Knight of Flame

by Scott Eder

  Dev set his sight on the anvil across the room. If he could make it there, he was good to go.

  It’s only ten feet. I can piss farther than that.

  He slid his right foot forward a couple of inches and took the weight on the ball of his foot. Scraping his left foot forward, he brought it even with his right. Confidence grew with each shuffle forward and he closed the distance four inches at a time.

  Almost there. Emboldened, he tried a normal step and toppled forward, but caught himself on the anvil before his body and pride spilled onto the floor. He’d made it. It wasn’t easy and as a reward, his entire body throbbed in victory, or pain, he couldn’t tell which.

  That wasn’t so bad.

  He winced and set his eyes on the doorway to the hall beyond. When he began this odyssey, he didn’t have a final destination in mind. Having achieved mobility, he knew where he had to go. The woman’s pale face loomed large in his mind.

  Oh, man, this is gonna hurt.

  He pushed off from the anvil, stiff-legged it the few feet to the doorway and propped himself against the jamb with a woof. The sweet smell of freedom blew across his face from down the corridor.

  Thank goodness someone thought to throw a pair of drawers on him. He couldn’t imagine shoving his legs through anything at the moment and he didn’t want to go schlonging through the Cradle.

  A quick glance left then right showed no mother hens or overbearing friends in sight. They wouldn’t be happy with this adventure, but he needed answers. A leisurely stroll, or shuffle—a sharp pain jabbed his left thigh—or maybe even a crawl through the Hall of Ages might help. Leaning one shoulder against the wall, Dev pushed himself, inch by precious inch down the long hallway.

  After the first few steps the pain leveled out to a nice dull roar. He set his shuffling gait on auto and returned to his ruminations.

  I know her face. I’ve seen it bef—crap. Def stopped and raised his eyes to the ceiling as heavy footsteps came up behind him.

  A deep voice said, “Help. There’s a zombie on the loose. Somebody please save me.”

  Freakin’ Magnus.

  “You shouldn’t be up yet, you know.” Magnus circled around Dev.

  “Bite me.” Dev looked up at the towering figure of the Knight of Earth. “Why are you big?” Magnus usually trod the halls of the Cradle in his tiny musician body, but today he looked full-on Norse giant.

  “Been working out. You stink.”

  “Been dead.”

  “Where you going?” Magnus asked.

  “Hall of Ages.” Dev didn’t feel up to their usual banter so he opted for the truth out of the gate.

  Magnus’s brow creased and he humphed. “Haven’t been there in ages.”

  Kill me now, he’s in one of those moods.

  “Mind if I tag along?”

  “Uh—”

  “Good.”

  Great.

  “Feeling nostalgic, are we?”

  Dev’s left leg lagged behind. Moving it took more work than the right, and his limping shuffle grew more pronounced. He knew Magnus noticed, saw him look down. Neither said anything about it as they plodded on.

  “The woman I…” Dev winced and stopped, finding it too difficult to talk and walk and breathe at the same time. “Fought in the club.” He took a few deep breaths before continuing. “She said I should know her.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah, I think so.” Dev started moving again, but slower. Magnus dipped under Dev’s arm and took part of his weight. A relieved sigh escaped before Dev could stop it.

  “You think so.” Magnus said.

  “I know I’ve seen her before, but I can’t place where.” He would never admit it, but cornball routine aside, he was damn glad Magnus showed up when he did.

  “So you thought to check the Ages room.”

  “Right.”

  Dev leaned harder into his friend, allowing the big man to take more of his weight. His chest ached. He leaned against the wall outside the Hall of Ages to catch his breath and give his body a moment to stop screaming.

  “You should be in bed.” Magnus said.

  “I know,” Dev said. “But she won’t let me sleep.”

  “I know that problem.” Magnus grinned and jagged his eyebrows.

  “Shut up.”

  “You better hope Wren doesn’t catch you…us.”

  “No shit. She’d kick my ass.”

  “Mine too, sister, so move it.” Magnus adjusted his hold so he could take most of his friend’s weight. “What are we looking for?”

