The Book Knights

by J. G. McKenney

  “I’ll keep trying,” Arti promised. She lifted Excalibri from the paper and examined it in her hand.

  “You heard her,” she said. “Work!”

  CHAPTER 21

  Fay turned the tome’s broad pages until she found the verse, then carefully averted her eyes. Staring directly at the last Meditation for too long was extremely dangerous. Even with her decades of disciplined training, there was no guarantee she would have the fortitude to withstand it. She was entering uncharted territory, delving into language that only Wyzera and Merrill, the original scribes of the Grail Tomes, had the skill to explore.

  It was desperation, plain and simple. With only hours to go before the Lighting, all the preparations had been made. The stage was set, the lights and cameras in place around the temporary arena. The Network feed had been tested and the Archive, Fay’s collection of the most dangerous books ever written, had been transplanted to its place on the ceremonial pyre, ready to be sacrificed. At nightfall, the reclusive CEO would reveal herself to the world and light the match that would summon a new era. But there was still someone who could prevent her from crafting that future.

  From the flames to the Isle of Avalon, the Challenger has come.

  And though coincidence made Arti Penderhagen the best candidate, Fay had dismissed her fear of the girl countless times, knowing a helpless decap had no chance of breaking into her fortress. No chance of getting anywhere near the Grail Tome hidden behind stone walls, an iron door, and hundreds of armed Incendi police. But she also knew The History did not lie. For her plan to be assured of success, Fay needed to deal with her nemesis. The girl had to be found and eliminated—at all cost.

  Mordred had yet to return or facelook Fay with news of the girl’s discovery and demise which meant he was still searching for her on the island. As dangerous as Mordred was, she feared her son was too blunt an instrument for such a delicate operation. Without a clue to point him in the direction of the girl, he might well destroy all of Isle and never find her. He certainly wasn’t going to get any tips from the locals. They were off the Network grid and under the strict rule of Billy Johnson and his syndicate, petty thieves and cutthroats who Fay tolerated to achieve her ends. She expected Mordred’s efforts would ruffle Big Billy’s feathers, but she didn’t care. Her “deal” with the little man, like everything else she suffered to arrive at this day, was coming to an end.

  Fay had used the potency of The Maze to locate the Penderhagen girl once before but had faced a great deal of resistance, what she knew to be magic. Powerful magic. Who or what had been its source, she couldn’t say; but it had required all her effort to overcome, to push it back, to pierce its veil. And though she tried numerous times to repeat that success, the only products of those labors were frustration and exhaustion. Wyzera’s pen would not write, and the girl’s whereabouts remained a mystery.

  Fay required an even stronger spell, a Meditation that could not be blocked, that could shatter the most formidable shield of concealment. The Mind’s Eye was Wyzera’s greatest achievement, a passage that could transport its reader to any time and place. It could find the answer to any question, and drive all but the most strong-willed mad.

  Slowly, warily, Morgan Fay looked down at the page, holding Wyzera’s golden pen over a blank sheet of paper next the great book. She gathered herself, summoning her will, focusing it with all her might on the passage’s title. The moment her eyes locked on the words, her mind was gripped by invisible hands, cold and strong and pitiless. She gasped as her consciousness was severed and torn, pulled into the passage, mingling in tiny fragments among each swirling character. Fay was not just reading the words, she was part of them, existing above, below, and between them. She could hear her own hollow voice utter the ancient language:

  “Guardero Intera,

  Vedio Desira,

  Occhio Essera,

  Fiammo Feuira.”

  Look Within,

  See Desire,

  Eye of Being,

  Flame of Fire.

  Fay fought to hold on to her reason, to remember who and where she was. The fragments of her mind were scattering, dissipating, seeping into the words on the page. She knew that if she remained in the purgatory of The Mind’s Eye too long, she would never escape it, forever to wander its tormented landscape.

  Drawing on all her strength, she managed to anchor herself against the powerful meditation’s relentless tide long enough to form the question. It was torturous and slow, and she couldn’t be sure its formulation made sense. But with a will worthy of the ancient scribe whose pen she wielded, Morgan Fay spoke the words.

