by Sarah Webb
Fleece flipped the knife so he was holding the tip, and hurled it at the Fomorian king. It spun through the air between them, miraculously on target, catching Gricenchos just inside the curve of his headpiece. What a throw! It would have been a legendary throw, a throw talked about through the ages, sung about in songs, celebrated as the throw that pushed back the demon hordes, if only it had been the blade that had hit Gricenchos between the eyes, and not the handle. As it was, the knife bounced off the demon’s face, dropping into the slush and the mud and the snow, and Gricenchos growled.
Fleece scrambled to his feet as Gricenchos stalked forward, his massive hand closing round Fleece’s slender neck. He lifted Fleece off the ground. Fleece gasped for air, legs kicking and body twisting. It felt like his head was going to pop off and float away into the air. Bright lights were exploding across his vision and the battle raged all around him but all he could see was Gricenchos’s snarling face.
He dug a hand inside his tunic, grabbing the small pouch he kept in there. He pushed out the stopper with his thumb and flung the cow’s blood into the Fomorian king’s face. Gricenchos snarled and snapped, but finally had to drop Fleece in order to wipe the blood from his eyes.
As Fleece tried to crawl away, his own side swarmed the area. Someone kicked him as they ran by and he sprawled on to his back, gazing up at the grey sky with the grey clouds drifting across it, bringing the promise of more snow. Then someone else stepped on his face and he gladly sank into unconsciousness.
When he woke, it was snowing and there were hands on him. He kept his eyes closed. The battle still raged, but it sounded further away. In the distance. The hands rifled through his pockets. The breath was foul. The touch was cold. Demon or human, he couldn’t tell. He cracked open one eye, then immediately closed it. A Fomorian. One of perhaps half a dozen who were combing the area. A small, scrawny thing. Not soldiers, but scavengers, picking through the dead and dying in search of valuables. He’d let them. He never carried anything of value on to a battlefield anyway. He didn’t own anything of value.
The Fomorian whispered curses in that strange language of theirs, and abruptly knelt on Fleece’s groin. Fleece shot up, howling, and the Fomorian leapt off him with a scream. Like frightened birds, the scavengers took off, leaving Fleece alone with the dead.
Soldiers, both human and demon, lay like freshly cut wheat around him, covered in a light frosting of snow. To the north, the fighting continued. Fleece didn’t know who was winning, and found he didn’t much care. Such was the cynicism of the battle-hardened warrior, he supposed. For that was what he was now, and no mistake. No more Fleece the Thoroughly Unsuited to Battle – instead, he would be Fleece the Cowardly, Fleece the Craven, or Fleece the One Who Drops to His Knees and Begs His Enemies Not to Kill Him. A proud name to have, to be sure.
He checked his face to see if he had any scars to showcase his deeds, maybe one along his cheekbone to emphasise how sharp they were. But while there was some swelling and bruising, there didn’t appear to be anything too dramatic. Well, maybe next time.
He was sore, though. All that pushing and jostling had taken its toll. Still, he’d picked a nice place to lie down. He settled back in the mud, arranged his arms in a suitably splayed pose, turned his head to the side and opened his mouth in a silent, frozen scream. The only good thing about battles in winter was the lack of flies on the bodies. When he’d played dead at battles in the summer, those lazy, bloated flies would buzz at his nose and ears and crawl into his mouth and he’d have to lie there and take it. He didn’t miss the flies. He missed the heat, of course. By the gods, it was freezing. If he continued to lie out in the snow like this, he’d catch his death.
He sat up, shivering, and saw a hand raised in the middle of a clump of bodies, its fingers curled. It was a familiar hand. He crawled over to it, grabbed the remains of a Hibernian soldier and grunted as he shoved it away. Beneath, still trapped under the bodies of more of Fleece’s countrymen, was the corpse of the Fomorian king.
Fleece looked around, wondering what the procedure was at a time like this. Surely if a king falls, that side automatically loses? But maybe word simply hadn’t spread. Maybe the demons were still fighting because no one had told them to stop.
