Dark North (Malory's Knights of Albion)

by Paul Finch

  Lucan removed his own helm and said: “Let me see your face.”

  The Roman lifted his visor. Only half the visage beneath was visible, but it was bathed with a sweat of fear. The eyes – bright, glassy baubles – had fixed on Lucan’s pale, scarred features as though mesmerised. Lucan immediately recognised the man who had verbally jousted with him at Camelot. He briefly wondered, that this twitching, thin-whiskered thing, clearly so terrified of him, could really be the source of all his woe.

  “Felix Rufio.” Lucan’s voice dripped ice. “Welcome to the end of your days.”

  “Wait!” Alaric cried. “Where is Countess Trelawna?”

  Lucan glanced around, briefly puzzled. He’d expected Trelawna to be here, and it was a surprise to him that he had not noticed she wasn’t. What that said about the fight and his reasons for it, he didn’t like to ponder. He raised an eyebrow at Felix Rufio.

  “In a place of safety,” the Roman said.

  “A place of safety?” Alaric replied. “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “It means nothing,” Lucan decided, pulling on his helmet. “Because from me, no such place exists. En garde, Rufio!”

  Lucan lunged straight into the duel with a smashing overhead blow.

  Rufio just had time to fend with his shield, which was cloven almost in two. He tottered backward. Lucan threw his own shield down; ostensibly a chivalrous measure, but now he took Heaven’s Messenger in both hands. Those who knew him of old had witnessed the power of his double-handed blows. Rufio backed away, gladius still hefted, but the black-clad avenger stalked him like a panther. The longsword swept around again. Rufio deflected it with a ringing clash, but so fierce was the impact that it numbed him to the shoulder. Again he staggered away. Lucan pursued, the slanted eye-slots giving him a demonic appearance. He launched a third blow, now from overhead. Again Rufio parried; again he was jolted to the breastbone. He staggered, the sweat inside his helmet blinding him. Saliva bubbled from his lips as he tried to stop himself from whimpering in fear.

  “Are you going to fight or keep running?” Lucan growled.

  Rufio could barely think straight. Suddenly his entire world, his whole experience of life had condensed to this handful of seconds; his survival through each one was all that mattered. But the next blow came with such devastating power that the gladius was swept from his grasp and sent spinning across the ground.

  Lucan lowered Heaven’s Messenger and regarded the abject, cowering figure. Slowly, he removed his helmet and pulled back his coif. “Do you intend to die fighting like a man, or butchered like a hog?” he said. “Pick that sword up!”

  Rufio tripped as he went after his weapon. He scrambled towards it on hands and knees, his Roman seconds watching in despair. When he grabbed the gladius, he stumbled back to his feet and waved it ineffectually.

  “I’ve come all this way for such as you?” Lucan said. “I wouldn’t normally sully my steel. But too many good men are groaning in the darkness, waiting for justice.”

  He drew Heaven’s Messenger back for the final stroke – and it was taken from him.

  Snatched from his hand.

  By something that had descended from above.

  Some thing.

  It was essentially female, in that it had a head with long, streaming hair, and arms, legs and breasts, but in place of hands and feet were eagle’s talons, and in place of skin it had a hard rind of greenish scales. It was immense in size; twice the height of a normal man, its bat-like wings spanning maybe fifteen feet. Its face was its most repellent aspect: a grotesque visage with bunches of bone sprouting from its brows and cheeks, a jutting chin and nose, and jagged spades for teeth. With an ululating shriek, it lofted skyward with its prize, a mane as wild and green as seaweed billowing around it.

  At first the men could only gape, Briton and Roman alike.

  Maximion, incredulous, shouted: “Stymphalianus!”30

  The monster clutched Heaven’s Messenger triumphantly as it hovered, wielding it by the hilt. Lucan could barely comprehend what he was seeing, although one reality stung him quickly: Heaven’s Messenger – the sword his father had told him could never know defeat – was now, suddenly, to be turned against him.

  The monster dropped with furious speed, and Lucan evaded the blade by inches, diving and rolling on the ground. Hubert, next in line, drew his own sword and parried the blow, but the winged monstrosity lashed out with its other claw and caught him by the harness, carrying him kicking and shouting into the air. It rose inexorably to ninety feet or more – and released him.

