Alfred 2: And The Underworld (Alfred the Boy King)

by Ron Smorynski

  Abedeyan gritted his teeth and whispered to Dunther, “They have grand horses but can sell us only ponies?”

  Lord Dunther said nothing.

  “Magistrate, we cannot take on the whole caravan within these walls!” Abedyen squealed.

  The Magistrate merely eyed him as the procession continued to enter. The guards formed ranks while the servants came out of smaller carriages. The Magistrate turned and began ordering the servants to set up whatever it was that they were going to set up.

  Lady Nihan came out, having to maneuver around large horses in gaudy bridles and guards forming up. Panicked, she made it over to Lord Dunther and Abedeyan. “Lords, what is happening? They are swarming our halls. Have we surrendered to them?”

  “It appears so,” Lord Dunther said under his breath, yet clear enough for Abedeyan and Lady Nihan to hear.

  Without a command from Lord Dunther, Sergeant Jeurkaheen assembled his ragtag mercenary soldiers. The leader of the Ambassador guards was the obvious one in command. He dismounted his stallion and marched in front of the mercenaries. He scoffed at their armour and weapons, all acquired by Alfred when they defeated the goblins.

  The Captain of the Guard sneered and definitely made mocking remarks to Sergeant Jeurkaheen, and then both looked over at Lord Dunther. Their leer would have struck deep into the heart of most men, and it just so happened that Lord Dunther fell into that category.

  Abedeyan and Lady Nihan caught the obvious downturned glances of Dunther. Before his very eyes was the defeat of his leadership in the absence of Alfred his King. Abedeyan had to say something. “Lord Dunther, it isn't your fault.”

  Those simple words may have harmed more than helped. Lord Dunther showed a quivering feebleness and was unable to do what he was supposed to, which was be in charge and meet and greet the visiting leaders. He merely stood there, out of the way as the Captain of the Guard gave orders to the guards and servants alike. The caravans parked in the most unwanted spaces and servants began to set up pavilions that seemed larger than the Great Hall itself.

  All the workers, including the carpenters who were set to work on the Keep's battlements, came and followed the orders of the Magistrate and Captain of the Guard. Pavilions sprang up. Servants spread out. The grounds of the Keep now looked like a foreign land of tents and canopies and ornate columns anchored by silver ropes. Banners and flags waved – denoting what or whom, the original inhabitants had no clue.

  Lady Nihan gasped as her team of seamstresses was gently nudged from their tower. They came out in tears. She looked to Lord Dunther and Abedeyan, but nothing was to be done. The guards of the Telehistine merchants had taken the tower as their temporary abode. They laughed at the women's distress, but not too much, as they saw the commanding hand of the Captain of the Guard motioning them to settle down.

  The Captain stared at Lord Dunther. Their eyes met for a long time. The Captain finally approached with the Sergeant and Magistrate.

  They seemed taller, and definitely more adorned, than the puny, crudely dressed Lord Dunther. The Magistrate spoke. “Who is in charge here? It seems most inappropriate that we have not yet met the Lord of the Keep?”

  Lord Dunther was frozen in utter shame, from failing to see what he had done and with whom he had signed deals. He stood small and bent. Abedeyan could not hide his tears of frustration. Lady Nihan had already departed to comfort her ladies and take them into the Hall, hoping that that too would not be taken over.

  “So sorry! I'm here!” a young vibrant voice called above the clamor of the new occupants. All turned to see a boy, a bit ragged and dirty, approaching.

  “Kindly remove this urchin from our presence!” said the Magistrate, turning aside to avoid him.

  “This urchin is King Alfred, Lord of this Keep!” Alfred said with a strange flurry, leaping in front of the Magistrate.

  “I will not be toyed with!” The Magistrate looked at Lord Dunther and Abedeyan. Guards approached to grab the kid.

  “It is true!” Abedeyan said.

  “Are you not aware of the Boy King who defeated an entire goblin army?! He is the whole point for why you are even here?!!” Suddenly, Lord Dunther burst out a laugh, shocking the guests. The Captain himself flinched at such a bellowing of words. The guards stepped back.

  “So sorry I'm late and dirty. I'm a king who likes to do things,” Alfred wiped the filth from his clothes to no avail. “And yes, we did defeat a whole bunch of goblins and ratkins.”

