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

by Ron Smorynski

  The other farmers gasped and choked in dismay.

  “And this!” Broggia pulled forth a curved metal plate. “It could be used as a shovel or hoe, a plow or bowl! It is stronger than anything Boggin or I could smelt!!”

  “What you saying? I do the best with what I have!” Boggin said, busily examining the treasure of steel.

  “My point exactly!” Broggia replied. “Goblins have vast bloomeries, great furnaces deep within their caves. Some say they use hot lava pits, hotter than any fire man can make! And what’s down in those vast caves of theirs, hey? Iron and black rock! If anyone knows how to make strong steel, that’s right, ‘tis goblins, and 'tis goblin steel we have here! Dark magic they use! Sorcery! Mix iron and black rock in a hot furnace, then pull it out and hammer it while it cools. It is not just for armour and sword but for shovel and spade! For plow and rake! And scythe and sickle! ‘Tis your children and King Alfred who begat this for you! ‘Tis their fighting and bravery and sacrifice that brought this to us! They lay stricken with wounds and maladies that will heal as you bicker and argue about the king’s choices! Foolhardy!? Bah! What one of you won’t take as much as you can carry off this field?!”

  The farmers and peasants bowed their heads in shame. Recovering from the fall of his home, Derhman walked up to Broggia as best he could through the maze of slippery carcasses. When he reached him, he was tottering from exhaustion. Broggia caught his arm to keep him from falling. They held each other firmly. What started as a smile of thanks turned into gleeful proud laughter. The other farmers nodded their heads in agreement and joined in laughing. After a few moments, they all busied themselves gathering up the treasured steel.

  The goblin armour was not full plates of metal like that of a knight. They had many pieces of metal, large and small, tied or wrapped into the folds of their tattered clothes. They used their own long wiry black hair, bound together in small ropes, to tie and wrap things together, adding some sort of sappy sticky filament as the bond. The smell and rot was no matter to Broggia. It was the metal, the iron and goblin steel that mattered most to him. The wealth in this kill was daunting.

  The metal was black and ugly, without design. Many pieces were bowl shaped with punctured holes, cracks and uneven edges. Each was invariably a strong piece of metal and therefore used as a shoulder piece or tied to the goblin’s chest or as a greave along the arm. The metal looked black because of the goblins’ dirty conditions. Broggia scraped a piece of metal on a rock a few times and showed them how shiny the steel actually was. There was growing excitement as the pile of armour, blades, spears, and bows grew very large indeed.

  “Now all we need are brave souls, and we will have a mighty army!” Broggia bragged to the busy farmers and peasants.

  That night, after a hard day of gathering, cleaning and rebuilding, the farmers and peasants returned to the castle. There was still fear about the goblins’ return.

  Alfred’s eyes opened. He was with fever but had such a terrible nightmare that he shuddered himself awake. Or perhaps it was the pounding in his head that awoke him. He could not tell, as all was painful. He sat up and felt pain in his ribs. His eyes slowly adjusted to the evening light. He had slept all day. Loranna lay in a deep sleep huddled in a chair beside him. She was heavily bandaged.

  He moved his feet to the floor and found strength to stand. He kissed Loranna on the forehead, then slowly walked out.

  In the hall sat Lady Nihan, keeping cool the foreheads of the children, all of them, girls and boys, big and small. All were sick and injured, exhausted and worn.

  Lady Nihan saw Alfred and rushed over to help him. “Milord, you should not be up! You must rest!”

  “Are they… Is everyone okay?” Alfred said with a moan.

  “Yes, king, everyone is okay. Many are still very weak, some with fever. With so many wounds and cuts, fever has set in. It is a malady of war, just as cuts and bruises. By the blessedness of the Father of Light and by our own skill, King Alfred, none have died.” Lady Nihan gave Alfred a wonderful gaze.

  “Gylloth, he died.” Alfred looked down.

  Lady Nihan had Alfred sit on a bed where Setheyna lay. She was with fever and slept uneasily. She was having a nightmare not unlike the one she just survived.

  Alfred looked away.

