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

by Ron Smorynski

  Abedeyan was breathing heavily when he came up. “Some are good shots with bow. I’ll send them up to the highest towers. Many practiced with their children, you know!” That brought a smile into Dunther’s heavy heart.

  The goblins were spread out across the countryside and wasted no time. They knew they had to attack before the sun rose, or they’d be in for it. It was a difficult season for goblins to attack. The darkest night lasted less than the day, and the full sunny days would blind their eyes. They knew they were more vulnerable to counterattacks from humans if they could not find the darkest of forests to retreat into at dawn. And there was no dark forest near this castle. They were not in the least worried about humans putting up any sort of fight while it remained dark. Goblins do not live that long or have a great memory. It had been a long time since men had put up any sort of fight in these parts.

  With a rising crescendo of drumbeats accompanied by barks from larger goblins on heavy spittle-breathing boars, the goblins advanced. Group after group moved forward from various spots. As they came, they became a sea of goblins converging on a simple yet stout castle with thick walls and thicker towers.

  It was the darkest of nights and difficult to see. The peasant bowmen atop the towers peered out. Though they could see the tide of goblins moving, they could not pick out single goblins in it.

  “Fire at will!” Dunther yelled up to the towers. The peasants nodded and let loose arrows. The handful of arrows were swallowed up by the dark waves of goblins.

  As many as the goblins were, arrogance was their undoing. As they got closer, they made a mad dash toward the castle, screaming and hollering with an uproarious clamor of battle rage. The front lines began to fall, literally. They tumbled into pits filled with spikes. Row after row fell into the pits until they were full of spiked, crushed and bone broken goblins. The fallen yelled in panicked torture as their brethren unwittingly stumbled onto them. The goblins were like water filling and then overflowing the pits. They found themselves climbing a pile of their own kind.

  “Fire! Keep firing!” Dunther yelled up to the towers at the peasants. Because of the height of the towers and the speed of the arrows descending, each shot was deadly. Yet there were too few arrows as the goblins kept moving forward, angered at their slow and crowded assault. Many died merely tumbling and being crushed as others ran over them.

  As a dark shadow loomed over one of the high towers, a great gust of hot air knocked down peasants. All looked up and suddenly felt terror and stopped shooting. They screamed as a giant vulture with a Dark Rider hovered above. The vulture splayed its great talons, ready to grab up a cowering farmer.

  From the trapdoor, Murith, the knight, leapt out with his lance in both hands. He yelled with desperate bravado and jammed the lance as fiercely as he could into the belly of the giant beast. It croaked and flapped its powerful grotesque wings, grabbing instinctively at the pain in its stomach. Murith yelled and pushed, twisting his lance to afflict the most damage. Peasants scrambled for cover, crawling toward and then falling down the ladder at the trapdoor. One hung desperately on the outside of the tower screaming. Peasants nearby quickly went to his aid.

  Gorham climbed the ladder as fast as he could and caught a farmer sliding down. He quickly tossed the peasant safely to the next floor so he could keep going up. He reached the top just in time to see Murith carried away from the tower, hanging onto the lance.

  “Murith!” Gorham yelled. Murith looked wide eyed and confused at his situation, hanging high up above the castle. It was his fortune that the vulture, in such pain, flew back to the castle tower, bashing against the wall. Murith let go and crashed through a wooden hut far below. Cows screeched and pigs squealed as Murith shook it off and rolled away from the panicked animals.

  Unsure of Murith’s predicament, Gorham had only a moment of respite before the Dark Rider was in motion again. Unperturbed by the awkward flying of his foul beast, the rider moved the beast closer to the peasants, coming only a swing away from the knight. Gorham was not one to miss a chance. He swung at the Dark Rider.

  The sword scraped the black armour of the foul rider, bits of armour flew off. Gorham had his chance and thrust fiercely. The rider was attempting to control its mount but he still had powers beyond that of Gorham. He emitted a foul green gas from his clawed hand. Gorham was knocked back by the burst of poisonous hot air. His helm began to smoke from the acid. He quickly pulled it off, falling back while coughing and choking. The beast reeled back, banging the Dark Rider’s leg against the tower.