Maybe no one knew that Gricenchos was dead.
A name entered Fleece’s mind, and it was not Fleece the Cowardly, or Fleece the Craven, or Fleece the One Who Drops to His Knees and Begs His Enemies Not to Kill Him. It was a new name. It was Fleece the Hero. And then it was Fleece the Demon Killer.
He seized the demon king’s headpiece, hands wrapping round the twin horns, and hissed with the effort of removing it. Finally it came free, and Gricenchos’s head rolled back. He didn’t look so tough now, being dead. Fleece briefly wondered if he should cut off the head, but decided against it. It would take too long, be too much trouble, and be much too disgusting. So he made do with the helmet, dropping it into a sack that had been used to carry arrows, before making his way back to the Hibernian camp. No more skulking around the edges of the battlefield for him, oh no. No more pretending to be dead, stinking of cow’s blood and trying not to snore. Corporal Fleece? Try Captain Fleece. Major Fleece. He grinned. General Fleece.
He kept his grin to himself as he reached the camp. He was ignored by everyone, as they rushed around tending to the multitudes of injured men. Messengers scuttled between tents, leapt on to horses or leapt off them. There was a lot of shouting, a lot of screaming, a lot of crying.
Fleece found the biggest tent, its entrance flanked by Royal Guards.
“What do you want?” one of the guards said, barely looking at him.
“They want me in there,” Fleece said, smiling with confidence.
His weapons had never been swords and spears, after all. His weapons had always been words. He could cut a man down with insults and build him up with flattery. With words, he could block, parry and riposte, reducing each and every opponent to a quivering, shivering wreck.
“I have important information for the high generals and the king. They said I should just walk in.”
Now the guard looked at him, frowning. “Who are you?”
“I’m the Hero of Drumree.”
“We’re in Drumree,” said the guard.
“I know,” said Fleece. “And that’s what they’re going to call me. Stand aside.”
The guard frowned, and did as he was ordered.
Fleece entered the tent. It was a magnificent place, bigger than his own house and infinitely more luxurious. At its centre was a large table, at which crowded the high generals, stabbing their fingers at a map and arguing loudly among themselves.
Fleece took a moment, absorbing the energy, figuring out the best way to approach. With all the sharp words and bluster, with all the blame being hurled back and forth, he realised the only way was his favourite way – using huge amounts of baseless confidence.
He strode to the table, gripped the sack by its underside and emptied the headpiece on to the map. It rolled to a stop, and the voices died down. The high generals stared at it, then at Fleece.
High General Cairbre was the first to speak. “That’s …”
Fleece nodded. “I took it from the Fomorian king’s head myself, after I killed him.”
Another high general slapped his hands flat on the table, like he needed support to keep from falling.
“He’s dead? Gricenchos is dead?”
“Indeed he is, sir.”
“That’s … That’s … Who are you?”
“Corporal Mordha Fleece, of General Tua’s Infantry, at your service.”
“Where is Tua?”
“Sadly cut down. He died a hero, a shining beacon of light to those who served under him. It was thanks to his inspiring leadership that I summoned the courage to do what I did. I’d like to recommend him for a medal of some description.”
“The Fomorian king is dead,” Cairbre muttered, and smiled. “He’s dead. We’ve won!”
“Not
yet,” a thin-faced high general said. “The Fomorian Army still fights, and we continue to suffer heavy losses. We need something to inspire the troops.”
“Something …” Cairbre said, nodding. “Or someone.”
He looked directly at Fleece, who felt his smile fading.
“The troops need a leader,” Cairbre continued, “fighting alongside them. Now that Tua’s dead, they need a man to look up to. A man of courage, of fighting spirit. They need a hero.”
All the high generals were looking at Fleece now, and he was feeling quite nauseous.
“I’m no hero,” he croaked.
Cairbre smiled. “They need their king.”
Fleece almost collapsed with relief. “Yes. Yes, I agree. Their king. They need their king fighting alongside them.”
