Looking over the battlement, Black Knight Bernard saw the mercilessly capitalist sorcerer Drumpf casting a bridge spell to give his battering ram access to the gate. If the evil mage completed the incantation, his mindless horde would overrun the fortress. He had whipped them into a senseless frenzy with his promises to tear down the wall and send everyone inside back from whence they had come. Never mind that pretty much everyone inside the fortress had been born there, Bernard and his retinue excepted.
More importantly, though, should the attack succeed, Bernard’s own more benevolent hopes of rule would be dashed. Even though he had pledged his support, Queen Hillary’s subjects knew he was biding his time. He had heard the murmurs.
The Queen herself had left the walls, muttering something about having to burn some sensitive scrolls stored in her personal chambers. Now, while she was preoccupied, was the time to prove himself, the time to convert her people to his cause, to become their hero.
His cast iron armor creaked and clanked as he leaped onto the battlement’s ledge. His sword rang as he unsheathed it. He let out a throaty battle cry, the motto of his home, the Land of the Green Mountain.
“You can’t get there from here!” he bellowed.
Below, his spell finished, and a magical stone bridge now coalescing for his murderous rabble to cross, Drumpf looked up to see who had challenged him. Head thrown fully back, the sorcerer’s cowl fell away, revealing a permanently snarling face. A seemingly limitless sweep of gossamer thin ginger hair miraculously stayed in place above it.
It has to be an evil spell or some vile gelatinous concoction that keeps it there, Bernard thought, likely made from a combination of lilac and moose fat.
“You!” Drumpf cried, raising a fist. “You’re just a poser. The people, they love me!”
Bernard stuck out his tongue. “Nay!” he cried. “I am better, and you are through. Your bridge is rubber, and I’m coming for you!” Jumping from the ledge, he executed a perfect four-and-a-half somersault in pike position.
Drumpf glanced at one of his lackeys nervously. “Can he do that?’ he asked.
The lackey shrugged.
“I mean, that armor has to be restricting his movements. Wouldn’t you think?”
The lackey shrugged again, nodding towards the bridge. Drumpf turned just in time to see Bernard stick the landing and straighten, arms out, sword brandished in one hand, shield in the other.
He didn’t stay in place, however. The bridge seemed to give under him, then snap back into place like a massive rubber sling. Bernard was airborne again. The childish retort had been a counterspell!
Worse, his trajectory would land him right on top of the sorcerer, who was unarmed and clad in a standard, off the rack, silk sorcerer’s robe. This was not good. Bernard’s sword arm went back in preparation to strike. This was definitely not good.
Drumpf, panicking, raised non-armor-clad arms to protect himself. His lackeys scattered. The mindless horde advancing on the fortress halted, the will guiding them mysteriously gone.
Desperately, Drumpf tried to conjure a counter-counter spell. Unfortunately, all his bankrupt mind could form was a pathetic plea. As Bernard’s form blocked out the sun and cast a shadow over the doomed sorcerer, Drumpf half-begged, half-screamed, “Not the hair! Not the hair!”