  Hubert plummeted to earth in silence, landing with a ghastly crunch of bones.

  In the midst of this mayhem, with men ducking for cover, Malvolio was unable to handle the horses. They tore free in their terror and bolted. Meanwhile, Rufio’s Roman seconds dashed forward, hauled him to his feet and hustled him from the field.

  The winged horror swooped again on Lucan’s scattering force. It cut Guthlac down with a blow across his shoulders, which cut through his leather hauberk and shore deep into the muscle and tendons beneath. The man-at-arms staggered forward and dropped, sliding to a halt on his knees – only for the beast to catch him with its feet and wing its way skyward again. His blood rained across the others as it tore and slashed him apart in mid-air, before hurling him in a tumbling arc.

  Then the first arrow struck it.

  Davy Lug – less the archer than he once was, having lost an eye – had still managed to retrieve several feathered shafts from the dead baboons in the village, and now launched them one after another. The fourth was the first to make real impact, transfixing the monster’s right foot. The next caught it a glancing blow to its jutting, bony forehead, but sixth struck it clean in the right eye, burying itself in the soft pulp.

  Squawking in rage, its wings beating frenziedly, the horror flitted back and forth overhead, clawing at the wound and smearing green blood across its miscreated face. It snapped the arrow shaft, leaving the iron barb in place. Lug drove another arrow at it; this one sunk half its length into the monster’s left thigh. Its screams rose in pitch, becoming agonised as it soared upward and away. When maybe a hundred yards distant, it spun in the air to howl and gesticulate at them, before continuing to retreat, streamers of emerald blood trailing behind it.

  Davy Lug dropped to one knee, exhausted. Wulfstan crawled on all fours towards Hubert, who was the closest casualty, but his body was utterly broken, beyond any help. Alaric’s sword was drawn, but he stood rigid, eyes locked on the distant creature. Lucan turned to face the Romans, seeing two of them – including Tribune Rufio – back in the saddle, wheeling their horses around to escape.

  He leapt to his feet, but neither Nightshade nor any of their other mounts were near at hand. The horses bounded back and forth in their terror, Malvolio staggering helplessly after them. Lucan glared at the squire, and then ran after the Romans on foot. Giolitti, who was still dismounted, stepped into his path, drawing his sabre. Lucan drew his dagger and struck out; the blow was parried, but packed such force that it knocked Giolitti off his feet. Lucan continued past him, although Rufio and his surviving second were now far across the rocky plain. Lucan hadn’t even covered half the distance when the tail-end of their two horses vanished into the fir-wood. He slowed to a halt, breathing hard, sweating fiercely – and almost as an afterthought glanced over his shoulder, expecting Giolitti to have run up behind him. But the Roman had now been engaged by Alaric, sparks flying as their blades clashed.

  Looking back around, Lucan spotted the two riders one final time, much higher up the treed slope, disappearing beyond a rise.

  When he returned to the others, Giolitti’s blade lay in the dust and he stood with hands raised, Alaric’s sword-point at his throat. Wulfstan had also come over, leading his own horse by the reins. Malvolio stood some distance away, looking nervous, the other horses back under control. Lucan approached the prisoner, picking up the discarded sword and examining the curved blade as he did.
It was about two-thirds the length of a normal sabre, but well-made – manufactured from strong steel and yet surprisingly light. Its edge, though scored from battle, was still very keen.

  “Legionary Giolitti?” Lucan said.

  Giolitti nodded tensely.

  “You served under Felix Rufio on his campaigns?”

  “I did, my lord.”

  “Did he inspire loyalty? He must have done, to encourage you to die in his place.”

  “My lord,” Alaric said, “he has surrendered.”

  Lucan regarded his former squire with interest. “And what do you suggest, Alaric? Make him a captive too? When only five of us remain, one a snivelling loon... with scarce enough horses to carry our own supplies?”

  “He’s been disarmed. We could simply release him.”

  “There is a pack of Romans ahead of us on this mountain. You want to put one behind us as well?”

  “My lord, look at this man. As soon as we release him, he’ll run like a rabbit.”

  “To where, Alaric? He’s closer to his master’s refuge than he is to anywhere else.”

  Legionary Giolitti shook his head. “That’s no refuge for me. I never wanted to go there in the first place. Hellish things are said to happen in Castello Malconi.”

