The Book Knights

by J. G. McKenney

  “You must find a way,” said Merl, “for all of us.” He reached over the round table and rested his gloved hand on the Grail Tome’s singed cover.

  “Place your hands on the book, young knights. We will say the oath, together.”

  Lance offered his hand first, his expression solemn and determined. Gwen smiled and extended her own hand, resting it next to Lance’s. All three turned to Arti, waiting for her to join them in the ritual.

  Arti took a deep breath, feeling crushed under the incredible weight of responsibility. “I hope I don’t let you down,” she said, before adding her hand to theirs.

  “You won’t,” said Merl, less than convincingly. He began to speak the oath, and the others joined in.

  “The book is my shield.

  The pen is my sword.

  The ink is my blood.”

  And though she appeared to be asleep on the cushioned bench in back of the motorhome, Arti was sure she could hear Gal mouthing the words along with them.

  Now that they knew their roles, each of the quest mates began preparing for the mission in earnest. Merl insisted that he and Arti have privacy in the motorhome. Gal was allowed to stay, needing the comfort of the vehicle’s rear bench to recover from her injury, but Merl wanted nothing to interfere with Arti’s practice with Excalibri. Arti noticed how Lance looked at Gwen and the eagerness he displayed in accompanying her to the adjacent bay where his Charger was parked. She hoped that whatever was going on between them wouldn’t distract them from the mission.

  “Just don’t leave the Camel Lot for any reason,” Merl told them. “We’re safe here.”

  The garage’s tall open door allowed in ample light, and even with Lance’s car dominating the space, there was more than enough room left over on the oil-stained concrete floor for Gwen to work on the castle model while Lance ran through his “exercises” next to her.

  They were a strange combination of slow motion movements—kicks and spins and punches—accompanied by a string of slow chant-like whispers, Lance’s eyes remaining closed as he uttered them. He was barefoot and shirtless as he ran through the routines, and before long his lean body was slick with sweat, adding a golden sheen to his sculpted muscles and the intricate grail tattoo covering his back. Gwen found she was paying more attention to him than her work.

  “If I am interfering, I can go elsewhere,” said Lance politely, looking up at Gwen from a handstand.

  “Um…no…it’s okay,” said Gwen, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I…I was just wondering if…”

  “Yes?” replied Lance, nimbly flipping his feet under him. “What is it?”

  Gwen set down the pair of scissors Merl had given her to cut the notebook covers. “Well, I’d like to take you up on your offer. I’d like to learn how to strike with words—if you wouldn’t mind giving me a lesson. After I’m done this, of course.” She pointed at the model.

  “It would be my pleasure,” said Lance. He retrieved his t-shirt from the Charger’s hood and pulled it over his head. “If you would like my assistance to finish your task, I am yours. Then I can teach.”

  “Sure,” she said. “I could use the help.”

  With Lance’s aid, Gwen was able to complete construction of the mini castle by the middle of the afternoon. The model was quite ingenious, requiring no tape, glue, or adhesive of any kind. Each piece joined the other by way of tabs and slots, one fitting snuggly into the next. Sections of the building could be removed, leaving the others intact, and there were tiny pencil drawings on the walls and floors indicating important features. Relying on her incredible memory, Gwen even identified locations in the building that offered hiding places that might prove useful in avoiding Incendi guards.

  “It is very good,” complimented Lance, examining the finished product. “So much detail.”

  “Thanks, you were a big help,” said Gwen. She leaned in close beside him. “I just hope I didn’t forget anything.”

  “I doubt it,” replied Lance. “You strike me as one who forgets very little.”

  “Speaking of ‘striking’,” said Gwen, playfully, “you made a promise.”

  “Ah, yes, farapenne de moets. You wish to learn the strike of words. What do you know of the Art?”

  “I just finished a book that talked about it, a translation of The Knights of Maren, by Guillaume de Lac. It was the book with the tiny sword on its cover, the one that led me here.”

  Lance’s face lit up. “I am also a de Lac. Guillaume was my ancestor. My aunt Vivian often spoke of his writings. I would love to see this book.”

