'I know you've got a sister in the temple,' said Muck, putting down his mastersword. 'I can't see you suffering too much denial. Why, I can smell a woman on you now!'
'That's not a woman,' said Drake promptly. 'That's a dog!'
'Then she's a dog with very poor taste,' said Muck, not caring whether Drake's claim was literal or metaphorical. 'Graf begrik,' muttered Drake.'What was that?' said Muck sharply, suspecting correctly – that Drake had just said something lewd.
'I said where's Dragon's Tooth?' said Drake, scanning the sword rack, which held second-rate blades suitable for apprentice use.'Yot'sgot it.''Oh, but that's my favourite!'
'Don't worry, you've no monsters to kill today,' said Muck, with a heavy attempt at sarcasm.
'No monsters?' said Drake. 'Only because you're off-limits!'
Muck swung at him with a poker. But Drake, who had expected as much, ducked. And Muck's boot caught Drake hard near the base of his spine. The blow with the poker had been only a feint.'Ow!' said Drake. 'That hurt!'
'It was meant to,' said Muck, picking up a strange sword which Drake had never seen before. 'Here, take this. It's just come in. It' s from Pribble's estate, in payment of a debt he owed me.'
The strange sword was big and heavy, but Drake had the muscles to handle the weight. The blade balanced nicely.'Mind you Investigate it before use!' said Muck.
'That I will,' said Drake, and, naked blade resting lightly on his shoulder, strolled out of the forge.
'Move yourself!' shouted Muck. 'You haven't got all day!'
So Drake got the hustle on, at least until he was round the corner.
Drake swung his sword. Liberated from the gloom of the forge, it glittered in the daylight. He danced on the cobblestones between two rows of whitewashed buildings, stabbing at ghosts with his vorpal blade.What should he call it?'Warwolf, perhaps.
That was scarcely original, as many fabled swords and heroes bore that name. But Drake had the temperament of a craftsman rather than that of an artist; he preferred utility to originality any day of the year.
T name thee Warwolf,' he said. 'Too long hast thou lingered amidst dust and debts. Thou shouldst have had ruler like me beforehand.'
Then, whistling, he began to Investigate the brave sword Warwolf.By using it.
First he tried to lop the head off a stray cat – but it was too quick for him. Then he slashed a branch off a stunted little tree trying to grow in a big streetside stone pot. That was reckless, since all potted trees in Cam were under the protection of King Tor. But it was still early morning, so few people were about in the streets to bear witness.
Rounding another corner, Drake was startled to be confronted by a watermelon stand. A massive, old, unpainted stand of weathered grey wood, heaped high with watermelons. This fearsome apparition made Drake entirely forget about his hangover.
'Not a watermelon stand!' he gasped. 'Nay! Say not! But no! It is! My eyes fail! My blood turns to water!'
But, regardless of failing eyes and watery blood, Drake stood his ground. And challenged his fell foe.
'Stand aside!' he said. 'Aside, I say! Or it shall go ill with you.'
The watermelon stand, undaunted by this threat, made no effort to get out of his way. Drake knew his peril. For, truly, in all the annals of heroism and romance, there is no account of any man ever daring battle with a watermelon stand and living to tell the tale.'Die, hell-fiend!' gritted Drake.
And hewed like a hero.
'Shalt fear the dreaded Drake Douay hereafter,' snarled he, menacing a particularly big brute of a watermelon.
The monster's skin was a thick, tough, alien green, stippled with patterns of sunlight yellow. A challenge indeed! But Drake the Doughty stabbed with a strength against which even the strongest armour could not avail.He wounded his enemy.Ichor dripped from the wound.
Drake stabbed again – for, as is well known, the watermelon has neither heart nor liver, nor any other vital organ, and thus is seldom killed by a single stab wound.
'What's this?' said Drake. 'It will not die! Could it be that I am face to face with an immortal?'
He drew his sword back, intending to strike the most awesome blow imaginable.
At that moment, the watermelon seller came roaring out of a nearby tavern, screaming threats and abuse. Drake snatched up half a watermelon and sprinted away with this trophy. He went flying up a side-street, which was steep, narrow and radically kinked.
Drake tore round one corner then whipped round another. The street steep, still rising. Another corner. He saw a fully laden coal cart waiting uphill. He dug in his heels for a final burst of speed. Gaining the coal cart, he kicked the chocks away from its wheels.
Panting harshly, Drake stood watching as the cart went rumbling downhill. Lumps of coal jumped for freedom as the cart jolted over the cobblestones. It was gaining speed.' Look out below!' screamed Drake.' Runaway cart!'
Then the cart hit a kink in the street. It smashed into a wall. The wall shattered. The cart burst asunder. Coal dust exploded into the air. The wall collapsed. Until that moment, it had been supporting a roof. A landslide of sky- blue tiles slithered from the roof and shattered in the street.
'Oh, great stuff, great stuff!' said Drake, trying to pant and laugh at the same time.
He would have clapped his hands for joy and delight – only that would have meant dropping both sword and watermelon.
'Zooma floragin!' screamed a manic figure, bursting out of the building which the cart had wrecked. 'Thamana lok!''That's not polite,' muttered Drake.
And, indeed, it was not polite at all – it was low and filthy gutter language.As the demented figure gave chase, Drake fled.
Once he had lost his pursuer, Drake munched down the juicy pink flesh of the watermelon, then strolled along with a mouthful of pips, spitting them out one at a time. Which took skill, but he had been practising for as long as he could remember (and stealing watermelons for that long, too).
Watermelon seeds flew, with considerable accuracy, through every open window he passed. That was fun.
But, all too soon, he arrived at the sword field, which was not a field at all, but a dusty courtyard where, usually, three dozen apprentices would have been practising sword.'Bugger,' said Drake.
The sun was getting up. The excitement of the coal cart crash had worn off. His legs were tired, his boots heavy. He was remembering his headache. It felt bad. How had he ever forgotten it? A wave of weariness rolled over him. He wanted to be in bed. But his bed was in the loft over the forge, so Muck would know exactly where to find him if he tried skiving off. Holding his sword by the pommel, Drake entered the sword field, letting the blade's point trail behind him in the dust.
Today there was nobody present but an instructor, and Sully Yot. All the other apprentices had been released by their masters so they could enjoy the delights of Temple Day.
'Ah, there you are, young Dreldragon!' said the instructor. Then, seeing what Drake was doing: 'Get that sword out of the dust before I shove it up your arse! Get your arse over here! Get working!'
'Hey, man,' said Drake. 'Give us a break, why don't you? How about you come to the temple with us? I'll buy you a beer, man. A woman, even. Muck will never know different.'
In reply, the instructor booted Drake in the backside, then set him to work with Yot, making the pair of them practise a two-man kata.
The swordsmiths' guild believed apprentices should learn weapon skills, the better to be able to make a decent killing blade. But they allowed no rough-and-tumble play with wasters.
As the instructor was fond of saying: 'We are not teaching you how to brawl it out on a battlefield, but to learn how weight, length and balance dictate utility.'
Nevertheless, sword training was deadly serious, done with bare blades and no protection. A single mistake could wound, mutilate or kill. However, though dangerous, it could almost have been mistaken for a kind of dance – for it was strictly a no-contact affair. Every thrust, fake, step, jump and counter was pre-arranged.
