Sebastian Darke: Prince of Fools

by Philip Caveney

  'Once in your new position,' he bellowed cheerily, 'appraise the situation and wait for the enemy to come to you.'

  A second spear thudded into the upright beam inches from his head, the wooden shaft juddering. He started to pull the spear out but thought better of it. 'Unexpected props may prove useful later,' he commented.

  He glanced down again and saw that there was a mad scramble as the Brigands ran to left and right and began to clamber up the bales of hay that were piled high on either side of the barn. As Cornelius watched calmly, a man began to edge his way along the length of the horizontal beam; an instant later a second man did likewise from the other direction. They began to converge on Cornelius, their swords held out in front of them. They were big, shambling men, unsure of their balance.

  'Once the enemy is in an unfamiliar location, the advantage will be yours,' said Cornelius. The first man stepped into sword range and delivered a wild swing at the little warrior's head. Cornelius ducked the blow, aware of the Brigand's huge sword chopping a big wedge out of the upright beam above his head. His own blade whipped across the Brigand's legs and the man lost his balance and fell sideways, to land on the table below with a heavy thud. Now the second man was trying to lean round the upright to take a swing at Cornelius, but the little warrior swung nimbly round from the other direction and ran the point of his sword into the first man's ribs. He too fell, to join his predecessor on the table.

  'Never undervalue the element of surprise,' said Cornelius.

  Now more men were edging out along either end of the horizontal beam, two long rows of them, filing determinedly forward. Cornelius looked left and then right and made his decision.

  'Whenever possible, take your enemy in large numbers,' he advised.

  He reached up his left hand and took a tight hold of the shaft of the spear sticking out of the upright beam. Then he chopped his sword into the horizontal beam by his feet. His first blow cut halfway through it and the Brigands on that side yelled in alarm as they realized what he was doing. Some of them started moving frantically back in the direction they had come from, but Cornelius struck a second time, his blade biting clear through the beam. The end dropped suddenly towards the floor and the five men standing on it came tumbling towards him, flailing their arms in a doomed attempt to maintain their balance. Hanging from the spear, Cornelius lashed at them as they tumbled past him, his blade cutting through chain mail and leather with ease. Five of them crashed down onto the table, dead or wounded, and, unable to support the weight of them, it tipped over, throwing the lot of them onto the floor.

  'Remember,' said Cornelius, 'that your advantage cannot last for ever, so make full use of it!'

  Now he swung himself round on the spear and his feet connected with the chest of the nearest warrior on the other side of the upright, knocking him backwards into the men behind him. He fell and a second man went down; a third was left hanging grimly on when Cornelius's feet thudded down onto his fingers and he let go with a howl of pain. Cornelius was just coming upright into a fighting position when he felt an abrupt impact and the stinging pain of cold metal slicing into his shoulder. He glanced down in dull surprise and saw the handle of a throwing knife jutting out from his chain-mail singlet. He grunted in surprise and irritation and raised his gaze to stare at the man who had thrown it, a tall, lanky fellow who was standing precariously on the beam, looking at his would-be victim with an expression of dread on his grimy face.

  'Anger can be useful,' growled Cornelius, 'but only if it's controlled.' He ran along the beam with an ear-splitting bellow, straight at the three men who still stood on it. The knife-thrower panicked and tried to back away, but the other men were still pushing forward and they were in a confused huddle when Cornelius slammed into their legs, scattering them before him. They fell from the beam and added to the large groaning heap of men on the floor.

  Cornelius paused for a moment, sheathed his sword and reached up his right hand to pull the throwing knife out of his shoulder, gritting his teeth against the pain of it. Blood spurted down the front of his breastplate. He looked down to the floor and saw that the last few warriors were standing there, staring up at him uncertainly.

  'When using a throwing knife,' he told them, 'remember that it's only effective if it hits the right spot.' He raised his arm and brought it down again, sending the knife spinning end over end towards the nearest Brigand. The man saw it coming but was too slow to even try and evade it. The blade thudded into his chest with a loud thunk and he fell backwards to the floor, dead. Cornelius smiled down at the three men who were left standing and slid his sword back out of its scabbard.

  'Finally,' he said, 'when confronted with the pathetic remains of a cowardly ambush, be sure and show them no mercy whatsoever.'

  He made to descend but there was hardly any need. The three remaining Brigands turned and ran out of the barn door. Cornelius could hear their feet pounding across the plain outside. He jumped down, gritting his teeth against the pain in his shoulder as his feet connected with the floor. He glanced at the pile of dead and wounded men and assured himself that nobody there was going to cause him any trouble. He had survived the ambush, but knew that this was not the end of the matter.

  King Septimus had sent him out here to his death. Clearly he must have wanted him out of the way for some reason . . .

