“Why so jubilant?” Gawain asks Dahlia.
“A long time ago, the citadel prophet had foretold of her. Her coming to our city during a time of need would herald the beginning of the next age.”
Alastor’s attention is drawn to these words.
“What exactly does this next age entail?”
“None of us rightly know,” replies a Councilman almost beside himself.
“Then why is this event so important?”
“Because it is one more step toward everything being made right.”
The eldest Councilman then steps very close to Alastor.
“I would think you of all people would know this, Son of Eoin,” he says to Alastor in a low whisper. So low as to prevent the others from hearing.
“Just because my father was a member of your faith does not mean I am as well,” replies Alastor, a degree of contempt in his voice.
The Councilman nods solemnly, sadly agreeing before stepping away.
By now, the people have begun to flow back into their city. Some to check on their homes, others to tend the dead - both their kin and the soldiers alike. The King, the Councilmen and the knights tour the city, making plans for repair. Gawain promising to have various building supplies delivered, the Councilmen declaring Judeheim’s unending alliance with Halvard, and how trade roads will soon flow both ways between the two.
The next age would be prosperous for both cities.
Alastor wanders off, uninterested in hearing political discussions, his mind many miles away, mulling over the events he had just taken part in. A few hours pass, and the sun has at last climbed to the top of the world. Gawain, the Council, the knights and Alastor all eventually converge back at the city gate.
“Now, the matter of the Necromancer,” the knight captain begins. “What became of him?”
“He fled before the battle,” answers Gawain.
“What actions do we then take? Evil such as his cannot be allowed to go unchecked. Nay, he must be outright destroyed.”
“I do not intend to let him roam free. As soon as I reach Halvard, I will dispatch riders to track and locate him. He will be brought to justice. Of that I have no doubt.”
Gawain turns to Alastor as he says these last words, casting an uneasy glance.
“We will do the same, once we have settled our own affairs,” a Councilman adds.
All nod and murmur agreements. Save for Alastor, still lost in himself. A moment later he snaps back to the present.
“That being the case, Your Highness,” Alastor says with feign respect, trying to sound as knightly as possible, “we should be on our way back to the kingdom.”
“Yes. Quite right, good sir.”
“But how will you travel?” the captain asks. “You cannot walk home.”
At that moment, two horses can be seen coming up the road. When they near the gates, Gawain lets loose a deep laugh. It is none other than his and Alastor’s animals, still burdened with their supplies.
“Another gift from our lady?” he quietly asks Alastor.
“Of that I am absolutely certain.”
Alastor rubs his horse’s snout, scratches behind its ears and looks into its eyes while Gawain says his farewells to the people of Judeheim. Alastor starts to mounts up, but he finds a neatly folded parchment with his name written on the outside in a beautiful silver script. Rather than open it, he pushes it under his shirt so as to avoid it being seen by anyone, Gawain included. Once on horseback, Alastor casts his eyes to the forest in vain hope of seeing the Ice Fairy.
“Ready, friend?”
Alastor’s trance, an all too common occurrence, is broken. Gawain pulls himself up onto his horse and settles into the saddle.
“Alastor, are you ready?”
“Oh. Yes. I am.”
With a final wave, Gawain and Alastor depart from Judeheim along the primary trade road south. Barring anymore unforeseen events, the trip should be altogether short.
~-~~-~
The journey back to Halvard is quick and uneventful, as hoped, not to mention quiet, as neither man speaks, each lost in contemplation. Since they took the trade road, they are back where they began, outside the Halvard city gate, within the same day. Dusk has fallen, bathing the city in orange and purple. Gawain passes under the gate arches, but Alastor stays outside.
“Is something amiss, Alastor?”
“No.”
“Then why do you tarry?”
“This is where we part ways for now.”
“I do not see why. You are more than welcome to stay here. For what you have done for me, I will have a house prepared for you, and you will eat at my table. For all intents and purposes you will be a prince here.”
“A generous offer, but not one I can take,” Alastor says as while his eyes look upon the city walls and the gate itself.
“I will need your help in dealing with the Necromancer, Alastor.”
“Which is why I must leave. The more we know about this enemy, the better equipped we will be to fight him. I can go places and learn things I would not be able to while here.”
Gawain sighs, but his eyes reveal that he knows Alastor is right.
“How long do you think you will be gone?”
“I cannot say. Weeks or years. It is hard to foresee given the circumstances.”
A moment of silence passes.
“I had hoped to properly introduce you to my daughter, especially after such an ordeal.”
“I am sure that will happen in the future. But not now. Too many questions have been left unanswered for me.”
“Yes. Do well to remember my offer. There will always be a place here for you.”
With that, Alastor nods in acceptance, brings his horse about and rides east.
Chapter Six
On the Road to the Town With No Name
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Morion stares at Alastor hushed. Eyes tearing, but not sad. She is unsure what to make of Alastor’s story, about the Necromancer, about her father. All of his words wash over, swirl about, and break on her mind like waves.
“I know you must have a swarm of questions,” Alastor speaks up, noticing Morion’s perplexed face. “How your cousin became involved with the Necromancer being the most prominent I wager.”
