“That structure does not look sound,” Albert said.
“I-It’s fine,” I told him.
“I will most likely slip and sprain a hoof or tumble into the river to my death,” he moaned.
“N-No one is g-going to die.”
“Are you sure it’s safe?” This was Tate now. He had at least proven to not be a complainer, but he did sound concerned, and, looking back, I had to admit he had good reason. The bridge seemed to sag, and the wood looked old and brittle.
But I wasn’t in a mood to be reasonable. “The b-bridge is fine. We’re g-going over it.”
Tate and Albert exchanged glances, but neither said anything more, and we started forward.
Albert moaned a little as the bridge groaned under the weight of his front hooves, but when nothing happened, he gingerly continued across. The structure made a symphony of creaks and small snapping noises, but it held stable until we reached the middle of the river. When we had come to nearly the exact center of the bridge, the wood started to move.
“G-get down,” I told Tate and then swung down off Albert’s back.
I thought that if we spread out our weight, things might go better. But as soon as our shoes touched the wooden planks, the entire structure collapsed.
We fell through the air, surrounded by boards broken into jagged shapes, and then plunged into the river. It felt like I fell forever. But finally, my feet touched the bottom. I pushed off, pulling with my arms and kicking with my feet, trying to reach the sunlight. The light seemed to keep moving farther and farther away, but finally my head broke through the surface.
I spent half a minute doing nothing but gasping for air. My lungs couldn’t seem to get enough. But then my mind started working again. My feet kicked out, turning me in a sharp half circle as I searched the water. I saw Albert lying on the opposite bank, his large side heaving. I could faintly hear him moaning. He was fine. But where was Tate? I spun all the way around, but there was no shock of yellow hair.
I yelled his name. No one answered. The water was carrying me downstream, and I still saw no sign of Tate.
I dove down, searching for any glimpse of him, but there was nothing. I had to go up for air. With my lungs full again, I started swimming, trying to climb back up the river, closer to where we fell in. The waters fought me, but I was desperate. I struggled back up the river, ducking my head as often as I could to look for any sign of him. I knew a person couldn’t survive underwater for more than a few minutes.
We were almost out of time when I saw a limp shape just under the surface. I took off I had always been a good swimmer. It’s a skill you develop when you are likely to be thrown into any body of water you pass. But that day I swam faster than I ever had in my life. When I reached Tate, I took one last huge breath of air and dove.
Tate’s head was slumped forward, his eyes closed. I grabbed hold of his arms and pulled, but he didn’t come up with me. I pulled harder, but he was tethered, his foot trapped in a cluster of rocks. I dove down, tugging at stones and throwing them aside until Tate came loose. Immediately he started floating down the river with the current. I grabbed him, my lungs screaming, and strained to pull us both toward the surface.
Finally, we broke through. The current carried us along as I struggled to keep Tate’s unconscious head out of the water. I didn’t know how I was going to get us to shore. But then a hand grabbed me and started to pull. I dragged Tate along. More hands caught hold of us and hauled us up out of the water. Soon I was gasping in the bottom of a fishing boat under the watchful eyes of two strangers.
One of the men started rowing us back toward shore. The other was busy pressing on Tate’s chest. A few good pushes and Tate was turning, waves of water flowing out of his mouth, before he started to cough. By the time we reached the bank, Tate’s eyes were open. I laughed. I had never been so glad to see anything in my entire life.
When I was finally convinced that he was going to live, I left Tate sitting on the riverbank with the fishermen and walked upstream to retrieve my horse. Albert was in the mood for theatrics, and for once, I didn’t mind. I was so relieved to know Tate was breathing that I didn’t say a word as Albert told me all about his life flashing in front of his eyes.
When Albert had finished, we walked back down to Tate and the boatmen.
“You saved my life again,” Tate said when Albert and I reached him.
I felt suddenly very uncomfortable in my sopping wet clothes. “I-I also almost g-got you drowned in the f-first place,” I told the dirt.
“But Dan said that you kept diving back under, looking for me. He said that you could have died trying to save me.”
I shrugged, not really sure what to say about that.
“We’re glad you boys are all right,” one of the men said. I didn’t know if he was Dan or not. “And maybe now Lord Fancy Pants will finally replace that old bridge.”
His friend scoffed. “You know he won’t spend a coin on anything that doesn’t go into his own stomach.”
Tate looked over at me. “We could build them a new bridge.”
“H-how?”
“With the unbreakable thread,” he said. His eyes were bright, the way they always were when he mentioned anything magical.
I started to say, “No,” but he looked at me with that eager face, and I knew that I owed him this much. I nodded. Tate beamed.
We spent most of the day building a bridge. The two fishermen, who it turned out were both named Dan, ferried us back and forth across the river while we unwound the unbreakable thread, securing it on the stone posts that were the only part of the old bridge still standing. We wove thread back and forth between those first lines and then set the boards, securing each one with more thread. We even made handrails before finally burying the spool, which still seemed full.
