Neverland's Library: Fantasy Anthology

by Mark Lawrence

  REDFERN SCANNED HIS RAGS, briefly acknowledging their pitiful squalor, then ran his muddy fingers through the brambles of his hair. He was acutely aware that he had no right to be here, knocking on the gates of Baron Mandobar as if by special invitation. They swung inward with a drawn out sigh, and a soldier, his chainmail angry in the bright morning sun, confronted him with a look of disdain that went far beyond the annoyance of mere interruption.

  “Begone beggar,” he said in a voice of black tar. “We have no scraps this day.”

  “I…I would speak with the Baron, my good man.” Redfern was shocked by his own audacity, but the guard was not amused.

  “Begone peasant lest I beat you.” His tone was final but his eyes dared him to continue. Redfern was used to mockery, he’d spent his whole life dodging insults thrown by men, turnips hurled by women. He could not give up now and even as the gates slammed shut in his face, he began pounding on them again.

  “I wish to see the Baron!” He screamed and banged on the gates until his throat and knuckles were raw.

  “Who makes such demands of the Overseer of Beldullin,” a cannon of a voice fired from above. “I am Mandobar and I care little for demands!”

  Redfern rose tear-swollen eyes to the castle walls and saw the Baron framed against the sky, resplendent in his black armor, the red dragon etched on his breastplate glinting like a warning.

  “It is I, Redfern, my lord.”

  “Shall I kill him, sire?” asked an eager unseen voice. Mandobar raised one hand to silence the request.

  “And what would a peasant want with me,” asked the Baron, seemingly amused and intrigued, “save money or foolishness?”

  “Neither, my lord,” said Redfern. “I seek your daughter’s hand.” A hail of raucous laughter fell from the battlements, piercing Redfern’s heart as deftly as any arrow.

  Mandobar regarded him awhile, a smile playing on his cruel lips. “Summon the Lady Ariana to the castle gates immediately,” he ordered, then disappeared from view.

  A moment later the gates creaked open once more to reveal the Baron in all his glory. He seemed to be seven foot tall and was flanked by two salivating Mastiffs who eyed Redfern hungrily. They whined their impatience to feast on him, but even they dared not risk their master’s displeasure.

  “Fear not little scruff, they will not hurt you…until I tell them too.” He laughed so hard that his hounds cowered in terror.

  “Father, you know I was busy with my embroidery. Why have you called me hence, and in such inclement weather?”

  Ariana.

  Redfern said her name over and over, whispered it as a charm. Was it any wonder Mandobar slew dragons and fought wars with armies raised in her pretty name? Redfern would give her the moon, if he could but spell it.

  “Why my dear, I summon you to meet a suitor. This young man requests my consent for your betrothal. What say you to the match?”

  “Father, I see no suitor, only this raggedy little man whose stench pains my delicate nose.”

  “Ah, dearest daughter, brightest seed of my fruitful loins, it is he who would have your heart.”

  “You jest cruelly, father! This…this walking pigsty! When mother hears of this -”

  “Your mother need never know. I merely thought having seen this vile wretch you would think better on the nobles and princes who come to woo.”

  “Mayhaps, father. At least they would have footwear if nothing else.”

  As Redfern looked miserably at his naked, dirt-caked toes, the Baron informed him that he had until the count of ten to leave his lands before the dogs were loosed upon him.

  “But sire, I cannot count.”

  “You had better start running then, little fool.”

  Redfern ran as fast as he could, his skinny knees pumping almost to his chin. The dogs snapped at his heels before giving up the chase, whether out of boredom or at some unseen signal, he neither knew nor cared. He slumped beneath a bulbous oak, cursing his stupidity and blessing his luck. Resting his head on a pillow of springy moss, he soon drifted off, saying her name over and over to himself. When he awoke it was night, and he found her name sounded even more beautiful in the dark.

  It was unwise, they said, to be in the woods after nightfall. It was called El Torath in the old language, the place of weeping secrets. But the thought of having to return through the Baron’s fields at the mercy of his foul mutts did not appeal to Redfern. He fancied his chances better with the ghostly shades of the forest.

