The Black Knight

by Sean Christopher Allen

“I never should have spoken about him. It was not my place. The Knight your father knew, the Knight you met was everything that Gawain taught you of, everything you yourself saw.”

  “But what of the Necromancer? You said that in Judeheim he claimed to have acted under the direct orders of the Black Knight.”

  “The Necromancer is not one I would place highly upon the list of honorable, truth telling men. For all I know, he may have been bold face lying in an effort to make me say or do something... unintelligent.”

  Morion raises an eyebrow.

  “If that is true, then explain what you and Mikha’el spoke of last night. You said you feared going to the castle, and Mikha’el even said your father was murdered there.”

  “Correct on both counts.”

  “Then your father was killed by...”

  “A coward. That is all I have ever been able to say for certain,” Alastor says sharply, wanting to bring the conversation to an end.

  “Yet, you would still take me there if I wished?” she says, trying to continue on topic but in a more roundabout way.

  “Yes.”

  “Even though you do not want to?”

  “What I want is irrelevant, Your Highness. I am to aid you in which ever course you decide to take.”

  “If the Knight is revealed to be a villain, would you help me still?”

  “It would give me no greater pleasure in all the world to end the Knight’s life if he has indeed become corrupted, and then after that, if you wanted me, I would aid you in your quest against the Necromancer.”

  “Why?”

  “I owed Gawain that much, but even if I did not, I would help you simply because it is the right thing to do.”

  “Thank you,” the Queen whispers as she takes in Alastor’s kind words.

  They sit a moment in silence, the lake now their reflecting mirror.

  “Just out of curiosity, do you have any proof of your identity?” Alastor seemingly asks from nowhere.

  “Why?”

  “I recall you saying that you met the Black Knight when you were a little girl which, clearly, you are not anymore.”

  Morion blushes at Alastor’s noticing her womanhood.

  “You think he would not recognize me?”

  “It is hard to say, but some phrase or token perhaps might ensure he remembers.”

  Morion smirks with a raised eyebrow. Taking her necklace, she unclasps it and hands it to Alastor. Alastor hesitates in taking it, staring at the pendant that hangs upon the chain. She insists that he take it so that he can see it. He, somewhat reluctantly, grasps it by the chain, careful to avoid touching the pendant, but raising it so that he can fully examine it whilst Morion explains.

  “The Knight gave that to me as he was leaving, after meeting with father.”

  “What is so special about it?”

  “Nothing, as far as I know, but he gave it to me with a message I will never forget.”

  “And what was that?”

  “He said ‘Should you ever need aid, seek out Your Fair Knight. The daughter of Gawain will always have a champion in us.’ That last part always confused me a bit.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well, him saying ‘us’ has always struck me as a strange choice of words.”

  “He was probably just being dramatic. In any event, it sounds like quite a wonderful, if cryptic, gift.”

  “The words... at times I wondered if he knew something was coming.”

  “It appears he did.”

  Alastor continues to stare at the pendant like one entranced. As the sun rises up above the forest, a sound breaks the spell on Alastor, his attention snapping back to the world, full and aware. The sound is heard again, akin to a serpent’s hiss. In the blink of an eye, a creature leaps down from the roof of the inn, Morion its intended victim. Alastor reacts, unsheathing his sword and cutting down the creature in mid-air. Morion lets out a yelp as the creature falls lifeless to the ground with a dull thud. Mikha’el comes running from the inn.

  “My Lady?” he cries.

  But Morion does not respond, she is transfixed on the fallen creature.

  “She is unharmed,” Alastor whispers.

  “What sort of man is this?” Mikha’el asks Alastor with an air of disgust upon seeing the creature himself.

  Alastor kneels down to examine the creature. On Alastor’s touch, the flesh of the creature changes, giving way to rapid decay. However, it does not turn to dust as would a natural man, no. The creature decays into a pile of ashes. Alastor recoils his hand, Morion lets out a little gasp, and Mikha’el mutters under his breath.

