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

by Ron Smorynski

  “Three fire!”

  Up close, a few more goblins fell, but more leapt in and easily broke the spear wall. The next wave of goblins rushed in to finish the children.

  “King Alfred!”

  The goblins were fierce and easily breaking the grouping of spears, swinging with their strength, throwing the boys and their spears aside. Alfred knew they could not match their strength and ferocity. He knew all was lost. There were too many of them.

  Then the goblins froze and stood. They howled and gritted their sharp teeth. They stepped backwards.

  “Gaargh!” a large goblin yelled. It was not a roar of ferocity but one of panic. He kicked a boy down hard, raising his curved scimitar to strike, but was knocked back by another goblin. They began to back-pedal and run away down the slope, screeching and yelping.

  Loranna wanted to fire but wasn't sure. So she held her hand steady.

  Nearly forty goblins retreated, most in good fighting condition. The larger among them hobbled back with arrows in their feet. They fled into the forest, one by one. Finally, the last, a formidable creature, looked back and roared in frustration as he entered the forest.

  Alfred could not believe it. He must be dead, in a dream just before dying. He was stunned, sweating and filthy. He glared at the blood on his hands, Cory’s, his own from gashes, and the sticky black blood of goblins.

  The children began to cry. Boys lay stunned and shocked in the mud, knowing that a heavy crude blade was about to descend on them. Girls lay strewn about with broken bows and crushed fingers, hugging and shivering.

  Alfred looked at the children he led into this horrific nightmare. He gritted his teeth in his muddy, sweaty, cold exhaustion.

  One of their youngest and most brave girls was lying pale on the ground. Her head had a huge gash in it with blood trickling out. Loranna knelt down to cradle her and cry quietly. Cory fell down so weak from the loss of blood. It was as if all their spirit had left them.

  Bewildered by the goblins‘ sudden departure, Alfred slowly turned around, struggling to focus. He gazed at the next hillock. Three horses were standing there, and upon them, three knights.

  Book Two

  Chapter Nineteen: The Knights

  Alfred wiped aside his matted hair. Dust and sweat trickled into his eyes, causing them to sting. His hands were filthy with dirt and blood, he couldn't clear his eyes. He tried to look at the knights as their horses trotted slowly down toward him. He was sure they were knights by their helmets and tunics and the chain and plate mail they were wearing. They carried lances, spears, swords and shields, and they looked magnificent. They were true knights.

  As they got closer, he could see that they were worn and tired, not at all what he thought he saw a moment ago. The children scooted in behind him.

  The knights’ mail was rusted and grimy. Their tunics were tattered with holes and filth. They were hunched over and frail. One had a small metal cap on his crusty head with tattered, dirty hair.

  “We need help!” Alfred cried out regardless.

  The knights did not answer. Keeping their lances ready, they reached the small knoll that Alfred and his group stood upon. Their horses were gaunt, with ribs showing, and there were many sores and growths on their tangled hides.

  “Are you knights?” Alfred trembled. The calming of nerves as the goblins retreated had been too brief, and now he was seeing these strange, weary-looking men.

  The knights did not answer.

  “They are the witch’s own. Gorbogal must have sway over them!” Loranna cried out, holding Setheyna.

  “Dare thee say that name in our presence? I shall hew thee down now!” It was a guttural voice echoing from one of the crusty helmets.

  One knight hit his horse several times with his spurs. The horse lumbered forward slowly. The children sat in the mud in front of them, and the horse did not seem inclined to walk over them.

  “Are you hungry!?” Alfred asked.

  The knight stopped. The other knights made their first sudden movement since Alfred spotted them, turning their full attention on Alfred.

  “We have food,” Alfred said nervously, turning to Loranna and pulling dried meat and stale bread from her pack.

  The second knight, with his helmet still on, came off his horse. The first knight, with his lance still pointed at them, though its point had long ago been sheared off, warned, “Gorham, stay!”

  But Gorham walked past the first knight’s lance and pulled out a rusty dagger. He made his way to Alfred, who barely revealed the food before Gorham took it and pushed Alfred aside. He pulled off his helmet and ate it greedily, keeping his rusty dagger pointed at the children.

