Young Writers Society

Author's Note: My friend dared me to rewrite the thirty-thousand-word novel I wrote when I was ten. See if you can spot the plot points my younger self ripped off from "Eragon" and "Deltora Quest."

The ground squelches like a sponge beneath the boy’s feet. They march in single file line, steeds in tow, except for William. He walks beside his friend.

They’re fumbling down the hillside, rocky outcroppings snagging their feet, and sticky puddles slopping up past their ankles, soaking their socks. It’s a chilly morning- the hair on the back of their necks raise, and they pull their fur coats tighter around themselves, shivering. But it’s also humid, and the stench of plucky teenaged boys is profuse.

As the manor vanishes behind them, swallowed by the swell of the grassy hill, Steve whispers, “I bid you not to come.”

His friend is older than him, but only slightly. He is shy of sixteen and looks like it. Gawky, with limbs that stick out at odd angles and sharp, lumbering features. His brow is dark and furry, like two caterpillars made a home a breath above his eyes. They are the same color as his halfhearted beard, which grows in tufty patches on his chin and neck, and the mullet he ties into a small ponytail.

He is the third son of the Baron’s favored servant, Stephanos Garter, and least liked by his father for all the same reasons William befriended him. It was expected for little boys to be bombastic, crude, and even a little foolish, but Steve had always been those things tenfold.

None of those qualities belonged to him now. He tugged and twisted at the horses reigns, almost pulling them into knots as they walked. He glared heavily at the ground, dark eyes obscured, and pale face cast in the shadow of dawns light.

William still hadn’t replied. He pauses, the words stuck in the back of his throat. He spits them out like bitter medicine, “Maybe it’s not the end of all things.”

Steve jolts, and his hands begin to tremble. When he speaks, William hears the uneasiness. “I just wonder if I’d been a better son,” he says.

“This is quite usual for our station, Steve.”

His fists clench tight, but now the shaking is radiating up his arms. He glances at William, dark eyes wide and pleading, like a doe at the end of a crossbow, “I’m afraid.”

William wants to grab him by the shoulder and rattle some sense into him. He doesn’t, and instead keeps his attention fixed on the downward slope. “There’s no reason to be,” he says rationally. “You get to stay in a castle as a bastion. You’re an escort for ladies and gentry, and you’ll guard the nobility during the odd hunt. You’re only there for a hundred days, and then you’re home.”

The boy behind them, the baron’s ninth son, chops in. His hair is a blonde mop, and his breath stinks of salt and venison. He has coerced his younger brother into walking his horse. “I heard there’s been turbulence in the king’s court. Something’s changed in years past, the noble families are getting hungry.” He smiles, flashing rows of yellowed teeth, “Father says there’s word of an uproar. He quite near turned down the king’s request for militant support.”

“That’s treason,” says William dismissively. “The baron would never consider it.”

“He doesn’t have the leverage to do so,” Steve adds.

The son’s nostrils flare, “Only if he doesn’t ally himself with the other disquieted houses. There’s been pressure from our northmost border. The king needs us, but we don’t need him.”

“And that’s why the baron is sending us away, is it?” Steve bites back. “I see how your father washes his hands on you, you’re a stain to his name.” Steve returns his gaze to the slowly plateauing ground. His hands no longer shake.

William’s face burns as the boys in front of them peer up the hill. He briefly considers elbowing Steve in the ribs when the gate across the stream comes into view.

It sits at the edge of the forest, half sunken into the dirt. The stout cobbled walls either side of it have disappeared into tall, reaching grass. A small, curving road vanishes into the woods.

The oldest of the twenty boys took lead back at the house, and is mounting his horse at the gate when Steve’s come to a halt.

As the other young men do the same around them, Steve and William stand mostly still, swaying slightly with the breeze, both staring straight ahead.

Then, without a word, Steve turns to mount his horse. He has one foot in the stirrup, when the whole force of the situation slams into William.

“Wait,” he says, frustrated to find tears springing to the corner of each eye. Steve turns, offering the first real smile he’s worn in a week. It’s weary, his lips are pressed thin, and it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s not the one he dons when he’s stolen pastries from the kitchen, or when he let’s loose any manner of bugs in his brother’s rooms. But it’s genuine, and William is glad to see it.

“I’ll miss you,” he says, placing both feet back on the ground. The morning dew has dried from the grass. “When I’m, you know, rolling in luxury.”

William snorts, then frowns. “I’m-“ he scratches the back of his head, “-sorry.” He says, “I should have been more sympathetic.”

“Yeah, but I always have been the better friend.” He pats William on the shoulder, “You can make it up to me by writing.”

He tightens the girth of the saddle and launches himself onto the horse. He begins to quietly adjust the saddlebags and stirrups, as William turns his gaze to the woods.

