Children of the Knight (21 page)

Lance dropped his gaze, embarrassed by his behavior and unable to face this good man. “I’m sorry, Arthur. It just be that you… that
I
never had….” He trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished. Because he knew he wasn’t worthy.

Arthur gazed at him in confusion. “Never had what, Lance?”

Lance couldn’t say it. Not now. Maybe not ever. “Nothing.”

“Art thou with me this night?” Arthur asked imploringly, his eyes studying the boy’s face intently.

Lance smiled for the first time, reassured that he was still wanted and needed.

“Truly, sire.”

Arthur smiled back and then reached out to slip Lance’s helm the rest of the way over his head, adjusting the boy’s long hair so nothing obscured his vision. The boy grinned from underneath it and gave Arthur a big thumbs-up sign. Grinning back, Arthur returned the sign before turning to his assembled warriors, now prepped and ready and awaiting his orders.

“Attention, my noble knights-to-be! Ye all know the plan. Reyna shalt position the archers, while Jack and Enrique wilt position our swordsmen. Most with swords shalt be near Lance and myself for added protection shouldst the need for hand-to-hand combat arise. After everyone is in place, Reyna, Jack, and Enrique shalt also flank me for our meeting. Be there any questions?

Little Chris timidly raised one small hand. He wore a billowy tunic and looked like a frightened puppy.

“Yes, Chris?” Arthur asked.

“What shalt happen to me if thou don’t come back, Arthur?” The fear in that high-pitched voice touched Arthur deeply.

The king stepped over to the small boy and gently lifted him into his arms so they could look at each other eye to eye. “Fear not, young Chris, for we shalt return to thee. Ye doth have my word as a knight and a king. Okay?”

Chris beamed, his fear melting like morning dew. “Okay.”

Arthur set him down beside a bedraggled Mark, looking pallid, wearing a loose tunic and drawstring pants, the effects of his inner struggle still plainly written across his soft, delicate features like so much graffiti.

“Sure I can’t go, Arthur?”

“After what thou hast been through?” Arthur scoffed. “Nay, Mark, though thy loyalty pleaseth me.”

“I’d do anything for you, Arthur,” Mark replied earnestly, and he meant it too.

Jack caught that look in Mark’s eyes, the tone in his voice, and a sudden chill wrapped itself around his heart.

“Then care for this little one, Mark, for he is the hope.”

He placed a friendly hand on Mark’s shoulder, and Mark gazed up at the man lovingly. “Godspeed, Arthur.”

Jack put a hand on Mark’s arm, and the blond youth turned to him as Arthur moved back to the main group. “I’ll see you when we get back.”

Mark eyed Jack uncertainly, taking in the armor and shield, the sword dangling from a sheath around his waist, and then threw his arms around Jack’s broad shoulders impulsively, hugging the bigger boy as though never wanting to let go. “Be careful, Jack, please. You’re my best friend, you know?” He pulled away and looked Jack in the face anxiously.

It was a caring look, but not the look of love Jack so desperately craved, and his breath lingered a moment in his throat. Then he did what he always did when that pain seized his heart, as it did every time Mark looked into his eyes. He just pretended it was all good and grinned rakishly.

“Jacky’s got this one covered. Nothing but a scrimmage. I’ll see ya later.”

Mark smiled nervously and nodded.

Arthur stood up on a chair and surveyed his assembled troops. They appeared so young, yet so eager, and they were as ready as they’d ever be.

“Our destiny awaits. Let us go forth to meet it.”

C
ARS
and trucks bled their way into Griffith Park from every entrance that wasn’t locked or otherwise gated. Normal operating hours ceased at 10:30 p.m., so the gang members had to sneak into the park by whatever means necessary. To attract less attention, fewer cars were employed, which meant cramming each one with as many homies as possible. Much as Esteban wanted every homeboy he could get, even from enemy ’hoods, he and the other shot callers knew that too many bodies and too much movement would attract undue attention from the cops. The park area was patrolled periodically, and he and the guys wanted to get in and out as quickly as possible.

He’d talked a bit with Jaime but didn’t really know how the black gangs were thinking. Jaime was a hothead and didn’t think all that much anyways. But Esteban, angry as he was at being “dissed” by this tagger guy, wanted to hear what the man had to say. What proposition did he want to make? And why all the races? That didn’t usually go down on the streets. Blacks and Samoans and even Asians were his enemies, just like Jaime and other Latinos from different neighborhoods. That was how it worked, that was all he’d known growing up, so what stupid-ass fool would try to get them all together? As his homie’s old Chevy entered the park proper, Esteban realized he was about to find out.

A full moon cast an almost ethereal glow over the park and its environs. Arthur stood atop a platform within the Boys Camp area. Cabins surrounded them for summer camp programs, and this platform was center stage for talent shows and other gatherings. Darkness enveloped him. Ominous shapes of normally cheerful-looking cabins and teepees loomed in the shadows, and a cool breeze disturbed the branches of trees ranging from California oak to manzanita and wild sage.

Rustling noises drifted in from the darkness, from all around him. To Arthur’s right stood Lance and Reyna, he wielding his sword and shield, while she had her bow cocked and ready. Both had braced themselves, eyes and ears attuned to every possible threat coming at them from out of the enveloping darkness.

