The Music Box Chapter 6

Chapter Six.

 

Endgame.

 

Prince Rogan and the hunters were overjoyed to see Jack return safely. They wrapped him in a blanket and gave him a hot drink.

“It’s my clockwork man,” Jack said. “When the moonlight hit him, I recognised the armour. Magalan hasn’t looked after him, there’s rust on his shoulders.”

“Could you get close enough to turn him off?” a hunter asked.

Jack shook his head. “He hears the slightest sound.”

“In that case,” Rogan said, “I’ll have to fight him.”

“No, sire!” the hunters cried.

The chief hunter stepped forward. “If your brother’s brain is inside that knight, then it fights as well as he did. And forgive me, Your Highness… but you never could beat him.”

Rogan gave a rueful smile. “True enough. Any other ideas?”

“The best thing would be to push him into deep water,” Jack said. “That might stop the clockwork.”

Walter nodded. “There’s a river half a mile outside the gates. We could push him in.”

“Is there a bridge?” Rogan asked.

“A wooden one,” Walter said proudly. “We built it five years ago.”

“Even better,” Rogan said. “I have a plan.”

The next morning, Rogan led his party to the bridge. They worked until midday, then ate quickly and prepared to act.

“Remember,” Rogan warned, “if this fails, you are to ride back to my father. No one is to rush in after me. That is an order.”

Everyone nodded.

Jack and Walter hid beneath the bridge, each holding a rope. The hunters spread out along the road. Rogan drew his sword, lowered his visor, and marched into the silent town.

The Dark Knight stood before the Guild Hall. As soon as Rogan appeared, it raised its sword and advanced. They met at the gates, steel clashing. Rogan allowed himself to be driven back, step by step, taking blow after blow on his shield. He struck back when he could, but the Knight did not falter.

As they passed the hidden hunters, the men slipped out behind them, bows ready. They had orders to shoot only if Rogan fell.

Under the bridge, Jack and Walter waited beside the trapdoor the hunters had cut that morning.

When Rogan felt the wooden planks beneath his feet, he turned and ran across. On the far bank he stopped, breathing hard.

The Dark Knight hesitated at the edge of the bridge.

Below, Jack held his breath. Walter trembled so violently he’d bitten his lip; blood ran down his chin.

The hunters stood thirty paces back, silent.

Rogan raised his sword, ready to cross again.

“Noise!” Jack shouted from beneath the bridge. “It follows sound, make a noise!”

The Knight turned toward Jack’s voice. Rogan quickly banged his sword against his shield. The Knight swung back to face him.

Still, it did not step onto the bridge.

Rogan took one step forward and struck his shield again, louder. He shouted a challenge.

The Dark Knight charged.

Jack and Walter hauled on their ropes. The trapdoor dropped open. With a tremendous splash, the Dark Knight plunged into the river.

Jack and Walter scrambled out from beneath the bridge and ran to the hunters. Rogan stood on the bank, staring into the churning water.

Bubbles rose. Mud swirled. Then nothing.

Five long minutes passed.

Jack let out a shaky breath and stepped toward the river.

The hunters lowered their bows. Walter sat on the roadside, wiping his chin, still trembling. Rogan lifted his visor.

“That was—” he began.

The river exploded.

The Dark Knight strode out of the water, mud and weed streaming from its armour. A long strand of green weed hung from its helmet like a ribbon. Water poured from the eyeholes, it looked as though it were weeping.

Rogan barely raised his shield before the Knight attacked. Its first blow knocked his sword from his hand. The second sent his helmet flying. A third split his shield clean in two. Rogan staggered back, clutching his bruised arm.

The Dark Knight raised its sword for the killing stroke.

The hunters reached for their bows.

“No, no, no!” Jack shouted.

Walter fainted.

The sword came down—

—and stopped.

Frozen in mid‑air.

For a heartbeat no one moved.

Then Rogan snatched up his fallen sword and, ignoring the pain in his arm, attacked the motionless Knight. Blow after blow rained down. Within minutes, the clockwork man lay in a heap of twisted metal. Rogan kicked the sword away.

Then he collapsed.

          On the far bank of the river, Jack collapsed as the pain in his back returned, worse than he had ever felt it, ten times worse, just as the witch had promised.

