Hellbane - Part 1

Part 1

"Once, in an age before mortals and fey walked the world of Amicus, there was a war for dominance between the god, Reion, and daemon-king, Usaurhathoab. Foul dregs marched under his command, turning this world black and sinister with their vile magic and hate.

In the gallery of time, Godspear, the ancestral blade of the heavens was forged with ancient fire and steel, and with it, Reion purged our world of the legions of darkness that wrought naught but vile impurity upon it.

The daemon-king and his armies fled back into their eternal realms of Hell, defeated - for a time. But the daemon-king was cunning and unrepentant and worst of all his wicked mind despised Reion through the eons thereafter. Usaurhathoab slithered into the blackest recesses of his realms, weak and full of rage, his machinations went undisturbed for millennia.

Until, at the Dawn of Time, he returned with a terrible accursed sword to equal Godspear under his command - Hellbane! Reion met Usaurhathoab just as Godspear met Hellbane and the ancient foes clashed for a thousand years. Reion, with a mighty heft of Godspear, and Usaurhathoab, with Hellbane, charged and struck at each other, blinding the world - losing their fabled swords. So they say... So they say."

Hellbane and Godspear
by Ferris The Insane
Sword in the Stone
Year of Stars 276 ED

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The caravans moved uniformly, as they always did, in a narrow, condensed line, through the glimmering woodlands. Merchants, gypsies, sell-swords, knights and thieves alike were part of this glamorous pageant led by the great Ser Arthur Holt, a regal, brave knight whose name hung on the venerating lips of innumerable bards and minstrels from Dritan to Serkona.

He led honourably from the vanguard with his fellow knights. His armour was white and gold-lined, impressed with the sigil of the great, noble House Holt; a swooping golden eagle across the breastplate. It glinted proudly as he steered his great white charger whose ashen mane was laced was pink ribbons given to him by his adoring enthusiasts. Ser Arthur was a splendid specimen of manhood, broad shouldered, narrowed hipped and profoundly handsome. His bright-fair hair fell to his shoulders, jaws angular and rigid with a square chin, and his piercing blue orbs complimented a charming smile -- a smile that caught the hearts of men and women alike.

On the left of Ser Arthur rode a woman, and the reason why this caravan was conceptualised. Adorned in a perpetual select of jewels and glittering gems and a small coronet on her head was the fair Lady Magdalena, daughter to King Verne of Imeral and to-be-wed of Prince Herrick of Berm. Her mare matched her heavy brown cloak, which hid her supple form, and long curled hair. She giggled as the noble Arthur turned to her and spoke each time, charmed by his fantastical yarns and acts of heroism. Her personal guards behind them, to were in enraptured.

Flanking the knight on his right, on an old, trembling mule was his squire, a young black-haired boy named Maxwell Lockehart. His grey mail, light boots and ragged trousers showed how honoured he was to have been chosen by the famed knight as his successor. The boy was not so impressed by the stories, often murmuring lowly to himself whenever the eminent knight forgot a minor detail or two.

As they travelled for most of the day between the narrow passage, Magdalena suddenly turned to the speaking Ser Arthur and interrupted, "Ser Arthur, I tire. It's getting late even, I'm sure everyone else is tired a well, shall we not rest here for tonight?"

"I take my- ah- ah... Aye, your ladyship!" Arthur flashed the princess a smirk. It would be two days until they reached the capital City of Agartha where Prince Herrick lorded and waited to take his finance. He dipped his head and inclined it toward his squire, and in a proud voice said : "Brian!, we set up camp here tonight. Ride back and tell everyone of my plan!"

"It's Maxwell, Ser..." grumbled the squire as he reared his mount and done as told. He never missed the stares and chuckles from Ser Arthur's Band and some of their squires whenever the latter got his name wrong. Never.

The knight himself didn't even care, he turned back to the princess and began speaking once more, "As I was saying before you so rudely cut me off - I take my sword and look at the elf bastard, and say 'I am Ser Arthur'-"

Max and his mule rode off before the knight could finish his tale. As he went from trailer to trailer, ordering them to a halt he could imagine the knight recount his deed, saying to Magdalena "-Holt, you pointy-eared scum! Greatest knight in this life and the next!" he mimed with a flap of his arms as he remembered the first time the knight told him the story. "He kills the poor guy and gets the girl." he summarised with a frown.

"Aye, stop the trailers we're setting camp here tonight," Max said to a group of elf-gypsies, moving to another one before he heard his name rippling behind him. It carried the sweet eloquence of the deep south, unsullied like the honeyed timbre of minstrels, craning heads of man and elf alike as it neared.

"Max! Max! Hey- wait up!"

