Authors attik

With the knife always in sight, Clotonik had fashioned a magic amulet which would make its wearer the King. Magnus hung it round his neck with pride. "King Magnus," he breathed in awe.

"Huh," grunted Clotonik, feeling his throat. "Even magic takes time. Go to the city. You'll be King when you get there."

It was many miles to the city, and on a narrow track through a forest, Magnus found the way blocked by a stationary wagon.

"Make way! Make way for the King!" he shouted.

A bald head popped up from the other side of the wagon and looked around. "Where? Where's the King?"

"Here, you idiot," Magnus snapped, tapping his chest. "I am the King."

"Oh?" The head didn't seem too impressed. "You don't look like the King."

Magnus was about to explain when he felt the amulet grow warm against his chest. He was just wondering what it meant when a look of comprehension appeared on the head, then the entire figure stepped into view and bowed low. "I see now that you are indeed the King," the man said. "Please excuse my mistake, though if you'll excuse me for saying so, it was an easy one to make. You are not, if you'll pardon me, dressed as befits your station."

Magnus looked down at his rough farm clothes. The ragged bits that held the holes together were shapeless and dirty. "You're right," he sighed. "What shall I do?"

"Well, Sire, I am a travelling tailor," the man said, gesturing towards his wagon. "For five crowns I could make you a new suit of clothes fit for your station."

Half his inheritance! It would be worth it though. "Agreed," Magnus said.

The tailor worked swiftly and completed the suit by the following dawn. Magnus was delighted with his new appearance and, even though he suspected that the gold buttons were really polished brass, he thanked his destiny for bringing the tailor to him.

Later that day, Magnus's horse cast a shoe and began to limp. However, there was a village just over the next hill and Magnus led the beast there to be shod.

When he arrived at the forge, he found the smith asleep on a pile of sacking. "Wake up, wake up," Magnus cried. "The King's horse needs shoeing."

The bleary faced smith shot to his feet and looked around wildly. "The King? Where? I don't see him."

"Here, you fool," declared Magnus. "I'm the King."

The smith frowned darkly and seemed about to say something when again Magnus felt the amulet grow warm. As it did so, the smith's eyes widened and he sank to one knee. "Your Majesty, please forgive me for not recognising you. If you'll excuse me for saying so, it was your horse that fooled me. I would have expected you to be riding a finer beast than that."

Magnus had to agree with him. The old plough horse was a tired, sway-backed beast well past its prime. "You're right," Magnus said. "What should I do?"

"Well, Sire, it happens I've got a fine white charger in the stable. You can have it and its tack, which is studded with silver, for five crowns. I'll even take your own poor creature off your hands."

Magnus agreed, and though he suspected that his new mount was white through age, and that the cracked leather was studded with tin instead of silver, the last of his inheritance seemed a small price to pay for creating a good impression.

So it was that a penniless but proud Magnus finally arrived at the closed gates of the city. "Open up," he called. "Open up for the King."

A dishevelled guard sauntered out of the watch house to confront him.

"And who are ..." The guard's voice trailed off as once again the amulet grew warm. "The King," he declared in amazement. "You're the King."

"I am," declared Magnus, full of pride. "I'm King Magnus, the new ruler of this land." The guard laughed roughly, then yelled out, "Hey, lads. The King's here. The King's back." Several more men tumbled from the watch house. Most were peasants, armed with pitchforks and scythes. They took one look at Magnus then called to others within the city. Within minutes Magnus was surrounded by a grinning crowd, and as the amulet grew hot enough to scorch his skin they cried, "It's the King. The King's returned." The pride within Magnus's chest curdled into something sour at the expression on their faces.

"Well, actually ..." he began, as rough hands pulled him from his mount. "... I'm not ..." he continued, but the words were cut off by a rope jerked tight around his neck. "... Not really ..." he croaked, as the rope was flung over a low branch. "... The King," he finished, too late for anyone to hear.

The peasants had already solved the problem of high taxation, and the amulet glowed brightly as their new King swung in the breeze.