Charming, Volume 1

by Jack Heckel

  The hat seemed to obscure most of the top half of the his face, down to his heavily powdered nose, and must have made it nearly impossible for the Prince to see anything that was not directly in front of him, which might explain why Charming didn’t acknowledge or even react to Will’s presence until he was a few paces from him. When their eyes did finally meet, there was a sharp intake of breath from the Prince and he stopped midstride.

  The two men faced off across the five-­sided space formed by the juncture of the passages. Will had no idea what to say, and feared a conversation with the Prince would lead to another fight. So he bit his lip and hoped the other man would pass, but the Prince just stood staring back through a curtain of brim and feathers. The silence stretched on uncomfortably.

  “Prince Charming,” he said gruffly with a short nod.

  “Lord Protector,” Charming said from behind the cover of his hat.

  Another silence descended between them and Will began to feel guilty. In a way, the Prince had been right last night. Will suddenly realized he could solve at least one of his problems by confessing to the Prince. But how to begin?

  “Um, nice hat,” he said, remembering the Prince’s fondness for fashion.

  Prince Charming tilted his hat down as though examining the inside of its brim for something to say. “Thank you, Will. I do think it sets off my outfit rather well. I see you have chosen to wear something . . . comfortable. Perhaps the Royal Tailor has not had time to make you another suit, but never fear, the man is nothing if not industrious. Can you imagine that he put this remarkable chapeau together in just the last few hours?”

  Will examined the mass of brims and feathers and peaks. The thing looked like what you’d get if you stitched four or five different hats together at random. Still, the Prince seemed proud of it, so he said the only thing he could think of. “That is hard to believe.”

  “I know! I know! Well, the man is a genius.” Suddenly the Prince’s eyes narrowed. At least, Will thought they narrowed. “Where are you off to, up here near the quarters of the Royal Family?”

  So that’s where I am. Now was the time; he had to confess. “To be honest, Prince Charming, I’m lost. You see I went to talk to the King about him making me the Lord Protector, but he was gone, and I don’t know what to do. You see, there has been a terrible mistake. I’m just a farmer, and, well . . . I . . . I know you don’t want me to talk about the dragon and all, but—­”

  In an instant, the Prince had closed the gap between them and wrapped his arm around Will’s shoulder. For a moment, Will thought the Prince might put a hand over his mouth to stop him from talking. “Will, may I still call you Will?”

  The Prince did not give him time to answer but continued, without pause. “I know what I did, what I said last night, was wrong, and I am sorry. And I am most dreadfully sorry for what happened to Lady Elizabeth, but, and I know one thing does not seem connected to the other—­but they are. I must stress that you not talk about the dragon! It’s . . . it’s . . . unbecoming. So can we say bygones . . . ?”

  This time the Prince did pause, but only for a second, and not really long enough for Will to do anything but say “Well”—­before Charming rushed on—­“Great. You know, a lesser man would not have been able to let that go. Now, back to your problem with the dragon. I think I know what you’re going through.”

  The Prince gestured grandly at nothing and began to walk them down one of the corridors, “You see, William, all great heroes have a moment of crisis when they feel they do not really deserve the plaudits that have been bestowed upon them. These moments of doubt are only natural. I know you will be surprised to hear that I myself have recently had reason to question even myself.”

  The Prince took a hard left and led them onto a large open balcony that looked north across a dark wood to a marching line of snow-­capped peaks beyond. It was amazing how he did that. Until a few seconds ago, Will was certain they were somewhere on the ground floor. The Prince pointed toward the mountain range. “What you need to do is get out there, where you can be a hero again.”

  The Prince stopped his oration and studied Will from beneath a particularly large peacock feather. Will regarded the Prince in return. Charming was being uncommonly decent, and it made the young Pickett suspicious. Up close and in the full light of day, Will could see that the Prince’s nose had suffered mightily from Lady Rapunzel’s anger, which probably explained the makeup and the hat, but there was something else, something in his eyes, something sly and cunning.

