by C. J. Busby
“That’s okay, quite understand,” said Sir Bertram. “I’ll have to borrow one of your lances, though, didn’t bring my own.”
“Actually, I would enjoy the honour, if I may,” said Lancelot, and stood up in one smooth motion, bouncing on the balls of his feet and looking quite eager to take the lance Sir Peverell was holding out. Max exchanged glances with Olivia. They both felt quite excited at the idea of seeing Lancelot in action. It would be a treat to see him joust Sir Peverell, who was renowned as a hard man to unseat.
Sir Peverell bowed, and went to his horse. He lowered his visor and cantered back a good distance along the path, then turned, ready. Lancelot mounted, holding the lance he’d been given, then tried the grip in a few different places, getting it nicely balanced.
“At your service, Sir Peverell,” he called, and lowered his visor.
The two knights started towards each other, slowly at first and then with more pace, their lances held out in front of them. Olivia watched, excited, as the horses gathered speed and the lances hurtled ever closer to impact. At the last minute Max couldn’t help flinching and shutting his eyes. There was an enormous crash, and when he opened them again Sir Peverell was on the ground, bouncing along on his bottom, while Lancelot wheeled his horse round to canter back. Olivia, Adolphus and Vortigern were cheering loudly, while Sir Bertram had gone to help his friend up.
“I’m fine, Bertie, fine… Fine,” he groaned. “Nice work, young man. I’ll be sure to add you to the roll of honour back at the castle. What was the name? Sir Lancelot?”
Lancelot nodded, looking pleased.
“Good, good. Excellent. Well – nice meeting you all. Good luck on the quest! Let me know if you survive!”
They waved cheerily at Sir Peverell as they headed on, and Sir Bertram entertained them for most of the afternoon with tales of the mischief he and Sir Peverell had got up to in their youth. One particular escapade had involved a bad-tempered dragon, a hoard of gold, and Lady Griselda, who, it appeared, had rescued both of them from the dragon at the last minute with a nifty dab of magic.
“Of course, we both wanted to marry her after that,” said Sir Bertram happily. “But she said I was the man for her. The moustache, you know.” He stroked it, proudly. “Always did impress the ladies.”
Lancelot raised one eyebrow, and Olivia nearly choked from laughing, but Sir Bertram just grinned. “Well, whatever it was, jolly glad she chose me. Fine woman, your mother. Fine woman.”
Eventually it started to get dark, and when they reached an open expanse of moor by a small stream it seemed a good place to camp for the night. They gathered firewood, and Adolphus set it aflame with a single snort. Soon the horses were unsaddled, and everyone was huddled round the fire together sharing out the food.
It was a relatively cheerful supper, but Max was beginning to feel a bit anxious. One whole day gone, and they seemed no nearer to finding the Lady’s island. They weren’t even anywhere near the sea – every time the road veered or turned towards the coast, the ring seemed to pull them back again, deeper into the countryside. Max had no idea how much longer it would take, and he was very aware that there were now only two more days before Morgana crowned herself queen.
***
The next day it rained steadily, and it was hard for any of them to keep their spirits up. The ring took them deep into what seemed like an endless forest, and after a few hours Max started to wonder whether they would ever get out or whether they were just going round and round in circles.
But it was when he ended up in the ditch that he got really angry.
He was at the front of the group, feeling his way forward, when his horse stumbled on a tree root. Max slid helplessly over the horse’s neck and rolled down the sloping path, straight into a muddy ditch full of swampy, smelly water.
“Urrghh!” he spluttered, as he pulled himself upright and clambered out, spitting mud out of his mouth and shaking leaves out of his hair.
It was a measure of how gloomy they all were that no one even laughed.
“That’s it!” said Max, thoroughly fed up. “I’ve had enough. This ring is taking us round in circles, I’m sure of it!”
Lancelot looked down at Max thoughtfully.
“Did Merlin say anything about how to see the island when we got there?”
Max considered. Merlin had said something. What was it? He’d said that it was tricky to find. That they’d have to look beyond the surface of things.