  They squeezed through the door into an airplane-hanger-sized room crammed with pictures, tapestries, statues, weapons, and other objects from the history of the Order arranged in museum-quality displays. Some stood free while others clung to the walls or hung from the ceiling. Glowing crystals lit the perimeter, but the room’s primary light source shown down from several spelled gemstone candelabras. The air tasted stale, as if it hadn’t been disturbed in many years, though the room itself was immaculate.

  “I forgot how big this place was.” Dev whispered, as he swiveled his head to find a good place to start.

  “Me too.” Magnus mirrored his hushed tone. “Where do you want to start?”

  “No clue.”

  “Odds or evens.” Magnus put out his fist. “Odds we go left. Evens we go right.”

  Dev chuckled and put out his fist. “What about the center?”

  “Nobody starts in the center. Ready?” Magnus shook his fist and Dev did the same. “One, two, three, shoot.”

  He threw out two and Dev dropped three.

  “Left it is.” Magnus said.

  Dev remembered why he didn’t spend much time in this room. It focused entirely on the past while he looked to the future. The artifacts showed the Order’s history of violence. He and Magnus limped past tableaus of every war in the history books and then some. Uniforms the Knights wore into battle or the weapons they wielded held prominence.

  While they walked, Dev looked every which way for a glimpse of that pale face.

  “No way.” Magnus stopped short in front of a vibrant painting. “I can’t believe we still have this.”

  “Oh geez.” Dev smiled.

  A grim-faced pirate with long black hair stared out from the canvas between two other rogues on the deck of the Queen Anne’s Revenge amidst bales of rope and ancient wooden casks. Magnus stood to the Captain’s left clad in a blousy tan pirate shirt, and red pants. A stiff sea breeze blew his long blond locks out behind him while a red-headed wench with bulging cleavage laughed on his arm. Dev scowled down from the captain’s other side. In a half-buttoned gray shirt, tattered draw-string pants and shiny boots, he watched another pirate who hung his head over the side.

  Magnus shook his head. “Dronor never forgave you for that, did he?”

  “Nope. I had to do it. I mean, come on. The great Knight of Water seasick. Hell, I even paid the artist extra to paint Dronor mid-heave.”

  “No wonder he doesn’t like you.”

  Dev shrugged. The movement jarred his shoulder, reminding him that they were there for a reason.

  “And then we have this.” Magnus’s tone turned reverent. He steered them to a large, round table surrounded by gleaming suits of plate armor. In the center of the plain oak table, a golden circlet rested on a battle standard—three antique crowns on a field of azure.

  “Arthur was the greatest of our order.” Voice filled with awe, Magnus named his predecessor. “The greatest Knight of Earth the world has ever known.”

  “Yeah, but could he play bass for one of the biggest rock bands in the world?”

  Magnus continued as if reading from an archaic tome. “And then he was betrayed by the then Knight of Flame, Lancelot, who ignited Guinevere’s passion and—”

  “Brought about the downfall of Camelot. Yeah. Yeah. Knight of Flame bad. I know.” Dev needed no reminders about the darker side of his element.

  Magnus gave him a penetrating look.
His lips parted, as if he wanted to say something, but he shut them without a sound.

  “No worries here, my brother,” Dev said. “You don’t have a queen for me to steal, remember?” An image of glacial blue eyes flashed across his thoughts.

  “Dev,” Magnus hesitated, averting his eyes. “There’s been talk.”

  “About?”

  “You. Stillman is concerned that you’ve lost control.”

  “What do you mean ‘lost control’?”

  “He thinks the fire has taken over and that you’re a danger to yourself and everyone around you.”

  Anger spiked. The healing flame burning through his system flared, ready to lash out.

  “That’s crazy,” Dev fired back. “What proof does he have? Why would he think that?” Dev stood under his own power, his elemental force lending him strength. “I haven’t hurt anyone and I’m in complete control.” The fire roared to life, blazed through his veins and heated his skin. He paced away from Magnus, the crippling pain receding to little more than a distant throb.

  How dare he! Dev clenched his fists and spun back to Magnus who stood mute and wide-eyed.

  “I. Am. Fine.”

  “Oh, I can see that.”

