Oxman
Thread Killer
Ok, here is the final part of the prologue. I understand that I haven't quite been inside Elric's head as much as I could have been in the first two parts; that might be the same here. As always, any comments whatsoever are received with thanks!
Sir Kenwight was a knight and the oldest man that any of the young men at Wedley Keep had seen. Even the better travelled Kellermann children knew of nobody that could match his years. Quite an achievement as the elderly man was the veteran of what Conn said was a thousand wars.
Elric had snorted at that, his peculiar face screwed up in a lopsided sneer.
“There haven’t been a thousand wars.”
“Yes there have!” Conn’s face grew hot as he shouted back at Elric, cheeks reddening. “Bree from the kitchens told me!”
“Bree’s a drunken old hag who should be scrubbing pots instead of gossiping.” It was clear that Kurdt despised agreeing with the stable boy on any subject; he never took his dark eyes off Elric. “But Kenwight is the most decorated soldier in Karth’s history.”
The old knight had grown wide across his middle in his later
years; too much roast fowl and pig and far too much ale. He claimed he could never truly acquire a taste for wine. Ale was the drink of the infantryman and he was honoured to partake in their pleasure.
He had uncontrollable white hair, as thick and wiry as wild heather and he walked with a shuffle these days, rather than a purposeful stride. Still, when it came to giving lessons in the arts of war, there was no man better. When he brandished his cane like a sword, the age evaporated from his bones and he moved with a spring in his step, lithe and agile once more. Elric would often stop his mucking out, barrowing or grooming, even ignoring any disgruntled whinny, and would peer out into the courtyard to watch the boys learn from the swordmaster, holding his breath, his insides clenched with jealousy. He kept a riding crop with him and when Kenwight made a move, he copied it time and again, aware of his clumsiness, but glad of the opportunity to learn a little by observation. Elric particularly liked it when the old knight reprimanded the Kellermann children for errors or mistimed strikes.
The squire, Willem, was a different proposition altogether when learning to fight. While he would happily run and joke with the baron’s children, his true feelings would show on the training field. He would parry the young Jaelberto’s thrusts with utter contempt before furiously ploughing his wooden blade into the padded leather breastplate, winding the child. Elric saw the slight smile on Willem’s face every time he jabbed a blow through Jaelberto’s guard. The squire was a dangerous one alright; Elric wouldn’t like to see him entrusted with a real blade, especially as he and Kurdt were approaching an age where they were expected to be adapt at combat, shooting and tilting.
A rap at the stable door distracted Elric from his reminiscing. When he looked around, he was shocked to see Sir Kenwight standing in the doorway, clutching his gnarled old cane.
“I’m sorry sir; I didn’t hear you come in.”
“You’re too kind, Elric. Was a time when I’d be able to sneak within a hair’s breadth of you and shave that fluff off your top lip without you noticing, but those days are long gone. I don’t move so well anymore and my creaking joints betray me.”
Despite the sincerity of his tone, there was a mischief in Kenwight’s bloodshot eyes and Elric smiled. He liked the old knight, who always made time for him and never paid attention to the fact that the boy had skin like chalk and long, gangly limbs.
“Young Jaelberto’s hurt himself. Fell, turned his ankle pretty nastily, most likely broke the damn thing. He won’t be training for the foreseeable future, which means we are a man short. The Baron says that you can stand in today. Perhaps you’ll enjoy swinging a wooden sword more than that riding crop of yours.”
Elric flushed to have been found out, his ruddy cheeks a stark contrast to the pale complexion of his face. He followed Kenwight out of the stable without a word, rubbing his grubby hands down on his tunic, painfully aware that he stunk of hay and horseshit.
“Why do I have to practice with him?” Willem asked in disgust.
Kurdt laughed. “Perhaps he’ll fling dung in your eyes and you’ll stink like the shitty horses too!”
His mirth was cut short when Sir Kenwight’s cane whipped through the air and rapped Kurdt on the hand. Kurdt yelped in pain and dropped his practice sword, clutching his wrist.
“I’ll tell my father! You’ll see! I’ll...” His words ran out. It was clear that Kenwight was not in a mood to be trifled with.
“There’s been one broken bone today,” the old knight said.
“It’d be a crying shame if there was another. Now pick up your swords! You too, Willem. Elric, you take that old one there in the corner. Kurdt! Stop holding yours like a limp **** not fit for a whore!”
The sword felt heavy and powerful in Elric’s hand. He suspected a metal one would be twice the weight, but he was more than content with the opportunity he had been offered. He tried to swallow, to get some moisture in his dry mouth as Kenwight directed the four boys into position.
Perhaps mimicking the other boys’ swordplay with his riding crop had helped. Perhaps Elric just had a natural talent. Whatever the reason, Kenwight’s eyes gave away a glint of pleasure when the boy performed a thrust or parry correctly, most of the time with better technique than the squire or the Baron’s sons, and a natural grace that his lanky form belied. Soon enough, it was time for the boys to don the uncomfortable looking leather breastplates and open-faced metal helms too big for them. As always, Conn, the most naturally talented of the four usual students, showed little interest in his weapons training, instead allowing his eyes to wander up the wall of the Keep where they rested upon the swallows flitting in and out of their mud houses underneath the eaves.
Both Kurdt and Willem looked hellbent on teaching Elric a real lesson in swordplay. Elric’s heart raced and his pulse quickened. What little he had just learned might not be enough to make his first attempt at combat anything other than a total humiliation. He calmed himself and tried to remember the times the boys had upturned his full barrow of muck, or sneaked up behind him to push him over into the moist pile of straw. He had never been gifted the chance to retaliate before and found his hands trembling no longer with fear, but with anger; a cool suppressed anger he barely managed to keep contained. Kenwight issued the command to begin swordplay. Elric returned his gaze to his adversaries and flashed them the wickedest grin he could muster.