  “Gorham!” the first said, thrusting his lance at him.

  Gorham grabbed the end of the lance and pushed it aside. “I am your servant, knight, but not on an empty stomach! Not to the brink of death!” He ate greedily, eyeing the stale bread as a treasure.

  The other two could not control themselves much longer. The first knight dropped his lance and slid quickly off his horse. Alfred got out more food.

  “It’s all we have,” Loranna said with tears, holding the girl's wound to slow the bleeding.

  Alfred paused and looked at Loranna with her moist reddened eyes. His focus went to Setheyna, who was barely breathing. Loranna’s sleeve and dress were filthy and stained in Setheyna’s blood.

  Alfred turned back just as the first knight threw off his helmet, grabbed the food, and walked back eating in small bites. His gums were rotten. Each bite looked painful, but he was too hungry to allow that to stop him. The third knight, the one with the cap and the oldest, came up and reached out his hand for food. His eyes were forlorn.

  Alfred gave him the last of it. The knight bowed and took the food. He ate it with much care as his fingers trembled.

  “Alfred, she is dying,” Loranna said. Others sat down by Loranna, crying.

  Alfred looked at the children.

  “Why are you here, boy?” the first knight asked, “with your bows and arrows fighting goblins?”

  “Can’t you see, Lord Dunther?” said the sad elder knight. “They are hungry. They are hunting. They have no men to feed them.”

  “They’re doing better than us!” Gorham said, swallowing before he had fully chewed his food. Nearly choking, he coughed his food out and had no shame in picking it up off the wet earth and continuing to chew on it once again.

  They were filthy and vile looking, with tangled hair and wrinkled coarse faces. They did not look much better than the goblins.

  “Boy, answer me! Why are you here?” Lord Dunther said with his mouth full of food.

  “We are hunting. That meat you're eating is a bikehnbar we killed in this forest days ago. We came hoping to find more.”

  The knights paused for a moment. Then Gorham and Dunther burst into laughter. It was a difficult laugh, as if they had not laughed in many years. It sounded more like a cough, with food falling everywhere and them greedily picking it up.

  “I don’t know why you two are laughing,” the sad knight said. “The proof is in your hands and bellies.”

  The others shrugged. “Don’t lie to me, boy,” Dunther said. “Where are your men? Who gave you those weapons?”

  “He did,” said Cory, crying out in pain and pointing to Alfred. “He is our king and lord!”

  Alfred flinched, feeling incredibly uneasy about that claim in front of these decrepit knights.

  Dunther and Gorham were now ready to laugh fully, having cleared the years of phlegm and feeling moisture in their dry throats once again. And so they did.

  “Well, that explains it then,” Gorham said. “A boy is claiming to be king. Well, why not? There is no one here, the land is lost, and the witch rules over men. Why shouldn’t a lost boy make such a claim? It makes perfect sense!”

  Lord Dunther eyed Alfred. “Boy, are you king, hey?” Then Dunther approached him. The mildewed leather and cloth he wore crinkled and his rusty chain and plate ech
oed with each step.

  Alfred staggered back in fear. Dunther was big. Though sallow and gaunt, though sagging and tattered, he still seemed huge. And now with a filled stomach, he seemed alive.

  “Well, are you king? Huh, boy? King?” Dunther pushed Alfred’s lanky shoulder and it gave in easily. The children did not like this. Many stood up with bows and spears at the ready. Despairing as they were, no one was to push their king.

  “Maybe you should be king? Hey Dunther? And you could rule over these grand people.” Gorham laughed at his own joke.

  “Not a bad idea.” Dunther smiled, revealing swollen gums and blackened and brown teeth.

  Much to Dunther’s surprise, Alfred pushed him back, catching him off guard. But even with as much force as Alfred used and as worn as Dunther appeared, the Lord Knight immediately gained the upper hand and twisted Alfred around, using momentum, and tossed him aside. Ripe with tears and spittle, Alfred fell to the wet muddy earth.

  Dunther tramped after him and easily picked up Alfred by the shirt. “I will put you in your place, boy!”

  “You are Lord Dunther, Royal Baron Knight of King Athelrod!” Alfred yelled.

