Peter & Max - Bill Willingham [37]
And then Max considered the other hand. I was reborn here in these woods, which couldn’t have happened elsewhere. Before, I was only Max Piper, a simple flute player in a family of vagabond minstrels. Now I’m Max the Swordsman, who saved Arianne and Brigitte and young Elfride, with her pretty blue eyes, from any number of dangers so far, simply by guarding the rear of our line against them. I stood alone and faced down the growling thing, until the others could get away, which is how he resolved to remember the fearful incident from now on.
So he looked at the bright side, even as he looked at the bright blade of the sword lying across his lap, now that he was finally able to study it. It was thin and sharp and just the right size, almost as if it had been made for him personally. Max had never held a real sword before, but like any child of the age, he’d practiced often with sticks. He knew that one chopped with its edge and thrust with its tip. That was enough for the basics, and everything else was just a matter of practice and refinement. He would practice and grow ever more sure and deft with his blade, until every villain feared Max the Swordsman and every good man respected him. A sword this grand needs a name, Max thought, and it was then that he looked up across the fire and knew what his blade must be called.
On the other side of Max, by the light of the crackling fire, Father was showing Peter some of the intricacies of his new flute. Frost was the only item not directly essential to survival that Father or Mr. Peep would allow anyone to take with them, and then only because Father had whispered a few family secrets into Mr. Peep’s ear, no doubt telling him that Peter could use the flute to make danger pass them by. Yes, Max knew that story, because many times in the past, when he was supposed to have been long asleep, Max had lain awake to hear Father and Mother murmur to each other in the night.
“In most ways, Frost is no different from any other flute,” Father said. “But look here at its mouthpiece.”
“It’s so sharp,” Peter said. “Why?”
“I’m not sure. Perhaps it needed to be carved just so in order to achieve the sweet and perfect notes that only Frost is capable of playing. Or perhaps ancient Jorg, being as great a warrior as he was a musician, thought that one should pay a price for the opportunity to play so wondrous an instrument. But whatever the reason, you have to be ever careful as you play, or Frost will cut you. See these tiny scars on the corners of my mouth?” Max had seen them many times before, just as Peter had. They were nearly invisible at all times and would be extra hard to see by flickering firelight. Nevertheless Peter leaned forward to intently study them, just as though he’d never noticed them before. Good little Peter, always quick to do anything Father asks.
“Yes,” Peter said.
“Frost usually got me when I became too caught up in the music I was making to worry about my safety. Sometimes there’s just no way to prevent it. You’ll pay in blood for those magical moments when you’re reaching for true greatness in your music, just as I have.”
“Was it worth it, Father?”
“Every time.”
Father continued, giving Peter his lesson, and good little Peter gave him rapt attention, as he always did. Max smiled to see Peter’s bruised face, with one eye so wonderfully blackened that it had nearly swollen shut. I did that to you, Peter, Max thought, and that’s just the start. And neither Father nor Peter took any notice of Max, or had the faintest clue that, just a few feet away from them, across the revealing flame, Max had just named his sword Frost Taker.
THE FIRE HAD BURNED LOW and all were asleep, except Max, who’d been woken an hour ago to replace Squire Peep as their guard. Max the Swordsman, brave wielder of fabled Frost Taker, was on duty. That’s who he was now, but he’d also become something else — something