The Age of Knights & Dames

by Patrick Harris

  Weaponless and defenseless, Clay ascended slowly. With every step, terror filled him more. He felt like a child—one he had never been—quaking in fear, terrified of what was to come. He could practically feel the monsters lunging, biting, drawing blood…

  When he entered the upper room, relief flooded him. There wasn’t a single monster, large or tiny, bug-eyed or sharp-toothed. It was an empty, circular room. Small, narrow windows were spaced evenly on the walls, the moonlight barely illuminating the area. On the opposite side was another ascending staircase leading to the topmost room. Louder growls and snarls came from those stairs, and, as if in reply, Clay’s fear returned tenfold.

  Where had his bravery gone? he wondered. Where had he misplaced it? Was it lying beside his youth, abandoned years ago and forgotten in the monotony of adulthood?

  Grumbling about the dimness, the Watchmaker tore a thick root from the wall, scraped a flint on his axe, and lit the root. The fire flared brightly, illuminating the room fully. Which was the last thing Clay needed.

  The room was not empty. Not really. Spattered across the ceiling, walls, and floor were layers upon layers of gore, the larger piles still wet. Splintered bone chips hid in blood-drenched clumps of clothing. Broken swords glimmered in the torchlight.

  “How does this happen in a place like Dembroch?” Clay stammered.

  “Monsters exist all over the world,” the Watchmaker said. “Dembroch is no different. For every flower, there is a poison. For every well-meaning person, there is a witch. For every deer or horse—”

  “I understand,” Clay stammered, trying and failing to inject gusto into his words.

  “Aye. Now hurry on. It is best not to linger in such a place.”

  And so, quaking in his boots, urged on by the Watchmaker, Clay tiptoed to the next staircase. He ascended painstakingly slow, nerves jangling.

  The steps were dark and sticky with blood. He entered the final room slowly. At the last second, he saw something long, dark, and wet reaching to touch his extended arm. He nearly screamed, but the Watchmaker clapped a hand over his mouth.

  “It’s moss,” he whispered harshly.

  Clay slowed his breathing and, heart beating a mile a minute, took in his surroundings.

  More so than any place Clay had visited, the topmost room of Cliffside Tower was a disgusting place. It smelled of rot and death. Mounds of skulls and skeletons were lumped into huts and nests. Moss hung from the pointed ceiling in wreaths of varying length. Hidden in them were the forms of dark creatures. The Watchmaker’s torchlight caught glances of their form—slimy skin, black talons, rippling muscles. And then there were the eyes. They were crimson, as red as the blood they had spread through the tower.

  “They don’t know what to make of us,” the Watchmaker whispered, then pointed. “Look, there.”

  Clay followed his finger. On the far side of the room, sticking out of a decomposing corpse, was the glinting blade of a sword. Its metal gleamed a shiny black, its hilt covered by the burnt husk of a hand.

  “That’s it,” the Watchmaker said. “Go.”

  “What?” Clay whispered.

  “Go, run, grab the sword, run back, I swing at any of the beasties who come after.”

  “N–n–no,” Clay stammered. “I…I can’t.”

  The Watchmaker sighed.

  “Fine, then,” he said. He thrust the axe into Clay’s hand. “You get the hard job.”

  Clay spluttered in disagreement, but it was too late. The Watchmaker walked into the room as though on a casual stroll. The crimson eyes shifted to him. Angry growls echoed around them.

  The Watchmaker wandered disinterestedly, kicking at bones and dismembered limbs. When he was next to the sword, he kicked at the hilt. The burnt hand fell away but the sword clanged loudly, not budging. The Watchmaker doubled over, cursing under his breath, but kept walking.

  “The blasted thing is stuck,” the Watchmaker whispered as he strolled by.

  He kept going, circling the room again. The growls and grumbles grew louder. Crunches of stone echoed through the tower as the monsters shifted.

  The Watchmaker didn’t try to take the blade this time. Instead, as he passed by it, he looked it over, taking in every detail. When he returned to the stairs, he settled next to Clay.

  “There were words on it,” the Watchmaker said. “ ‘Pure of heart, pull me forth; my loyalties are yours henceforth.’ What the devil does that mean?”