  “It’s in the motorhome. I can show it to you later.” Gwen glanced at the adjacent garage. “I don’t want to interrupt Arti and Merl.”

  “Of course,” said Lance, following Gwen’s eyes. “Arti has a very difficult task ahead of her. I hope the librarian can help her find her words.”

  “Me too,” said Gwen. She turned to Lance, her face brightening, “Now for that lesson.”

  Lance offered Gwen his hand and helped her to her feet. “Very well,” he said. “But I must tell you the strike of words is very difficult to learn and takes many years to master. Do not be disappointed if it eludes you.

  “You may think it strange but I have never seen The Verses; they are an oral tradition in my family. The only written record of them is in the Grail Tomes. Merl has offered to show them to me tonight.” He couldn’t hide his excitement. “It is the greatest of honors.

  “But before we speak more of the poems,” said Lance, resuming the role of teacher, “you must know how to center yourself. Only the knight who is centered can direct his will and fight with words.”

  “Okay,” said Gwen. “How do I do that?”

  “You need to focus your breathing.” Lance took Gwen’s hand and pressed it against his chest. “Here,” he said, inhaling deeply.

  Gwen felt his muscles tighten beneath his shirt. “I…I see,” she said, slowly pulling her hand away.

  “Now close your eyes and concentrate,” said Lance. “Find your center. This is the place of power within you. Feel each breath begin and end there.”

  Gwen obeyed, slowly inhaling and exhaling. One long, deep breath in and out. Then another. And another.

  “Very good,” said Lance, studying each rise and fall of her chest. “You breathe well.”

  “Um…thanks. Done it all my life,” she quipped. “Keeps me alive.”

  “But it is probably the first time you thought about it, controlled it,” countered Lance. “If you cannot find your center and the place where your will resides, words have little power.”

  “You mean The Verses. I remember reading that there are one hundred and twelve of them.”

  “That is true. And as my master taught me, the power behind every one of them comes from here.” Lance tapped his chest again. “From the heart. From the will.”

  “Your master? Who was that?” asked Gwen.

  “His name was Jean de Lac, The Bard of Lucinne,” said Lance, his eyes sparkling with reverence. “He was my uncle, an honored knight, and a great fighter. My father died when I was a child, and before his passing, my uncle promised him he would continue my training. I am the last of the de Lacs to learn the Art.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Gwen. “About your father, I mean.”

  “Thank you.” Lance looked down at his hands, rubbing them together. “My earliest memory is of my father teaching me Ca Castere Chevallero, the first of The Verses.” He laughed, “I stumbled over the words—and my feet. But my will was strong, and I practiced until I was successful. I still remember how proud my father was.”

  “I can tell you miss him,” said Gwen. “You must have been close.”

  “Yes,” said Lance. “Very close. Do…do you have family?”

  “No,” she said abruptly.

  There was an awkward silence that made Lance regret he’d asked. “I’m sorry, I did not mean to—”

  Gwen brushed it aside. “It’s alright, you were being
polite. It’s just something I’d rather not talk about. Not…not now.”

  Lance nodded. “Very well.” He smiled to raise Gwen’s spirits. “My student, it is time for you to learn the first verse.”

  “The one your father taught you?”

  “Yes, Ca Castere Chevallero. It means ‘The Knight’s Shield’. It is the simplest of The Verses—and the most important.”

  “Oh yes, ‘castere’ is Old Ferencian for ‘shield,’” said Gwen. “I remember it from the Knight’s Oath. But I don’t understand the connection between The Verses and fighting. What happens when you say the words?”

  “The Verses…how do you say…bind to one’s will, amplifying it, adding strength and speed to the body. When a knight speaks a verse, he does so from instinct, relying on the words that will best serve his will at that moment. A few verses need only be spoken once in combat, so long does their power last. That is the case with Ca Castere Chevallero. As the name suggests, it is a verse of protection.”

