Gargoyle Knight: A Dark Urban Fantasy

by Massa, William

  Artan spun toward a photo shoot in progress. A photographer snapped away at skimpily clad models. His head swiveled toward a bike messenger navigating a sea of yellow cabs before he noticed a giant electronic billboard that conjured strange images of this alien world.

  Out of all the wild impressions, one stuck out. Artan spotted a giant banner mounted on a light pole. It featured an image of the one-eyed gargoyle statue. In bold letters, it read: "THE CELTIC WORLD - HEROES AND MONSTERS. OPENING THIS HALLOWEEN AT THE CLOISTERS."

  Artan’s smile was wiped off his face, his features turning into a bloodless mask.

  It can't be...

  A college kid stood nearby, equally entranced by the ad but for different reasons. To the kid, the gargoyle represented a cool concept of fantasy; to Artan it was a sign that a war he believed he had won might soon be entering a new phase. And the outcome of this new battle was not assured. Artan had defeated his brother once, but it didn’t mean he would be able to best Cael again. Last time he was lucky enough to have the element of surprise on his side. He doubted that the same would hold true this time around. The kid shot Artan a curious look, oblivious to the thoughts cycling through the mind of the reawakened warrior.

  “That shit looks off the hook!”

  The kid’s words barely registered. Part of the reason was that Artan barely understood this strange tongue, though he had absorbed snippets over the centuries. But more than that, Artan was occupied with thoughts of revenge, his rage building. The billboard erased any doubt whether Cael had returned in this time period.

  The teenager realized something wasn’t quite right here and his face filled with concern. “Hey, mister, you okay?”

  Artan’s answer was to snatch the teen's arm.

  “Hey, let go of me, bro. What the hell's wrong with you?”

  Artan’s iron grip didn't loosen. Instead, he pointed at the billboard with the one-eyed gargoyle.

  “How do I find him?”

  The words were uttered in ancient Gaellic. The kid didn’t understand the old language but got the gist of it.

  “Man, I don’t speak your language. You’re interested in the exhibit? It's uptown at the Cloisters. You can cab it. Just let go of me, man, or I’m calling the cops!”

  The anger drained from Artan. Once again, he looked lost and alone. Nothing was making sense to him in this crazy place. The city with its towers of steel and glass, its strange moving coffins made of iron that rolled through the streets, the way people dressed, spoke and behaved.

  Why had he returned after all this time?

  He had wielded the Blade of Kings, shattered the Eye of Balor and broken the spell that gave unholy life to Cael’s winged army. So how had this ancient evil been unleashed once again upon an unsuspecting world?

  Freaked, the college kid turned toward the street, raised his arm and hailed a cab. “Taxi!” he shouted. Luck was on his side. A yellow cab pulled up to the curb and the kid jumped into the vehicle. He quickly gave the cabbie directions. Feeling safe now, he flipped Artan the bird.

  The taxi disappeared into traffic.

  Artan’s initial sense of wonder and discovery were fading. A fire now raged within him. His focus shifted toward the sea of cabs. Being a fast learner, Artan followed the kid’s example. It didn’t take long for a cab to pull up to the curb. The cabbie, a balding Indian with sharp features, shot Artan an impatient look. Never having seen people of color before, the king regarded this strange man, his gaze lingering a moment too long.

  The cabbie grew impatient.

  “Hey Jim Morrison, you getting in or what?”

  Remembering how the teen had opened the car door, Artan got into the cab. A musky odor permeated the vehicle; the air was filled with the scent of old leather, sweat and the last passenger’s cologne. Artan closed the door behind him and met the Indian’s impatient glare in the rear-view mirror.

  “Where are we headed?”

  Artan’s response was to point at the banner on the light-pole. The Indian stared at this unusual man for a beat before nodding.

  “Get cozy. The Cloisters are coming right up!”

  The cab wove its way back into traffic. Artan blankly took in the cityscape. People, buildings, cars. Strange, confounding sights streaked by as the cab bulleted through the city’s cement arteries. A kaleidoscopic blur.

  The driver recognized Artan’s expression. He saw it day in and day out and knew it all too well.

  “First time in the Big Apple?”

  Artan nodded quietly. His forlorn, slightly lost countenance spoke louder than words.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  DR. SHARPE CLOSED up the display case containing the Eye of Balor. He placed the case in a foam-lined titanium box, still unaware that the shattered gem had been restored to its original condition.

  Rhianna, her finger now wrapped in a Band-Aid, appeared behind him.

