It was raining
outside. It wasn’t torrential, nor was it half-hearted; it was the marathon
runner of rains. David had spent most of the day staring at it out of the
window of his slightly-too-cold house, watching his Sunday become a wet, soggy
mess.
It was about
dinner time. David looked around the kitchen where he was sat, searching for
culinary inspiration, when his eyes alighted on an almost-full bottle of wine
beside the cooker. That would do nicely.
He took the
bottle, selected a glass from the draining board that was roughly the right
shape and poured the wine into it. Then he sat down and examined the colours
inside, imagining himself a connoisseur as he mentally described the rich red
hues, fruity notes and flavours of spice and vanilla.
“2010; a very
good year for Grenache,” he said to his imaginary audience of wine tasters,
taking a sip. “Lovely.”
As he moved on
to his second glass he explained to his audience the merits of the weather in
Europe during 2010 that had allowed for a particularly juicy crop of the
Grenache grape. They nodded and harrumphed and swirled their wine around their
glasses.
A third glass
followed the second, and as he moved on to the fourth he found himself emptying
the last drop out of the bottle. He eyed the contents of his glass mournfully.
Seized by a sudden impulse, he drained it down in one, wincing at the rush of
alcohol.
As this last
slosh of wine found its way from oesophagus to stomach, he felt a dream-falling
sensation and the world went black.
* * *
He landed.
The floor was
colder than he expected, more like stone than linoleum.
* * *
When the
spinning sensation ceased David opened his eyes and found himself in a large
stone hallway. The ground beneath him was black and white chequered stone, and
above him a vaulted ceiling formed a corridor running in either direction. He
felt cold air soughing past, carrying with it the damp, musty smell of old
things. It was unmistakably a place that wasn’t his kitchen.
He clambered to
his feet, still feeling the haze of the wine. This is an alarmingly realistic hallucination, he thought, and
tried slapping himself on the cheeks to wake himself up. It didn’t work. Nor
did pinching, and nor did shutting his eyes, hoping really hard, and then
opening them again.
From behind came
the sound of heavy boots and the rattling of armour. David turned to see two
guards appear, dressed, as far as he could tell, as medieval re-enactors.
“You there!” the
first guard cried. “The king is expecting you in the throne room, what are you
doing stood about here?”
David was unsure
whether to laugh or to be very, very afraid.
“Come on.” They
led the way off down the corridor.
“I think you may
have the wrong person,” said David, hurrying along behind. “I don’t know how I
got here.”
“Bit too much to
drink, eh?” said Guard one.
“Uh, maybe. Does
this happen a lot?”
“Oh yes. Don’t
worry; you’ll have the honour of serving the king. Keep your eyes down and
address him as Your Majesty.”
“I think he was
‘Your Eminence’ this morning,” said Guard two.
“Oh, maybe.
You’d better call him Your Majestic Eminence.”
David followed
them with resignation through a labyrinth of dusty and mostly empty rooms. He
wondered if they were lost, as they took him up one spiral staircase and down
another, across a garden with a burbling fountain, and under vaulted cloisters. They paused in front of three doors, having a whispered conversation for a few
minutes before waving him onward. They chose the leftmost door.
After some time
and numerous further corridors, twists, turns, and one secret passage behind a tapestry, they emerged into a cavernous
throne room. It was built of great blocks of grey stone, with two rows of
marble pillars forming an avenue up to the throne at the far end. There was
straw scattered over much of the floor, apparently to soak up the wine that had
been spilled liberally everywhere. Wine bottles, many of them smashed, lay
about among assorted detritus from recent feasting. A few chickens were pecking
around.
The room was
filled with a variegated and noisy assortment of people. As David hurried along
the stained red carpet he observed guards in mismatching armour, lords and
ladies bickering in groups around the periphery, and a smaller gaggle of the
more important courtiers around the throne itself. A glum looking jester sat on
the steps that led up to the throne.
As they
approached, the king leapt up from his throne and roared:
“There he is!
Were you afraid to join us, young man?”
“Um,” said
David. The guards both kicked him. “Uh, I mean, um, Your Majestic Eminence...”
