Part 2
When Arthur left for Magdalena's trailer, adorned in the best pants and boots in his collection, Max patched himself up. He nursed the wound with alcohol, cleaned it and even wrapped the bandage all by himself. Then he cleaned up the shards of glass and wine from the table. He lazed around the trailer for a bit, drinking some of Arthur's better wine to ebb the pain away.
After an hour or so of sitting about he found himself drawn to Arthur's broadsword. It was an elegant piece, scored here and there but so faintly that it looked like it had rarely been used. In truth, in the past five years that Max squired for the knight he had seen him use it rigorously, with exceptions. One time, some bandits and robbers were so enthralled by the knight of legend himself that they willingly gave themselves up when they saw him ride past. That wasn't to say Ser Arthur was the greatest swordsman to have ever lived, in fact Max always thought his skill was the only thing he found likeable about him. But he wasn't as impressive as some of the knights in his band, like Ser Cormac of Tenspree or Ser Leonard Brokesword, both of whom worshipped the ground Ser Arthur walked on.
His hand went to the hilt and the weight of it pressed into his palm as he drew it. The weapon was weighty but manageable for the squire to toy with, a few testing swings here and there and he felt the stirring vigour for swordplay throb. "Bastard hasn't even bought me a sword yet. All the other squires are prancing about learning and I have to sit and listen to his stories, and I've beat them all with training wood! Tch! If only they knew what the 'Greatest Knight Of All Time' really was." He shrugged as he placed the sword back at the armour's side and left the trailer to walk in the night.
The blend of music, elf and human alike, was the first thing to prick his ears as he descended the three trailer steps. When his feet planted onto the ground he smelt the roasted venison glazed with oils and herbs hanging in the smoke amongst the trailers and trees. He looked at the caravan lined down the clearing, watching all kinds of people enjoying themselves in a drunken maze. Gleaming smiles stretched their lips and golden mugs of spiced beer filled their bellies. In the woodlands he could see a few tents erected and bonfires lit, shadows bent around trees as the people danced and sang the night away.
He walked into the woods toward the direction he tethered the mounts. Passing some camps, the occupants were kind enough to offer him a seat or a drink but he declined and moved on. They laughed and giggled in drunken bewilderment, asking how such an uptight boy was squired to an amazing individual like Ser Arthur. As always he shrugged off the commentary and kept on his way, until he reached one camp in particular.
"I really don't know how such a dick was squired to Ser Arthur- the greatest living human in the world has that prick as a squire! You've seen how he looks at us, all high and mighty!" Green eyes reflected with the fire they encircled. There sat three squires. The enflamed speaker was Rowan Tenspree, heir to his house, squire to Ser Cormac. He, like the rest of the squires was out his armour and wore a simple set of clothes, light boots, trousers, shirt and jacket for the chill.
Yvanna grimace as she watched the faux-blonde youth sit back and tilt his cup of spiced beer. His green eyes were hazy and lean face was pink from how much he'd drank. She countered, "I wouldn't say that... I mean..."
"Agh, don't defend him Anna!" A mousy voice chirped. It belonged to Cedric, squire to Ser Borin of Ystam. He was much wider than his fellows and sweated through the pores of his shaven head. He tore through a chunk of meat and spoke as he chewed, "Ser... Arrdur... issa viccum..." he swallowed, "Ser Arthur is a victim to an ungrateful squire. I mean look at Rowan here. He would make a great squire to Arthur."
Max, tired of all Rowan's slander since joining the band a winter ago, emerged into the firelight.
The faux-blonde glowered when the pantherish body of the hated squire swayed into their small camp, "Ah! If it ain't lord arsehole hisself! Would you look at this guy, Cedric?-- Cedric?"
The bald squire had hidden his face in his plate when he saw Max appear. He chewed quietly as he looked out from under his brow, terrified, frightened still after the beating he received three years back when he sparred with Max.
"Max! Your hand!" Yvanna started for him when she saw the bandage, "What happened?"
"I got tired of hearing Arthur recounting his deeds."
Yvanna gasped.
Rowan growled and spat in disgust, "See what I mean, ungrateful, ain't even calling him Ser!"
