In which our hero ruminates about the necessity of violence…
—3—
“Oh goody!” shouted Ne’er-be-Hung Nick with much jollity as he whipped his bow out and almost expertly fitted an arrow. “Death and danger await!”
In the moment of the gods’ capriciousness, the gates of Prince Jack’s castle had opened. Out had poured a small band of guards. Truly, I had expected such a charming castle, all white and pearly as it was—especially when reportedly ruled by a very good queen stepmother—to have a legion of tall knights in shiny virile armor with great golden plumes all mounted on pristine white destriers. If not for the gods’ capriciousness, the horses, of course, would prance regally towards us. The knights, upon recognizing a fellow knight armed with a trusty Craftsman™ broadsword, would have gladly bestowed upon me, as their brother, great honor by escorting me to greet their queen. My compatriots, of course, would have been allowed to follow at a respectable distance and allowed to quarter with the queen’s soldiers whilst I, charming as always, captivated the queen and inveigled her to release Prince Jack into my custody until a proper suitor could be found for Princess Mary. Thus would I fulfill my contract and thwart Gremnik, my archnemesis.
“Sir Roger!” shouted Lady Belinda. I started, realizing she was waving her cutlass in front of me. My eyes widened. What dire magic had seduced me into daydreams?! I glanced over her shoulder. The small band of guards rapidly approached. I sighed. Their garb was disappointedly motley and decidedly unshiny. Then my eyes widened further.
“It cannot be!” I muttered, dismayed.
“What?” asked Lady Belinda. Roderick and Ne’er-be-Hung Nick glanced worriedly in my direction as my broadsword slithered from its sheath. My eyes narrowed and I squared my substantial shoulders. Their eyes glanced worriedly towards the onrushing motley crew, clearly wondering what I saw.
“Well if it ain’t Sir Chippy!” taunted the most hated voice in the universe.
The motley crew halted but a few yards away, swords drawn, and a small-yet-bulbous blue mass stepped forward.
“My sword is not chipped, Gremnik!” I growled and held up my broadsword as proof. My archnemesis knew better but could never resist taunting me.
(Lesson #4: When obtaining corporate sponsorships, aspiring knights should always sign with reputable companies. As soon as they see the Craftsman trademark on my broadsword, blacksmiths and metalsmiths alike have always sharpened my blade, no questions asked. That is why it is trusty!)
(Note: Always read one’s contract carefully. For example, the Product Placement Clause can wreak havoc with one’s storytelling when always having to refer to one’s sword as a “trusty Craftsman™ broadsword.”)
Gremnik chortled, a gurgling guffaw that’s uglier to the ears than his two whopping warts and foot-long handlebar mustache are to the eyes. His chuckles grate like a knife scraping a bottle (which, if one keeps up with The Wizarding Journal of Magical Pseudoscience, is the single most likely non-magical sound to cause severe wincing (except, of course, if you are stuck guarding a caravan with a screaming baby)).
The short, stout, blue-skinned Brimulung is, without a doubt, the world’s greatest irritant possessing Class 1A-rated axe-wielding skills. His four compatriots towered over him, but one glance at their vacuous eyes and I knew them to all sport a dizzying lack of intellect. This was confirmed as soon as the tallest of the leather-clad men spoke.
“Uhhh, Boss, aren’t we s’posed to, like, kill ’em all?” The man’s low-pitched voice was so void of independent thought it rumbled like an empty jar. His fellows all nodded dully. I noted by the slack grip on their longswords they had not been dutifully trained at the Mercenaries, Inc. Knight Finishing School, but at Knights For Dummies, whose accreditation has always been suspect. This time it was my turn to snicker.
Gremnik’s chortle twisted into a snarl. My snicker slid into a smile.
“You were not hired for your brains, Colossus,” my archnemesis muttered over his shoulder. “Let the grownups talk.” He quickly turned back to me, his blue skin purple with, I assume, embarrassment, and pointed a stubby finger at me.
“That was not a compliment, moron. There’s just a shortage of decent mercenaries right now…”
“Ahh, Gremmy,” I said, as condescendingly as possible, “You do care about me!”
“Listen, peanut brain, I have been charged by the gods with a sacred quest! You would be wise to not interfere!”
“Sacred!” snorted Lady Belinda. “No one with your lack of fashion sense could possibly be on a sacred quest!”
I nodded sagely at my compatriot.
“She is quite right, Gremmy. Just look at the state of your armor! I see four blemishes and three dents, not to mention that tattered fringe on your not-so-natty cloak! I mean, bronze inlay is so last year!”
