In the end, Bedwyr did what all curious young lads did, he asked his father. "Father. Who is Pellinore?"
Corneus stopped suddenly, the soup bowl just up to his mouth. The warrior's eyes widened. "Where did you hear that name?"
"Bedwyr went up to a stranger!" Lucen yelped. "It was a big Knight!" He smirked at Bedwyr with bright cruel eyes. Bedwyr glared right back.
"And it was Pellinore?" Corneus croaked. "Answer me boy! Was it Pellinore?"
"Yes," Bedwyr whispered, shrinking away from his suddenly pale father. "Who is he?" He asked with a jolt of bravery.
"A traitor," Corneus growled. "A champion among traitors. Pellinore the Undefeated. The Pendragon's First Lance."
That got Bedwyr's attention, and he jumped on it immediately. "Who is Pendragon?"
"Was!" Corneus snapped. "Was Pendragon. He died." He spat into the corner. "Uther Pendragon tried to usurp the crown from Vortigern. He failed. All that remains of his rebellion are beaten down old men like Pellinore and Ector." Corneus sighed deeply. "Hell of a warrior though. King Pellinore deserves respect for that if nothing else."
"King?" Bedwyr stammered in surprise. Pellinore hadn't had the aura he associated with the Kings of Avalon either.
"Aye, King. Though of a land that no longer exists." Corneus rose from his chair. He picked up his heavy war axe, and flung it into his belt loop. "Best inform the rest. A Knight of our own will have to be called."
"He said he'd be coming down," Bedwyr said, immediately feeling an odd sense of betrayal from his words.
Corneus nodded stiffly. "Course he is. He'll need supplies. Food, water, his Druids might need some more eclectic materials."
"Will you kill him?" Bedwyr asked.
Corneus shook his head. "Only way we could is if we ganged up on him. And that just isn't done. Vortigern will send a Knight, and that Knight will defeat him. Pellinore has to be more than forty now. He's past his prime." He moved out the door. "He isn't Pellinore the Undefeated anymore." Corneus seemed to be trying to convince himself, more so than his sons.
*****************
Pellinore entered the village later that day, accompanied by both his Druids. Protected by little more than the thin shield of traditional Avalon Chivalry and fear of the mystics that shadowed him, the middle-aged Knight showed no real fear at the enemy that surrounded him.
Bedwyr was stunned and a bit awed. The way people talked among themselves, huddling and whispering, suggested that Pellinore was truly an implacable and famous foe of Vortigern.
Pellinore was polite to everyone, giving the guards a bow and a grin, and bending his knee to every woman he met, young or old, rich or poor.
Bedwyr and Lucen were watching from the doorframe, Bedwyr's single eye making it difficult to make out the band of local warriors that amassed to confront the Traitor King. Pellinore waved to them lightly. "Hail, warriors."
"Hail, King Pellinore," Cornerus said gruffly. He starts to heft his axe up from its loop, eyes not leaving the knight in front of him. "What business do you have here, traitor?"
Pellinore held his hands away from his sword and gun. The sign of pax on Avalon. A signal that he had no interest in fighting. Often, it just meant a fatal second to get the sword drawn. "I am on a Quest, neighbor."
"A Quest? On whose behalf?" Another warrior, Hazon, growled. Hazon was a hulking brute of a man, who always smelled of thick mead and fresh gore. He was infamous among the followers of the Blood God as an inhuman, savage, brute.
"Pendragon's, of course."
"You lie!" Hazon bellowed. He stormed forward, ignoring Corneus' squawked order to stay back. "Pendragon is food for worms, his skull is Khorne's pisspot!" Hazon stormed close to Pellinore, and Bedwyr knew that was a tactic of battle. The raw proximity of Hazon was famed, known to cause lesser warriors to stumble and be sickened.
Pellinore, however, didn't flinch, stumble, or vomit. He smiled up at Hazon. "Of course, my Lord Uther Pendragon is long dead, and evidently had no heirs. But his killer still lives. And I am duty bound to slay the monster that killed him. The last Quest of Pendragon."
A chuckle ran through the gathered warriors. Hazon threw his head back and laughed broadly. "Are you serious? Well I heard that Pendragon was butchered from behind, by a Chaos Spawn as big as a Knight. And as we all know, Chaos Spawns are indistinguishable from each other, being constantly shifting creatures of the Gods." He leaned close to the implacable Pellinore. "Your quest is a fool's errand, King of Nothing."
Pellinore again didn't flinch. His mild manner doesn't change, and neither do his utterly impentrateble politeness. "I am quite aware of that, friend. But I know what distinguishes my Questing Beast from all others. Though I will grant you it is a complicated matter, and several signifers are only noticeable upon the monster's death."
"And I suppose you've slain many of them?" Hazon blew his foul breath into Pellinore's face. "That which, if it came here, would kill us all. Would spread the grand miasma of the Gods into us all. You took on Spawn with your scrawny arms and worthless title?"
"Six of them." The statement hung in the air for a moment. "I have slain six of the so-called Chaos Spawn. I ambushed two as they romped on unknowable monstrosity. I had aid against the third, from Sir Gowther the Mad. The last two got the drop on me I must confess. And none were my Beast."