The mount turned and he saw another squire on a palfrey ride to him. It was a girl named Yvanna Brigand, who always smelt of lavender and sweetened-corn. Her lean white armour shone brilliantly in the dusk-light like her long, scarlet tresses. The fellow southlander was squired to Ser George Orrick, a senior knight who joined with Arthur's Band some three winters back, two winters after Maxwell himself met the famed knight. Yvanna's father was acquaintances with Ser George and quite good with the sword, she had impressed Ser George the first time they met when she showed the knight what she had learnt and took his offer to learn under his shadow. Amongst the band, she was one of the only female squires, the other being a girl named Cassia Steeloak.

"What do you want?" he muttered as he rolled his shoulders.

Yvanna flushed as her great horse stopped beside the mule, dwarfing it. "I-- I want to help. I.. I was in the back of the vanguard and saw you leave, Ser Arthur wouldn't stop talking after that."

"Does he ever?"

"We'll... we'll wait for the day," her cheeks turned rosy whenever he spoke.

As they went farther down the caravan they engaged in idle chat. Max was glad that Yvanna helped, it thinned his work greatly though he never said it.

He turned to her and asked, "What about the other squires, why didn't they come and help?" 

Yvanna looked at him and smiled. It was a sad smile that Max didn't miss. "Oh- you know how they are. They'd rather listen to Ser Arthur than do any squiring..." she chortled, missing the peering green eyes watching them from the other side of the trailer.

Max scoffed and trotted forward on his mule, "Assholes."

He had spoken loud enough for her to have even heard as he left and she could all but look at her gauntlets, murmuring to herself. The spying jade eyes narrowed as she followed Max shortly after. Dusk waned and the pale moon began its nightly convention, pallid light beaming off the tree tops, beer cups and trailers, whilst flooding the clearing in an enchanting magical radiance unfounded in the distant cities. As always such caravans were filled with merriment and festivities. The minstrels filtered the channel with sing-along-songs and stories. Magicians showed their practiced tricks as the elf-folk entertained, holding puppet shows and games. The knights and mercenaries met and tested their mantle against each other. The prostitutes whored and the drunkards drank, callous to what the coming day might bring. It was justly another great night for the caravan. But whilst everyone drunk, danced and duelled Maxwell was in Ser Arthur's trailer, squiring.

"Samuel, get me my Tivian wine!"

"It's Max, Ser..." the young squire groused as he headed for the cabinet. Eighteen winters!, I've lived eighteen winters and five of them have been spent with this moron!, he thought as he picked out a square bottle. He removed the cork, set a glass and poured the crimson wine, watching as Ser Arthur picked out a shirt. The knight was naked for but his linen underwear, his skin held no scars or blemishes on them.

"No, not this one- maybe this?" he mused as he tried on a loose white shirt with an open neck line, "Tell me Vincent-"

"Max, Ser..."

"Yes, Yes... which of these says 'Greatest Knight of All Time'?, I need to look presentable for the Princess." he grinned faintly.

"I don't know. The one that looks like something a knight would wear?"

Arthur, lost in his fashion, moved to the oval mirror beside his mounted armour and broadsword and looked himself in the mirro. He tensed his muscles to see how they seamlessly swelled. "Squire, do you think I've gained weight? I feel quite bloated lately."

I'm sure its just your ego that's bloated, Max thought to himself standing by the table. He looked at his reflection through whatever piece of glass the knight didn't occupy, realizing how his self changed over the past five years. Where before stood an average-built boy in these boots, there was now a tall lad, nigh-equal to the six foot-five Arthur himself in height. Through his worn clothes he could see he had become lean from his laboured duties over the years, with sparse muscle. His shoulders weren't as broad the knight and his waist was narrower. His face was worn with work, but healthy. His brown eyes were dim with disinterest and his hair unshorn and asymmetrical.

"No, Ser. You look as fit and as ready as always." he lied, raking his bangs from blocking his sight.

"Aye! Good!" he chose a tight shirt to accentuate his muscles, "Hand me my wine, squire." The glass met his palm and he took a drink, spraying it out shortly after, disgusted. "Bleh! By god, what is this? I said Tivian, Tivian!"

"It is Tivian. They are the worst winemakers in the world, remember?" the squire took the glass and set it by the table.

Arthur looked at his stained shirt and spat, "Fucking Tivians - ah, now I remember. King Maris asked me to seize their lands! Remember that?" he chuckled as he went for another shirt, a woollen piece with trimmings about its neckline.

Max rolled his eyes, recalling differently from how it was actually told. Contrary to popular belief, Ser Roland Picken of a house of the same name led the charge against the Tivians. He sieged the capital city of Vimillia and slew Lord Taros. But unfortunately an arrow prematurely released from a bowman that Arthur was stabbing, and it struck Roland in the neck. The old man wobbled to his death and Arthur caught him as he was dying. The main cavalry arrived as Ser Arthur laid the old man down, his gaping mouth full of blood, gurgling the famous words 'Ar...thur... You... bas... tahhhh...d.'

