Fantasy Kingdom XXI

by Lisa Anne Nisula

  Charles was impressed that someone so small could command such respect. He looked around the entryway. It was impressive enough to break through his panic. The walls were almost tall enough to have let the giant stand, with carving everywhere, concealing small windows Charles was sure hid archers. “Whoa, it’s just like something out of Fantasy Kingdom.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Fantasy Kingdom? It’s the video game I was playing. It has these kinds of castles, but there’s usually a hidden way in, somewhere on the grounds outside, to get you to the good stuff.” Charles realized he was babbling and stopped. Bobble was probably even less interested in the finer points of Fantasy Kingdom strategy than Mom and Dad.

  “That would be with the safe-points?” At least Bobble was pretending to be interested, but he didn’t pause long enough for Charles to say anything else. “The main hall is this way. Perhaps it will interest you as well.” Bobble flitted away. Charles followed him.

  The main corridor was worthy of the greatest kings of Fantasy Kingdom, all polished stone and bright tapestries, with carved wooden chairs and silk cushions. Charles could hear music and the buzz of voices. Bobble led him towards the sound.

  “Don’t worry,” Bobble repeated those words over and over. It wasn’t until he started adding, “He’ll see you and send you right back,” that Charles realized they might be for his benefit and not just a private mantra. It was a hopeful thought. He wasn’t sure why he wasn’t wanted, but he didn’t really care.

  The sounds were coming from another pair of double doors, not as big as the ones outside but made of the same dark wood and carved deeply. There were two guards at the door and pairs of guards stationed along the hallway leading there. Several of them looked ready to stop him, then they saw Bobble and fell back. Bobble ignored them.

  Twenty feet from the door, Bobble stopped murmuring and went forward in grim silence. Now Charles could hear the music over the hum of voices. It was being played on a cheerful instrument, maybe a mandolin, but it was a sad song.

  As they approached the tall double doors, Bobble started wringing his hands again. The closer they got, the twitchier Bobble got. Charles wanted to ask if he was supposed to do anything when he met the king — bow, or speak, or stay silent until he was spoken too — but his throat had gone dry and the words got stuck. Hopefully he could just stand and nod.

  The throne room was long and relatively narrow, with two rows of stone columns funneling the newcomers down the central aisle, over a green carpet, straight to the throne stairs. Bobble flitted ahead of Charles, down the center aisle. Charles followed.

  There were many people wandering and whispering on the sides of the room, outside the columns, dressed in velvet and jewels, like extras in a Shakespearean play. Charles could see the king was standing near the throne, bent over a map, surrounded by men even grander than the ones milling around. Bobble had stopped wringing his hands and had them balled into fists at his side. They were shaking visibly. He started to speak, but his voice was just a croak. Bobble swallowed and tried again.

  “Your Highness?”

  The king’s head snapped up. “Bobble? Where are you?” The voice boomed out, filling every corner of the room. Every pair of eyes turned in his direction.

  Bobble had stopped shaking. It was possible he’d stopped breathing, Charles couldn’t tell. Just when Charles was beginning to worry, Bobble flitted forward. Charles followed.

  “So the sweater has been gifted. Bring the hero forward.”

  “Well, Your Highness, it appears there was a bit of a, um, mix-up.”

  “Bobble,” the king’s voice dropped ominously and he looked directly at the sprite for the first time.

  Charles could see the moment the king noticed the sweater, the way his eyes focused on it, and the moment he realized what that meant.

  “No,” the king hissed. Then he yelled, “How? How did this happen?”

  There was a buzz of conversation as the advisers discussed this development.

  Bobble darted forward, trying to explain how the confusion had started, while explaining that he didn’t really know.

  Charles could feel the eyes of the advisers on him, judging, trying to blame him for this he was certain. Charles wished he knew what was wrong, why this sweater and the hero it belonged to were so important, if he was allowed to slink into the crowd and hide from the stares, and most of all, if he really was to blame for this mess.

