The Black Knight

by Sean Christopher Allen

  “Then do.”

  “Mikha’el, we need to see to Alastor!” Morrigan quickly interjects.

  “I have already done so. More prodding will do him little good.”

  Morrigan can see that there is no more avoiding having Amy speak.

  “Go on then, Amy. Tell them what they want to know,” the Fairy says kindly.

  Amy hesitates, closing her eyes, searching for the correct words.

  “At one time, Alastor and I were... close, in a manner of speaking.”

  “Lovers?” Morion asks, her voice quivering with a suppressed rage.

  “No, nothing of the sort. He never took me into his bed, never held me. In fact, he kept me at a distance, emotionally. For a long time I never knew why. Not until it was far too late.”

  “If this was true, why did he not recognize you before?”

  Amy’s eyes lower, sadness washing over her.

  “I was a different person. Literally. But even though I am physically different, I think he knew.”

  “How so?”

  “Why else would he have let her escape?” Mikha’el reminds the Queen.

  “Well, Amy, we are all ears,” says Morion with a touch of sarcasm.

  Chapter Twelve

  Amy’s Story

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  “I grew up in a small town far to the south of here called Arkelon. At the time of this story, Alastor’s father was still very much alive, doing whatever it was that he did. It was also when Alastor had taken to wandering the countryside. What he was doing during this time, I would come to know. It was impossible not to in fact. What I did not know, however, was the ever ominous ‘why’ of it all.

  “My home was under siege by barbarians. They demanded that we share our farms, our trade income, everything for that matter, or else they would take Arkelon by force. Their entire people camped outside our walls for weeks, trying to break the will of our leaders. Just when we were about to submit, fortune smiled upon us: Alastor walked without fear in to Arkelon.”

  ~-~~-~

  Alastor’s eyes move back and forth, taking count of the barbarian band camped on either side of the road to Arkelon. The gruff men and women, barely covered in their dirty hides and furs which make them look like sick, balding bears, sharpen their weapons, watching Alastor suspiciously, unsure what to make of this young man, clad in worn black leather and carrying a sword almost as big as him.

  Alastor ignores the laughing and scoffing, maintaining his focus on the town.

  Passing finally through the town’s gates, he can see that Arkelon is in fact little more than a glorified farming community. Next to each dwelling, a small vegetable garden is planted and taken care of by children while their parents work collectively in the larger fields to the north of the town. The few stores and businesses to be seen are closed, signs in their windows stating that all stocks have run out. Alastor’s presence in Arkelon brings work to a halt as those in the city stop to look at him. They know he is not one of the horde outside their walls from the way he is dressed, but they know not if he is friend or foe. Some of the younger children run to their mothers and fathers in the fields, while the older ones band together to confront Alastor.

  The leader of these older children is a tall, dark haired girl, eldest of the group, a woman by all accounts. She wields power over the others, possibly the daughter of someone important. She confronts Alastor with a sickle in hand.

  “Halt, stranger! Who are you and what do you want? Are you sent by those who hold us captive in our own home?”

  Alastor looks at the small mob before him, indifference to them clear on his face.

  “My name is Alastor and, no, I am not with those barbarians. That is all I will tell you. The rest of my words are for the ears of your elders or leaders.”

  Alastor and the girl stare each other down, gauging one another. She stands out rather distinctly from the rest, her dark hair like a ship lost amidst a sea of gold. Alastor acquires the inexplicable impression that she is out of place among these people. Children now come running from the fields with their parents in tow. One man runs faster than the rest.

  “Amelia!” he cries.

  The tall girl turns to the man, who then comes up beside the girl, stepping in front of her as if to shield her.

  “He says his name is Alastor, and that he is not one of them. Nothing else would he tell me, father,” the tall, dark haired girl says.

  The man stares at Alastor with mouth agape, struggling to draw in what his daughter has said.

  “Alastor?” he finally manages. “Eoin’s son?”