On Arthur’s left stood Jack, with a heavy broadsword gripped tautly in his well-muscled arms, and little Lavern, his own bow cocked and ready for action. Of the younger children, Lavern had proven the most adept and accurate with a bow and arrow, and he’d begged to be by Arthur’s side. Backing up this A-team of sorts were Luis and Enrique with their swords and shields, and several other archers named Sergio, Norman, Jose, and Sylvia, a small, usually quiet Hispanic girl, recruited by Reyna, who’d also proven to be a natural with the weapon.

The night was preternaturally quiet, or at least that’s how it seemed to Lance, glancing nervously about him, helm prickling his face, long silky hair tickling his neck from the breeze. Arthur’s own long, straight hair hung from beneath his helm, his keen eyes expertly scanning the darkness ahead, his bearing regal and strong as he awaited the confrontation to come. He’d had years of experience as a warrior, and those skills had not left him. Tension pulled his muscles tight, his senses on high alert. He glanced at Lance, who met his gaze without fear. Arthur nodded, and the boy returned it. They were ready.

The sound of muffled car engines drifted through the trees. Lance looked up again at Arthur, and the king nodded. Lance put a hand to his lips and whistled something that sounded like a birdcall. From all around them, answering birdcalls could be heard in reply. Then silence reigned once more, except the sound of tires on dirt. Then these sounds, too, ceased. Doors opening and slamming came next, followed by approaching footsteps on gravel.
Many
footsteps. Reyna and Lance exchanged a look, and she tossed him a cool, reassuring grin.

Nervous though he was, Arthur dared not show it, so he stood impassively as hundreds of forms materialized dimly from beneath the blanket of dark, spreading outward to fill the area with writhing, living movement, almost like a horde of rats emerging from the sewers. Wavering guns and long-bladed knives glinted ominously in the moonlight.

Several forms broke away from the mass to stand before Arthur. Among these shot callers were Esteban and Jaime; Justin and Dwayne—Lance cringed slightly upon seeing
them
, Darnell, another African-American, a burly sixteen-year-old Korean boy named Duc, and an enormous seventeen-year-old Samoan named Tai, who looked to Lance like a professional wrestler big enough to lift a truck over his head.

Lance tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry, his body rigid, his eyes narrowed and expectant.

Esteban stepped forward first, handgun tucked within the waistband of his baggy jeans. Younger than many, he’d early on established a rep throughout the gang community as calm, cool, levelheaded, and hella smart, and probably the best “talker” around, hence his street moniker “Smarty.”

“So you the guy who been messin’ wit’ our ’hoods, eh?” He stopped up short, suddenly noticing the raised weapons, and puffed out his muscular chest in amused defiance.

Dwayne pulled a gun instantly and took a step closer, taking aim at Arthur’s head. Esteban calmly reached out one brawny arm to push Dwayne’s hand downward so the gun pointed at the ground.

“They got blades, man!” Dwayne protested angrily. “An’ I owe that big muther fer messin’ me up, anyways.”

Lance gazed down at Dwayne, eyed the bandaged hand without sympathy, and realized he wasn’t afraid anymore. “Methinks now the odds be more even, eh?”

Dwayne glared at Lance in confusion. “Huh? What kinda bullshit you be talkin’, Pretty Boy?”

Esteban chuckled and turned to his assembled army. “Hey, dawgs, don’ you know who this guy is? I seen him on the news. He’s
King Arthur
.”

Derisive laughter rippled through the darkness like ghosts in a graveyard. Arthur raised his shield higher so the symbol would be clearly visible in the moonlight. Seeing that hated “tag” sent a flurry of angry murmurs rippling throughout the crowd. More guns and knives glinted portentously.

Reyna, Lance, Jack, and Enrique tensed up instantly, aiming their weapons at Esteban and Dwayne.

“This ‘tag’, as thou hast dubbed it,” began Arthur calmly, his voice strong and resonant, “be my knightly symbol, displayed here upon my shield.”

“So how come you be puttin’ it up in our turf, huh?” Tai exclaimed angrily. “We don’t know you from shit!”

Arthur lowered the shield but gripped Excalibur tightly. His voice rang out clear and unruffled. “Doth thou taketh so much pride in these neighborhoods where thou dost live?”

“Damn straight,
Ese
!” Esteban practically spat, remaining calm despite an adrenaline spike at the sight of that symbol.

Calm and projecting a cool he didn’t really feel, Arthur looked Esteban straight in the eye. “Then, perchance, I may inquire why the dwellings be so shabbily attired, the streets overrun with trash and vermin, the children without role models? Why doth thy people have so little to show for all of thy pride?”

Dwayne rose up to his full height, his face a mask of rage. “It ain’t our fault, fool, it’s white people like you who’s keepin’ the blacks in the ghettos, man! We can’t do nuthin ’cept fight back.”

“Thou doth not fight back,” continued Arthur, fixing his intense gaze on Dwayne. “Thou doth run wild in the streets with no thought of anyone save thyselves.”

“You don’t know shit, man!” Jaime spat, stepping beside Dwayne, fingering his handgun anxiously.

But Esteban’s curiosity had risen. What was this guy’s angle? “Quiet! I wanna hear more.”