Thomas’s thoughts must have become obvious in those moments of farewell.

  “You brood once more.” William’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Perhaps the time is not ready for my departure.”

  Thomas forced a grin. “So that I must endure more of your nagging? I think not. Be on your way.”

  Before the moment could become awkward, William mounted his horse.

  “I thank you for my life,” William said with a salute. “You have your destiny. I have mine.”

  The drumming of the horse’s hooves remained with Thomas all of that day.

  One mile past the crest of the hill that overlooked the valley of Magnus, the knight reined his horse to a halt. He hobbled its front feet and let it find grass among the heather and gorse.

  Earlier it had been warm, but weather changed quickly on the moors, even as spring approached summer. The scattered clouds above him were low, heavy at the bottom with angry gray, and moved over the hills in a growing wind he felt more keenly outside the protective walls of Magnus. It would not be a good day for travel.

  Still he waited.

  Here, against the horizon, he would be in plain view. And here, against the horizon, none would be able to approach him without being equally plain to see.

  Hawkwood did not keep the knight waiting long enough to shiver. William saw him first as a small black figure stepping out from the trees below, a figure that grew quickly as Hawkwood covered ground with long, vigorous strides.

  “My friend,” the knight called, “you wear the guise of an old man but move as a puppy. Merlin himself would find it a performance sadly lacking.”