Burning Ashes

by James Bennett

  “He is the Once and Future King,” Von Hart said. “It’s his birthright to rule these lands. He was born to save them.”

  “Once, maybe,” Ben said. “Now? I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

  Enough was enough. Ben reached down and dragged the envoy to his feet, the chains clanking around him, a ragged iron robe.

  “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? The war you planned. And fuck anyone who gets in your way.”

  “If we must fight a war in order to survive, then so be it.”

  “That worked out brilliantly before. Damn. It’s almost as if the Pact didn’t happen.” He shook the fairy, the chains rattling. “Everything you touch turns to shit, Von Hart. Except, funnily enough, never for you.”

  Von Hart pursed his lips, but he didn’t try to deny it. Instead, he sighed, fixing Ben with his strange violet eyes. There was pity there, Ben saw, soft and not unkind. Compassion for a beast, perhaps. No more than that.

  He spoke gently, in the face of Ben’s sneer.

  “Ben, Ben. You should be glad. Think of all those years, eight long centuries of waiting. Think of the ones you’ve loved and lost while living under the Lore. Well, now the Fay are coming. The Lady returns to lift the burden from your shoulders. This … this is your happy ending.”

  “Oh yeah? Then how come it tastes like shit?”

  The envoy offered him a thin smile. “Come. Come with me now,” he said. “We’ll fly to China like in the old days. Remember? When we fought and defeated the White Dog, you and I. Come with me to the temple. I could use your strength to lift all that stone, dig out the Eight Hand Mirror. Then, together, we’ll go into the dark. We’ll follow the road into the nether. We’ll be the first to welcome them home.”

  Ben set the envoy down. Von Hart staggered a little, the weight of his chains dragging on him. Then he steadied himself, straightening his neck, determined, unbowed. His eyes never left Ben’s face, searching for agreement, Ben thought, for some shred of alliance. Or simply a sign of his abating anger. And he found himself drawing in a breath, fatigue washing over him, water on coals. The fairy’s words were bittersweet, conjuring memories of lost joy, of a forest maiden who’d choked on poison, and a Brooklyn waitress, stolen and scarred, a sacrifice for the gods …

  But Ben knew magic when he smelled it.

  “Nice try,” he said. “Think you’ll find I’m not the same dummkopf you left on the sands in Cairo. I’m not that wyrm any more.” And he wasn’t, he knew. Saying it made it true. “You used Jia. You used her and you threw her away. And I’m guessing that you’ve got plans for me too. That’s why you saved me, isn’t it? In the underground car park. At the refinery. You need me. So what it’s to be? What do you want? You might as well tell me. Someone to lug an old mirror around for you? Or maybe just a free ride.”

  The envoy looked at the floor, giving up his murmured spell, his attempt at mesmerism.

  “Oh, Benjurigan. You know that our friendship means more to me than—”

  “Save it. What was it you said? Months ago in the nether? ‘There is only one thing I need from you.’ That’s it.” Ben squared his shoulders, his muscles tense. “Now we have that in common. The only thing you’re gonna do is help me kick that crowned corpse back into the tomb where he belongs. And you can forget your welcoming party. Seems to me that some doors stay shut for a reason. When I get my claws on your blasted mirror, it’s going straight in a volcano or to the bottom of the sea. Maybe Caliburn can turn it into firewood. I haven’t decided yet.”

  Von Hart frowned. He made as if to argue, but appeared to catch himself, his mouth closing. Ben glowered, stern as stone. How could the envoy doubt his threat after the events of last winter? Ben watched his shoulders fall, his chains rattling. Looking beyond his scruffy-haired captor, the fairy gazed up at the tombs, a sad expression on his face, thoughtful, considering. Regretful.

  Ben didn’t like that look. He liked it even less when Von Hart put his feelings into words.

  “It’s up to you,” he said. “At least, in regard to whether you’re willing or not. I also told you that a decent master looks after his pets. You, one of the bound bestiary, a Remnant under my care. Well, the opposite is also true, liebling. A good pet obeys his master.”

  With this, Von Hart shrugged off his bonds. One moment, he stood in the broken iron lengths. The next, his chains were coiling on the floor. Before the last link had fallen, the echoes scattering like glass, he spread his hands, his cords cut by conjuration. The envoy muttered under his breath, a stream of symbols spilling from his lips, faint and rainbow-hued. Naked, he stood before Ben, as pale, as sculpted as the tombs around them. Whatever compassion had shone in his eyes had vanished, evaporated by violet intent.