Morion sits still, thinking for a moment. As if just hearing Alastor she stammers.
“Oh, yes. That is a question, but not the one most curious to me.”
“What is on your mind?”
“I grew up on tales of the Black Knight, met him and looked into his eyes. How can one as heroic and good as he become the type to wantonly murder and oppress those he used to protect?”
Alastor thinks about how to answer, rubbing his chin.
“My father had always taught me of the corruption that absolute power can bring, warned me to beware of such power. Fear it and respect it. Not all believe such things. There are the ones who lust for it. Crave it. Do anything, absolutely anything, for it. Soon such power, when attained, takes over and the man ceases to exist, replaced by primal urges. Right and wrong no longer hold sway and one with such power finds that nothing holds him back from his heart’s dark desires.”
Alastor’s voice fades into the darkness, his eyes looking beyond the physical world. Perhaps outward. Perhaps inward. Morion cannot tell exactly.
“You sound as though you have experience on the matter.”
“My family has had dealings with the Black Knight. He has caused the destruction of many of my bloodline.”
“So, my father has been a liar my whole life?” Morion asks, her voice giving weight to her hurt.
“No. Not in the slightest. Your father was never a liar. I will grant that the Knight has done some good in the world, though from my perspective he is far from being the hero you want to see him as.”
The moon dips down, obscured by the trees. Morion begins to ask another question, but Alastor raises his hand.
“It is much too late for
more questions or discussions, I am afraid. When next we have a moment like this, we can continue and I will answer as best I can. You should go get some sleep while there is still some to be had.”
Morion thinks about arguing but instead yawns, aware of her fatigue. She smiles with a nod of her head before standing and making way back to the little camp. She stops to turn back to Alastor.
“Thank you for telling me that story. It was nice to finally hear the other side of it.”
“Other side, Your Highness?”
“My father told me all of what had happened in Judeheim. You were exactly as my father had described. Although he did... gloss over some of the details, you telling me that story proves that you are who you claim to be. I now know that I have nothing to fear.”
With that said, she walks away and goes down to the camp, where the bards are still sleeping. The air is warm and calm, so she props up her pack and blanket for use as a pillow. Morion spends a moment mulling over Alastor’s story, smiling. She shortly falls asleep deeply, unafraid of any dreams that might come.
~-~~-~
Alastor, having watched Morion settle into sleep, rises to his feet, looking out over the world before him, the vigilant watchman. Pacing back and forth, like a lion in a cage, waiting. He looks again to the camp below. Cale is looking up at him. They lock eyes for a moment, but Cale breaks the gaze, turns over and pulls his blanket up over his neck. Alastor sneers at the bard as he continues to pace on his perch, eyes sharp and tireless.
One might see anxiousness in them also.
~-~~-~
Morion wakes to observe the bards cooking over the rebuilt campfire.
“Good morning, miss. Hungry?” Cale, uncharacteristically cheerful, asks.
Morion looks into the pan, seeing various cured meats frying. It stirs her hunger, but she at that moment remembers that she still has the fruits that had been picked earlier.
“No thank you,” she replies as she takes to searching through her bags. She finds the fruit, holding the bag up victoriously. “I have these still.”
Morion opens the bag with zeal, devouring the little fruits. The bards share a glance and take to their breakfast.
“More for us then,” Amy says with a shrug.
“Where is Tristan?” Morion asks, still referring to Alastor by this false name, partly because there would be a reason her father instructed her to, partially because she would rather not explain to the bards why their guide has two names. The story Alastor told her she would very much like to keep to herself.
“We have not seen him all morning,” admits Cale.
“He does not look like a ‘Tristan’ to me,” Amy muses to herself, not really speaking to anyone in particular, and again falling into the pit of lost memories.
At that moment, Alastor walks into the camp, soaking wet and looking exhausted. He sees Morion sitting with the sack of fruit next to her.
“May I?” he asks, gesturing for one.
She smiles and hands him two. Alastor bows in thanks, plops onto the ground and eats. Cale treads over heavily.
“So, Tristan. What is on our travel agenda today?” he asks Alastor.
Alastor looks at Morion, surprised that she has not told the bards his real name, and being extremely grateful that she has not. She smiles coyly.
“We continue until we enter the town with no name.”
“Town with no name?” Amy repeats.
“Settled by refugees of the last war.”
“Last war?”
“It was also called by some the All Kingdoms War,” Cale answers her.
Alastor nods, confirming Cale’s conclusion. Morion moves closer.
“The All Kingdoms War was centuries ago. Why would people remain out in the middle of nowhere after it ended?” she asks Alastor.
“For the same reason anyone stays anywhere: comfort. Their hiding place became their home.”
“And what sort of help can they offer in this rather delicate situation?” Cale asks.
“They are unsurpassed warriors for one, and they know more about the Necromancer and his doings than just about anyone else, except the Black Knight.”
Cale gives a sort of impressed grunt. Morion takes notice of Alastor’s words.
“How long will it take to get to this place?” asks Morion.
