by Chris Tookey
“I have no idea,” said the Queen.
“Why don’t we try it out?” asked Melisande. “You wouldn’t mind losing a finger for me, would you?”
She glanced at Wyrd pleadingly. He took a couple of paces backwards.
“Don’t mind my daughter,” said Queen Elinor, smiling. “She can be very cruel.”
“Mama! Don’t tell him that!” laughed Princess Melisande, throwing back her head and showing the whitest teeth that Wyrd had ever seen.
“I’m sorry,” mumbled Wyrd, blushing that he should be the centre of attention. “I should be going. More rats. More traps. Sorry.”
As Wyrd shambled off, with the dead vermin slapping against his ungainly thighs, he could hear Melisande’s laughter behind him. She was still saying something about how grotesque he was. Maybe he was grotesque. His stomach lurched. His heart was pounding. He wondered if he was in love. He certainly felt very peculiar.
***
When Wyrd had spare time for exploring, the place he enjoyed visiting most was none of those four corner courtyards but the central area, which was shaped like a plus sign. It separated the four courtyards from each other and made a mighty market-place in the middle. It was larger than all four corners of the castle put together, and it was dedicated entirely to trade. Never exactly the same from day to day, it seemed to Wyrd a huge and bewildering place, seething with activity, full of noise and strange languages.
Mrs Scraggs was rarely heard to enthuse about anything, but even she used to boast about the size and importance of the castle market-place.
“It’s the westernmost point of Britannia,” she used to say; “the last safe harbour before the Great Ocean.”
“What about the sea serpents?” Wyrd asked her once.
“What about them?” she said.
“The harbour may be safe,” Wyrd pointed out, “but the ocean is so deadly.”
“No king can promise to give every boat safe passage,” said Mrs Scraggs, “but every so often it’s the King’s job to go out there and keep the numbers down.”
“You mean, kill the sea serpents?”
“No need to kill them all,” replied Mrs Scraggs. “Just one or two, and the rest will swim off to somewhere they won’t be attacked.”
“How often does this happen?” asked Wyrd.
“Every now and again, when the serpents get too frisky and something has to be done.”
“And that’s the King’s job?” asked Wyrd.
“It’s the King’s job to protect his kingdom, which means the surrounding seas,” said Mrs Scraggs. “If he can’t do that, he’s not much of a king, is he?”
Such comments made Wyrd glad that he had none of the responsibilities of a king. It made him watch King Otto with new respect, as the red-bearded monarch marched through the market-place, inspecting traders’ goods as they bowed and made space before him.
He was usually accompanied by four or five knights. Their job was to make sure that nobody attacked him. Wyrd doubted if so small a number of knights could have protected the King if the entire crowd had turned ugly, but they were well able to deal with the few assassination attempts that Wyrd had witnessed. These were invariably by wild-looking men who launched themselves at the King with cudgels or cutlasses and were cut down moments before they had a chance to land a blow on the monarch.
Wyrd wondered what the assassins’ grievances were. Most of them had swarthy complexions and called out in strange tongues as they were hacked down by King Otto’s knights. As a warning to others, the assassins’ remains were usually strung up on makeshift gibbets, except in warm weather when they attracted so many flies that the stallholders objected.
Wyrd could easily believe Mrs Scraggs’ boast that Castle Otto was one of the world’s busiest trading posts. Its market-place was a vibrant, and for the most part harmonious, meeting-place for all sorts of outlandish cultures and languages. It changed dramatically from week to week, and a little from day to day, as merchants came from all over Britannia and beyond, to trade and barter goods.
Wyrd overheard the tradesmen’s grumbles. Sometimes they complained that the King was allowing the sea serpents to get out of control. All of them groused that the King charged merchants too high a proportion of everything they had to sell.
The tax ranged from a tenth to a twentieth, depending upon the nature of their goods. In return, he allowed them to set up a stall and live there in tents or transportable wooden shacks for as long as they had goods to trade.
Even though Wyrd had no money to spend and nothing to sell, he loved to wander through this ever-changing city, seething with representatives seemingly of every race on earth.
The chief exports from Atlantis seemed to be made from tin, china clay, leather, wood and steel: everything from Celtic brooches and belts through to fearsome swords of the utmost intricacy. Among the imports were richly textured textiles of every pattern and colour, extraordinary foods, deadly-looking weapons – everything you could imagine, and more.
One of the commonest complaints that Wyrd overheard was that King Otto allowed all kinds of goods to be sold there, except slaves. No one knew why he had principles about this, but Wenda told Wyrd that years before he had thrown the slave-traders of Erin out of the castle and fought a fierce battle against them as a result. Wenda said that many of the attempted assassination attempts were by frustrated slavers who viewed the King as standing in the way of free trade.
Wyrd always wondered at the size and complexity of the market-place. When he had lived in a Dumnonian village, he could never have imagined such a kaleidoscope of colours, textures and races. And many said that the castle further east along the coast, at Tintagel, was even larger and more bustling.
