“And you haven’t even got it all,” Wynfarad said with a chuckle, backing out and plunging in again. “Here comes the rest of it.” He backed out yet again and surged inward to the max, filling Randour full of his rampaging dick as he came to rest with his coarse curlies up against Randour’s balls and his tight hole. “Now you’ve got it all,” he exclaimed. “Every last inch. Can you feel it?”
“That has to be the dumbest question of the sixth century,” Randour replied. “I can feel it—and it feels mar-ve-lous! Now fuck me.”
He did better than just fuck Randour. As soon as his dick was chugging in and out of Randour, he started squeezing his nipples at the same time he was plunging his throbbing dick up into his new lover’s stuffed anal chamber. And then he leaned down to kiss him, his tongue in his mouth emulating the actions of his totally crazed dick, which had moved into overdrive and was fucking Randour like a berserk machine.
He pinched and tweaked Randour’s tender nubbins as he shuttled in and out of him at top speed, while his tongue intruded into Randour’s mouth, and it was all more than Randour could withstand. “I’m going to come!” Randour exulted, half warning him, half proclaiming it to the world. Then a freshet of jism burbled and spurted from his fountaining dick, splatting thickly on his own chest.
A minute later, he felt Wynfarad’s dick swell within the grip of his anal sphincter and begin disgorging its heavy freight. As his balls unleashed their load, that outpouring warmed Randour’s sanctum. Then Randour felt Wynfarad’s dick begin to lose its firmness, and Wynfarad eased back out of him and fell to his side.
The two got under the covers and held each other close until they fell asleep, which didn’t take long. Despite their earlier shared nap, Randour was very tired, and Wynfarad said he was, too, so although the narrow bed didn’t make for the most comfortable accommodations, they drifted off in record time, and soon Randour was slumbering peacefully with Wynfarad lightly snoring at his side.
Randour’s last two thoughts before he drifted off were how fortunate he felt at having met Wynfarad, and how excited he was to finally be in Camelot Castle. Perhaps now he could join the Round Table—and perhaps now, too, he could finally learn what powers his emerald amulet held.
The only thing that troubled him was lingering thoughts of the beast. He wanted to know more about it. Most especially, he wondered if he himself would encounter it.
Chapter 3
Randour had no idea what time it was when he awoke, but he felt rested and refreshed, if a bit stiff from having barely moved in the cramped, narrow bed all night.
He tried to get up gently, slowly, so as not to disturb the sleeping Wynfarad, but he failed in that. His lover stirred and opened his eyes. His eyes were barely visible to Randour in the obscured room with only a mote of moonlight shining in through the window to illuminate the darkness. “Is it morning?” Wynfarad asked through a yawn.
“It is still dark out, but I feel rested. I think it may be time to arise.”
“What do you think today will bring?”
“An audience with King Arthur, I hope! As you know well, I also desire to speak with Merlin, but for that I shall have to wait till he is more disposed to meet with people again. Since you were given no hope of meeting with him today, I am sure I have no chance of doing so either. But if I am to live in Camelot Castle from now on, my chance will come eventually, I am sure, and hopefully sooner rather than later. Meanwhile, I think my prospects are much better for a meeting with Arthur.”
Wynfarad stretched, yawned loudly, and sat up in the bed, swung his legs over the edge, and stood up. Shortly, both men were dressed and ready for whatever the new day would bring. Soon, the sky’s tones outside the window began to subtly change from the obscurity of night to the first soft changes that herald the dawn of a new day. It was not long thereafter that a knock came on Randour’s door to announce that the morning meal awaited them.
It was a different person, not Ben but a palace guard, who knocked at the room door a few hours later. Randour and Wynfarad, having finished breakfast and declined an escort back to their rooms, were ensconced in Randour’s room, which they now knew their way to and from without aid. Now they were simply sitting talking. The sheer amount of time they’d had together had allowed them to get to know each other much better, and Randour felt himself quite attached to his companion. It seemed as if they’d known each other for many months rather than mere days.