  Bobble was explaining the complex series of charms needed to find an unknown hero. The king was not paying attention. “And that helps us how?”

  Bobble dropped his head. “I know, Your Highness. It is a great disappointment.”

  “And how are we to fix it?”

  All eyes were on him again, and Charles was certain he was the disappointment.

  Four of the advisers on the dais began to offer suggestions and the court turned to them, trying to separate what the Minister of Finance was saying from the suggestion of the Minister of Defense

  Charles didn’t bother to try and understand. He wanted to use the time to find a less-conspicuous spot, but when he tried to edge beyond the row of pillars, many heads snapped around to him.

  One man melted out of the crowd at the dais. He was dressed brightly, but without the gold and velvet of the others. He walked right down the center aisle. Nobody paid any attention to him. “You probably want to sit down.”

  Charles wasn’t sure how to answer that. Then the man smiled, not a broad smile, just a friendly crinkling of his face. “Come on.” The man rested a hand on Charles’s shoulder and led him towards the dais. Around the side, half hidden from the room, there were two chairs, one with a mandolin on it. The man gestured to the empty chair, then picked up the mandolin and sat in its place.

  “I’m Phichorian. I didn’t get your name.”

  “Charlie — I mean Charles.”

  “Pleased to meet you. I take it you know Bobble. That’s King Regulous. The rest are pretty much interchangeable. Except for Sir Amertious in the armor. He’s the betrothed.”

  “The betrothed?”

  “Yes, Princess Melissina's betrothed. You don’t know about Princess Melissina, do you?”

  “No.”

  Phichorian sighed. “Then I’d better begin at the beginning. None of this makes any sense to you, does it?” He put the mandolin down, resting it against the dais. “Princess Melissina has been captured. That’s not the beginning, but it’s essential. We are in the midst of an attempt to overthrow the king. Bobble was creating an enchanted something to help the hero.”

  “Yeah, this sweater.”

  Charles thought Phichorian went a bit pale, but in the shadow of the dais it was hard to tell. “Oh dear.” Phichorian closed his eyes. “Oh dear. Well it can’t be helped. There was an opportunity to get intelligence from the usurper’s fortress. Everyone said we should wait for the hero, but Melissina went and now we have to get her back.”

  “And you were waiting for the hero for that.” It was worse than he’d thought. Some princess’s life depended on this stupid sweater. Why couldn’t Aunt Hepzibah have gotten him a set of blocks again?

  “It’s not your fault, Charles.” Phichorian rested his hand on Charles’s shoulder. “Not yours, and I don’t think it’s Bobble’s either. We’ve become too dependent on this idea of a hero. What’s important is to save Melissina. Sir Amertious should be able to handle that.”

  Of course, Sir Amertious, the knight. Charles perked up a bit, “Then...”

  “Sh.” Phichorian gestured for him to be quiet as he turned to the dais.

  Bobble was speaking. “As you know, Your Highness, that was the purpose of the sweater. It would allow the wearer and a small number of others to pass through the enemy’s force fields.”

  “It certainly worked well,” Sir Amertious muttered.

  “There’s nothing wrong with the spell. It just ended up in the wrong hands.”

  The king stood and both fell silent. “It
would have been so simple. We could have sent the hero with a few men and set up a rescue mission. But now it falls to you, Sir Amertious. If there is a way to get in, you will have to undertake the mission. Bobble, how long will it take for you to recreate the spell?”

  Bobble looked up. “The last one took almost a year. Now that I have worked out the full spell, six months might be possible.” Charles could tell Bobble knew this was not good enough.

  “Six months?” Sir Amertious stared. “Six months? Do you know what they could do to her in six months? That won’t work.” He turned to the king. “I told you the sprite was worthless. If we want Melissina back, we need someone with more power.”

  “It could still work,” Phichorian murmured. Even though his voice was barely more than a whisper, everyone stared at him. “Not permanently of course, but for one rescue mission, if Charles was willing to help us.”

