by Mari Mancusi
Stu shook his head, a fond look on his Arthurian face. “Oh Sophie,” he chided gently, releasing her from the hug. “Trust me, I’m not about to let some dumb medieval meathead get the best of me. Everything’s going to be okay, I swear it. You have to have a little faith.”
He was so confident. It made her almost believe him. Still…
“I want to,” she said. “But let’s look at the facts here. This guy’s probably wielded a sword since before you were born. He’s a trained killer. How can you possibly believe you’ll be able to best him?”
“Easy,” Stu said with a small grin. “’Cause unlike him, I’m not gonna bring a sword to a gun fight.”
Chapter 21
Stu peeked out the arched castle window at the throng that had gathered in the courtyard below. And here he thought the sword and the stone thing had drawn a big crowd. Word spread quickly about Lot’s challenge and the entire kingdom had turned out to watch their new king beat the stuffing out of the usurper. Or the other way around. When Stu had passed through the marketplace earlier that morning to retrieve his package from the blacksmith, he’d overheard a few bets being made—with odds decidedly not in his favor.
He didn’t blame the gamblers. Lot was a formidable opponent to say the least. And Stu only had one trick up his sleeve. If it backfired (figuratively or literally) he was doomed. He tried to remind himself that either way this was a great adventure, but truth be told, no matter what brave face he gave Sophie, he was scared out of his freaking mind. He’d never done anything like this before. The closest had been that time in second grade when the third grade bullies had caught him on the path alone, walking home from school. The bruises to his face lasted a week. The ones to his ego, far longer.
A knock forced his eyes from the window. “Come in,” he said. The door opened and Sophie walked in, wearing a yellow silk gown, embroidered at the neck and sleeves, with matching ribbons tying up her hair. Stu drew in a breath, suddenly glad he’d had the foresight to assign her some ladies in waiting and set her up with a good wardrobe while she was still around. The medieval look definitely became her. It was going to be a big disappointment to go back to the twenty-first century and have her start wearing jeans again.
He'd been worried she'd go home last night—back to find Arthur and the missing scabbard. But thankfully she told him Arthur could wait one extra day; there was no way she was going to leave Stu here to fend for himself against an evil knight, when it was her fault he was in this situation to begin with. It made him feel better to know that at least he wasn't completely alone in this crazy adventure.
“How you holding up?” she asked, joining him at the window. “Wow, there are a ton of people down there, huh?”
“All anxiously waiting to watch me bleed,” he agreed.
She turned to him, her face uneasy. “But you have a plan, right? You said you had a plan. And it’s going to work, no problem. Right?”
“Um, right. Sure.” He nodded, forcing his voice to sound confident for her sake. But his bravado sounded thin even to his own ears.
“Just be careful, okay?” she urged. “I need you back to the twenty-first century in one piece.” She paused, then added, “Camelot’s Honor won’t just beat itself, you know.”
He snorted. Strange. A few days ago beating Camelot’s Honor was pretty much all he thought about. Now it seemed kind of lame. After all, with time and research, anyone could beat a videogame. However, there were no Prima Games guidebooks to reveal the secrets of battling an evil Scottish knight.
But there was no use thinking of that now. He reached down on the bed and carefully picked up his makeshift gun. “Help me attach this to my arm?” he asked Sophie.
She obliged, taking the twelve-inch hollowed out metal tube from him and placing it on top of his forearm. Then she attached the thick leather straps around his arm to keep it in place.
“This sure doesn’t look like any gun I’ve ever seen,” she observed as she buckled.
“Well sadly there were no .357 Magnums up for grabs in the medieval armory.”
She snorted. “Yeah, but how does this even work? There’s no trigger.”
“It’s technically more like a cannon than a gun,” Stu said. “I put my gunpowder inside here.” He pointed to the back end of the weapon.
“Gunpowder?”
“Well, sort of. It’s amazing the common ingredients you can mix together to make an explosion.”
Sophie took a closer look, sniffed, then made a face. “Does one of these ingredients happen to be cow dung?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.