  Lance moved behind Gwen. He reached down and lifted her arms, bending them at the elbows and crossing them in front of her at neck height.

  “This is the blocking form,” he said, his cheek brushing hers, his chest hugging her back, “the position taken to turn away a kick or punch. If the strike comes low, your arms move down and away. If it comes high, your arms move up.” Like a puppeteer, he guided Gwen through the blocking motions.

  “With Ca Castere Chevallero,” said Lance, stepping around Gwen to face her again, “the blocking form is used to repel an attack and throw your enemy off balance, so you can strike back. Your footwork is very important. Good fighters move their feet well, and as my uncle used to say, the best fighters dance.”

  “What are the words in the verse, and when do you say them?” asked Gwen, intrigued.

  “The words can be spoken well before the block,” said Lance, “and the power of The Knight’s Shield will linger. Do you want to try?”

  Gwen took a deep breath. “Why not?”

  “Why not, indeed,” smiled Lance. “I will say the verse slowly. Repeat after me: Ca farapenne esta rizer, pe mi esta castere.”

  Gwen said the words, careful to pronounce them just as Lance had. Every accent was perfect, every inflection precise. The strike is the sword, but I am the shield.

  “Well done,” said Lance. “You have a skill with words to match your memory. Now, try it again, only this time I want you to assume the blocking form and center yourself before you speak. Reach into that place where your will resides, draw upon its strength. I will strike but not harm you. I promise.”

  “I trust you,” said Gwen.

  “Good. Now try to turn the strike away.”

  Gwen assumed the blocking position, feet apart, arms raised. She breathed deeply, focusing.

  “Concentrate,” said Lance. “Find your center. Speak the words and become the shield. Feel the power of your will.”

  Gwen took a few deep breaths, then recited the verse again: “Ca farapenne esta rizer, pe mi esta castere.”

  The words flowed from her lips with a melodic ring, and as soon as she uttered them she felt a tingling sensation in her chest. It spread out, enveloping her body like a warm second skin.

  Lance smiled, sensing the change, impressed that she had managed it on the first attempt.

  “Well done, Gwen.” He raised a fist in front of her crossed arms. “Now feel the power of the Knight’s Shield and turn the strike away.”

  Lance drove his fist toward Gwen’s face, and she was shocked by her body’s reaction. Her arms drove the attack to the side with such speed and force that she nearly fell over. She regained her balance, and the expression on her face was one of elation.

  “That was incredible!” she laughed, staring at her arms as if they were strangers. “I…I can’t believe I just did that!”

  “Believe it,” said Lance, impressed. “Your will is strong.”

  “Can…can we do it again?” asked Gwen, barely able to contain her excitement.

  Lance nodded. “Of course.” He waited for Gwen to ready herself. “But this time I will strike faster.”

  “Okay,” replied Gwen, wondering how much faster he could be.

  Lance smiled a little too deviously for Gwen’s liking. “Ready?” he asked.

  “Ready,” said Gwen.

  Gwen concentrated on her breathing, trying to focus the power she would need to repel the attack. Feeling the steady cadence of the Knights Shield return, she couldn’t help but giggle with delight. Then she saw Lance’s lips move and knew she was in trouble.

  Lance struck out, allowing Gwen to turn his fist away just as she had the first time. But as the momentum of the block twisted Gwen’s body, with blinding speed Lance spun in the opposite direction, around and behind her. Before she knew what was happening, she was wrapped tightly in his powerful arms, unable to move.

  Gwen struggled, before finally giving up. With a playful sigh, she ended her resistance, feeling Lance’s iron hold weaken but not release her. She turned in his arms, wondering if this was still part of the lesson.

  With her chest pressed against his, Gwen could feel the hard contours of Lance’s muscles. A mix of excitement and fear washed over her, amplified by the intimacy of the young man’s embrace. Her heart was racing, and she looked up at him, wondering if he could feel its fluttering beat. Their eyes met, and time seemed to melt in the lingering alchemy of the words they had uttered. For that moment, they were together, joined, their energies pulsing as one. It was as if they had known each other all their lives, sharing a bond as ancient and powerful as The Verses themselves.

