A sudden blur of motion surprised them all. It was Gorham grabbing and twisting Murith’s wrist before he could harm Alfred. Murith let out a shrill cry. Gorham, Dunther's trusted second, with a crazed look defended Alfred! He twisted Murith such that he reeled into the mud, landing face down, nearly choking from the suctioning goop.
Dunther stood frozen. Gorham faced him with his blade drawn. Gorham was a larger man, well built and an obvious choice for second in command. However today, after a winter of repose, he looked sallow and defeated.
Loranna and several children appeared from up the road. They ran with bows drawn. “Alfred!” Loranna yelled as her eyes swelled with tears, fearing she’d lose Alfred again.
The knights, in their own dilemma, weren’t bothered by children with toy bows. The children were still far away, running as fast as they could. Farmers began appearing on the horizon as word spread that Alfred had gone to seek out the knights. They feared a possible confrontation. Hedor and his men were also running along distant roads to save Alfred. They had snow to plow through and would be exhausted by the time they arrived. Word had spread even to the castle. Verboden and Abedeyan were well on their way. But would any arrive in time and be able to save the king?
“Gorham, you vex me to no end. You, of all souls, want this the most,” Dunther said.
“Do I, Lord Dunther? I’ve been starving for twelve years, rotting in my armour. Gylloth made the right choice, not us.”
“How ridiculous! Gylloth is dead! You fool!” Lord Dunther laughed, pointing at Gorham and holding his belly in because of the pain of such wretched laughter. Dunther did not last long before he was coughing, then bending over in pain, spitting and hacking up blood.
Gorham responded, “How ridiculous? We are always on the brink of starvation, eating rats and grubs. We terrorize those who do not obey us, spreading fear like the darkness we have been fighting. I have followed you my whole life. I have been a part of the choices you made. And it has all come down to this—starving to death, acting like brigands for scraps, standing before a boy who many call king and you wish only to slaughter. Lord Gylloth chose to stand with this boy and died fighting the goblins, fighting for king and country! How ridiculous indeed, for a knight to do such things.”
Dunther froze, looking up at Gorham, trying to ignore the heavy truth of his words. The other knights, even those who had heard so few words in many years, understand well Gorham’s reasoning and stepped away from Dunther.
“I will never follow a bastard boy! His father betrayed the king! He took our beloved lady as his own!” Dunther said, wavering in strength, spitting saliva and blood, tears streaming down his dirty face. He pulled out his sword and waved it around, ready to kill anything that came near.
Gorham stood between Dunther and Alfred. Murith was still stuck in the mud and seemed to be dying, unable to pull himself out. Knowing when something was near death, Lord Byrom grabbed what torn cloth was left on Murith’s back and pulled him up. Murith coughed and spat as he was set down. He shook his head to gain composure and gave Gorham a vengeful look.
Byrom slapped Murith several feet back. “Stay out of it.”
“Lord Dunther, if Gylloth chose this boy as king, then so should we,” Lord Tahnwhithe declared.
“Never! Idiots! Don’t listen to Gorham. He is sick. We are the rightful rulers of this land. I will lead these people. Now move aside!” Dunther waved his sword at his fellow knights.
“I will end this now!” Gorham moved in to kill Dunther once and for all. Murith leapt past Byrom toward Gorham.
“Stop! No! Dunther, you can be king!” Alfred ran between them.
Dunther’s sword was raised such that he could cut Alfred with one motion. Murith came in behind with a blade at Alfred's back. Dunther stepped toward Alfred, whose face grew pale. Yet Dunther swung at Murith. It was a skillful cut that merely threw Murith off, having him gasp with pain from a scratch as he held his arm at his side.
Alfred stood a head below Dunther and stood straight as Dunther bent over him. “I will support you as the king if you wish. You can have anything, but no killing, not each other. We have bigger threats than each other, than who is king or not. I don’t care. The land of men is in peril, all of us. My aunt! My mother’s sister Gorbogal musters an army of goblins and ratkins!”
Loranna, the children, and the farmers gasped. Lord Dunther looked at Alfred and then at the other knights.
