Charming, Volume 1

by Jack Heckel

  Charming had been in the middle of a charge, but on hearing the troll’s declaration that Will was the greatest hero in the land, he visibly paused as if the creature had finally landed a blow. His stride broken, the Prince stumbled in one of the many slick pools of black ichor that coated the bridge and fell to one knee. Seizing the opening, the troll brought one of its ham-­sized fists down on Charming’s unprotected head. He crumpled to the ground like a child’s doll.

  The Prince lay unconscious at the feet of the troll. Gnarsh laughed wickedly, a deep resonating laugh.

  “LORD PROTECTOR, DO something!” Tomas shouted, pleading.

  Will drew his sword clumsily and looked at the troll with wide eyes. All he could do with the useless piece of metal in his hand was die. It was hopeless. Then something the goats had been saying floated into his head. He spun on the animals, which all took a step back when they saw his wild eyes.

  “You,” he said pointing at the largest of the three, “you said you knew how to beat the troll?”

  “Maaaybe, what’s in iiit for us?” the goat replied.

  “Anything on heaven or earth, just tell me you can do it,” Will pleaded.

  “Then prooomise to seeet us freee.”

  “Done!” Will said a little too quickly.

  The goats all eyed him suspiciously and in a simultaneous three-­part harmony, bleated, “Prooomise.”

  “I swear on my honor,” he said with as much seriousness as he could muster, given that he was talking to a trio of farm animals.

  The goats put their heads together in consultation.

  Behind him, Tomas shouted, “Lord Protector, quickly, the troll is going to eat him!”

  Turning to face him again, the biggest goat said, “Agreeed, just geeet meee ooout.”

  Will reared back on one foot and brought his hard-­soled boot crashing against the rails of the fence. They split in the middle and clattered to the ground.

  The big goat grinned a goaty grin and said, “Thiiis wiiill beee sweet revenge for aaall the tiiimes III haaad to listen to that foul freaaak belch hiiis love for those bloody fiiish. Heee’s a very disturbed troooll.” With that, it pawed the ground with one of its massive hooves and charged straight for the bridge.

  “Waaait,” said the medium-­sized goat, “III stiiill won the beeet, iiit doesn’t count iiif you beeeat the troll.”

  The big goat’s hooves tore massive clods of dirt out of the ground as he lowered his head. Gnarsh had just begun peeling back the Prince’s armor to get at the soft flesh within. He looked up right into the horns of the charging ram. His eyes grew wide.

  “It’s not right. Not at all,” the troll said, releasing Charming’s armor.

  The colossal goat slammed into the monster with a blow that resounded like thunder. The troll slid across the ichor-­coated bridge, hit the rail, and went flying over the edge. With a massive splash, he plunged into the deep, fast rushing river and in an instant was swept away.

  The big goat stood at the rail and stared for a moment, then looked back at the other goats who had made it through the broken fence and come to join him. The three nodded to each other and then at Will, and proceeded across to the sweet grass on the far bank.

  Tomas rushed over to Will and knelt before him.

  “Lord Protector William Pickett, you have saved the life of Prince Charming and rid the kingdom of the foul troll, Gnarsh. Thank you, you truly are a hero.”

  Will looked down at the Prince in his mangled, ichor-­stained armor. He could see Charming was still breathing, but a second knot was growing on the other side of his head. He paled with shame and pointed at the unconscious man. “Tomas, that is your hero. I am just an ignorant farmer that got lucky again.”

  If Tomas heard, he made no signal as he had already turned his attention to Prince Charming and was busy stripping off the battered armor and tending to his beaten head.

  Will left the squire to his ministrations and returned to the broken fence and the now-­empty field. He threw his sword to the ground in disgust. Liz had been right. As soon as Charming awoke, he would bring this charade to an end and take whatever punishment the Prince and the King meted out. William Pickett’s days as Lord Protector were over.