Even when he felt tired, Wyrd revelled in the vitality and urgency of Castle Otto. And yet it was when he walked through the ever-changing lanes and alleyways of the market-place that Wyrd felt most insignificant and alone. No one knew who he was, and no one cared.
Wyrd liked it best when he was with Wenda. She was the only person who ever smiled at him, treated him as an equal or seemed to care about him. She even told him one day that he should stick up for himself.
It was a blustery spring day in the crowded market-place, when Wyrd bumped into her apologetically, that she rounded on him.
“Why are you always saying sorry?” Wenda asked, “even when something isn’t your fault?”
“Do I?” asked Wyrd, dodging a muscular, bearded gnome with ear-rings who was trying to construct a tent.
“Yes, you do.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“There you go again.”
“What? Oh, yes. Sorry.”
“You ought to stick up for yourself.”
“Ought I?” he asked, dodging a centaur that was trotting past, carrying gaudy textiles on its back.
“You ought.”
“Why?” he asked. “If I stick up for myself, even more people will hit me.”
“I won’t,” said Wenda.
“Maybe you won’t, but most people will.”
“More people will respect you if you stick up for yourself.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.” Wyrd considered for a moment. “But they don’t seem to respect me whatever I do. So I stay out of people’s way.”
“I don’t know why you don’t stand up for yourself.”
“You don’t either,” said Wyrd, adding “Ouch!” as a bugbear market-trader trod on his foot and passed on without apologising.
“What do you mean?” asked Wenda angrily, before allowing herself a slight gesture of sympathy, touching Wyrd on the shoulder. “Did that hurt?”
“I’ll recover,” said Wyrd, grimacing. “I mean you don’t stand up for yourself, either. You let Mrs Scraggs order you around the whole time.”
“That’s because she’s telling me things,” Wenda replied, withdrawing her arm from his shoulder. “Things I don’t know. Useful things – about herbs, ingredients, spices.”
“I’ve seen her hit you.”
“Only when I do things wrong.”
“I see. Sorry,” said Wyrd. “Oops! I didn’t mean to say sorry. Sorry!”
Wenda turned away from Wyrd and walked off with an exasperated sigh.
The most memorable day in the market-place was one when a small stage had been created in the centre, and King Otto himself stepped on to it.
“What’s he going to say?” Wyrd asked Wenda.
Even after all this time, Wyrd often behaved as though he were a foreigner who needed Wenda to translate for him.
“How should I know?” she replied, crossly. “Just listen!”
The King accepted the cheers of the crowd, mingled with a few surreptitious boos. With a regal flourish, he took a golden megaphone from the nearest knight, Sir Tancred, and brought it up to his mouth.
“Friends, citizens of Atlantis, honoured visitors,” he began, “I am aware that of late there have been complaints, not least about the number of serpent attacks just beyond the harbour in recent weeks. Because of this, I have decided to take action. Tomorrow, Sir Tancred and I will be commanding four of our finest warships to confront the beasts and drive them away from our shores.”
The King raised his hand in salutation as the crowd cheered.
“There is, of course, a price to be paid,” said King Otto. “As from tomorrow, taxes over the next month will be doubled on all produce except food.”
At this, cheers were replaced by boos, some good-natured but more of them openly hostile.
“The tax on food products over the same period will be trebled,” continued the King. “I regret that such measures are necessary, but I am sure you will agree that life and limb must be protected.”
From the shaking heads around Wyrd and Wenda, it seemed that the King’s words were not universally popular.
“May I conclude,” continued King Otto, “by saying that any help you may be able to offer us tomorrow on the fighting front will be gratefully appreciated. We are looking for at least fifty able-bodied men to come down to the docks at dawn. Spears, harpoons, et cetera will be supplied for those without weapons. And for every volunteer we accept, there will be a reward of twenty Atlantean sovereigns!”
This last announcement was clearly designed to end the speech on a positive note, although Wyrd could not help but notice that the cheering at the end of the speech was distinctly half-hearted. Wyrd was surprised to see that when Wenda turned to him, her eyes were shining with excitement.
“Did you hear that?” she cried.
“Course I did,” said Wyrd. “I’m not deaf.”
“Twenty sovereigns!”
“So what?” asked Wyrd. “I wouldn’t take on a sea serpent for two hundred sovereigns!”
“Why not?” asked Wenda.
“I wouldn’t know what to do, for a start,” said Wyrd. “I’d be completely useless. Have you seen the size of those things? They’re monsters!”
“But it would be so exciting!”
“Exciting?” echoed Wyrd, incredulously. “It would be completely bloody terrifying!”
“That too,” said Wenda. “But think of what you’d be able to tell your grandchildren!”
“I haven’t got any children, let alone grandchildren. And my chances of ever having any if I go into a battle against a blooming sea serpent are nil.”
“So, you’re not going to volunteer?” asked Wenda.
“Of course not!” replied Wyrd.
“Some mythic hero you are!” said Wenda.
“Look, Wenda,” said Wyrd, “I’ve never claimed to be a mythic hero.”
“Merlin said you were!”