Of course those who heard the fading knight thought he was praising Arthur, who must have 'bested' Lord Taros, when they saw the enemy lord's corpse nearby. A high, bronze statue of forty feet was erected in the centre of the city mirroring how Arthur gallantly held the dying old man just as they had found them, immortalizing the heroic scene of that day. 'To those who died fighting' was scribed into the stone. Arthur had chosen the words.

The squire took the wine-filled glass and sipped from it. T'was not the worse wine he tasted, but its sour flavour lingered on his tongue.

Ser Arthur chuckled, his mane swaying as he went into a crooning voice that Max had come to know all too well. "Lady Magdalena asked for my company tonight, she wants me to show her my 'jousting technique'!" he grinned as he thrust his pelvis out, emphasising the rhetoric. His cock was swollen a bit in arousal and he cupped it through his underwear, adjusting it as to straigthen the shaft. He sniggered as a cloudy memory quickly enveloped him, his smile brightening even farther. "Speaking of jousting - that reminds me of a story! Aye! Did I ever tell of the day I mistook a kidnapper for a goblin? HA! Did I?"

Max glowered. He hated this story, loathing it with the exuberance of a vampire strutting through the desert during a drought. He detested it so much that he didn't seem to notice the network of cracks his clenching hand made around the glass. Max tensed as saturating fires of annoyance lurked buried behind his eyes, as he watched the famed knight.

Ser Arthur Holt laughed as he kept asking whether or not he knew the story.

"Aye... I know the blasted story... I was there, I was thirteen winters old. It's the bloody reason I'm stuck as your squire. That was my father you mistook for the goblin, remember!" he rasped through his teeth. Suddenly the glass snapped, exploding shards ripped through his calloused hand violently, his chest heaved savagely, and blood dripped out his trembling fist in a scarlet amalgamation with the foreign wine.

Ser Arthur turned, his eyes narrowed as he looked at the boy's bloodied hand and the savage expression fixed vehemently on his hardened face. His lips pursed as he spoke "Ah yes! It was the day we met and I squired you!" he beamed, "Splendid imitation of that goblin-man by the way, quite the fierce look you have going there! As I was saying before you so rudely interrupted... There I was, it's a stormy winter night in some backward southland village I was journeying. I rode upon my horse through the pelting rain and suddenly see this strange beast lumbering toward me, 'Halt creature!' I say with generous kindness. But it doesn't listen, it charges. And so I grab my sword and met it with a valiant swing, smiting the goblin! Ah, but no, t'was no goblin I say but something far worse, a blasted kidnapper! And it was you that he kidnapped!"

"He wasn't a kidnapper... he was a farmer. He came to fetch me from the school house that day. Because it was late, the wagon left me - all because I wanted to practice the sword-trick they taught us... to show to dad that night..." Max whispered to himself, looking at his bloody palm through misty eyes. It reminded him of the blood spurting from his father's neck as he lay dying, rasping out something. All Max remembered was his father's eyes fading, his mouth opening and closing as it tried for words but failed wretchedly. He rasped the only thing he had left after his wife died giving birth... 'Max... Max... Maa...' the squire remembered through the throbbing pain of a split hand.

Arthur, lost in his yarn, continued, "And there you were. Crying! Ha-ha, don't think I forgot how you cried, Mhm- you don't anymore but I remembered how you bawled, and bawled, clutching to my greaves, even calling me your father!"

Max growled at the mention of that. He remembered how he wanted to rip that knight off his horse and pummel him to death. But he was weak, and whatever strength he may have had was torn from him in that one terrible moment. I can't believe I ever wanted to be a knight, to be noble and famous; he swore himself as he felt his veins seethe with anger.

"And I looked at you and how pathetic you were - lost, frightened, cold... Ah but Ser Arthur Holt of a House of the Same Name is as kind as he is smart. And he knows potential when he sees it. Ha, remember what I said to you? I do! I said, 'By God and Crown, by Heaven and Sword, I Ser Arthur Holt of House Holt take you as my noble and brave underling. To squire for the greatest of all knights.'- Ah, simply poetic I must say so myself."

"Yeah... exemplary speech." Max scoffed as he watched the knight don a simple coat, black with green flowery patterns.

"Aye, you see William-"

"Max, Ser..."

"- I'm not as perfect as they make me seem to be. Even I dabble in little things." Arthur said as he turned to the door, an expanding grin on his faultless face, "Magdalena is probably eager to see me! I should be gone! Matthew, do some squiring while I'm gone."

"Do what squiring exactly?"

"Whatever it is squires do these days, and do it well. I heard some of the band say their horses need water. Do that perhaps? And get that hand bandaged, it might get infected." Arthur said, opening the door to let a chilled wind whip into the trailer. "By God, its cold!"

"Some pants would help with that, Ser..."

"Aye!"

Continued in Part 2

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