The Boy Who Was Wanted Dead Or Alive - Or Both

by Dominic Barker

  ‘I don’t like your plan,’ said Beo.

  ‘What is wrong with it?’ said Uther.

  ‘There are no dead bodies. If you attack a baron’s castle you have to leave a trail of corpses behind you, lying in pools of blood.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Uther, who was puzzled.

  ‘It shows that you’ve been,’ explained Beo. ‘Then it becomes a deed that people talk about. Perhaps even write a ballad about. Then you become famous, and famous people sometimes get turned into knights.’

  ‘People will not write a ballad about freeing a tree imp,’ maintained Uther.

  ‘You never know,’ said Beo. ‘They write ballads about the strangest things. Why I heard this ballad recently about killing a mouse.’

  And before they could stop him Beo launched into song:

  ‘I took my axe

  To kill a mouse

  Sing Hey! for glory and me

  I missed the mouse

  And smashed my house

  And had no scones for my tea.

  I took my lance

  To kill a rat

  A good man am I and no sinner

  I missed the rat

  And hit my cat

  It really spoiled my dinner.

  I took my sword

  To kill a squirrel

  No limp do I have, nor hunch

  I missed the pest

  And tore my vest

  Sweat dripped on to my lunch.

  There is a moral

  To this song

  A brave man am I with much zeal!

  A clash with vermin

  Is determined

  To cast a pall on a meal.’

  ‘So you see,’ said Beo when he’d finished, ‘they could easily write a song about killing a tree imp. But only if they know that it’s been stolen. If we don’t leave at least one bloody corpse behind us then the Baron might think he’d lost it.’

  ‘Trust me,’ Uther assured the warrior. ‘I know how much he paid for it. He will know he hasn’t lost it.’

  ‘I think there’s something wrong with your plan,’ said Blart, who had finally crammed all of its details into his head.

  For once Capablanca was pleased to hear Blart object. He hoped that his objection to the merchant’s plan would be a good one.

  ‘What is wrong with it, pig boy?’ asked Uther.

  ‘You said that when we lay down our heads we would not sleep.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘But when I lay down my head I always sleep,’ said Blart. ‘Sometimes I fall asleep even before I lay my head down. That usually makes me fall over.’

  Capablanca sighed. It was always a mistake to rely on Blart.

  ‘That is your objection?’ said Uther.

  ‘Yes,’ said Blart.

  ‘When the time comes to steal the tree imp we will simply shake you to wake you up,’ said Uther.

  Blart thought about this for a moment.

  ‘That would work,’ he agreed.

  Uther smiled.

  ‘And now if there are no more objections to the plan I have outlined we can negotiate my fee.’

  ‘Your fee?’ Capablanca was outraged. ‘On a quest we do this for honour.’

  ‘We are a fellowship,’ agreed Beo. ‘All for one and one for all.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Uther impatiently. ‘You do it for whatever you want. I want money. Or rather I want the opportunity to make money. It won’t cost you anything.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Capablanca.

  ‘Simply this,’ said Uther. ‘When we return to the Forest of Arcadia with our tree imp we would be most foolish to free the imp until Sorel has shown us to the dwelling place of Agnes the Horse Shouter, in case the imps rush off and do not keep the promise.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Capablanca.

  ‘Yet,’ continued Uther, ‘when we have been guided to Agnes we no longer need the services of Sorel. Therefore, instead of releasing the tree imp that we have captured we could instead use it to lure and trap Sorel. We would then have two tree imps.’

  ‘I fail to see why this would help,’ said Capablanca.

  ‘That is because, unlike a businessman such as myself, you are not seeing things in the long term,’ explained Uther. ‘After the quest is over I would then, using an intermediary for the purposes of self-protection, sell the two tree imps back to the Baron. One tree imp was worth a great deal. Two tree imps with the possibility of baby tree imps would be worth a fortune.’

  ‘Never!’ shouted Princess Lois. ‘I am not betraying the tree imps so that you can make money.’

  ‘It would be to break our word,’ pointed out Capablanca.

