Sleepless Knights

by Mark Williams

  This time, I smiled back.

  †

  One might expect a skull to be smooth and slippery, ill-suited to providing the kind of purchase required underfoot, should circumstances force one to use it as a stepping stone. In reality they provide a gratifying amount of traction, their surface pitted and knobbled, just the thing for gaining a foothold when one’s progress is imbued with the kind of haste that only comes from having an army of skeletons whirling swords at one’s legs. It was by no means a perfect causeway, however, as I discovered when, thrown off step by a particularly vicious swipe, I lost my balance and found myself on my hands and knees, surrounded by five torsos keen to take full advantage of my slip. Two swords whistled towards either side of my neck. I threw myself down flat, as three more swords clashed above me. I was up on my feet as soon as they all withdrew their blades. Their eagerness to skewer me was to my advantage, for their second strike was even more uncoordinated than the first. By jumping up and dodging the blades, I was able to use the mesh of criss-crossed swords as a spring board and resume my skull-stepping progress to the abandoned bus. I dived inside the open doors, black blades scything at my heels.

  Several swords hit the front window, thrown in fury at my brazen route through their midst. Well, my next move would do nothing to alleviate their outrage. The bus key had been left in the ignition. I turned it, and the engine spluttered into life. At the sound of the bus, the skeletons directly ahead of me pushed at the ground in a desperate attempt to lever out their legs. The vehicle juddered as I ground it into gear and pressed my foot down hard on the accelerator.

  The bus lurched forwards. The first skeletons I hit bent and snapped with the slight resistance of a wishbone. The next group yielded with an immediate, full crack as I picked up speed. Then the vehicle hit its stride, a flurry of skulls flying up and splintering the windscreen as I ploughed across the road and into the pedestrianised town centre. In the rear view mirror, I saw that no sooner were the bones strewn in my wake than they started to move, skittering back into their respective skeletons and reforming once more.

  What with the darkness of the evening, the thick sheets of rain, and skulls flying like giant hailstones, it was some task to navigate my way without driving into a shop window or hitting one of the numerous trees and streetlights in my path. The skeletons were now fully emerged and providing much greater resistance to the severely battered bus. Some of them were clinging to the side, smashing their bony fists against the windows. My driver’s door was relatively clear, and to the right of the street the going seemed a little easier. I swung the bus over and picked up speed.

  Now that the front of the bus was less obstructed, I could see what lay ahead. A battalion of skeletons had surrounded the band of men I presumed to be Sir Gawain’s civilian recruits. They were outnumbered and outperformed, and had closed ranks around a smashed-up shop front. I coaxed a fresh burst of speed from the bus and drove it into the rear guard of the skeletons. Their ranks temporarily scattered, and I ran from the bus and into their midst.

  †

  In less apocalyptic times, the shop had sold electronic goods. Most of the contents had been destroyed by whatever had shattered the glass frontage, but a few television screens remained intact, both in the window display and inside the shop itself. And there, standing in the smouldering ruins, stood Sir Gawain. He had his back to the entrance and was gazing at a looped replay of Sir Lancelot’s interview. His sword hung limply by his side. Outside, his recruits had been reduced to a dozen or so survivors. I picked up a blade and evened out the odds as best I could, but here it was the same story — as soon as one of the skeletons fell, it restored itself to fighting fitness in a matter of seconds. These men were in dire need of their distracted leader. Entreating them to hold off the horde as best as they could, I stepped through the broken glass of the window and walked over to him.

  “Sir Gawain,” I said, placing my hand on his shoulder. “I take it you have seen Sir Lancelot’s interview?” He turned to me, and it was as if he were experiencing one of the Master’s trance-like episodes. “What was it all for, Lucas?” he said vacantly. “What was it all for, if we could have gone back?”

  “I am struggling to make sense of recent events myself, Sir Gawain, but now is not… now is not the time. For such reflection.”

  “They died for nothing. All of them. We sentenced them to death! And for this? This is what the Eternal Quest comes down to, at the end of it all?”