Stu nodded proudly. His gun was genius. “Lucas and I used to use manure back home, but this should work just as well,” he explained. “Along with the explosives I’ve added some small rocks to the front end in a separate compartment. Those will serve as my bullets. Now all I have to do is light the wick.” He pointed to the wick at the back end of the tube. “Which will ignite the explosives inside. And kaboom! The explosion catapults the rocks out the front end and it’s Sayonara, King Lot.”
“Or adios to your forearm,” Sophie said, looking at the gun doubtfully. “If it backfires.”
“Nah, the iron casing is really strong,” Stu replied. “The blacksmith assured me it would withstand a ton of force.”
Sophie didn’t look entirely convinced, but to her credit she didn’t try to argue his science. “In any case,” she said instead, while reaching up into her hair, “I believe it’s customary here for a lady to gift her knight with a small favor to wear during battle.” She freed one of her yellow ribbons. Stu gulped as her hair tumbled from its binding in waves over her shoulders, a few wisps falling into her face. If only he dared reach out to touch them.
She grabbed his arm, dropping the ribbon into his hand and closing his fingers around it. “Dumb, I know,” she said, her face a bit flushed. “But when in Rome—or medieval England in this case.”
“Thank you,” he said, staring down at the ribbon. “I’ll wear it with pride.”
“See, this way I know you’ll survive,” she said in a firm voice. “Because you have to return the ribbon to me after the fight. After all, you don’t want me to go around with my hair half up, half down, do you? ’Cause I’m guessing that would be a complete fashion faux pas, even here.”
“Of course. Heaven forbid,” he mocked, and they both laughed.
A moment later their laughter faded to an awkward silence. Stu caught Sophie’s eyes and realized they were rimmed with concern. She was worried about him. She really cared. It somehow made him feel good to know that. Even under the circumstances. “Be careful Stu,” she told him. “Don’t try anything stupid. If the gun doesn’t work right, you have to run. It’s better to lose than to die. You’ve already gone above and beyond your promise to Merlin. He can figure things out from here.”
He opened his mouth to reply, but the words died in his throat as she leaned over and planted a small kiss on his cheek. Stu froze, not knowing what to do, his heart slamming against his ribcage so loudly he was half afraid Sophie would hear it. Of course she’d probably just chalk it up to him being nervous about the fight. If only she knew.
He suddenly felt brave and reckless. Wanting to confess all—tell her that he not only planned to survive, but that when he did he was going to invite her to that Snowflake Dance back home. She’d have to say yes, he reasoned, after he’d looked death in the eye and walked away a hero—all for her.
But before he could say anything, Gawain stepped into the room. “They’re ready for you, m’lord,” the knight said, bowing low. Then he turned to Sophie. “Come, m’lady. The king has asked that I show you to the best seat in the house.”
“Thanks, Gawain,” she said, heading to the door. “Good luck, Arthur!” And with that, the two of them headed down the stairs, leaving Stu alone.
He let out a frustrated breath. Guess his invitation to the dance would have to wait until after the fight. At least now, more than ever, he had a reason to w
in.
*
“Right up here, m’lady.” Gawain helped Sophie step onto the makeshift wooden staircase, leading her up to the dais high above the courtyard. The VIP section, she realized, as she stepped onto the platform. The wooden planks were covered with soft, luxurious furs and the chairs were hand-carved with swirling dragons, accented by glittering multicolored jewels and soft silk pillows. A purple canopy above her shaded the entire platform from the midday sun and nobles lucky enough to be on the guest list mixed and mingled and drank amber-colored ale from pewter goblets.
Sophie sank down into one of the chairs, but found she couldn’t relax. She didn’t like being up here, seated in the lap of medieval luxury, while her best friend was down in the pit, ready to fight to the death like some kind of Roman gladiator. Her heart pounded as she peered down into the ring, praying for some last-minute miracle to stop the fight. But she knew in her heart the chances were slim to none. In a few moments Stu would be fighting Lot. And gun/cannon or not, she didn’t know how he was going to win.