  “A paltry force, a small skirmish in the annals of Telehistine's glorious record of war,” the Magistrate said, waving off his guards.

  “Oh, right!” said Alfred. “Well, who’s your boss then?”

  “Boss?!” The Magistrate finally looked down at Alfred with a sneer.

  Abedeyan nearly... nearly shook his fist at him. “Have you not accepted our Lord, King Alfred, who you must treat accordingly?!”

  The Magistrate stood tall and silent for a moment, peering down at Alfred while a strange twisted smile formed. “I'm so sorry milord. Forgive me. I humbly entreat your patience for our other worldly manners, King Alfred.” He bowed to Alfred's height with his feathery turban, though it was not as fancy a plume as the Ambassador's.

  “It's okay,” King Alfred said with a curt bow. “We are pretty dirty and rough out here in the Westfold. I don't blame you!”

  The Magistrate seemed genuinely impressed with the humble response. He stood back up straight and waved his robe in a flourish. “Shall I take you to the royal pavilion to meet the Ambassador?”

  “Should I go like this? Perhaps I should wash up?” Alfred winked.

  “Oh, that would be gracious of you. And my Lord could finalize the royal pavilion before your arrival then.”

  “I'll be a short while and will try my best to look, uh... decent and proper. You know, look cool.”

  Alfred almost bowed but saw Abedeyan motion slightly, with both palms up, to stand tall. The Magistrate noticed and was amused.

  “Cool? As the evening's summer breeze...” The Magistrate bowed and returned to the bustle of the servants at the pavilion. It was impressive to see the flurry of work that went into setting up their tents. No one saw the Ambassador. His pavilion was actually an extension of the carriage. He had only to exit the carriage to be in his grand tent.

  Alfred waved for Lord Dunther and Abedeyan to follow him into the Great Hall. As they went, they passed foreign servants delivering what appeared to be already roasted meats and prepared dishes, wines and fruits of all sorts to the pavilion.

  “Oh boy, oh boy!” Alfred rubbed his hands in anticipation.

  “Careful, Alfred – they have demons amongst them!” Lord Dunther said at the door to the Great Hall.

  Alfred stopped to peer at the procession of servants with the Captain and Magistrate watching over it all. “Where? What demons?”

  “There!” Lord Dunther pointed.

  Alfred looked and saw the servants, the Magistrate, and the wonderful food on huge dishes. He was full of anticipation. “I don't see any demons?”

  “Demons from a far away land – can you not see them as I do?” Lord Dunther whispered.

  Alfred squinted his eyes, and still he could not see them. A young boy about his age, richly adorned as a servant like the others, stood by the Magistrate. He held a tray with a silver goblet of wine.

  “There Alfred, they use them as slaves!” said Dunther.

  Alfred realized he was pointing at the boy. “What do you mean? The boy?”

  “The dark skinned demons!” Lord Dunther said. “They are amongst their servants – devils they are!”

  “What?!” Alfred gasped. “That's just a boy!” He realized Lord Dunther was pointing at a boy who was black skinned. He looked like a normal kid, like any kid Alfred knew in school.

  “Lord Dunther, are you saying you're a racist?!”

  “A ray-sisss? A what?” Dunther gritted his teeth in apprehension.

  “Never mind, look, that boy whose
skin is black...” Alfred pointed. The boy noticed. Alfred pretended he was doing otherwise.

  Lord Dunther interrupted. “So you do see the black skin? You too see beyond the illusion and see its true dark form? Demon!”

  “Dude!!!” Alfred stared wide-eyed at Dunther and smacked his shoulder.

  “Dew-uhd? What is that?” Dunther ignored the smack and fixed his eyes on the boy.

  “No, no... “ Alfred shook his head.

  “No?” Dunther whispered. “You don't see the black demonic skin?”

  “No... Wait! Yes.. I do see the black skin, but it is not a demon! It's... HE... is just a boy!”

  “But can't you see the black? A black demonic boy?”

  “Nohhh... dude... Dunther, it's… HE is just a black boy. Their skin is just darker, it has more uh... what you call it... pigment, more color is all! I know a lot of black boys!”

  “How did you defeat them then?” Dunther grabbed Alfred.

