Charlie Bone And The Red Knight (Children Of The Red King)

by Jenny Nimmo

  He watched Norton climb to the top step, then turn and look back at the fountain in the center of the square. A circle of swans, their beaks upraised, blew silvery streams into the lamplit air. Tancred pressed himself against a wall, where the glow from the streetlights couldn't reach him. Norton made an odd sign with his hand, a sort of thumbs-up with all his fingers. And then, before Tancred realized what was happening, Norton's hand had twisted around

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  so that his forefinger was now pointing straight at him. Tancred cursed himself for being such a fool. He had forgotten Norton's companion.

  The man now emerged from behind the fountain and advanced toward Tancred.

  "Who are ye? Give us thy name?" The voice was deep and husky. "Speak!"

  With his back to the wall, Tancred shuffled sideways, attempting to slide back into the alley.

  "Stop!" roared the man, and Tancred froze as, from beneath the folds of his cloak, the man drew out a gleaming sword. "Spy! Give thy name!"

  Tancred found he couldn't breathe; his legs felt so weak he feared they would give way at any moment. He tried to summon up a wind, to fill the air with hailstones, but in the stranger's presence he could muster up only a damp breeze. The man was almost upon him, his sword slicing the air in shining arcs of light.

  "Must I die a second time?" Tancred whispered dismally.

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  There would be no witnesses. The city seemed deserted; even the noise of traffic had faded away. The only sound that Tancred could hear was a faint clattering, which he mistook for his own beating heart. But the clattering grew louder. And now the sound resembled hooves cantering on stone, and then a voice cut through the night, "ASHKELAN!"

  The swordsman whirled around and Tancred blinked in amazement as a knight on a white horse charged into the square. The knight was dressed from head to foot in glittering chain mail; he wore a helmet of polished metal with a plume of red feathers flowing from its crown, and a red cloak that billowed behind him like a sail. In his right hand he wielded a bright sword, the hilt encrusted with dazzling jewels, and the shield that hung from his saddle was emblazoned with a burning sun.

  "You!" grunted the man called Ashkelan. Holding his sword aloft, he rushed at the knight.

  With one blow of his own weapon the knight swept the sword from his assailant's hand, and it

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  rattled over the cobblestones. There was a scream of pain, followed by a roar of anger as the owner of the sword fell to the ground, clutching his arm.

  A stream of mysterious and indecipherable words issued from the man as he reached for his sword. Tancred had been about to run from the scene, but he stood rooted to the spot, scarcely able to believe his eyes. For all at once the fallen sword was in the air and flying toward the knight. Lifting his weapon, the knight parried the blow that would surely have severed his arm, but the enchanted sword came at him again, and again he fought off the blow. An extraordinary duel was taking place, and frightened as he was, Tancred could not bring himself to leave the square.

  The knight and his mount seemed almost to be one, for the horse turned in a flash. It leaped high above the fountain and raced around the square, its hooves moving in a cloud of sparks. The enchanted sword, now a flying streak of light, attacked the knight from every angle. How he managed to fight off

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  such a battery of lightning blows, it was hard to comprehend. And then, at last, came the strike that might have finished him. It fell across his chest, slicing through the chain mail and drawing a deep grunt of pain from the knight. But, with a mighty upward thrust, he caught the enchanted sword and set it spinning into the sky.

  Tancred didn't wait for the sword to fall to earth. Astounded by what he had seen, he tore down the alley and onto High Street. Fear and excitement caused great gusts of wind to whistle around his head; his hood blew back, and the air above him fizzed with blue and white sparks. He reached Frog Street and ran toward the Pets' Cafe, calling, "Mr. Onimous, let me in!"

  A tall man stepped out of the shadows, and Tancred ran straight into him. With a moan of defeat the storm boy closed his eyes and dropped to the ground.