  When the Prince spoke again he did so slowly, almost like he was picking his words with a very deliberate care. “Tell me, Will, have you thought about your duty to the kingdom? As Lord Protector, you know the ­people look to you to keep them safe. There are so many dangers out there beyond . . . the dragon.”

  “That is what I was trying to tell you earlier, Prince Charming. I haven’t really done anything.”

  The Prince jumped on this comment, and now the calculation had been replaced by a manic enthusiasm. “Exactly, Will, exactly. You really haven’t. Trolls are still terrorizing innocent travelers, the woods are overrun with rabid boars, old hags cook children daily, and giants are dismembering knights at an alarming rate.”

  Will swallowed nervously. What the bloody hell was he supposed to do about giants! The Prince continued enthusiastically.

  “I was about to venture forth to rid the kingdom of these threats once and for all.” He gestured at his clothes and sword, which he seemed to think was final proof of his determination. “Come with me. Together we will be able to accomplish nearly twice as much. What is more, it will hearten the ­people to see us together, to be able to measure us . . . and celebrate our great deeds, of course.”

  Will was no fool. He could see that the Prince was thinking more about his own salvation than about confirming Will’s position as Lord Protector, but it would give Will a chance to prove to his sister and the King and the ­people that he deserved his title. Maybe he could be more than a farmer after all, and what better person to show him how to be heroic than the man that had been training to be a hero since birth?

  He was still thinking it all through when he heard himself say, “I would be honored to journey with you, Prince Charming.”

  “Excellent! Let us away to the stables.” Charming turned to go and stopped. His eyes swept back over Will’s clothes, “Well, perhaps first to the tailor. You need a proper questing outfit. We must be presentable.”

  Will wanted to ask who he needed to be “presentable” for if they were just going into the wilderness to fight trolls, but thought better of it. By now he knew there was no better way of annoying the Prince than questioning the value of fashion.

  So it was, in the light of the setting sun, that Prince Charming and the Lord Protector, Dragon Slayer and Knight of the Realm, William Pickett, set forth on a pair of loyal and particularly noble-­looking steeds. The Prince had determined that they should not advertise their leaving too broadly, so there was a sparse crowd of a few hundred of Charming’s closest friends lining the road and waving banners from the battlements of the castle as they rode across the drawbridge and turned north into the dark woods, where rumor said there were many wicked creatures that needed slaying.

  In a high balcony, far above the tumult of the well-­wishers, Princess Gwendolyn scowled down at the two as they rode away. “The fool, the damned fool. The plan was so simple. Only a complete moron could mess it up, and yet he managed. All you had to do was leave, and LEAVE WILLIAM PICKETT TO ME!”

  These last words were shouted, not that they could be heard over the roar of the mob below. She was not so worried about Will confessing to the Prince during their journey, not now that he was going off to prove himself. Surely, had he meant to admit his lie he would have done so, and even now be rotting in a cell beneath her feet. But how could she woo him while he was off on this idiotic quest. She was
about to shout something else when she sensed movement behind her.

  Lady Elizabeth rushed to the edge of the balcony and leaned over to peer at the shadowy figures in the distance. “William,” she shouted pointlessly, “William Pickett! You come back here!”

  Gwendolyn watched the woman out of the corner of her eye. A note was clutched in her hand. So her brother hadn’t the nerve to tell her that he was going in person. He probably knew that would have been the end of his adventure. Why are all the men in my life so useless? The Princess sighed, then turned, fixing a look of alarm on her face.

  “Dear Lady Elizabeth, please don’t worry yourself. I’m sure the Lord Protector will keep the Prince safe.”

  The timing was perfect. She had caught the woman with her mouth open midshout. But the reaction was not what she had anticipated. Lady Elizabeth turned with flashing, stormy eyes, and an expression that almost made Gwendolyn flinch.