When the palace guard knocked at the door, they were deep in a discussion of life as a knight under King Harald, and how Randour hoped that life as a knight of the Round Table would differ from that life he had previously known. Interrupting his dissertation on the hoped-for differences between serving King Harald and serving King Arthur, Randour opened the door to confront a uniformed guard. “His majesty will receive you now,” the guard said stiffly. “Follow me.”
“I had better wait here. Good luck!” Wynfarad said.
“Come with me. Perhaps I can present you as my squire—if you would like that.”
“Anything that keeps my life joined with yours.”
Randour glowed with the knowledge that Wynfarad’s feelings for him mirrored his emotions toward Wynfarad.
“Come, then.”
Following the guard, the two men went downstairs and through many corridors until they found themselves in a huge, ornate room with, at one end, two thrones on a dais. Only one was occupied at present. Although Randour had seen no pictorial representations of the king, he had no doubt that he was now face-to-face with that greatest and most glorious of monarchs, King Arthur.
Approaching the throne, he knelt respectfully until he heard Arthur’s voice commanding him, “Arise.” Then Randour stood tall and looked the king boldly in the face. “I am told you have come with a request?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. I wish to become a Knight of the Round Table. I am Sir Randour, knighted by King Harald of Westover, whom I served well for about a year and a half, but I yearn for greater things. I believe life in Camelot would be far more exciting, even though I fully accept that you and your knights are committed to peace in the land, and there will be no fighting of armies. I believe it would be far more rewarding in other ways as well. If it please Your Majesty, may I join your knights? I pledge to serve thee with my very life if need be. I pledge unending loyalty to you, the Round Table, all the precepts you have set forth, and all that you stand for.”
“Very noble. You seem sincere and earnest, but I would have you prove yourself before I can allow you to become one of us.”
“I will do anything you require, Your Majesty.”
“Who is the young man who accompanies you?”
“My faithful companion is Wynfarad, who from this day forth will be my squire. We met on the road to Camelot Castle and already have become devoted friends.”
“And for what purpose was he coming to the castle?”
“He wishes an audience with Merlin but has been told his request must be deferred while Merlin wrestles with a problem.”
“Ah yes. The beast. That brings me back to what I was saying to you about proving yourself. I require that you pass two tests if you wish to become a Knight of the Round Table. First I wish to see your skill in jousting. If you can best one of my knights, I will then send you on a quest. If you succeed in that quest, I will welcome you as the newest knight of the table.”
“And what is that quest, Your Majesty?”
“I wish you to dispatch the beast.”
Randour quivered at that pronouncement. If all the knights had tried and failed, if Merlin with all his magic had been unable to find a way to kill the beast, then what chance had he, Randour, against Gwylldahr? Yes, he had youthful zeal on his side, and yes, he would be strongly motivated to succeed, driven by the knowledge that success was necessary in order to achieve his personal goal. But still, the odds were tremendously against him.
In the worst case, he would likely be slain by Gwylldahr, ripped to shreds by h
is claws, or poisoned by his forked tongue or immolated in the flames that emanated from his mouth. In the next-worst case, he might be grievously injured yet somehow escape death, but still, if he failed to vanquish the beast, if Gwylldahr lived, his quest would have been a failure, and he would be barred from admittance as one of the Round Table knights.
What choice did he have, however? If he didn’t make the attempt, there was no hope he might ever become one of King Arthur’s knights. That also meant he would have to leave the kingdom before ever meeting with Merlin, and then the secrets of the emerald amulet would likely remain forever hidden.
“Tell me more about the beast,” Randour requested.
“First let me see if you are even worthy of hunting him. We will have a joust this very morning. I take it you have a suit of armor with you?”
“It is in my chamber upstairs, Your Majesty.”
“Very good. The guard who brought you here will escort you to your room and wait while you make ready. Then he will guide you to the jousting field. You have a horse in our stable?”
“That we each do, Your Majesty.”
“I will have your horse brought to the field to await you.”
“It is a chestnut stallion, named Bolt, sire. I am at your service, Your Majesty.” Randour knelt again.