  Clay shook his head uncertainly. He was too distracted by the crimson eyes. He gripped the axe tight enough to form the leather.

  “Lot of help you are,” the Watchmaker grunted. “One of us must be pure of heart. Let’s give it a go.”

  The Watchmaker grabbed Clay by the scruff of the neck and pushed him into the room. Clay wheezed in protest, grinding his feet into the sticky ground. The monsters growled ever louder, but none approached.

  “By God, you’ll be brave, boy, even if I have to make you,” the Watchmaker said.

  A second later, Clay and the Watchmaker were next to the sword. Up close, Clay could see the inscription carved into the hilt amongst a dozen glittering jewels. It indeed called for a wielder of pure heart.

  “Better you than me,” the Watchmaker said.

  Wanting to get out of this place sooner rather than later, Clay set aside the axe and wrapped his hands around the hilt. It was stuck firm as though it was pinned by a boulder instead of a corpse.

  Clay tightened his grip and pulled—and an electric shock shot through his hand. He jumped back, biting back a yell.

  “Not quite the knight you thought you were?” the Watchmaker said with the hint of a laugh.

  Just then, there was a soft thud right behind them. Clay spun around. Sitting on the ground was a small, hand-sized lizard. Its maroon eyes stared at them. It had unnaturally long and rounded dorsal spines that resembled porcupine quills and there were bumps between its front and hind legs, like masses of folded skin.

  “Ah, look at him,” the Watchmaker said, his voice coddling and sweet. “A little baby dragon.”

  Clay’s jaw dropped. A dragon? What was it doing in here with the monsters?

  While the little dragon stared at them, the Watchmaker placed his axe on his back and reached for the fortissium blade. He pulled and leapt back with a shout.

  At the same time, the dragon shrieked at Clay and charged. As it did, the folds on its back puffed up and expanded. Wings swung out wide. It flew right at Clay.

  “Watch it!” the Watchmaker shouted.

  Clay dove to the side, narrowly avoiding the dragon.

  “The baby ones are deadlier!” the Watchmaker continued. “More venom, smaller body.”

  The dragon flew around the mass of hanging moss and torpedoed right at Clay again. He yelped and dodged. Quick in the air, the dragon turned and followed him. It opened its mouth wide and a jet of a fire shot out. By luck or misfortune, Clay tripped on a skeleton—the fire missed him and hit a tangle of moss. He fell hard. The baby dragon tried to avoid him, but it was flying too fast. It collided with him right before he hit the ground and squealed as Clay landed on it. He shimmied away, fearing a venomous bite, but the baby dragon skittered off into the shadows, whimpering.

  A monstrous bellow echoed through the tower. Then another. The whole tower shook with roars.

  “Oh, no,” the Watchmaker murmured.

  Clay gaped up at all the crimson eyes. They were drawing closer and closer, their bodies fully illuminated by the burning moss.

  “Dragons,” Clay breathed. “The monsters of Horror Hollow are dragons.”

  There were hundreds of them, each black as night, fire growing in the back of their throats, snake tongues flicking the air.

  “Watchmaker?” Clay said nervously.

  “You’d best have something worth fighting for, boy,” the Watchmaker said, his voice still audible over the growing roars.

  A mama dragon, twice the size of the baby one, shrieked at Clay and launched itself at h
im. Clay screamed bloody murder and ran. A dozen dragons took to the air, zooming around the moss to breathe fire at Clay.

  “Get the sword!” Clay shouted.

  The Watchmaker tried again, pulling hard as he could, his arms, big as tree trunks, bulging with the effort, but the sword would not free itself.

  Meanwhile, Clay ran erratically, dodging and ducking and weaving, never daring to strike one of the dragons. Fire and snapping teeth barely missed him. He was sure he was using up any and all luck his life would have.

  Slowly but surely, the other hanging tangles of moss caught fire. The whole place was becoming an inferno.

  Clay grabbed one of the hanging moss strands. He swung on it, evading the closest dragons. They spun after him. Fire singed the greying hairs on his head.

  “Watchmaker!” he cried.

  The Watchmaker screamed in the effort. He freed a hand and felt along his belt, grasping an empty space where two chains hung free of pocket watches.