  The Dark Rider was not one to tarry above the Keep with an injured mount. He pulled at his giant bird, forcing it to fly off with the lance still stuck in its belly.

  Murith shook off his haze as farmers rushed in not to help him but to calm their favored beasts. He glanced and shrugged. Then he climbed back up the tower to find Gorham.

  “Gorham! Sir Gorham!” Murith scrambled along toward the pale looking knight.

  Gorham gasped for air.

  “That was a dirty trick!” yelled Gorham, infuriated. “I had him with my sword!” Even with the severe situation, Murith couldn’t help but laugh. They both looked at the melting helm, however, and the laughing stopped.

  Goblins reached the castle wall. With their tiny claws and nimble fingers, they could easily find the cracks and crevices of any stone wall and scale them quickly. They were known for being good at this. But this wall was different. It seemed to bite back at them. Unbeknownst to them, it was littered with metal nails and spikes. The first row of goblins got stuck to the wall as their brethren pushed up against them.

  The spikes were oily and slippery, so when enough goblins were skewered and new ones grabbed onto them, they'd slide off as a whole. More would push in and get impaled. A vicious piling began to take place.

  The farmers and bandits stared down. Many fired arrows haphazardly, easily hitting the crowded goblins

  As vast as the initial attack was, it was nearing an end. And Dunther and Hedor could see this. They noted the ranks of dead swelling in piles at the pits and in the field. Many were hit by the descending arrows, and some were crushed on the walls trying to climb them.

  “Alfred, that king of ours, is brilliant,” Dunther said under his breath.

  “I’m inclined to agree,” Hedor said with a stunned expression. Not a weapon had been swung when the goblins lost their momentum. No human blood was spilled inside the walls.

  The peasants hurled hoots and hollers down at the failing line of goblins. “Stand back, fools,” cried Abedeyan, rushing along the wall with his pot helm on and holding a goblin spear. “That will only spur those vile pests on, dead or not!”

  Alfred rushed up to Dunther and Hedor, shouting “Ratkins! We can hear them!”

  Dunther turned, “Good knights, with me! Captain Hedor, you must hold the walls!”

  Captain Hedor looked down at the piles of dead goblins and the retreating stragglers, some being picked off by the peasant bowmen on the towers, “I think we have.”

  Dunther smiled and leapt down from the wall, peeling off his traditional armour as he went. Alfred hurried back to the dungeon corridors below.

  Chapter Thirty One: Ratkins

  Alfred rushed from corridor to corridor to check on each group of boys, to encourage them as best he could. All were shaking, knowing this was their moment.

  At first, the sound was subtle. They heard a few screeches and scurries. Then a ratkin would pop its head out from one of the many smaller tunnels. It would look around, see the boys and their torches, and then quickly disappear. These were clearly the scouts.

  At first glance, the ratkins looked like rats as they poked their heads into the tunnels. That is where the similarities between rat and ratkin ended. Their heads were the size of a dog’s head—a small mangy dog, that is. Their noses had the hectic sniffing twitches, and their whiskers fluttered. Their fur was black, greasy and clumped. Their black beady eyes never focused on anything, it seemed. Their bro
ws furrowed in vile anger at the very presence of the boys. They snarled with dirty yellow teeth and pink and black gums.

  One could say they were dressed in clothes—if you could call it clothes. They wore dirty leathery straps tied together and wrapped tightly around their limbs. These straps were adorned with small bones or trinkets scavenged from human, goblin or nastier critters. They never took them off. Their garb was greasy and blackened from grime and mildew. From it protruded small knives of bone or wood. Many had sharpened sticks or had stolen arrows, which they reinforced with wrapped leather to make spears. Some had blades they’d stolen from a kitchen or armoury or off some bedside table in the darkest nights.

  They also wore stolen belts, buckles, hoods, torn pieces of cloth, strings and pouches. As if to copy those they scavenged, they looked like miniature brigands, bandits and cutthroats but with greasy matted fur and grotesque, long-ribbed tails.