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  2. LORD GRIMWALD ARRIVES

  Charlie Bone had been fast asleep. Now, suddenly, he was not. There were voices in the courtyard below. Charlie got out of bed, crossed the dormitory, and looked out of the window. Two men were moving toward the main doors of the academy. One Charlie recognized as Norton Cross, the doorman at the Pets' Cafe. He was half-dragging, half-carrying a smaller person in a large hat with a drooping feather at the back.

  "Huh!" muttered Charlie. He couldn't see the face of the man beneath the hat, but he was groaning horribly. Charlie opened the window, just a crack, so that he could hear what was going on.

  "Shhh!" hissed Norton. "You'll wake the whole school, sir."

  The two men climbed the steps to the main doors, and Norton rang the bell. A moment later, there was a loud rattle and one of the doors opened.

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  Weedon the porter stood on the threshold. He was a bald, stocky man with a sour face.

  "I thought he wasn't supposed to go out yet," said Weedon.

  "He wanted to see the city." Norton dragged his companion through the door.

  "What's the matter with him?" asked Weedon, frowning at the sword that danced past him.

  The door was closed before Charlie had a chance to hear Norton's reply. But then his attention was drawn to a second arrival. Three women came through the arched entrance and crossed the courtyard. Grizelda Bone's imposing beak of a nose led the way (Grizelda was Charlie's grandmother). Her sisters, Eustacia and Venetia, came close on her heels. All three were tall and lean, their dark eyes small, their black brows thick and heavy. Grandma Bone's hair was a startling white, Venetia's black, Eustacia's somewhere in between.

  Charlie watched them climb the steps, his grandmother teetering, very slightly, in her high-heeled boots.

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  As she rang the bell, Eustacia, for no good reason, suddenly looked up at the window where Charlie stood.

  Charlie backed into the shadows. Eustacia boasted that she was clairvoyant, though Charlie was not entirely convinced. Her power could wax and wane. Tonight it appeared to be waxing.

  To complicate matters, the dormitory door was suddenly flung open and Charlie was caught in a strip of light from the passage. The matron, Grandma Bone's third sister, Lucretia, stood silhouetted in the doorway. "What are you doing out of bed?" she demanded.

  "Er, getting some air," Charlie said feebly.

  "Air? There's enough air in here to fill the lungs of a thousand boys, let alone twelve."

  "Is there?" Charlie looked around at the eleven boys sleeping behind him. Not one had woken up, even though the matron had made no attempt to lower her voice.

  "Get back to bed!"

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  Without waiting for Charlie to obey, the matron closed the door. Her footsteps receded so fast, Charlie imagined she must be running down the hallway. In the two years he had been at the academy he had never known his great-aunt Lucretia to run. Tonight she must either be escaping from something unpleasant or she was late for a very important meeting.

  And who would be holding a meeting at such a late hour? Only Ezekiel Bloor, Charlie decided. At a hundred and one years old, Ezekiel hardly cared about the daily routines of others. He spent his mornings dozing in his wheelchair and afternoons reading up on unpleasant spells. It was only at night that his malicious mind really came alive, and then good luck to anyone who didn't fit in with his plans.

  Charlie was about to close the window when a curious smell drifted up to him: a salty, seaweedy tang that left its taste on the tongue. It was terribly familiar. Looking down into the courtyard, he wasn't surprised to see a large figure appear in the archway.

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  The man wore an oilskin coat and tall fisherman's boots. He moved over the cobblestones with an odd swaying stride, as though he were on t
he heaving deck of a ship.

  Charlie raced back to his bed. Before he climbed into it, however, there was a husky whisper from the bed at the end of his row.

  "The window. Close the window."

  Charlie pulled the bedcovers over his head. He could hardly bear to look at Dagbert Endless, let alone talk to him. Dagbert kept protesting that Tancred's drowning had been an accident. Even the headmaster believed his story. The school had been told that Tancred Torsson had accidentally slipped in the sculpture room and been drowned by water pouring from a broken tap. Charlie knew better. Dagbert was a drowner. He even boasted of his power. But neither Dagbert nor the Bloors were aware that Tancred had survived. Tancred's friends intended to keep it that way.