  Ben snarled and made to leap forward, his hands swelling into claws. He stumbled, stymied, finding himself glued to the spot. Talons sprouted from his fingertips, yellow and sharp, but his muscles bulged against a surface as hard as concrete, a shell encasing him, restricting his movements. Roaring, he glared at the envoy, his fiery gaze demanding an answer.

  The envoy pursed his lips.

  “Forgive me. Our Lady awaits. You’ll unearth the Eight Hand Mirror and bear me to greet her through the dark.”

  “Bastard … fairy. What are you doing?”

  But he could guess. It was the suit. The damn suit. Back in Berlin, Von Hart had given him the outfit as a gift. Extra armour, he’d said, a way for Ben to protect his modesty. It had hung in the alcove in Club Zauber, looking much like a wetsuit, only one stitched with charred black scales and bearing the wyrm tongue symbol on its chest, emblazoned in red, circled by yellow.

  He could remember the envoy’s exact words.

  It took some effort to synthesise the scales into a fabric, weave their substance into this. Nevertheless, I think you’ll find it as tough as your flesh. I mean, it is your flesh. A second skin.

  Or a cage.

  He cursed, directing most of his ire at himself. Last year, Von Hart had caught him off guard. He’d been half asleep on the job, thrown into peril after decades of dormancy. Working for crooks, living underground, he’d somehow believed that he’d kept his edge. A resurrected goddess had proved otherwise. His love for Rose had made him soft. But he’d woken up since and Jia had hardened him, shown him his duty—or rather the lie of it and the danger of fairy gifts. The thought made him bare his fangs, anger grinding deep in his throat. He’d never have accepted the suit if he’d known. Never in a million years.

  Hindsight. It’s always 20/20 …

  Murmuring, Von Hart raised a hand, his fingers twisting. Like a puppet on a string, Ben found himself lurching towards him, his bare feet dragging across the cavern floor. A flame-haired marionette, his limbs twitched, mechanical, as he tried to resist the pull of the suit. It was a scaly glove around him, flexible, cold, yet hard as steel. Grimacing, he forced his will into his muscles, urging them to swell, to take on draconic proportions, but he met a wall there too, a barrier in his mind forbidding transformation. And he knew that it would do him no good, anyway. The suit was a part of him, sealed to the innate magic of his flesh. With a few muttered words, Von Hart’s gift had become a kind of ball and chain, binding him to the envoy. His will was no longer his own.

  His own words, distant, but no less mocking, came back to haunt him.

  I’m telling you that there is always a price …

  And here he was, paying for his mistake.

  Just how many cards did the fairy have up his sleeve? It felt like he had a whole pack. Ben twisted his wrists, straining against the suit. His toes sought purchase on smooth rock, trying to slow his approach. Growling, he shook his head from side to side, but it was no use. His head, hands and feet, free of the suit, could do nothing to help him. Von Hart stretched out his alabaster hand and Ben was in the palm of it.

  “Don’t fight me,” the envoy said. “In time, you’ll come to see that I’m right.”

  “Fuck you. Fuck you to hell.”
<
br />   Von Hart smiled and crooked a finger under Ben’s nose. Again, Ben saw the sheen in his eyes, determination, and under it, madness. The sickening need. Against his wishes, he turned, spinning ninety degrees, twisting him away before he reached the envoy. Denying him the chance of a head butt. Or to spit in his face.

  He strained to speak over his shoulder, echoes of urgent despair.

  “Von Hart, listen to me. Listen, damn you. Whatever woke up in the mountain isn’t your king. And whatever you believe, the Queen’s Troth has gone to shit. You must listen to me! I … I need you. Britain needs you. The world …” He grunted, running out of breath, losing grip on his last-ditch effort. He stole a growl from the musty air. “Get your head out of your skinny white arse and listen.”

  In return, Von Hart said, “A new golden age, Ben. Think of it.”

  It was no good. As Ben, neck tendons bulging, began to jerk towards the entrance of the tunnel, dragged by his scaly restraint, he could hear the fever in the envoy’s voice. He’d tried to argue with this kind of conviction before, this kind of faith, blind and as deep as a scar. Jia had died for it.