“He knows, Dunther!” said Gorham. “No one but the king and we knew of the witch's past! Even Bedenwulf, the Black Knight himself, knew. We all carried that burden. Only royalty knew, it was our terrible secret.”
Alfred continued, “She will come here to finish us. She will bring an army in the spring, now, as soon as all the frost is gone. It could be a matter of days. I don’t know how much time we have. We need you, Dunther. We need all of you. War is upon us. So if you want the kingship, if you really want it, you can have it, as long as you fight for us! As long as you stay and fight!”
Dunther wavered, gazing at the knights, the children and farmers... then at Alfred. He blinked his tearful eyes and then fainted.
Chapter Twenty Nine: The Return of the Knights
Alfred sat at Dunther’s side as he lay in Alfred’s bed. Lady Nihan and Verboden came in to care for him as best they could. Dunther, battling a strong fever, had languished in bed many days, muttering to himself, carrying on about the past and the fall of the land and the king.
Each day Alfred strolled around the castle thinking of many things. To everyone returning after the long winter, Alfred’s behavior seemed odd. He was silent and solemn. He was clearly absorbed in thinking and planning but gave no clue about what.
“What is on his mind?” Verboden asked Abedeyan after a few days.
“War, my dear sir. He is preparing us all for the coming of the horde.” Abedeyan smiled reassuringly.
When Dunther woke, Alfred was asleep in a chair nearby. It was in the middle of the night, on a night with a full moon. Dunther looked at Alfred sleeping there, and he almost smiled. Almost.
Alfred suddenly awoke.
Lord Dunther was standing at the window looking at the moon. He had a look much different from that of the other knights. He was more gaunt and scruffy, even when fed well. He always had stubby facial hair. Yet he had a inner strength, and when he was at peace, his ghoulish features somehow took on the aspect of a gentle, austere monk.
“I loved your mother, if I even knew what love was,” Dunther said in a soft voice. “I suppose that is what eats away at my heart. Not even the doom of the land affects me as much as the treachery your father committed upon my lordship and my claim to her. He was one of my knights, the best. He was young and brave. His father, your grandfather, was a great lord. He left on the Crusade of the Silver Age, and the family lost everything. I took them under my protection. Bedenwulf grew to be one of the greatest knights and was like my own son.”
Dunther confessed what he didn’t realize had poisoned him so long.
“When the time came, when the king needed me most, I abandoned the castle to go after her. She needed no protection from me, nor did she want it. And to this day, my greed and lust for kingship and for her has darkened me to my very soul.”
He gasped for air, having to expose his face, his eyes, and his shame.
Alfred walked up to Dunther and put his hand on his shoulder. “We need you, Lord Dunther. We need you now.”
Dunther wiped away his tears. He looked at his hands, saddened by their very presence. “These hands have oppressed and were harbingers of doom to anyone who dared question me. And in time of starvation and sorrow, they only knew violence and tyranny.”
“Dunther, I think all have done things to survive that they now regret. It seems everyone became a beast in one form or another during these hard times. Hedor and his men were once farmers and then became bandits on the road. They were hurt and hungry and became violent. Verboden fed them and was kind to them. Now,
they are decent men once more. We are all, I hope, coming out of dark times. The time is now to join and fight. There is a castle being rebuilt. It only needs great knights to defend it for the sake of the people, the farmers, workers and children. It is springtime again, with hope for a better life. We all look to you to help us fight for this newfound hope.” Alfred gasped at such a long winded and almost kingly speech.
Dunther could not help but smile through his tears. “For king, for country.”
Alfred smiled.
The children had returned. They gathered in the courtyard, hugging each other and seeing who had grown to what height. All wondered who grew the most. They compared their bundles of arrow shafts with feathers. Each had all winter to think of the coming battles, and each was required to make as many arrows as possible by order of Broggia.
“Hope you don’t mind, milord?” Broggia said to Alfred.
