Max got up from the gound tentatively, checking his body for sore spots and his clothes for holes or dirt. Finding none to speak of, he tentatively grabbed the metal glove that Sir Percival Pennywort reached toward him. He pulled and his eyes widened. Sir Percival didn't even move a centimeter. It felt like the weight of several lead blocks was hanging from him.
"Well, come now, old chap. Let's get on with it," Sir Percival had apparently not noticed that he had actually tried to pull him up. Max gathered his strength and pulled with all his weight. With a great clanking and screeching of metal joints, the old night managed to straighten his body into a standing position. He weaved a little and Max put out a hand to steady him. He didn't want Sir Percival to know that he didn't have the strength to pull him up again if he fell a second time.
Then, he was distracted by the deafening roar of cheers that came from the crowd as the knight wobbled a step or two. He looked around, noticing for the first time exactly where he was. It was, indeed, a sort of stadium or arena. Quite large. The stands were crammed with people, as well as a huge crowd standing on the ground around them, all of whom were cheering for Sir Percival. They were chanting something, but Max couldn't exactly make out what. And, sure enough, they were all dressed in medieval clothes.
He looked in the other direction and saw the castle. His heart beat hopefully. Maybe now he could find his mother and father! But it sank again just as quickly. It looked rather less crumbling than he remembered, and was decorated with green banners from every window and matching flags streaming in the breeze.
"Now, where is that horse?" Sir Percival looked around.
"That horse?" Max said hesitantly.
"Your case is worse than e'er I thougth,
If brave Tremendous you've forgot!" quothe the knight.
Sir Percival lifted his metal clad hand and pointed. Max looked in that direction, but was distracted by the sight of another figure, mounted on a huge black horse. It was another knight in full armor, including a helmet that hid his whole face and a long, wicked looking lance. The knight had ribbons streaming from his lance and helmet that were just as midnight black as his horse.
"Come on, old man! Let's have the final round!" a loud voice that sounded like it was coming out of an echo chamber streamed out of the helmet.
"Dear, dear. My lance seems to have disappeared as well." Sir Percival was trying to scratch his head in confusion, a gesture that was rather interesting with a metal glove on.
"Lance? Horse? Is this a jousting tournament?"
"I really wish you would not jest, Trevor," Sir Percival looked downright put out at this point. "This is really not a good time. But, if you insist on carrying this charade farther and farther, yes, it is. And I was duly dismouned just moments ago by our honourable foe in black. Unfortunately, Tremendous was so astounded at that wholely unexpected turn of events, that he shied and happened to pass too close by you, my young squire, in full gallop, which is how you came to bear the brunt of the fall. Thanks to you, I am in shape to continue the match."
"Against him?" Max pointed at the huge black knight, not quite believing his ears. Sir Percival looked like a grandfather in a halloween costume in comparison. But he decided not to say anything about that.
"Yes, my young friend. My respected position as 'the knight who never said never' is at stake."
"Well, if you ask me, this would be a good time to say never."
"Young man, my horse!" Sir Percival commanded.
"What, me?" Again, Max was not quite sure he believed his own ears.
"Yes, you, Trevor Thornblat, my squire, who else!" Max opened his mouth, planning to say,
"Trevor who?" but shut it again with a hollow click of his teeth when he finally saw the skinny, mangy looking horse rolling its eyes ill-humouredly at him.
"Come, Trevor. Our honour is at stake." Max tried to ignore the thunderous hammering of his heart that filled his ears. He swallowed hard and took a hesitant step toward the beast. He had never heard that horses could bare their teeth like an angry dog, but he would have sworn that Tremendous did just that.
"Here, boy," he called, his voice so thin that it barely even reached his own ears. But before he could go any further, he was stopped by a portly figure bustling out onto the jousting field. The man was short, wearing a pair of leggings on his bowlegs and a large, brown tunic that flapped around his thighs. The man waved his arms.
"Sir Percival! I msut stop this nonsense!" the man called. Max was sure he saw the corners of the old knight's mouth twitch upward into a quick smile before he controlled his face and looked stern instead.
"What is this that cannon wait,
that you must come inside the gate?" he asked. The man had reached them now. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his nose and he was breathing so hard he almost couldn't speak.
"Sir Percival. A message of distress from a distant village. You must waste no more time in coming to their aid!"
"I promise you, I shall not rest
So long as this village is distressed!" Sir Percival pledged. "What is the problem?"
"The burning hand!"
"Robin! You do not mean it!" Percival turned pale. He looked toward the black knight, who was twirling his lance impatiently into the ground. His horse stomped and storted, and Max took an involuntary step backwards.
"I am sorry, my honourable foe, but we must postpone our tournament. I must not risk injury--the village of --?"
"Terrifien," supplied the still panting Robin.
"Terrifien is awaiting delivery from dangers unimaginable."
"Don't think this is the end of this, old man!" the black knight snarled. Sir Percival turned toward side of the stadium where Robin had come from. He began to walk with slow steps.
"Trevor! My horse!"
"Um, Sir Percival?" Max said.
"Yes?" The knight stopped and looked at him.
"The burning what?"
"The burning hand. I will tell you the legend as we travel," he promised.
To be continued...
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