One Bright Star to Guide Them

by John C. Wright

  In the middle were two display cases, separated by a suit of Maximilian armor. In one case was a collection of chrome hubcaps taken from cars of the late sixties: in the other, surrounded by stone arrowheads and broken clay cups, was the Sword Reforged.

  It was shorter than Tommy remembered it, but much more beautiful, with its hilt wrapped in gold and silver wire and its pommel capped with a knob of clear crystal. The guard was straight, and made of some metal not found on Earth, brighter than gold and stronger than iron.

  The sword rested in a sheath made of black reptilian leather, with the loops of a leather war-belt curled around the rings of the scabbard. Tooled into the leather of the belt were images of an ancient hero slaying a dragon. Tommy knew that the scene showed the battle between Hal's forefather, Vardane the Just, and Anglachor, the Leviathan of Chaos. He also knew of whose skin this scabbard had been made after that dreadful duel was concluded.

  The case was dusty, unkempt. There was a spider in the glass case, and already it had begun to spin a web along the hilts of the sword.

  Tybalt sniffed suspiciously around the edge of the case. Tommy touched his key to the lock of the case. The lock opened. Then he lifted the glass lid and reached in for the sword. He made to brush the spiderweb away; his hand was stung as if by an electric shock. Tommy, his left arm numb, was flung from his feet by the force of it. The book fell to the ground and opened like a flower blooming.

  From where he lay on the stone of the museum floor, he could see the spider crawl forward, and unfold itself into a stinking cloud of shadow. The shadow came out of the case like smoke, and rose up in the gloom. Then the shadow shrank and became solid, and there before him stood the form of Lord Wodenhouse, minister of the Admiralty, a straight-backed old man in a finely tailored black silk coat, tight narrow tie, white hair, and pince-nez glasses.

  Behind the glasses, Tommy could see his eyes were merely pools of black shadow. When the creature spoke, its mouth was black, with no tongue or teeth inside at all.

  “Fool,” the thing sighed softly, “We knew you would return here for your worthless toy.”

  Tommy, without any pause for thought or fear, scrambled forward on his knees, reached into the case with his unhurt hand, drew the sword, and stood.

  The creature stepped out of the way as Thomas pushed past him, and made no move to interfere.

  Thomas came to his feet holding the sword. For a moment, Tommy was heartened that the sword deemed him worthy to wield it; then his spirit sagged as he saw the blade: dark, solid, ordinary. The blade was dull, and no light shined from it at all.

  “Fool,” the creature repeated, “Old fool! The magic will not serve you. Children, armed by their innocence, we perhaps have cause to fear. But you, you are too old, too worn, too wise, too filled with sin and shame. The sword will not burn for you. Magic comes in childhood alone. Your time is long past, old man.”

  Thomas pointed the sword at the thing, and chanted. “By star, by stone, by shining spear! I call upon the Gathered Hosts of Light to banish wretched minions of fear once more into their dreadful night!”

  Nothing happened, except that the creature smiled, sardonic and weary.

  Then Tybalt spoke: “Tommy, by the love you bear Our Lady, I conjure you to heed me now. My time with you is done. Strike my head from my body!”

  The man-shaped thing spoke in a voice like the creaking of old wood, the hissing of cold wind, “By all means, slay the beast. Become a murderer, and let the burden of your sin drag you ever nearer to our grasp.”

  Tommy backed away from the eyeless, smiling hulk of the cabinet minister, keeping the sword pointed at the thing. “No, Tybalt!” he uttered in a voice of horror. “I can't kill you! Not you! There would be nothing left for me, no magic, no reason to believe… aieee!” He cried out, because, without warning, the sword began to sting his palm. It felt as if he held a burning coal in his hand.

  The cabinet minister drifted forward, his feet making no noise at all as he came closer, and words came out of the darkness of his mouth. “The sword rejects you; the innocence of youth is lost. You have done too much evil in your life to strike at us. Who are you to dare to judge us? Your life is foul, worthless, and corrupt. Surrender, use the sword on our behalf, and we will give you gold, and women, prestige, and power, and all the things your pathetic, failed destiny has cheated from you.”