  The truth doesn’t matter any more. He wants to believe. And he’ll let the lot of us die for it too …

  “You’re … making a big mistake …”

  Sweat ran into his eyes, the suit choking him, strangling his words. How long until exhaustion claimed him? Until he simply gave in, let the envoy steer him? Would Von Hart work him to the bone, he wondered, making him dig through the ruins of the temple? And what would he do with him once he was through, once he’d served his purpose? Leave him to die? Abandon him in the dark like Jia …?

  Five steps, six, and he vented a roar, an echoing howl of frustration, shaking the stalactites above.

  In his grip, the sword hilt tingled, lunewrought reaching for flesh.

  Grunting, Ben peered down at the blade, sweat from his brow peppering the ground.

  “Use me,” Caliburn said, low and fierce, his voice piercing Ben’s skull. “Use me, you dolt.”

  The sword didn’t need to tell him twice. Gasping, he swivelled his wrist, snapping the blade to the side of his leg, its razor thin edge crossing his shin. The motion wasn’t sharp, restricted as he was, but the blade itself was a different story. Fire and frost went blazing through him, and he cried out, the weapon slicing into his flesh, blood splattering marble. Wincing, he could see that the sword had managed to cut through the suit, the scales around his knee hanging tattered and torn, a peeled section of skin.

  There are certain perks. In his agony, he remembered Caliburn, boasting in the mountain. For one thing, I’m unbreakable. For another, I can slice through most things as if they were paper.

  Including spellbound scales, it seemed. Even as Von Hart yelled, realising his error, Ben was turning his wrist again, bringing the sword up, its edge bearing against his belly, slicing across his thigh. The effect was immediate, as sharp as the pain. Like a burst zipper, the scales across his stomach sprang apart, a scatter of tiny scales at his feet. And blood. Flowers of blood. His tattered suit dripped with the stuff, and as he manoeuvred the blade up to touch his left arm, watching the living fabric split apart in charred black beads, he grasped that the sword had another power too. But he wouldn’t exactly call it a perk.

  My wounds. They’re not healing …

  The thought made him dizzy, the truth evident in the blood seeping from his gut, slicking his groin and legs, pooling on the floor around him. Pain shivered through him, an unfamiliar coldness, a deeper coldness, spreading through his body, his limbs. The usual prickle of mending flesh, knitting veins and skin, was gone, replaced by all too mortal injuries.

  “Damn you, sword. You could’ve … said …”

  “Oops,” said the sword.

  Head swimming, Ben sank to his knees. Come what may, he couldn’t let his weakness stop him, couldn’t let the envoy claim him, body, if not soul. Through the rising fog, he could sense the suit loosening, the torn shreds allowing him a little movement. Breathing hard, he dropped the sword and clawed at the suit, talons sprouting from his fingers—sprouting, retracting—struggling against the binding spell.

  “No!” The envoy reached him and grabbed his shoulder, his lips working, trying to recover the slipping rope of his magic. Picking his moment, Ben growled. With an effort of will, he vented a roar as the shreds of the suit exploded around him, flying apart like windblown leaves. With a degree of pleasure, he watched as the blast hurled Von Hart away from him, his naked form rolling to a standstill on the cold stone floor. At once, the envoy drew in his limbs, cringing in the shadow of a dragon unleashed. Up Ben reared, his plated neck stretching to the cavern roof, his horns rivalling the stalagmites. His wings folded out, great red pinions brushing the surrounding monuments, rubble and dust showering down from carved buttock and sculpted breast. With a thump, his tail hit the chamber wall, the arrowhead tip slamming over the tunnel entrance like a door.

  Fire coiled in his throat. His jaws parted, a sheaf of knives. Like platters of gold, his eyes flared, narrowing on the small figure lying between his splayed claws, an arm thrown up over his head. Next to his other claw, Caliburn rested, a dropped silver needle. If either the fairy or the sword spoke, their words were lost in his roar.

  But Ben was bleeding too. Wounds in humanoid flesh had become gashes in dragon hide, several feet long and weeping, crimson and red. Blood loss was taking its toll. The scene rippled, his vision blurring. Bewilderment sang in his skull.