  The flame wanted to respond, to fight. Dev closed the distance, forcing injured muscles to react. He raised his arm back for the first strike and stopped.

  “There she is,” Dev’s rage evaporated in a rush and with it, his strength. Without the rage fueling his element, he collapsed to the floor. The pain redoubled its intensity, but he didn’t care. He found her.

  “Help me up.” Dev looked to his friend like nothing had been about to go down.

  Expression bland, the big man grabbed Dev under the armpits and hoisted him up.

  “Over there.” Dev inclined his chin toward a group of sinister, gloomy paintings off by themselves in the center of the room. Five large family portraits brooded in a semi-circle around what looked like a black stone podium. Shrouded in darkness, four of the paintings showed only lifeless grays and drab greens. The last one, however, practically glowed with vivid, life-like color. It looked as if the subjects could walk right off the canvas. Light projected from the base of the podium onto this last painting, illuminating the members of the last family of Shadow.

  Magnus manhandled Dev to the podium and encouraged him to transfer his weight to the dark, silver-veined marble. Across the platform’s wide top gleamed five names etched in gold. They each lined up with one of the family portraits. The last one, Molan, faced the bright portrait.

  “That’s her.” Dev whispered. He leaned over the podium and stared at the likeness of the pale woman he fought at the Club. “I knew I saw her before.” His hand brushed the letters and Stillman’s voice broke the silence.

  “The family of Gray Lord Bestok Molan.” Stillman’s crisp, formalized intonation, coming from hidden speakers, rang through the hall. “Know these faces for they shall appear one day and attempt to smite all in their path. We must be vigilant.” The light projection changed. Instead of lighting the entire family, the beam narrowed, zeroing in on the aged man in the center seated on a black velvet throne. “Bestok Molan, Gray Lord, Master of Shadow, Lord of the Darkness.”

  “If I’d have known there’d be a show, I’d have brought popcorn.” Magnus crossed his arms.

  “Zip it,” Dev said.

  The spotlight shifted to the far right corner of the painting, away from the woman of his search, and highlighted a big guy. Stillman’s voice droned on, but Dev stopped listening. He focused on the bottom left where she kneeled elegantly in front of another man. Next to her, on the same level in the picture, was some kind of distorted, wavy image. Whenever he tried to make it out, it blurred even more and made his eyes itch.

  Blinking away the uncomfortable sensation, he lifted his gaze to the man behind her. Is that the guy who kicked my ass?

  The light dropped to the woman and Dev tuned in.

  “…had twin daughters. In testament to his black arts, Bestok Molan ordered his son to turn his granddaughters, Triessa and Agridda, into powerful weapons of Shadow.”

  Footsteps halted behind Dev.

  “Is it wise for you to be out of bed, Knight of Flame?” Stillman’s real voice sounded exactly like the recorded one.

  “Probably not, sir.”

  “I assume you have a good reason, yes? Is it her?”

  “The resemblance is close. I believe it was her.” Dev faced the Precept. “I fought and defeated Triessa. I was about to deliver the killing bl—”

  Stillman’s mouth twitched, eyes narrowing. Based on what Magnus said earlier, Dev wasn’t sure if Stillman reacted to the news about his fight against a minion of Shadow or the fact that he was about to kill.

  “So you killed her?” Stillman asked in a tone that indicated he already knew the answer.

  Dev’s element stirred inside him, but he stuffed it down. “No, sir.”

  “Then she still lives.”

  “No, sir. Her father killed her. He is the one who kicked my a—, defeated me, sir.” I am so sick of saying that.

  Stillman clasped his hands behind his back and paced to the painting. Moving from face to face, he studied each one before turning back to the waiting Knights.

  “If what you say is true—”

  “It is,” Dev growled, flame burning hot.

  Magnus rested a hand on his shoulder and Stillman raised one eyebrow.

  “Stand down, Develor Quinteele.” Stillman maintained his formal monotone. “I am not questioning your veracity. Your battle and positive identification proves that the Gray Lord is mobilizing his forces.”

  Dev relaxed.

  “And they are powerful.” Stillman continued. “As proven by your defeat.”

  Can we please stop talking about that?