Max looked down at the ditch in front of him, the ditch of muddy, swampy water, and realised that there was something odd about it. He was much wetter than he should have been after falling in something only a few inches deep. Almost as if the ditch was actually bigger, deeper…
Max looked at the trees around them, and the path ahead, and tried to see what was behind them, as if they were painted scenery hiding what was real… As he did so, the trees seemed to clear like a mist, and a great dark expanse of lake opened up in front of him, with a small wooden bridge built out into the water, leading to the Lady’s island.
The others gasped, and they all dismounted and started to walk forward. But as they did so five figures emerged from a path to their left and a cold sarcastic voice greeted them.
“Too late, Pendragon! We got here first.”
“Snotty!” said Max, and felt for his sword. Lancelot had already drawn his, and so had Sir Bertram. Opposite them stood Snotty and his father, with Gawaine, Mordred and Jerome Stodmarsh. But before anyone could move, a voice came from the bridge.
“Both parties arrived at the same time. Both have a different purpose. There’ll have to be a competition.”
A tall, thin man with mousy-brown hair and faded minstrel clothes was standing on the bridge. He was chewing a piece of straw, which he took it out of his mouth and pointed at them all.
“Each knight fights another knight, each squire fights another squire. One at a time – with no help from the others. The overall winners get to cross the bridge.”
“Never mind that rubbish – we’re going across now!” said Snotty, and headed onto the bridge with his sword drawn. The next second he was on his back in the mud, and his sword was back in its scabbard. The man shook his finger.
“Naughty,” he said. “Knights first, squires second. Equals fight equals. When you’re ready.”
Max looked at the group in front of them. “There are five of them – how did they manage that? It was supposed to be two squires and two knights!”
“Rotten cheating scumbags,” said Olivia darkly. “Morgana’s pets, I suppose.”
“Maybe Snotty hid behind Jerome when they counted,” said Ferocious with a nasty grin. “He’s wide enough to hide an army.”
Max frowned and did a rapid calculation. “We have to fight with equals. I suppose that means Sir Richard for Dad, Gawaine for Lancelot, I’ll have to fight Snotty…” he gulped, and then went on, “And Olivia, you’ll have to fight Mordred. Jerome will be left over. I don’t know what will happen then. Maybe four fights will be enough.”
“Or I could bite his ankles till he yields,” said Ferocious, showing his white teeth.
“Right, well, better get on with it,” said Sir Bertram, and strode into the small clearing by the bridge without even bothering to put his helmet on. “Come on and fight, Sir Richard, like a true knight!”
Sir Richard looked like anything but a true knight, his pasty face full of horror and his sword waving around rather wildly as he inched his way towards Sir Bertram.
“I… er… well… I say… Do we have to? Really? Isn’t there a more civilised way of— Ow!” He gave a great squeal as Snotty walloped him on the back and sent him flying into the clearing, where Sir Bertram immediately started laying about him with his big sword. Sir Richard managed to fend him off for a while with a combination of shield, sword and running away, but it was clear that the fight was not going to go Sir Richard’s way. Until he reached into a small pouch round his neck, and threw a few grains of powd
er in Sir Bertram’s direction.
Sir Bertram immediately found his feet stuck fast in the mud. What was worse, he was sinking into the ground, which had become extremely oozy exactly where he was standing. Sir Richard capered just out of reach of Sir Bertram’s long sword, and smirked.
“Yield, Sir Bertram!” he said. “I believe I have you at my mercy!”
“Mercy? That’s a good one!” roared Sir Bertram. “Stop dancing around like a girl and come a bit closer. Then I’ll show you who’s in need of mercy!”
But Sir Bertram was already up to his knees in the swamp, and sinking rapidly.
“That’s not fair,” shouted Olivia. “You can’t do that! Max – take the spell away!”
But Max was already trying. It was one of Morgana’s, he could tell, and he was carefully concentrating on the edges and emptiness around what seemed to be the spell, trying very hard to dissolve it. But it was a slow process, and Sir Bertram was now up to his waist, waving his sword to keep Sir Richard at bay.
