The Perils of Untying Love – Episode 10
Here’s a tip: If you happen to find yourself flat on your back with a menacing figure in armour standing over you holding a sword at your throat, don’t comment on how good they look. It just seems to make them angrier.
Suffice to say, at my words the frown creasing the brow of the white-haired woman grasping the non-pointy end of the sword became a scowl. I squirmed under her burning red eyes and tried to avoid staring at what looked uncomfortably like splashes of blood on her deathly pale cheeks. My state of mind didn’t improve when I noticed what I’d thought was rust on her black armour was in fact more blood. Dried this time.
If I’d had any notions Hettgur’s attitude towards me would soften, they were dispelled when she opened her mouth.
“I’m going to run you through like a toad on a skewer,” she said, her tone no less gravelly than before.
As you may have gathered, our paths had crossed some time ago in the very establishment in which I was lying stretched out, a puddle of sour ale seeping into my jacket.
Despite what Hettgur had said afterwards about that occasion, I don’t believe I had been rude. Not intentionally, anyway.
I mean, whose tongue wouldn’t be stirred into making a comment – perhaps, in retrospect, a rash one – at the sight of an armour-clad knight sat at a table in the company of inebriated dwarves and trolls swigging a pint of ale?
What followed after that goes to show how lighthearted remarks can be blown out of proportion.
The indignity to which she had subjected me when she’d manhandled me out of The Old Workshop’s door and ejected me into the street, was unwarranted. And yet, even in that desperate situation, I had lost not a shred of my customary magnanimity. Despite the cobbles which had pressed painfully into my buttocks as I’d hauled myself into a sitting position, I had taken the trouble to point out that she shouldn’t feel bad about her treatment of me because she couldn’t help the way she behaved – what with being who she was.
That had been the point where she’d threatened to kill me if I set foot in the alehouse again.
But I stand by my words. Hettgur is a Soldarius Amor Mortis who, you would know if you’d encountered one, take offence at the slightest thing.
Take for example the events that occurred when the castle materialised on her world a decade or so ago.
Our sudden arrival hadn’t gone unnoticed. Before you could blink, twenty Soldarius Amor Mortis’s were clanking around the opposite side of the moat eyeing the castle with hostile intent.
You might think they would have gathered together and attacked us all at once.
But, no.
One of them made a remark that irked the others and they fell on each other, swords swinging, fighting to the death. From dawn to dusk, day after day, they fought in ritual combat, only breaking for lunch.
After fourteen days, their number had been whittled away until only a single knight was left standing.
Hettgur.
Not pausing to celebrate, she’d plunged into the moat, armour and all, intending to swim across and scale the wall.
I have to confess, I’d been impressed she’d been able to hold her head above water what with the weight her armour.
But her plan to attack the castle fell apart.
Two weeks of fighting had taken it out of her, and she tired quickly once she’d entered the water.
To make matters worse, when she was thrashing wildly halfway across the moat, the castle jumped worlds again.
We arrived in a new world with an exhausted Hettgur paddling weakly, her face turning blue.
Grimmon, along with a couple of Denizens, had taken my rowing boat, hauled her from the water and brought her coughing and spluttering inside the castle.
Since that day, her code of chivalry has forbidden her from slaughtering the castle’s inhabitants as she’d originally intended. Something to do with us rescuing her, I believe.
For reasons I fail to understand, that code doesn’t seem to apply to me.
So – getting back to the matter in hand – there I was lying on The Old Workshop’s stained floor, staring death in the face.
Hettgur’s grip tightened on her sword hilt.
My mouth turned to dust. I shut my eyes, waiting for the razor-sharp steel to puncture my flesh.
“Oh, Hettgur,” came the musical tones of a familiar voice. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”
I opened my eyes to see Hettgur’s long white hair swaying as her head tilted to the side. The point of her sword pricking my throat didn’t move a fraction.
“Good day, Trewla,” she said. “Just a moment. I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve despatched this reprobate.”
My buttocks clenched.
Trewla’s beautiful face came into view as she leaned over me. “Has he been offensive again?”
“Correct. It will be for the last time, though. Once I’ve cut off his head, I’m going mount it on a spike outside the door.”
Trewla smiled sweetly at me. “That will certainly stop him being rude.”
My voice, which had been frozen in terror up to that point, returned.
“Release me at once!” I shrieked. “Don’t you know who I am?”
As if I hadn’t spoken, Trewla said, “I wouldn’t mind if you held off for a while, Hettgur.”
An eyebrow lifted on the knight’s pale brow. “Really? Why’s that?”
“I need him for something that only he can do.” Trewla’s gaze returned to me. Her eyes were hard, though the smile remained on her lips.
“Very well.” Hettgur straightened and sheathed her sword. “But I want him back when you’re done with him.”
“Of course.” Trewla watched me roll onto my side and push myself to my feet. “The thing is, I need your help too, Hettgur.”
I gave an indignant squeak. “Absolutely not! I forbid it!”
“It will be my pleasure,” said Hettgur, ignoring me again. “What would you like me to do?”
“I have need of your tracking skills. There’s a particularly slippery brownie I’m after.”
“And what is it that only he can do?” Hettgur nodded at me.
“Once we’ve caught the brownie, this fine man will persuade him to return what he took.”
Hettgur leered at me. “And then the spike’s wait will be over.” She lifted her sword and sheathed it. “Until that happy moment, I’ll be keeping my eye on you.”
*** Continued in episode 11 ***
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