  Blart had missed the ethical issues that his fellow questors raised. However, he had foreseen a different problem.

  ‘What if the Baron had got a better pet in the meantime?’ said Blart. ‘Like a pig.’

  ‘I have given you a plan,’ insisted Uther. ‘You must give me the imps.’

  ‘No,’ said Princess Lois. ‘We refuse.’

  ‘Then you can’t have the plan,’ said Uther.

  ‘What’s to stop us?’ asked Beo menacingly.

  ‘My copyright,’ answered Uther sharply. ‘I own the plan and if I say you can’t use it then you can’t use it. I await an offer.’

  ‘What about the offer not to push you off the horse and watch you tumble to your death?’ said Beo, who was still determined to get a bloody corpse into the quest if it killed him. ‘Then you wouldn’t have the copyright because you wouldn’t be here.’

  Beo edged closer to the merchant. Uther looked down. The ground below looked a long way off but very solid if you got there too fast. Uther decided to be flexible.

  ‘You can have that plan as a free sample,’ he said. ‘A loss leader. An early season promotion to foster customer goodwill. Perhaps you’ll pay for further plans in the future.’

  ‘Look,’ shouted Princess Lois.

  They looked. In front of them rose the immense granite fortress of Baron Kilbride. Even in the gathering gloom of approaching night, the fortress silenced all the questors as it had silenced many who had seen it before. From above they could see it was square and its eight black towers shot viciously into the sky. The moat was deep and wide and the only entrance was across a bridge that led to a heavily fortified gatehouse.

  ‘A man who builds a fortress like that is sending out a message,’ said Capablanca.

  ‘What message would that be?’ asked Uther.

  ‘Don’t steal my tree imp,’ suggested Blart.

  The other questors decided that this was not the message that the fortress was sending.

  ‘We must land and walk the rest of the way to the fortress,’ said Capablanca. ‘As we know, a flying horse attracts attention.’

  ‘And we should not be too hasty,’ said Uther. ‘Remember that we don’t want to get there until late so that the Baron cannot ask us to perform until tomorrow.’

  ‘And we must stick to our story at all times,’ said Capablanca. ‘If the Baron discovers our true identities we will be killed. If he discovers our true purpose things will be worse.’

  As Pig the Horse flew down towards an isolated field to land, Blart dwelt on the prospect of something worse than death. Luckily his brain wasn’t advanced enough to come up with something, so he was not as scared as he should have been.

  Chapter 35

  It was the blackest night that Blart could remember as the questors walked apprehensively towards the gatehouse of Baron Kilbride’s fortress. There were no twinkling stars above them and the moon was shaded by cloud.

  Beo thundered his great fist against the iron door. High up in the door a grille was pulled back and a dark face poked out.

  ‘Who dares strike the door of the fortress of the Iron Baron?’ demanded a guard.

  ‘We are simple players,’ said Uther. ‘We seek a night’s lodging.’

  ‘How will you pay?’

  ‘With a performance,’ replied Uther. ‘We will pay
with our art.’

  ‘Your heart more likely,’ said the guard with a guffaw, ‘if your performance is not good.’

  ‘We have travelled far and wide,’ said Uther. ‘Tomorrow we will provide a spectacular show.’

  ‘Spectacular, eh?’ said the guard. ‘My master will be pleased to hear that, for he finds a rare enjoyment in watching players. That is if the players be good.’

  ‘We are the best,’ insisted Uther with complete confidence.

  Hearing Uther, Blart almost believed himself to be a talented player.

  ‘I will tell my master’s steward that you are the best,’ the guard said. ‘Therefore be it on your own heads, or lack of them, if that is not the case.’

  ‘We have nothing to fear,’ Uther assured him.

  ‘I hope it will be so,’ said the guard. ‘For I am tired of watching the gatehouse and perhaps if I can come to my master’s favourable attention then I may be allowed to ride out with the rest of his soldiers and do some pillaging. My sword is itching for blood.’

  Above the questors the grille closed and a moment later the great iron gate swung open. Before them lay a sobering sight. In the vast courtyard of the fortress were many fires that burned a fierce orange in the black night. Around each fire, warming themselves, eating hunks of meat and drinking from flagons of mead, were many of Baron Kilbride’s soldiers.