  The pain in his palm grew hotter, but Tommy did not let go of the sword.

  Tybalt said, “They cannot use or touch that sword, nor any weapon of the world. If men did not aid them, they would be nothing.”

  “But he's right, Tybalt; the sword is burning me!” Thomas said, not daring to take his eyes off the thing.

  “You are afraid,” the cat purred softly, “Strike me dead, and fear will vanish.”

  The cabinet minister stepped closer. Thomas, wincing, raised the blade. The point of the sword was touching the minister's chest. Then, the darkness cleared from the man's eyes. Suddenly, they were blue eyes, human eyes.

  The eyes were wide, frightened, helpless, pleading. A gargling strangled noise of fear came from the man's throat. From the black nothingness inside his mouth a haughty whisper came, “Look! The true Lord Wodenhouse. His body we inhabit; you cannot strike us, except that you kill the innocent. And once innocent blood is on your hands, you are one of us, Key-bearer.”

  Thomas prodded the cabinet minister lightly in the chest. The blue, human eyes wept with fear. The black mouth smiled.

  A cold sensation swept through Thomas. “Who are you? What are you?”

  “Our Lord is the King of Final Winter,” said the dreadful and inhuman voice, “In his kingdom all things are the same, all are still and silent, lifeless, nameless. We have no names, no souls, and we cannot be harmed. Join us in unlife, and you will never die!”

  But Tybalt said, “This is the Knight of Shadows, your final foe. He has forgotten his name, but you shall say it. Your First Ancestor, at the dawn of things, was called by the Light to name all beasts and birds, fishing and crawling things; and so dominion over Earth was his. Such is the legacy of all your race. You are magical creatures, but you know it not. Claim your birthright!”

  “Claim it how?”

  “Strike. Ignite the sword, read the book, say the name!”

  Tommy took another step back. The pain in his hand grew fierce; the sword trembled in his hand, yet still he would not release it.

  Tybalt, near his feet, hissed and showed his little pink tongue. Then he unsheathed his claws and scraped Tommy painfully in the ankle. Tommy shouted: the cat's claws felt sharp as needles. The black cat said, “The time grows short. Slay me now, Tommy. Strike!”

  “I don't understand! I cannot simply do as you tell me! I am not a child any more!”

  “It is not the stalwart soldiers of the Sons of Light who question orders, Little Tommy, but willful children. At the place of the Swordbearer, I bade you leap and you leaped not. Woe came of that, and capture, and Richard died, whom you were meant to save. Are you not a Man?”

  A pang of guilt, more painful than the red-hot sword hilt, passed through him.

  Are you not a Man? He realized the cat was not asking him if he were brave or grown-up, but if he knew where he stood in the great hierarchy of all Creation. Beasts, even small and gentle ones, were placed under the dominion of Man because Man had the duty to be wiser and greater than a beast, to act for reasons higher than instinct.

  But the reasons of Man were not the highest.

  He did not understand, but he obeyed all the same. He struck down at his feet; the blade swept the cat's head off its neck; the blood fountained, red as roses in spring.

  Half-blinded by tears, Tommy saw the pearly light collect together from the starlight shining through the small windows, and swirl in toward the blade. The metal became a shaft of light, bright as sunlight, cool as moonlight. Silver rays, surrounded by blue-white flames, shined from the sword and filled the room.

  The book on the f
loor where it had fallen now rustled as an unfelt wind flipped the pages rapidly. Then they stopped. On the page of the open book, silver letters faded into view. Tommy looked down, read the name, and understood at once the nature of his foe.

  Tommy pointed the bright-burning sword at the cabinet minister. The words written in the book came out from Tommy's mouth almost of their own accord, his voice made hollow and strained with sorrow. “Phobos, father of fear, I banish thee: Begone! With this, my instrument of light, I divide human from inhuman, true from false, substance from shadow. Wherever the light of true knowledge shines, you have no place!” And the sword was surrounded with a rainbow of pale light, like the ring seen around the moon on misty nights.