  Charles wasn’t sure he was willing to go along, but Phichorian was giving him such a pleading look.

  “I guess I could.”

  Sir Amertious was not convinced. “I’m not playing nursemaid to some green boy.”

  “He doesn’t need to go anywhere near the fighting. Just get you though the spells around the fortifications.”

  “Then what do we do, leave him at the door?”

  “I’ll come along and keep an eye on him.”

  Sir Amertious looked uncertain, but King Regulous spoke, “Then it is decided. How many will the sweater protect?”

  Bobble flitted back into view. “Seven, at most.”

  “All right. Does that include the boy?”

  Bobble stared at Charles and Phichorian. “Seven armed men. If Charles and Phichorian are unarmed, they might count as one.”

  “All right. All right. Sir Amertious would be two, so five more.”

  The guards on the dais stood at attention, waiting to be chosen. The king made his selection. “Go and arm yourselves. Sir Amertious is in charge.”

  “We leave in an hour.” Sir Amertious strode down the center aisle. The chosen guards fell in behind him.

  “Come on,” Phichorian murmured. “I’ll take you to the armory and we’ll get some leather armor; it’ll be better than nothing.”

  That didn’t sound very promising, but Charles went with him.

  Chapter 3

  Phichorian led Charles around the back of the dais and into another stone hallway, this one less ornate than the entry hall, but warm and dry. Charles’s sneakers squeaked on the stone floor.

  Phichorian stopped at a thick wooden door and knocked. “It’s Phichorian the bard.”

  “Enter,” said a low rumble.

  Phichorian swung the heavy door open and murmured, “I’ll go in first.”

  Charles didn’t mind at all. He liked the idea of the bard being between him and whoever had the grumbling voice.

  “Never expected to see you here, Phichorian.”

  “I’m on a mission for the king, with my friend Charles.” Phichorian rested his hand on Charles’s shoulder and pulled him forward. “Charles, this is Rothgar.”

  Now he could see the man, tall and broad, with the pudgy look of an athlete gone to seed and the deeply lined face of someone who had lived outdoors. If he thought Charles and Phichorian were an odd pair to be on a mission for the king, he hid it well.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Charles said, knowing he had to say something.

  “Aye lad. As you can see, I’m too old to fight, so they put me in charge of the armory. I miss those old days, a good fight, a good horse, and stars as far as the eye can see. But that’s not why you’re here. What do you need?”

  “I’d like you to outfit Charles. He won’t be doing any fighting.”

  “But better safe than sorry. Wish some of these squires would think like that a bit more. Not that I did at that age.” He chuckled as he turned to the rows and rows of racks behind him. “There’s a nice set of leather armor back here, barely worn. Young Alcor had a growth spurt just after he got it. Isn’t that always the way? Here we go. That should do well. Now, what kind of saddle?”

  Charles swallowed and almost dropped the armor he was holding.

  Phichorian must have noticed. “I think a wagon would be best.”

  Rothgar chuckled again. “Probably faster than any horse you could handle. I’ll let them know in the stables. You can handle arming him?”

  “Should be able to.”

  “All right.” Rothgar put his hands around Charles’s head above his ears and studied them. “You have a large head.” He walked away and came back in a moment carrying a helmet. “Looks like you’ve got something between those ears, best protect it.”

  “Thanks.” Charles shifted the load he was carrying so he could take the helmet.

  “Just be sure you wear it. Don’t want your brains too scrambled.”

  Phichorian rested his hand on Charles’s shoulder again and led him back out into the hallway. Charles couldn’t decide if he was glad Phichorian was giving him discrete clues about what to do, or if he felt like a puppet. While he was considering it, Phichorian asked, “Mind if we stop for my stuff?”

  At least he was a puppet with a say. “Sure.”