Desperately Max tried harder. Even though he knew where to concentrate now, it was like trying to undo a huge complicated knot. If he could just find the right bit to start pulling at, he knew it would all collapse, but so far nothing had worked.
“Yield!” said Sir Richard again, sternly, at Sir Bertram’s head, the only bit of him still visible.
“Never!” said Sir Bertram, and as he said it, there was a great sucking, squelching sound and the swamp closed over the top of his hair, leaving nothing but a trail of bubbles on the surface and a few inches of sword disappearing rapidly into the gloop.
King Vortigern the Victorious
“Dad!” shrieked Olivia, as Sir Bertram disappeared into the swamp.
But at that moment Max found the right bit of Morgana’s spell and heaved with all his might. There was a loud POP and Sir Bertram shot out of the ground. He was deposited in a heap at the feet of the man on the bridge, who took his straw out of his mouth and looked down.
“You are a stubborn man, Sir Bertram,” the man observed. “But you are deemed to have yielded anyway – help is not allowed from other parties. Sir Richard wins.”
Sir Richard gave a slight bow to his companions, and retreated, while Sir Bertram, looking thoroughly disgruntled and extremely muddy, stumped back to the others.
“Blasted magic!” he muttered. “Not at all fair. Not allowed in a proper fight!”
The man on the bridge waved his piece of straw at them.
“Sir Gawaine must now fight Sir Lancelot.”
“But he’s got Excalibur!” said Olivia, suddenly realising. She turned to Lancelot. “You can’t!”
Lancelot gave her a crooked grin. “It’s okay, Olivia. I’m prepared to be beaten by the best sword in the kingdom. Although,” he winked, “I have a trick or two that might just help…”
He strode into the clearing, his sword at the ready. Gawaine, looking pale and expressionless, started towards him, Excalibur drawn. Max could feel the buzz and sing of its magic, which was even stronger here, so close to its source.
The man on the bridge held out his arm, and then dropped it.
“Begin!” he said.
Lancelot moved before Max even realised the fight had started, and his sword flashed and thrust and parried so fast it looked like three swords at once. Gawaine seemed startled. He was an able swordsman, and he had the finest sword ever made, but Lancelot was like a force of nature, beating him steadily backwards. Just as Gawaine began to rally and press back at his opponent, Lancelot twisted his sword in a manoeuvre that seemed to involve him passing it from one hand to the other. Before Max could even work out what had happened, there was a flash of sunlight on metal and Excalibur was in the air, tumbling across to the other side of the clearing, while Gawaine was on his knees with Lancelot’s sword at his neck.
“I yield,” he said, in a dull voice, and Lancelot sheathed his sword.
“Sir Lancelot wins,” announced the man on the bridge. “Now – Max Pendragon fights Adrian Hogsbottom.”
***
Max knew exactly what he was going to do. He was going to turn Snotty into a frog. He had wanted to turn him into a frog ever since he had first discovered the frogspell potion, but there had never been the right opportunity. The one time he had thrown some at him in a fight, it had turned out to be harmless blackberry sludge which Olivia had swapped for the real potion. Snotty had just laughed. Now Max was going to get his revenge.
“Olivia,” he hissed. “Have you still got the frogspell I gave you?”
She nodded, and fished the blue bottle out from her tunic.
“But you don’t need it, Max,” she said, surprised. “You can do the spell without the potion.”
“I know,” said Max. “But that needs concentration – and it will take longer. If I just chuck a bit of this at him it’ll all be over in a few seconds.”
She passed him the bottle, carefully, and he took the stopper out and stepped into the clearing.
“Come on then, Snotty,” he called. “Come and fight.”
Snotty inched warily into the clearing, his eye on the potion bottle. In his hand, he had a small packet of powder. The two boys circled each other, trying to get close enough to aim their spells but watching carefully for any sign of sudden movement from their rival.
