“If the boy wishes to die for Corenwald,” added Lord Selwyn, “why not let him?”
Darrow looked into the face of each member of his War Council, one after the other. In his turn, each man nodded, a barely perceptible nod with eyes averted. The king drew a deep breath. “Well, that settles it, doesn’t it? Corenwald has a champion.”
Chapter Twenty
The Champion Prepares
A messenger was dispatched to the enemy camp. He bore a letter accepting Greidawl’s challenge. The champion of Corenwald would meet the Pyrthen in the valley between the two camps, at noon the following day.
Word quickly spread among the Corenwalders that a champion had presented himself, but no one seemed to know who he was. The circle of tents in the command yard had been sealed off completely. No one had come into the yard or gone out since the news of the champion first began to spread. There was much speculation regarding the hero’s identity. None of the obvious candidates among Corenwald’s mightiest warriors had volunteered—that much was well known. The prevailing belief was that the king and his advisers had sent away for a mercenary—a foreign fighter working strictly for pay, not for loyalty to a king or cause. But where would the king find a man who would face certain death for mere money?
For all the interest it generated, however, news of the champion created little hope of deliverance among the Corenwalders. In the Corenwalder imagination, Greidawl was more than a man. As enormous as he was in fact, in their eyes he loomed ten times larger. Day and night, the Corenwalders meditated on the Pyrthen champion, and in their minds he had become like a god, invulnerable to any human assault.
Aidan, meanwhile, had been given his own little tent within the command yard. There he was supposed to rest in preparation for the next day’s battle. But he had little opportunity for rest, for generals and advisers—Darrow’s entire inner circle, it seemed—came by in a steady stream to offer strategies and advice for the battle.
None of these men had even entertained the thought of facing Greidawl themselves, but they all had their opinions about how best to defeat him. And their opinions all seemed to disagree with one another.
“The secret is to hit him high. That’s the one thing a big man can’t defend against.”
“The only way to beat a man this big is to hit him low, of course. You’ve got to cut him down to your own size.”
“Keep moving. Never stand still, even for a moment.”
“Make sure you stand your ground. You can’t really strike if you’re on the run.”
“You’ll want to use a big two-handed sword—the biggest you can lift. It takes a big weapon to hurt an opponent this big.”
“You’ll need a small sword, obviously, something you can jab and move with. Your only hope is to find a seam in Greidawl’s armor.”
Aidan’s head was swimming with all this contradictory advice when King Darrow’s armor bearer arrived to fetch him to the royal armory. Aidan left his tent with the armor bearer, leaving behind two noblemen arguing over the relative merits of chain mail and plate mail.
The large tent that served as the royal armory stood beside the council tent. Its roof flaps were open to the afternoon sun, which gleamed on the burnished steel of the arms and armor within. Just inside the entrance to the armory a dozen suits of armor—six on either side— stood still and straight, as if guarding the place. Behind them were forests of spears and lances propped in wooden racks—row upon row, their polished points flashing in the sun. The sides of the armory tent were hung with shields, each embossed with the golden boar on a field of royal blue, decorated with brass rivets and bands. There were tall, curved shields that a soldier could crouch behind in case of an arrow volley, as well as the small round bucklers more suitable for the close work of foot soldiers and the long oval shields used by cavalrymen. Bundles of blue-feathered arrows were stacked like firewood beside dozens of smooth and narrow longbows.
Aidan had never seen such a complete and varied collection of arms. Of the swords arranged along a table, no two were alike. Heavy two-handed swords were next to long, slender sabers. Short, thick thrusting swords were displayed alongside light but deadly rapiers.
Aidan was admiring the broad curve of a scimitar when King Darrow entered the tent behind him. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said, gesturing toward the scimitar. “It belonged to a pirate king we captured in a sea battle near Middenmarsh.”
“Your Majesty,” said Aidan, bowing to the king. He wasn’t sure what else to say. He was caught off guard by the king’s casual tone.
“You are doing a great service to your king and country,” continued the king. “I am grateful to you, and so is all of Corenwald.”
