Читать книгу The Incredible Journey of Pete McGee - Adam Wallace - Страница 10

ing Cyril the Astounded entered his chambers. His anger over the unavailability of Sir Clancy had all but disappeared. Never before had he received such an ovation from his people, but then he had not become King by entirely honest means. He was merely a distant relative of the royal family, but when the time was right and a new ruler was needed, money had changed hands, the right people were disgraced and the crown was his. It had been for five years now.

He hadn’t been known before his reign had begun, and it often felt as though he had to earn the trust of the peasants he ruled. Oh how he hated them, believing them to be dirty, smelly, less than human, below him and his nobles. But he was a king, and he not only wanted to be a feared king, but a loved and admired one as well. He stood in front of the mirror, chest swelled out with pride, and winked at himself. What a handsome devil he was!

‘Yes you, that’s right. You are a handsome man. Oh yes you are. Yes. You. The one in the crown.’

After the success of his speech, King Cyril the Big-Head was certain that he would find the Wilderene Flower. He hadn’t believed his ears when he had first heard the story. He had dressed as a commoner and gone to the local pub, wanting to hear all the great things that everyone surely said about him when they were out. But a disgusting, slobbering drunk had latched onto him the minute he had walked in, blabbering utter nonsense. He asked if the King had heard of the Wilderene Flower. When the answer was no, the drunk proceeded to tell of a flower with a pollen that cured all ills, a scent that would grant one wish and thorns that would kill you instantly upon touching your blood.

The King had listened patiently to the story, but when the drunk asked him for a little cuddle and a slow dance he was out of there.

King Cyril the Curious consulted Faydon early the next day. Faydon did his research and confirmed that the drunk’s story was indeed true. The one existing Wilderene Flower lay ten days’ march from the kingdom, eight days if the Plains of Obon were crossed. Faydon said there was great danger awaiting any who dared cross the plains, as it was a crossing rarely successfully completed. The Wilderene Flower would be found growing at the base of a great oak tree, fully three metres in diameter and fifty metres high. The flower was guarded by a beast so terrifying it was better to die than to escape alive with the memories. The King had just laughed, and decided then and there that he would lead an expedition to capture the flower. Only then would his immortality be assured. He declared to Faydon that he would search for the flower, he would cross the Plains of Obon, and he would return triumphant.

A hissing voice jolted Cyril back to reality.

‘Your Majesty?’

The King swung around to see Faydon at the entrance to his chambers. He had snuck in silently, sliding along the shadows. There was a smile on Faydon’s pointed face. He looked like a little rat, with his squinty eyes and long, sharp front teeth. No tail though. He didn’t have fleas either … as far as anyone knew.

‘Faydon. Must you always sneak up on me?’

‘My apologies, Sire. I wanted to congratulate you on the reception to your speech.’

The King’s smile returned.

‘Yes. Yes, they loved it didn’t they?’

Faydon nodded then slipped up close to his ruler, speaking quietly.

‘You are their King, Sire, and they do love you now. Perhaps you should stay here and rule your people and I shall retrieve the flower for you.’

The King thought for an instant, then with a smile decided against Faydon’s idea.

‘I see what you’re trying to do Faydon, and I like it. You want me to stay safe here, away from any danger. It is a nice thought and you are a fine advisor, but I will be coming along on the journey. I want that flower and I want that wish.’

Faydon nodded, backing slowly out of the room as the King began admiring his profile once more, oblivious to all but his reflection. A wicked grin spread across Faydon’s face as he slipped further into the shadows, speaking in a low voice intended only for himself.

‘Yes, your Majesty, you and your men may be required, but perhaps it will not be you who gets the flower in the end.’

The shadows consumed him.

Back at the Main Stage, the Tellings were getting into full swing. Pete McGee was having a ball. The most recent Teller had spoken of meeting a creature so small that it sat in the palm of his hand. He spoke of the fear he saw in the tiny creature’s eyes, fear that was replaced first with false bravado and finally kindness. They had spoken of their respective species, their families, and had promised to meet again. Pete imagined himself as the tiny creature. How would he react if a giant picked him up? If it ever happened, he certainly hoped the giant would be as kind as the Teller, and not one of those giants that just crushes you and eats you on toast or something.

The next Teller was a woman. Well, a girl really, for she couldn’t have been over eighteen years of age. Her clothes were dirty and brown, rags hanging loosely over her thin frame. Pete wondered what she could possibly have been through to get in such a state, so he edged to the front of the stage to hear every word. In a small voice, the girl began to speak.

‘My name is Ashlyn and this is my story,

A story of our King and his grab for glory.

My love was stolen from out of my grasp,

And my mortal breath gave its very last gasp.

Just one week from now the King will go,

On a journey about which this I know.

He will search for a flower that cures all ills,

Better than medicine, better than pills.

Its pollen does this, while its magical smell,

Will grant to its sniffer one wish as well.

But if a thorn touches your blood, it’s enough,

To kill you dead, your life it will snuff.

My life is forsaken,

My love has been taken,

By the evil man that we call King,

Marloynne’s life he’ll be sacrificing.

The King is foul, and cruel, and mean,

And will do anything for the flower Wilderene.’