  Chapter 9

  Lightning in a Bottle

  LIZ SAT ON the deep ledge of her window and stared unseeing out at the wet gray-­cloaked countryside below. The rain had started a few hours before dawn, and the rhythmic clamor as it beat down was only broken by the now-­and-­then plink-­plunk of a drop as it found its way through the holes in the roof and fell into one of the many cups, pots, and tins she had set about her room. She pulled her knees in against her chest, looked over her new accommodations, and laughed bitterly.

  Ever since the King had abandoned the castle to go who knows where, and the Prince and her brother had left on their idiotic quest to compare manhoods, the Princess, as the highest ranking noble, had held sway over the court, and it had not taken that woman long to teach Liz that she was out of her depth when it came to intrigue. Liz still couldn’t believe how quickly her downfall had come. Sitting in her dripping room, she once again recalled the scene.

  Princess Gwendolyn Mostfair had taken to hosting a wonderfully decadent tea every afternoon in one of the castle’s numberless drawing rooms. There she would sit amid her coterie of sycophants-­in-­waiting, like a fat, awful—­oh, bloody hell—­a thin, radiant, terribly beautiful spider holding court. Liz did not particularly like the teas, but the cakes were almost irresistible, and so found herself, on one day, sitting in a corner near the back of the room munching an indescribably delicious apricot tart when the conversation turned to the ball. The Princess had said something particularly biting about Lady Rapunzel, and Liz had carelessly and rather acidly replied that the only shame was that more of the ladies of the court weren’t as honest as Rapunzel. Then Gwendolyn had looked across the room at her and smiled a terrible, icy smile. Liz closed her eyes and replayed the words for the hundredth time since their confrontation.

  “What a fascinating observation, Lady Elizabeth, I have been meaning to explore the subject of honesty with you for some time.”

  Gwendolyn had paused then to give her next words added effect.

  “Your brother’s defeat of the Great Wyrm of the South is a topic of much speculation in the court. As you know, I myself spent quite a bit of time with the dragon. She was an enormous creature, her blood boiled with the infernal fires, her teeth were like swords, her claws like scythes, yet your brother, the Lord Protector and Dragon Slayer, was able to defeat her with a single thrust of a pitchfork? He must have gotten very close to the beast to make such a fatal strike, and yet he emerged unscathed, not a burn or serious wound to tell of the struggle. Impressive. Many have tried to get the Lord Protector and Dragon Slayer to tell his tale, but for some reason he is reticent to do so, almost as though he is ashamed. I ask, what could he possibly be ashamed of? I know we would all love to hear the REAL story.”

  Then she laughed, a terrible, malicious sound completely devoid of any humor or warmth.

  Princess Gwendolyn knew. Somehow she knew that they were lying, knew that Will had not slain the dragon, and now she held their lives in her hand. Liz still did not know how she’d managed to laugh off the question, but she had. She had sat there in silence through the rest of the tea, with her heart in her throat and her hands clutched together to prevent them shaking.

  When she tried to return to her room, the Royal Steward met her at the door, and, with many nasally apologies, explained that a dowager duchess was arriving and the suite had been given over to her. With many more bows and some seemingly genuine hand-­wringing, he showed her to this room. A cold, stone circle exactly six paces across, stuck high atop a forlorn and neglected tower located at the furthest end of the servant’s wing. For her comfort, there was a narrow straw bed, a worn vanity with a cloudy
cracked glass, an equally rickety chair, and an empty lopsided wardrobe. To keep her company, the steward and his men had been kind enough to leave her with the many books she had borrowed from the royal library. Three times a day food was delivered: cold gruel in the morning, stale bread and cheese for luncheon, and a lukewarm soup for dinner. The poor quarters and bland meals suited Liz’s mood.

  Indeed, the irony was that it was all so unnecessary. Gwendolyn could have left her in her plush rooms and fed her chilled jellies and rich meats, and Liz still would have isolated herself from rest of the court. That icy smile had, in an instant, extinguished any hope Liz might have had that the Princess would feel an obligation to show them mercy in exchange for her rescue. The fact was, Liz was scared to death that the Princess would find a way to get rid of her before she was able to remove her brother from the castle and the woman’s influence. So she kept to her little room in the vague hope that her absence would make the Princess forget about her.

