2/12/2018
Hey guys! Surprise, another short story from university. This one is a little bit longer, and is a bit different to what I usually write. It is centered around the story of King Author, but from the point of view of a soldier that isn't exactly happy with his new king. Here you go.
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The sharp sound of a whetstone grinding over pristine steel resonated throughout the campsite. It was a constant movement, bringing the stone up and then down over the blade, followed by a satisfying rasp of metal and rock. The length of the sword rested on my lap, eagerly absorbing the colours of our hungry campfire. Amused laughter echoed across the ground as another one of to the soldiers tripped up a novice, sending him sprawling into the dust. I ignored it, returning the rhythmic movements of the whetstone and the blade, letting it guide me deeper and deeper into the unbidden realm of memories and unspoken thoughts.
It was a number of years ago now, when he had first come through. A scrawny lad, whom I was five years senior. None of us had thought much of him. His dirty blond hair. His curious brown eyes. His sun bleached skin. He had bumbled into the sparring grounds without a care in the world and a gaze so full of fantastical wonder that I had considered breaking his nose with a fistful of reality. He was shoved into the barracks opposite mine, along with a bag of his belongings.
"He won't last long," Patrick, a friend of mine, had said.
I hadn't really cared either way, "Eh, another piece of meat between us and the arrows, 'ey?"
We had laughed then. None of us had expected him to pull the sword, nor wield it with such tenacity. He had simply walked up to it the next day, with the same infuriating curiosity, gripped the handle, and pulled it out of the stone. It had been like the easiest thing to him. Something none of us had ever achieve before. Not those that had put in all the effort and training. It had been him, second day in the barracks, with a still plush face and green soul.
The whetstone slipped against my blade and I cursed as my forefinger ran across its edge. I dropped the stone in surprise, shaking my hand at the sudden pain. A line of blood welled up along the finger, turning into a red river the sent drip upon drip to the earth. I grunted in annoyance, staring at the offending wound. That would hurt tomorrow. With a sigh I got up from me seat, wiping the blade of the sword against my shirt to get rid of the blood, before sheathing the weapon at my hip.
I began to walk, unable to keep myself from simply sitting with nothing to do, and left the laughter at the fire. While such joyous meandering was common the night before a battle, it made my stomach twist. It always had. Tonight was especially boisterous, as the battle tomorrow was especially important. Many would die, and victory was unlikely. Then again, all our battles were like that, right from the moment that boy had become king.
The day he had pulled out the sword we had learned his name. Arthur Pendragon. The bastard son of the late king. And the sword, Excalibur, had chosen him. The surprise and anger in the barracks had been overwhelming. A number of us had threatened to desert if that boy ever became king. Unfortunately he had quickly changed our minds. He had a small sparring match with one of our best, and the other man's defeat had been quick. A flash of swords, striking of steel, a show of skill, and our man had been on his backside. Even the boy had been surprised.
After that people had stopped complaining. It was strange how a show of force can sombre even the greatest of resistance. While we hadn't entirely accepted him, we had acknowledged him. At least most of us had. There were still those that were entirely against the idea of the young king, me included. To this day I wonder what would have happened if the boy had used an average sword, rather than the fabled blade Excalibur. No one that green was that skilled.
It made no difference however, and he was moved into the royal palace the next day. We didn't see him often after that, though it wasn't uncommon to hear the sounds of swords clashing in the castle courtyards. Many of us suspected he was getting private tutoring from one of the grandmasters at arms. Again a privilege he scarcely deserved or worked toward.
Laughter from a nearby pavilion broke me out of my thoughts. I realised I was nearing the centre of our encampment, where the king now currently resided. King Arthur, the boy that had pulled the sword. Of course he was boisterous, charming and fearless. Of course he had grown to a strong and competent individual over the years, as if fate itself had decided that it too wanted him to become the greatest king this world has ever known.
"Galahad!" the once boy's laughter echoed deeply from the walls surrounding his tent, "You shouldn't drink anymore. We have a battle tomorrow!"
The knight laughed in response, "Sire, the night before the battle is the best time to drink! You never know if it'll be your last!"