Such was the weight of his relief that it took him a moment to wonder about the feasibility of the fat slug engaging in any kind of physical activity that didn’t involve eating. And then he realised that the golden throne at the back of the tent was empty, and there was something behind it, lying beneath a gigantic sheet.
Cairbre came over, wrapped an arm round Fleece’s shoulders, started to walk him away from the others. “Our brave king died before the battle began,” he said in his ear. “Choked to death on a chicken bone. The royal physician tried to force it from his throat, but he could not reach round his royal girth to do so. The king is without heir. We need a hero, someone of noble virtue, to take his place and begin a new legacy.”
“You want to make me king?”
“Corporal Mordha Fleece, you said your name was? No. How about His Royal Majesty, King Mordha?”
Fleece was turned, and Cairbre placed both hands on his shoulders and pushed him down into the throne. A man in priestly vestments hurried over, mumbling words. He put the crown on Fleece’s head. It was too big, but nobody seemed to care. And then, like something out of a bad dream, it was over, and everyone was bowing down to him.
“Uh,” Fleece said.
Cairbre pulled him from the throne, led him from the tent. There were people fussing all around him, throwing a garb of fresh chain mail over him that was so bright and polished and golden he near blinded everyone he passed. A belt was tied round his waist, and a magnificent sword the length of his leg was hung from it, the tip dragging behind him like an anchor. Cairbre was telling him something about the battle, about tactics, about leading from the front, and the next thing Fleece knew he was stepping on someone’s specially stooped back and swinging his leg over a gigantic white horse, fit for a king.
His royal guard went with him, close in on all sides, making it impossible to break away. Together they thundered away from the camp, into the swirling snow, across the fields, down to the north end of the valley, to where the demons were, and the still-raging battle, and the axes and the swords and the dying.
The guard on his right turned to him as they rode, and shouted, “Orders, Your Majesty?”
Fleece stared at him, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. His vaunted words weren’t doing him much good here. His tongue, no matter how sharp, would scarcely nick the oily hides of the Fomorians they were charging towards. He tried remembering anything that the high general had said, but his mind remained stubbornly empty. Fleece the Hero. Fleece the King. Fleece the Forgotten. Fleece Who?
“Charge!” he finally shouted, even though they were already charging. It was something to say, he supposed.
The other men took out their swords, held them high and roared. Fleece grabbed his own sword, struggled with it, having to shift in his saddle to get it out of the sheath it was so damned long. He tried holding it aloft but by the gods it was heavy, and it dipped and stabbed the side of the horse next to him, making the horse go down and the guard who had spoken to him flip over and disappear from sight.
“Sorry!” Fleece yelled, but he could see the horse wasn’t fatally wounded and at least now there was a gap. He yanked on the reins, veering right. “The rest of you continue on!” he screeched. “I’m going to outflank them!”
He put his head down against the snow and dug in his heels, letting the ridiculous sword fall in order to hold on with both hands. Behind him, the royal guards smashed into the demon horde. He galloped for the trail between the trees.
Fleece the Abdicator. Fleece the Deserter. Sod it. Sod it all. They could call him whatever the hell they liked. He was Fleece the Living, and he was going to stay that way for as long as he bloody well could.
John Boyne is the author of several novels for adults and younger readers, including the international bestseller and award-winning The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, which was later adapted into a major motion picture. ‘The Brockets Get a Dog’ was inspired by his bestselling The Terrible Thing that Happened to Barnaby Brocket. John Boyne’s novels are published in forty-seven languages. John lives in Dublin.
Paul Howard’s charming illustrations have won him acclaim from both the publishing industry and children across the world. He illustrated Allan Ahlberg’s The Bravest Ever Bear, which won the Blue Peter Book Award. Paul lives in Belfast with his wife, their three children and his ‘hairy baby’, Tiggy, a Jack Russell terrier who is very fond of sticks.