  “An unwise place,” he said to the night. “An unwise place for an unwise man is what I say.”

  “A lucky place for an unlucky man is what I say.” The voice startled Redfern; he could not place its whereabouts in the thick black soup of night. All the cautionary tales his mother had told him danced feverishly in his heart.

  “Who are you?”

  “Sleep boy.” The sound slipped, slid and soothed; the voice of an enamored viper. He felt a touch of velvet, like a whisper on his cheek, and he drifted off once more, though this time his dreams were greatly troubled. He awoke in a bower of ferns and twigs, with the noonday sun shining bright upon his eyes through the roof of a ramshackle hut. Beside him was a pitcher of fresh stream water that threw back the morning’s rays like laughter.

  “At last! I feared I had overdone my magicks. It has been a long time since I have had callers in my woods. You cannot blame my failings for lack of practice, nor call them incompetence.”

  An old man sat on a tree stump regarding Redfern over the top of a gnarled old crook that seemed as aged as he. A long brown tunic stretched from his skinny throat to his chicken skin ankles. His face was clean-shaven though sunken as if time had deflated him, but his eyes were quick and searching. For a moment Redfern wondered if it were their reflection on the water and not the sun’s after all.

  “Who are you old man?”

  “No, no my reluctant guest, the question is who are you?”

  “Why, I am Redfern, from the village. I feed the pigs for Morgan.”

  “Pigs indeed! What takes a Pigboy wandering in El Torath in the wolf hour? Digging out a some truffles for your snout nosed charges I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “No sir. I was fleeing his lordship Mandobar, or his dogs at least. I meant no offence.”

  “And none have you caused, only curiosity. So tell me pork chef, what caused the Baron to unleash his whelps on such a scrawny morsel?”

  “I asked for his daughter’s hand.”

  The old man coughed and spluttered and seemed so caught up in his merriment that Redfern overcame his initial fear and grew angry. ‘It is not very kind, sir, to laugh at me so, when you have not the decency to tell me your own name.”

  “You wanted to marry that spud-nosed little harlot Ariana, and you speak to me of decency?”

  “Don’t you dare speak of Ariana in that manner.”

  The old man ceased his laughter abruptly and slammed his crook upon the ground, causing the very earth to rumble beneath their feet and a pale white glow to outline his piercing eyes.

  “Don’t you dare speak to Bewkellor of Mandobar’s bastard in any other manner!”

  Bewkellor?

  But Bewkellor was dead, killed at the battle of Yashak when Redfern’s mother was but a girl. “Yes, I am very much alive boy,” he said to the question in Redfern’s eyes. “Though I court death with each exhalation.”

  According to the legend, Bewkellor had been the real power behind the throne of King Trosham, gifted with the art of flight and many other dark machinations. “But when Trosham fell at Yashak field they said you were dead…called back home by the Evil One.” Surely this wizened husk could not be the famed sorcerer; yet his staff hummed with an unholy power, and something in those eyes…

  “I beg you,” said Redfern, “kill me if you must, strike me with your devil wood, but speak kindly of the woman I love.”

  Bewkellor circled him slowly. “You are either very brave or very stupid Pigboy,” he said, echoing
Mandobar’s words, though he would be ill pleased to know it. Mandobar had fought at Yashak against Trosham, had been Brin the Pretender’s boldest knight, and had then been rewarded by King Brin with manifold lands and riches.

  “Why do you love the Baron’s bitch?” asked Bewkellor, scratching his tatty old skull.

  “She is beautiful.”

  “Ha! Such a shallow reason. You would risk your life for such a fleeting thing as beauty?”

  “And my soul sir, if I could but be with her.”

  “And why would Ariana, future Queen of our putrid land, turn away Kings for such a worm as you?”

  “She would not sir, as I presume you well know, for you bait my shame with your questions. She would not even look at me. She scorned me for my lack of shoes.”

  “Do you believe footwear would win her heart? Do you think attire is the key to love?”

  “I believe if I were but better dressed she would have let me speak, thus to win her fair heart.”

  “I will give you shoes to test your romantic theory. The finest slippers in the kingdom shall you have, and in them you shall show me how to woo a Lady.”

