Alfred: The Boy Who Would Be King (Alfred the Boy King Book 1)

by Ron Smorynski

  It clambered up on the balcony, crouched and then leapt over Tirnalth. Verboden ducked and rolled, again barely escaping the beast’s clutches. The spider landed behind Alfred, who had thought he was standing well away from the danger. Towering over Alfred, revealing its fangs and stinger, the creature extended its four front legs ready to strike.

  Alfred ran forward, tripped and fell into the hole, landing on webbing that rolled him to a lower level. The spider lunged after him, leaving Verboden and Tirnalth behind.

  When Alfred came to a stop, caught in more webbing, he was banged up and bruised, muddy and dirty, and altogether in disbelief at his predicament. He thought briefly of werewolves and dark forests, of a dark god and a witch named Gorbogal, of spiders in a tower and flying gargoyles. Then his mind focused on the gargantuan spider lurking near in the darkness, extending its feelers for him. He poked about in the darkness with his hands, just glimpsing shadowy shapes of cocooned creatures. “Are they human?” he worried. He wasn’t sure, as many appeared to be smaller than humans. Suddenly he felt something he sensed might be useful and grabbed it. It was a spear.

  Alfred pulled the weapon up and thrust it forward just as the giant spider pounced upon him. The spear slammed back toward him so forcefully that it caused him to drop to the floor in the littered remains. Unfortunately, he had been holding the spear backwards. When he thrust it, the butt end had only dinted the spider’s hard chitin shell. Fortunately, this unexpected contact caused the spider enough pain that it retreated a few paces. Alfred tried to use the spear again but couldn't move it as the head had been jammed into the crusty earthen ground.

  The spider, seeing the flames of Tirnalth above at the opening of the hole, had it in mind to steal away with Alfred before the others arrived. “We are coming, Alfred. Hold on!”

  Alfred grabbed the shaft of the imprisoned spear and pulled vigorously. The spider saw its chance and leapt at Alfred again, avoiding the spear. It grabbed his leg, pulling as Alfred held on to the spear for dear life, grimacing in fear and pain.

  Tirnalth looked down from the edge and again hesitated as he wasn't sure how to dive onto the spider. He shrugged, said a mental “oh well” and leaped like a swimmer doing a cannon ball, holding his nose. It was a direct hit. The spider, exploding into flames, screeched in wretched agony while continuing to hold Alfred in a painful grip. Verboden then jumped in, jamming his staff into one of the spider’s leg joints, breaking off the limb. He then pried the spider claw from Alfred’s leg and pulled him to safety. The spider quivered in its final death throes as the magical flame engulfed it. Tirnalth stepped out of the fire, a flaming ghost.

  “Are you okay, Alfred?” asked Tirnalth, the orange aura subsiding.

  Alfred cringed in pain.

  “I think he’s been through quite a bit,” Verboden said. He quickly chanted a calming spell, and Alfred gave a sigh of relief. Verboden quickly went about healing Alfred’s leg that had some large scrapes and contusions. He pulled out a small mortar and pestle. He added some dried leaves from a pocket, poured water from a waterskin, and a dash of powder from another vial. Then he spoke some words as he mixed it and applied it to the scraped leg. Though not instantaneous, the healing was very quick indeed. Alfred gazed in amazement. He got up and stood on his leg.

  “Well, how do you feel?” Verboden put away his ingredients.

  “It feels okay. I still feel it, as if the pain is still there, but it doesn’t hurt.” Alfred felt his leg gently.

  “Your body is telling you that the injuries should still be there. With the grace of Armahn, you are healed,” Verboden said.

  “Armahn, the God of Light,” Tirnalth said softly.

  “Yes. Indeed. Do you remember now?”

  “I suppose if Armahn is the owner of my soul, he would not allow me to forget,” replied Tirnalth. “That is all I remember.”

  “He may not be thrilled you made a deal with the Dark One,” Verboden said. Tirnalth’s only response was a raised eyebrow.

  Tirnalth’s fiery aura was gone, but the enormous ember of the burning spider glowed, giving off a charred, rancid odor. Acrid smoke glided up the tunnel.