  “Yes, Gylloth died. He died saving you, saving all of us. He died a noble and honorable death. No man, not even a knight, could ask for more. He goes to the Halls of the Kings and will be welcomed there. Verboden and the men have buried him in a grove not far from here.”

  Alfred nodded. “I saw him again. His spirit saved us, I think.”

  “Yes Alfred,” said Verboden, who was now standing there before them. “But do not disregard all that you have accomplished for us and for the noble Knight Gylloth.”

  Alfred looked up, tears swelling in his eyes.

  Verboden touched Alfred’s shoulder. “I will not doubt you again, King Alfred.”

  Alfred smiled. It was a humble smile, laden with tears and emotion, fraught with guilt and fear.

  “You must rest, King Alfred. You must,” said Lady Nihan.

  “Verboden!” Abedeyan yelled from the door to the outer ward.

  Alfred, Verboden and Lady Nihan looked at him.

  Abedeyan bowed. “Forgive me, King Alfred. I did not know you were awake. If you have the strength, both of you must come quickly!”

  Alfred, helped up by Verboden and Lady Nihan, quickly followed Abedeyan’s bidding to the outer ward and up the stairs to the wall.

  “There!” Abedeyan pointed.

  Visible in the evening light upon the ridge, sitting atop several crushed trees, was a giant vulture. And mounted atop it was a dark cloaked figure. Though it looked like Death, with the dark cloak, tattered black robe, hood and shadowed face, it had more accouterments, belts and scaled armour, and a mighty sword at its side. The sword had jagged teeth and looked the size of a man.

  In the outer ward were crowded all the farmers and peasants, all the sheep and pigs, all their belongings. They were fearful of this new dread, this new terror.

  “What is it? Who is it?” Alfred asked.

  “It is Death, come to take the dead!” Abedeyan said.

  “No, it's not Death,” said Verboden. “It is dressed to look like Death to cause fear amongst men. It's a Dark Servant, the eyes and ears of Gorbogal.”

  “Oh great,” Alfred said in feverish delirium. “Why do they always have black robes? The bad guys always look like that! Typical!”

  Verboden and Abedeyan shared a glance and shrugged.

  “So now Gorbogal knows we are here?” Alfred asked.

  “Yes, or will soon enough,” Verboden responded.

  The giant vulture lifted and flew off into the night.

  Chapter Twenty Six: Gorbogal

  Alfred awoke from another horrible dream. He looked about in the dark. He was in a hot sweat and pulled off the covers. Beside Loranna, who had stayed by his side and was sleeping, there was a pitcher and cup. He got up and poured himself water and drank it quickly. He then noticed a rat scurrying along the floor. It was a furry white rat, spotted with gray. All the other rats he had seen thus far had been black or brown. It came up to Alfred’s bed. Alfred sat down and pulled up his feet. He was afraid of the rat. It stood up on its hind legs, looking as if it was begging Alfred for food or something.

  “I’ve fought monsters and goblins, and I am freaked out by a rat?”

  “Alfred” Alfred heard from somewhere. It was a high pitched plea, but from where?

  “Alfred! Down here! It's me!” Alfred looked around and then down at the rat.

  The rat’s mouth was moving as if it spoke. “Alfred, pick me up. It's Tirnalth!”

  “Tirnalth!?” He bent down to look more closely but kept his legs on the bed.

  “Well, pick me up!”

  Alfred complied. He opened his hand so Tirnalth could hop on it.

  Alfred looked at Tirnalth, the cute and cuddly rat with a c
url of the lip. “Why are you a rat?”

  “I'm not a rat! I'm a mouse! To alert you, Alfred, danger comes!”

  “What danger? The goblins are coming back!?”

  “No, worse. Do not panic! This danger cannot kill you, but it will be far worse if you are not careful.”

  “What?”

  “Gorbogal comes.”

  Alfred was paralyzed in fear.

  “She comes in the mist, not to attack, but to pry and peer, to seek and perceive. Look!” Tirnalth looked up to the small window above.