The King roared
with laughter. “Today I go by the title of ‘Your Majestic and Most August
Eminence, the King of Garnacha and Lord of all he Surveys’. But ‘sire’ will
do.”
“I see...uh,
sire,” said David.
“Perfect!” said
the King. “Now, welcome to my court!” He descended the steps to where the
jester was sat, and kicked him smartly off his perch.
“Fool, say
something funny!” he said.
The fool dusted
himself off, bowed and said, without once varying the tone of his voice, which
matched his greyish features: “Alas, there are so many things between heaven
and earth of which only the poets have dreamed. And especially above the
heavens: for all gods are poets' parables, poets' prevarications.”
The King roared
with laughter again. “Nietzsche!” he said, delighted. “See, my fool is actually
a genius.”
“I see, sire,”
said David. He gathered his courage: “Sire, could you perhaps explain what is
going on?”
“Of course, of
course! To business!” The King bounded back up the steps and slumped down on
his throne. “A businessman, I like that! What is your name, businessman?”
“David,” said
David.
“That’s a
dreadful name. Scribe!” His scribe appeared beside him with a quill and
parchment. “We are renaming this man Humphrey Peepington Left Right Tootlepip
the Third, understand?”
“Yes, sire,”
said the scribe, scratching at the parchment with his quill.
“Now then,
Peepington, I have to warn you that I am, in fact, a mad king. Does that affect
your loyalty to me?”
David hesitated.
“Uh...no, sire.”
“Good! Very
good! Listen to that everyone, this man is a loyal subject. Alright Peepington,
I wish to reward you for your valiant and loyal service to me.”
“Thank you,
sire.”
“In honour of
the occasion I hereby promote you to Knight of the Order of...” he looked
around the room for inspiration. “The Order of the Cockerel! Scribe, note this
down. Now, this Order is an ancient and respected chapter, and you must uphold
its name with honour.”
“Of course,
sire.”
“And naturally
your title comes with duties, as well as privileges.”
David saw where
this was leading.
“I am giving you
the honour of serving in my army. You are Commander of the Order of the
Cockerel. Do you have much experience in battle?”
“None at all,
sire.”
“None at all!
Good grief. Well in that case you will remain Commander, but you had better start
at the rank of Private. A little early for your first command, eh Commander?”
“Absolutely,
sire.”
“Good job,
Peepington. Now then, now then...” He scanned the assembled personages. “Otto!
Esme! Come here.”
Two soldiers
detached themselves from a group at the far end of the room, and came up to the
throne. They were an odd pair, one a giant of a man who wore plate armour as if
it was tissue paper, the other a young woman with dark hair and a long spear
with a slender curved blade.
“Sire!” boomed the
man.
“Sire,” said the
girl, inclining her head.
“Otto, Esme,
meet our new recruit. This is Sir Peepington, Commander of the Order of the
Cockerel and newly recruited private in our illustrious army. I’d like you to
look after him; get him some equipment and show him how to swing a sword before
tomorrow’s battle.”
“Of course,
sire,” said Esme. “Will that be all?”
“Yes, yes,
that’s it. Good luck, Peepington! Fight valiantly, die honourably, eh?”
“Come on
Peepington!” said Otto, leading the way out of the hall.
“David, I’m
David,” said David, running to keep up. “Wait, was it really true, what he
said, about the, y’know...battle?”
Otto gave a
booming laugh, not dissimilar to that of the king. “Oh, I’m afraid so. The
Kingdom of Garnacha always seems to be at war.”
“Don’t worry
lad, we’ll look after you,” said Esme. “As much as we can...” she added,
quietly.
They hurried
down the steps out of the throne room, and followed a corridor off into another
wing of the palace.
“Have you been
soldiers long?” said David.
“I’ve only been
around about three years,” said Esme. “Otto here is an old hand. He looked
after me when I arrived. And I saved his arse a while back so we’re even.”
“Even?” cried
Otto. “I just needed a moment to regain my balance. You took my kill!”
“You were
rolling around on your back in the mud, you oaf. That troglodyte would have
skewered you.”
“Ach, whatever.”
“Finesse, Otto.
