Read Online Sidekick: The Misadventures of the New Scarlet Knight by Pab Sungenis - Free Book Online

saw the place Mrs. Carr had told me about. You really couldn’t miss it. It was one of those hole-in-the-wall storefronts that tend to sit vacant now that all the old mom-and-pop stores have pretty much dried up and blown away, except it was entirely black: black door, black awning, even black windows. About the only thing that wasn’t black was the name in subtle white letters above the door: “Hephaestus’s Forge.”
    I was going to have to mention the place to Auntie Clytemnestra, who had an appreciation for anyone who actually understood the Greek myths. So did I. I had acquired an interest in them from my insatiable reading habits as a kid, but Clytemnestra helped me hone my appreciation of them.
    Entering the shop, it was obvious why the guy had picked the name. He looked like the old Greek god, himself—big, ugly, and lame, but with an unexpectedly cheery disposition—and dressed as a pirate. Of course, being a kid who dressed up in metallic long johns each night, I wasn’t about to pass judgment.
    The shopkeeper made his way over to me. “Greetings, lad,” he said in classic Robin Hood English, his British accent fading in and out for no reason at all. “And what brings a young gentleman like ye to me humble shop?” A few other customers, apparently used to his shtick, rolled their eyes.
    “God ye good e’en, my good man.” I put on my very best fake-medieval accent and vocal mannerisms. “I require a new blade. I take it you are the local smithy and sword-maker here?”
    “Ay, that I may be.” He winked conspiratorially. “If ye be of sufficient age to be wielding the iron without me risking being clasped in it for selling it to ye.”
    I chuckled and pulled my driver’s license out and tossed it to him. He looked at it before handing it back. “Seriously, what can I do you for, kid?” The fake-Brit was gone, thankfully, revealing an accent more New York than Old York.
    “Just like I said, I need to replace a sword. Friend of mine from the Ren-faire sent me. What do you have?”
    “Take a look up on the wall. Got a few for you to pick from.”
    He waved at them like he was showing off all the prizes you could win if the Price was Right. A couple of rapiers, polished to a high gloss, that would never survive more than a couple of blows in actual combat. A few fencing epées that would snap in half if I used them the way I’d been trained. Some big, heavy-looking things encrusted with fake jewels and shit, purely for ceremony or for drawing out of a stone, not for real combat.
    “Nice work. They look good, but I’m really looking for something a little more … practical.”
    “Practical? There’s no practical way to use a sword nowadays. They’re all for show, which is exactly what you’ll need to work the Faire.” (Great, he pronounced the trailing “e” on the word, too.) He reached under the counter and pulled out a long linen bag, from which he pulled a beauty of a longsword. “This one’s the most practical sword I’ve ever made—lightweight but strong—enough give to work well in a fight without snapping.”
    “Wow.” I’d seen some nice weapons over the years, but this one? This was a work of genius. And you could tell that it was crafted with such love that it wasn’t so much forged as born. “She really is a beauty.”
    “She’s my baby.”
    “Can I hold her?”
    He hesitated. I knew then that I’d never be able to talk him into parting with the sword, but I still wanted to feel it in my hands. That’s the only way to truly appreciate a piece of art. I waited as his expressions cycled through the expected emotions: fear, reluctance, and finally, pride. Slowly, he extended his hands, presenting me with his masterpiece. With the lightest touch and the utmost reverence, I took hold of the hilt and lifted the sword.
    It was light and balanced perfectly in my hand, but I felt the heft it would carry with it when swung. The sword fit in my hand better than anything