  "The window. Close the window." This time the

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  voice was louder. The seaweedy smell from outside mingled with the fishy stench that Dagbert sometimes gave off.

  Charlie held his nose and lay still.

  "CLOSE THE WINDOW!"

  The shout woke half the dormitory. Some of the boys yawned sleepily and turned over, but Bragger Braine, the bully of the second year, sat up and grunted, "Who said that?"

  "I did," Dagbert answered in an aggrieved tone. "Charlie opened the window and he won't close it."

  "Close the window, Charlie Bone," Bragger commanded.

  His ardent follower, Rupert Small, echoed his words in a thin, reedy voice. "Close the window, Charlie Bone."

  Charlie held his breath. He was determined not to obey Bragger Braine or his pathetic crony.

  "CLOSE THE WINDOW!" shouted Dagbert.

  This shout woke Fidelio Gunn in the bed next to Charlie's. "Stop bellowing, fish boy!" he cried,

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  punching his pillow into shape. "Let normal people get some sleep."

  For a few seconds, silence reigned. Charlie smiled to himself in the dark and whispered, "Well done, Fido!"

  The whisper irritated Bragger. If his bed had been beside Charlie's, he would have thumped him. But they were half a dormitory apart, and a day of thumping other people and starring on the soccer field had exhausted Bragger. He just wanted to go to sleep. The next time Dagbert repeated his demand, Bragger said, "Close it yourself, fish boy!"

  Charlie waited for Dagbert to slip out of bed and close the window, but the fish boy didn't move. Soon the room was filled with the soft rhythmic breathing of heavy sleepers. Charlie turned over and closed his eyes.

  Minutes passed. Try as he might, Charlie couldn't sleep. A soft light insisted on creeping through his eyelids. He half opened one eye. A bluish glow was spreading across the walls, a luminous rippling gleam,

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  like the water in a swimming pool. Charlie screwed his eyes tight shut, trying to wish away the eerie light. This was what happened when Dagbert was nervous or excited. Perhaps he sensed Lord Grimwald's arrival. Charlie knew that Dagbert was afraid of his father; they seldom saw each other, for Lord Grimwald rarely left his gloomy castle in the northern isles.

  At the far end of Charlie's row a bed creaked, and he heard quick footsteps on the bare floorboards. Someone slammed the window shut, but no one woke up. Charlie curled up and began to drift into sleep. And then something heavy sank onto his bed, just below his knees, and a voice whispered, "Charlie, are you awake?"

  "No. I am asleep," Charlie told himself. He didn't stir.

  "Charlie, wake up."

  He could have remained as he was, motionless, his eyes closed, but sudden anger made Charlie sit up and whisper harshly, "What is it?"

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  "My father's here," said Dagbert, his quiet voice husky and urgent. "I can smell him."

  "And I can smell you," Charlie grunted. "Get off my bed."

  "Charlie, I think I might need your help."

  "What?" Charlie exclaimed. "Me help you, after you drowned my friend?"

  "It was an accident." Dagbert's whisper became a low whine. "I didn't mean to."

  "Oh, you meant to, all right," Charlie growled. "Emma Tolly saw everything. Now get off my bed." He kicked Dagbert in the back.

  Dagbert stood up, but he didn't move from Charlie's side. Charlie could see his rigid form silhouetted against the glimmering blue-green wall. At last a soft grumble of words came tumbling from Dagbert. "You know our secret, our family curse. You know that my destiny is to die in my thirteenth year -- unless my father dies before me. It has to be one of us, and now he's here, unexpectedly, in the night, and I am twelve, Charlie. So what's going to happen?

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  Find out for me, please. No one else is like you, Charlie. No one else would do it."

  "Do it yourself," muttered Charlie. Turning his back on Dagbert, he wriggled under the covers.

  Seconds passed before Dagbert said dully, "I'm afraid."

  "Too bad," Charlie replied.

  "But I want to know why my father's here."