Then Max, not watching his feet, slipped on a patch of mud, and Snotty darted forward and flung the contents of the packet in Max’s face. At the same moment Max flicked the bottle in his hand and a couple of lumps of blue frogspell hurtled towards Snotty. The spells hit their targets at almost exactly the same time. Snotty disappeared with a BANG and in his place was a bright green frog with clashing pink spots, who looked thoroughly disgruntled. Max, meanwhile, had keeled over sideways, stiff as a board, encased in another of Morgana’s famous immobility potions.
This time, however, Max knew exactly what to do. He rapidly felt for the outside edges of Morgana’s spell, and into the black absence that surrounded it. Then he grabbed hold of the very end of the magic, and pulled. Almost immediately he was free again. Before Snotty had had time to do more than croak a few times, Max had whisked him up and stuffed him into a small drawstring bag. He tied the top triumphantly, and then whirled it round in the air a few times, to make sure Snotty came out feeling thoroughly sea sick.
The man on the bridge nodded.
“Max Pendragon wins,” he said. “The other contestant must now be restored to human form.”
Max made a face, dropped Snotty out of the bag, and concentrated for a few seconds.
WHOOSH!
Purple stars flew around the clearing, and Snotty, looking queasy but decidedly human again, staggered back to his companions.
“Olivia Pendragon fights Mordred of Orkney,” announced the man on the bridge.
Olivia swallowed hard. So far she’d never managed to beat Mordred in single combat in all the times they’d met during training. She was not very hopeful that she’d do it now, in this muddy clearing in the middle of nowhere, when so much depended on it.
Sir Bertram smacked her on the back, encouragingly.
“Don’t worry, Olivia. Just do your best.”
Lancelot nodded, and leaned down.
“He’s bigger than you, and heavier. But you have the advantage of speed. Get in at the beginning. Get him on the run.”
Olivia nodded, and took a deep breath. She unsheathed her sword, and strode into the clearing. At the other end, Mordred stalked forward, looking down his long aristocratic nose at her.
“Well, it’s little Olivia Pendragon. Come to play with the big boys again? You know you haven’t got a chance.”
“Eat dung, Mordred,” said Olivia, through gritted teeth. “Just be thankful you’re not on a horse or I’d have you in the mud before you could pick your overlong royal nose.”
Mordred narrowed his eyes at her. “That was a fluke, little girl. You won’t do it again. In fact you won’t be doing anything very much when I’ve finished with
you.”
They had gradually drawn closer as they taunted each other. Now Mordred lunged forward, his sword aimed straight at Olivia’s head. She parried it smartly, and then stepped sideways, aiming a blow at his left side. But Mordred was quicker than he looked, and her sword met his shield with a clashing blow.
Max almost couldn’t bear to watch. Olivia was good – much better than he’d ever seen her – and she was giving Mordred trouble. But he was just too strong. One heavy blow he landed on her shield looked like it almost shattered her arm, and she was wincing in pain as she tried to beat him back. She almost got him with a swift disarming manoeuvre but he managed to turn slightly and deflect it, and then he obviously decided he’d had enough of playing by the rules, and punched her hard on the arm. Olivia yelled, and dropped her sword, and the next second he had picked it up and was holding both swords at her neck.
“Yield!” he said.
“You cheating, evil, fat pig’s backside!” spat Olivia. “That’s not fair!”
“All’s fair in war,” said Mordred, and pressed the swords harder against her neck.
“I yield,” said Olivia, with tears of rage and frustration in her eyes.
“Mordred of Orkney wins,” said the man on the bridge.
Olivia stomped back to the others, cursing Mordred non-stop under her breath. Max gave her a pat on the back.
“You nearly won, you know,” he said. “It’s why he had to cheat, in the end.”
“He’s a rotten stinking troll’s bogey,” said Olivia angrily. “But he’d have won anyway – he just wanted to cut it short. I can’t beat him! I just can’t! He’s too big and heavy. And that means I’m never going to win the Squires’ Challenge, and I know it shouldn’t matter because if we don’t rescue King Arthur there won’t even be a Squires’ Challenge, but I’m never going to be a knight. Never!” and she nearly burst into tears.