  “Where…is…she?”

  Holding its bloody ink, the sharp point of Wyzera’s blade descended to the virgin white paper and slowly carved its path, dragging Fay’s hand along with it. A thin line of shimmering black formed the letters of three distinct words. When the message was complete, The Mind’s Eye released Fay from its grip, and she was thrown back in her chair, the pen still clenched tightly in her hand. Her head whiplashed violently, and she blacked out. It was in that limbo between wakefulness and sleep, a place where the mind wandered, that she felt the presence of her son, Mordred, at the same time far away and beside her.

  Fay felt as if her lungs were full of water. She convulsed violently and coughed, desperately trying to draw in some air. Choking, she fought to regain her equilibrium as constellations of stars swam before her eyes. Managing to draw in a few shallow breaths, her vision gradually cleared, and she found the strength to sit up. Leaning over the desk, she gazed down at the words she had written, knowing her son had heard them.

  The shop owner’s will was strong, stronger than any of his victims before. Maybe that was why Mordred couldn’t get the old woman out of his mind. A librarian, a protector, an Elder in the Order, she said. Is that why she’d been willing to die? Vivian de Lac’s last gasping words promised him defeat at the hands of her nephew, and the end of Morgan Fay’s reign. Your mother’s time has come. How did she know he was the CEO’s son? What other secrets had he strangled with her?

  Mordred spent the night tearing the old woman’s house apart, searching for a clue to the Penderhagen girl’s whereabouts. He found nothing. After resting through the last hours of darkness, he rose with the sun and departed Lakeside Antiquities, determined to use whatever force was necessary to capture his prey. It was Corporation Day, the Archive would burn at nightfall, and he had sworn to find and kill the girl before then. I will, Mother. I promise.

  Driven by his murderous vow, the Incendi captain left a trail of destruction in his wake as he travelled west across the island. Four left for dead on Park Avenue. A brutal melee on Bay Street. A saloon leveled on Waverly. None had produced any useful leads, and by the time he arrived at the Docks, word of the Flame’s bloody inquisition had preceded him. It was eerily quiet next the shore. No pedestrians. No traffic. No boats. Isle was as silent as the setting sun.

  The black Destrier rumbled down Water Street unopposed, passing locked doors and shuttered windows. If the girl was here, there was no way of knowing. Mordred needed help, the kind only his mother could offer.

  He had been witness to it before, the ancient tome open on her desk next a word carved through paper: DRAGONS. It had led to the school where the Penderhagen girl and her young friend had been hiding. But he had failed to take her. Failed his mother. He longed for another chance, another clue.

  As the plea faded in his thoughts, he could hear his mother’s voice. It was distant and hollow, as if she was calling to him through a long tunnel. The words were labored and weak.

  “West,” she moaned. “Camel…Lot.”

  Mordred slammed his foot down on the Destrier’s accelerator.

  Cobden Street was as far west on the island as he could go, and Mordred was starting to doubt himself. Doubt that he’d heard his mother’s message. With the needle on the Destrier’s fuel gauge almost on empty and the sun barely peeking above the horizon, he was running out of ti
me.

  Passing Johnson Avenue, he noticed a building in the distance with a high pointed roof stabbing at the sky. In front of the odd-looking structure, there was a sign featuring a creature with a long neck and undulating back. Mordred’s eyes were drawn to the words emerging from the cartoon character’s mouth, ignoring the larger script above: Buy at the Humps, Save at the Pumps. He was almost past the entrance when the faded name above the slogan registered.

  The Camel Lot.

  Mordred slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop. He spun the sedan around and entered the driveway leading into the abandoned dealership. In the fading light, the main building looked empty. Large display windows were devoid of glass, strands of wire and cable hanging like vines within. A few old cars stripped of their wheels, headlights, doors, and hoods sat in a line next the building, the paint on their roofs and fenders faded by decades of weather. Mordred slowed the Destrier, looking for any sign of life or habitation. There was none.