  “I am,” Alastor says, now adopting an even more serious tone.

  The girl’s father becomes ecstatic at this turn of events.

  “Then your father has learned of our plight?”

  “Yes, but I am here of my own volition. His agenda and mine just happen to coincide in this case.”

  “Well, regardless of how you have come here, you are indeed here to help us?”

  “More or less.”

  The man grasps Alastor by the shoulders, smiling broadly.

  “I am Frederic, first chair of the Arkelon Council. Come, we must all speak”

  Frederic guides Alastor to the Council House at the far end of the town, Amelia following in their wake.

  “How long has it been like this? The barbarians out there?” Alastor asks.

  “Far too long, friend. For nigh three months they have camped out before our walls, keeping us from leaving and keeping others out. Now that I mention it, how did you get in? They normally bar entrance, threatening death to any who try to come to us.”

  “I told them that I was a representative sent from Judeheim to help negotiate your surrender.”

  “A bluff I hope,” Frederic says wearily.

  “Of course. I could have made many deceptions, but with people such as these, playing to their desires seemed the wisest route. They are too foolish for their own good, and they think that they are the masters of their craft, so there is no reason for them to think anyone else more cunning.”

  “They never even asked why a negotiator was armed?”

  “Why would they care? One man against a horde is preposterous. They found my appearance comical, and I will gladly let them continue to think so.”

  Spite had been growing steadily in Alastor’s voice as he explained, Frederic could tell there was more than the superficial words behind this emotion.

  A change of subject.

  “You mentioned Judeheim. Do you carry any news of them? As you might understand, we have had no contact with our friends for a very long time.”

  “Judeheim is as it always was when I left it: prosperous and safe.”

  Frederic nods. Although unsubstantial, news that Judeheim is well bodes well for the rest of the land, usually.

  “You came here directly from Judeheim then?”

  “I did.”

  “From what I understand, you usually do not have dealings there.”

  “That changed when my father decided to move there.”

  “Eoin lives now in Judeheim? It has been many years since last we had the honor of hosting the Knight. What is he up to?”

  Alastor sighs deeply.

  “Father has been absorbed by his studies. He rarely ever leaves the Judeheim libraries.”

  “Leaving his work for you to complete I assume?”

  “Something along those lines.”

  Frederic nods, thinking he understands now Alastor’s somewhat cold disposition. Outside the Council House, Alastor stops, looking at the building, part meeting hall, part temple.

  “Alastor?” Frederic asks. “Is there something amiss?”

  “No. Nothing. Lead the way.”

  Inside, other men of the town are already in heated discussion. They number eleven of various ages, but all are well worn through stress and worry. They all raise their faces to Frederic and Alastor as the two enter.

  “Who is this with y
ou, Frederic?” one asks

  “Fellow Councilmen, this is Alastor,” Frederic replies.

  Amelia sneaks in, hidden in the shadows, unseen by all. The Council all stand in reaction to the name their First Chair has said.

  “Alastor? The Alastor?” a Councilman speaks.

  “Eoin’s son?” another ponders.

  “He is the very same,” Frederic assures with a smile.

  The eldest of the Council shambles over to Alastor, placing his hands on Alastor’s face, examining him before looking deep into the eyes of the Knight’s son.

  “Oh, yes. This is Eoin’s son, of that there can be no dispute,” the old one tells his kinsmen with a wide grin.

  Alastor is offered a seat as the Council sits, but he refuses, standing in the midst of their horseshoe shaped table.

  “So, young son of the Knight, are you here to help us?” the eldest asks.

  “I am here to end the siege,” Alastor answers coldly. “I am here to punish them for their transgressions.”

  “Punish?” Frederic repeats. “How will you do such a thing?”

  “He means, in the simplest of terms, he will kill them all,” the eldest tells Frederic.

  “No, Alastor,” Frederic says with a shake of his head. “Surely there must be a way to end this without coming to violence.”