  “To clarify, you said her father killed her.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dev slouched against the podium, strength and energy spent.

  “So, the son of Bestok Molan has taken to the field. Do you recognize him in the picture?”

  Dev struggled to keep his head upright. With the mystery woman indentified, exhaustion sought to bring him down.

  “No, sir. His face was masked in shadow. But I would know him if I saw him in person. I’d sense his power.”

  “I don’t see how that would be possible.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Magnus chimed in, “The Club was owned by Alexander Gray. Perhaps we can start with him, ask some questions.”

  “Gray is it?” Stillman shook his head. “Seems too obvious, but sometimes that’s the best place to hide.”

  “Alexander Gray operates out of the Daegon Gray office in Tampa,” Dev said.

  “We cannot act unless we are sure.” Stillman paused, eyes lowered as if deliberating his choice of words. He looked up and met Dev’s gaze. “We need verification. Rest tonight. On the morrow, observe him without letting him see you. Is that possible?”

  “Hold on,” Magnus jumped in. “Can’t it wait a couple of days until Dev gets his strength back?”

  Shut up, Magnus.

  “No. We have no time. The Gray Lord knows we are here. I sense something different about this one. The other Gray Lords,” Stillman gestured to the darker portraits. “their tactics were simple. Amass an army large enough to swallow the world and attack. They lacked subtlety, finesse. Though powerful, we found ways to defeat them in time. Bestok Molan, on the other hand, has remained elusive. I believe he’s had a hand in human tragedy for centuries—striking from cover, manipulating leaders, shaping events. He revels in turning humanity against itself.”

  “Why haven’t you shared any of this with us?” Dev asked.

  “I believe, I sense, I think…all conjecture.” Frustration crept into Stillman’s voice as he walked over and gripped the podium. “I need facts, Knight of Flame. There have been too many examples of human cruelty over the centuries for Bestok Molan not to have been involved. Robespierre, Pol Pot, Amin, Hitler, Stalin…t
he list goes on. Their despotic actions reek of Molan’s influence.” The old man’s piercing gaze lanced Dev then Magnus. “These names are not unfamiliar to you. Both of you have run missions against them, helping to bring them down. Have you encountered any evidence to suggest Shadow’s involvement?”

  Dev and Magnus slowly shook their heads.

  “We need clues, proof, a trail to follow. I can strategize based on supposition, but I cannot act. Until now, that is. Go. Prove this Alexander Gray is the man we believe him to be.”

  “I’ll go with him,” Magnus offered.

  Thanks, man.

  “No. I have something else for you. Wren will take him.”

  Magnus inclined his head.

  “Get your rest, Knight of Flame. We need you at full strength.” After a nod to Magnus, Stillman strode from the room.

  Magnus frowned, slipped his arm around Dev and hoisted his weight.

  “Hssst, be careful.”

  “Ya big baby.” The Knight of Earth poked him in the ribs, sending a wave of agony through his torso. They journeyed back through the hall in silence.

  Chapter 15

  THE DAEGON GRAY LOBBY HUMMED WITH early morning cell phone chatter and the constant arrival of suit-clad professionals. Frigid air pumped out of the vent over Cassidy’s head. She sat in the plush waiting area chairs and shivered. The black suit-jacket she wore was for style, not warmth, and the short black skirt did little to keep the cold leather seats from biting her legs. Arms crossed over her leather portfolio, she lay in wait for her target.

  It had been four days since the club had burned down. Wren had kept Cassidy busy for two of those days and when Cassidy woke up on the third, she didn’t have the gumption to leave her room. This interview scheme jump-started her reentry into the real world after the Knights flipped her beliefs on their sides. Besides, since she didn’t get to the club before it burned down, she hoped to make it up to her editor with a face-to-face interview with Alexander Gray himself.

  She’d called the night before to get on Mr. Gray’s schedule and had been politely, but firmly, denied. It was time for plan B—stalk then pounce. The stalking part was easy. She needed only to wait for him to show. The pouncing might prove difficult since that depended on when Mr. Gray arrived and who he had around him. She could easily sidestep a secretary, but security guards presented a different problem.