Despite the terrible weather – wind that blew grown men along the streets, rain that de-permed perms – animals came and went throughout the day at Dr Napangardi’s veterinary surgery, and Abigail Crumb, a disorganised girl at the best of times, found it hard to keep track of them all. She worked there after school every Tuesday, Thursday and all day Saturday, but no matter how hard she tried, she always made mistakes.
When the Mannerings from Lavender Bay came by to pick up their miniature schnauzer, Abigail presented them instead with a walrus cub, who’d been brought in to have his tusks realigned.
When the McDougalls from McDougall Street showed up to collect their Siamese cats, they were not happy to be handed a container filled with gerbils and a large bag of mixed seeds and dry vegetables that Abigail, in a moment of generosity, had decided to offer them at no extra cost.
The customers complained and Abigail got into trouble almost every day.
On this particular afternoon, as she battled her way through the storm to work, she knew that she was going to get a telling-off for forgetting to lock a chimpanzee’s cage earlier in the week – she had spent most of the next day cleaning bananas off the walls – and started to work on her defence.
I’m punctual, she thought. I’m honest. And the animals like me. She was so intent on thinking up reasons why she shouldn’t be fired that she almost collided with a small boy who was walking along in the opposite direction with the weight of the world on his shoulders. He was wearing an old-fashioned pair of pilot’s goggles on the top of his head, the sort of leather gloves you only ever see in war movies and he didn’t seem to mind the fact that he was getting wetter by the minute. She wanted to ask him why he looked so sad but there was no time and she marched on past him.
“You’ll have to pay more attention to what you’re doing,” said Dr Napangardi when he sat her down at the end of that day. “No one wants to take someone else’s pet home.”
And Abigail, who had a toucan, a koala bear and an elephant of her own, knew that this was true. Should one of them fall ill, she wouldn’t like him to be cured and simply handed to the first person who happened to walk through the doors. Abigail resolved to do better in future as she didn’t want to lose her job.
She needed the money, after all. She was saving up for a houdah.
Arriving home that evening, Abigail was surprised to find a small boy sitting in her living room, the same unhappy-looking chap who she’d met on the street earlier in the day. He was stroking her koala bear, who clung to his arm as if he was a eucalyptus tree, while feeding peanuts to her elephant. The elephant had taken a seated position in the living room, the one room in the house where he knew he was not allowed to be. Abigail’s toucan was observing all these developments from her perch with great interest.
&n
bsp; “Hello,” Abigail said, and the boy turned to look at her, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, thank you,” said the boy.
“I’m Abigail Crumb,” said Abigail. “And who might you be?”
“Henry Brocket,” said the boy. “I’m a friend of Lucy’s. We’re in the same class at school.”
“Oh,” said Abigail. “Poor you. Where is Lucy anyway?”
Henry nodded in the direction of the staircase.
“Awful day, isn’t it?” said Abigail.
“Well, it is the middle of winter.”
“Still. Awful. You’re dressed like a pilot,” she added, pointing at his goggles and gloves, which were placed on the seat next to him. “Or you were anyway. Any particular reason?”
“I want to be a pilot when I grow up,” explained Henry.
“There’s good money in piloting,” said Abigail. “I could do with a little of that myself right now. I’m saving for a houdah.”
Henry frowned. “What’s a houdah?” he asked.
“If you don’t know, you should look it up,” said Abigail. “That’s what dictionaries are for. Lucy brought you home from school with her, I suppose? Are you expecting to be fed?”
Henry separated a handful of peanuts into two piles, giving one half to the elephant and keeping the other half for himself. (The toucan flew down briefly and stole one, then returned to his perch; the koala bear snoozed through the whole thing.) “No, thank you,” he replied. “I’m happy as I am.”
“You don’t look happy,” she said after a pause. “To be honest, you look a bit sad.”
“Well, yes,” admitted Henry. “I am a bit sad. But I don’t need you to cook me anything.”
“And a good job too,” said Abigail, marching upstairs to her bedroom just as her younger sister, Lucy, marched down.
“There’s a boy in our living room,” said Abigail. “He’s dressed like a pilot.”
“I know,” said Lucy. “He’s my friend Henry.”