  “They have imprisoned us, Frederic!” one of the older men yells. “Those damnable barbarians have only given us two choices: become their slaves or die!”

  “I will not accept that violence is the only way to deal with them! It is not, nor will it ever be, our way!”

  “Sirs,” Alastor interrupts. “You are both correct, for the most part.”

  “Oh?” the eldest says with raised brow. “Please explain, Son of Eoin.”

  “These barbarians are a plight that deserve destruction, but it is not by Arkelon that punishment shall be dealt, nor is it being done for Arkelon’s sake. Frederic, you know not the evil they have done, and never could you imagine the evils they plan to do. For what they have done, one must be swift and merciless.”

  “But, Alastor -”

  “Do you honestly think yours is the first people to suffer under this horde, Frederic?” Alastor snaps.

  Alastor’s sudden angry words carry a shock throughout the Council.

  “What do you mean, friend?” ask the eldest.

  “Five towns do I know of which have been their victim. The two that resisted were slaughtered in one night. The others, who did everything the barbarians requested, were utterly brutalized; their women raped in the town square as a spectacle, the men torn limb from limb for the fun of it.”

  The Council looks to each other fearfully at this ghastly news. The face of the youngest becomes a shade reminiscent of green. The eldest is the only one whose eyes remain fixed upon Alastor.

  “How do you know this?”

  “I looked upon their ruin myself,” Alastor tells the eldest with the somberness of mourning. “Besides, dearest Council... I am not here to ask your permission. This course of action was decided upon long before I came here.”

  The eldest laughs heartily.

  “He speaks with the same power and authority as his father! Council, I think it is us that should be asking what help he needs, not of what help he can give to us.”

  Frederic looks over the Council chambers carefully.

  “Alastor, tell me that we will not suffer for this. If what you say is true, I have no desire to stop you, but I do not want Arkelon retaliated against.”

  Alastor’s face grows sad, dreary and totally fatal.

  “There will be none left alive to do so.”

  The Councilmen all nod to Frederic, signaling their approval.

  “What do you need then from us, Son of Eoin?”

  “Send a messenger out to meet them to announce that you will give your answer at sundown. Once the messenger’s task is complete, order all your people to enter their homes. Have them light no lamps, cook no food. Lock their windows and their doors and keep them so until sunrise, no matter what they will hear.”

  “You intend to do this thing alone then?”

  “I have little choice in the matter.”

  Frederic signals to a younger Councilman.

  “Send the messenger.”

  The man does so without hesitation.

  “Do you have a quiet place where I can prepare?” Alastor asks the Council.

  Frederic nods in the affirmative.

  “Amelia?” he calls.

  His daughter comes out from her hiding place sheepishly. The Council smiles at her in spite of all they had just heard.

  “Yes, father?”

  “Take Alastor to our home, please. Give him anything he might ask for.”

  Amelia gives a courteous bow to the Council, then gestures for Alastor to follow her. Before leaving, Alastor says one last thing.

  “Sirs, I am sorry this must happen on your land, in the midst of your good people, but we can no longer endure such evils any longer.”

  ~-~~-~

  Back outside, Amelia leads Alastor to a nice two level cottage which stands beside the Council House.

  “Home sweet home,” Amelia sings as she opens the door to the cottage. “Though, it is usually exceedingly empty and altogether lonely.”

  “Why is that?” Alastor asks, his tone somewhat melancholy.

  “I watch over the town while the others are in the fields, and when the day’s work is done, father spends many more hours with the Council, so I sit alone here.”

  “It is only the two of you?”

  “Yes. I am an only child, as was father.”

  “What about your mother?” Alastor hazards to ask.

  “I prefer not to think about her,” Amelia says, the melody in her voice vanished.

  “Why?”

  “She was a witch.”

  Amelia shows Alastor to an unused bedroom that overlooks the town square. It is a cozy enough room, though somewhat bare. A room for guests, apparently.

  “How do you know she was a witch?” Alastor questions.