  He continued to the back of the lot and noticed a garage with three large open bays. The first was empty, as was the second, save for a discarded box in the shadows. But as he continued to drive by, he was surprised to see the nose of a black Corporation sedan peeking out of the last bay. When he looked at the executive plates, he could barely contain his excitement. The car belonged to Gwen Degan’s parents.

  Mordred made a quick inspection of the vehicle, a thousand questions running through his mind. If both the Penderhagen girl and Gwen Degan had been here, what was their connection? And even more important: Where had they gone? He knew that if he couldn’t answer that question soon, he’d never be able to face his mother again.

  A puddle of water at the mouth of the first bay told him someone had been there recently; it hadn’t rained in days. But the “box” in back of the middle bay was even more remarkable. Even from thirty feet away, hiding from the waning light, Mordred recognized the shape: a long rectangular box connected to a tall cylinder standing on end. He remembered the intensity of his mother’s fear, the terror of losing what she treasured most in the world.

  Mordred turned the car around and sped away.

  CHAPTER 22

  Lance’s white Charger hugged the asphalt as it headed north. Arti stared out from the cumbersome motorhome as it trailed the sleek white sports car, wondering if the world might be different tomorrow, if the future could be stolen from Morgan Fay.

  If that was going to happen, they’d first have to take Fay’s book from the heavily guarded castle tower. As dangerous as the mission would be, the true test for Arti would come after, when she would have to write The History’s final page. The thought of it terrified her.

  The car and motorhome left Canal Street and slowly traversed the West Bridge’s arching steel span from which Arti had narrowly escaped Mordred two months before. It seemed a lifetime ago. Arti glanced back at Gal propped up on the rear bench of motorhome, remembering that harrowing night and how her young friend had rescued her. The memory was cut short when she looked ahead and saw two black sedans blocking their way.

  “Don’t panic,” whispered Merl. “We expected this. Lance will handle it.” The old librarian’s shaking hands betrayed his confidence; he had yet to witness the young knight in action.

  The Charger came to a stop a few feet from the blockade, the motorhome easing up behind. Arti felt her heart thumping in her chest and wondered if their hopes were going to be dashed before they even left the island. From the passenger seat, she held her breath and watched as Lance casually stepped from his car, shrugging on his black leather jacket and walking down the sloping platform toward the line of troopers.

  There were six of them, all armed with lighters. One, a heavy-set man with a dark complexion, spoke to Lance, looking past him at the car and motorhome. The trooper scowled and waved a hand at Gwen, a command to step out of the Charger, then he turned to give directions to his men. They started jogging toward the car and motorhome, lighters raised.

  They didn’t get far.

  One moment Lance was standing with his arms in his jacket pockets, smiling at the officer. The next he was a blur of motion, spinning, kicking, dancing around the Incendi. Had Arti blinked, she would have missed it. The six Incendi were down, five of the electroshock batons in pieces on the ground beside them. Lance scooped up the remaining one along with a vidlink that had been clipped to the lead trooper’s shoulder, handing them through his car’s passenger window to Gwen. Then he walked to the two Destriers blocking the bridge. They were parked on an angle, noses meeting at the center line of the span. Lance’s lips moved, and he jumped at the first car, releasing a kick that sent the vehicle spinning across the deck into the steel railing, shattering its windows. As Arti and the others watched in awe, he turned and did the same to other car. The gap between them was now wide enough for their vehicles to pass.

  “Knight of Maren, indeed!” gasped Merl. He laughed and put the motorhome in gear.

  With the sun almost at the horizon, they passed block after block of Corporation factories, heading east toward the castle and nightfall. The streets were nearly as deserted as those on the island. The few people they did pass were scurrying home to watch the biggest spectacle in Corporation history, heads down, eyes glued to their vidlinks and the pre-Lighting Netcast featuring a who’s who of vidstars walking the red carpet under the castle’s parkway.