Aidan bowed again to his king, not sure what to say. You’re welcome? Don’t mention it?
“Here you have it,” Darrow went on, “my entire armory. Arm yourself for tomorrow’s battle. You are welcome to anything in here.” A surge of excitement electrified Aidan. The place was full of the most fabulous weapons. How would he ever choose?
The king’s armor bearer approached, staggering under a pile of steel armor. “You’ve met Thimble already,” said the king. “He has gathered up some armor for you to try on.”
Thimble went to work on Aidan. First, he strapped a pair of shin guards around his legs. This took some creativity on Thimble’s part because the shin guards were made to fit snugly around calves that were twice the size of Aidan’s. Then he buckled on a pair of thigh plates. Aidan’s legs were so short, however, that the thigh plates and shin guards overlapped. He couldn’t quite straighten his legs and had to walk in a slight squat.
By the time Thimble had strapped the breastplate and backplate on Aidan, the suit of armor was starting to get quite heavy. Aidan looked like a turtle who had borrowed a shell from a much larger turtle, and he was about as mobile as a turtle too. Thimble fitted the throat guard around Aidan’s neck, attached arm plates to his shoulders and upper arms, and pulled heavy steel gloves over his hands. Aidan could barely move at all.
When Thimble placed the helmet on Aidan’s head and flipped the visor down, Aidan felt like a mule wearing a very heavy set of blinders. He could see what was directly in front of his face but nothing else. “How do you see out of this thing?” he asked. His voice echoed around him as if his head were in a bucket, which, in a way, it was. “How do you breathe?” he asked, with the slightest hint of panic in his voice. He was starting to feel enclosed.
“Outstanding!” said the king, knocking on Aidan’s backplate. It made a hollow, metallic echo. “Now you look like a true hero of Corenwald!” Aidan felt ridiculous not heroic.
“Now that your armor is taken care of,” continued the king, “let’s see about your armaments. Come over here; let me show you some things.” Nearly immobilized by his heavy, awkward armor, Aidan creaked and shuffled as best he could toward the sound of the king’s voice. With each tiny step he squeaked and clanged like a door on old hinges.
“Against a man in iron armor, blunt force always helps,” said the king. “This case is where I keep my melee weapons: maces, clubs, war hammers, flails, battle-axes. Pick something out; see how it feels to you.”
The visor made it impossible for Aidan to see what he was doing, but he reached a steel-gloved hand into the weapons box and grabbed the first thing he put his hand on—a thick iron chain. Pulling it out, he found a handle at one end of the chain, and at the other end a heavy iron ball, bigger than a grapefruit, with sharp spikes sticking out in every direction.
“A flail,” observed the king. “Very good choice.”
Aidan hesitated. He had never seen a flail before and wasn’t sure how it worked.
“Just grab the handle,” offered the king, placing the handle in Aidan’s right hand, “and whip it around so that the ball flies in a circle around your head. Careful, now— don’t let it hit you. Hit your opponent with that heavy ball, and he’ll know he’s been hit.” The king took several steps back, giving Aidan plenty of r
oom to swing. “Give it a try; see how it works.”
Cautiously at first, Aidan began to swing the flail. Lifting his arm was difficult, but he soon got a feel for the motion, and the spiky, menacing ball was whirring around his head like a massive sling stone. Just as he began to get comfortable with his new weapon, however, the handle slipped out of his gloved hand. The flail ball rocketed through the air, just over the king’s head, and tore through the side of the tent. A dozen or more blue-and-gold shields came crashing to the ground with a huge clamor, knocking over the spears that stood in ranks by that side of the tent. A hundred spears and javelins rolled across the floor of the armory tent.
Aidan, meanwhile, had lost his balance, outweighed by his top-heavy armor. He blindly staggered forward, then backward, scattering a stack of pole-axes, then overturning the table of swords with a tremendous crash before he himself clattered to the ground.