I scoffed softly, turning away, not hearing the reply. He had always been like this, uncaring and joking in the face of danger, with an overconfident heroic aura, even from the first battle. He hadn't been king then, but it was the battle that made him a legend. We were loosing then, having been a war of attrition from the kingdom of Surdia for a number of months. Our final stand would have been at the Field of Bones, a large plain not ten miles out from the city of Camelot.
We had been standing waiting to die, the overwhelming forces of the enemy nation descending down toward us. The thought of death that day frightened me. We were the last line of defence, the final stand. If they got past us, the kingdom was doomed. The kingdom was already doomed, but we chose to ignore that. But everything had changed when he had rode in.
It was like one of those stories. His steed was a glorious golden yellow stallion, fitted with the finest embroideries of armour. His sword screeching fire as he rose it above his head with a cry that echoed through the hearts and souls of every person there. We had been mesmerized by it. I had been mesmerized by it. And we followed, charging into the jaws of our enemy.
I don't remember much of what happened. An arrow dinted my shield. I earned a new scar across the side of my cheek. My sword broke halfway through, and I had found another one. My companions told me I was knocked in the head toward the end of the battle, but it was something I didn't recall. I had survived through it though. Patrick didn't. He had taken an arrow in the chest defending Author. To this day the thought arose a sense of grim humour, as the death of those close to you often do.
The battles that followed the first were all the same. We were outnumbered, outmatched, until our king arrived, driving them away. He fought like a demon with the heart of an angel. Every strike of his blade was led to someone's. Every battle cry gave us new strength. Every step forward produced new courage. Again and again, until no one dared stand before us. At least, not until today.
I sighed softly as I stepped into the medical tent. It was mostly plain white, with a few tables of covered in baskets of bandages and buckets of water. The tent stretched a good twenty metres, and about half the distance wide, with hundreds of matts lain against the ground. There was only one person there currently, though once the battle started it would fill up pretty quickly. The man spotted me and quickly walked over with a frown.
He was of simple build, with a stern expression and a white tunic. He had his own weapon, a short sword strapped to his waist, and wore a simple white tunic, the pendragon crest situated in the middle. A golden dragon, curled around itself with a sword in its talons.
"What happened?" he asked, noticing the still welling blood on my cut finger.
"My whetstone slipped," I said, "Sword was a little too sharp. I just need something to prevent it from bleeding into my gauntlet tomorrow."
The medic sighed, reaching out and grabbing a small piece of white cloth. He ordered me to sit down on a nearby stool and I complied, resting my back against one of the wooden poles holding the tent roof upwards. While he worked I studied the wounded finger again, before gripping my hand into a fist.
When Author had become king everyone had rejoiced. Fables of the bastard son turned hero had swept throughout the continent. Everyone who heard his name was either overcome by fear or swept up in joy. He was a god to the people. An invincible and alluring saviour. The crowds celebrated his crowning ceremony for weeks, with those not even from Camelot pouring in to take part in the festivities.
He had been so humble about it as well, or at least as humble as a person could be during such a momentous occasion. I drunk my fill, as did nearly everyone else. Music had played. Trumpets had blared. A feast had been prepared on every doorway of the kingdom. In my life I had never seen anything so extravagant. And it was all for the bastard son of a king, favoured by fate.
However, just when everything seemed to have gone so well, the fabled message came. A challenge. A war. One that would shake the ages. Of course he had accepted the challenge, any honourable king would. Then we marched out again, for one final time. One final enemy, before it all disappeared.
"Here," the medic knelt beside me, wrapping the white cloth around my finger.
I nodded my thanks. While such a small wound was far from life threatening, it was definitely annoying. Blood in a gauntlet during battle was a great distraction. I had known great warriors loose their grip for less. After thanking the medic one last time I removed myself from the tent, walking back to my comrades in arms. Some of them would die tomorrow. Friends I has spent years getting to know and trust. People who, just like me, seemed to have been cast aside by fate.
I laughed crudely at the thought. I knew we would win however. Our victory had been assured the moment Arthur had been challenged. Because as much as I didn't want to admit it, as much as it sickened me to the core to accept it, fate had done a damn good job in choosing its champion.