Albert refused to try the new bridge, but Dan the Stout brought his own horse, which was thankfully silent, and walked across the bridge without incident. The whole village came out to thank us and shake our hands, and perhaps best of all, they fed us. They offered us a place to stay, but I was eager to keep going. So Tate and I climbed onto Albert’s back and continued on our way.
Dan the Slight had given us a flint in thanks for the unbreakable thread, so we actually had a fire that night. We ate the food the villagers had given us and sat around the fire telling stories and laughing.
For the first time I could remember, I went to bed happy.
I woke up with a sword pointed at my face.
Chapter 5
In Which I Have My First Duel
In case you have never had the experience of waking up to find a weapon pointed at your face, let me walk you through it. In phase one, you are certain that you’re having a nightmare. You look around, hoping to see something bizarre to confirm this. When you can’t find anything else out of the ordinary, you try the classic “pinch yourself” method. Supposedly, you can’t feel pain in a dream. So you pinch yourself hard enough to leave a bruise and then mumble some choice words because that not only hurt, but it means you’re awake.
In phase two, you come to accept that there really is a man standing over you pointing a weapon at your face, and your body finally reacts. Your heart rate surges, you begin to sweat, and you start scuttling backward, wondering how your mortal enemy has tracked you down.
In my case, there were two problems with phase two. First, I ran into a rock. Second, I didn’t have any mortal enemies, at least not that I knew of. William didn’t count. If I was dead, he couldn’t torment me. I guess the dragon was technically my mortal enemy, since I was on my way to try and kill it, but this man was clearly not a dragon. I had to wonder if the dragon had some sort of arrangement with the local thugs. He agrees not to eat their daughters if they kill off any knights headed for his lair.
But this man didn’t look like a thug. For one thing, he was old, with gra
y hair and a wrinkled face. And there was something stately about him, as if he had once been a proud man. His clothes were well-made, and his beard neatly trimmed. He looked like a wild-eyed gentleman.
“Stand up and fight me, coward!” my non-thug opponent yelled. His voice and expression belonged to a man who had been seriously wronged.
I eased my way to my feet, wondering what I had done to him.
“Take up your weapon, Gordon. I will not give you a second opportunity.”
Now, this made no more sense to me than it does to you. Nowhere in my string of unfortunate names was there anything even close to Gordon.
“I-I think you h-have me c-confused with s-someone else,” I told him.
“Your fearful voice speaks of your weak heart,” he said and then took a swing at me with the sword.
I ducked low and moved right.
My father had been very enthusiastic about teaching my brother Edward to fight. He showed similar pleasure in instructing my brother George. But by the time I reached the age of ten and my lessons should have begun, Father had long since lost interest in direct instruction. He told me that my brothers would teach me what I needed to know.
What I learned from my brothers was simple. Do not stay in one place when someone is swinging a large object at your head, and don’t be above kicking and biting if you get pinned down in the dirt. So though I knew nothing about swordsmanship and didn’t have a sword to use anyway, I was not completely defenseless.
The old man swung at me. I ducked and danced. I had been hit by more than a few fists; but this was a sword. The sunlight seemed to make a point of shining on the edges, just to remind me how sharp the thing was.
My opponent was old and clearly not as strong as he had once been, but I could see glimpses of skill. This man had been a great swordsman in his day. Unfortunately, he didn’t need much expertise to spear me with the sharp point of a blade.
Suddenly, a large branch hit my arm. I was about to yell when I realized that Tate was handing me a weapon. The tree limb had knobs where he had torn off branches, but it still worked something like a staff The next time the gentleman swung at me, I blocked the blow. The impact seemed to startle him. He stumbled back. I took a step forward. He swung at me again, not as hard this time. Again, I blocked it.
The man was still yelling at me, calling me Gordon and going on about some despicable thing he was sure I had done. I tried to tell him I wasn’t Gordon. But he didn’t seem to hear anything I yelled back at him. I didn’t want to hurt him, but I didn’t want to die either.
So the next time he lifted his sword to begin the arc of a swing, I hit him square in the chest with the end of my branch. The old man fell backward, hitting the ground hard.
I walked cautiously toward him. Tate took the chance to run over and wrestle the sword out of the man’s hand. I was more concerned that his eyes were wide, and he seemed to be having trouble breathing.
I knelt down next to the old man and pulled him up to a sitting position. His chest seemed to work better that way. He took in a long, labored breath.
“Who is he?” Tate said. “I h-have no idea.”
I heard hooves striking the ground and looked up, half expecting Albert to be fleeing the scene. But my horse was only a few feet away, attempting to hide behind a boulder that was a third his size. The hoofbeats came from a large dark horse that was cantering toward us. It came to a stop, and I thought about asking Tate for the sword, but then I caught sight of the rider.
It was a girl who swung down off the horse. She looked to be about our age, with long dark hair and fierce eyes.
Her voice was sharp. “What did you do to him?”
“N-Nothing,” I said, suddenly realizing how bad this must look. “H-he tried to k-kill me. I defended myself.”
She glared at me as Tate nodded vigorously. “It’s true,” Tate said. “This old fellow came at him with a sword, yelling about Gordon.”