  “But I dare not return. The Baron will have me killed, his dogs…”

  “Is this love of yours so weak as to die so soon, slaughtered by imaginary arrows, ravaged by mangy curs? Fear not little offal boy, these slippers will carry you far from harm.”

  Bewkellor put his hand inside his musty robe and pulled out a pair of shoes, bejeweled with light. Ariana could not fail to love a man with such splendor on his feet.

  “Godspeed Redfern. Fly to Mandobar’s castle and seek your fate. When you return mayhap you will have a better understanding of love.”

  With each step he took, Redfern found himself moving faster and faster, the trees speeding by in a dreamy haze. Soon he found himself in the wheat fields that surrounded the castle like a golden sea. It parted before him as he glided toward the gray and damning walls, his feet no longer actually moving, his body propelled at an ever more frantic rate as if powered by his desire. Beneath him the bustling ears danced in the unseen force emanating from his magic slippers.

  Up on the battlements he could see the commotion his arrival was causing. Soldiers were hurrying back and forth, scrambling for position, their voices crowlike and anxious. As he zoomed ever closer he could make out the Baron, his mighty hands on his hips, and Redfern grew afraid. He came to an abrupt halt at a bowshot away. The gates opened and Mandobar’s personal guard spewed forth, their razor sharp spears flashing like their wicked smiles.

  I am done for thought Redfern. I believed the ramblings of a foolish old man and now I am truly done for. But even as he turned to flee he caught sight of Ariana on the wall, the wind catching at her wispy dress. She looked like a pale and beautiful flower growing on a barren rock.

  His heart lurched with a love so strong he thought he must surely die, even if he were to evade the guards. As he put his foot down to launch his escape, there was a crackle and a hiss. The wheat around his slippers burst into flame and Redfern jumped away in surprise, wherever his feet touched, hungry flames engulfed. As he ran back to the woods, he left an inferno in his wake that raged at the sky, trying to ignite the very clouds above him.

  Breathless, he stopped in a thicket and surveyed the damage he had wrought. Through the great walls of smoke he saw spears fly and fall to ashes in the blaze. His slippers were black and smoldering, their mischief spent. Leaving the screams of the soldiers behind, he made his way through the silent wood until he came to Bewkellor’s clearing. The old man, perched like a toad upon a tree stump, watched his approach intently.

  “Oh wise master,” sobbed Redfern, “Oh learned sage, how right you were! Dress is not the key to love. My vanity has only made things worse, and now I’ll never win my true love’s hand.”

  “At least you have learned a lesson, little squeak. Many men travel many lifetimes ignorant of the knowledge you have forced upon yourself. Those slippers I gave you were worn by your heart and not your feet. It was your heart’s eager desire that sped you so quickly, and the sight of your heart’s desire that consumed the Baron’s crops.”

  Bewkellor smiled at the sadness on the boy’s face. “Take comfort Pigboy. By the time the wheat grows back upon Mandobar’s accursed land, you will have forgotten all about his spoiled offspring.”

  “Never!”

  “But you have admitted as much already. Why would Ariana marry such as you? Even if she were to fall for your basic charms, you have destroyed her father’s crops. Do you think that proud Mandobar will accept razed and barren dirt as dowry?”

  “I saw her look on me with kind eyes until I fled before her father’s troops like a frightened mouse. If I had but stood my ground and proved my mettle I could have won her.”

  “Ah, so now strength is your definition of love. And I thought you had learned.”

  “I have learned that a man, no matter how raggedy and soiled, may reach his goal if he can but defend himself.”

  “Once again I will put your theory to the test.” Bewkellor hopped down from the stump and pulled a silver broadsword from the voluminous folds of his cloak. ‘I beseech thee, take this weapon and prove me wrong.’

  Redfern took the sword from the old man’s bony grasp and found that he could barely raise it above his waist.

  “That is the sword of the noble King Trosham, and still it cries out for the blood of Brin, his murderer. It is fitting that it should be carried to his lap dog’s fortress. Now go, and take the southern path, for you have seen to it that the west way is closed.”

