“It is time to leave Your Highness, Mikha’el.” They both turn to him, unprepared for the sight they each see. No longer dressed in the ragtag garb of one who spends his life in the forests, Alastor dons fine black leather and cloth fit for royalty. Even Mikha’el looks at him in reverence, for never has he seen Alastor as he does now. Alastor ignores their stares. “Come now,” he says. “We have no time to waste.”
Alastor beckons to them, and they follow down the spiral stair. As the trio descend, Morion speaks to Alastor.
“The Ice Fairy was, I believe, here last night.”
Alastor faces her briefly, not stopping the climb down.
“She was here, but how did you know?”
“She helped me to sleep. Quite peacefully, as a matter of fact.”
His back again turned to Morion and Mikha’el, Alastor sneers, recalling the horror of his nightmare. He subdues himself.
“I am sure she did so trying to prepare you for the journey ahead.”
His words ring sarcastic and hollow in his own ears.
“Judeheim was not the only time you saw her, was it?” Morion asks.
Again, Alastor looks at Morion if only to acknowledge her question.
“This is true.”
“Will you tell me of these other meetings?”
“You sound like a jealous wife,” Alastor remarks with a laugh.
“No! I am not jealous. It is just that she was aware of my father. That fact seems to indicate that she and I are entwined by association. I would simply like to know more about her.”
“You and her are more ‘entwined’ than you know, Your Highness.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Ask again after we have dealt with the matter at hand.”
Morion’s face goes red. Secrets! Secrets concerning her are still being kept as though to taunt her.
Chapter Ten
The Return to Halvard
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Once outside the keep, the Queen’s gaze is immediately drawn to two massive black stallions, bigger than any horses she has ever seen. They are already saddled and loaded with the supplies Mikha’el mentioned. While she introduces herself to the animals, she notices Alastor staring at her.
“What is it?”
“Where is your sword?” he asks her, annoyance in his voice.
Morion curses under her breath, looking up at the tower and sighing.
“I must have left it in my room.”
“We can wait,” Alastor tells her coldly.
Morion takes the far-from-subtle hint and storms back into the keep.
“Why would you do that?” Mikha’el demands, shocked by Alastor’s callousness. “I could have easily flown up and retrieved her weapon.”
Alastor turns to him, morose, withdrawn.
“Will you fight her battles for her? Rule her kingdom for her? Will you fulfill her destiny for her?”
“Making her hate you has now become part of some ultimate plan to make her stronger? Do you really expect me to believe such a thing?”
“I do not care what you believe.”
“You are not so dark of heart as you pretend, Alastor. I can see beyond this new mask. It hurts you to say such things.”
To this, Alastor has no reply.
~-~~-~
Morion runs up the keep stairs, holding back the tears. There is her sword, on the night stand where she left it. She seizes it up with an angry sneer.
A rapid chill comes into the room.
She spins around, expecting to find the Fairy, but there is nothing. She starts to leave the room, except something on the vanity catches her. The mirror has frosted over, and upon it is written a message.
‘He fears too much for his own good, this is why he acts so.
His fear will drive him, push him into courses that threaten
him. Only you can help him, Queen of Halvard. Take heart
in this knowledge! Now, wash your face and return to him.’
Morion does take this to heart, a smile burning through the former anger. She follows the last instruction without hesitation.
~-~~-~
Alastor and Mikha’el have not moved from their places while waiting for the Queen. She shows the sword to Alastor, then slings it over her shoulder, wearing it in the exact same manner as Alastor had worn his.
“And where is your sword?” Morion sarcastically asks him.
Alastor unstraps his weapon, having previously secured it to the saddle of his animal. He unsheathes it, a bastard sword, but with a longer and slightly broader blade. After ensuring that she has seen it, he slams the weapon back into its scabbard before slinging it on over his shoulder as well.
“Take flight, make sure the ways are clear,” Alastor calls to Mikha’el.
Mikha’el bows, spreading his wings. Morion looks on in marvel as he crouches down, raises his wings and finally springs into the air. Thrusting his wings down, he propels high into the heavens, blasting Alastor and Morion with a powerful gust of wind. Mikha’el, despite his formidable size, darts through the sky like a sparrow. The two riders mount up, Alastor trotting over to Morion after.
“For the most part, you need not worry about running the animal too hard. They have been bred for centuries as war horses, chariot pullers and, more importantly, the king’s steeds. They are nearly invincible, bordering on immortal,” he tells her.
Morion runs her fingers through the horse’s mane, patting its neck, assuring it that she will be good to it. She forgets her emotions concerning Alastor from mere moments ago.
“Thank you for the change of clothes, Alastor.”
He too puts aside his feigned hostility.
“You are most welcome. They are suitable then?”
“Very much so. But I am curious... I have seen no one else around, not least of which a tailor. Where did you get them?”
“They were my mother’s.”
“Were?”
“Yes. She died a long time ago.”
“I am sorry. My mother died too, though I cannot remember how.”
A silent moment passes between the two as they wait for Mikha’el. He soon swoops overhead.
“The way is good, friends! Ride!” he calls from on high.