  More ratkins appeared and scurried from hole to hole. They leapt about to avoid the light and were inevitably pushed forward by more ratkins coming through. As their numbers increased, there was a flurry of them crawling over each other and forming a mass. The whole looked like a giant furry beast with many grotesque pale white-ribbed tails squirming.

  Right away the boys noticed a great stench that came with the arrival of the ratkins. They seemed to wet and stain everything they crawled over or slid against. Their screeching and squealing grew louder and peaked as they began their attack. Within the hall their quick advance was halted by the mere presence of the light and the surprising presence of defenders.

  Several ratkins moved forward and noticed the spiked metal gates. They sniffed along the gates and grew angry at the boys they could smell beyond them.

  Their ranks swelled as they gathered in force. Several at the front frantically felt along the gate with their large gnashing teeth, searching for any area to chew through, finally resorting to their instinctual method of digging. Soon enough, a small metal spike or nail would cut them and send them squealing back into their fold.

  Their purpose was to take over the under realm of this castle and pour onto the castle grounds. To be held up by defenses was unexpected and infuriating. The ratkins gathered in groups to begin their attack. They pounced upon the gates, shaking the hinges and large iron spikes that held them in place.

  Cory was the first to yell and rush forward, poking his spear violently through the gate. He poked and cut many as they swirled amongst themselves, screeching with rage at the pain. Other boys came up and did the same, poking furiously through the gates. The bigger boys attacked from above, and the smaller boys poked from crouched positions. They yelled loudly at the squealing ratkins. This gave them courage amidst the terrifying screeches. Within moments the ratkins were backing off from the gates in utter anger and confusion. A large one rushed up with rodent impatience and grabbed Cory’s spear, only to have its thin fingers severed. It squealed in pain and disappeared back into the fold of ratkins.

  Alfred was with several boys at another gate, poking furiously.

  “Back, you foul vermin!”

  The ratkins became tormented by the blockade and the pressure of more and more ratkins pressing in from behind. A sense of impending doom was felt by the hundreds of ratkins trapped in the corridors against the gates. Alfred knew they would soon swell to thousands pressing forward. The ratkins at the front were desperate to break the blockades.

  Many ratkins found other small holes to rush through and quickly squealed when they hit the traps placed within. Small nails and spikes were in abundance at this castle in many spots. When the ratkins would find a wide open corridor to rush down, the caltrops did their part to slow them down or route them back. The forward ratkins would grab up their feet in utter pain only to be trampled by brethren coming behind them. They would desperately try to advance by turning into a new corridor. Inevitably, they would slam against another heavily spiked gate and be crushed against it by those in the rear pushing forward.

  To explain the amount of poking and prodding and violence that was inflicted upon the ratkins would be unwise. The vicious disease-ridden vileness of the ratkins, which have infected, maimed and killed many, was finally returned on them in the corridors below Grotham Keep. Throughout the lands of the Westfold and beyond, a great sigh of relief will be had by many if these ratkins are stopped here and now. The boys held off the ratkins in all the corridors, thrusting their spears into the vicious gatherings. The stench and foulness were unbearable, but the boys kept yelling and screaming in support of each other. Several smaller boys rushed about peering into smaller tunnels to find ratkins trying to sneak through. The ratkins would quickly meet their demise and block the area for a little while.

  The boys held up their spiked shields in defense and guided their spears through the pie-cut holes, thrusting violently in and out with a sawing motion. Ratkins would either be killed outright or cut and mangled such that they would attempt to flee. But with their own rushing up from behind, they found themselves unable to squirm away.

  The strategy of these horrendously vile rodents was to swarm and overbear the foe by sheer numbers. If the swarm was unable to advance due to spiked gates and poking spears, they would get bottle necked into certain corridors and then the swarm became its own trap. It would cause them to be crowded and crushed by the waves of all those in the rear trying to advance. It brought their onslaught to a standstill.