  "Well, I don't. Not interested." Charlie pulled the covers over his head. He waited for Dagbert's response, but none came. Before falling asleep, Charlie opened his eyes briefly and found that the dormitory was in darkness again. Hopefully, Dagbert had gone back to bed.

  Charlie hadn't been quite truthful with Dagbert. He was interested in Lord Grimwald's arrival. In fact, he was very curious about everything that he had seen from the window that night. He just wasn't quite curious enough to risk being caught by some of the school's unpleasant-looking visitors.

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  In a dark corridor leading off the great hall, two highly polished ancient doors opened into a magnificent, but seldom used, ballroom. Tonight the ballroom had been filled with chairs, and Ezekiel Bloor's visitors sat in rows beneath four glittering chandeliers. The brilliant light reflected in the crystals was rather disconcerting to some of Ezekiel's unwholesome-looking guests. They were people who were happier in shadow: thieves, poisoners, fraudsters, kidnappers, swindlers, and even murderers. Most of them lived on Piminy Street, a narrow road in the ancient part of the city. Once it had been inhabited by magicians, sorcerers, warlocks, and the like. Indeed, among the villains seated in the ballroom that night, there were those who had inherited the talents of their notorious ancestors. Prominent among them was a clairvoyant named Dolores Slingshot, so named because of her deadly accuracy with a catapult. Dolores was eighty years old and wore a wig of claret-colored ringlets.

  In a corner at the back of the room stood an

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  eight-foot white cube. Even in a corner it seemed to dominate the room. Everyone who entered eyed the cube with surprise and curiosity. As well they might, for it was hard to understand how the great white square had managed to get itself down the narrow passage outside. In fact, it hadn't. Weedon had been forced to open up the disused doors at the side of the ballroom and push the cube (with the help of four moving men) through the garden and into the room. The whole process had been extremely difficult and exhausting. Even Weedon didn't know what lay beneath the covering. The visitors wondered if they were about to find out.

  The last person to arrive was a sickly-looking arsonist named Amos Byrne. When he had taken his place, Weedon closed the doors, and all eyes turned to the stage.

  The grand piano had been pushed to the back and in its place stood an oval table topped with a purple cloth. At one end of the table an ancient man in a wheelchair sat grinning at the audience.

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  Ezekiel Bloor's white, waxy hair framed a face so gaunt and bony, it looked more like a skull than the face of a living person. Next to him, and not smiling at all, his great-grandson, Manfred, sat slightly turned from his neighbor, an ashen-faced woman with strands of gray hair and a nose as blue as a bruise.

  At the other end of the table, the headmaster, Dr. Harold Bloor, was in the middle of a long, extremely boring speech when another guest arrived. He was a well-muscled man wearing only a white undershirt and camouflage trousers. He took a chair at the back, twirled it in one hand, and brought it to rest with a loud bang. The headmaster glared at the lat
ecomer and then resumed his speech. It went on for another ten minutes before grinding to a halt, and those of the audience who hadn't fallen asleep were able to applaud.

  The applause didn't go on for as long as the headmaster would have liked, however, because the doors suddenly crashed open and a strong, salty smell wafted into the room, followed by a large man.

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  "Lord Grimwald!" Dr. Bloor's mouth hung open. "We didn't expect... that is to say, we hardly dared to hope that you would arrive today. As you see, your... your ..." He pointed to the cube.

  "Sea Globe." Lord Grimwald smiled at the cube with satisfaction. "Well, I'm here now, so get on with it." He swayed down the narrow aisle between the seats as though his legs were of different lengths. His crinkled gray hair was streaked with a seaweedy green and his eyes were an icy aquamarine. The strong, salty smell that accompanied him caused several people to sneeze and cough.

  "We have already covered several issues," said Dr. Bloor, "but I have not yet introduced --"

  "Yes, yes. Go on." Lord Grimwald climbed the steps up to the stage, and Manfred, leaping up, hastily pulled an extra chair between himself and his neighbor.

  Lord Grimwald sat down heavily on the empty chair. "Grimwald," he said, extending his hand to the woman on his left.

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