  At the outskirts of the city, the Charger and the motorhome joined a line of other vehicles, the last of the dignitaries with invitations to the exclusive event. Lance’s white Charger seemed at home among the sleek sports cars and limousines threading their way east toward the grand spectacle on the hill, but Merl’s motorhome, rumbling and rocking and burping blue smoke, looked oddly out of place. Many of the luxury vehicles passed the motorhome as it labored up the winding slope, chauffeurs blasting horns and directing angry gestures at the old man behind the wheel.

  “At least we don’t stand out,” said Arti. Merl’s brow furrowed at her sarcasm.

  Rounding a long sweeping corner, Arti saw the castle looming high above them, getting ever larger, bathed in the light of the setting sun. Powerful searchlights flashed on its rooftop, their spinning yellow shafts not yet visible against the sunset sky. Beyond the tall castle tower at the cliff’s edge, another stand of lights burned like bonfires. Arti guessed it was where the Lighting would take place, where the Archive would be ignited for all to see.

  Gwen indicated to Lance a narrow dirt road covered in dead weeds that split from the highway, leading to a forested area at the base of the escarpment. After a few hundred feet, the road ended at a small meadow surrounded by a mix of nearly naked maple, birch, and ash. The grassy brown clearing was just large enough for them to turn the vehicles around and face back toward the road. Arti looked over her shoulder at the clock hanging from motorhome’s cupboard. They had twenty minutes before the mission would begin.

  With the last light of day waning, Merl stood with Gwen and Lance in the clearing. Lance held the bolt cutters, and Gwen was busy tying the iron door’s key to her belt, having set the trooper’s lighter on the ground next to her. She had given Merl the stolen vidlink, so he could monitor the Netcast and better time his efforts to announce himself to Fay through the Grail Tome. It was a daring diversion, one that the old librarian hoped would convince Fay the Challenger was far away from the castle with the second book in hand, primed to write its final page and steal her glory.

  Inside the motorhome, Arti sat next to Gal on her bed. “We…we have to go.” She tried to keep a brave face but failed miserably.

  “I know,” said Gal.

  Arti looked at the round table where the pen and the ink well sat atop the ragged Grail Tome. “Do you think it will work?” she asked.

  “It hasta,” said Gal.

  Arti brought her hands to her face and closed her eyes. “I’m scared, Gal. I’m really scared.”

  Gal clenched her jaw to keep her own emotions at bay, the deep bruise around her ey
e darkening with the effort. She reached out and gently touched Arti’s arm.

  “Do you remember ‘The Rule’? If things go to crap and we get split up?”

  Arti rubbed tears from her eyes and nodded. She remembered her blunder at The Sea Dog, a rickety old saloon down by the Docks. It was Arti’s second week on the island and just the second time she had partnered with Gal on a pickpocketing run. She had jumped Gal’s signal and mistakenly bumped a big docker who guessed right away that her clumsiness was by design. It was only by luck that she managed to break free of him. That and Gal’s well-placed kick between the big man’s legs. It wasn’t until Gal arrived back at the records room after an hour of agonized waiting that Arti knew her friend was safe. That she hadn’t lost her.

  “I remember,” said Arti. “Get away, and get home.”

  Gal pointed her splinted fingers at the floor. “This is home, now. No matter what, get back here.” Her lip quivered. “You promised to make me a knight.”

  “I will.” Arti leaned over and hugged Gal, another tide of tears coming as they held each other.

  Arti stood and wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve. Crossing to the round table, she lifted Excalibri and its well, carefully slipping them into the front pocket of her hoodie. Then she looked down at the old Grail Tome, singed and torn, hoping with all her heart that she might soon look upon its twin. As she descended the steps to leave, with her hand pressed against the motorhome’s thin door, she looked back at Gal.

  “Steal or starve,” she said.

  “It’s almost dark, and the last guests are arriving,” said Merl, studying the images flashing across the vidlink screen. “The Lighting ceremony should be starting soon. Go to the edge of the trees, and when it’s safe, head for the fence. When Fay makes her appearance on that stage, you make your move. It’s your call, Gwen.”