Fantasy Prologue: Part Three
Sir Kenwight was a knight and the oldest man that any of the young men at Wedley Keep had seen. Even the better travelled Kellermann children knew of nobody that could match his years. Quite an achievement as the elderly man was the veteran of what Conn said was a thousand wars.
Elric had snorted at that, his peculiar face screwed up in a lopsided sneer.
“There haven’t been a thousand wars.”
“Yes there have!” Conn’s face grew hot as he shouted back at Elric, cheeks reddening. “Bree from the kitchens told me!”
“Bree’s a drunken old hag who should be scrubbing pots instead of gossiping.” It was clear that Kurdt despised agreeing with the stable boy on any subject; he never took his dark eyes off Elric. “But Kenwight is the most decorated soldier in Karth’s history.”
The old knight had grown wide across his middle in his later
years; too much roast fowl and pig and far too much ale. He claimed he could never truly acquire a taste for wine. Ale was the drink of the infantryman and he was honoured to partake in their pleasure.
He had uncontrollable white hair, as thick and wiry as wild heather and he walked with a shuffle these days, rather than a purposeful stride. Still, when it came to giving lessons in the arts of war, there was no man better. When he brandished his cane like a sword, the age evaporated from his bones and he moved with a spring in his step, lithe and agile once more. Elric would often stop his mucking out, barrowing or grooming, even ignoring any disgruntled whinny, and would peer out into the courtyard to watch the boys learn from the swordmaster, holding his breath, his insides clenched with jealousy. He kept a riding crop with him and when Kenwight made a move, he copied it time and again, aware of his clumsiness, but glad of the opportunity to learn a little by observation. Elric particularly liked it when the old knight reprimanded the Kellermann children for errors or mistimed strikes.
The squire, Willem, was a different proposition altogether when learning to fight. While he would happily run and joke with the baron’s children, his true feelings would show on the training field. He would parry the young Jaelberto’s thrusts with utter contempt before furiously ploughing his wooden blade into the padded leather breastplate, winding the child. Elric saw the slight smile on Willem’s face every time he jabbed a blow through Jaelberto’s guard. The squire was a dangerous one alright; Elric wouldn’t like to see him entrusted with a real blade, especially as he and Kurdt were approaching an age where they were expected to be adapt at combat, shooting and tilting.
A rap at the stable door distracted Elric from his reminiscing. When he looked around, he was shocked to see Sir Kenwight standing in the doorway, clutching his gnarled old cane.
“I’m sorry sir; I didn’t hear you come in.”
“You’re too kind, Elric. Was a time when I’d be able to sneak within a hair’s breadth of you and shave that fluff off your top lip without you noticing, but those days are long gone. I don’t move so well anymore and my creaking joints betray me.”
Despite the sincerity of his tone, there was a mischief in Kenwight’s bloodshot eyes and Elric smiled. He liked the old knight, who always made time for him and never paid attention to the fact that the boy had skin like chalk and long, gangly limbs.
“Young Jaelberto’s hurt himself. Fell, turned his ankle pretty nastily, most likely broke the damn thing. He won’t be training for the foreseeable future, which means we are a man short. The Baron says that you can stand in today. Perhaps you’ll enjoy swinging a wooden sword more than that riding crop of yours.”
Elric flushed to have been found out, his ruddy cheeks a stark contrast to the pale complexion of his face. He followed Kenwight out of the stable without a word, rubbing his grubby hands down on his tunic, painfully aware that he stunk of hay and horseshit.
“Why do I have to practice with him?” Willem asked in disgust.
Kurdt laughed. “Perhaps he’ll fling dung in your eyes and you’ll stink like the shitty horses too!”
His mirth was cut short when Sir Kenwight’s cane whipped through the air and rapped Kurdt on the hand. Kurdt yelped in pain and dropped his practice sword, clutching his wrist.
“I’ll tell my father! You’ll see! I’ll...” His words ran out. It was clear that Kenwight was not in a mood to be trifled with.
“There’s been one broken bone today,” the old knight said.
“It’d be a crying shame if there was another. Now pick up your swords! You too, Willem. Elric, you take that old one there in the corner. Kurdt! Stop holding yours like a limp **** not fit for a whore!”
The sword felt heavy and powerful in Elric’s hand. He suspected a metal one would be twice the weight, but he was more than content with the opportunity he had been offered. He tried to swallow, to get some moisture in his dry mouth as Kenwight directed the four boys into position.
Perhaps mimicking the other boys’ swordplay with his riding crop had helped. Perhaps Elric just had a natural talent. Whatever the reason, Kenwight’s eyes gave away a glint of pleasure when the boy performed a thrust or parry correctly, most of the time with better technique than the squire or the Baron’s sons, and a natural grace that his lanky form belied. Soon enough, it was time for the boys to don the uncomfortable looking leather breastplates and open-faced metal helms too big for them. As always, Conn, the most naturally talented of the four usual students, showed little interest in his weapons training, instead allowing his eyes to wander up the wall of the Keep where they rested upon the swallows flitting in and out of their mud houses underneath the eaves.
Both Kurdt and Willem looked hellbent on teaching Elric a real lesson in swordplay. Elric’s heart raced and his pulse quickened. What little he had just learned might not be enough to make his first attempt at combat anything other than a total humiliation. He calmed himself and tried to remember the times the boys had upturned his full barrow of muck, or sneaked up behind him to push him over into the moist pile of straw. He had never been gifted the chance to retaliate before and found his hands trembling no longer with fear, but with anger; a cool suppressed anger he barely managed to keep contained. Kenwight issued the command to begin swordplay. Elric returned his gaze to his adversaries and flashed them the wickedest grin he could muster.