  “Thank you, Princess Gwendolyn, I appreciate your reassurances. Unfortunately, I am not reassured. Those two boys can hardly be trusted to dress themselves, and now I’m supposed to believe they can go off and fight trolls or whatnot without getting their heads bashed open? Now, if you will excuse me, I must go see if I can find a rider to go after them, or a horse of my own if none are willing to try.”

  Before the Princess could respond, Lady Elizabeth left the rail and withdrew into the castle. The Princess watched her as she left. A formidable woman. Perhaps, she thought, it would be best that the castle was empty of anyone of importance save she and Lady Elizabeth. It was clear that she would have to remove the Lady to have any chance of ensnaring her brother.

  Chapter 8

  Tolling the Troll

  IN THE DAYS after the death of the dragon, a great many vile and noxious monsters came out of hiding, in part no longer afraid of becoming a treat for the dragon, and in part out of a desire to replace her in legend. For Gnarsh the Troll, it was the latter reason that brought him down out of a mountain cave where he had been lurking in semi-­retirement for the better part of a decade.

  Though he was a fearsome sight—­fit to haunt nightmares—­in the time of the dragon no one cared a whit about trolls generally, or about Gnarsh more particularly. Nothing seemed to impress the perpetually terrified and increasingly jaded peasants of the kingdom, not his long daggerlike talons, nor his great glowing googly eyes, nor his maw of bone-­yellow pointed teeth dripping with fetid dark spittle that oozed and stank, nor his mottled green and black scaled flesh, nor even his imposing massive boulder-­like size. There was just no way to compete with the dragon’s flames, razor-­sharp claws, and swordlike teeth.

  It hadn’t been right, not at all.

  Now things would be different. The dragon was dead. The news had spread across the land and even reached his mountain refuge. It was his time, the time of Gnarsh. Of course, he well knew that he couldn’t simply terrorize the nearest village and hope to replace the dragon as the most fearsome monster in the land. These things took time—­it was all about location and marketing and of course who you ate.

  Still, his comeback had started out pretty well, all things considered. He had found a bridge, a sturdy wide wooden bridge along an old road, over a deep rushing river, just at the edge of a dark forest. Though not a busy thoroughfare, it was the perfect place to build a reputation without putting himself at risk of being skewered. The fact is after so much time off, he wasn’t in the best of shape. This quiet, secluded bridge would be exactly the sort of place where he could slowly grow his standing among the ranks of menacing beasties. Once his stature was assured, and paunch reduced, he could move to a more high-­profile bridge and demand tolls of food or gold or virgins, depending on his mood, and spend the rest of his days lounging in the shadows, dangling his feet in the swift waters, and feeding his pet fish.

  He liked fish. They were so elegantly slimy.

  His great dream, of course, was to attack Castle White, to hear the screams of the men and women echoing through those stone corridors, to be the horror to the ­people that the dragon had been. A repulsive smile stretched across his face as he imagined the scene. The knights would flee in terror before him, then he would help himself to a light luncheon of any maidens that remained, and then Gnarsh the Troll, pleasantly satisfied, would retire to the moat to feed the goldfish there. In time, the castle would fall into a fashionably ruinous state of disrepair with lots of thick hanging vines, black-­bodied spiders, and moss.

  He also liked moss. It was such a miserable plant.

  He looked down at the fish nibbling at the unidentifiable crud between his toes and worried that perhaps this bridge was too far off the beaten path. It had been two weeks since the dragon had died and no one had crossed, not even a single misplaced, lost, or abandoned child. It was getting so bad that he was tempted to eat the family of goats incessantly bleating in the nearby field. Thus far he had resisted. It would be terrible for his reputation if it got out that he had been reduced to eating common livestock. No, Gnarsh only ate ­people, lovely, juicy, crunchy ­people—­he was a true humanitarian.

  So, he waited—­and reminded himself that he needed to be patient.Patience.

  It wasn’t right, not at all.

  Today, though, something felt different. He could smell it in the damp air under his bridge. Beyond the intoxicating miasma of wood rot, body odor, and old bones that made this place home, there was something else, something wonderfully foul—­to Gnarsh, it smelled like luck. Today would be his day.

