The Boy from Earth (10 page)

Yes, I said carrots. They've been nibbling away at the ends, flattening and shaping the carrots with their teeth so that now they look like … well, like knives. Big orange knives full of vitamin
A
.

I don't like raw carrots. When I was little, my mom used to peel one and put it – whole – on my plate beside the Kraft Dinner, or spaghetti, or meat loaf, or whatever, and then she and Dad would go out and leave me with the baby-sitter, who would always insist that I eat the carrot before I could watch
TV
or play. It might take me the whole evening to choke it down.

Funny, since everything else on this table is food I love, that there should be a plate of raw carrots, and that they should be used as swords against me. I don't understand
Not Peas but a Sword what's going on, but it's clear what I have to do. I pull out my own sword.

“Do you
want
to fight me?” I ask Sir Mount.

“No, of course not. You're a charming young man. But we serve the Dey, what? We are honorable men. He ordered us to guard the door to the Lost Schloss. So we will guard it. WITH OUR LIVES!” He waves his carrot in the air. “Come on, now, boy. Let's see what you're made of, what?”

“Yah! What?” cry the other knights. They brandish their carrots too.

It's ridiculous, of course. I'm bigger than they are, and I have a real sword.

“Have at you!” Sir Prise surprises me, leaping past his brothers, with his arm outstretched. The pointy end of the carrot is coming right at me. I take careful aim with my sword, and slice the end off his carrot just as another flash of lightning lights up the sky. The thunder is pretty close behind.

He gasps, and stumbles back to the table. There's one of those curved horn of plenty things near his plate. Fruit spilling out of the end. Sir Prise grabs it, and holds it upside down. Plums and peaches come rolling out. He brandishes the empty thing in the air. It looks like a megaphone. Is he going to use it as a weapon? Not a great attack weapon, the megaphone.

–
Behind you, Dingwall!
Norbert is in the air, keeping his eye on the battle.

I turn swiftly. Sir Vey is circling around me. I don't want to hurt him, but I don't want him jumping me either. Sir Mise begins moving the other way. Now there's a knight on either side of me, and I have to move quickly. I fake a lunge at Sir Vey, who backs up, then I spin sideways and slice off most of Sir Mise's carrot. He falls backward, arms in the air like a diver. I don't wait for him to hit the grass. I run back to Sir Vey, who is charging hard. I sidestep, and swing down. Before you can say
What's up, Doc?
his carrot – an extra long one – is gone too.

The score is: sword 3, carrots 0.

“What about you?” I ask Sir Mount. Sweat and rainwater in my eyes; I wipe it away. I'm panting a bit from running back and forth. “You want a piece of this?” I hold out my sword. He counters with his carrot. I take the end off it with a backhanded slash. He's left holding an orange stub. The sword tingles happily in my hand.

Sir Prise holds the narrow end of the horn of plenty up to his mouth. He blows the riff the organist plays at the ball game when the hitting star – say, Fred McGriff – steps up to the plate. You know the one:
da da da DAH, da DAH.
The brothers cheer. He blows it again, the pitch slightly higher:
de de de DEE, de DEE.
And another cheer. And then … nothing.

We wait. The thunder growls. Norbert lands beside me.

“What now?” I ask him.

–
Don't ask me. Like I said, this is your show.

Barnaby, who is rocking on the bank of the reedy lake, lets out a sudden high-pitched whinny of fear. We race
Not Peas but a Sword over, arriving just as a big guy in a black helmet charges up out of the lake and stands on the bank, panting. He looks as though he's run downstairs to answer the doorbell.

“What's wrong now?” he calls. His voice is muffled by the helmet.

“Hi, Dey!” cries Sir Mount.

“Hi, Dey!” cries Sir Vey

“Hi, Dey!” cry Sir Mise and Sir Prise together.

“Hi,” says the big guy.

Norbert nudges me. –
I think that's the Dey
, he whispers.