  A flash of lightning left the vastness of the castle momentarily silhouetted in brilliant white. Liz sighed through the rumbling thunder as she thought about how happy she and Will had been when they first rode through those grand gates. Nothing to be done about it now, but keep out of the way till Will gets back and you both can make your escape.

  A knock at the door brought her head up with a start. Her heart hammered in her chest, but she still managed a steady, if not strong, “Yes?”

  “Lady . . . Elizabeth,” came a call that was at once out of breath and angry. “Is that . . . you in there? It is Lady Rapunzel.”

  Rapunzel? Liz recognized her voice now. “Yes, just a moment, let me get the door.”

  She crossed the room, taking a moment to regard her thinning reflection in the cloudy mirror. Liz clucked at her own vanity and unbolted the thick wooden door.

  It was Lady Rapunzel, or at least she thought it was. The woman, whose most notable feature when last she saw her had been a bizarre wig of absurd length, had removed the hairpiece to reveal a head of gold cut in a style for which Liz had no name. It was short like that of a man’s, but for the drape of the bangs and the subtle curl around the ears and neck. The understated, yet complicated coiffure, perfectly framed her delicate face. The transformation from ridiculous to beautiful was stunning.

  Liz gave a curtsy. “Lady Rapunzel, to what do I owe this unexpected honor?”

  Lady Rapunzel gave a quick bob in return and looked about the room in shock, her jaw clenched and her eyes narrowed in anger. “My reason for visiting, Lady Elizabeth, is this . . . this . . . outrage!” She threw her arms wide, one laden with clothes and the other carrying a large picnic basket, to indicate the sad little room.

  Liz blushed. “Well, Lady Rapunzel, I appreciate your concern, but there is no outrage, it is simply that the dowager duchess—­”

  If it was possible, Rapunzel’s eyes grew even angrier and she spit out, “Dowager duchess, dowager duchess, a drunken fool of no consequence. This is the work of that vindictive tart Gwendolyn, and it can not be borne.”

  “Lady Rapunzel—­”

  “We do not know each other well, Lady Elizabeth, and I fear that my introduction to you was rude, but can we drop the titles for a time? My friends call me Elle.”

  For the first time in a week, Liz laughed. “How right you are, Elle, please call me Liz. And what a poor host I am. Please, may I take your burdens? You have carried them a long way up those stairs and must be weary.”

  Liz relieved Elle of the heavy basket. As she placed it on the little wooden vanity table, the scent of roast pheasant and buttered potatoes rose to meet her nose. Her mouth watered and her stomach rumbled at the heavenly aroma. From behind her, Elle said, “That is for you, Liz, as are these.”

  Liz turned to see Elle hanging the most beautiful of her courtly clothes in the battered armoire. “They should never have been taken away,” Elle said without turning.

  Seeing the clothes brought all the feelings to the surface Liz had been suppressing since her banishment. Tears spilled down her cheeks. “Thank you, Elle. You cannot know how much this kindness means to me.”

  “I am only returning what belongs to you. Those clothes are yours by right, Liz, just as by right you belong in the royal quarters and at the royal dining table.”

  Liz stood, looking at the clothes while anger and shame warred within her. “Elle, I don’t know what to say. I thought I had been shunned by everyone in the court. I am, after all, a farmer, and absent my brother’s newfound title, could look forward to little more in life than being a farmer’s wife.”

  Elle snorted. “Absent your brother’s title? I could just as well say that absent the King’s royalty, Prince Charming would be the village idiot.” Liz giggled, but Elle was not amused. “Your brother’s title, your brother’s deeds, give you as much right, if not more, to lead the court of this kingdom as Gwendolyn. She and all those pretentious, hollow, vacuous biddies should be kissing your feet.”

  Elle paced back and forth across the room. “Why is the Princess even doing it? It seems like the height of madness. Surely, she must know that when the King and your brother return she will have to answer for her actions. What is happening?”