  Alfred was too afraid to go to the window so he stood on his bed to look out. Down the slope, by the edge of the trees, forming, then slowly seeping forward, was a green mist. It had a faint glowing aura with tentacles like spider limbs feeling their way down one slope, then up another, and slowly creeping up toward the castle. Once in awhile it would stop at a farm, surround it like eddying water, seeming to pause with its eerie mist, and a scream would be heard.

  “No, the farmers!”

  “She cannot kill with the mystifying cloud, only torment and frighten one in a nightmare,” the small humble mouse spoke.

  “Can you stop it, Tirnalth!? And why are you a mouse?”

  “I cannot stop it. I am in disguise. She would perceive my presence, my form, even in spirit if I remained myself. So I will dash about as a mouse. It is not me she seeks.”

  “What then? What is she looking for?” Alfred pleaded.

  “You. She seeks you and the cause of this uprising. She does not know what is amiss and will soon find out using her veil of shrouded mist.”

  The mist finally came to the castle, easily floating over its walls and spilling within. It caused a frightened stir amongst the sleeping peasants.

  Alfred, ridden with fear, leapt down from the bed and accidentally dropped Tirnalth. He tried to wake up Loranna, who was in a deep sleep.

  “No Alfred, you must not awaken anyone. The mist is already holding sway over everyone. It is already seeking within their dreams what it wishes.”

  “What do I do?” Alfred said, so wrought with fear he shook.

  “You must not think of yourself or your plans. I have awakened you so you can direct your thoughts before she comes. You must think of something else, something she cannot fathom or see through! You must misdirect her perceptions!”

  “Huh? What?” Alfred did not fully understand. He was wounded, with fever and exhausted. Just then the mist began seeping into the room from the doorway. It slowly poured in and fanned out. Dozens of small tentacles reached Loranna and felt all around her. She stirred as a nightmare began taking over her dreams.

  “You must not think of yourself as a king, not of your plans for defense, nor of the land. You must think of something else, anything else. Alfred, are you listening to me? Do not reveal anything!”

  With this, Tirnalth suddenly scurried away.

  Alfred mumbled, stumbled and fell to the floor by his bed. The mist scattered for a moment, then seeped back in and curled about Alfred, covering him fully in a shrouded nightmare.

  Alfred awoke in pure blackness. He stood unsure, looking about, reeling in a void of black. He then looked down and saw the glowing green mist all around his feet. Indeed, he was knee deep in it.

  There, before him, stood a bent figure in tattered clothes. She looked like a peasant woman, with her back to him. She was old and hunched over.

  The woman spoke with an echoed raspy voice, “Where is milord? Where is the king? I have come to find my king? Do you know where he is?”

  Alfred stiffened with fear, for the old voice was louder than anything, taking over his ears and all his senses. She was close but did not look at Alfred. She looked through him, as if walking blindly. She made a sound he did not recognize and then it became more apparent to him. She was sniffing for a scent.

  Alfred tried to remember something. He heard a faint voice, an echo, saying, “Think of something else!”

  The old lady stopped, as if having been interrupted, and looked up listening, unsure if she had heard something. She then put forth a hand holding a gnarled short cane. The hand seemed to be a thousand years old, with wrinkles and warts and black talons. Scrawled along it were dark green tattoos, covering all the skin and giving her flesh a horrible green hue. Protruding from her skin were many black grisly barb-like hairs.

  This hand stopped, and the other came forth. It was not human, but a three pronged and cloven-like hand, like that of hairy black goat. It clasped the sleeve of the first hand, pulling the sleeve of the lady’s robe down to cover it. Then the cloven hand disappeared under the veil of its own sleeve.

  Alfred felt faint and was too fearful to move.

  “Where is the king, young boy? Is he here? I have to talk to him. They all say he is here. They say there is a king now in this land. I need only a word. Have you seen him, boy?” The witch’s voice was raspy and horribly insidious.

  “No, no!” Alfred swayed.

  The ground bubbled, spewing forth more of the foul mist.

  “Speak the truth, boy! Where is the king!?” the voice boomed. “Everyone says he is here! Where!? I don’t see him!”

  “I am the king!”

