Beyond The Stars. Sarah Webb

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      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. СКАЧАТЬ