  “What was that?” Morion asks.

  Mikha’el looks to Alastor, whom is still unable to look away from the ashen remains of the creature.

  “Alastor,” Mikha’el pleads, “by all that is holy, please tell me that was not what it looked to be.”

  Alastor remains speechless. Morion moves closer to Mikha’el.

  “What was it?” she asks him.

  “My Lady, there is only one word in your language to properly describe what that was: abomination.”

  Alastor rises to his feet, his face drained of blood, his eyes reflecting both fear and hatred.

  “Mikha’el, we must travel to the castle with all haste. Send out your warriors, search for signs of any more of these things.” Mikha’el nods, running back inside. Alastor turns then to Morion. “When we are safe, I promise to tell you everything I can. For now, remain steadfast on the goal at hand. Gather your gear and wake the bards.”

  “Right.”

  Morion complies, heading back to the inn. Alastor notices that he still holds something in his hand.

  “Morion!” he calls to her.

  She stops, returning to him. He places in Morion’s hands her necklace.

  “Put this back on,” he orders, “and never take it off for anyone. Not even me. Do you understand?”

  “Understood,” she tells him as she clasps it around her neck, letting the pendant fall back into her blouse.

  ~-~~-~

  Outside the inn, the horses have been saddled but not burdened with supplies. Seeing this, Cale speaks up.

  “No food? Or water? We are going a little light, are we not?”

  “That is the idea,” Alastor says, double checking the animals’ saddles. “We need to travel as swiftly as possible. If all goes right, we shall be at the Black Knight’s castle long before evening has a chance to set in.”

  Morion perks up hearing this. She did not think they were so close to the castle as Alastor now suggests.

  “Why the hurry?” Amy asks.

  Alastor and Morion glance at one another briefly before Alastor answers.

  “The Necromancer has managed to track us down. I killed one of his scouts this morning.”

  “Did you now?” Cale asks in a mock tone of surprise.

  Mikha’el sneers at Cale’s comment while walking up to Alastor.

  “No reports of any more around the town nor forests. In fact, we did not even find tracks for the first one,” Mikha’el divulges quietly to Alastor.

  “None whatsoever?” Alastor inquires wearily.

  “Correct.”

  “Then it was... ”

  “Correct. Unfortunately.”

  Alastor watches as the bards and Morion mount their respective horses.

  “We should be at the castle before by afternoon. Will you be there by then?”

  “Sooner, I hope. Once we have made our preparations here, I shall make way with all haste.”

  The two share a look of utmost displeasure. A long suspected terror now manifest.

  “I have an uneasy feeling about the way events are beginning to unravel, Mikha’el.”

  “As do I.”

  Alastor climbs onto the back of his animal, signaling for the others to follow him. Exiting the town by the north, they pass men dressed in garb similar to that of Mikha’el, preparing an expedition of some sort.

  “Where a
re they going?” Amy asks Alastor.

  “Far away from here. They are no longer safe in this place.”

  “These people will leave their homes, just like that?”

  “It is not as though they have a choice in the matter. They either leave, or stay and be slaughtered.”

  “All because of us?”

  “Not exactly. This day was long in coming. It has been expected to happen one way or another.”

  Alastor’s explanation does little to quell Amy’s growing feeling of guilt.

  ~-~~-~

  The road north out of the Town With No Name is paved with centuries old stones. On either side are rows of trees that at the time of planting would have hung beautifully over the road. Now they are unkempt and overgrown, their leaves slowly raining down, their roots bursting from the ground and destroying portions of the stone road. Alastor twists in his saddle to face the others.

  “This road stays like this for some many miles so, to make up for lost time, we will travel it at full speed.”

  Alastor taps the sides of his horse and the animal goes from a trot to a full gallop. Before any realize, Alastor has pulled many yards ahead of Morion and the bards. Not one to lose a race, Morion whips at the reins, giving Alastor chase.

  “Think we should do the same?” Cale sarcastically asks of Amy.