  Alfred knew the dam, as it were, would eventually break, and the floodgates would open. On this occasion, at all the gates there were ratkins, most piled dead, crushed up against the gates and strained to their limit. The boys knew this was it, that they had prevailed. They could hear a few muffled cries of dying ratkins as more beyond were still trying to push their way through. The distressed ratkins kept pressing on, ordered forward by some evil force, which could only be Gorbogal.

  “Gates one and two!” Alfred yelled. The boys nodded, knowing the plan. Cory pulled a chain from one of the gates, releasing several strong supports. The gates buckled rapidly and finally fell through. Hundreds of impaled and crushed ratkins fell forward. Cory and his boys rushed out of the way and set up positions along the side corridors.

  This was no matter to the angry and confused ratkins. They sensed the opportunity to unleash themselves, and this spurred them on. Two more gates fell as such, and the ratkins, like water, rushed through the corridor, many fanning out and taking side corridors, only to be met by shield and spear. These were small losses when compared to the greater rush of rodents that now began to climb to the surface where they would kill everything in sight. Finally, they would be able to overtake all within!

  The ratkins poured out of the great hole into the Great Hall, the swarm finally unleashed. But to their surprise, row after row fell.

  “Fire one! Fire two! Fire three!” Loranna yelled and repeated. Three dozen girls, in three rows, fired arrow after arrow, never missing given the multitude of ratkins that climbed up and poured out of the opening. The first row of girls fired from one balcony, the second row from another and the third from still another—a flurry of arrows shot in unison taking out group after group of ratkins. Loranna's coordinated orders made the volleys seem like a constant stream. None of the ratkins expected volley after volley, row after row or group after group to be eradicated in a shower of arrows. The girls didn’t focus on aiming. Instead, they focused on speed and strength, quickly firing volleys of arrows into the oncoming swarm.

  Even so, more and more ratkins kept coming up, fanning out in the hall. All the windows and doors were heavily barricaded with wood and metal. There was one door at the end, the great door, and it was open so the river of ratkins flowed toward it. They sensed that that was their way out, to spread and swarm onto the castle grounds. Though many fell from the arrows, many more of the foul creatures, oblivious, swarmed ahead. What did they care if many died by spear or were crushed in the corridors below or felled by arrows? The ratkins reveled that they now saw t
he opening that would end this siege.

  Suddenly, however, they found themselves thrown, crushed, squished, splattered and impaled. Giant black creatures leaped out from behind columns near the exit. They came out swinging with horrifying strikes of death like none they had ever seen. Ratkins died by the dozens from each beast as they swung spiked fists and kicked with pointed boots.

  Ratkins tried to discern what these creatures were. They had expected weak humans and clumsy knights who would be easy prey. They knew how to climb on humans and pry and prod for weak points with their fast and furious arrow-sized spears, vicious teeth and claws. These were not weak humans. The ratkins were being crushed and impaled again and again by giant black furious creatures they had never seen before. The ratkins never had a chance to defend or attack them. What maddening horror was this?

  As they neared the open door, the ratkins focused all their energy on breaking out. They were halted as the knights in their full ‘pro wrestler’ black goblin-like armour riddled with spikes and nails pounced from all sides, swinging and kicking. Lord Byrom, the biggest, with mighty bashes, splashed the squealing ratkins to and fro. He squashed or flung them by the dozens at a time.

  Lord DuLocke, the old dispirited one, was the most nimble and craftiest attacker of them all. He twirled and rolled with each vicious thrust, crushing and piercing ratkin after ratkin. Tahnwhithe held his ground at the door, swinging with both arms in orderly controlled death spirals. Ratkins would leap on him from all sides, then screech in pain as various spikes poked them.

  The ratkins seemed to have no ability to harm the rolling, leaping, jumping, swinging knights. Wherever they tried to leap on them, they were met with pain and mutilation. They screeched in fury, spurring more to advance and attack.

  Dunther leapt into the fray, swinging a spiked mace, yelling, “For King and Country!” He created a wide berth as ratkins flew from his deadly strokes. Each knight leapt to where the ratkins were thickest, easily clearing that area of the vile vermin. The ground was covered with the filth of many dead or crippled ratkins.