  The three explorers looked around in the crypt, seeing that it was the lair of the giant spider. Scattered throughout it were the ancient remains and bones of ratkins, goblins and fallen men-at-arms. Alfred was finally able to pull out the spear and gaze at it. Verboden looked closely at it. “It’s a ratkin spear, lighter and shorter than a knight’s,” he declared. “It is an inferior weapon.”

  Alfred liked the weight of it in his hands. He shrugged. “It stopped a giant spider, so it must be okay.”

  “If you want to be a king, you can not be armed with a vermin’s weapon.” Verboden picked out an old rusty sword amongst the debris and tossed it to him. Alfred stepped out of the way of the blade, trying to catch the weapon by the handle. The weight of it nearly flung him off his feet. He fumbled the sword, dropping it to the ground with a loud clang. Verboden observed the mishap unimpressed.

  “Sorry, sorry,” Alfred murmured as he tried to lift the sword. It was much heavier than he expected. He lifted the spear, then the sword, then the spear, then the sword. Finally, he lay the spear down and tried to hold the sword in two hands, his arms began to shake. He tried swinging the sword, and it ended up swinging him.

  “This boy has no strength for a sword. At his age and height, a squire would handle it easily,” Verboden said to Tirnalth.

  “I am not concerned with his sword-swinging ability. In time, I am certain, he will grow into such skills. I don’t believe he used such weapons where he comes from.” As he spoke, Tirnalth was looking at the many passageways and doors within the crypt.

  “Where did he come from?” Verboden asked, as both men flinched when Alfred banged the sword against the wall. Verboden picked up the spider torch he had used earlier and rolled nearby spider webs onto it.

  “I’m not sure. His world seemed different, simpler.” Tirnalth watched as the flames from the spider spread along the webs. Tirnalth spread his arms and summoned a concentrated thought. A spray of water burst from his finger tips, putting out the flames. As the water dripped onto the webbings and the embers fizzled, a self-satisfied expression came to his face.

  The men turned to see Alfred bumbling around with the sword, pretending he was a great knight.

  “I feel I know this place,” said Tirnalth.

  “Yes, you had a room back there, I believe, through the passageway.” Verboden pointed down one of the many hallways to an opening.

  “Let’s see if anything remains.”

  Chapter Nine: The Wizard's Room

  Alfred gently leaned the sword against a fallen column. Of course, it slid down with a loud clang. He picked up the light spear and rushed over to Tirnalth and Verboden. “What’s in there?”

  “As you said, Alfred, I need to study some spell books – that is, if we can find any here. I will relearn to control my… ah…great powers.” Tirnalth gently elbowed Alfred’s shoulder and winked.

  They bent themselves through a small doorway to peer into a large room. Though it felt like a crypt, the room was lofty, appearing to rise up into the dark vault far above.

  “This must be the tower at the back of the Keep.” Alfred felt along the crude, solid stone.

  “Yes, it seems so.” Tirnalth noticed an old overturned chair and table. He picked up the chair and set it upright.

  “What's that?” Alfred asked, pointing to markings on a stone illuminated faintly by torch light. They leaned in closer to look.

  “It says, if you are me, look up...” As Tirnalth read these words aloud, the others slowly gazed up and saw a bit of light filtering through holes. “I see something, up there,” Tirnalth said, squinting up into the hazy interior mist of the dusty old tower.

  “What is it?” Alfred asked.

  “Can't you see it? It’s a shelf,” Tirnalth said, pointing.

  Alfred and Verboden looked harder but saw onl
y a ruined tower with rotted wood floors. Then, oddly, their eyes beheld, hidden under some old wood, a lone shelf with things on it.

  “We should…” was all Verboden could say when Alfred tossed his spear up into the dark. It hit the wall and skidded up, sticking with a twang to the underside of the shelf.

  “Nice throw,” Tirnalth said.

  “And now?” asked Verboden.

  A cracking sound could be heard echoing from above. The shelf’s braces creaked and dust began to sprinkle down. Then suddenly the entire shelf plummeted straight down, falling to the floor at their feet. Several books tumbled out. Alfred rushed to retrieve his wonderful spear. He joyfully posed with it.

  Verboden and Tirnalth nodded in smug agreement, the spear was a handy tool indeed.

  “Well, are these your books?” Alfred asked as Tirnalth picked them up.

  “I don’t remember. Remember?” Tirnalth reminded.

  “Oh, right.”