  “Where are you off to?” she asked her dad.

  “I'm having dinner with a certain gentleman who promised to contribute an important piece from his private collection to the exhibit-”

  “-But only if you let him check out the Eye first.”

  Dr. Sharpe smiled at his daughter’s quick assessment of the situation.

  “You know how rich people are. They always have to be the first kid on the block to get a peek.”

  Dr. Sharpe grabbed the titanium case.

  “By the way, I’m afraid the papers on my desk need to be graded by Monday morning.”

  Rhianna wasn't thrilled about this news and made a long face.

  “Dad, I sort of had plans for tomorrow night.”

  Dr. Sharpe felt a twinge of guilt about dumping his workload on his daughter, but he had no choice. One showcase piece was still missing from the exhibit and it would take all day to secure its loan to the museum. The collector in question, Craig McConnor, was a tad eccentric and protective of the item – a fact Dr. Sharpe couldn’t hold against the man. If their roles were reversed, he’d act much the same. McConnor had to be plied and wooed. Hopefully, an expensive dinner at one of the trendiest new restaurants in the city would make the millionaire finally relent.

  Sharpe smiled inwardly. It was all part of the game. Not his favorite part — he’d rather be at a dig on some faraway continent than explaining to a multi-millionaire the cultural value of the upcoming exhibit. But he couldn’t let one of the most important archeological artifacts of the Celtic period mold away in some Staten Island loft and deny the world its chance to experience a vital part of history.

  “I'm sorry, darling, but with the exhibit opening tomorrow, you know how crazy busy I’m going to be this weekend. I need all the help I can get.”

  His daughter was about to protest but Sharpe stopped her with a quick peck on the cheek.

  “I'll see you in the morning.”

  Before Rhianna could retort, Dr. Sharpe had left the office. The door fell shut behind him and he made his way through the Celtic exhibit. His footsteps echoed eerily among the creepy artifacts.

  He wasn’t paying close attention to his surroundings, his mind already focused on the task that lay ahead. It might require all his charm to persuade the collector to part with his most prized possession, but Sharpe wouldn’t take no for an answer. It had required weeks of back-and-forth with the man’s assistant to arrange this meeting and Dr. Sharpe swore to himself that he wasn’t going to screw it up. He had a feeling that the Eye of Balor would play a vital role in the upcoming negotiation. Sharpe just wished they could’ve met up sooner – cutting it so close to the exhibit’s opening wasn’t helping his ulcer, but better late than never.

  Dr. Sharpe grew still. He wasn’t quite sure what had given him pause; perhaps some eerie sensation just below his conscious level of perception, an animal instinct telling him he wasn’t alone. He inspected the Celtic exhibit area. Pools of shadow enswathed the various items in the collection.

  “Hello? Anybody there?”

  No response.

  Th
e moment stretched.

  Dr. Sharpe took a cautious step toward a row of lifelike mannequins clad in Celtic attire. For a moment he almost expected one of the mannequins to turn towards him; they seemed imbued with unnatural life in the muted, spooky light.

  The archeologist circled the mannequins. He was now able to view the exhibit from another angle but...

  Still nothing.

  Sharpe’s breathing normalized.

  His imagination was playing tricks on him.

  Maybe the stress of the opening was getting to him. Or maybe he was just turning into an old fuddy-duddy scared of his own shadow. Nothing a good single-malt Scotch couldn’t fix.

  Dr. Sharpe was about to retrace his steps when a figure popped up behind him.

  Dr. Sharpe almost let out a sharp curse. He whirled toward the new arrival. It was none other than Kenny, the security guard. The same handsome fella who had made Rhianna blush earlier now smiled apologetically at the archeologist.

  “I’m so sorry, Dr. Sharpe, I didn't mean to startle you.”

  “Then why did you sneak up on me like a goddamn ninja?”

  The guard just stared at Dr. Sharpe, not sure how to respond. Recognizing the kid’s unease, Dr. Sharpe’s features softened.

  “It’s okay, kid. You were just doing your job. This exhibit can get kinda creepy when no one's around.”

  The guard relaxed and smiled.

  “No kidding. Have a good evening, Dr. Sharpe.”

  The guard tipped his hat and Rhianna’s father left the display area. Seconds later, he stepped through the main entrance of the museum and was greeted by a fresh gust of autumn wind. He shivered. Not so much because of the cold but because he couldn’t shake the feeling that somebody or something had stalked him through the Celtic exhibit.