Alfred was completely surprised by the number of arrow shafts the children had made. Shocked would perhaps be a better word. Broggia too had kept busy, sharpening the old goblin arrowheads as well as crafting new ones. All were made of goblin metal. It was strong and light, just not well utilized by the goblin’s themselves. Broggia’s son Boggin was busy fixing many of the goblin spears and shields, knowing the boys would need them.
Alfred was happy that they had stayed busy during the winter preparing while he was gone. He now needed to help them finish getting ready. As cheery as they were at this quaint reunion, a dark cloud hovered over all of them.
“Okay, let us go into the Keep. I have much to say of the coming battle.”
“We have knights now too, right Alfred?” said one of the younger boys, leaping about excitedly.
“Yes, yes, I believe so,” Alfred smiled.
The group of children, the girl archers and the boys with spears and shields, entered the Keep. The knights were already there. Rascally Murith was pacing, holding one of the goblin spears that had been left for practice. The red-headed giant Byrom sat on the floor, looking blankly at nothing. Hawk-nosed Tahnwhithe was sitting at table, curling his trimmed moustache and sipping water from a goblet, a nicety he had not known for some time. Crusty Du Locke stood in the shadows, an old man, a faint remembrance of his former self. Gorham and Dunther were not present.
Alfred knew Dunther was still resting in Alfred’s room. Gorham had not been seen for some time. Alfred finally learned that he was sick and remained in one of the towers.
“Well, if it isn’t the boy king and his school children,” Murith said with some mirth.
Lord Tahnwhithe stood up out of respect. Du Locke remained in the shadows. Byrom merely glanced with his big bear eyes.
“Shouldn’t these children be at their farms, shooting crows while the farmers plow the fields?” Murith asked sarcastically.
“We have a lot of work to do,” said Alfred, ignoring the young knight's foul temperament.
“Work? Here? I don’t see any crows in here,” Murith chuckled. Suddenly he turned and threw the goblin spear. It hit one of the targets the children used for practice. It hit dead center. The children gasped with amazement.
“Wow! That was awesome, Lord Murith,” Alfred said.
“I’m not a lord. I’m a knight!” Murith said.
“You’re a squire. Only a king can make you a knight,” Lord Tahnwhithe reminded him.
Alfred gulped.
Murith’s eyes narrowed. The children stood in awe, knowing Murith must have great skills.
“Can you teach us that?” Cory asked, walking up to him.
“Go home to your common father, peasant boy!” yelled Murith. “Get out of here!” Cory flinched and then raised his spear instinctively, as if to ward off Murith.
“Look at this farmer’s boy, Tahnwhithe!” Murith said with snide arrogance. “Do you see that? He’s pointing a spear at me!”
Cory gulped and stepped back. Murith approached him. Alfred watched, intrigued. Cory looked to Alfred for help, but Alfred only smiled. Cory knew he was in for the lesson of his life.
Murith reached out, grabbed the spear’s tip and pulled, thrusting Cory to the ground, face flat. Murith laughed and grabbed the spear so he could jab a painful prick into Cory’s back.
Before he could, he looked up to see three dozen young girls with bows and arrows aimed straight at him and a dozen big boys rushing him with spear and shield.
Though Murith would have liked to teach them all a lesson, it was he who learned one. He poked and jabbed at a few and then backed off in anger. When he began his infuriated awkward wild swings and thrusts, Alfred knew it was time to quickly end the lesson.
“All back!” Alfred yelled, and the boys immediately retreated into a defensive wall around Cory. He stood up behind the circle of spears, ready with a new spear in his hand.
Murith was reeling and fell, even though no one was around him. He jabbed blindly like a frightened boy thinking he was still in danger.
Tahnwhithe stood still in silence with a smile. Byrom’s deep baritone voice gave a boisterous laugh. Du Locke chortled, his eyes seeming to move with life in them.
Finally Murith realized he was in the clear, got up and tried to act as if he hadn’t fallen. He brushed his hair back and tried to provoke the boys to come at him again.
“Murith, you don’t even know that you’ve just survived that one, now do you?” Tahnwhithe asked.
