Keeper of the Grail by Michael P. Spradlin Page B

report you to the constables.”
    “As you wish,” I said.
    The brothers had taught me much about the evil of drink. However, I had never met or seen anyone drunk before, so I had no idea of the effect that liquor had on men.
    I turned, intending to take refuge on the other side of Dauntless, hoping the men would lose interest and move on, or that the blacksmith might show up. But as I did, arms suddenly grabbed me from behind and a foul-smelling mouth hissed in my ear.
    “I’ll do better than that. I’ll just take the horse to the constable myself. I’m sure a Templar would pay a handsome reward for the return of his stolen mount.”
    “I didn’t steal…,” I started to say, but the arms squeezed harder and the words died in my throat as the air rushed out of my lungs.
    I tried pulling away, but the grip grew stronger as I wiggled and threw myself back and forth, trying to break free. I was lifted off the ground, my legs kicking uselessly in the air.
    From the corner of my eye I saw the light-haired man reach out to untie Dauntless’ reins. I kicked out with my foot and felt his fingers crunch between my boot and the post.
    The man howled in pain and rage, and the next thing I knew I was on the ground and two sets of legs were kicking at me. I tried to regain my feet, scrambling toward Dauntless. But he was beginning to spook, moving his legs back and forth, whinnying and pawing nervously at the ground. Not wishing to be accidentally kicked in the head by a stallion, all I could think to do was to roll up into a ball, hoping they would tire from their exertion before I was seriously injured.
    With my face nearly buried in the dirt of the street, I saw a third pair of legs approaching the two men from behind. Had they found another man to come and help them in their thievery?
    Instead, I heard both men yelp, and in an instant the kicks stopped. A booming voice exclaimed, “Enough! What kind of men are you? I told you once before that if you molested one of my customers again, you’d lose a finger on my anvil!”
    Neither man replied. I looked up from my spot in the dirt to see them both hanging from the air. Behind them stood a giant, holding the men by their shirt collars, which were twisted up around their necks so tightly their faces were turning blue.
    Without further word he took a few steps up the street in the direction of the marketplace and tossed them to the ground. As they scrambled to their feet, he gave each one a swift, hard kick in their hind parts.
    “If I see either of you on this street again, you’ll wish you had never been born!”
    Running, they disappeared from sight as the giant bellowed a few more warnings after them. He then turned and walked back to where I lay wheezing in the street.
    As he stood above me, his head and shoulders blotted out the morning sun. A huge hand, attached to the largest arm I’d ever seen, reached down and pulled me to my feet. “Since this horse tied here is Dauntless, you must be Sir Thomas’ new squire,” he said.
    As of the previous day, Sir Basil had been the biggest man I’d ever seen, but he could have slept like a babe in the blacksmith’s apron. His hands were the size of geese and his head sat upon his shoulders with no neck that I could see, just a full beard and head of curly, dark hair.
    “I am,” I said, dusting myself off. “My name is Tristan and I now serve as squire to Sir Thomas. You must be John the blacksmith?”
    The giant gave a slight bow. “That I am. My name is John Little. But you should call me Little John. Everyone else does.”
    That, I could not imagine.

10
    L ittle John, as he was called, worked quickly as he re-shod Dauntless. For a man so large, his movements were graceful and precise, with little wasted motion. He had an easy way with the horse, talking softly as he moved from side to side, patting him gently on the flanks to keep him from kicking while he reattached the horseshoes. As he worked, he questioned