  Tirnalth gazed at a book. Verboden blew the dust off the cover. The dust billowed into Tirnalth’s straining eyes. He blinked and sputtered in utter contempt. Verboden shied away, mumbling an apology. Gripped by a horrible realization, Tirnalth was stricken with a paralyzing fear.

  Alfred and Verboden approached him cautiously, wondering with apprehension at what Tirnalth was seeing. Was it some kind of evil vision?

  Tirnalth let loose a deafening sneeze, which sprayed dust and spittle on both Alfred and Verboden. “Oh, excuse me! Oh my, these are some very old dusty books!” He sniffed and sneezed a few more times.

  Already covered with caked mud, web threading, and dried blood, Alfred feebly attempted to brush the spittle off. Verboden stood back and used his cloak as a towel.

  Alfred noticed large chunky candles on the floor. He picked them up and set them on the table. Observing this, Tirnalth waved his fingers, and the candles took flame. Tirnalth made a gesture of satisfaction with a quick nod and furrowed brows. Alfred scooted the rickety chair and table together for a grateful Tirnalth. Now, by candlelight, he could sit and review all the books they placed before him. Verboden and Alfred anxiously awaited Tirnalth’s comments about each book.

  “Can you read, Tirnalth?” Alfred asked.

  “I don’t know. If I have no memory, would I remember to read? Hmm… The Laws of Fire! A Beginner’s Journey. Hey! What do you know!”

  Alfred clapped and cheered. Verboden rolled his eyes.

  Tirnalth, as if opening birthday presents, gazed at each volume. He read the difficult runes and scribbles, turning books upside down, and reversing, reading several pages and then going back to the cover, all the while sighing and whistling, rubbing his beard and scratching his head. When he held one book in his hands and read the words on its cover, “Telekinetia by Tirnalth the Grand Wizard.” He smiled in triumph.

  “Yay!” Alfred put another book before him.

  “My goodness! You wrote that one too!” Verboden said encouragingly.

  “Yes, I suppose I did!” Tirnalth leafed through the pages.

  “What does it mean?” Verboden asked.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea!” Tirnalth said, licking his fingers to turn a dusty page.

  “It means floating or pushing things with an invisible force!” said Alfred, pointing his finger upward knowingly.

  Verboden and Tirnalth stared blank-eyed at Alfred. Neither wanted to say he did not understand what Alfred was saying. So both nodded okay. Tirnalth turned to another book, “The Troubadourian Travels of Verboden?”

  “Oh, that one’s mine! How did it get there!?” Verboden grabbed it and slipped it under his cloak, never to be seen again.

  Tirnalth continued with another, “Feast and Famine, The Culinary Arts of the Pig. Well, that could come in handy, I suppose,” he said. “And Illuminatia? Hmph! Good. Stone and Earth, The Elements of Foundation. Very good! Riddles and Poems of the East Passages? I suppose one could use a bit of entertainment. Apothecary, Oils and Metal Works. Good. And this one, Entrance to the Ways of Before, Forget Naught. Hmm… That reminds me…”

  “Of what?” Alfred asked.

  “I don't remember,” Tirnalth said. “Well, I have these and a few others to study. I suppose I can stay hidden down here and get to work on these. I require naught from you two. I suppose, as a ghost, I will need little. I have so much to do.”

  Verboden and Alfred blinked and looked at each other. “What do we do?”

  Tirnalth looked up, as if sensing something. “There are people above. They have come.” Tirnalth seemed to look through the walls. “Go and begin the story of the king’s return.” Tirnalth’s bright hopeful eyes met Alfred’s.

  “How do you know who is above, whether they are good or bad?” Alfred looked blankly at the dark stone above them.

  “I can feel them,” said Tirnalth, closing his eyes and smiling.

  “They won’t believe he is the king,” Verboden said.

  “Well, not unless you persuade them! They know you. They know Verboden, Cleric of the Order of Light!”

  “But I have nev-”

  “But no! These people need a leader, and he is the one! I know it. I feel it in my heart!” Tirnalth jabbed Verboden with a long wizard finger. “Now go! Begin this journey out of darkness.”

  Verboden nodded with a heavy weight, then straightened up and beckoned Alfred to follow.