  “As I told you, I do not like to think about her. Do you need anything?”

  Alastor does not venture to ask any more about Amelia’s mother.

  “A basin of water and a towel, if it is not too much trouble.”

  “Not at all.”

  Amelia goes to retrieve the requested effects without delay.

  Alastor takes his sword off, tossing it onto the bed. He then starts to remove his outer coat and shirts. Amelia returns to find Alastor half naked. She hands the basin and towel to him, trying to avoid looking at him. Alastor sets the basin down on a nearby vanity, splashing water onto his face and chest. Amelia looks on as he washes, blushing as she does so, but she finds that she cannot look away, for the sight of a large number of scars on Alastor’s body will not let her. At least, that is the justification she convinces herself of.

  “This is not the first time you have done something like this, is it?” she asks him.

  “Washing?”

  “No! I mean fighting. Killing.”

  “I have done a lot of both. More than any one should, maybe.”

  “How is that possible? You do not look much older than myself.”

  “I am older than I look. My father has a saying: ‘Fate is a cold cruel maiden. All are bound to her, yet none can honestly claim to hate her.’ This has always been my purpose, and there is no changing it.”

  Amelia does not fully understand Alastor’s words. She then recalls what Alastor said in the Council House.

  “You said that you did not have any choice in fighting alone. Why?”

  “My father has instructed that I am to do this by myself.”

  “What reason could he possibly have to do that?”

  “I do not know. I have never known.”

  “Then why do it!?”

  “Because I must.”

  Saddened by what looks to her to be nothing more than a suicide
plan and with nothing more to say, she leaves Alastor alone.

  ~-~~-~

  Amelia comes to peek in on Alastor every hour or so as the remainder of the day wanes. Alastor remains seated at the vanity, deep in thought and meditation, avoiding looking at his own reflection in the mirror. Each time she checks on him, he is the same; unmoving, silent, utterly sad she thinks to herself. In her mind, she beholds a man condemned to die, making his peace before facing the executioner, not one preparing to wage war.

  The sun descends, Frederic comes to Alastor’s room, Amelia slinking behind her father, the remnants of fresh tears on her cheeks.

  “Alastor, it is time,” Frederic announces.

  The Knight’s son takes up his clothes, dressing carefully, slinging his blade upon his back and taking a first and final glance at himself in the mirror. He leaves the room, boots hitting the floor with more resolve, echoing through the halls with enough force so as to make all the world aware that the Son of Eoin is coming. Frederic and Amelia follow behind him, but say nothing.

  Alastor steps out from their house, taking in the sight of the empty town, all windows shut against him, a cold, frigid wind blowing, clouds gathering.

  He gives a concluding look to Frederic and his daughter then motions for them to also take refuge in their home. He steps out into the square, ensuring that every home is dark, that no smoke comes from their chimneys. If not for true knowledge, one might think Arkelon to be a ghost town. The sun ducks down behind far away mountains with all the speed it can muster. Even the moon has hid itself behind clouds, to many a sign of foreboding, but to Alastor the least of fears.

  The lighting of torches outside the town walls illuminate the night sky, followed by the hoots and hollers of the barbarians as they prepare to enter Arkelon, sure that their siege has been a success.

  Amelia breaks Alastor’s order, peeking out from her bedroom window, not wanting to watch, yet compelled to. She cannot let Alastor do this alone; in the act of watching, she tries to give the Son of Eoin her support.

  The barbarians, like water bursting through a dam, storm into Arkelon, their leader at the head, striding triumphantly. Seeing only Alastor in the center of the square, the horde grows angry, savage in voice and movement. Their leader stops only feet from the Knight’s son. Their leader is a strong looking man, tall and with long, brown, oily hair. His face is etched with the signs of a rough life, an existence devoted to doing wrong. Alastor wonders if this man would have been good in another life.

  “What is this? The little boy negotiator! Is the sword on your back made of wood I wonder? Tell me, child, what I want to hear.”