So this is my opponent – the reason why I'm here. I study him carefully. He's a big one, all right, taller than I am with the helmet, and at least as broad. On Jupiter that makes him a giant. The helmet is the kind the knights used to wear, flat on the top, with slits to see out of and breathe through. It's black, and covers his head completely. His cloak is black too, and goes down to his feet.

His sword is a beauty – straight and heavy like mine, only his is shiny – and he's got a scabbard to keep it in. When he turns quickly to face me, his cloak swirls around him. The rest of his outfit is black too – a shirt with puffy sleeves, tight pants, high button boots. It's all pretty cool, I guess.

He stands in the wings of the storm, ready to fight. His knees are bent. He holds the sword lightly.

It's pointed at me.

“Who the hell are you?” he cries. His eyes flash behind the slits in his helmet. A tough guy.

“This is Dingwall, sir,” explains Sir Mount. “He's the boy from Earth.”

“Ah, yes! Dingwall.” He spits out of the mouth slit in the helmet. I bet he's practised that. “You are the earthling trying to fulfill the ancient prophecy. We've been expecting you. Are you ready to meet your … doom?”

On the word “doom,” the thunder booms.

–
You look like you're wearing a lampshade on your head
, says Norbert.

The knights look shocked. I smile. The Dey's helmet does look like a black metallic version of the shade from the reading lamp in our living room.

He straightens up. “I know you, little elf,” he says. “You're the prince from Betunkaville.”

–
Who are you calling an elf, you overgrown …

The wind whips his words away.

“Don't forget, little elf, that I have your princess inside,” the Dey reminds Norbert, who stops talking for a full three seconds. He's so mad he can't finish a sentence.

–
Why, you … you … you …
He's fizzing, like a half-opened can of soda pop.
You better not hurt her. If she's hurt, I'll … I'll …

“You'll do nothing. I am all that is powerful on this planet.”

Lightning flashes behind the Dey as he speaks. Good timing.

I'm thinking hard.
You stand at the gates of the Lost Schloss
, said Sir Mount. The castle must be nearby, but I can't see it. Not a turret, not a tower, not a single stone.

In plain sight, and yet none can see.
I don't get it. I don't get it.

“Now, Dingwall, prepare to meet your doom!” The Dey flourishes the sword, sweeping it back and forth, like he's buttering a giant piece of bread. The knights gather round him.

Sir Mount is nibbling on a new carrot. His brothers are already re-armed and ready. “Hear him!” they cry. “You are doomed!” Sir Mise twists his mustache, which is drooping a bit.

Norbert hovers near my shoulder. –
No pressure, Dingwall
, he says.
Just remember: we're all counting on you.

“Sure. No pressure.” I raise my voice. “Listen, Dey,” I say, “or Ich, or whatever you call yourself. Before we beat ourselves to death, I want to talk. Fighting is so destructive, so pointless. Can we find a peaceful solution here?”

“No!” says the Dey.

“No!” cry the knights.

–
Geez, Dingwall!
cries Norbert.

“Oh.” I nod. “Well, then.”

So much for the United Nations.

“I will crush you! I will annihilate you!” The Dey waves his sword some more.

“Fine. I've traveled a long way to meet you,” I say. “Along the way, I beat your hired hands and your proteors to get here. I beat your silly knights. And I can beat you.” I flash my sword back and forth too. The handle feels good in my hand. “Are you ready to fight?”

“My knights and I are ready!” he cries. “Aren't we?”

“Aye, Dey!” cries Sir Prise, his eyebrows arched like tents.

“Aye, Dey!” cries Sir Vey.

“Aye, Dey!” cries Sir Mise.

“Aye!” cries the Dey. He charges sideways to kick Barnaby, knocking him over.

Poor Barnaby. He's just a little guy. I'm outraged. I hate a bully. I charge after the Dey, swing wildly, and miss.

–
Hey, Bucket Head! Pick on someone your own size!
yells Norbert. He hurries over to help the horse back onto his rockers.

The Dey turns his attention to me, swinging his blade in a wide sweeping arc, trying to cut off my legs.

I jump back.

He takes another step forward. His sword blade has a blood groove down one side. It sings in the air. Gosh, he's fast. I think about using my sword to block, but by the time I move it, I'm too late. He slices off a piece of my bathrobe. That was close!