Alastor and Morion take up their reins. Before setting off, Morion uneasily speaks to Alastor.
“You look quite nice today.”
Alastor did not expect to hear such a thing. After a time, he finally replies.
“As do you, Your Highness.”
Wishing to avoid any further awkwardness, Alastor slaps down on the reins, sending his horse running, Morion soon following. Mikha’el leads them upon a direct westward route, crossing a small grassland and then over a barren patch of ground. Even on the rough earthen trail, the animals gallop like on air. In a flash they come riding into a forest. They cannot see Mikha’el, and so maintain their heading. The trees blur by so fast that Morion is forced to shut her eyes. The world flickers like a candle blown by violent wind, passing so speedily through the streams of light which puncture through the canopy of leaves. As fast as they entered this forest, they exit. Morion looks back; the keep now small and distant over the trees.
Looking forward she sees that they are coming to a course of rocky hills and valleys. Morion slows down, somewhat fearful, but Alastor urges his horse on. The animal bounds over the terrain with absolute ease. Morion smirks, following his example. Mikha’el flies far ahead, landing upon a large rock spire jutting out of the earth; digging his toes and fingers into the spire, he flares his wings and surveys the immediate surroundings. Alastor and Morion, after catching up, stop before the spire.
“What is it?” Alastor calls.
“I am not sure. The wind currents feel... different. And...”
“There are no birds,” Morion observes.
“Correct, My Lady.”
Alastor twists uneasily in his saddle, examining the barren valley.
“We continue onward,” the Knight tells them.
Morion and Mikha’el nod; Mikha’el bounding back up into the sky, Alastor and Morion galloping in his wake.
The loose ground is no problem for the horses, not missing a step. They remain focused as though even they know the stakes. The Knight and the Queen ride side by side, each with the utmost skill. Up, down, across, through. Nothing the world puts in their path succeeds at slowing them. Riding up one last incline, they come to an open plain, grassy and flat.
“Morion, we must move faster!” shouts Alastor.
They both whip at the reins, eking out every bit of speed from the stallions and, as they are starting to cross the plain, they spy another wooded area on its end which becomes their next goal.
~-~~-~
The trees are long since dead, the grass wilted and brown. Alastor slows down greatly, standing in his saddle, raising his head like a hound that has caught a scent. He then pulls hard on the reins, causing the stallion to rear. Morion brings her animal to a stop, trotting back to Alastor. Alastor dismounts just as Mikha’el lands beside him.
“I assume you smelled it too?” he asks Alastor.
“Yes. Unless I am very much mistaken, it has been following for some time.”
“What has been following us?” asks Morion as she unites with her guardians. “I have seen nothing.”
A deep sound, creaking and groaning, comes from the earth underfoot. Without another word, Alastor pulls Morion down from her horse, moving her between his and Mikha’el’s backs, the two brave warriors drawing their swords. Morion sniffs the air.
“What is that smell? What is following us?” Morion asks frantically.
The earth answers her with a cackle, breaking, opening all around the trio. Out from the stagnant earth rises the undead; vile, putrid corpses given back their former life. The sight causes Alastor to suddenly remember his dream, his nightmare.
The undead wield viciously evil looking blades and rough forged armor, more for frightening victims than for protection. Seeing the trio, the undead hiss and growl before attacking. Alastor and Mikha’el turn the assault around, ferociously striking out at the undead. They attack with a level of violence that the undead had not, evidently, expected, as the Knight and the winged warrior manage to fell many before the undead properly react. The two have themselves drawn away from Morion during the skirmish.
Alastor loses himself in the melee. These undead have already chosen their fates. To kill them again brings about a dark pleasure in his heart. He begins to change, purposefully removing limbs and decapitating the ghouls.
He forgets Morion.
He forgets Mikha’el.
He forgets the Ice Fairy and the nightmare.
More undead burst forth from the dead womb of earth around Alastor, swarming him, incensed that he has not yet fallen. Alastor lets loose a bellow in response to their growling. He cuts through them, each swing of his sword like the stroke of a painter’s brush. The Knight is well trained in the art of combat, a true master of the form.
He becomes so focused on the glut of foes in front of him that he does not think for a moment to guard his back. One undead slowly slinks up, preparing to stab Alastor. Alastor swings wide, cutting down five undead. It is then that he comes face to face with his would-be assassin. The suddenness of the undead being so close makes Alastor pause long enough that the undead can think to strike.
A flash of steel blinds him. Cavernous eyes open, the undead’s head topples down from atop its shoulders, cleaved from its body. There stands Morion, sword in hand.
“Behind you!” she shouts
Alastor sneers, swinging his weapon backward, still focused on Morion. Another undead is sent back into the earth. Brought back to reality, the Knight fights beside the Queen, and are soon met by Mikha’el. After a score more of the undead are defeated, they cease to emerge.
As instantaneous as they made their appearance, they have left, taking with them the remains of the defeated. In absolute quiet the three stand, heaving, each breath slower than the last as calm washes over.
“What were those, and where did they come from?” Morion shouts.