  “It is a lot to take in, Sir Gawain, but unless we muster our forces, the day will be lost.” Several screams and the dull clank of jagged swords from outside did not bode well.

  Sir Gawain’s eyes filled with tears. “The day is already lost. It was lost when he lied through his teeth. What kind of a man does that to his friends?”

  “The Master had our best interests at heart, Sir Gawain.”

  “Arthur? Oh, I’m long past caring about Arthur. Lancelot’s the one I blame for all this. He’s the one I listened to. He’s the one I trusted.”

  The sounds of battle outside ceased, suddenly and ominously. Two skull heads, their footsteps crunching in the glass, peered through the broken window and looked at us.

  “We must get to Sir Lancelot before the Master does,” I said.

  Sir Gawain wiped his eyes and sniffed. “You said it, Lucas.”

  The first skeleton attacked, swinging back his sword. Sir Gawain’s fist punched through its rib cage and yanked out the spine with the startled head still attached. With three mighty strokes, Sir Gawain used it to smash the second skeleton to pieces, then jammed the head and spine of the first skeleton into a wide-screen television in a shower of sparks. He picked up the smoking television set and slammed it down onto the bones of the second skeleton, before they could reassemble.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  V

  Back inside the stadium, the roof had been damaged beyond repair. It remained open to the supernatural elements, rain sweeping down in veil-like sheets that drenched any remaining dryness out of my clothes. I stood in the centre of the pitch and looked up to the interview room where Sir Lancelot had recently delivered his crushing revelation. A great number of people still stood within. It seemed like the best place to start looking for him. Yes, I really should go there, poste haste. I should tell him of Sir Gawain’s chagrin. I should tell him of the Master’s approaching wrath. I should tell him of the skeleton army of the dead and the return of Morgan Le Fay.

  Yet this word ‘should’ was like a sledge-hammer, striking repeated blows on the ground in front of me, until a small crack opened up beneath my feet. The crack became a fissure, like the very first movement of a tectonic split dividing a continent, and I felt as if I were standing with my feet placed in two separate lands. My right foot stood in the place of service. Honour, duty and knighthood; the Master and the Eternal Quest. My left was in the new domain created by Sir Lancelot’s revelation. So I stood there awhile, shifting my weight from either side, wondering which territory would receive my next step and claim my allegiance.

  Five soldiers stumbled past me, dragging the carcass of a dragon across the muddy pitch. One of them lost his grip on the scaly wet wing, stumbled, and went down head-first towards the mire. Instinctively, I grabbed his arm and pulled him up before he hit the ground. He gave me a brief nod of thanks, and I realised that in performing this action I had stepped back into the territory of service, in which I had once felt so at home. Very well, then. As I seemed to be incapable of doing anything else, that was where I would remain for now.

  Some way behind me, Sir Gawain had been waylaid by a group of late-comers to his civilian recruitment drive. Upon our arrival at the stadium in the remains of the bus, he had barged his way through the military barricade outside, hell bent on getting to Sir Lancelot, when some faintly familiar faces had caught up with him. At first I did not recognise them, and neither did Sir Gawain, which is why they had followed him inside the stadium with increasing persist
ence, until they had collared him in the tunnel used by the players to emerge onto the field. These men were kitted out with swords, which they now swung at Sir Gawain with slow menace, trying to provoke a reaction with blows and taunts. But his step was resolute and their goading fell on deaf ears, like a father late for work shrugging off whining pleas from his restless children to stop and play.

  Then I realised where I had seen these men before. They were the patrons of Jennifer’s Nightclub we had encountered in what seemed like another century, but must have been only — what, four days ago? I recognised them by their colourful bruises and even more colourful language. Sir Gawain’s eyes were fixed firmly beyond them on the pitch, his physical progress stopped only when the gang surrounded him and made it impossible for him to pass. This development spurred me on to find Sir Lancelot. If nothing else, it was something to be getting on with.