  Redfern plodded through the trees trailing the cumbersome sword behind him, heartening himself with the thought that surely the old man had invested it with some of the magical properties he had bestowed upon the ill-fated slippers.

  As the trees began to thin, he saw the southern turrets of the castle, visible high over the leafy heads of the Baron’s orchards. With the sword dragging noisily behind him, Redfern toiled through the stunted fruit trees until, blind with sweat, he found himself once more at the Baron’s gates. Before he could rap on the gleaming wood a fierce blast rent the air and his meager resolve.

  “You have made your last mistake, peasant! I’ll have you chopped into a hundred pieces and fed to my dogs! I’ll make soup from your gnawed and splintered bones!”

  For a moment Redfern thought the Baron would leap down from the walls and carry out his threats personally, but then the gates opened and Mandobar’s entire guard spewed forth. They taunted Redfern, mocking him as he struggled to wield his mighty sword.

  “Did your grandfather show you how to use such a blade afore he lent it to thee,” they baited him as they circled.

  The sword began to sing, a tremulous whine that vibrated all the way up Redfern’s arms. It rose of its own accord and slashed the air in great humming arcs, and it was all Redfern could do to hold onto it, his feet barely touching the ground.

  The soldiers fell on him with a snarl, but the sword cut through them all, hewing steel and bone as easily as skin and sinew. In a storm of blood, Trosham’s sword hacked through hearts and necks, lopped off legs and arms, and all the while, his eyes were closed tight, Redfern clung on until the sword’s song ceased and he fell to the earth on a mound of steaming, severed limbs. He had killed Mandobar’s entire personal army.

  The Baron looked down from his high vantage, his face stricken pale. Ariana cowered beside him. Redfern lifted his hand to salute her and she began to scream, a scream so full of horror and loathing that Redfern fled through the orchard, realizing he had erred once more.

  As he ran through the orchard the sword felled every tree in its wake, only stopping its murderous dance when he reached the shadowy boundary of El Torath and came once again to the clearing of Bewkellor.

  “Well,” said the old man whittling on a stick, “What say you now?”

  “I say you have tricked me, and that I should turn this evil blade on your scrawny neck.”r />
  “You tricked yourself, Pigboy. You do not win hearts by shows of strength. Strength has its own agenda and is the brother of vanity. Now, have you learned the true definition of love?”

  “Old man, I despair. I thought pretty slippers would suffice but she thought me a coward. With this mighty sword I set that to rights, and now she thinks me a mad berserker. If I could but combine the two, and sprinkle on that union a little dignity, perhaps I could win her respect and through that respect, love.”

  “And how would you arrive at this combination?”

  “Why, I would be a knight! She could not fail to love a knight.”

  “You test my powers as surely as my patience. This one last time I will help you so that you may finally discover the true meaning of love.”

  The old man beckoned Redfern deeper into the woods until, gleaming in the dappled sunlight, they came across a magnificent suit of golden armor that looked as if it had been crafted by the very Gods themselves.

  “Wear it well Redfern, and go to the castle once more and claim Ariana for your bride, for there is no-one left to hinder your approach and your destiny lies in your own hands.”

  Redfern put on the golden suit and found it weighed no more than his swill stained jerkin. He strode back through the desolation, feeling more indomitable than the cold gray walls that greeted him.

  “Mandobar!” he hollered, “I wish to speak with thee and thy daughter!”

  Silence.

  He strode to the gates, raised a golden fist and tapped on the stout oak. The wood splintered at his touch, and with a hideous crack the walls split asunder. When he rubbed the dust from his eyes he found the castle lay in rubble around him.

  Mandobar cowered in the debris. He thrust his trembling daughter toward the peasant boy. “Take her,” he pleaded, “I beg you, take her and spare me what little I have left.”

  “Father…”

  “Go Ariana, I command thee! Stay with this man as long as he be content to have you. Go!”

  Redfern scooped her up as she swooned and, after inviting the Baron to the wedding, went back to the old man bearing his prize. Bewkellor had two bowls of rabbit stew awaiting them, as if he had been expecting them, but Redfern was loathe to wake his darling and laid her gently on a bed of ferns.