  She cackled, and the dreadful sound rose into laughter so shrill and loud that Alfred reeled on the spot, holding his ears in desperate pain. He tried to scream as the cackle piercing derision was too much to absorb. Blood dripped from his ears.

  Then there was silence. Alfred remained frozen as the old evil lady that stood next to him revealed herself. Her cloak opened. Out protruded a ghastly face lapped with thick folded wrinkles. From within those folds stuck out black barbed thorns, warts and pustules with oozing discharge. The worst to behold were her eyes. One was black and spider-like with smaller black eyes surrounding it, and the other was like that of snake, a black slit within a yellow scaled iris.

  “You are not the king!” she rasped under foul misty breath, with bilious spittle dripping on each syllable. “You are just a boy!” She paused and began looking more intently at Alfred. She saw his wounds and his frail quivering body.

  Alfred’s legs gave out, and he fell down. He was in a hot sweat of fear succumbing to her presence, succumbing to the nightmare.

  She came closer, sniffing and prodding. “Curious, you are a boy. Why would they pick a boy? Why you?” She squinted her snake eye, angling her face closer. She switched from eye to eye, using the black orb and its many smaller ones and then switching to the snake eye. A forked tongue shot out once and awhile. She had black greasy hair that dangled, swaying with each head turn.

  Alfred gasped, taking in a deep breath. Above and around Gorbogal he saw a goblin army scrambling over hills and through valleys, forming a vast horde. And then he saw hundreds of rats, no thousands, scurrying forth. Even in his hot sweat and panic attack, he could focus now and saw scrambling amidst the flurry of rats a very large rat. It stood on its hind legs and was wearing tattered, threaded leather pieces and carried a small spear. It was a ratkin scurrying through a dark tunnel. It commanded the others to follow. Alfred looked up through the tunnels to see the castle crumbling on top of him. Was this happening for real? Or was it a nightmare?

  Alfred was so frightened that he yelled, “Mom!”

  Then he saw his mother sewing quietly in the apartment.

  Gorbogal spoke, “Who is that woman? Who is before me? Who is it? Is that all you have to think about, frightened boy?”

  Alfred felt peace at seeing his mom and was able to focus even more, if one could do such a thing in a nightmare that has fully taken you over. “Mom, mom!”

  “Your mother?!” Gorbogal smiled, if you could call it that. Her large mouth was filled with sharp teeth and on one side revealed the mandible, a lone black crusted chitin armoured mandible. “Run to your mother, hey boy?”

  She turned away from Alfred and peered about, pushing her hand out to spread the green foul mist. “No, no, seek, seek, I want, I want!”

  Alfred, hardly able t
o breathe, suddenly felt strength as he kept his focus on his mother. He saw her. She seemed so large, filling the void as she looked down at him with comforting eyes.

  “What?” Gorbogal turned to Alfred once again, her slit eye narrowing. “Wait, I know that woman, don’t I? Where are you going? Come back!”

  His mother reached for him. Her face seemed calm and caring, unaware of the danger.

  Alfred shuddered, “Mom, mom, mom.”

  “No!” Gorbogal reached out with her hand and grabbed emptiness.

  Chapter Twenty Seven: A Mother's Weakness

  Alfred sat up. A wash cloth slid down his face.

  “Alfred, you have a fever. Lie back down.”

  “Huh? Whuh?”

  In the morning light Alfred could see his mother was smiling lovingly at him. She was wearing her work clothes. “I have to go to work. I will come back at lunch to check up on you.”

  “Mom!” Alfred choked. He hugged her tightly.

  She gasped. Though it was painful, she couldn’t help but smile at his strength and unexpected burst of love. “Okay, Alfred, okay…” she tried to pull away gently.

  When he lay back down, she realized he was crying. She leaned in, returning his hug and comforting her boy.

  “I don’t have to go to work. I can stay home.”

  Alfred held her for a long time, sobbing silently. “I missed you.”

  “Okay. I will stay.”

  Alfred finally released her and wiped his tears. He looked around his room. All seemed as it was, as if… nothing had changed.

  “Mom, how long was I gone?”

  His mother looked at him oddly. “Gone? What do you mean?”