  “Defeat? No! What the heck? Look… he's just a boy with black skin, that's all... he's a boy like me!”

  Alfred waved his hand at him. From far off, the boy was now sure they were looking at him. The Magistrate waved his commanding hands at all the servants and then took a drink from the plate held by the boy. Alfred caught his eye and saw sadness in them.

  “Actually, Lord Dunther, he is a sad boy. He's a slave.”

  Lord Dunther peered carefully. “But those Khanifians are an evil tribe! Of demons!”

  “No! Dunther! Who told you that?!”

  “The Merchants warned us of these warring feral tribes of demons.”

  “And you believed them?”

  Lord Dunther stopped and thought about it.

  “He's just a boy, enslaved by them obviously. He's scared. His skin color doesn't matter, Dunther. We all have different, you know, colors or tones.”

  Alfred put his arm next to Dunther's slightly darker reddish arm. “See!”

  Dunther did see the different colorations of their arms. Then he peered intently at the Khanifian boy, who indeed looked sad. “You sure he isn't using sadness to manipulate you – some devilry to deceive you and your emotions?”

  Alfred rolled his eyes and went into the Great Hall.

  “A racist knight... great!”

  Dunther followed. “What’s a ray-siss?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two: The Ambassador

  Abedeyan had Lady Nihan prepare a bath for Alfred and get the best boy-sized clothes they could find. Loranna and Cory were sitting at the long table eating while Alfred waited.

  Abedeyan asked, “How did you get into the castle without us seeing you? You three?”

  Alfred put his finger to his lips, “It's a secret. Shhhhh...”

  Abedeyan looked frustrated. He didn't like secrets, especially secrets kept secret from him.

  Alfred left them and quickly took a bath, scrubbing off the dirt and grime from a day's hike through ratkin tunnels. He put on some halfway decent medieval clothing: pants, a tunic and a simple cloak. He did not look like a king, just a boy. His clothing looked more like a page or servant than a royal king.

  He came out and saw that Lord Dunther was somewhat dressed as well.

  Tahnwhithe bowed. “One of my uniforms.”

  Dunther looked small and short in Tahnwhithe's long suit. His hair was combed. It was actually combed. Dunther did not look strong or brave with combed hair. Lady Nihan was the culprit comber and tucker-in of his new overly sized attire. They headed through the Great Hall, Alfred skipped along. Lord Dunther rolled his eyes. Loranna and Cory waved, and Lord Tahnwhite bowed as they exited.

  They walked over to the pavilion. Trumpets blared. This startled Alfred. The Magistrate suddenly appeared and bowed, “King Alfred and Lord Dunther, welcome! Welcome to the Ambassador's royal pavilion!”

  He stepped aside as the small Khanifian boy stepped out to pull the tent's opening. Alfred eyed Dunther, who merely shrugged. Alfred gave the slave boy a warm smile. The boy tried not to look at him. “He knows your powers of perception,” Lord Dunther whispered.

  “Aye yai yai, Dunther.”

  Dunther shrugged. “What did I say?”

  They saw before them what they thought impossible to have in Grotham Keep, a huge banquet hall with every dish known to man... or medieval man... well at least Westfold starving man. There were all sorts of roasted birds and slabs of beef as well as fruit pyramids and trays of all kinds of vegetables. Row after row of breads and bowls of every creamy and vinegary sauce one could want sat amidst the large platters.

  Alfred’s and Dunther's eyes bulged. They were in shock at the display.

  “Come in, come in!” clapped the Ambassador. “Welcome boy King! Savior of the Westfold! Friend of Telehistine!”

  Alfred bowed awkwardly. The black boy quickly stepped forward and bowed, pointing to some pillows specially placed for Alfred. He sat down, and Dunther sat next to him. The Magistrate promptly sat between them and the Ambassador. The Captain of the Guard sat opposite. They sat on pillows in a wide open circle. Servants brought around gold and silver platters of food to pick from. They had plates and drinks on small wooden trays before them. Many other gaudily dressed officials were sitting around but none that Alfred or Dunther had any dealings with. It was amazing to see how many individuals sat around looking important yet seeming to have no actual relevance. After all, it was just a small Keep with an expired contract and no funds for more trading.