  “SO, WILL, ACCORDING to the venerable wise man we encountered at the wishing well, this should be the bridge where the evil troll lives,” said the Prince, keeping the feathered hat down in front of his face. Will still had no idea how he managed to ride when he could barely see.

  “Um, do you mean that old farmer back there?” asked Will. “I really wish you had let me or your squire, Tomas, stop and help him. He was having a hard time pulling up that bucket.”

  “William,” said Charming in a tone that reminded Will ever so slightly of his sister, “We do not refer to our squires by name. They are perfectly happy being called squires, and then when the book is written things don’t get mucked up with a lot of extra names.” Will opened his mouth to say something about the fact that Tomas, the squire, could actually hear the words the Prince was saying, but Charming charged ahead. “I think I should take the lead in this battle. After all, we don’t want a repeat of the incident with the witch, not to mention that debacle with the giant. As I’ve been trying to tell you these past days, when you are on an adventure, as we are, you must always consider the legend to be written. You must be constantly wary of being banal, or else you risk losing the true purpose of your quest—­glory. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” said Will out of habit, though like many things the Prince said, he really didn’t find much wisdom in the words. Will thought their encounters with the witch and the giant had turned out well given that they hadn’t been turned into frogs or eaten. The fact was, for all the man’s reading and education, Charming didn’t seem to have a lick of sense. For instance, the Prince had spent the better part of the previous morning trying to convince him that there existed in a nearby kingdom a pair of weavers that could spin cloth that only the most cultured and sophisticated of ­people could see. When Will had asked why in the world you would ever want clothes that were only visible to some ­people, the Prince had explained, without any apparent irony, that wearing such clothes would make it a simple matter to separate out those that were truly worthy of your company. All Will could think was that you would still be naked to everyone else. For not the first time since they had their talk, he shook away thoughts of the Princess in a gown of such fabric, and blushed.

  “There is no need to be embarrassed Will, you’ll learn these things,” said Charming.

  They were nearing the bridge when, without warning, Charming pulled hard on his reins with a,
“Ho, Champion!”

  The Prince’s white charger reared back and pawed the air, and Charming leapt from the back of the horse in a cloud of dust. Behind them Will heard Tomas muttering darkly about young fools and the laming of horses. The Prince did not seem to notice, and stepping away from his horse, he spread his legs slightly, extended his arms out to each side, and shouted, “SQUIRE, PREPARE ME FOR BATTLE!” His words echoed across the bridge to the other side of the river, where a lush band of green grass grew, and then into the shadows of the dark wood beyond. A small herd of goats in the nearby field wandered down from the grassy hill where they’d been grazing to stand at the edge of the fence and bleat at them.

  The Prince looked over in annoyance. “Will, you are”—­he cleared his throat—­“You were a farmer, could you deal with those wretched creatures? Their damnable braying is ruining this heroic moment.”

  Will was about to tell the Prince that goats don’t bray, donkeys bray, but knew it was pointless, so he grabbed a loaf of hard bread from his pack and wandered over to the fence. He stuck his hand through the rails and began feeding pieces to the animals, which quieted as they chewed. Meanwhile, Tomas was busily tying and strapping and buckling armor onto Charming.

  Will glanced down at the goats. There were three of them, and they were obviously a family. One was small, maybe a kid, one was of an average size, but the third was an enormous beast, rivaling a small pony in stature. The goats looked back at him.

  He whispered, “I’ve got to tell you, this is not how I saw myself spending my first battle with a troll—­no offense.”

  One of the goats bleated what almost sounded like a “Naaan Taaaken.”

  Will did a double-­take, but the goats just stared at him, their mouths still moving, chewing the hard bread. He turned his attention back to the Charming’s preparations. Tomas had removed the large feathered hat from the Prince’s head. Will cringed as he saw the bruises running across Charming’s face and the swelling on his forehead.