  †

  Sir Lancelot was indeed still in the interview room, and no less surrounded than Sir Gawain, by a mixture of high-ranking generals and several of the soldiers who had done so well in taking down the dragons. The last time I had seen him, the tone of those around him had been one of mutual respect and self-congratulation. Now their mood had turned decidedly sour. Some of the screens in the room showed pictures of the advancing skeleton army, tearing up the city, killing all those unfortunate enough to stand in their way. Others depicted dragons in different cities, some as far away as the continent, all suffering similar assaults to Cardiff.

  “We need to deploy more trained men straight away,” said one general. “Damn dragons just keep coming, hitting every major city on the planet.”

  “Never mind that, what about those?” said another, indicating footage of the skeleton army. “Where the hell did they come from?”

  “Annwn, I presume,” muttered Sir Lancelot. He had his back to the door where I was standing, looking down out of the window towards the group around Sir Gawain, who had now spilled out of the players’ corridor and onto the pitch.

  “Why didn’t you tell us about those things, Lancelot?”

  “They were something of a surprise to me, too.”

  “How many more of the buggers are there?”

  “I honestly don’t know. Hundreds?”

  “So what in God’s name are you going to do about it?”

  Out on the pitch Sir Gawain was now fully engaged in fighting off the group. They had not reckoned with the head of steam he had built up for Sir Lancelot’s benefit, and were already halved in number. That still left ten against one, however. “I’m going to help my friend,” said Sir Lancelot, drawing his sword.

  “Sir Lancelot. Wait,” I said, as he passed me in the doorway.

  “What is it, Lucas?” he said, not the least bit surprised at my return.

  “I would like a quick word,” I said.

  “We are past the point of words.” Sir Lancelot barged out onto the tiered seating of the stadium.

  “Indeed, but there are matters to appraise you of,” I said.

  “Butler to the last, huh? Still clinging to the tatters of duty. So what is it now, Lucas? ‘Matters’ to appraise me of? What matters?”

  His voice sounded how I felt. He sounded his age.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Nothing at all.”

  The noise of an approaching helicopter filled the air. I needed no sight of it to tell me it came from the west. I required no amulet to show me who it contained. Sir Lancelot jumped down the steps, four apiece, and ran across the rain-logged pitch. I took the steps leisurely, one at a time. When I reached the last one I walked to the centre of the bottom row, pushed down a plastic seat, sat down, and watched.

  VI

  Sir Gawain’s remaining opponents had gained the upper hand. What they lacked in art they made up for in relentless rage, and by such a pummelling he was pushed up against the siding surrounding the far side of the pitch, opposite to where I was positioned on the tiered seating. From my direction, Sir Lancelot ran over the soggy grass, his sword drawn. Sir Gawain shouted out his name and the approaching knight mistook his exclamation as a cry for help, increasing his speed despite the slippery ground. The sight of Sir Lancelot galvanised Sir Gawain, and with one neat head-butt he floored his leading opponent, taking the sword from him as he fell.

  So it was that, when Sir Lancelot engaged his nearest man, he was surprised to find himself also fending off a twin-sword assault from Sir Gawain within the fray. This naturally demanded that Sir Lancelot respond in kind, and the battle took up a strange formation. The duelling knights were surrounded by an attacking circle, maintaining a joint defence only to better accomplish the other’s destruction. The stalemate was a temporary one. Both were forced to look to their flanks with increasing frequency, as they found themselves steadily backed against the siding. Their attackers took full advantage of their waning stamina. Sir Lancelot took a gash across his torso. Sir Gawain received a pommel blow on the head. Their wounds became marked and many. The fight was nearly over.

  While the three sides played out their curious conflict, the sound of the helicopter had grown ever closer. Now it descended on the pitch, whirling rotor blades rippling the puddled earth. Before it touched down, the Master dropped from within and hit the ground running, stopping only to snatch up a sword from the battlefield. Sir Lancelot pushed his way out of the mêlée and ran to meet him. As soon as Sir Lancelot’s support was removed from the equation, the tide turned against Sir Gawain, and he disappeared beneath the blows of his remaining foes.