  Dunther dropped him and seemed dizzy. Gorham was silent. The sad knight walked over to Loranna and looked at the wounded girl.

  “Who told you this!” Dunther hissed.

  “Verboden!” Alfred said. “He went out to look for you, to help us.”

  “The cleric?” Gorham asked. “Did you hear that, Gylloth? Your cleric friend has returned.”

  Gylloth, the sorrowful knight kneeling before the girl, spoke, “Perhaps, he never left, and it is we who have returned, or wandered back into our homeland.”

  Dunther looked at Gylloth with vicious eyes. Gylloth returned Dunther’s gaze, and then both turned away.

  “She is gravely wounded,” said Gylloth. “I have a salve that may stay the fever and blood loss.”

  “Nay, Gylloth. That is the last of our medicine!” Dunther said.

  Alfred’s eyes widened and met Loranna’s, “You must help her!”

  Dunther swatted Alfred with sudden harshness, driving Alfred’s face into the mud. “Dare tell us what to do, boy!”

  “Dare you to touch him again!” Cory yelled in anguish. Dunther turned to see a dozen bows aimed and many spears pointed at him.

  Gorham drew his rusty sword, ready to attack on Dunther’s command. Gorham was the tough fighter, always ready to do his lord’s bidding.

  Lord Gylloth, the kind, older knight, spoke softly, “If I were to have such loyal servants, I would certainly feel like a king.” Gylloth approached Cory with open hands. Cory was faint, pale from blood loss. His shoulder was swollen and black from the arrow wound. Gylloth moved slowly due to his age. As he neared, he smiled gently and nodded reassurance. Cory leaned in as Gylloth examined the wound.

  “Help him down quickly,” Lord Gylloth said to nearby boys. Gylloth searched within his many tattered clothes, belts and pouches. Several tore off from rot. “No, not that one.”

  “Don’t waste it!” Dunther said. The children kept their bows taut even longer than they did in the Dark Forest. Many had determined faces. “Easy now.”

  “Dunther, he’s using our salve!” said Gorham, waving his sword at the children, ready to strike.

  “Gorham, you make things harder than they really need to be. Do not interfere.” Gylloth administered the green pasty salve with his dirty fingers on both Cory and Setheyna. “Sorry for the filth,” he said gently to Loranna. “This will not heal them, but it should give us time.”

  Gorham simmered with rage. He wanted to strike out.

  Alfred finally stood up, wiping blood from his nose. “You must have many aches and wounds, huh Dunther?” Dunther met Alfred’s eyes, as they both shared a hatred for each other. ”Verboden will help you. And we can mend your armour and weapons back at the castle.”

  “Castle? What castle?” Gorham wiped his nervous brow, still pointing his sword at the armed children.

  “Grotham Castle, I mean Grotham Keep,” Alfred said.

  The knights looked at him in unison.

  “I am Alfred, son of Bedenwulf and Ethralia, grandson of Athelrod, and King of Grotham Keep,” Alfred said. No one responded. Alfred walked around his archers and spearmen to help Gylloth with Cory and Setheyna. Dunther wanted to follow him and cause more harm.

  “If this is true, Dunther, then you struck your king,” Gylloth said.

  “That is but a bastard boy!” Gorham pointed his cruddy sword at Alfred. More children stood with their weapons ready, enraged at both knights.

  “Put your blade down, Gorham,” Dunther said.

  “What!? You believe him!?”

  “It does not matter right now.” Dunther eyed the children. They have kept their bows taut for some time. He could see the strain on their angered faces. “Now!”

  Gorham sheathed his sword and spat. Dunther walked back to his horse, gripping the reins to hold it steady as he leaned on it. He began to think in silence.

  Chapter Twenty: A Loyal Knight

  The knights followed at a distance behind the children, behind Alfred. When Grotham Keep was in sight, activity upon the walls and smoke from chimneys could be seen. Gorham and Dunther galloped ahead, not looking at the tired and worn children. Gylloth walked among them, having Setheyna and Cory ride on his gaunt horse. Cory held her as best he could, still struggling with his painful wound.

  “Do you know Verboden?” Alfred asked Gylloth, who was walking beside him.