“That was ages ago,” said Wyrd. “And I’m pretty sure he only said I had the makings of one. Maybe I had the potential then, but I certainly don’t now. I’d be quite happy never to leave the castle.”
“Well, I’m not! I want excitement and adventure!”
“Good for you,” said Wyrd. “But don’t forget that I know what it’s like out there. I still have nightmares about bugbears and pink-bearded dwarves, and my mother having her head cut off.”
“Well, my mother was poisoned, and that was inside the castle!”
“I’m sure it was,” said Wyrd, “but I don’t see what that has to do with me.”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with you,” said Wenda. “It has everything to do with me! I don’t want to live and die inside this castle! I want to see the world!”
“You’re not going to see much of the world if you get yourself killed by a sea serpent.”
“Maybe I won’t.”
“Maybe you will.”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
“For twenty measly sovereigns?”
“It’s not just the money,” said Wenda. “It’s the adventure. Don’t you see that?”
“Well, I’m not volunteering,” said Wyrd.
“In that case I will,” said Wenda.
Wyrd groaned.
“Look, Wenda,” said Wyrd patiently, “I hate to be a spoilsport, but you’re what? Fourteen years old?”
“So?”
“They’re not going to want you. They’ll say you’re a cripple.”
“So what?” she said. “Anyway, so are you.”
“But you’re not a man,” I pointed out.
“Neither are you,” she said.
“What’s that meant to mean?”
“What I mean is,” said Wenda, “are you a man or a mouse?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” replied Wyrd. “I’m a mouse.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m not,” said Wenda.
“You’re still not a man, though,” said Wyrd, immediately spotting the weak point in her argument.
“I’m much more of a man than you are,” said Wenda.
Wyrd considered this for a moment, before deciding that when it came to fighting sea monsters she was probably right.
7
Snakes Alive
In which our hero does not go on an adventure, but Wenda does
Shivering with cold and fright at dawn the next day, Wenda did not feel nearly as confident as she had pretended to be in front of Wyrd. She had dressed to look as manly as possible. In her right hand she held a chopper she had borrowed from the kitchen. She knew that it would not be missed, as it was one that only she used, and she was not on kitchen duty until the evening.
If Wenda was still alive by the evening, she would be able to return the chopper to its rightful place. Down at the cold, grey dock where the King’s four warships were moored, she shuffled up towards the head of the not very long queue. Fewer than fifty people had shown up willing to fight the sea serpents. Wenda reckoned the figure was nearer thirty.
“Name?” asked the bugbear whose job it was to take down names. He had a hook instead of a left hand, and a wooden pegleg where his right leg should have been.
“Jim,” she said, as gruffly as possible.
“Jim what?”
“Jim, er, Cleaver,” she said.
“Ever sailed?”
“No,” said Wenda. “But I know how to use one of these.”
She indicated the chopper.
“Ever used a harpoon?”
“I’m a quick learner.”
“You’ll need to be,” said the bugbear, spitting some phlegm on the ground, a few inches to Wenda’s left. “What do you think, Captain?”
“Well,” said Sir Tancred, eying Wenda. “He’s not very big, is he, Mr Mudskipper, but what is it they say about setting a sprat to catch a mackerel?”
Mudskipper laughed, showing
a none too full complement of bugbear teeth.
“You planning to use this one as bait, sir?”
“He wouldn’t make much of a meal for a sea serpent, would he?” said Sir Tancred. “Still, he seems a willing lad.”
Sir Tancred nodded, and Mudskipper turned back towards Wenda.
“Well then, Cleaver,” he said, grinning sadistically. “Welcome aboard.”
***
The thirty volunteers were a motley collection of dwarves, goblins, lizard-men and half-humans. They did not look as if they had been subject to any form of quality control. Many looked half-starved and desperate, as though they were ready to take on any job, however dangerous, for a promise of money in their pockets.
Wenda noticed that most of King Otto’s favoured knights surrounded him in the first and largest boat and that they carried not only swords and spears but birds of prey, either on their shoulders or chained to gauntlets. There were many kinds of falcon and here and there a more exotic bird. Wenda recognised an eagle owl and a fish eagle, both much larger than the falcons.
Sir Tancred was clearly captain of the second boat and had command of a dozen archers and as many spearmen.
The third and fourth boats were not quite as big, and it seemed to Wenda – who was on the fourth – that they were crewed by a more motley collection, less heavily armed and considerably less confident. Wenda hoped that they were not going to be used as bait, but realised with a sickening sense of inevitability that they almost certainly were.
Each of the four boats had two or three harpoonists, and lessons in harpooning were speedily given to other members of the crew, including Wenda. Though nothing was made explicit, Wenda understood that many of the harpoonists were expected to die and that replacements would be needed who could reload and fire the weapons in an emergency.
All four warships had been stripped of their sails.
“How are we going to get out to the serpents?” asked Wenda.
“Troll power,” muttered Mudskipper, who had just been instructing her on how to use a harpoon.
He pointed to a trapdoor on the deck.
“Open that trap,” he said.