Stunned murmurs floated through the crowd. Bedwyr's eye widened. Gowther the Mad. That is a name he knows. A folklore monster, a boogeyman. But one that there is no doubt exists. Gowther is a figure that allegedly serves Vortigern and the Forces of Chaos, but is known primarily as a wandering Lance. A mad killer that does as he pleases, whether the ones he kills serve the Gods or the False God-Emperor.
Hazon guffawed loudly and meanly. "You are a shit lier, Pellinore." There was a slight gasp from the crowd, and none was louder than Bedwyr. Refusing to use a noble's title is a high insult, often worthy of death. Hazon truly wanted a challenge.
The reason, Bedwyr and all present know, is obvious. There are exactly three ways to earn the Throne of a Knight: Inherit one from a Family Line be it King or other Noble, Squire to a Knight and earn the Spurs, or kill a Knight and take the Throne from them. For a common warrior to kill a Knight is both pride and shame. Pride for the warrior, who arises in station with a single blow of the sword or axe, and shame for the dead Knight, who falls ignobly and bitterly.
Bedwyr watched with bated breath for Pellinore to draw his sword and strike the fool down. But Pellinore only shrugged. "Believe what you will, friend." And then he started to walk away, toward the rest of the warriors, who had been watching the proceedings with bated breath. Pellinore's Druids follow behind him, staves at the ready, and glaring their curses at any who seem to wish harm.
And then Hazon spoke up. "You know what I believe Pellinore." He chuckled deeply. "I believe that you're a pathetic little fraud." He spat on Pellinore's footsteps. "A coward."
Pellinore stopped short. The warriors, who had been parting in anticipation of a peaceful conclusion, nervously form back up.
"That last battle, where Uther Pendragon met the end of his worthless life, where were you?" Hazon roared. "Where was Pellinore the Undefeated? Where was the Champion of Pendragon? Hiding. Running away." Hazon spat again. "You aren't worth spit. Coward. Weakling. Traitor of all."
"Traitor?" Pellinore asked. His voice was suddenly cold.
"Of the True King, and of your False King. You failed Pendragon. Through your cowardice. You aren't Pellinore the Undefeated. You are Pellinore the Kingslayer." Hazon bayed like a dog, with several of his fellows.
Bedwyr's eyes widened. The insult was intense. Not just to Pellinore personally. But to his honor and his life.
Pellinore straightened his back and kept walking. "I won't strike you in anger," he said calmly. "Good day."
"Pellinore the No-Land, Pellinore the Failure!" Hazon roared after the Knight. "Pellinore the Cuckold!" Every insult followed after Pellinore, one after the other, flung like careless spears. And Pellinore ignored them all with a rigid back.
What Hazon said next was lost in the roars of his fellows. At least, Bedwyr couldn't quite make it out. It was something about Pellinore's wife. And Pellinore at last turned to stare at Hazon. His eyes were cold.
"What is your weapon, sir?" The Knight asked. His voice was level and calm.
Hazon hefted his axe with a roar. A circle was formed around them.
Pellinore didn't draw his sword. He didn't go for his gun. He held up his fists and settled into an easy stance.
Hazon bellowed a prayer to the War God and brought his axe down toward Pellinore's skull.
Bedwyr gripped the frame so tight that his hand grew white. He wanted to scream in terror and fear for his strange new friend.
The blow didn't come. Pellinore slid to the side, and the axe struck the dirt with all the weight of Hazon behind it. Pellinore struck Hazon a blow right on his throat. The warrior let out a dull grunt of pain, and before he could lift the axe again, Pellinore struck him another blow.
Finally, staggering with confused pain, Hazon ripped the axe from the earth, and went for another blow. This one came from the side, and seemed sluggish. Pellinore calmly leaped backwards, avoiding the stroke.
Hazon sobbed with hate and rage, and flung forward, arresting the axe's momentum and bringing it to bare once again. He aimed stroke after clumsy stroke after the lithe Knight, and Pellinore dodged every one. Hazon was now soaked with sweat, but Pellinore was hardly breathing.
Everyone watched with stunned silence. Bedwyr's grip loosened on the frame, and he found himself hobbling forward, closer to the duel.
Hazon could now barely lift his axe, and his breath was coming out in ragged, pained gasps. With one final croaking shriek, he flung himself forward, trying to bare Pellinore down with sheer dead weight.
All Pellinore did was calmly step to the side, and Hazon face planted into the earth with a thud. He lay still, his shuddering breath the only sign he yet lived.
Pellinore placed his foot on the warrior's back. "Do you yield, sir?" He asked calmly.
"Kill me!" Hazon growled. "Kill me in the sight of the War God!" There was shame in this defeat. Brought down by two punches and quick feet. The only way for Hazon to preserve his honor now was to be slain.
Pellinore mused for a moment, absently rubbing the hilt of his sword. And then he said, "No. I think not. I will not strike down a helpless man." And with that, the King let his foot off the downed Hazon, and went on his way.
Hazon screamed, his pleas to kill him following Pellinore. Utterly unmanned, the warrior's reputation was destroyed forever. The next day he vanished into the woods. He was never seen again.
But Bedwyr could barely bring himself to care about the bested warrior. He watched as the warriors parted for Pellinore, who calmly walked through them as he had before, his Druids following behind. He looked dignified, and had in fact never lost his poise throughout the barrage of insults and the final duel.
And in that moment, Bedwyr realized that the thing he wanted most in the world was to be a Knight. Like King Pellinore.