The girl’s features lost their sharp edges. “Oh. I’m sorry,” she said. “My grandfather gets confused.”
“Your grandfather?” Tate asked.
The girl nodded. “Sir Danton of Mortico.”
Tate and I both stared at her. We knew the name. Everyone did. Sir Danton of Mortico had been the king’s champion years before. Not a single person had asked for trial by combat during his time in office. He was that good.
Sitting on the ground, Sir Danton seemed to have collected himself. He turned to Tate. “My sword, lad,” he said.
Tate looked at me with uncertainty.
“It’s all right,” the girl said. “He’s calm now.”
I still wasn’t certain this was a wise plan, but Tate handed Sir Danton back his weapon. The knight slowly worked his way up onto his knees. He laid the sword blade across his hands and looked up at me.
“You have bested me,” Sir Danton said. “I present you with the sword Guardian.”
Was he serious? I waited, thinking that he would laugh and say that it had all been in jest. But he stayed there, holding the sword.
“I c-can’t accept it,” I said.
Sir Danton held the blade out to me anyway.
I turned to look at the girl, hoping that she could convince him. She was staring at me with her head tilted to the side and lines forming between her brows.
“You have a stutter,” she said.
The back of my neck felt hot, and my lips closed tight. I nodded, waiting for the mocking to start, but she made no other comment about it.
“Take the sword,” she said. “To not accept it would be to dishonor him.”
“But G-Guardian is a legendary blade.”
“Take the sword,” she said. “Let him keep his dignity.”
This still seemed wrong to me, but I accepted the sword. For a large weapon, Guardian felt incredibly light in my hand. The metal shimmered and glowed—as if a fire burned inside it—and a tingling feeling moved through my right hand and up my arm. I felt the sensation spreading through my body and wondered if I had just been poisoned. But I didn’t feel any pain or weakness. If anything, I felt stronger, almost powerful.
I looked back at the knight in wonder. He nodded, looking pleased, and then his eyes seemed far away again.
The girl reached down and helped her grandfather slowly back to his feet. “My name is Hero,” she said once his age-spotted arm was draped over her small shoulders.
On another day I might have thought it remarkably unfair that this girl had been gifted with the name Hero while I was stuck with Hobart, but in that particular moment, I was too filled with wonder to care.
“I am H-Hobart,” I told her. “And this is T-tate.” He nodded politely. “And Albert.” I gestured to the white stallion, who was peeking out from behind his rock.
“Are you traveling?” Hero asked as she slowly walked her grandfather back toward the dark horse.
“Y-yes, to Rona.” I put Sir Danton’s other arm over my shoulders. All of his strength seemed to have disappeared. “I would very much like for you to stay with us, then,”
Hero said. “Our home is on the road to Rona, and you both look as if you could use a bath and a hot meal.”
It seemed wrong to take anything else from this family, but her offer was very tempting. Tate and Albert were suddenly both walking along beside me, nodding eagerly. “We would be g-glad of your h-hospitality,” I told her.
And so, we traveled to Castle Mortico.
Chapter 6
In Which the Almanac Finally Proves Useful
We followed Hero, Sir Danton, and their unremarkable horse through the woods to Mortico. Albert took the opportunity to give a lengthy commentary about the morning’s events. I don’t know how he could claim to have seen any of it, since he had been cowering behind a rock, but to hear Albert tell the story, my duel with Sir Danton had been the match of
the century.
Mildred’s almanac called for rain. So we traveled under a bright blue sky to Mortico. Tate and I were speechless when we saw it. Hero’s home was exactly how I had imagined a castle should look. The tall stone walls were capped off with battlements. Enormous towers stretched up into the sky, complete with flags snapping in the wind. There was even a drawbridge that lowered to span the moat.
We rode over the drawbridge and into a huge open courtyard. It was like a scene out of a minstrel’s song. A smith hammered away on a blade. A stable boy was watering horses. Several girls passed, carrying baskets of eggs.
We gave our horses over to the care of a stableman— who was rather taken aback when Albert requested hay kebabs for his breakfast—and followed Hero and Sir Danton into the castle. The entrance hall was nearly as fantastic as the outside. Shields and tapestries lined the walls, with torches stuck in brackets between them. Everything was perfect—until we walked into the Great Hall.
The room was crowded with tables, every one of them filled with people. These individuals were not quietly breaking their fast. They filled the room with some of the stupidest conversations I have ever heard.
“I hate my horse. Why won’t grandfather give me a new one?”
“That isn’t sky blue; it’s cornflower blue.”
“Mother, he’s looking at me again!”
“Reginald, you are the stupidest man alive.”
“Pastries are so dull. Why can’t we have something else?”
And on and on and on.
Tate and I followed Hero as she led Sir Danton to the high table at the front of the room.
“Are they always like this?” Tate asked.
“They’re just getting started,” she said. “Wait until they have full bellies.”
Hero brought her grandfather to his seat in the middle of the high table, and instantly the crowds surged forward like locusts descending on a new crop of wheat.
The Legend of Hobart Page 3