  ‘They have just returned from a raid on the lands of Lord Easy,’ explained the guard. ‘They plundered much treasure and brought back many prisoners for ransom. The celebrations will continue long into the night.’

  But now was not the time for the questors to quail. Uther led them in. Blart brought up the rear, leading Pig the Horse.

  ‘That is a huge beast,’ the guard observed.

  ‘He is almost lame,’ interjected Princess Lois, who didn’t want anybody paying too much attention to Pig.

  ‘Tell the boy to take it to the stables,’ commanded the guard. ‘He can then join us in the servants’ kitchen.’

  ‘Where are the stables?’ asked Blart.

  The guard hit him in the face. Blart fell over in a mixture of pain and astonishment.

  ‘Where are the stables, sir,’ the guard corrected him. ‘Good manners cost nothing.’

  Unfortunately for Blart nice words and fancy phrases were not his strong point. Instead he trudged off in the direction the guard was pointing, mumbling to himself about life’s unfairness.

  ‘That boy will find himself with many a fist in his face if he does not learn to respect others,’ observed the guard.

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Beo, who was only disappointed that the fist in Blart’s face had not been his own.

  Meanwhile Blart had reached the stables. He had found them simply by following the scent of dung. Blart’s nose was particularly sensitive to dung. It was a skill he was most proud of. Once there, he spied a boy even younger and even weedier than himself feeding a horse a bag of oats. Blart’s heart leapt. Throughout this quest he had been forced to deal with people who were bigger or scarier than him. Now, finally, Blart had found someone he didn’t need to respect or look up to.

  ‘Oi,’ he shouted at the boy.

  The boy looked up. He looked suitably nervous.

  ‘What’s your name, boy?’ said Blart.

  ‘Stodge the Lad, sir,’ replied the boy apprehensively.

  Blart had never been called sir before. He thought it rather became him.

  ‘Get over here, Stodge the Lad, and see to my horse.’

  Stodge rushed over, grasped Pig’s reins and led him to the drinking trough.

  ‘He is a mighty fine horse,’ commented Stodge deferentially. ‘I’ll get him some oats when he’s finished drinking.’

  There was a silence. Blart should really have headed off to the servants’ kitchen, but there he would find himself back at the bottom of the social hierarchy. Here in the stables there was somebody who was looking up to him. Blart felt the temptation to linger.

  ‘Is there anything else, sir?’ said Stodge.

  ‘I am seeing to things,’ answered Blart vaguely. ‘Do you have any pigs around here?’

  ‘Pigs?’ Stodge’s face lit up at the word. ‘I wish we did but sadly there are none.’

  ‘That is a shame,’ said Blart gruffly. ‘It is my habit, Stodge, in quiet moments when I am not seeing to things to pat a pig.’

  ‘They are noble creatures,’ nodded Stodge. ‘I would much prefer to work with pigs than horses, but what can I do? My master, the Baron, refuses to keep them.’

  Blart studied Stodge with a new-found respect. He had never come across anyone before with a fondness for pigs. However, he wanted to be sure that the boy’s devotion to pigs was serious.

  ‘To be a pig boy is a very important position,’ he cautioned Stodge. ‘You must be dedicated to it.’

  ‘I know,’ said Stodge. ‘But I believe I could do it. When I was young, before the Baron’s men murdered my family and kidnapped me, we used to have a pig and I was in charge of its swill. I made sure that our pig always had swill. I can still hear his oink.’

  There was a look of pride in Stodge’s eyes as he spoke of his duties. A look that touched Blart’s heart. For were not he and Stodge similar? Both orphans. Both great admirers of the pig. Blart, it seemed, had found a friend.

  ‘Would you mind, Stodge,’ said Blart with a politeness that he only normally produced when threatened with violence, ‘if I sat down and we chatted about pigs?’

  ‘It would be an honour, sir,’ said Stodge the Lad and he indicated a bale of hay where Blart could sit. The light of friendship was in Blart’s eyes as he sat.