Alfred walked up to Cory, grabbed the end of his spear and pulled. Cory tugged back but got off balance again. Alfred said, “That’s what they’ll do.”
“Yah, that’s what I’ll do to all of you!” Murith was yelling with feeble anger.
“Not you, the ratkins,” Alfred said.
Everyone, including Murith’s eyes widened.
Alfred walked up to him and motioned for the boys to follow. “And you, Murith, the ratkins will do that to you,” Alfred said.
Murith, at first defiant, leveled his spear and then realized that a dozen spears were coming at him. He backed away with unsure footing. He panicked, slapping away at spears that came too close. Yet others filled the void. In sheer terror he fell back into the great hole in the back of the Keep, the huge opening Alfred fell down the first day he set foot in the King's Hall. That great hole where Alfred had encountered the giant spider, and it is that very hole that leads into the dungeon floors below.
Murith didn’t fall far. He merely went limp and got caught in the rubble as a dozen spears angled down upon his meek self.
“How did a bunch of small vermin ratkins kill a knight?” Alfred asked.
“It was Dunther’s fault!” screamed Murith. “Not mine! He abandoned the castle! He’s the traitor!”
“Hold your tongue, squire!!” Lord Tahnwhithe yelled.
“No! Not even Dunther and his great sword could defeat the ratkin swarm! Not him and a company of knights fully armed could defeat the ratkins,” Alfred said.
“What talk is this? No ratkin is better than a knight!” Lord Tahnwhithe said.
Alfred turned to Tahnwhithe and responded, “You’re right. No ratkin is better than a knight, and that is why ratkins never attack alone. They only attack when there are thousands of them, swarming around you, poking with spear and stick, clawing with teeth and talons, easily climbing your armour and toppling your weight to the ground!”
Tahnwhithe seemed quite intrigued by the observation, especially since all the boys began to surround him with their goblin spears. “Then if this is true, we cannot defeat such a swarm of ratkins.”
“Yes, we can,” Alfred replied confidently.
Murith climbed back out of the hole and mocked, “What, with a bunch of children!?”
All were silent and looked concerned. Alfred turned to Murith and shot back with fierce impatience. “Are you done? Is that all you have to say 'a bunch of children'?” The bravado confused Murith.
As Alfred raised his hand, the boys converged their spears on Murith. He flinched a little too much.
Alfred conti
nued, pointing with firmness. “No! We will not fight with just a bunch of children. We will have well trained archers there along the perimeter, and the boys will be below in the dungeons with their spears.”
He then turned. “Cory, I want you to get Boggin to finish spiking the shaft of your spears. Murith has shown us that ratkins will definitely grab and pull on them.” With that comment, even the silent giant Byrom couldn’t help but chuckle and smirk.
“What is it you speak of?” Lord Tanwhithe asked.
Alfred went on, “We have spears with small razor sharp blades along the sides, so when the ratkins try to grab them, they’ll get cut. Oh and we've added small spikes to the shields.”
“You’re no king,” hissed Murith. “You’re an insane little boy.”
Without a word, Lord Tahnwhithe walked briskly up to Murith and slapped him on the cheek. It was no ordinary slap. It was one given by a knight and thus carried a special insult with it. Murith fell several feet back near the hole, tottered on the edge and slipped again. Down he went.
Alfred rushed up and put his spear in the hole. Murith rejected it and held on to the rough hewn edges of the hole to try to climb out, with no success.
“Grab on!” Alfred commanded.
Murith grabbed Alfred’s spear and climbed out with an embarrassed look on his face. Murith glared at Lord Tahnwithe but Alfred ignored the tension.
“The ratkins will come up through here. Hundreds then thousands will come,” Alfred said.
“Then we should cover it,” Lord Tahnwhithe remarked.
“No, this is where we want them to come. If we force them to find other ways out from the dungeons, they will come out and spill into the courtyard and attack everyone. It is here that the boys with their spears shall lead them. The boys have already been training in the dungeon corridors and know which areas to block to direct them to this great hole.”
Alfred: The Boy Who Would Be King (Alfred the Boy King Book 1) Page 23