  Suddenly, impossibly, miraculously, the sword pulled free. And not a moment too soon.

  An errant dragon smacked into Clay. He fell to the ground hard. The dragons screeched in glee and descended upon him.

  The Watchmaker made it to Clay first. He brandished the fortissium blade, a jet-black, bejeweled sword, the knife-edge gleaming with golden filigree. The sword sliced clean through the dragons like a knife through butter. Blood gushed out, raining down on Clay and the Watchmaker.

  “Up you get,” the Watchmaker called. “Fight with me.”

  From his back, he grabbed the axe and threw it to Clay. He dropped the massive weapon and fumbled to pick it back up. All the while, the dragons attacked in droves, falling by the dozens to the unstoppable fortissium blade.

  A wingless dragon caught Clay off-guard and tackled him to the ground. Its sharp claws squeezed into his flesh, drawing blood. It snarled, opening its mouth wide. Golden fire appeared in the back of its throat. Clay tried to lift the axe, but it was heavy and he was pinned.

  “No, you don’t,” the Watchmaker growled.

  He smacked the dragon off Clay with a sweep of the fortissium blade. Not missing a beat, the Watchmaker grabbed Clay’s shirt, and dragged him across the room, striking down the dragons as they went. With the fortissium blade, the job was effortless. The Watchmaker made it to the stairs in no time and pulled Clay after him.

  Two terrifying minutes later, they were crawling out of the tower. The Watchmaker filled the exit with mounds of bloody dirt, trapping the dragons inside.

  Clay backed away, breathing hard, the axe shaking in his hands. The tower shuddered before him as the dragons shrieked in rage. They would be coming for them, once they got back into the topmost room and through the broken ceiling.

  “Thanks for the help, boy,” the Watchmaker growled. “We’d best get moving…and keep moving.”

  He marched off into the forest. Clay followed, pride sinking lower than the Cliffside Tower. He was a coward. A terrified, disappointing coward. He hadn’t even been able to wield the fortissium blade, let alone defend himself against dragons. Those had been his favorite once upon a time. If ever there was a place to start a magical fire of his youth, it should have been here.

  How he longed to be the old Clay, brave and honest and true to himself. But he’d forgotten what it was to be brave and Dembroch would be the one to pay for it.

  CHAPTER 25:

  Doors to Distant Shores

  “It’s a witch’s mark,” Page Trey said.

  He was with Meg in the inner ring of the Gate Grounds’ hot springs, examining the cuts running over Meg’s collar bone. They were oozing puss and dribbling blood as though she had just been cut.

  “Means you’re marked for death,” said the page.

  “Figured I already was, being as she’s been trying to kill us all this time,” Meg considered.

  “Yes, but now more so. The cuts will never heal, nor will they ever go away. They act as a beacon for the witch. She will be able to track and pursue you no matter where you go or what you do. And if she does not end your life, another will.”

  “Like the Grim Reaper?”

  “A reaper, surely, but of unknown identity,” the page explained. “The witch has doomed you to death, whether by her hands or another. There are plenty of historical accounts demonstrating both outcomes. Mark my words, Lady Meghan. Every person in history who has been marked by a witch has perished.”

  “Doesn’t everyone die eventually?”

  “Indeed, but not typically in such horrific ways.”

  “Wonderful,” Meg mumbled. She pulled her shirt back up to cover the nasty, oozing cuts. “All the more reason to stop the witch. I’ll meet my maker another day.”

  “Right, right,” Page Trey said. “Let’s begin. As I was saying, the geysers of the Gate Grounds react to high quantities of melatonin, a chemical produced by humans when they are relaxed. Let us put our minds at ease and call for the gates.”

  Page Trey shut his eyes and stood in resolute silence. Meg waited and watched. The moon was rising high above them. Midnight was approaching according to Meg’s watch. The hot springs frothed and foamed. Sulphur burnt Meg’s nose. The cuts on her chest stung. White steam rose in puffs. No doors were illuminated, no destinations were revealed. The seconds ticked by so achingly slow, Meg wondered if the kingdom’s timelessness had returned, but it couldn’t have. Because Meg hadn’t started a flame. Because she hadn’t found the right gate. Because these geysers weren’t erupting!

