Beyond The Stars. Sarah Webb

no one knew that Gricenchos was dead.

      A name entered Fleece’s mind, and it was not Fleece the Cowardly, or Fleece the Craven, or Fleece the One Who Drops to His Knees and Begs His Enemies Not to Kill Him. It was a new name. It was Fleece the Hero. And then it was Fleece the Demon Killer.

      He seized the demon king’s headpiece, hands wrapping round the twin horns, and hissed with the effort of removing it. Finally it came free, and Gricenchos’s head rolled back. He didn’t look so tough now, being dead. Fleece briefly wondered if he should cut off the head, but decided against it. It would take too long, be too much trouble, and be much too disgusting. So he made do with the helmet, dropping it into a sack that had been used to carry arrows, before making his way back to the Hibernian camp. No more skulking around the edges of the battlefield for him, oh no. No more pretending to be dead, stinking of cow’s blood and trying not to snore. Corporal Fleece? Try Captain Fleece. Major Fleece. He grinned. General Fleece.

      He kept his grin to himself as he reached the camp. He was ignored by everyone, as they rushed around tending to the multitudes of injured men. Messengers scuttled between tents, leapt on to horses or leapt off them. There was a lot of shouting, a lot of screaming, a lot of crying.

      Fleece found the biggest tent, its entrance flanked by Royal Guards.

      “What do you want?” one of the guards said, barely looking at him.

      “They want me in there,” Fleece said, smiling with confidence.

      His weapons had never been swords and spears, after all. His weapons had always been words. He could cut a man down with insults and build him up with flattery. With words, he could block, parry and riposte, reducing each and every opponent to a quivering, shivering wreck.

      “I have important information for the high generals and the king. They said I should just walk in.”

      Now the guard looked at him, frowning. “Who are you?”

      “I’m the Hero of Drumree.”

      “We’re in Drumree,” said the guard.

      “I know,” said Fleece. “And that’s what they’re going to call me. Stand aside.”

      The guard frowned, and did as he was ordered.

      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