  Chapter Ten: Return of the Boy King

  Alfred and Verboden went up a winding stone stair case. Verboden was silent, deep in thought. Before they walked out to the courtyard, Verboden glanced left, right and up to see if there were any gargoyles outside. It looked clear, save the rubble, the broken fountain, and the ruined towers. Verboden motioned for Alfred to follow. The tower that Tirnalth had lit with his immolation was still smoldering. It was sending a thin plume of black smoke into the misty sky as they passed through the gatehouse.

  Down the road was gathered a small group of peasants in gray and brown clothes. They huddled together pointing at the smoky column. An old man hurriedly walked up the road. Verboden went to meet him as Alfred followed behind.

  “Hullo, my dear sir,” the old man said, bowing to Verboden.

  Verboden returned the bow. “Abedeyan, it is good to see you again.”

  Abedeyan stood humbly in gray-mottled, threadbare garb. His gray skin was visible through many tattered holes. He was gaunt. His body twitched. There was a long silence. Alfred looked anxiously from Verboden to the old man. Verboden looked at the ground near Abedeyan’s feet.

  “Um,” Verboden uttered, clearing his throat. “This is Alfred. He is in charge now.” Neither Verboden’s expression nor his choice of words was convincing. Alfred’s face could be seen growing red, even under all the dirt and filth.

  “Ey? What was that Master Verboden? Tis my bad ear. Actually both are bad. Have to speak up, sir.” Abedeyan leaned feebly forward, cupping his good ear.

  “This boy is in line to be king... He is the king!” Verboden was embarrassed by his own sudden outburst.

  Abedeyan, it appeared, did not fully understand. His gaze seemed to come undone. Slowly he turned to look up at Alfred, who was standing behind Verboden. Abedeyan’s eyes focused, gathering tears. Verboden stood silent. Abedeyan beheld Alfred with piercing watery eyes. His mouth fell open.

  Verboden was going to speak again but stopped, seeing that Abedeyan was hobbling toward Alfred. The old man, fraught with tension, twitched all the more. Alfred was not sure what the old man was going to do. With his mouth still agape and eyes glazed, he reached out to touch Alfred. His eyes brimmed with tears.

  “You have your mother’s eyes, milord!” he finally said. As he stumbled toward him, Alfred caught the old man. With dismay registering on his face, Alfred looked up, his eyes meeting Verboden’s stunned expression.

  The old man gently pushed away and bowed. As if there were never any tension or twitching, he turned quickly and rushed down the road. “The king has returned!!”

  Verboden looked on with c
onfusion. Alfred stood silently, still looking dismayed.

  The people below were huddled together. Abedeyan rushed to gather them around and pointed up at Alfred. While they all listened intently, many poked their heads out to view him.

  Alfred stepped closer to Verboden. “Who is he? He knows my mom?”

  “He was the Steward and Exchequer of your grandfather’s castle,” said Verboden, leaning on his staff.

  “So he managed the castle?” Alfred stepped closer, leaning in.

  “Yes.”

  “And the other people?” Alfred rubbed his arms, as the misty air was chilly.

  Verboden looked at them. There were maybe two dozen people, a few young. “Mostly peasants, I think. Abedeyan will know.” Alfred was off and running down the road. As he drew near to the people, they clearly became nervous, shushing Abedeyan and fanning out to stand before him.

  “Hi,” said Alfred with a quick wave, himself nervous.

  A few of the older ladies and some men bowed. Children gazed in wonder. There was one large boy, bigger and a bit older than Alfred, who looked mistrustful and possibly jealous.

  “My name’s Alfred,” he said, clearing his throat. Verboden came up beside him.

  An old lady approached and bowed again. She nodded to Verboden, who returned with a bow. “I am Lady Nihan. I was once Head Seamstress to… your mother and I…” She turned away, overcome with a sudden swelling of emotion and tears. Alfred stepped forward and put his hand on her shoulder. She was taken aback and stepped back, unsure. Some of the peasants took steps forward.

  Verboden whispered to Alfred, “A king does not touch his vassals.”

  Alfred shrugged, “I guess I’m the king or something. I know I will need your help. There’s like a bad witch or something, right?” He turned to Verboden for reassurance but caught him rolling his eyes. Verboden stopped when he noticed Alfred looking at him. “You’re supposed to help me.”

  “Right, sorry.” Verboden straightened up.