“Safe travels.”

“Of course.” The other horses begin to set off, moving like a stampede around them. “But before I forget,” Steve says, reaching into his saddlebag. A moment later, he extracts a small wooden case, and an even smaller leatherbound book. He tosses them to William one at a time.

“It’s my lockpicking kit,” Steve says. “It’ll help you break into the kitchen, the books has instructions for how to. Treat yourself to a strawberry custard for me.”

The horse takes its first lumbering steps forward. William smiles. He says, “I will. Thank you.”

“Of course.” He winks, a true smile splitting his face, “I’m not my father’s least favorite for nothing.”

He doesn’t give William time to respond; with a snap of his reigns, he’s off into the trees, leaving nothing but a trail of dust, and the key to an infinite supply of late-night snacks behind him.

~

William looks nothing like his little sister. At thirteen, she’s a whole head taller than him, with long, plaited brown hair, big almond eyes, and softly tanned skin. Anne is gangly, like Steve, but less like an oversized vulture, and more like a baby deer. Both of them have their mother’s smushed nose and weak chin, but that is where the resemblance ends.

William, meanwhile, can’t imagine he got anything from his father. He’s been told numerous times that he looks like his mother with cropped hair. His is a brighter shade of red then hers, which has been struck through with white- and his eyes are a tad bluer, where hers are a thundercloud gray. But both have the same stout stature, broad shoulders, and thick arms.

The three sit around the small table, each one’s expression a mirror of the others, each stewing in their own thoughts, while their broth turns cold.

Susanne Bakerson is the town’s tailor. They live at the base of the hill, opposite where the horses vanished that morning. If you peer out the unhinged door of their home, and crane your head up at the sky, you can see the manors silhouette, like a storm cloud lounging on the horizon.

Without known cause nor warning, Anne begins to weep. Fat wads of tears tumble down her cheeks, and her face turns a blotchy, scaly red.

“Anne?” William says, startled, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m just,” she hiccups, “so worried. About Steve.”

“Lord, child.” says their mother, lifting the broth to her nose and taking a whiff. She glares at William, “You were supposed to get fresh vegetables from the market, today.”

William blushes. “I walked Steve to the edge of the property.”

“Kids,” Susanne grumbles. She sets the bowl back to the table, and sighs, “Yes, it will be quiet without him kicking around. A peaceful hundred days where my only son and daughter might actually get their chores done. But I must assure you that the boy is in no danger.”

“No,” Anne says, scrubbing the tears from her eyes, “I know.”

“Being employed at the castle is probably a better fate for him anyhow. We all know Garter will never make him his heir, even if such a thing were desirable.”

“A servant to the baron isn’t so terrible either,” William objects. He drums his fingers against the table, trying to find his words, “I’ve heard the King’s court is always politically fraught, and especially so at present. Steve has never been good in, well,” he mumbles, “precarious situations.”

Susanne laughs, “You think the King will lop off his head?”

Anne’s eyes widen, she turns to William, “Do you?”

“Your friend isn’t that stupid,” Susanne says, in a somewhat more soothing tone. “And whatever rumors you’ve heard are likely untrue. The nobles are always scheming up some storm of sorts, but the odds of lightning striking in the brief period your friend is employed are unlikely.”

“But what about next year when he must return once more? Or the year thereafter?”

“Or,” Anne frets, nibbling at her nails as she’s prone to do, “what if he is taken on as a knight, like father?”

Susannes expression goes cold. William throws his sister the most incredulous expression he can manage, knitting his eyebrows so tight they meet in the center of his forehead. She remains oblivious to it, frozen under their mother’s murderous glare.

Once again, their mother exhales, and the tension slips away. She takes a sip of the broth, clearly contemplating a long-winded response. William folds his hands into his lap, and Anne gently sloshes her food around in her bowl. Both wait with bated breath.

“Your father was an outlier. I don’t know what he did to earn the King’s favor as he did, but it is not something that happens often, and especially not to peasant foot soldiers like Steve. Not even one’s who live and work in a Baron’s household.” She says, “As to your question, William, I find it improbable Steve will get caught up in anything truly dangerous for the same reason- nobles are simply uninterested in the affairs of those who serve them. As long as he does nothing to give direct insult- which I think he knows better than to do- he will have a fine time in the King’s castle.”

“He thinks his father sent him there as punishment,” William says.

“Oh, nonsense. It’s a very high honor. There’s no need for you to cry salty tears into your rotten stew, while he’s on his way to live and work in a life of luxury. You ought to know, if the Baron held the respect for me that he did Garter, I wouldn’t hesitate to send my son into the arms of the King.”

William winced. Sliding the broth away from him, he excuses himself from dinner.