  “I believe we should,” Amy sarcastically answers Cale.

  Each with a smirk, Cale spurs their horse on, soon closing the gap between them and the Queen. After many miles, the group has nearly united, Morion and the bards riding side by side still chasing the faster Alastor, whose horse does not appear to tire even in the slightest.

  By midday, Morion notices that the road is slowly widening, and the rows of trees lining each side end abruptly. Alastor slows down back to a trot, the others following his example. The road leads to a large four way intersection, in the center of which stands a large fountain made of a dark brown-black marble. Much to Morion’s surprise, water still flows in the fountain, shooting up and cascading down multiple tiers of basins, looking like shimmering glass. The sight of this in the center of otherwise barren land is jarring.

  The road continues unbroken to the north, but the east and west roads have been up heaved, and the lands beyond nothing more than overgrown forests and long grass amid decayed stone ruins. Alastor brings his horse directly before the fount, letting the animal drink. He dismounts, speaking as he does.

  “We will stop here for a brief time. The water from the fount still flows from ancient, pure springs, so let you and your animals drink deep. Do not wander off.”

  All do as Alastor suggests, dismounting to drink from the descending water, while the animals drink from that which pools. Alastor walks about to each of the other roads, inspecting them for any indication of recent travel. Finding nothing, he returns then to the fountain, sitting upon the north facing edge, his back to the others as always. With his left hand he reaches back, taking some of the cold water and splashes it on his face. He slouches over, rubbing his forehead with both hands as one does when in contemplation and immensely tired.

  Having had their fill, the Queen and the bards too sit on the fountain’s edge. Cale stares fascinated by the marble structure, caressing it as if learning something from it through touch.

  “Morion,” he whispers.

  “What?” the Queen responds, hearing her name.

  “Not you. I was talking about this fountain.”

  “What do you mean?” Amy questions, confused.

  “Morion is a type of dark colored marble. This fountain is made entirely from it.”

  “Yes it is,” Morion says, examining the fountain with a closer eye. “It must be centuries old.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You know this mineral, but do not know its history?”

  “I cannot say that I do, completely at any rate.”

  “Halvard was the only kingdom in possession of morion ore, and thus the only kingdom that mined and exported it.”

  “And how did the name find you?” Amy chortles.

  “I was apparently born with a full head of hair, the color of which reminded my father of that ore which our people long ago were known for.”

  “Long ago known for?” Cale points out.

  “The veins of ore ran out many generations ago. Bought almost entirely by a single kingdom, from what I remember of the records. The problem is that the kingdom is not named.”

  Alastor turns around to Morion.

  “How far back do your records go?” he queries.

  “I believe all the way to Halvard’s origin.”

  “Then logic would dictate that the kingdom that bought Halvard’s ore was even older, correct?”

  “Yes, I would assume, given that it would have been an extremely expensive commodity.”

  “Then why would such a kingdom be unnamed, I wonder?” Alastor concludes in a somewhat condescendingly puzzled tone.

  “You sound as though you know.”

  “Maybe I do.”

  “And just what do you know?”

  “A story for a later time, Your Highness.”

  “If you say so.”

  Both bards share a look of curiosity at Alastor’s exchange, but hold their tongues. Alastor stands, stretches, looking at the sun’s position in the sky.

  “I hope you enjoyed this rest, as it will be the last until we arrive at our destination.”

  ~-~~-~

  Back on the northern road, horses again running at full strength, the company moves quicker still, knowing that their goal is now so very close. Morion begins mulling over in her mind past, present and future.

  The murder of her father, her exile, meeting the bards and Alastor.

  The dreams. The dreams she has been having for months.

  Alastor’s story of him and Gawain, his words and small speeches.

  These things all mix and brew together. What does it all mean? What is it leading to? Where is it leading from?

  More pressing, far more disturbing is the thought slowly building up like a creature of darkness in her mind: what if there is no reason for it all? All the suffering... for nothing.