The trumpets blew, forcing her to turn her attention to the ring below. Sir Gawain stepped into the center, addressing the crowd in a gallant voice. “Today we gather to witness a fight to the death,” he proclaimed. “In this corner we have King Lot, ruler of the Orkney Lands to the North.”
Lot stepped forward dressed in a full suit of mail and carrying a heavy sword and shield. The crowd went wild, clapping and cheering on their knight. But Lot simply scowled and waved them all off, pulling his helmet over his head. To them this might be a game, Sophie realized. But he was taking it very seriously.
“And in this corner, we have your king—Arthur, son of High King Uther Pendragon,” Gawain continued. “And rightful ruler of Britain.”
Stu stepped forward, raising his arms to the crowd, urging on their applause like a rock star at a concert. But the audience stayed silent, save for a polite spattering of claps near the back. Stu’s face fell at the lack of response, and he lowered his hands.
Sophie frowned; were these were the same people who cheered Stu on yesterday when he pulled the sword from the stone? The ones who were happy to stuff themselves with food and drink at the coronation afterparty? Talk about fair-weather friends.
“Why’s no one cheering?” she worried aloud.
“They don’t want to show public support,” a nearby courtier informed her. “In case Lot was to win and take over as king.”
Sophie scowled. What wishy-washy jerks. Rising to her feet, she let out a huge “Whooo!” at the top of her lungs, jumping up and down. “Go Arthur!” she screamed. “Kick his big old medieval butt!” Everyone turned to look at her in shock.
“Control yourself, lady!” the courtier cried, horrified. “You’ll bring down the entire dais.”
But Sophie didn’t care. She’d made her point and at least Stu would go into the fight knowing he had one staunch supporter. And sure enough, he looked up at her with a sheepish grin, then pointed to her hribbon, which he’d tied to his gun. Sophie gave him two thumbs-up, then sat back down.
Gawain stepped back and the trumpets blew, signaling the start of the fight. Stu—who was wearing just a light leather tunic, rather than a full suit of chainmail—leapt backwards, grabbing the torch his servant held out to him, ready to light the gun’s wick and end this fight as quickly as possible. Lot, in full armor that probably weighed sixty pounds, lumbered forward, his large sword readied. Sophie held her breath.
Come on, Stu! Hurry up!
But Stu was having difficulty and suddenly Sophie realized why. When he’d raised his hands to the crowd, the wick must have fallen out of his gun and was now lying on the ground, a few yards away. Behind King Lot, she noted unhappily.
Sophie gasped as Lot raised his sword and brought it crashing down in Stu’s direction. Surprised, Stu barely had enough time to block the blow with his shield.
“This is likely to be a short battle,” yawned a girl to her right, who'd introduced herself as Elaine. “Not like the one I saw last summer with Lancelot du Lac. Now there's a knight.”
Sophie forced herself to ignore her, eyes glued to the fight. Lot raised his blade again. This time Stu was ready. He leapt to the right, sidestepping the blow. His lighter armor gave him a maneuverability Lot just didn’t have. But one cutting blow to the right spot would do him in.
Sophie watched from the edge of her seat as Stu tried to dive forward for the wick. But Lot stepped into his path, ready for another blow. Stu managed to block it, but the force threw him backwards and Sophie cringed, praying that the gun wouldn’t go off too early. Stu scrambled to his feet, but it clearly took him a lot of effort to do so. He was already tiring and Lot was just warming up.
“By the gods, get up off the ground!” a man to her left shouted down at Arthur. “I've got thirty pieces of silver wagered on you!”
Lot had Stu pinned now, back against the courtyard wall. Stu couldn’t do anything but hold the shield in front of his face. The crowd was deathly silent and Sophie thought she could hear laughter coming from behind the evil king’s black helmet. She couldn’t breathe.
Could this be it? The death of her best friend? Tears sprung to her eyes and she squeezed them shut, unable to watch.
Please, Stu, don’t give up. Knock him back, knock him back, KNOCK HIM BACK!