  “Hellish things which you apparently embrace,” Lucan said. “Luring us to this open space so your demon could attack us?”

  Giolitti tried to swallow his fear. “No demon of mine, my lord.”

  “Nevertheless, it’s your misfortune to have supplied the lure.”

  “That was unintentional. I had no idea the demon would attack.”

  “I’m afraid the deaths of our friends must be answered...”

  “My lord, please,” Alaric said.

  “I’ve never been a willing servant of Tribune Rufio,” Giolitti pleaded.

  “Yet you came with him this far.”

  “When there was a whole company of us, and military rules applied. But like you, we’ve suffered losses. Only a handful remains.”

  “Your party was attacked as well?”

  “Not attacked, but... men slunk away in the darkness.”

  Lucan pondered this. “So other Romans are already loose on these slopes? Maybe among these rocks? They could be stringing arrows on us right now.”

  “My lord, please,” Alaric said again.

  “Enough talk.” Lucan hefted the sabre. “Make your peace with God, legionary, and I’ll make your journey to Him a swift one.”

  “NO, MY LORD!” Alaric bellowed, swinging around and pointing his longsword at his master’s chest. “I... I won’t allow it.”

  There was a brief, ear-pummeling silence.

  For the first time in as long as any could remember, Earl Lucan seemed surprised. His lips tightened; his grey eyes narrowed imperceptibly.

  “This is not the way of the Round Table,” Alaric stammered.

  Lucan said nothing. His gaze burned into the defiant youth.

  “My lord... you are not thinking clearly. The serpent venom has damaged your mind. Your hatred for these people has gone beyond reason. And your soul will pay the price.”

  “Put up your sword,” Lucan said quietly. “Or, so help me, I’ll cross it with mine.”

  “I’m prepared to take that chance.”

  “All our men are dead because of these murderers...”

  “No, my lord! Not because of them. Because of you.” Alaric could hardly believe what he was saying; he almost choked on the words, but they flowed from him anyway. “Forgive me, but it’s time for the truth. Your pride condemned your mesnie to death, as surely as Emperor Lucius’s pride condemned his army. There’s nothing any of us can do now that will bring them back, but I’m damned if I’m going to stand by and let more blood be shed for no good reason.”

  Giolitti glanced from one to the other, beaded with sweat. Malvolio watched with a kind of fascinated horror. Slowly, Wulfstan came to his master’s side.

  “Kill Alaric, my lord, and you reduce our fighting potential by a fifth. As things are, I’m not sure how we’ll take Castello Malconi, but to weaken us further would be unwise.”

  “I’m only trying to do what’s right,” Alaric added. “In a better time, you would do the same, my lord. I know you would.”

  “Foolish whelp,” Lucan whispered. “You realise I can never trust you after this?”

  “With all respect... I don’t think there will be an ‘after this.’”

  Lucan lowered the Roman sword. “If there is, be assured... we’ll discuss this incident, at some length.”

  Alaric nodded and lowered his own weapon. He mopped the sweat from his brow, and glanced around – to see Maximion watching from several yards away. He’d expected to find approval in the elderly officer’s face, but now saw only fear. It so distracted Alaric that he didn’t notice Earl Lucan kick the side of Giolitti’s knee. Sinew cracked and the soldier gasped. His leg buckled and he dropped to all fours. The sabre flashed, and his head fell.

  Alaric spun around again, horror-struck.

  Lucan faced him coldly. “I won’t let prepubescent folly endanger this quest. If you wish to level your steel again, be my guest... but it will serve no purpose now.”

  Alaric’s sword was still clasped in his hand, but he could only gape at the decapitated form on the ground. Lucan turned his back and walked away, approaching Maximion.

  “When that monster first attacked, you gave it a name?” he said.

  Maximion initially found it difficult to respond. He stared fixedly at Giolitti’s truncated corpse. “Stym... Stymphalianus.”

  “Another demon of the ancient world?”

  “According to the folklore of the Greeks, there was a whole flock of them – winged monstrosities from the swamps of Arcadia. They were reared by the god Ares...”

  “And how many such horrors can this sorceress summon?”

  Maximion shook his head. “I must guess that she can’t do it indefinitely... else she’d be ruler of the Empire herself, with a host of abominations at her bidding.”