“Arise. Good fortune to you.”
The guard escorted Randour and Wynfarad back to their rooms, and they both made ready for the joust. Randour donned his coat of mail and then clanked down the hallway after the guard, with Wynfarad at his side. The guard led Randour and Wynfarad to the jousting field. Bolt was waiting. The stallion whinnied and picked up his ears when he saw his master approach. Randour was glad to see Bolt, too, and patted his nose and then his flanks. “Have they been taking good care of you, fellow?” he murmured to his faithful stallion. Then he mounted the horse, took his lance in hand, and mentally prepared himself to challenge Sir Lionel, whom Arthur had selected as his opponent.
Arthur and Guinevere were both in attendance, in elevated seats from which they would have splendid views of the tournament. At a signal from the king, the two knights charged at each other, and Randour did his best to land a telling blow that would unhorse Lionel. While he caught him solidly, Lionel’s shield deflected the blow, and he rode off, still well seated.
The two wheeled their horses around and once again charged at each other. This time, Lionel struck Randour, but Randour dodged at the last possible moment, and the blow of Lionel’s lance glanced harmlessly off Randour’s shoulder. Once again the horses galloped on down the field, wheeled around, and charged toward each other. This time, both Randour and Lionel struck each other where the shield did not cover. Randour was in pain and was knocked somewhat off-kilter, but he managed to retain his seating and right himself in the saddle as he charged onward.
Turning around, the two knights took off toward each other again. Randour was determined not to let Lionel unhorse him. Just as he approached the other knight, Randour ducked low to the neck of his mount and aimed low on Lionel’s body, somewhere around his hip. Lionel had been protecting his chest and left his hip exposed. Randour hit him with such force that he swayed then toppled. Randour quickly dismounted and aimed his sword at the unseated knight. He paused, waiting for Lionel to acknowledge Randour’s victory.
“Mercy!” cried Lionel.
“Mercy granted,” Randour replied, sheathing his sword and extending a hand to help the supine knight back up to his feet. “Arise.”
Once again mounting Bolt, he rode over to where Arthur and Guinevere sat, observing the joust.
“Well done!” said the king. “Go rid yourself of your armor and meet me back at the castle. I will see you are escorted so you don’t lose your way. Prepare to do battle with Gwylldahr. The joust you just completed was child’s play in comparison with what lies ahead for you.”
Back in Randour’s room, Wynfarad watched as Randour divested himself of his coat of iron mail. “I fear for your safety in fighting the beast,” he said.
“Fear for the safety of both of us, my friend. You are nearly as likely to lose your life as I am.”
“Losing my life does not scare me as much as losing you,” Wynfarad replied. “I have grown quite fond of you and quite attached to you.”
“I assure you, my feelings echo yours.”
“It would be painful to me beyond measure if you were to die in any battle, but as Camelot is currently at peace, it seems this scourge of a beast is what we most have to fear at this time.”
“If I die, I lose you and your love. I must see to it that I remain unharmed—somehow.”
“Shall we go and meet with the king?”
“I am ready.”
They rejoined King Arthur, who was once again seated on his throne. Guinevere was not present, but all the Knights of the Round Table were. “This is Sir Randour,” King Arthur said to his knights. “He was knighted by King Harald, whom he served for a year and a half, but he now wishes to join you good men at my table. I have tasked him with a quest to prove his worthiness. If he wishes to join us, he must first prove himself by dispatching Gwylldahr.”
A murmur ran through the assemblage at that pronouncement.
“Tell me about this beast,” Randour implored, but what Arthur told him very much echoed what Jenny had told him at the table the night before. There was little new information, nothing that would be particularly helpful in finding a figurative chink in the beast’s armor.
“You will take your midday repast with us. It is nearly time already. Then I’d advise a rest before you set out, although that is entirely up to you. I will see to it that the two of you are well provisioned with food from the castle kitchen.
“The last reports we have indicate that the beast is somewhere northeast of here. He is following a path that, if he stays on course, will take him near to Holmdemarle.”