  Anxiousness boiled in Meg’s gut more fervently than the hot pools around her. After what felt like an hour, though it was only a few minutes, she sighed heavily. When Page Trey did not react, she sighed again.

  “My lady,” the page finally said, his voice grating with irritation, “prayer and meditation are often done in silence.”

  Meg stamped the ground. “This is pointless!”

  “I had no problem stirring the geysers earlier this morning or this afternoon or earlier this week,” Page Trey admitted. “Tell me, Lady Meghan, have you ever tried to calm your mind? Have you ever exercised your patience? Have you ever found inner peace?”

  Meg bit her tongue. Of course she had, but not in recent memory.

  “Peace and patience are siblings,” the page said. “They go hand and hand. To have one is to have both. And to possess it within you, peace and patience, is a tranquility of the soul, an assurance of self. It is contentedness with the present and a just yearning for future prosperity, no matter the longanimity required.” He searched her eyes. “If this is foreign to you, I implore you to look within. Think on an internal conflict in your mind or heart, one that does not have an immediately obvious solution. Dwell on it. Focus on it. You may not find an answer, but you will discover that, with peace and patience, all things can be riddled out. It just takes time. And, with peace and patience in your heart, nothing is truly a waste of time.”

  His wise words stirred Meg from her skepticism. As Page Trey once more bowed his head and closed his eyes, she felt compelled to do the same. She lost herself in the darkness and tried to quiet her mind.

  But it was for naught. She tried, she honestly did, but her brain was hardly a silent place. A thousand thoughts swirled around: her quest to help Page Trey, the witch’s death-bringing mark, how frustrated Meg was to have not yet succeeded in making her flame yet, how badly she wanted to mend her mistakes and wash her hands of the stains she had put there. It all spun round and round and—

  Why was it so difficult to calm her mind? she demanded of herself. Would couldn’t she just have some peace of mind for once?

  Because she didn’t have peace. Page Trey had told her as much. And, according to him, if she didn’t have peace, she didn’t have patience either.

  She chuffed to herself. She was patient. She had peace.

  Didn’t she?

  Just the fact she was considering it seemed to prove the point.

  But, she considered, if she wasn’t patient and pea
ceful now, when had she been?

  Like the first rays of sunrise warming your face, a memory graced the fringes of Meg’s mind. She was young again, deep in the woods of Midvale, playing pretend with Clay and Jenn and me. She was Meghan and she was happy.

  Those days, she knew, had been the best days of her life. She’d thought of her friends before her own needs and been a walking vision of persistence and amity. Nothing could rattle her.

  But that had been before the divorce. Before her brother had chosen Dembroch over her. Before moving to Seattle. Before her mother had kicked her out of the apartment without a dollar to her name. Before she’d been forced to survive on her own, to stop thinking of others and patiently wait for the tides to turn. She’d had to forge ahead and, as a result, she’d shed the past and become Meg, queen of impatience and impoliteness, slave to the march of time, and forgetful of her old self’s yearnings, ambitions, and hopes.

  How miserable she’d been all these years as Meg, she realized. How chaotically and desperately she’d scrambled to survive, to succeed, to overcome, and all at the expense of her family, friends, and happiness.

  Meg heard a loud belch and bubble of water. She squinted, seeing deep blue steam venting from a frothing pool nearby. Had she done that? Was the spring responding to her? She closed her eyes again and dove back into the muck of her mind.

  She was not at peace, she fully realized. She hadn’t been since she’d been a child. And, worst of all, she didn’t know how to fix it.

  It hurt to admit. The yearning and determination to fix things was practically engrained in her DNA. She saw problems and fixed them. She thrived off it. And to know that she could not fix that which she should have known most intimately cut deeper than any witch’s mark.

  I have to fix it, Meg thought dreadfully. There must be a way.

  If there was, it was not immediately evident, and this scared her more than anything. It was an unknown, shrouded path of change that seemed more daunting than witches, invisible doors, and wrapping her head around magic. Could she really find her way back to her youthful self? Could she reconcile the Meg she had become to the Meghan she had been?