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IN only a few hours, Sir Greyson and his men will move into the village. In only a few hours they will sweep the village of all its children, and possibly its parents, should they decide to fight. In only a few hours Sir Greyson will have to choose between honor and what is right.
And so this is why we find Sir Greyson in the king’s throne room, asking once more whether this is what the king wishes to do. For perhaps the king might yet be persuaded to change his mind, having slept on the news of a magical child.
Sir Greyson, on the other hand, knows that what the king asks of him is not right. Last eve he walked the streets of Fairendale in the dark of night, when everything was still and quiet and only the wind talked. And what it whispered to him was, No. No, no, no.
But Sir Greyson arrived at his mother’s cottage, and she was already in bed, her face white, her hair sticking to her neck and forehead. Her legs were swollen so that when Sir Greyson touched them, his fingers left impressions. He gave her a shot while she slept. She hardly stirred.
She was growing worse. He would need stronger medicine.
So what does a man like Sir Greyson do?
The king is cheerful this morning. He has grand plans for what is going to happen now. Raid the village, in just a few hours, capture all the children, find the one who might steal a throne. The people, of course, will do their duty to the king, for they love and respect and fear him. They revere him. They obey him.
Sir Greyson, however, is not so sure, and that is why his men will wear armor today rather than walk into the village with bare chests and necks and heads.
“Sire,” Sir Greyson says. “Are you sure we need all the children? Are you sure we do not need only the children of a certain age group?” Say, ten or eleven or twelve years old? Sir Greyson does not mean to offend his king. So this last bit he keeps for himself.
King Willis licks his fingers. He is eating, of course. A plate of sweet rolls sits on his belly, since he is a man who no longer has a lap. “Yes, Captain,” King Willis says. “I am sure.”
“What do we do with their parents, sire?” Sir Greyson says. He does not know if King Willis has thought about what the parents of the village children will do.
“Slay them if they resist,” King Willis says.
“But they will all resist,” Sir Greyson says. “They love their children.”
“Surely they do not all love their children more than they love obedience to their king,” King Willis says. “Surely they do not love their children enough to die by the sword.” Sir Greyson is not so sure. “And if they do...” The king looks at Sir Greyson. His eyes narrow in his fat face. The cheeks pull up into a smile, like red balls of fluff poking out from a face. “They shall pay dearly for it.”
Sir Greyson feels the sickness in his stomach, but he has not been dismissed. So he stands and waits for the king’s dismissal. He must watch the king eat three more sweet rolls, stuffing them in his mouth with hardly a chew, before it comes.
“Go,” the king says. “Ready your men. It will be dusk soon.”
“Yes, sire,” Sir Greyson says, and he turns on his heel and retreats to his men.
His mother. What will his mother say when she discovers what he has done?
***
IT is not night, but the day is black all the same. The clouds have rolled in thick and final, as if they know, too, what is to come. Arthur watches them, urging his family to pack faster.
“We must go,” he says. “We must leave. Now.”
Thunder claps. Lightning flashes on top of thunder.
Maude stares at the sky out the window, at the wind puffing dust in the streets so it is hard to see one house from another. No one moves out of doors. “We will have to wait,” she says. Good, practical Maude. She knows they cannot go on in a storm like this one.
“We cannot wait,” Arthur says. His voice has become loud, obstinate, raised in fear. “We cannot wait. We must go.” He turns to Theo and Hazel. “Children.”
Theo and Hazel each carry one bag stuffed with a change of clothes and some warm bread Maude made in the early morning hours. They will find other food on their way. Or so they all hope.
Hazel’s eyes are rimmed with red. She does not wish to leave her friends, but the villagers did not believe Arthur’s warnings when he stood in the courtyard earlier today and told them what would come. Not even Mercy will come with them.
Theo’s dark blues are wide with worry and regret.
If only he had not used his magic mistakenly. Flight could have been avoided. The lives of the village children would not be in danger.
I am sorry, his eyes say, though it is not Theo who needs to apologize. We know who is really at fault here.
“Let us go,” Arthur says.
Hazel catches his arm before he walks out the door. “What about the others?” she says. “We must convince them.”
Arthur shakes his head. “I have tried, my dear,” he says. “They do not listen.”
“You must try again,” she says.
“There is no time,” Arthur says. “We must flee without them.”
“You know what the king will do,” Maude says. “You know what will happen.”
She has felt Death waiting. He is colder than he ever was.
Arthur stares at his wife. He knows she will not go without this last little try, this thing that is not so very little. He will have to warn them again. He will have to shout above the wind’s howl and the thunder’s clap. He will have to make them listen this time.
He dips his head.
And then Arthur walks out into the streets, and the wind thrashes his face, and he shouts as loud as he can possibly shout. “Death is coming,” he says. “Run while you can.”
But the wind, you see, is too loud. The people cannot hear him. They see him in the street, and they come out of their houses and they stand in their doorways, watching, but his words are lost, drowned, stolen by the sound and fury of storm.
And this is why Arthur, Maude, Theo and Hazel stand in the middle of the village street, rather than running. This is why they cannot hear the explosion of a thousand hooves down the road between the village and its castle. This, dear reader, is precisely what destroys them.
When the first horse claps his hoof on the cobblestones of the village, the sky opens up.
***
DEATH waits. Only a few more moments and he will move. Not long now. He has been waiting for hours, but he does not have to wait forever. He will steal his first victim soon.
The first horse emerges from water and dirt and wind, and Death glides from his post.
There will be plenty. Oh, yes. There will be plenty today.