  Liz sat heavily on the tottery chair and looked at this strong woman through ashen eyes. The pallor of her face and the set of her eyes made Elle stop midstride.

  “Liz, tell me what is wrong. I know that all you know of me is my embarrassing performance at the ball, but I am not a fool. I may be a shorn, ruined woman, but I can assure you that whatever has happened, whatever that woman has done to you, can be undone. But I must know why you have made of yourself a prisoner. I did not take you for someone that would turn from a fight.”

  Liz was crying now. Her body too exhausted to sob was still as silent tears rolled down her checks. She knew she must trust this woman. The lie was a poisonous boil, and it had to be lanced. Wiping her eyes with the edge of her skirt, she said without inflection, “Do you know the Dragon Slayer’s Song, Elle?”

  “Of course, it is on the lips of the whole of the kingdom. Why?”

  Liz’s voice lost its courage, so she whispered, “It is all a lie.”

  ON THE FAR side of the castle, in a bare and windowless antechamber, at the bottom of a dark and twisting stair, Princess Gwendolyn Mostfair sat cross-­legged in her thin satin shift in the middle of an ever-­growing circle of runes. Around her, shadows from the alcove danced naked in the flickering candlelight, making the light beat and pulse against the walls in uncertain and obscene patterns. Gwen ignored them and bent lower over the circle. Her hand was a blur of motion as she scratched the elaborate symbols into the cold stones with a piece of burnt ash-­wood.

  Gwen had been two days in this bare chamber transcribing the dragon’s memories into the floor, breaking only occasionally when her body demanded. Her back ached, her knees and legs were bruised from squatting on the hard floor, and her hands and fingers were stiff from gripping the char pencil. Gone was the princess of fairy tale, and in its place had stepped something from darker legend—­the hag. For Gwendolyn looked like nothing so much as a witch. Beneath the streaks and smudges of ash and soot, her face was gray and sick from lack of food, and the skin around her eyes was sunken and bruised from lack of sleep. Her hair had long escaped its intricate braids and now hung lank and knotted around her face in an untidy mass of greasy yellow. The delicate cloth of her white satin shift, now stained a dull gray from ash and dust, had frayed by the constant wear against the rough stone of the floor. What remained of the sheer garment clung to her dirty, sweaty body in a manner that, had she not looked so piteous, would have been obscene.

  In her current state, such concerns were mere distraction, and Gwen had tried hard the last few days to prevent every possible distraction. The King and the Prince were gone, Elizabeth was isolated, the court had been dismissed. Her servants had been instructed to leave he
r in this chamber unmolested until she called them, and the door to the room had been bolted against unwanted intrusion. She was alone, and nothing but the growing pain in her writing arm would stop her in her task.

  Finally, her hand cramped around the stick and she could not continue. Stretching her arms above her head to work out the muscles, Gwen took a moment to look about the wider room. Many of the candles surrounding her circle had gone out, and those that were still lit were down to stubs, small islands of light in a sea of melted wax. Beyond the dwindled candles and the thickening haze of smoke, it was impossible to tell how much, or even if any, time had passed. Everything looked the same.

  On one side of the room the King’s war table and a dozen stately chairs sat in a jumbled heap where she had pushed them to clear a space for the circle. A few paces away, by the bolted wooden door, lay the tray of bread, meat, and cheese she had brought to eat, but never found the time to touch. Beside that was her fine dress—­a pile of brilliant blue velvet, satin and lace, which she had discarded shortly after starting her transcription, partly because the tight corset made it impossible to bend, and partly out of fear that the flowing skirts would smudge the precious runes.

  Still, the tremors in her hands and legs, and the pain in her stomach, told Gwen that she had been at her task too long and should take a break, perhaps even sleep. Despite knowing this, she also knew she would go on. The pattern was almost finished. The shadows, which had paused with her, rejoined their dance.

  It was not so much that Gwen knew the pattern was almost finished, but it was more that she felt it. She felt it in the whispered words of the dragon, words that were coming to an end, like the last chapter of a story long known but only half remembered.