  Phichorian’s room was on the third floor. It was smaller than the other rooms Charles had been in, with a single bed and a view of the courtyard. There were musical instruments on every flat surface. Phichorian gathered up a harp and a recorder from the bed and set them on the clothes chest. He motioned for Charles to take their place. Charles dumped the armor next to him as he sat.

  Phichorian flattened himself on the floor and reached under the bed. He pulled out his own leather armor and helmet. Charles tried to remember what Phichorian was doing as he worked the complex series of buckles and straps that attached the various pieces over himself, but Charles quickly realized he’d never be able to remember how to get all his pieces in the right places. He picked up a large, rather flat piece. It either went over his back or his chest, Charles couldn’t tell. If he couldn’t manage that piece, then how would he know where all the small rectangles went?

  Phichorian had gotten most of his armor on and was leaning against the wall, studying Charles. There were still a few pieces of leather on the floor. Charles even recognized two of them as gloves.

  “I think you should wear the sweater on top of the armor. It will make the guards take you more seriously and give the magic a clear shot at whatever it needs a clear shot at.”

  Charles could handle that. He pulled the sweater over his head and dropped it on the bed.

  Phichorian poked through the pile of armor on the bed and pulled out another flat piece. “Hold that bit you’ve got in front of your chest and I’ll buckle this in the back.” Charles smoothed his dress shirt then held up the piece.

  With Phichorian’s help, Charles got himself buckled into the armor. Once everything was adjusted, it was fairly comfortable- until he pulled the sweater back on. Even though the stone rooms were cold, the combination of leather and wool was hot.

  Phichorian seemed to understand. “Tonight you’ll be glad of the extra layers.” He picked up his own gloves and helmet. “Come on, the sooner we go, the sooner we’ll be back.”

  “And the sooner I can go home,” Charles thought as he grabbed his things and followed Phichorian out.

  * * *

  In the courtyard, Rothgar was waiting for them with the wagon. “You should be able to handle this on your own.”

  “Thank you.” Phichorian used the spokes of the wheel as a step and climbed to the seat. Rothgar handed up the reins.

  Phichorian got himself settled, then nodded towards the back of the wagon. “Charles, go around to the other side and climb up here by me.”

  Charles walked along the side of the wagon, which was large enough for three or four people to lie down inside and covered with a canvas tent that had a large royal crest painted on it.

  Charles copied what Phichorian had done to climb into the wagon. It wasn’t as ha
rd as he’d thought it would be. Phichorian had some kind of brake set which kept the wheels steady as he climbed up. The seat was hard but not uncomfortable.

  Sir Amertious came out from the stables, leading a horse so covered in armor Charles couldn’t even tell the color. “You’re ready?”

  “Whenever you are,” Phichorian called.

  Sir Amertious swung into the saddle, then turned to the stable door and gave a sign. The other five knights rode out on horses covered in slightly less armor than Sir Amertious’s.

  “Try to keep up,” Sir Amertious called, looking directly at Phichorian. He turned his horse towards the main gate.

  Phichorian let the other knights ride out behind their leader, then guided the wagon out after them.

  As they rode through the gates, Charles looked back, to take another look at the castle.

  King Regulous was standing on a balcony, watching them leave. He was half hidden behind a pillar, his shadow more visible in the flickering torchlight than he was, and Charles realized he didn’t want to be seen.

  As the wagon approached the second gate, after all the other knights were outside, Charles turned and waved. He thought he saw the king smile and a slight movement of his hand, like he was waving back, but at that distance, Charles couldn’t even be certain it was the king.

  * * *

  As the small party rode towards the enemy fortress, Charles started getting nervous. This was more than a ride through a strange world, he was going into battle. He noticed very little of his surroundings until the fortress was in sight.

  This fortress was not like the castle Charles had just left. It seemed larger, big enough to hold a whole town. The walls were thick but hastily constructed; all rough stone and sharp edges. The hinges and other metal were black iron, hastily pounded into shape, not the smooth, shiny metal of King Regulous’s palace. Charles couldn’t see how he was supposed to get them into this place.