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At fifteen summers, he was simply glad to have a purpose. Something to look forward to. Perhaps an adventure. He was happy to leave the magical realm of the Lady of the Lake, even as he missed the place he’d called home. It always imbued him with a sense of calm and peace, if not precisely contentment.
Now, he was on his own. He had to become his own man.
“Where do ya suppose he got the name? Lancelot or dance-a-lot.”
“Prance-a-lot, I’d wager, given those pretty looks. Prettier than a girl.”
“Chance-a-lot, I’d say, since he seems keen to gamble with his life in this tournament. How long do you suppose he’ll last? Would he even survive past the first round of the first event?”
“He looks barely older than a squire. Can’t have much experience under the belt.”
“But he’s a tall fucker, ain’t he? The runt offspring of a giantess?”
“Nah. Too smooth and fine. Give him a pair of knockers and he can wrap those fine lips around me aching cock any day or night…”
The mutterings and jeering didn’t bother Lancelot. He let those uncouth men’s filthy words slide off of him like water off a duck’s back.
He was on a mission here. He needed to demonstrate his fighting prowess and impress a king. He needed to become a real knight. So that he could join the king’s elite guard and fulfill his destiny.
Finally, the King made his speech and the herald announced the start of the games.
Uther Pendragon was a stocky man of above average height, but not tall enough to draw undue attention. He was scarred from battles with mature, craggy features. The white at his temples lent him an air of experience and distinguishment, if not quite elegance.
All in all, he did not strike Lancelot as the King he was destined to serve. But he was the most powerful king in these isles, so perhaps Lancelot was no judge of kings. He simply shrugged his impressions off.
He would carry out his duty as he was brought up to do. He didn’t know of another way to be.
Lancelot made his way to the first event, the fist fight, and squared off against his opponent, awaiting the signal to begin.
The man before him was exceptionally large, bulked with both muscle and lard. Perhaps he indulged in too many meat pies and ale. Lancelot would use that deadweight heft against him.
Meanwhile, his opponent curled his upper lip and sneered, jeered and leered at Lancelot all at the same time, which was quite the feat.
“Look at ya, all purty with that silken ’air,” the giant mumbled through his words like rocks grating against one another.
“Like ta wrap that ’round me fist and yank it while I pound ya. Mebe afta I knock ya on yer arse a few times, eh? Huehuehue…”
Even his chuckles didn’t sound like normal people’s laughter. As if he had something permanently stuck in his throat. Mayhap a dead toad.
Lancelot merely arched one brow slowly and pinned him with a bored stare.
Get on with it,his look silently communicated.
The brute was all talk, no play, thus far. Lancelot didn’t have all day.
A dark flush of fury at the clearly conveyed insult kicked his opponent into action. He lunged with a rumbling roar right for Lancelot’s middle.
Lancelot easily sidestepped at the last possible moment, spun his body like a boneless eel, twisted around the man and clubbed him in the back of the neck where a pressure point resided with both fists.
The giant went down to his knees instantly. Then, like a newly felled tree, landed flat on his face and stomach so resoundedly, pebbles leapt upon the ground.
Lancelot turned to address the wide-eyed referee who was keeping track of several matches in progress.
“Next,” he intoned, flipping his long braid back over his shoulder. Not a tendril was out of place.
He stifled a yawn.
In short order, Lancelot went through his designated opponents one after another. A couple of men managed to get a hit or a kick in. But that was all. They were too slow, too sloppy, too aggressive, or too full of themselves to prepare for the unexpected. They had no natural instinct.
