He
was one inch, perhaps two, under seven feet, which was of course
quite unusual as people went, but one had to consider that he was a
dragon-cum-monster slayer, and that in his line of work midgets
indeed had an undeniable advantage at hiding, but in deeds they had
that terrible drawback of being slow-paced and slow-witted, ergo
of being chewable in one snap, fact that made them unqualified for
the work – midget dragon-cum-monster slayers died out for lack of
suitable candidates. Provided you found a small enough dragon or even
a remarkably puny hydra, even your regular man was as good as mince
pie.
He was not your regular man. His shining armour was the first clue.
Brightly polished for a whole full-moon night by a dwarf – jolly
good polishers, by the way, dwarves are, for they have that almost
sexual attraction to metal that verges on devotion. The second clue
was his steed. No one could ever call Stallion a horse. He was a
magnificent pure-breed, white from muffle to tail. Even his hooves
were white. Of course, Stallion was a magical warhorse, bound to him
by a magical spell only Destiny could cast. Together they had roamed
many a kingdom and fought many a battle. The third clue was his size.
'Towering' was by any means an adjective that befitted him like a
gauntlet, but his bulk was mountainous. He could encompass the head
of a man in his hand and he covered with one stride the same ground
as a man would do in four. Muscular, mighty, masculine. In all
humbleness, he could say that he was the ladies' favourite wherever
he went. The claymore faithfully hanging at his side was the last
clue to his über-manliness. It was a fathom long, i.e. the
width of a man's extended arms, from tip to tip. Only him could wield
Swörd, for he had been chosen by the Gods to unsheathe it from its
rocky, two-thousand year old resting place. Swörd glowed with a
special shimmering aura, parting the darkness at night and glowed red
in the midst of the fray.
On a
day-to-day basis he was feared by his enemies, loved by his
countrymen, favoured by the Gods for his ruthlessness, for his
courage and for his loyalty respectively.
So
when he heard that he was being challenged to a duel, and when he set
eyes on his 'enemy', he first laughed. But he had fought too many
wars and killed too many monsters and evil men alike to overlook the
stare in the herald's eyes. He was then told that his opponent had
killed nine hundred and ninety-nine men in single combat. But the
fame didn't quite match the figure. The herald must have been
mistaken, they must have all consorted to play some prank on him. He
knew the King of these lands very well, he had been a companion in
peace and in war for many a year.
So on
that fateful day, as he was passing by the village, he was stopped by
his antagonist who was blocking the road, legs extended in an
inverted V shape and his fist resting on his hips in a defiant
posture. He set foot in the muddy ground, let Stallion wait by the
corn trough and, after being warned by the herald, gave him his
sheeny helmet and walked up to the warrior. Such was the scene in the
early hours of the morning. It was the first days of Spring. Luck had
it that he was in a perfect form.
He
bent over his foe, towering and confident, hands on his knees and
told him, in the sweetest possible voice he could: “And what are
you going to do, precisely, kiddo?”
***
He
was definitely two inches under five feet, which was quite unusual as
people went, but one had to consider that he had yet to complete his
eighth school year, kindergarten excluded. When he was woken up by
his friend, who was dishevelled from all the running up and down,
telling him that a knight was in sight and that he would arrive in
the village any minute now, he jumped out of bed, put on his best
suit and rushed to meet him, panting a little – he had almost
slipped on the mud. That would have ruined his carefully crafted
effect. He affected his usual posture in the middle of the only road
in the village. He was born there. His parents and his parents'
parents were born there. He knew everyone and everyone knew him.
Luckily, today was a day off school.
So he
was standing there, as proudly and vain as possible, and he quite
liked the effect on the people around him. Everyone had gathered and
was holding its breath. Expectant eyes were going from him to the
knight and vice versa. Yet, and this was quite unusual, the
stares seemed to linger more on the warrior – he had to admit that
this one was, well, nothing short of statuesque. The...man, for lack
of a better word, surely measured a staggering seven feet at least.
When
he came up to him and bent over him, he could not see anything but
him, as broad his shoulders were. This was the first time ever he was
confronted by such a mountain of muscles and metal. The mud at every
one of his steps seemed to be squashed into a pulp, on each side of
his ironclad feet.
He
just hoped the herald had not said too much, or too little.
***
Now
he was much closer, he could distinguish the child's features: the
unruffled hair, the pimples he should resent, the freckles that one
could not really distinguish from the said pimples, the sleep at the
corner of his blue eyes, the chubby cheeks. The school garments.
Light blue shirt, black and blue striped tie, dark blue shorts, light
blue socks, black shoes that had not seen a good polish in years,
perhaps at all. Then his eyes were suddenly drawn to a glittering pen
which was sticking out from the child's pocket.
***
They usually would come
very close to him, talk to him perhaps, spur him on, observe him for
a time then they would become interested in his pen. That was the
time he would usually put it to good use. This one was like the rest
and now was the time. Right on the cue. He had had doubts, looking at
that gigantic man, but he just had to remember the story of David and
Goliath to feel safe.
One
day he had heard at school that quote from a French bloke: “If you
kill one man, you're a murderer; if you kill millions of men, you're
a conqueror; if you kill them all, you're God.” He was currently
undertaking stage two. He was still in two minds as to pursue further
after taking the life of millions of men. Being God seemed to him
quite overrated.
The pen had been the top
prize at a poetry competition earlier last year. A little less than a
foot tall and entirely made of iron. The Provost had said it would
last him a lifetime if he used it carefully. It was this same pen
which he now swiftly took in hand and which he was thrusting into the
knight's right eye, very deeply, until his hand knocked onto the
man's orbit. As usual, the title of his winning poem would flash
before his eyes: The Unexpectedness of a Pen Right into the
Eyeball. The defeated knight fell dead in the mire.
He
then cried, triumphantly, the last line of his epic: “The pen is
mightier than the sword!” Blood and humours dripped abundantly from
the glistening pen. With one hand clenched around the body of the pen
he swiped it clean, then put it back into his pocket. With that he
turned on his heels and walked home to get his breakfast. He was
starving. “Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder” was also one
of his teacher's sayings – “unless there's a pen sticking right
through it”, he sarcastically added, with a grin on his face, from
ear to ear. The carrion would be carried at the edge of the forest
and left to the vultures and the wolves. Such was the fate of the
defeated. Vae Victo.
***
The
herald, for the thousandth time, was shaking his head as he and seven
other sturdy men were carrying the body of the unfortunate...why
didn't any one of those knights believe him? Couldn't they see the
Evil in the child's eyes? Lucky the kid paid him well, otherwise he'd
have cleared a long time ago.