  “I yield,” whispered Gwen.

  Lance looked from her eyes to her lips, then back again. “As do I,” he said.

  CHAPTER 18

  Morgan Fay held the pen up, so the shaft of light from the setting sun streaming through the tower’s narrow west window could ignite the intricate designs spiraling down its golden “blade”. Fay marveled at how close she was to the goal she had labored decades for, the moment when Wyzera’s shining sword would grant her the power to command the future.

  Twenty-five years ago, that achievement seemed impossibly distant, out of reach, unattainable. But like the swirling characters magically appearing on the Grail Tome’s pages, each passing hour brought the CEO ever closer to her crowning glory, the moment she would scribe the destiny of the world.

  Preparations for the Lighting were well underway. The sounds of construction echoed off the castle walls from the clifftop, as the Corporation Night ceremony’s stage neared completion. The pomp and pageantry was a decorative smoke screen, a distraction for the masses. They were oblivious to the fact that the burning of the Archive was the means by which Fay would forever steal their freedom. And as much as she despised Victor Herrat, the puffed up little director deserved credit for pulling it all together on such short notice. Especially with his star, Gwen Degan, nowhere to be found. Fay mused over the sudden disappearance of the pretty young actress, so adored by her fans. Why would one so privileged choose to decap? And why now?

  She returned to her desk, leaving the questions behind. They didn’t matter. The world was going to change, and no one—not Gwen Degan or Victor Herrat or the countless people staring into their vidlinks—would see it coming.

  Fay slid open the desk’s top drawer and removed a pristine sheet of paper, repeating an exercise she had done countless times before. In the beginning, she had relied on The Mediations to guide her thoughts and form words on the page, but that was no longer necessary. Practice and discipline had eliminated the writer’s block that had once stemmed the flow of ink from Wyzera’s pen, Fay’s relentless edits suffusing her will into a final passage that was nearing completion.

  She dipped the golden pen into its well and lowered it to the paper, reciting the sentences as they flowed from her hand. It was a narrative rife with hatred and anger, spite and malice, a riveting prophecy, a sublime description of a dreadful future. Whe
n the pen stopped moving, there was still a narrow ribbon of white at the bottom of the page. Fay still had one line left to craft, a last sentence that would forever echo through the ages.

  Waiting for the words to come, her tired mind wandered, carrying her back to the day she arrived at Tintagel, the first time she entered the castle, the moment she set eyes on the Grail Tomes. They were together in the center of the round tower room, reclining on their marble pedestals, two perfect twins, the most wonderful books ever written. She remembered wanting nothing more than to lose herself in them, to surrender to the power radiating from their pages. But Merl would not allow it.

  There are rules. The books are dangerous.

  She had scoffed at his short sightedness, his fear. The Meditations offered her something he couldn’t. That his love couldn’t. For a fleeting moment, the fog of resentment lifted, and she saw Merl’s face. The tenderness. The pain.

  She drove the image away, extinguishing the last ember of guilt still smoldering in her soul. “I will not be denied what is mine,” she hissed.

  The bitterness and loathing in those words ignited a dark and ominous vision, a revelation of a world in which the hopes of others held no merit. In this new realm, Morgan Fay was an icon, worshipped and revered by all. Her will was their bondage, her aspirations the shackles and chains of their enslavement. Humanity existed only to serve her, having relinquished the last vestige of its freedom. She alone would possess the power of words, holding court as the sole arbiter of destiny, immortal and omnipotent.

  A goddess.

  Fay’s hand started to move again, the pen gliding across the page, giving birth to the last line of the future she would command…

  Morgania Fayus, Magia di Moets, periri touda lectera dal tierri.

  Morgan Fay, Sorceress of Words, shall perish all the readers from the earth.

  Billy Johnson stared through the window at the dark warehouse below, his favorite book, The Shoreman, open in his lap. Only now did he understand what Riley Moncrest, the main character in the story, felt when he lost his child.