At that same moment, far away in the palace, the ice coffin shattered. Prince Roban sat up, blinked, and said, “Bit cold in here, isn’t it?”

The housemaid who was dusting the tomb fainted clean away.

With his arm splinted and his cuts tended, Prince Rogan and his companions were hailed as heroes by the grateful townsfolk. Even Walter, for the first time in his life, was treated with respect.

Jack missed all of it. The pain was so fierce he could not stand. Prince Rogan visited him where he lay.

“I didn’t realise destroying the clockwork man would cost you so much,” Rogan said softly.

“It had to be done,” Jack whispered. Then, with a weak attempt at humour: “It’s back‑ache, not heart‑ache. And if it means your brother is safe, I’m glad.”

Rogan nodded. “Magalan said he would wake when the Dark Knight was seen to weep. And he did look as though he was weeping when he came out of the river.”

He looked at Jack’s face, pale, sweating, twisted with pain.

“We’ll get you home,” he promised. “And I’ll send the finest doctors in the land.”

 

Jack travelled home slowly, lying in a soft bed in a well‑sprung wagon. It made little difference. The pain was constant.

Back in his workshop, he threw himself into finishing the King’s clock. He built it, dismantled it, altered it, rebuilt it, over and over. His fingers bled. His head spun. Still he worked.

Doctor after doctor came at Prince Rogan’s command. One after another shook their heads. Nothing could be done.

At last, the clock was perfect, just in time for the King’s birthday. Prince Rogan came to see it and was delighted. A footman carried it away to the waiting coach.

Rogan stayed behind.

“I was in Ingford this week,” he said. “We caught some outlaws near the new bridge. They surrendered without a fight. I gave them the choice of hanging or joining the army, they all chose the army.”

Jack tried to smile.

“They told me they’d come south because the mountains are no longer safe. The Wraiths have been attacking them. Once they’re trained, we’ll send them back as patrols.”

“The Wraiths?” Jack murmured.

“The Wraiths,” Rogan confirmed. “But that’s not what I came to tell you. The people of Ingford asked me to open their new bridge. They’ve replaced the one we sawed through. And—” he chuckled “—they’re talking about putting up a statue of Walter at one end and the Dark Knight at the other. Walter’s quite the hero now. To hear him tell it, he defeated the Knight single‑handed.”

Jack tried to laugh, but a wave of pain crushed him. For a long minute he could neither speak nor move.

Rogan waited silently until Jack’s breathing eased.

“I searched the battlefield,” he said gently. “There’s almost nothing left of the Knight. It’s all rusted away, except this.”

He placed a lump of rusty metal on the bench. “A keepsake.”

Jack turned it over. “It looks like a heart.”

“It does,” Rogan agreed. “Metal, though. And… one more thing. The Wraiths have been attacking villages in the north. I’ve been ordered south to see if they’re spreading. I’ll be gone a few weeks.”

Seeing Jack was exhausted, he took his leave.

After that, Jack grew weaker. He rarely entered the workshop. A fever settled on him and would not lift.

On one of his better days, he dragged himself to his stool. The effort left him dizzy and shaking. When the world stopped spinning, he reached for the music box. He opened it and looked at the tiny dancer lying folded on her stage.

“To see you dance… just once,” he whispered.

His eye fell on the rusty lump Rogan had brought. He picked it up, examined it through his eyeglass, and began gently chipping away the rust.

When the surface flaked off, he turned the object this way and that. His eyes widened. He seized a small hammer and chisel.

With delicate taps, he broke open the lump.

A soft cry escaped him. “The heart… it’s the heart.”

Inside the rusted shell lay a spring, thin as a human hair, and a tiny, perfectly formed golden acorn.

Hands trembling, Jack lifted the spring with tweezers. It gleamed brightly. He placed the acorn safely in his toolbox; later he would discover it was the perfect weight for a clock’s pendulum.

For now, he reached for the music box.

He had to pause for five minutes until the pain and dizziness passed. Then, with slow, careful movements, he opened the mechanism and fitted the tiny spring. He reassembled the box and wound the key ten times, just as Magalan had once instructed.

He lifted the lid.

The tiny dancer rose, and as the music played, she danced.

She danced just for Jack.

When the music stopped, Jack was in tears. He was too weak to close the lid. His head drooped, and he slipped into unconsciousness.