  The cabinet minister staggered, his head thrown back. Up from his face, in three streams, black smoke boiled out from his eyes and mouth. The darkness rushed up across the ceiling, fled to the corners of the chamber, flickered down across the walls. The cabinet minister, his eyes now blue, his teeth now white, was pleading in fear. “Don't kill me! Don't kill me! It wasn't my fault! They promised me so much, and I only gave them a little piece of me, one small part–” Then he pointed over Tommy shoulder and screamed. The cabinet minister turned and fled up the stairs, out of the museum.

  Tommy turned his head. The shadow had gathered itself behind him, spreading from his feet, across the floor, over the display cases, and up along the tapestries and hangings of the stone wall, to loom, gigantic, across the wall and ceiling. The shadow of his own head, distorted and enlarged along the ceiling, now turned and glared mockingly down at him.

  When Tommy turned to strike at it with the radiant sword, the shadow turned as swiftly, and was behind him again. He struck left; the shadow pivoted around his feet and swung right. He stabbed between his feet; the shadow was above him. He held the sword high overhead.

  Luminous, wonderful, the sword shone bright with steady, silvery light, and blue sparks drifted up about the blade like fire-flies.

  In a pool at his feet, the shadow laughed.

  “I am the Knight of Ghosts and Shadows,” said the little darkness underfoot, “In my world, I was gathered into one place, and even a child could see what I was. But in this world, I am spread throughout all mankind. Their sin, their fear, their foolishness feeds me. How can you dream to destroy me? You cannot even drive away the little piece of me that lives in you.”

  Tommy scowled and spun the sword in his hand and drove the blazing blade into the floorboards. With his foot, he kicked against the flat of the blade with all his strength. The magnificent blade snapped cleanly in two, and both parts flared brighter than the sun.

  Tommy held the burning sword hilt high over his head. The shining shard burned at his feet, raging incandescent glory. Above and below, overhead and underfoot, the two fragments blazed. Tommy was surrounded by light, streamers and swarms of sparks were everywhere, and there was no place for any shadow to hide.

  The darkness dissolved with a faint and hideous high wail, and was no more.

  Tommy flourished the broken sword hilt overhead and shouted with joy. “Beware all you wizards, and servants of sin! A knight of the Light now is here! Your dark champion is done! Who dares follow him shall share in his fate!”

  But when he looked up, he saw the sword he held was not whole. The glorious light was fading away. The shard of the shattered sword buried in the floor flickered, grew faint, and became ordinary metal once again.

  Stricken, bereft, abandoned, his heart shattered like the sword, Tommy fell to his knees. In front of where he knelt, there was nothing but a dead cat and a broken sword. Slowly, tears blurred his vision.

  7. The Healing of Harms

  The sword hilt dropped from his weary fingers. Tommy hunched forward, his head cradled in his hands, and he wept.

  “Tybalt,” he whispered, face hidden behind his hands, “Please get up. Oh, please, Tybalt.”

  When, after an endless time, Thomas had no more tears to shed, he slowly raised his head. He felt nothing inside except an aching, bone-chilling void. With red-rimmed eyes, he stared at the ruined sword, at the tiny, stiff, dead animal and the bloodstains matting its black fur.

  Nothing happened and nothing continued to happen. Thomas sat there. He had nowhere to go, he had nothing to do, and nothing would ever be worth doing again.

  Had he saved England? The Knight of Shadows was defeated. But what about all the other monsters he knew lurked around the country, the hollow women, the simulacra in Parliament and other places of power, the teachers marked by the Sign of the Worm?

  He began to worry about his future. Did this mean he had to return to his life as it was before? Could he even do so? His old employers probably would not take him back; at his age he would have trouble finding a job anywhere. He was still being sought by the police. If so, he had no future, not anywhere. Where was he even going to live?

  And still he sat, unwilling to leave, but having no reason to stay.