  'Shadlog's beard!' he growled. 'Sebastian!' He did not know what was happening to the boy back at the palace, but whatever it was, he would probably be grateful for some help around now. Cornelius hurried outside, aware that his injured shoulder and the arm beneath it were stiffening up, but there was no time to think of that. He had to get back as quickly as he could and it was a long journey. He found an anxious-looking Phantom still tethered to the bushes and he unhitched her reins and leaped up into the saddle.

  'Come on, girl,' he whispered into her ear. 'Back to the palace as fast as you can. Somebody needs our help.'

  He drove his heels into her dappled flanks and she sprang into a gallop, going as fast as her little legs would carry her. Cornelius hoped it wasn't already too late.

  CHAPTER 20

  A FINE MESS

  Sebastian looked at the king's purple face and realized that he had said something absolutely unthinkable.

  Septimus the Slaphead? Had that really come from him? He had heard somebody say it and there didn't seem to be any?body else around who was stupid enough to have uttered the words. It must have been him, he decided. But what had got into him? Hadn't Malthus told him that nobody would be reckless enough to say those words in the king's presence?

  The king was hunched in his seat, his eyes blazing, his teeth bared in what looked like a ferocious snarl. Beside him, Princess Kerin's face was frozen in an expression of shock, her mouth hanging open. And beside her, Malthus looked like he had just been punched in the stomach, his eyes screwed up, his little mouth puckered into an ooh of disbelief.

  And that deep, terrible silence continued.

  'S-something I said?' asked Sebastian nervously. He was aware that his former confidence was melting away like ice beneath the glare of the sun. The drug must be wearing off but it was just a few moments too late to be of any help. 'Your majesty, I . . . I didn't really mean—'

  At the back of the room a movement caught his eye and he lifted his gaze. He saw the old crone, Magda, gesturing wildly at him, trying to get his attention. He ignored her, telling himself that she had done enough damage for one evening. In absolute desperation, he decided to try and lighten the king's mood.

  'If your majesty will permit, I'll try you with a twung-tister . . . er, I mean, a twang-tooster . . . er . . . ting-toaster . . .'

  He abandoned his clumsy attempts to explain himself and went into the rhyme itself:

  'Once upon a barren moor

  There dwelt a bear, also a boar.

  The bear just could not bear the boar.

  The boar he thought the bear a bore.

  At last the bear could bear no more<
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  Of that boar that bored him on the moor,

  And so one morn he bored the boar –

  In turn the boar did gore the bear,

  But bear was strong, he tore the boar

  And laid him bare and made him soar –

  That boar will bore the bear no morel'

  Sebastian smiled and opened his arms in a gesture of finality, hardly believing that he'd got through it without a mistake; but King Septimus showed no sign of even having heard the poem. His eyes still drilled into Sebastian's with a look of uncompromising hatred. If Sebastian had possessed a spade, he would gladly have dug a hole and climbed into it.

  'Oh, come on,' he protested. 'I'm doing my best here! You could at least give me some encouragement!'

  Again he noticed Magda's frantic gestures. He saw now that she was pointing to the disappearing cabinet at the back of the stage, as though she thought this might somehow save the day. Sebastian told himself that he might as well try it. After all, what did he have to lose?

  He bowed low. 'And now, your majesty, I would like to present a very special treat, one that I feel sure you will enjoy.'

  'You're going to kill yourself?' suggested King Septimus hopefully.

  'Er . . . no, my liege. No, I am going to perform for you a miracle of magic! Something you have never seen before. But for this event I will need the help of somebody from the audience!' Sebastian gestured around at the seated courtiers and couldn't help noticing that every single face still held an expression of shock. 'It – er . . . it's a wonderful trick,' he continued. 'One that has mystified the crowned heads of the known world—'

  'Get on with it!' snapped King Septimus.

  'Umm . . . yes, if I could just have an assistant. I wonder if perhaps the princess would like to . . .'

  Princess Kerin started to rise uncertainly from her throne and her uncle gave her an unceremonious shove in the back, propelling her towards the stage and almost knocking her over.

  'Ah yes, Princess! Such an honour,' mumbled Sebastian. He took her hand and walked her across to the cabinet.

  'What's the matter with you?' she whispered, her back to the audience. 'What made you say that?'

  'I don't know,' he hissed back. 'I think it was something in my wine.'

  'You're drunk?' she asked him.

  'No, not exactly.' He turned back to face the audience and bowed again. 'Your majesty, lords and ladies of the court, behold the magic cabinet of Aliminthera!' He reached out and swung the wooden door open. 'As you can see, it looks like a perfectly ordinary empty cabinet.' He waved his hand around in the interior to prove that it was exactly what it seemed. 'Now, if I can ask the princess to step inside.' She did as he asked, positioning herself with her back against the wall. Sebastian turned to face her as he pretended to make a last-minute check. 'You know what to do?' he whispered.