The crowd was silent. Although deeply touched by Ashlyn’s tale, no-one dared clap. Pete wanted to, but the sound of one hand clapping isn’t exactly thunderous applause. Ashlyn stood on the stage, staring at the crowd as if pleading with them for some sort of response. When none was forthcoming she dropped to her knees, her eyes filling with tears. It was too much for Pete, as nothing seemed to compare to the pain this girl was experiencing. He threw his pack up onto the stage then climbed up after it and helped Ashlyn stand. She rose meekly, gratitude showing in her sad eyes. Suddenly there was a gasp from the crowd. Striding onto the stage were three of the King’s guards. Ashlyn’s heart dropped. She had committed treason, which carried a sentence of death. But she had not counted on the courage of young Pete McGee, who gently pushed her behind him and faced the guards. He willed his voice to be strong.

‘Guards! Stay where you stand and let this fair maiden go, lest you feel the wrath of Sir Pete McGee!’

The guards stared for a second before throwing their heads back and bursting into laughter. The crowd joined in, partly because they thought they should, to appear on the guards’ side, but mainly because the sight of the small, one-armed boy facing up to three hulking guards was so ludicrous. People from the crowd started calling things out. Some were cleverer than others.

‘Don’t worry about him, he’s ’armless!’

‘He’s given her a real shot in the arm!’

‘Hey look, that kid only has one arm!’

‘By the beard of Merlin, that mule is eating a cabbage!’

Pete ignored them and stood tall, although his heart was beating wildly. He saw Larson Smithers standing in the front row, grinning from ear to ear. It was obvious he expected something bad to happen and couldn’t wait to see it. Pete had never really worked out why Larson bullied him so, but there were more important things to worry about at this point in time. He turned back to the guards. As scared as he was, this was something he had to do, not just for the girl but for himself.

‘Laugh away, wretched ones,’ he continued. ‘You will laugh to your graves if you do not respect me.’

This just led to more hysterical laughter, and more jibes from the crowd. Finally one of the guards calmed down enough to speak.

‘Well, little one, you with that treasonous wench behind you, what is it that you think you will do to us?’

Before Pete could answer, he felt a presence at his shoulder. He spun around and his eyes grew wide. At his side, looking down at him, was a knight. Dressed in chain mail, helmet in one hand, head held high, he was the proudest, strongest, most confident-looking man the young boy had ever seen. His face looked as though it was carved from rock. Not some dodgy chalky rock either, but a really hard, smooth one. Pete felt himself stand taller just being near the knight, who smiled and spoke in a low, calm voice.

‘Thou art brave, young sir. Now though, ‘tis time for me to lower these vermin a peg or two. Thy service is noted, but this battle is for me.’

Without a word of protest, Pete McGee and Ashlyn edged slowly to the side of the stage. They were out of harm’s way but with a perfect view of what was about to take place. They saw the guards glance at each other. The tallest, meanest-looking one spoke first, his voice deep and throaty.

‘Stand aside knight. The girl has committed treason. She comes with us to face the King.’

The knight’s smile broadened.

‘Is that so? And the boy?’

‘He has allied himself with the girl, and in doing so he stands against our King. If you side with them, you too shall be sentenced.’

The knight stopped smiling as he nodded in response. His handsome face turned cold and hard, devoid of emotion. His eyes never left the guards as he drew his mighty broadsword. The guards, moving much less surely, also drew their weapons. The smile returned to the knight’s face. It was a smile of absolute confidence. There was no warmth, merely a cool challenge.

The guards advanced. They outnumbered the knight three to one, but not knowing what he was capable of made them wary. Pete and Ashlyn watched anxiously, certain that one man could not defeat three highly trained guards.

Slowly the three circled, closing in on the knight. None of the combatants seemed prepared to make the first attack. Suddenly there was a blur of movement and one of the guards froze. Without moving his head he lowered his gaze to his neck, where the knight’s sword was just touching the skin. The knight glanced downwards and saw a little yellow trickle of water dribbling from the bottom of the guard’s armour. Pressing the sword a little harder, the first drop of blood appeared. Pete looked over at the crowd and saw Larson Smither’s jaw had dropped, his mouth hanging open.

The other two guards backed off a pace. Surely such speed and control couldn’t be human. The knight just stared at them. He knew that behind all the bluster and bullying the guards were little boys in armour, on a power trip but scared beyond their wildest dreams. He removed his sword from the guard’s throat, before lunging theatrically at the other two, yelling as he did.

‘AAGGHH!’

The guards gave a high-pitched scream and ran off the stage. The knight returned to the first guard, who hadn’t moved since the sword had touched him, told him to go and tell the King what had happened, and not to leave out any details. The guard nodded and stumbled off the stage, trying to cross his legs as he walked. The knight watched him go and then returned to Pete and Ashlyn.

‘Go now, young ones. You have much to tell your mother, Sir Pete McGee.’

He turned into the crowd and was gone. Ashlyn picked up Pete’s pack. Pete, his eyes wide and unblinking, took Ashlyn’s other hand, pulled a quick face at Larson Smithers, and ran off the stage.