Cedric chewed until he accidentally locked eyes with Max, he began to shuffle his heavy body uncomfortably.
Rowan saw this and spoke up "What do you want? Did serving the greatest knight to walk this earth suddenly become boring?"
"Guys... please, not tonight." Yvanna implored as she unwrapped the bandage to look at the wound. The cuts tore through his skin in wide slits. She wheezed at how his blooded hand still seeped out some blood. "You're hurt, you need a healer... it'll fester." she whispered with soft eyes.
"I'll be fine." Max grunted as she wrapped the cloth again, "Where's the elf-boy and the other one?" he referred to Ulrike and Cassia.
The elf, Ulrike, was squired to Ser Leonard and Cassia to the youngest knight in Arthur's Band, Ser Dain Greyrot.
"They're in a tent! Doing it!" Cedric sputtered as he stood up suddenly, trembling. He couldn't take the glares anymore, he hadn't healed properly yet! Before anyone could ask, the large squire bolted toward Ser Borin's tent, his hefty body swaying side to side as he huffed in retreat.
Rowan leaned back on the log he sat and hissed like an adder, "Aye, they're fucking." He smirked as he looked over Yvanna, licking his thin lips as the firelight flickered on her. She was supple, hips ordinary like her small pert breasts, and the cutest ass he'd ever seen. Her long red tresses seemed supernaturally colored, as if they were the flames themselves. He grinned, watching her as he added, "Just like Yvanna promised me we would tonight."
"Shut up! I never said that, dolt!" the red-hair snarled with a fiery glare. Turning back to Max, her eyes softened, "I wouldn't... Not with... I mean I'm still..." she stammered. Her hands shook as she laced a knot on his hand wrap.
"Still what?" Max quirked a brow.
"I'm- I'm still... finishing this loop!"
Rowan watched the exchange with heated emerald eyes. He took a drink of his spiced beer and cursed Max for ever living.
Max turned and looked at the faux-blonde Rowan, who was all but the imitation of Ser Arthur and asked, "Where can I get water? I was asked to water the horses, seeing as how I'm the only one ever doing anything."
"I dunno, how should I, since I don't do anything?" Rowan quipped, slipping his beer.
Yvanna answered, "I heard some elves say there's a pond not far from here. Just east - But they say its cursed?"
Max clenched his wine-numbed hand and nodded, "Cursed huh? I'm sure it's just superstitious elves trying to scare the younglings, It'll be fine."
"Can I go with you?" she asked as he moved toward the horses.
"No, I don't want Ser Arthur the Second there stalking me like he did earlier today." Max retorted, glancing at Rowan.
Rowan's jade eyes widen as he choked on his beer. "How?... Hey! I would never!"
"Whatever. Just go get some rest Anna... we have a long day tomorrow."
Yvanna blushed, Max had never called her Anna before. It was beautiful how he said it with his stern voice. It made her skin prickly as she repeated it in her head.
"Yes! I... okay." she faltered as her breath caught in her chest. "Be safe!" she finally hollered, waving. She watched him recede into the gloom of the trees. The humming in her chest hadn't yet ceased when she let her nervous hands touch. She looked at her palms and saw a smudge of crimson. It was his blood, it had his scent on it.
Rowan looked at Yvanna gazing into her palms. He glowered and said "I wasn't stalking, I was sent to get... uhm- stuff..."
"Shut up Rowan!"
"Okay."
Max fetched the horses where he'd tethered them in a small clearing. He tied them to one another and led them east. He walked in the trees for ten minutes, wondered if the pond was actually there. Then he heard a rustle of leaves and croaking of bullfrogs. Hoary moonlight lit the quaint pool in a fantastical light. The bullfrogs fell silent as the horses trudged into the circular clearing. He unfastened the ropes and led the mounts to water. He let his mule drink first of course and then he let Ser Arthur's charger. He allowed them to sate themselves and tended to the rest listlessly.
As he let Ser Borin's palfrey drink, he felt a strange sensation course through his limbs, as if eyes were on him. He'd known jeers and curious eyes before, but this feeling was different, transcending his ability to decipher it. When the horse finished drinking, a gale of wind suddenly rolled into the clearing, carrying a grim rumble with it that Max did not recognize. His skin felt itchy, and his pulse began to race with fear and excitement. Then, his body felt hot, a drumming throb raced between his ears as his knees shook.