“Oooooh!” murmured Roderick and Ne’er-be-Hung Nick most appreciatively. I bowed slightly.
Colossus drew his longsword with a growl.
“That sheen is rather dull,” Lady Belinda causally commented with a flick of her cigarillo. “Should it not sparkle in the sun?”
Colossus’s shoulders sagged.
“Ahhhhh!” hummed Roderick and Ne’er-be-Hung Nick most enthusiastically. Unfortunately, their hum inspired Colossus, who stood up tall and brandished his rather dull sword.
“Can we kill ‘em now, Boss?” he asked. I did not like the sting in his voice. A good taunt should demoralize, not embolden.
The other morons Gremnik had hired also drew their swords. A whoosh to my right and I knew Lady Belinda had done the same. Out of the corner of my eye, Ne’er-be-Hung Nick aimed an arrow at the stubby man’s eyes, his hand 80% steady, while Roderick began muttering rather dourly behind me.
In my line of work, violence is sometimes necessary and, for mercenaries less scrupulous than I, can result in a larger payday should their compatriots perish. However, killing is a messy business and, without an audience to witness my exploits, there was little glory to be gained. For a fight to be glorious, there must be witnesses! (That, by the way, is Lesson #5.) However, if I was going to be as apt a student as I am a teacher, I quickly needed to de-escalate tensions until I could taunt Gremnik on a much grander stage.
“Woah, woah, woah, woah!” I said, waving my hands with as much dignity as I could possibly muster, considering the circumstances. “We can’t do this here!”
Gremnik grunted grudging acquiescence, thudding his overlarge axe against the ground.
“Dammit, but he’s right, boys. Put the swords down. First I’ve got to give him the warning.” The stubby blue man’s handlebar mustache twitched like a ferret’s nose as he crossed his arms over his chest.
“I’m warning you, Sir Chippy, I’ve been given a sacred quest by the gods to bring Prince Jake to Princess Mary.”
“It’s Prince Jack, you imbecilic idiot!” I retorted snappily.
“How can he be on a sacred quest if he can’t get the prince’s name right?” murmured Roderick morosely. Even Colossus mumbled assent. Gremnik’s handlebar mustache twitched like a child’s hand caught in a cookie jar.
“Jake, Jack, what’s the difference?” he said with careless bravado as he attempted to wave off his error. “What matters is we were here first, you sanctimonious shrew!”
“You don’t have him yet, do you?” I said with casual confidence.
“The guards won’t let us in,” rumbled Colossus. “Said da queen is helpin’ Princess Mary choose dresses for da bridesmaids.”
“Shut up, you loutish landmass!” hissed Gremnik.
“Why is the mother of the groom helping the bride?” queried Lady Belinda, although I had wondered the same thing. Fortune, it seemed, was indeed as fickle as the gods were capricious and—for once—it favored us. A plan formulated.
(Hint #1: To maximize your prowess potential whilst attending Knight Finishing School, I strongly recommend Sir Alpheus’s course On-The-Spot Planning, Concocting, and Formulating: Lectures on the Art of Initiative and Gumption. Challenging, yes, but well worth the extra homework!)
One of Sir Alpheus’s primary premises is, when in doubt, talk your way out of a fight. Violence is only the answer when gold, glory, and/or girls are at stake. In our current situation, while we did have our mercenary’s fee to consider, neither glory nor girls could be achieved. Therefore, the logical solution was to talk.
“You think you’re adept at alliteration, do you?” I said.
Gremnik grunted rather non-alliteratively, but his ears perked up.
“Are you challenging me to a taunt?”
I nodded.
“For the prince?”
I nodded once more.
“To the death?”
“Let’s not get carried away, Gremmy. It’s a taunt, not a tilt.”
He considered for a moment, then nodded. “Very well, I accept.”
Lady Belinda placed a hand on my shoulder.
“Are you certain about this, Sir Roger? Is there no other way?”
I was touched by her concern. Taunting, whilst not deadly, can be rather humiliating.
“Steel yourself then, good sir,” she said, patting me before stepping to one side, sword still drawn. She clearly intended to be my second.
“Good luck!” Ne’er-be-Hung Nick said cheerily.
“You’re bound to lose,” murmured Roderick as encouragingly as possible.
I squared my shoulders and took a deep breath. I knew the risks but could see no other way.
“Remember to laugh,” suggested Lady Belinda sagely. “And whatever you do, don’t cringe!!
“Don’t forget to alliterate!” whispered Roderick wisely.
My eyes met Gremnik’s and the battle of wits began.
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