Randour cast a quick glance at Wynfarad. Holmdemarle was the village in which Wynfarad had lived for the last few years while studying under the tutelage of his mentor, Malachi. Randour knew that Wynfarad would be worried for Malachi’s well-being, as well as that of the other villagers Wynfarad had come to know and care about. Indeed, concern burned in Wynfarad’s eyes at Arthur’s news.
“Do you have any questions?” Arthur asked.
“I think not, Your Majesty.”
“Good luck and Godspeed, then. I hope to see you back here with the head of the beast, or at least the tail or some other suitable proof that he has been vanquished.”
“No more devoutly than I wish for it to transpire, Your Majesty.”
When Randour and Wynfarad were escorted to the midday meal, they found themselves dining in a different hall than heretofore, breaking bread with the king and queen in a private dining room. Guinevere was interested in how they hoped to accomplish their objective and asked Randour what his proposed plan was.
“To tell you the truth, Your Majesty, I have none. I have been told that swords are useless against this beast, and I have no better weapon at my disposal. To be candid, I do not know what I can do that all the others have not tried before me. Tried and failed at, from what I am told. I go with a heart filled simultaneously with hope and fear. I leave Camelot Castle determined yet unsure of my path. I know I must accomplish my goal if I wish to join His Majesty’s knights, yet I have no clear plan in mind through which I aim to vanquish this dreadful foe.”
“Well, you are candid enough, and brave, too. Perhaps also foolish, but time will tell.”
Arthur listened with keen interest to the conversation but made no attempt to enter it himself.
They dined on pheasant in aspic, with asparagus and more fresh-baked bread. The food was quite good, but Randour’s stomach was a knot of nerves, and he had trouble eating in that state. Wynfarad seemed to be having better success with downing his meal, but his nervousness, too, manifested itself, albeit in other ways. In Wynfarad’s case, his nervousness showed in a jittery failure to sit still. He fidge
ted in his seat, cracked his knuckles, scratched his head, and seemed to be perpetually in motion.
At last the meal was over, for which Randour was grateful. Excusing himself, he rose from the table, and Wynfarad followed suit. “May good fortune be with you,” Arthur said, once again wishing them well before taking his own leave. As they walked away from the table, a servant came forward with two bulging sacks. “Provisions for your journey,” he explained, handing a sack to each man.
They made their way upstairs but decided they were both too nervous for the rest or nap that Arthur had recommended. “Let us set out forthwith, then,” Randour decided.
“By all means,” agreed Wynfarad.
Randour donned his suit of armor, they gathered together their few possessions, and they set off. Not knowing where the stables were, they asked the first person they saw on descending to the main floor and were sent off in the right direction.
“You’re stabling our mounts. We’ve come to reclaim them for a journey,” Wynfarad informed the stable keeper.
“Ah, you’re the ones who are going off to do battle with the beast. The castle is abuzz with the news. I wish you well, of course. Well, it was nice meeting you. I’ll go fetch your horses for you.”
Soon he returned with Bolt and Emma, and the two men mounted their horses, Wynfarad on the mare and Randour on the stallion.
Arthur had said the beast was northeast of the castle and seemed to be on a path to Holmdemarle, so Randour and Wynfarad retraced the road that had brought them to the castle. This led back in the general direction they needed. After a while, they reached the point where Randour’s path and Wynfarad’s had converged and the two had met up. “Can you believe that happened so recently?” Randour asked.
“No. I feel as if I have known you forever.”
“Me, too.”
Wynfarad had not taken a direct route from Holmdemarle to the castle. He had veered off course to visit his older brother in another village. This, he theorized, might account for the fact that he had not crossed paths with the beast on his journey to the castle. Up to this point on their quest they had neither encountered the beast nor seen any indication that he had been in the area. But now they were at a crossroads, and the road they were about to turn onto was neither the one Wynfarad had taken nor the one Randour had ridden on. Perhaps they would soon find themselves face-to-face with the ferocious monster.
The Emerald Knight Page 4