  “My lord!” Wulfstan interrupted. “If this she-devil has such powers...”

  “The Round Table did not make its reputation by fleeing in the face of evil,” Lucan replied.

  “Nor did it by throwing away the lives of its men in futile quests for vengeance,” Maximion said.

  Lucan gave a wintry smile. “In due course, we’ll see how futile this quest is.”

  “Might I remind you, my lord,” Wulfstan said, “that of all gathered here, only you are a Knight of the Round Table!”

  Lucan regarded him carefully. The older knight’s face was ingrained with dirt, cut with runnels of sweat. Though an outdoorsman by training, he looked so haggard and bedraggled that it was difficult to imagine he could keep on going.

  “I see,” Lucan said. “You wish me to proceed alone?”

  “Your words, not mine,” Wulfstan replied. “But if any scribe ever makes a record of this expedition, I’d like it noted that I proceeded from this point under duress.”

  “Dissent on all sides, Earl Lucan,” Maximion said.

  “And the Stymphalianus somewhere overhead,” Lucan growled, glancing skyward. The others also looked up. “That’s right, gentlemen. The Stymphalianus still lives, and will attack us again. That is its sole purpose in visiting this mortal realm. Any one of you is now free to leave. But I’d imagine its purpose is to hunt and kill us all. So good luck on your solo travels. Alas, Tribune Maximion, you may not leave – you are still my prisoner and have a duty to perform. However, in that respect you are fortunate, because I will protect you. No harm must befall you before you’ve guided me to Castello Malconi.”

  “And after that?” Maximion wondered.

  Lucan shrugged. “After that I’ll have no use for you.”

  Thirty

  THE LAST LEG of Trelawna’s journey was the most arduous she had ever known.

  They followed a narrow, uneven road, along an undulating spine of roc
k, on either side of which lay appalling chasms. Strong winds buffeted them; icy rain drenched them. All three – Trelawna, Gerta and their sole escort, Centurion Marius – were weary to the point of collapse. Their horses walked slowly, stumbling constantly. When they finally left the exposed ridge, they entered a deep cleft, a tight passage between sheer granite walls. For several hours they followed this torturous route, passing beneath rusted portcullises which were raised and unguarded.

  The journey’s end came as dusk was falling. They left the narrow way and found themselves on the lip of a crevasse, crossed by a wooden drawbridge, on the far side of which an arched, black tunnel led into the belly of a colossal stone fortress. In the middle of the bridge, a figure waited for them. He stood eight feet in height, his gargantuan form draped in crimson robes and cowl. When he glanced up to appraise them, a truly monstrous face was exposed – brutish and bestial, covered with silver-grey fur.

  Fingers of ice touched Trelawna’s heart. She still remembered the haunting dream she’d suffered on the night she’d thought Lucan was dying – the pursuit through the thorn-wood by something more terrible than she could ever imagine. The very thing that now seemed to be blocking their path to the castle.

  Centurion Marius dismounted and led his animal onto the drawbridge.

  “I am Leobert Marius, Centurion Primus of the Fourteenth Legion,” he said. “I come here under license of Tribune Felix Rufio, charged with escorting his bride-to-be and her servant-woman. We have travelled long and hard, and would appreciate admittance.”

  The bestial face glowered at him with indifference. Only after an age did the powerful figure turn away and walk towards the entrance passage. Marius indicated the two women should follow. They dismounted and led their animals forward, glancing fearfully into the lightless depths below.

  The entrance tunnel was built from bare, echoing rock and black with grime. In the courtyard, more bare brickwork soared on all sides. There were interior windows, but most were arrow-loops. The only light came from a single candle, now carried down a steep stair by a servant dressed in sackcloth. He was hideously disfigured, with a crooked back and lumpen feet, but behind him descended someone who simply had to be Duchess Zalmyra. The noblewoman was tall and swathed tightly in a brown woollen wrap, which left her arms and shoulders bare but accentuated her statuesque proportions. Her slick black hair was braided into a single rope and hung over her left shoulder. Her beauty was intense but severe – the sort men would die for, and in many cases probably had. She approached the new arrivals with a slow, elegant tread, and circled around them. When she finally halted, she touched Trelawna’s hair, which had become stringy and straw-like.