  She nodded, but her face was grim. 'I can't help feeling it's you who should be vanishing,' she murmured.

  There was no answer to that. He swung the door shut, and in the same instant pressed the mechanism at the side of the door that caused the back of the cabinet to silently revolve.

  'And now I say the magic words . . .'

  ' . . . Alika karamah silika kail'

  Sebastian's voice came faintly to Princess Kerin through the wood at the back of the cabinet. The mechanism had spun her round on well-oiled wheels and now she simply had to slip through the curtains at the back of the stage and wait there, hidden from the audience, so that Sebastian could spin the entire cabinet round to show the audience that nobody was standing behind it.

  After a bit of patter he would return the cabinet to its original position and announce that it was time to bring the princess back again; and that was her cue to return to exactly the right spot, so the mechanism could revolve once more, thus putting her back inside the cabinet.

  An incredibly simple trick – and obvious really, when you thought about it, but it did look amazing; though the mood Uncle Septimus was in, it was unlikely that he would be impressed. It would take all her powers of persuasion to ensure that Sebastian was not punished for this. What could have got into him to make him so reckless?

  She slipped through the curtains into the gloom and turned back to peep through a narrow gap just in time to hear the audience gasp in surprise as Sebastian threw open the doors.

  'But what's this, your majesty?' she heard him say. 'It would seem that Princess Kerin has vanished!' A half?hearted ripple of applause greeted the trick, and she was just thinking that maybe everything would be all right when a powerful arm grabbed her around her waist and a huge hand clamped tight over her mouth and nose; a hand that held a cloth – a damp cloth that reeked of some powerful odour. The princess tried to struggle but the hands were too strong and the fumes from the handkerchief seemed to flood her nostrils and expand to fill her whole head. Suddenly all the strength went out of her muscles and she found herself falling into a deep, dark abyss.

  As she drifted, she was only vaguely aware of arms picking her up and carrying her away, into the silent shadows at the edge of the stage.

  'So, your majesty, as you can see, there's nobody behind the cabinet!' announced Sebastian, turning it around fully so the audience could see it from every angle. 'Her royal high?ness has been spirited away by the imps of Aliminthera. But fear not, for I can bring her back!'

  'Oh, goody,' said the king drily.

  'All I do is say the magic words' – Sebastian hesitated, wanting to be sure that Princess Kerin had enough time to get herself back in position – 'the most sacred and secret words, known only to the high priests of Aliminthera. Words which must, of course, be spoken in the correct sequence . . .' Sebastian pressed the secret button and felt the slight tremble as the mechanism turned. 'Alika karamah silika kail' he cried and grasped the handle of the door. 'And as you can see, your majesty, the princess is' – he flung the door open – 'not there,' he finished lamely.

  There was a murmur of disappointment from the crowd, which Sebastian attempted to defuse with a devil-may-care laugh.

  'Ha ha! That was just a test! I . . . I really had you going for a moment, didn't I?' He closed the door again. 'Of course, this time she will reappear.' He waited, longer than he probably needed to. 'Yes, I sense that the spirits are releasing her now. They are releasing her and . . . and sending her back . . . back . . . back to the mystical cabinet of Aliminthera. Now, your majesty, prepare to be absolutely amazed!'

  He flung open the cabinet a second time. To reveal emptiness.

  Now there was an audible gasp from the audience and a rising murmur of consternation.

  'Where is my niece?' asked King Septimus.

  'Oh, relax, sire, she's probably just . . . communing with the spirits.' Sebastian closed the door again, then snapped his fingers. 'You know, I think it would help if we all called her! Yes, she probably can't hear me behind the curt— I mean, behind the veils of oblivion.' He gestured to the crowd to try and get them involved. 'Princess Kerin!' he called out. 'Princess Kerin? We're ready for you to return to us now. Just . . . get yourself into position and . . . ta-daa!' He opened the door a third time. Still horribly empty. Sebastian ducked round the side of the cabinet but there was no sign of her back there.

  There was a rising hubbub of concern now and King Septimus had been moved to get up out of his chair.

  'Where is Princess Kerin?' he demanded.

  Sebastian sighed. There was nothing for it. He would have to own up. 'She's behind the curtain,' he said. He went over to it and pulled it aside. But the back of the stage was completely deserted. He stood there staring into the gloom in dismay, not wanting to believe that his simple trick could have gone so horribly wrong. Where could she he? 'She . . . she's supposed to be here waiting,' he gasped.

  'What are you talking about?' snarled King Septimus. 'You said you were sending her to the realms of Aliminthera!'

  'Well, yes, I said that,' admitted Sebastian. 'But you don't really think—?'


  'Witchcraft!' cried somebody in the audience. 'He has spirited the princess away!'