  Sir Lancelot and the Master sprinted towards each other with the speed of jousters on horseback. When there was still a lance-length between them, Sir Lancelot took a flying leap and spun towards Master with a twisted grace. The Master brought his sword up to block his move. Sir Lancelot brought his sword down. Their blades met with a clash that made the very air resound. Both men fell back at the impact, as if at the force of an explosion. The Master was first up. He hacked down at Sir Lancelot, chopping up so many clods of turf that they filled the air like a flock of blackbirds. Each blow was accompanied by a hail of recriminations, hurled at Sir Lancelot with no less fury than the sword, their content lost in the wind and rain.

  Sir Lancelot parried and rolled, countering the verbal and physical strikes with his own. But no sooner was he up on his feet than the Master delivered a kick to the stomach, doubling him over, followed by an upper cut to Sir Lancelot’s jaw that sent him aquaplaning backwards along the sodden turf.

  Morgan Le Fay emerged from the landed helicopter and hovered a foot above the mud, holding her arms wide, basking in the scene before her. There was a hubbub behind me as the military and media men left their booth, gawping slack-jawed at the scene. Many of them had their weapons drawn. But their attention was not focused on the fight. For some reason they were looking over to the far siding, where Sir Gawain lay buried somewhere beneath his still furious attackers.

  As for me, I could not take my eyes from the centre of the pitch where the Master and Sir Lancelot were locked in close combat. Each successive sword stroke threatened to be the last, dolorous blow. So hard and so fast did they fight that their movements became a blur, until at last they slowed down in the strange manner to which I was now wearily accustomed. I looked at Morgan. She was conducting their drawn out movements in slow motion, head tipped back and laughing, determined to stretch out the final instant and savour every last drop of her revenge.

  In such half-speed, the Master swung his sword at Sir Lancelot’s shoulder. Sir Lancelot deflected it, and with his next move the Master aimed for Sir Lancelot’s neck. Again, the block came to meet it. But this time Sir Lancelot’s defensive stroke skimmed the Master’s sword belt around his waist. The point of Sir Lancelot’s blade sliced through the fastening of Excalibur’s scabbard, which came loose and fell to the ground.

  I stood up, the plastic seat beneath me flipping back with a dead thunk. The Master dropped his sword. He touched his hand to his neck and looked at the blood on his fing
ers. I ran down the steps and vaulted over the siding, slipping and slithering across the pitch. Morgan must have overlooked my presence, or else did not consider me a threat, for I found that I was able to move at a normal pace. I willed myself to run faster, urging my tired and aching legs onwards.

  I was now close enough to hear the Master cough. To see blood spill out through the sides of his mouth. Close enough to see the slashes on his face, and a large bite mark appear on his neck — the jaw print of a werewolf. To see the bite widen, and turn crimson, as if an invisible animal were tearing at him anew, though the wound was received a long, long time ago.

  Sir Lancelot was down on the ground, clawing at the mud and grass for the Master’s scabbard. He was about to pick it up when a skeletal foot stamped down hard on his hand. He cried out in pain as the sharp bone pinned him to the ground. The skeleton stooped down, picked up the scabbard and threw it through the air towards Morgan Le Fay’s outstretched arms. Over on the opposite siding, I realised too late what the military men behind me had been staring at. The army of the dead had breached the stadium walls. They were tearing through Sir Gawain’s attackers in horrible half-speed, revealing his immobile form, curled up like a foetus in the mud.

  Dozens of skeletons poured onto the pitch and surrounded us. They looked to Morgan, awaiting her final command. Sir Lancelot pulled in vain at his pinioned hand. The Master fell face-forward into a widening pool of his own blood.

  I closed my eyes and teleported to the only knight I could think of.

  VII

  I ran down the collapsed cliff-side, stumbling and staggering. The amulet had taken me directly to Sir Pellinore. Down on the beach below, not far from the Otherworld portal, I saw his inert figure, splayed out on his back. The sand around him was churned up, heavily marked with the signs of a recent skirmish. I knelt beside him and rested his head on my knees. He had lost his jacket, and his T-shirt was soaked in blood.