Suddenly a cold wind whipped through the courtyard and she felt her arms prickle, the hairs all standing on end. The crowd made a collective gasp and Sophie opened her eyes to see what was going on. To her shock and amazement, Stu had indeed somehow managed to knock Lot backwards. The Scottish knight stumbled over his own feet as he fought to keep upright. Stu raised his arms in triumph and the audience cheered.
Sophie stared in disbelief. But that was impossible. It was almost as if…
Lot charged again, barreling forward, sword high in the air as he let out an angry yell.
Block it, block it, block it!
“Block it!” she screamed out loud.
Sure enough, Stu blocked the blow, this time his shield seeming to effortlessly match Lot’s sword and push it away. He danced to the far side of the field, rallying for the next round.
Sophie looked down and saw her arms were covered in goose bumps. Was she really somehow affecting the outcome of the fight? It seemed impossible, but she didn’t know how else to explain it. Stu had been exhausted, almost ready to give up. Now he looked energized. Totally invested. But why? How?
Suddenly, she remembered the sword sliding out of the stone. At the exact moment she’d wished it to.
There’s more to your mother than you know, Merlin had told her.
She felt another chill wash over her as a thousand memories slammed into her brain. Time and time again, her mother wishing something and it happening. She’d laughed it off, calling it good luck. Karma. But was it something more?
And more importantly, had Sophie inherited whatever it was?
Well, there was only one way to find out. She closed her eyes, concentrating as hard as she could, visualizing Lot tripping over something and giving Stu a chance to grab the wick and light his gun.
A moment later, the crowd burst into laughter. Sophie opened her eyes to find Lot face down in a deep puddle of mud. He lifted his head and screamed in outrage as he struggled to get back on his feet.
It was all the advantage Stu needed. He threw himself forward, somersaulting past Lot like a character in a videogame. Grabbing the wick, he stuffed it back into the gun, then motioned to his servant who threw him the torch.
He lit the gun. Aimed at Lot, who had just managed to stand up. And…
BOOM!
The explosion was no louder than a couple Black Cat firecrackers, but to a medieval crowd who’d never seen a gunfight, it might as well have been a nuclear blast. They watched in awe as fire shot through the front of the gun and Stu’s stones came barreling out, smashing into their target’s chest. The force threw Lot backwards and he slammed into the courtyard wall, his body slid
ing to the ground like a character out of a Road Runner cartoon. He didn’t get up.
The crowd stared at Stu in shocked silence for a moment, then let out the hugest cheer yet. Everyone was on their feet, now whooping and applauding their king. Stu pulled off his helmet and Sophie could see he was blushing with pride. Gawain knelt down to Lot’s prostate body, removing his own helmet and putting his ear to his mouth.
He then turned to Stu. “He lives! You must finish him.”
“No thanks,” Stu said, shaking his head. “Just take him to the dungeon. He can live to fight another day, this time on my side.” He turned to the crowd. “From this day forward,” he said, “there will be no more fighting to settle your arguments. If someone breaks the law, he’ll be tried peacefully in a court of his peers.”
Sophie couldn’t believe it. Not only had Stu just shown them the first ever display of makeshift gunpowder in medieval England, but he’d thrown in a lesson of the American judicial system to boot.
Who would have thought little videogame obsessed Stuart Mallory would turn out to be such a medieval rock star?
Chapter 22
Stu was practically dancing with excitement when Sophie waved to him from across the courtyard. She pushed her way through the crowd and threw her arms around him. “You did it!” she cried. “You were amazing!”
“And here you doubted me,” he scoffed, feeling as if he might burst with happiness. “Not to mention you totally underestimated Sally, my boomstick.” He held up the makeshift gun, now blackened and broken. A one-shot deal, but it’d done its job well. “She’s totally Army of Darkness, right?” he added, referencing one of their favorite cult films.
“Not to mention a little Indiana Jones, Raiders of the Lost Ark.”
Stu laughed. “With a little Star Trek thrown in. Season one, episode eighteen. Kirk against the Gorn.”