  ‘Where have you been, stoat-features?’

  Blart wheeled round. At the stable door stood Princess Lois.

  ‘I have been talking to –’ began Blart.

  ‘Nobody wants to talk to you and nobody wants to listen to you,’ snapped Princess Lois, cutting him short. ‘You have to come with me right away.’

  Blart was not going to be ordered about in front of his new friend.

  ‘I will come when I want,’ he told the Princess dismissively. ‘Stodge and I were going to talk of pigs and swill.’

  ‘If you don’t come with me right now then you’ll be chopped into pieces and thrown into the moat,’ Princess Lois told him.

  ‘You couldn’t do that,’ said Blart.

  ‘No, you couldn’t,’ agreed Stodge, standing shoulder to shoulder with his new friend.

  ‘No, I couldn’t,’ agreed Princess Lois, ‘but Baron Kilbride could. And he will. He’s demanded we put on a show right away. And if you don’t come with me then we’ll be one player short and that player will be in a great deal of trouble.’

  ‘But,’ Blart’s mouth had fallen open. ‘We aren’t –’

  ‘Quite ready,’ said Princess Lois, realising that in his surprise Blart had been about to reveal that they were not real players. ‘Now come on.’

  She turned and stalked off. Blart had no option but to follow her. He allowed himself one last glance at Stodge. What could have been a beautiful friendship had never even got started.

  Chapter 36

  Princess Lois walked at such a ferocious pace that Blart found it very difficult to keep up with her. She led him across the courtyard, ignoring the lewd remarks passed in her direction by Baron Kilbride’s soldiers, and into the strongly fortified keep. The guards there seemed to recognise her, for she marched straight past them, up the cold stone stairs harshly lit by burning lanterns, and through the kitchen, which was filled with the powerful smell of roasted ox. Blart felt a sudden emptiness in the pit of his stomach, but the Princess did not stop there. Instead she strode up another smaller set of stairs that were not so well lit. At the stop of the stairs was a curtain. Princess Lois pulled it back to reveal the questors’ dressing room.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ demanded Beo, looking up grumpily.

  ‘He was talking swill,’ said Princess Lois.

  Beo looked at Blart in dis
gust.

  ‘Could someone remind me why we need him?’

  ‘Our play needs a hero,’ said Uther.

  ‘He doesn’t look like a hero,’ said Princess Lois.

  ‘Maybe not at the moment,’ said Uther. ‘But after applying some make-up he will be far more convincing.’

  ‘What kind of make-up?’ demanded Blart suspiciously.

  ‘Lard-based make-up,’ said Uther. ‘I have some samples with me.’

  ‘Why do all your products have lard in them?’ asked Blart.

  ‘Lard is a versatile substance with multiple uses,’ explained Uther. ‘You can cook with it, grease with it, make yourself up with it and it serves as a tasty snack in between meals.’

  ‘Cease this discussion of lard,’ ordered Capablanca irritably from the corner in which he was sitting. ‘You can cake Blart in as much lard as you like but that isn’t going to help us get out of this mess you’ve got us into.’

  ‘What mess?’ asked Uther calmly.

  ‘What mess?’ demanded Capablanca indignantly. ‘We are in the middle of a fortress, surrounded by hostile drunken soldiers. We are about to attempt to entertain a ruthless Baron with a play in the knowledge that if our performance is not to his liking he will have us all killed. The unfortunate problem is that none of us are trained actors and we do not have a play to perform. Therefore, within a minute of entering the feasting we will be recognised as imposters and condemned to death – I call that a mess.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Blart, who didn’t.

  ‘There has been a slight hiccup in my plan,’ admitted Uther.

  ‘Slight,’ said Capablanca sarcastically.

  ‘The Baron is staying up late to celebrate with some of his officers,’ continued Uther, ‘and the initial entertainment did not go down well. Apparently the Baron was not fond of mime. Therefore his steward came down to the kitchen while you were dawdling in the stables and told us that we would have to perform this evening – I did try to explain to the steward that we had not had any rehearsal time but he refused to listen.’