That’s what you lack.”
“Strength, Esme.
That’s what you lack.”
The contrast was
indeed striking. Otto stomped along with the grace of a heavily armoured
elephant, whilst Esme bounded alongside him, every movement expressing a
crackling energy that seemed barely contained.
“When you say
‘troglodyte’...” said David.
“Oh, they’re the
cave-dwelling footsoldiers of Queen Olaszrizling,” said Esme. “I don’t mean to
frighten you, lad, but she’s a sorceress with a fondness for huge
monstrosities, which makes the battles a bit unfair on us.”
“Oh,” said
David.
“Teeth as long
as your arm, poisonous saliva, great big bulgy eyes...” said Otto. “And they’re
about ten feet tall.”
David began to
feel sick.
“Let’s not
exaggerate,” said Esme. “More like eight feet tall. Here we are, the armoury.”
They entered
through the heavy wooden door. Behind a wide wooden counter stood the
quartermaster, and behind him there were racks of gleaming weapons, suits of
armour, shields, helmets, spears, barrels of arrows, and surcoats depicting
various heraldries. Some of them had ominous dark stains on them.
“What can I do
for you?” said the quartermaster, a leery, grey-haired man with about three
teeth.
“This one’s come
for his equipment,” said Esme, gently pushing David forward.
“Rank?”
“Uh...private.”
“Name?”
“Dav—uh, Sir
Peepington.”
“Aha,” said the
quartermaster. “I just received your equipment list from the royal scribe.” He
cackled. “Private eh? That’s unfortunate for you. At least the king has a sense
of humour.” He went to the back of the room and began rummaging around.
“What did he
mean?” asked David.
“You’ll see,”
said Esme, the hint of an apology in her voice.
The
quartermaster returned. “Here you are, Sir Peepington. Now then, one surcoat,
one helmet, one shield, one belt, one sword-belt and one mace. That’s
everything.”
David examined
the items on the counter. There was a large hessian sack with arm holes cut in
it, two belts, a saucepan, a saucepan lid, and a—
“Is this a
rubber chicken?” said David, picking it up.
“Looks like it,”
said Otto.
“What the hell am
I supposed to do with this?”
“Fight
valiantly, of course,” said the quartermaster.
David was just
about to explode when Esme propelled him out of the door, shouting her thanks
to the quartermaster as they left. Otto swept the equipment into his huge arms
and followed.
“Just stay
calm,” said Esme. “The king does this to all privates. We’ll look after you.”
David felt the
rage and fear inside him simmer down into a feeling of weakly panicked
numbness. “This is ridiculous.”
“I know,” said
Esme. “Don’t worry, I was the same as you, I got thrown into all this against
my will a few years ago. I fought my first battle with a toilet brush. It’s not
so bad when you get used to it.”
“Not so bad? I
don’t want to die in a strange land whilst trying to defend myself with a
rubber chicken and a saucepan lid!”
“Think of poor
me,” said Otto. “I was born here.”
They emerged
into a barracks where a number of soldiers were playing cards and singing songs
that made increasingly eye-watering insinuations about their respective mothers. Esme led
the way around a roaring open fire to where there were a number of bunk beds
with straw mattresses.
“The one in the
corner is free. Try to get some sleep.”
Otto and Esme
left him to join the others, and David lay on the bed, fully clothed, totally
exhausted but mind reeling. It was not until everyone else had gone to bed that
he lapsed into a fitful sleep. He dreamed of black creatures chasing him with
spears though the darkness.
It seemed like
no time at all before he felt Esme’s hand on his shoulder, and sat up in
confusion, crying out.
“Easy now,” she
said.
“Oh God, I’m
still here.”
“’Fraid so, lad.
You’ll need to get ready, we’re assembling now.”
David slid out
of bed and pulled the sack on over his clothes, buckling the rubber chicken
onto his belt, plonking the saucepan onto his head and hefting his shield. He
couldn’t help smiling, and Esme smiled back. He felt slightly better.
“Alright, let’s
go,” said Otto.