"What... the... fu..." a light farther east glinted, catching his attention.
He found his legs mechanically walking toward it. The throbbing left his hazy mind as he neared. He heard leaves rustle like a gallery of ancestral voices forming the gaunt anatomy of the archaic world. A thousand... ten thousand... hundred thousand... a million... writhing, cackling, galvanized whispers conducted by some transcended puppeteer steering his cognizance.
In the black ahead he saw an impression of stone slanted. Jutting from the scalp of the boulder was a sliver streak of exuberant brilliance. T'was a sword, the steeled squire mused as he found his foot on the rock, his body magnetically summoned by it.
"It's a sword," he said to the innumerable voices in his head. But it was unlike any sword he had ever seen.
The artefact pulsating before him was the phantasy of a perverse engineer. Blasted ostensibly through horrendous realms from which the blackest of psyches feared to venture, its blasphemous construct expunged all mortal senses, rippling violently through Maxwell as his aching hand inched out toward its otherworldly hilt. The pommel throbbed wicked shades of vermillion, splashing voices across a gaping celestial face carved there with bleeding eyes. Its cross-guard, a brass-daemonic face with slender teeth tapering to the blade, lit with claret plumes panting out skeletal contours as curved horns emerged from its waking form.
Hellish runes in the eldest of cosmic tongues cut down the spine of the grey-sliver blade whose very pounding conceptualization called out to Max. In the distant recesses of his mind he heard a dead eldritch voice calling eternally in a great thirsting grunt. His fingers electrified as they coiled around the pulsing hilt. The eyes on the face carved into the pommel widened, tentacular blackness thrashed out beneath him as a clamouring roar boiled around the rock.
"I wouldn't do that if I was you!" a voice spilt out a crevice of common sense, flinging the squire back to the ground below.
He felt a jolting pain ripple through his spine as misty greyness swarmed about his eyes. Hhis head lolled as he gathered his vision. "Oooh... what... ?" he murmured.
"Don't you dare touch this sword," the voice swam in his ears, writhing ethereally between his eyes, "Don't you humans know anything?" It was feminine, as if the voice of multiple ancient minstrels were flung savagely into a body, mixing into one.
Max opened his eyes to see a blurry boulder, as everything came into focus he felt a rumble in the ground and gale wash over him. A silhouette swooped down and perched itself upon the rock before him. At its sides stretched black leathery wings which bent as her purple eyes bore down at the squire. She, whoever and whatever she was, was naked. Her dusky skin glimmered like gold under the curling moonlight. Her large breasts swelled firmly from her chest, with dark nipples pierced with rings. Her belly was clenched with toned muscle whilst her full waist curved to strong thighs. Betwixt, her sex was bare.
She caught the squire staring and folded her wings to cover her voluptuous form, snarling. "My face is up here, boy!"
Max's roaming eyes found her stern seamless face. Like a symmetric statute, there were full lips, naturally black he mused, a narrow nose that ascended to slant, sultry purple eyes. A pair of short bullish horns the shade of onyx curved out of her forehead menacingly, but Max found them sensual, the color matched her curled bangs straight shoulder-length hair. Her wings glittered and changed into a green and white gown fastened at the collar with a round buckle. The gown hugged her sacred curves astonishingly.
Max spread his feet, wobbling shakily, and dusted himself off. "I'm guessing I owe some superstitious elves an apology."
The beauiful horned woman stood firmly on the slanting rock. "Leave this place, mortal! These are hallowed grounds!" the woman commanded, watching the boy stagger toward the boulder.
He paused and look around, his vision twisted and hazy "I... can't... the sword.. It's calling out to me."
"Impossible! I would have known..." she said, uncertain. Her eyes swung from the boy to the sword. Her slim fingers curled over the pommel and touched it. She gasped in the most sensual way Max had ever heard. "No..." she glowered.
"You! What's your name?"
"Maxwell... Max."
Continued in Part 3
Post a comment