  ~-~~-~

  The Necromancer sits alone in a dark room deep in the bowels of Castle Halvard’s keep. In one corner of the room burns a brazier, poorly lighting the room and throwing long shadows along the walls. The Necromancer himself sits at a desk pouring over various ancient books, tomes and scrolls, all bearing the seal of Halvard. He sneers while he flips through the pages, not finding what he seeks. Furiously he turns leaf after leaf until at last he slams the book before him closed. At that moment an armed soldier comes into the study.

  “Sire, we have just received word that every agent Hector had dispatched to intercept Morion was slain to the last.”

  “They have all been killed?” the Necromancer asks, not angry but intrigued.

  “Yes, Sire.”

  The Necromancer falls back into his chair, putting his hands together as he thinks.

  “How were they killed?”

  “From the looks of the battleground, the Queen’s guide lured Hector’s agents away and slew them all, single handedly.”

  “The Queen’s guide? You mean the man from Judeheim?”

  “The spy has reason to believe so, Sire.”

  The Necromancer looks up at the soldier.

  “Give your captain the following order: All soldiers, mercenaries and guards are to fall back and take positions within the city. Use houses and buildings... and their occupants... as is seen fit.”

  The soldier bows with a wide grin before taking his leave. The Necromancer stands when he is again alone, cracking his knuckles while visually searching the room. The walls are covered in bookcases that stand the entire height of the room.

  “No,” he speaks to himself. “You would not simply hide it within the records of the age, would you? No, that would be most unwise. But, destroy it completely? I think not. The Lesser was far to
o important to you. You would hide it, yes, but would you think to hide it from me?”

  The Necromancer reluctantly stretches a claw like hand toward the brazier. He tightens his hand into a fist, causing the fire to sputter before suddenly going out. Inverting his hand, he opens his fist slowly. In his palm, an other-worldly green orb of light grows. With his left hand, he simply motions to the open door, sending it flying shut. Rotating in place with arm extended, the Necromancer keeps keen watch of the radiating green light. His eyes roll up into their sockets and he swoons, but he catches himself. He grits his teeth as one does in tremendous pain, forcing himself to retain control of the orb.

  Passing by one bookcase, the light of the orb becomes a deep shade of violet. Each breath from the Necromancer becomes vapor, frost latching to his skin, teeth chattering involuntarily.

  Yet... he smiles.

  He slowly shambles to the bookshelf, each step causing the orb to fluctuate, looking like some evil beating heart. His smile becomes a maniacal grin.

  A lunatic, if in the same room, would have thought the Necromancer absolutely insane.

  Releasing his hold on the orb, it fades into an evanescent smoke, the fire of the brazier coming back to life in that same instant. The Necromancer collapses to his hands and knees, breathing heavily, over exerted by the use of the orb. Gathering his strength, he again raises his right hand, palm open to the bookcase. With a shout, he violently closes his hand and pulls it away; the bookcase shatters to splinters, the books become dust.

  All falls to the ground, lifeless in every sense of the term. The Necromancer brings himself up, lumbering to the stone wall behind the case. Putting his hand on the wall, he again grimaces in pain, as though his very life is being drained. Withdrawing his hand, the wall crumbles to dirt and pebbles, revealing a secret compartment; inside which is a red leather bound book with metal hinges and bindings. He reaches for the book reluctantly, but once in his grasp, he smiles triumphantly.

  “Foolish man. Your lack of understanding was your downfall. Now, thanks to you, the next age can finally start.”

  ~-~~-~

  Painful monotony.

  Agonizing boredom.

  That is what fills Morion’s mind. Fearful that she cannot endure a moment longer, she spies the sight she has been worrying that she would never see, rising far, far above the trees: the upper towers of a black castle. Alastor slows down to a trot again, as do the others. Riding beside Alastor, Morion asks.

  “Is that what I think - hope - it is?”

  “Yes. It is none other than the home of the Black Knight. This is his castle.”