The Cursed Blood, стр. 64
It didn’t take long. A roll whizzed across the room like a baseball trailing what I think was blackberry preserves. I’d been expecting something like this, so it really didn’t catch me by surprise. I just moved my head over a fraction of an inch and let it sail past as I took an exploratory nibble at the mince pie. It wasn’t my thing then, and it’s still not.
Not even looking for the culprit who chucked the near deadly baked product at me I tossed the pie to Manx who gobbled it down in one gulp then licked up the crumbs from the floor. I plucked up the apple, shined its bright red skin with my shirt and was about to take a bite when I felt the looming presence. I do believe I smelled him before I felt him though.
“Oy, the grub not good enough for ya, little princeling brat?” Again, the whole cafeteria went silent, and again I sighed, carefully placing the juicy looking apple on the table. A hard, nail digging grip clamped onto my shoulder and yanked at me. “Hey, I’m talking to you, ya little shi-” hulking Porky McPimple face never finished the sentence.
As he pulled me about, I gripped my tray end in both hands and brought it about like a massive goop filled fly swatter. It connected with a resounding THWACK and a moment later a stunned, slovenly looking squire whose hefty gut was dangerously threatening the seams of his black shirt was blinking up at me in horror, mopping hot steamed veggie from his face, booted feet squeaking as he scuttled back on the tile floor.
The whole place started shouting at once as adults made a bee line for us and tables squealed and groaned as other squires angrily struggled out. I calmly tossed the tray back on the table, picked back up my apple, and took a very satisfying bite. I munched on it as I watched the older squire yelp, curse, and threaten to throttle me as he franticly tried to comb still steaming broccoli, carrots, and turnips out of his hair with his sausage like dirty fingers.
Sgt. Blake, having witnessed the whole thing seemingly found it hilarious when I advised the neon sash wearing cafeteria monitors where to stick their broom and dustpan when they demanded I clean up the mess.
He even sentenced the older squire who was glaring at me hatefully to punishment detail and sent him sulking off to the broom closet to fill a mop bucket. I knew I’d made an enemy out of the pudgy boy, but I really didn’t care. I’d had thoroughly enough of bullies.
Chapter Eleven
Wolves, wayward sons, and the trouble with Warlocks…
It had been a long day when Manx’s floppy ears perked and he stood, started to bark boomingly, and wag his curly tail from his spot by a pile of defunct training dummies. I, knowing full well what that outburst meant, looked about with no small amount of relief from my sparring mat, earning myself an ear ringing eye swimmingly thump on the ear from ever impish Natalie who giggled gleefully at the hit.
Throbbing ear or not I was happy to see Gramps trudged in, though he had caught the whole thing and was shaking his head. I could hear his long, sleep inducing lecture on “never taking one’s eyes off of one’s opponent” even as I remembered I was mad at him and fixed him with a look that stopped him dead in his tracks. He knew. He took a long breath, sighed, and then continued on.
“We will talk about it later,” he growled, his eyes sweeping the Wolves Den and its occupants with nostalgic trepidation then again fixing onto me with the intensity of blazing bonfires. “I have much to tell you, but we can’t discuss it here.”
“Aten—shun!” the instructor—I had learned his name was Markus—called out and immediately there was a clatter of gear hitting the mat and clenched fists thumping chests and heals clicking as the room’s squires stood rigidly and proudly at attention. “Lord Artur, welcome home,” Markus said in a grave tone thick with sarcastic bitterness. Though he still managed to give a stiff bow that all the squires copied, all just as disingenuously as their instructor.
I noted with no small amount of irritation that Natalie was staring at Gramps with awe. I also noticed that she was the only one doing so. I just glared at him all the harder, my knuckles turning red then pale white, the leather of my training stave creaking as I imagined giving the old man a good, well deserved whack in the knees with it.
“Squire Bright, give yer Lord his due,” Markus insisted gruffly as he stormed over to our mat waving his stick about threateningly, though his eyes told a whole different story. I ignored him and continued boring holes into Gramps who studiously insisted at looking anywhere but at me. I got a good hit on the back side from Markus’ stick for it, but didn’t budge in my angry vigil, just as he raised his stick to try again Gramps waved him off.
“If I’m not mistaken my grandson has just cause to be angry. As do many. I trust the good Sergeant at Arms had some stories to tell, eh boy?” I said nothing. I remember my sword hand was shaking at this point, and I was clenching my teeth so hard together that I tasted my own blood. “Thought so,” Gramps nodded to himself sadly.
Marcus cleared his throat. “Would ye’ care ta’ give the squires a wee display of yer’ legendary skill with the blade, me Lordship?”
Gramps glanced at the