Outside was a
parade ground where a number of large blocks of soldiers were forming up. David
saw with some relief that there were a number of other privates, wielding a
selection of weapons that ranged from a bunch of bananas to a pair of plastic
scissors. It was more of a gaggle than an army.
With Otto and
Esme on either side, he joined the unit of infantry at the front. Shortly after
they arrived the order came to march on, and they moved out the gates of the
castle.
Crossing under
the stone archway, they stepped onto a grassy plain, which was fast becoming a
muddy plain. The soldiers began forming into ranks in the shadow of the walls.
An officer was barking commands.
“We’re in the
front unit,” said Otto. “The bad news is that that means we have to break their
charge.”
“And the good
news?”
“If we’re
getting pulverised the chaps behind us should charge and we can fall back,”
said Esme.
“Is that before
or after we’re pulverised?”
“Depends how
good you are with that chicken.” She grinned.
Eventually the
army was assembled, and at its head the Mad King himself sat on his horse,
wearing an embossed suit of gold armour with a crown instead of a helmet. He
signalled the army to advance. There was a great tramping of feet as the
squares of men moved onto the field of battle.
It was only then
that David began to notice a harsh, braying sound, and then he saw them – dark
outlines in the distance, waving weapons in the air and shouting battlecries.
“Get ready, lad,
this is it,” whispered Esme beside him.
They halted. At
that moment the sky darkened and the approaching horde roared louder.
“Get down!”
shouted Otto, shoving David to the ground. He flipped the faceguard of his
helmet down as the first cascade of arrows zipped into their lines. “They’re
not playing fair!”
“Do they ever?”
Esme shouted back from where she was crouched beside David. Otto was stood up,
laughing as the arrows pinged off his armour. Around them came the cries of
those who had been hit, and behind them their own archers were returning fire,
turning the front line of the troglodytes into pin cushions. The beasts didn’t
seem particularly bothered.
After a tortuous
minute or two the bombardment ceased. For a moment deathly silence descended
and even the wounded seemed to hold their breath. Then came the pounding of
feet, and the ground shook as the opposing army surged forwards like a great black
wave.
“Hold the line!”
shouted a distant officer.
David remained
on the ground, trembling behind his saucepan lid, while Esme leapt up, holding
her spear lightly in both hands. Otto raised his battleaxe.
Between their
poised forms David had an excellent view of the charging foe as they bounded
forward through the gloom. The troglodytes were built like enormous slimy apes,
knuckling forward at great speed on their huge forearms. Large round heads were
screwed on between their hunched shoulders, bulging eyes protruding and saliva
dripping from their toothy jaws. Some of them carried crude blades and clubs.
They broke over
the defensive line with the force of a tsunami, sending men flying. Otto felled
the first beast with a single blow to the abdomen, while Esme sidestepped her
mark smartly, tripped the creature as it flew past and skewered it before it
hit the ground.
The battle
descended into chaos. Their position was already overrun, and the less
disciplined soldiers turned tail and fled towards the second line, while the
rest tried to hold the tide back. Every swing of Otto’s axe brought another of
the beasts crashing down, and Esme was too nimble for their clumsy blows, but
they kept coming. A handful of the remaining soldiers found themselves fighting
in a ring with David cowering in the middle.
One of the
defenders was knocked senseless and sprawled to the ground, leaving a gap
through which David was plucked by a slimy hand. He found himself looking down
the gullet of one of
the beasts, and without really knowing what he was doing, threw his rubber
chicken into the gaping maw.
The beast was
surprised, gagging and coughing and tugging at its throat. It stumbled and then
fell, crushing David beneath it. He was just aware of Esme shouting something,
and then he saw a wave of men crash over her and enter the fray. Strong hands
pulled him out, but too late. The world went dark.
* * *
The floor was
warmer than he expected, more like linoleum than mud.
* * *
David opened his
eyes, and instead of Esme he saw the remains of a glass, smashed on the kitchen
floor next to where he lay. He struggled to his feet and looked around, feeling
his body, which was intact and entirely un-crushed.
He stood there
for a long while, confused, thinking. Then he grabbed his coat and headed for
the door.
He needed to
find an off licence that sold a very particular kind of Grenache.
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