  Alfred ate everything brought before him. His face was a mess with sauces and gravies and food particulates. The Magistrate noticed the mess. “Should a king be so slop-ridden?” He snapped his fingers for a lady servant to come with an expensive silk cloth to wipe Alfred's face, but Alfred snapped his fingers back and pointed at the Ambassador.

  The Magistrate looked to see a slovenly guffawing portly man enjoying twice as much and spilling thrice as much as Alfred upon his bulbous cheeks and attire.

  “As slop-ridden as the Ambassador!” Alfred laughed.

  The Ambassador looked back, not knowing what was happening. It seemed a moment that could suddenly cost lives.

  Alfred took a big bite and burped ever so loud. It was a sign of gratitude toward the Ambassador. The Ambassador could not help but laugh, cough and choke on food. A slave quickly hit his back, causing him to cough up a chunk. All became still and quiet. The Ambassador then laughed again and pointed at Alfred, who began laughing. Everyone resumed eating, drinking and talking. This seemed to happen over and over again.

  Meanwhile, the Magistrate pecked at his food like a bird and showed little emotion.

  Alfred was definitely getting full. He looked at Dunther, who was trying to bring out a burp in the most inconspicuous of ways. Alfred merely belched forth loud and proud, which gave his stomach a bit more room. He then began chomping on a large turkey leg.

  “This boy king I love, hah!” The Ambassador let food fly from his mouth, even past the Magistrate, as he guffawed and gulped.

  Dancers and fire breathers within this grand flammable pavilion came in to perform. The fire breathers spewed forth fire. The dancers leapt about. The Ambassador was the most flamboyant clapper of audience partakers. With each performance more food particulates built up on his robes and garments. Somehow a portion of a pheasant hung limply from his turban.

  The Magistrate was disgusted but with political aplomb revealed none of it to the Ambassador. Alfred saw it. He kept mental notes on things he noticed about these men he did not trust. Regardless, the finest of meals was before him, and he was going to have his fill.

  Alfred got so full he finally had to lean back. Slaves filled the space with pillows. Alfred turned to see the black boy. “Hullo, what's your name?”

  The boy looked wide-eyed. His face was definitely quite black, and his eyes were so white they shone twice as bright.

  “It is not proper to speak to the servants,” the Magistrate said.

  “Well, he's not my servant. I don't have servants.” Alfred look
ed at the boy with caring eyes.

  Dunther looked at Alfred, trying to tell him through his facial expression to not to talk to the ”demon.” Alfred ignored him. “What's your name?”

  The boy looked at the Magistrate, who answered instead. “You don't have servants? Who is Dunther there? Is he not a servant? And all the ladies in the Keep and the farmers and workers, they are all servants to the king!”

  “I think you mean slaves, right?” Alfred asked.

  “Slaves, servants, what's the difference?” the Magistrate asked.

  “Well, the people who work under me are free to go and not work if they wish. They choose to work for me for the good of the land, for each other, and they get paid, mostly... ”

  “That is most interesting, King Alfred. Is it because you do not have a brutal and efficient force to keep them in line?” The Magistrate nodded at the Captain of the Guard, who returned the gaze with lifted drink and a wry smile.

  “No, I don't make anyone do anything they don't want to do.”

  The Khanafian boy listened intently and looked at Alfred as he spoke. Their eyes met again.

  “Oh, King Alfred the spellcaster, hey? Charming the people to do his will?” the Magistrate chimed.

  “No Magistrate, I just ask. A lot have said no to me,” Alfred replied. “Even Lord Dunther here has said no to me!”

  Alfred glanced at Lord Dunther, who looked back with meat hanging from his mouth. “Huh?”

  “I don't want to be a king who needs to enslave people to do work,” Alfred said. The slave boy stood very still as he listened. His eyes darted to and fro in thought.

  “My name is Nubio,” the boy suddenly said.

  “Hi Nubio! My name is Alfred,” Alfred replied happily, smiling. The boy smiled back.

  The Magistrate looked at Nubio with anger and vile contempt. He raised his hand to strike him. Nubio shrank back, familiar with the pose. Alfred looked at the Magistrate, who then lowered his hand. “We must all know our place, King Alfred. You are a king and must be revered as such. Are you not savior of this kingdom? Defeater of goblin armies? You deserve the best riches from the land, from your... people.”