She Who is King

2 | forged in fire

England

Grummore used his sizable figure to push his way through the crowd flocked around the sword. It was Sir Ector's turn, and Grummore wanted to be there for his former friend's inevitable defeat.

I still didn't know what had gone wrong between Sir Grummore and Sir Ector, because I had heard they had been drinking buddies once upon a time. There must have been some sort of brawl in the tavern, because they hadn't spoken since I had lived with Grummore.

That I could remember. 

"Ector's about to make a right fool of himself." Grummore couldn't contain his glee as he placed himself in the inner circle surrounding the sword.

"Sir Ector, your turn, ole chap," the man who had dubbed himself guardian of the sword announced, pointing a copy of the blade in the stone at Ector.

The knight smiled arrogantly and strode to the stone, his smile growing wider with each step.

Lord have mercy, he was building himself up for failure.

Ector waved once to the crowd- in a gesture similar to what the former king used to use- and came to a stop next to the stone's platform. With a mighty tug, Ector failed to remove the sword from the stone, and his self assured smile immediately dimmed.

"Still think you're the king?" Grummore yelled, a jolly smile crossing his face. Grummore knew he was about as much of a king as old man Earl, but he couldn't help but be happy at Ector's fail.

Can't say I wasn't happy, too.

"You're no more king than me!" Ector said, stepping into Grummore's face. If someone didn't intervene, I had a feeling this would echo the tavern fight they must've had years ago.

"Sir, I believe it's your turn to try," I said, making my voice low and masculine. 

Grummore snapped out of his anger and gave me a courtesy glance. "Alright then," he said, "let's get this over with."

The knight didn't bother with theatrics as Ector had; instead choosing to walk quickly to the stone, halfheartedly pull the sword, and walk back to the place in the inner circle we had claimed. 

No one in the circle jeered or cheered, and the names were called continuously. Grummore seemed determined to see if anyone would become lucky and acquire the blade, but there had been no such luck in the hours we must have been standing there.

But because my master was there, I, as his squire, was also there.

Unfortunately.

After about the five hundredth person who went and tried the sword, Grummore turned to me with a mischievous smile on his face. 

"What?" I asked, worried about what he would say next.

"You should try the sword," he whispered. "What a kick the knights will get at a girl pulling the coveted blade."

"You know I can't do that. The sword specifies a king," I argued, trying to quell the curiosity that began burning in my gut.

Grummore only shrugged, as if he was indifferent. "Who said a king was a man, anyways? For all we know, girls were kings and boys were queens."

I eyed the sword, wondering if it was worth the risk to try and release it. 

Grummore staggered a little, and I realized with a start where all of these ideas were coming from. An overflowing chalice of beer was clutched tightly in Grummore's meaty hand, prompting me to believe that he was, in fact, drunk.

"Let's go back to the camp now," I stated, trying to save Grummore from a world of humiliation. 

"But I like watching people fail. It makes me feel so alive," the knight slurred, staggering a little.