Within seconds ten members of Darrow’s royal bodyguard had stormed the armory tent, convinced by the sound of things that a full-blown melee had broken out. They laughed uproariously to see that the whole thing was caused by a twelve-year-old boy playing dress-up— a boy who now lay on his back like a beetle, unable to help himself.
Aidan’s face burned with humiliation. Two of the guards helped him to his feet, and he immediately pulled the helmet from his head and began unstrapping the other pieces of armor.
“Thank you, Your Majesty, for your kind offer,” he said, still breathing heavily, “but I think it will be best if I face the Pyrthen with the weapon I know best, in clothes that don’t restrict my freedom to move.”
“What weapon?” asked the king, curious.
“A sling. I may be young, but I have years of experience protecting my flocks with nothing more than a sling and staff. I have put wolves and bears to flight. I killed a panther with a single sling stone.”
“Frightening a wolf and killing a giant are two very different things!” began the king, with rising voice. “Killing a panther with a sling is an impressive feat, but there is such a thing as a lucky shot. I wouldn’t count on doing it again.”
“Your Majesty,” answered Aidan, still unstrapping, “you have been most generous to me, and I do not wish to seem ungrateful. But the truth is, nothing short of a miracle of the One God could deliver us from the hand of the Pyrthens tomorrow. There is no armor in this armory, and no weapons, that make it possible for a twelve-yearold boy to defeat Greidawl. Only by a miracle can I survive tomorrow’s battle, with or without this armor, with or without these weapons.
“If I am defeated tomorrow, I want to die as I have lived—a shepherd boy, with the sun on my forehead and the breeze in my hair. But if I overcome, everyone must know that the One God, and not Aidan Errolson, is the Champion of Corenwald. Neither arms nor armor can deliver Corenwald—only the arm of the One God.”
The king’s eyes grew wet with tears as he listened to the shepherd boy. He remembered a time when he, too, lived to serve the true Champion of Corenwald. “Your wish is granted,” said the king softly. “Live or die the way you see fit.” He put his hand on Aidan’s head, the way Aidan’s father had done so often, then walked silently from the armory, lost in a memory of Corenwald of old.
* * *
Aidan spent the rest of the afternoon in solitude. His string of visitors had played out. Sitting alone in his tent, he was assailed by doubts and fears. Whatever made him think he could defeat a giant with a sling? Why was he throwing his life away? For Corenwald? What was Corenwald, anyway? The Corenwalders outside his tent were a bunch of cowards and self-servers who wouldn’t know what to do with themselves even if he did manage somehow to deliver them.
Aidan began to consider running away. But where could he run? He couldn’t go home, for running away would bring shame to his father and brothers, and he couldn’t possibly face them. Perhaps he could join the feechie band in the swamp alongside Bayberry Creek. The feechies would be glad to have him, wouldn’t they?
Aidan was so deep in this thought that he didn’t notice the two goats nuzzling through the flap into his tent. “Maaahhh,” said the nanny, bringing Aidan back to the present. He pulled open his tent flap, and there stood the old prophet, with his piercing green eyes and his big white salad of hair. Aidan gave Bayard an uncertain smile and motioned him into the tent.
The goats sniffed around the tent looking for something to eat while Aidan and Bayard looked at one another, neither saying a word. Bayard saw things other people couldn’t see. Did he know the cowardly thoughts that Aidan had just been entertaining?
At last Aidan spoke, unable to stand the silence any longer. “Bayard, am I being a fool?”
Bayard beamed a kindly smile on the boy. “Son of Errol, there are many kinds of fool. Do not ask, ‘Am I being a fool?’ Ask, ‘Am I being the right sort of fool?’”
Aidan shook his head. The old man could never give a straight answer. “How did I get into this mess?” asked Aidan. “I just came to deliver some bread and cheese to my brothers.”
“I know you cannot see it now,” answered Bayard, “not yet, but this mess is the whole reason you are here. You only thought you were here to deliver bread and cheese.”
“How about you, Bayard? Why are you here?”
“You might say I’ve come out of retirement. Never has a king needed a truthspeaker at his side more than Darrow needs one now.”