  “Yes, a cleric of the Order of Light, having status of a friar at one time, as I recall.” Gylloth thought of distant memories. “Long ago, though he was a cleric, he was servant to Tirnalth, a great wizard and counsel to the king—a counsel to many kings, they say. Verboden was young when I last saw him and if I recall correctly, a very quiet fellow. I’m glad he’s still alive. I remember…” Gylloth looked at Alfred, who couldn't help stare at the knight's ragged appearance. Gylloth didn't mind.

  “You have your mother’s eyes,” Gylloth said.

  Alfred looked away but then at him, and they both smiled.

  Alfred entered the castle amidst a busy affair, but everyone went silent and crowded around Dunther and Gorham. The steward, Abedeyan, who had been trying anxiously to convince people of something, grew silent when Alfred drew near.

  Dunther and Gorham did not look pleased. Dunther opened the way for Alfred and looked at him with disdain in his eyes. “Even if he is of the line, he is tainted. He isn’t even a knight! Look at him.”

  The people’s faces turned down. Alfred tensed and then bowed to one knee. “Then, Lord Dunther, I ask you to make me a knight. I care not for your mercy, but only to be given a chance.”

  Dunther stood back and shared a confused look with Gorham. The people swelled together to see what would happen. Gylloth walked in with the children. Lady Nihan, caring not for such feuding, rushed to help the wounded.

  Alfred slowly looked up, wondering what Dunther would do. Dunther pulled out his sword and pointed it at Alfred.

  “You are not worthy of knighthood. You are not worthy of kingship. And I shall never knight a tainted boy such as you.” His words dug deep into Alfred. Dunther strode off. “Servants, I need a bath and meal. Now!”

  Alfred rose with weak knees as Abedeyan caught him. “King Alfred, I shall throw them knights out. They don’t belong here. How dare he insult you! He is as brazen as ever. The suffering of the people, the fall of the kingdom, and the plague of the land has not affected his stubborn idiocy! Why did you kneel to that toad?!”

  “I saw it in a movie once and thought it might work.” Seeing Abedeyan’s confused expression, Alfred tried to explain, “A movie is like theatre, you know. But never mind, Abedeyan. Let them stay whether he believes I’m the king or not. Even I’m not so sure I am. I just hope he’ll help us.” And with that, Alfred fainted.

  Gorham and Dunther showed no care for those around them, but they still expecte
d much care from them. They sat chewing on more salted meat and dry bread then was worthy of their share and motioned for the servants to wait on them. Lady Nihan directed the workers, rolling up her own sleeves to help.

  They began by untying the straps that held the armour. Their knots tied long ago, merely crumbled or broke as they were pulled off. The outer wear was like onions. The servants peeled off each layer, revealing a grotesque layer underneath. The rusty plates came off, exposing a layer of rusted chain mail, all of its rings broken into sections with holes filled long ago by dirt, grime and rust. When the chain came off, it tore away padded clothes that seemed to have grown into the iron mesh.

  As Lady Nihan and a servant pulled away the conglomeration of chain and clothes, exposing skin, a foul stench came out, setting both back for several moments. Flies and gnats flew out or fell out as did the larva of various insects. The skin would have been the palest white were it not for eruptions of red rashes, purple boils, yellow pustules and green abscesses. Lady Nihan had to summon all her strength to pick with a knife at the flesh eating larva that squirmed amongst those boils and rashes, abscesses and pustules. One servant fainted.

  The knights merely twitched with each knife poke or pulling away of tattered clothes and disintegrated skin. They kept eating as others stood around hungry. All of what they had been wearing was boiled or burned. Boggin, the armourer was not sure he could repair anything. He banged a breastplate on his knee, and it cracked in two.

  Their bodies were gangly and not much larger than those of peasants, but their arrogance and snobbery relayed that they were royalty. That is, this was the manner of Gorham and Lord Dunther. Gylloth was polite and seemed to have less of the royalty affliction.

  They spent several days in hot baths. Gorham and Dunther sang song after song, ordering the poor servants to scrub their bleeding and puss ridden backs. To the knights it seemed as if they had an itch or two that had not been scratched in twelve years and now, finally, they were getting their satisfaction.