“Loser!” he cries. “You will fail!”

I point my sword, to show him I'm not afraid. I am, though. I'm afraid the Dey is right – I will fail. I remember Norbert saying –
You know what I hate about Dingwall….

I grip the sword as hard as I can.

The Dey swings again, and I can't think how to get my sword over to knock his blade away. I move to the side. Not far enough. This time he actually cuts me. I feel the trickle of blood, warm and wet against my skin. I don't feel any pain, but my mind is flooded with the idea of failure. I don't
Not Peas but a Sword have any sword-fighting experience, and it shows. I can't seem to make the blade do what I want. I retreat again.

He gives a
you-are-doomed-ha-ha-ha
laugh. “You have no idea how powerful I am! See here!” He leaps into the air and hangs, suspended, before dashing down at me, his sword raised. I duck. He swooshes past.

What an idiot I am. I forgot about my slippers.

“Flying!” I say. “Of course!”

He misunderstands. He thinks I'm overwhelmed. “Yes. Is it not wonderful!” He stands in the air, hands on his hips. “Yield now, champion from Earth. You cannot win from the ground while I fly.”

“That's true,” I say. “So … I guess I'd better join you.” And, in a twinkling of toes and practice, I take off, fly twice around his head, and hang there in the air above him.

The Dey tries to conceal it, but he's surprised. “You can fly too?” he says.

Meanwhile, Sir Prise stabs at Barnaby with a carrot. The rocking horse opens his mouth and takes the end off it. Sir Prise retreats. Sir Vey is throwing away the broken end of a carrot he holds in his hand.

“Well done, Barnaby!” I shout.

–
Watch your left!
cries Norbert.

I turn, and there's the Dey's sword coming at me. Too late to think – I throw out my own sword instinctively, and block the Dey's thrust. He flies around me and swings again. I try to turn around and fly backwards, but my feet point wrong, and I sort of sit down in midair. The Dey strikes like a cobra, and I know I'm dead. I throw out my
arm without thinking about it. Block. He tries a combination: lunge sweep backhand: I'm still struggling to get myself pointed the right way. I'm not used to flying and fighting at the same time. I block the Dey's strokes without thinking. Clean blocks, too. My sword blade hits his at the right angle, knocking it aside.

Hey! These strokes feel good. Sparks fly when the blades cross.

–
Way to go, Dingwall!
cries Norbert.

I seem to do better when I don't think! The hilt is humming in my hands, as though the sword itself is happy to be fighting. Maybe I'd better leave the fighting to my sword. It knows more than I do. I loosen my fingers.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a knight in front of Barnaby. It's Sir Mise – I can tell by his twitching nose. He stabs at Barnaby repeatedly. The horse takes a bite every time the carrot comes near his mouth, so the blade gets shorter and shorter. His last bite almost takes off Sir Mise's finger. The knight hurries back to the table to get another carrot.

And now here's the Dey again. He's still confident. He figures to end the fight now by raining down a whole storm of blows on me. For a minute or two his sword is everywhere, falling like rain, swirling like wind, stabbing like love. My own sword leaps to meet his, flashing faster than I can think, turning the blows aside, blocking high and low, catching the tip and blade of his sword on my own blade and hilt. Sparks fly upwards in a steady shower.

I try a combination of my own now. I don't think about it. I just throw a high feint out, then follow with a low stab, then a backhanded sweep cut. The Dey turns to fly. The wind whips his cloak around so that it looks like a long black tail.

Chasing after him, I realize that I can fly as well as he can. Maybe better. I race after him, but he's a tricky fighter, swinging before I expect him to. I stop on a dime, and slash down without thinking.

And it gets him right on the top of his helmet. There's a crackling booming sound. The helmet must be made of the same not-quite-metal as the landing area back in Betunkaville. The Dey swears. He's got a bit of a garbage mouth.

“A lucky shot,” he says, gathering himself back on guard. “But not serious. You're a damned lousy swordsman, Dingwall. Who was your teacher?”