“They were the dishonored dead,” Mikha’el tells her. “Those who died with an evil heart.”
“Sent by the Necromancer?”
“Without doubt, My Lady.”
“And how did they get here?” Alastor and Mikha’el eye one another warily, then each look to her. “Am I safe in assuming that their being here is a very bad thing?” she asks, observing the usual signs of worry in Alastor and Mikha’el.
“Do you remember when I told you about the Necromancer in Judeheim, the mutilated bodies your father and I found?” Alastor asks.
“I do.”
“We, Mikha’el, myself and others, believe he was experimenting.”
“What sort of experiments?”
“A way to...” Alastor hesitates.
“Alastor? A way to what?”
“To move between the physical world we inhabit, and the world hereafter. The spirit world.”
Morion stares at Alastor aghast.
“I do not understand,” she says. “How can such a thing even be possible?”
“It should not be, not by any means a man could devise, except that the fiend has clearly found a way. The creature that attacked you in Mikha’el’s town was the first proof of such a thing.”
“If he can cause these dishonored dead to just appear where he wills, why not simply continue sending them? Surely there have been millions of dishonored dead. They would win by attrition eventually.”
“Logic would tell us that, given their apparent withdrawal, the Necromancer either has limited control or, more likely, the very act is incredibly taxing upon him.”
“Which means that if we hurry, we might avoid any more such encounters?”
“We can only hope.”
Morion stares at the broken ground, only now coming into the full understanding of how powerful this Necromancer actually is. To command a single of the undead would be fearful, let alone the small army they just faced. Seeing Morion’s expression, Mikha’el places a hand on her shoulder.
“Take heart, My Lady. We will win.”
Mikha’el then leaps upward, retaking his skyward sentry duty.
“Will we win? Can we?” Morion gently asks Alastor.
“We will, or I shall die trying,” he responds as he mounts up.
Something about this answer both helps and hurts. She mounts too, pursuing Alastor as he follows Mikha’el’s lead out of the dead forest.
~-~~-~
Miles pass by in the time it takes to draw a breath. The stallions do not tire, they run and run, unyielding, unrelenting over this untraveled land. Mikha’el too glides forever, moving here and there, casting his shadow on the riders. Uneventful hours pass, traveling through wood and field. Late in the day, but not quite near the time of sundown, Alastor comes to a halt. Morion rides up next to him.
“Please do not tell me there are more.”
“There are not.”
“Then is something else amiss?”
“No. I am hungry, as are you and Mikha’el I would think.”
Mikha’el lands.
“Stopping to eat I hope,” he says. “I saw a freshwater brook not a mile from here.”
“Lead the way,” Alastor says with a small bow of his head and wave of his hand.
Mikha’el does, and they come to a stop again at the bank of the aforementioned brook. The water curves in the midst of weeping willows, long grass and yellow flowers, all around is the singing of song birds even at the waning of the day. Alastor and Morion take a portion of their food from their packs before letting the stallions loose to graze freely on their own. Mikha’el lands, receiving his ration from Alastor, then walks apart from them, letting the two earthbound kin be alone.
Alastor sits under a willow, watching as Morion washes her face at the water’s edge. She walks to Alastor, dan
cing and twirling as she does, enthralled by this little glade.
“This place is quite beautiful, is it not?” she asks, sitting down next to Alastor, trying her hardest not to think of why they are traveling together.
He swivels his head about, seeing what there is to be seen.
“I suppose so.”
Morion laughs in disbelief.
“You cannot honestly say that you find fault in such beauty?”
Alastor looks around again, sadness overcoming his face.
“It is hard to see beauty when I foresee what this world will look like if the Necromancer is not killed.”
“What do you see?” she asks, thinking that she will probably regret having done so.
Alastor shuts his eyes. There in front of him, visions of the burning wasteland, his castle, his home, in cadaverous ruin. The ground opens. Orange light, burning flesh and brimstone. The smell fills his nostrils. The wraith-men come. He can hear them calling his name.
“Alastor!”
He opens his eyes. Morion still waits for her answer.
“Alastor, what do you see?”
“The death of beauty. Of life. Of all good things.”
Alastor’s words slap Morion sober. There is no forgetting. No time for fantasies.
They continue their meager meal, each coping with the visions of their inevitable futures, of what shall happen if failure is allowed. Mikha’el comes walking back, looking as though he too has been struggling with his own inner demons.
“Alastor, My Lady, we should carry on for a bit longer.”
Sullenly, Knight and Queen pack up, continuing the journey. The remainder of the day goes by unchallenged, passing over unremarkable landscapes that make the brook glade they had stopped in an undeniable oasis. When the sun readies to set, the pace slows down while Alastor searches for a suitable place to rest. Finding a rocky outcropping, Alastor brings the first day’s journey to a halt. Mikha’el lands, the two riders jump down from their steeds. The wind is still, the only sound that of crickets. Alastor reclines against a smooth rock, ready to sleep.
“What about the animals?” Morion asks him.
“They will not run away, if that is what you are thinking. They will eat, then sleep, and in the morning be ready and waiting for us.”
The Black Knight Page 18