  Red-gold light crept slowly into the chamber to one side. At first Thomas felt a momentary thrill of hope. But then he realized he was seeing nothing but the dawn-light shining through the chamber's cramped windows. He had been here all night.

  Still he sat. He waited. For what, he knew not.

  From outside there came the ordinary noise of the little town gradually stirring to wakefulness. He heard the rumble of the milkman's truck; he heard a bird singing.

  There was stirring overhead; someone was in the library above, moving about. Thomas realized that they would soon come down and find him here. And yet he could not bring himself to leave the broken and dead remnants of his life.

  Footsteps sounded very softly on the stairs, a whisper of slow, massive motion. The door opened. Larger than a panther, larger than a tiger, with wings like dark flame folded along its sleek shoulders, a terrible creature stalked silently down the stairs and into the room, surrounded by a golden light. It was twice the size of an Earthly lion, with a mane like black fire, swimming and flashing around its massive head. The wings were plumes of black and gold, shining.

  White fire darted from the creature's mouth from between fangs like lightning.

  It paced forward, regal, mysterious, awesome. The creature spread its mighty wings, the room was filled with light, and there came a tremendous noise like a choir, or like the pealing of bells, the roar of trumpets.

  The creature's eyes were whirlpools of gold. So fierce, so stern, so majestic was the glance of those eyes, that Tommy threw himself on his face, too terrified to scream.

  “Fear not,” it spoke in a voice like muted thunder, and many echoes said the words again.

  Tommy raised his head, but could not meet that awful gaze. He felt the warmth stirring in the air above him, could feel the hot scented breath of the creature near the top of his head. The breath was warm and crisp, not like any breath coming from the wet lungs of a creature composed of flesh and blood. The odor of the breath reminded Tommy of the smell of bread baking in an oven, or the scent of cedar logs burning on a campfire.

  The warmth from that breath entered into his body, and he felt the cold aching in his bones depart.

  The huge sable paws were before his face; in the corner of his eyes, Tommy could glimpse the flutter and spread of the great wings.

  More quietly, the ringing voice inquired of him, “Thomas, why do you weep?”

  “Once, I was young,” Tommy answered the great creature. “A black cat guided me to a magical adventure into another world. Then I grew older and the magic was lost. Only this year did I remember my youthful dreams, and meet that cat again. He was my friend. My only friend. Now he is dead, and by my own hand.”

  “Thomas, I have not died. Rejoice; I am risen. The Lord of the Fortunate Islands, the Emperor of the Summer Country, has banished death and dying from his kingdom, and only those who flee his kingdom will encounter them. You weep over nothing more than my old garment, which you tore and which I discarded. Now I am come again, clothed in glory. Look
up, Thomas. Look at me, my friend.”

  And Thomas looked into the terrible golden eyes. He felt something dawn within himself, as proud, as great, as noble as those eyes, and found he could endure their gaze without shrinking.

  “You are Tybalt,” said Thomas in wonder. And yet one small part of him was not surprised, not at all, but was filled with solemn, undoubting joy, crying out I knew it, I knew he would come back!

  “We spirits, when we are young, are sent forth to combat evils where they gather openly, unhidden, so that even a child can see them. We must grow before we can war against hidden evils, evils disguised as good, corrupt and subtle evils. In this, I deem, our race is not so different from mankind. Innocence and faith are the weapons children bring to bear against the open evils; wisdom is required to deal with evils better disguised.”

  Thomas held up the broken shards of the sword. “How am I to fight once more? My weapon is broken.”

  “The slaves and followers of the Champion of the Dark still infest your green realm, under many guises, and many names. But it is not for you to fight them.”

  “But then—who? Sally is so afraid.”

  “The Elf Prince will bring his harp to her once more, and she will find her courage again. She will sing a song of freedom, and encounter many woes and endure much loss before the final victory is won. She will not be alone. There shall be others.”

  Thomas nodded. He was glad.

  “As for you, your time as this land's Champion of the Light is done, for you have grown old, and the faith of a child is no longer yours. Two tasks you have completed. Another task I lay upon you now, and it shall be yours for many a weary year.”