Orphan of Destiny by Michael Spradlin

marshy and wet, and the bridge was built in a perfect spot, spanning the deepest run of the water and leading to dry ground on the other side. It was made of rough plank and wide enough for a man on horseback to pass, but not much wider. Robard cantered up onto the bridge. We all nearly died from fright when a man suddenly appeared at the other end. He was tall, gigantic even, cloaked in a black tunic and simple leggings with a cowl obscuring his face. In one giant hand he held a wooden staff, and his other hand was held out.
    “HALT!” he commanded.
    Robard’s horse spooked, nearly rearing, and he fought to bring it under control. They both could have plunged into the murky water below. With no room to turn around, Robard slowly backed up, until he was off the bridge.
    “Who are you? Why do you order us to halt?” he shouted.
    “This is my bridge. If you wish to cross, you must pay a toll!” the mysterious man shouted back. His voice sounded familiar and pulled at a string of my memory, but it was vague. Unfortunately Robard was already losing his temper.
    “A toll? Pay to cross? Not bloody likely!” he shouted.
    “Then come forward at your own risk,” the man replied. “You’ll not pass unless you pay. Two crosslets each!”
    “Robard, let’s not bother with this. We can head farther north and find another place to ford the stream,” I pleaded.
    “Nonsense! I don’t believe him for an instant. Toll bridge, my arse! I’ll not be bullied by some would-be troll who dares me to cross a stream. This isn’t the Holy Land, it’s my home country, and I’ll not stand for it.” Robard leapt from the back of his horse and handed the reins to Maryam.
    “Robard, what are you doing?” she asked. “Tristan is right. This isn’t worth it. We can find another place to cross upstream.”
    “I won’t be but a minute,” he said. He removed his bow and wallet, hanging them on the saddle, and drew Sir Thomas’ battle sword, which I was still too weak to carry. He marched up to the bridge and walked slowly toward the center, shouting all the way.
    “All right, you miserable pile of polecat dung! Charge me to cross a bridge, will you? I think not!”
    The man at the other end walked toward Robard slowly and unafraid, his staff tapping lightly on the wooden planks. Maryam and I sucked in our breath—he was huge, the biggest man I’d ever seen and nearly a full head taller than Robard.
    “Oh no,” Maryam said.
    “Oh . . . yes . . . ,” I said. And then I shouted, “Robard! Wait! Come back!” For as the man reached the center of the bridge, he removed his cowl and there stood John Little, the Dover blacksmith who had forged my sword and saved me from the ruffians set upon me by the King’s Guards.
    But Robard didn’t hear my cry. Instead he raised the sword above his head and with a mighty yell went charging forward.
    Cringing, I leapt from my horse, hobbling as best I could after Robard, desperate to save my friend from the thrashing coming his way. But it was too late. Robard rushed ahead, screaming at the top of his lungs. John Little stood silently, staff held loosely in both hands, and watched Robard’s charge with a slightly bemused expression on his face.
    When he was a few feet away from the giant man, Robard reared back and unleashed a mighty swing. The sword swept forward, and momentarily I feared he would connect and slay poor John.
    But with an agility that belied his great size, John Little easily ducked the swing, and his staff flicked out like a serpent’s tongue, hooking Robard in the back of the knees. Robard went down in a heap, and John put his foot on the blade, holding it fast. With his staff, he pressed down on Robard’s chest, pinning him to the bridge.
    “As I said. Two crosslets each,” John Little said quietly.
    “Wait! Stop!” I cried. But my shout was drowned out by the sound of Maryam’s devilishly loud war cry. She nearly knocked me off the bridge as she went hurtling