  Not now. Not … now …

  With a teeth-rattling boom, his horns collided with the cavern roof. Dislodged rock pounded down on him, bouncing off his spine and rump. Dazed, he swayed, an entranced serpent in the dust. Then he exhaled and collapsed with a crash, a plume of smoke following him down to the chamber floor.

  For a long, measureless time, he knew only darkness and silence.

  When he opened his eyes, Von Hart was gone.

  PART TWO

  Siege Perilous

  By fairy hands their knell is rung;

  By forms unseen their dirge is sung.

  Collins, How Sleep the Brave

  Hampstead Heath, London

  There were many who’d dreamt of this moment. The king had returned to London.

  Since one day on Camlann Field, one dark and wicked day, the course of history had cracked. Time had split into two streams. One of the streams ran narrow and slow, a trickle through an overgrown forest, so tangled in the briar of myth that few would even know it was there. The other ran deep and wide, a stream become a rapids that bubbled and seethed through towering cities, flooding her banks with smoke and industry. Both streams ran red with blood, the price of a million tomorrows.

  Here, at this hour, Arthur, the Once and Future King, looked out on the place where the rivers met. From the bluff of Parliament Hill, the city spread out before him, her skyline glinting through the morning mist.

  This had always been his purpose. He stood on the edge of reality and dream, a bridge born in flesh and blood. Half human, half Fay, he had ruled over a mighty realm from the white walls of Camelot, riding out with the Knights of the Round Table to uphold all that was good and just and true in the land. With giants, he’d wrestled. To damsels, he’d pledged. On dragons, he’d ridden. Arthur was of the land and in the land. The Old Lands. The green lawns of Logres, stretching through blossom-filled orchards and hollow hills and on to the emerald sea, all shining under a sun of hope. Arthur, the Bear of Briton. An Example of Unity. Of peace.

  Once.

  Clouds had gathered. The green lawns of Logres had run red. Arthur had fallen, betrayed. In disgust, the Fay had turned their backs on the earth, retreating forever into the nether. Or, some said, until a golden day came, bright and new.

  A day much like this one, maggots aside. This morning, the king had returned.

  Where had he been, this renowned scion of a golden age? Through battles beyond count. When swords had clashed on bloody French fields.
When ships had fired cannons off Cape Trafalgar. When the Luftwaffe roared high above London, there were some who had taken up the cry. “Oh where, oh where is Arthur? Where is the king in our darkest hour?” And others had answered. “Asleep, deep in a mountain. In Cadbury Hill. In Dinas Rock. In Glastonbury Tor. In Alderley Edge. In the Eildon Hills. In St. Michael’s Mount. Beneath the Castle of Sewingshields. Under a lake. In a hundred caves. In the body of a red-clawed crow. In the Otherworld. In Avalon, waiting.” And thus, Arthur endured on living tongues, threaded in memory throughout his lands.

  A few paces in front of his flanking knights, the corpse king sat astride his shagfoal steed, shadows wreathing from its mane, its eyes burning, the embers of an unleashed hell. Sunlight winked on Arthur’s crown, but no sweat glistened on his brow nor tears on his cheeks from the toil and speed of his journey. On black hooves, the dead king had crossed the border into England and galloped through the Malvern Hills, the Cotswolds and the Chilterns overnight, a journey that, by earthly means, should have taken seven days’ ride. But no one who’d laid eyes on Arthur had taken his coming for earthly.

  The shadows of the horses had stretched long, a cloak weaving from their manes and tails and trailing into the night, fanning out low to the ground in a swirling cloud of darkness. In Arthur’s wake, the wretched rabble, goblin and ogre marching still, the greenteeth loping along, yet all sliding as one through the valleys, the forests and housing estates as though on a rug across a polished floor. Disturbed by the noise, the clatter of weapons, the cackles and cries, the roar of the stampede, children had looked out from bedroom windows and screamed their parents awake. Outside Birmingham, the traffic on the M5 had skidded into a pile-up as the horde raced over the motorway, leaping from Dodford into Bromsgrove. In Stratford-upon-Avon, those lucky enough to have seen the news at that hour were already making for the hills, pouring out of the pubs, stuffing suitcases into the backs of cars or hiding, trembling, under the stairs. Arthur went galloping through the villages and towns and the horde followed, a black wave crashing over the buildings, the churches, the houses and shops.