“If we leave now, we can be there just before sundown,” Alastor answers with a hopeful disposition.
Not wasting time, they all take the hint, packing up, mounting their animals and are on their way in moments.
The ride is quiet, no discussions of heroes and villains. Nothing but the sound of the world around them as it is waking up. After about an hour of slow travel, they leave the ruins behind and come upon a small road that leads into a dense forest. Morion and the bards are at first apprehensive of the trees that rise above them to an imposing height, but Alastor enters untroubled, characteristic of one who has traveled here before. Morion takes strength in this, his story still fresh in her mind. The trees sway gently in the morning breeze, removing all fear and replacing it with a feeling of serenity and safety. The light streaming in through the canopy dances, shimmers, appears beautifully magical. What had been scary on the outside might be called somewhat spiritual on the inside. Even the bards smile. Morion remembers back to the forest she was in all alone after leaving Edna but before finding the town where she met Cale, Amy and eventually Alastor. Alastor rides close to the edge of the road, pulling a thick reed from the ground that had grown to an impressive size. He falls back a bit to ride next to Morion.
“May I see your knife for a moment?” he asks her.
She obliges and hands it to him. He first cuts a one foot long section of the reed, discarding the rest. He then cuts small holes along one edge of the reed, which is actually thick and hollow.
“Thank you,” he tells her as he gives the weapon back.
He takes the lead again. Before sheathing the dagger, an odd thought comes into Morion’s mind. She looks at the blade, there noticing a small glyph near the hilt, etched into the metal itself. Her mind fills with all sorts of hypotheses, but she pushes them aside for the moment. A sweet melody fills the forest. Alastor has made a new flute. Morion recognizes the music as being the same song Alastor had played the night he saved her, except now he plays it brighter than before. Cale and Amy ride up beside Morion.
“What is it he is playing?” Cale asks.
“I do not rightly know.”
“Well, why not go find out?” Amy urges with a grin.
Morion gently taps the sides of her horse, riding up next to Alastor.
“What song is that? What is it called?” she asks him.
“It was a hymn. A song to the nameless God and his servants, asking for protection during times of woe. It at one time had lyrics, but they have long since been forgotten, along with its proper name.”
“You played it before, did you not?”
“I did.”
“But it was different before. Sad if I had to guess.”
“It can be played in hope as well as lament, Your Highness.”
“Lament?”
“For many things. Your father being one. I had hoped it was not true. Finding you in that place alone was proof of what I had been dreading.”
Morion smiles her beautiful smile and falls back in with the bards. Amy moves closer.
“Well?”
“He said that it is a song of protection.”
“It is exquisite. I have never heard music like it, at least, I do not think I have. It sounds familiar, but I cannot rightly say why...”
“It does have that effect. Like you know it, yet you do not.”
Morion trails off. Both women basking in the music and the surrounding forest, which, combined, create something altogether transcendent. Cale, however, seems indifferent to it all.
It takes the entire rest of the morning along with part of the afternoon to finally pass through the forest and into a vast, rolling count
ry. Trees, rocks, hills, mountains, brooks and other such elements of nature mark the green grassy landscape, with uncountable numbers and types of animals going about their routines. The road dips and climbs, winds and turns, but always keeps in the relative direction that they need to go. Alastor eventually comes to a large weeping willow and stops under it.
“You can stop and rest if you so wish,” he tells those under his care.
They all sigh in relief, glad to accept the opportunity of a moment’s pause. Alastor remains mounted however, guiding his animal to a patch of grass. The other horses come over to do the same. Morion watches Alastor, whose back is to her and her companions. Alastor clutches his left shoulder and rotates that arm. His breathing is deep, labored. While Cale and Amy refresh themselves at a small brook, she walks over to her guardian.
“Is something wrong? You look as though you are in pain.”
Alastor jumps a bit, having not expected her.
“Just a little sore, that is all.”
Intuition tells her what to ask next.
“Where were you this morning?”
“You should go back with the others. We need to be leaving in a few moments,” he tells her, ignoring the question.
Walking away, she glances back and notices dark stains on Alastor’s cloak. Dried blood. Secrets. Morion sneers in distaste, annoyed beyond words. She kneels down by the brook, splashes water on her face, still looking up at Alastor.
“What is going on?” asks Amy, having seen the short exchange between Morion and Alastor.
“Nothing, apparently,” Morion answers with an empty tone.
“Mount up,” Alastor says without facing them.
They follow his orders wordlessly. The trio trot up behind Alastor, who then continues the ride onward.
The day starts to wane into dusk, the road dips, heading down into a smaller path flanked on both sides by rocky walls. Trees grow on these walls at an angle, creating a sort of natural thatched roof. Coming out of this valley, they enter into a wooded area where they find traces of civilization, but not one that Morion nor the bards recognize even in the slightest.
~-~~-~
Massive towers, their foundations made from the trunks of trees hundreds of feet around, loom over them. Morion, Cale and Amy look upon them awestruck while Alastor looks at them in familiarity, the way one does when they have come home. Around the towers are many houses, built not like the towers, but modern cottages, most only one level high, some two.
The Black Knight Page 11