Aidan sniffed. “A lot of good it’s done him.”
“A truthspeaker can only do so much, young Errolson. Darrow has heard the truth. That is why I am here. Tomorrow he will see the truth. That is why you are here.”
Bayard snapped his fingers, and his goats hopped over to stand beside him. “Greidawl is a monster. You are right to fear him. Only love goodness more than you fear evil.”
Bayard chuckled to himself and shook his head. “He thought he was here to deliver bread and cheese!” he told the billy goat. Then he spoke to Aidan. “Live the life that unfolds before you. The One God is with you.”
He turned toward the door. “I have some people to see. I won’t be here for tomorrow’s battle.” He nudged his goats out into the evening. Then, just before ducking through the flap, he turned back to Aidan. “Have you decided yet?”
Aidan looked at the old man, confused. “Decided what?”
“Whether I’m a prophet or a madman.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Remember! Remember!”
Errol Finlayson
Longleaf Manor
Corenwald
Dear Father—
I’m not sure I can explain why I’m doing this, but I imagine it’s what you would do if you were here. The first time I met the Truthspeaker, he told me to love goodness more than I fear evil. I kept thinking I had heard that advice somewhere before. It just now dawned on me: I had never heard it before, but every day of my life I had seen it in a father who always, always made sure his sons remembered what sort of God we serve.
I trust I shall see you soon.
Your devoted son,
Aidan
On the day of the combat, at the appointed time of midday, the two armies arrayed themselves along either edge of the valley that separated their two camps. Normally a peaceful little vale, now the place bristled with thousands of spears and pikes, swords and battle-axes.
On the eastern rim the Corenwalders’ uniforms formed a wall of blue and gold. Their faces were pale and sickly. Their eyes darted to and fro. They believed themselves to be on the brink of defeat and enslavement. On the western edge of the valley, the grim Pyrthens, in their black armor and spiked helmets, formed a black sea ready to surge over the little valley and the kingdom beyond.
On the valley floor paced Greidawl, the Pyrthens’ iron champion. His eyes burned with pent-up rage. He was a killing machine, and yet he had spent more than two weeks on a battle plain with no release for his murderous impulses. No Corenwalder champion had yet presented himself. Greidawl’s bloodlust grew as he imagined the destruction
he would unleash on the cowards of Corenwald should they fail to deliver a champion. He abruptly stopped his pacing, though, when he saw a boy, unarmed and dressed in the homespun tunic of a country boy, scrambling down the eastern wall of the valley.
A murmur of speculation arose from the Pyrthen side. Was this the armor bearer of the Corenwalder champion? He wasn’t bearing any armor. Was he a messenger boy, bringing a message from the champion of Corenwald to the champion of Pyrth? He did have a side pouch like a messenger boy, but this boy wasn’t wearing the hat that messengers usually wore. The Pyrthens, and Greidawl especially, watched the boy as he loped toward the middle of the valley floor.
A few late wildflowers were blooming in the valley. The midday heat had long since overwhelmed the cool of morning. When he had closed half the distance to the Pyrthen, Aidan knelt. He needed sling stones, and he selected five flat, well-balanced ones that had been rubbed smooth by years of flowing water when the river still ran here.
Greidawl turned toward the Pyrthens behind him. “Look!” he boomed, pointing at the kneeling form of the boy at the brook, “the boy is praying! Ha! He’d better pray!” He turned to the Corenwalders. “You all had better pray!” He laughed at the Corenwalders, and the Pyrthens laughed, too, bowing and waving their hands in mock prayers.
Aidan placed the five smooth stones in his side pouch, where he kept his sling. Then he rose and walked with slow, sure steps toward Greidawl. His gaze was steady, his face a picture of pure calm. The Pyrthen was confused and a little agitated by the boy’s actions. He was still waiting for a mighty man of Corenwald to appear.
“Who are you, boy?” he snarled. “Where is the champion of Corenwald?”
The Bark of the Bog Owl Page 13