  ***

  The cab rolled up to the museum and came to a stop near a cobbled road that wound its way up to the main entrance. After the hectic ride through Manhattan, a mad blur of strange images and sounds, the medieval cloisters felt like familiar ground.

  The driver turned toward the meter.

  “Okay, that'll be twenty-five dollars...”

  Before the cabbie could finish, Artan was already out the door, on his way toward the entrance of the museum. He could hear the driver hailing expletives at him but paid them no mind. He was busy steeling himself for the impending confrontation with his old nemesis.

  Artan passed Dr. Sharpe, who had just emerged from the museum. Of course he was unaware of the magical item contained inside the doctor’s titanium case. Artan was preoccupied with a far more vexing problem – how to get through a turnstile, an incongruous touch of modernity among the medieval surroundings. He cracked the problem after a few tries and passed through the turnstile, still shaking his head at the strange contraption. Admission was donation-based so Artan’s lack of funds didn’t become a problem, though it did earn him a dirty look from the middle-aged lady in the nearby ticket booth.

  Artan made his way through the museum and his disorientation grew. The place felt familiar yet dreamlike and the lines between the middle ages and present grew blurry. Wherever he looked, he was confronted with arches and columns, tapestries and stained glass windows. The past was alive within these walls, the Cloisters preserving a world all too familiar to the former king of Kirkfall.

  The crowds were thinning and the place was getting ready to close its doors to the public. A voice drifted over the speakers: "The Museum will be closing in ten minutes. Please make your way to the exit..."

  Artan paused, having come across a large banner draped above an arched doorway. The banner was a variation of the one he’d spotted near Central Park earlier. It featured the one-eyed gargoyle and advertised the upcoming Celtic exhibit. The grand opening was still a day away and the entrance cordoned off, but this didn’t stop Artan from taking a closer look.

  Without a trace of hesitation, Artan slipped under the cordon. Moving with feral grace, he dipped down the shadowy hallway and soon emerged in a vast room filled with the remnants of his own past. For one brief moment, Cael ceased to dominate Artan’s thoughts and he let his guard down, allowing himself to be affected by these familiar surroundings. An assortment of weapons lined the wall. Mannequins decked out in medieval fashions posed to mimic everyday life in the Celtic world.

  Artan took in the dioramas. His past had been reduced to a simple museum showpiece meant to entertain a world that had passed him by.

  Artan’s studied a display case that contained a series of wood-carved animals. Primitive Celtic toys. A wistful expression crept into his features, the image triggering a memory...

  Flames flickered in a fireplace. Artan was in the castle’s private chambers, ensconced in a wooden chair. His expression was focused, a mask of concentration. Working his knife with skill and precision, he was carving a small horse from a block of wood.

  His five-year-old son watched with unwavering concentration, the young boy’s expression alive with wonder. Artan completed the carving and held up the fruits of his labor. The boy’s face lit up with unbridled joy.

  Artan was suddenly joined by his wife Samara. He stroked the fiery mane of red hair spilling down her beautifully arched back and his eyes filled with love and devotion.

  Three days after that idyllic moment, his father the king would succumb to a wretched disease and Kirkfall would be plunged into civil war. But that terrible day was still in the future and Artan was happy and at peace…

  Approaching footfalls broke Artan’s reverie and this hollow shadow of the once happy husband turned toward the new arrival. Facing Artan was Rhianna and, with her red hair and fair complexion, she could have been the ghost of his long-dead wife. Artan grew still, entranced. He barely heard Rhianna’s words.

  “Sir, this wing is off limits to the public. You can’t be here.”

  Artan remained riveted.

  Misinterpreting his silence but growing increasingly uncomfortable in the man’s stoic presence, Rhianna added, “The exhibit doesn't open until tomorrow. You can come back then if you like.”

  It seemed like an eternity before Artan reacted. He might not be able to fully understand this modern language, but the message behind the words was clear.

  He slowly turned away from the woman. It turned out to be more difficult than he expected. Part of him wanted to keep staring at her and pretend the last fifteen centuries never happened.

  Artan headed for the corridor, supposedly on his way to the museum’s exit. He could feel the beautiful woman, who had reminded him so much of Samara, peering after him. Her presence had stirred something deep within Artan, something he thought he had lost for good. But the woman wasn’t his wife. Samara was dead, gone now for more than a millennium, and the man who robbed her of her chance at a long, fruitful life was near. That’s all that mattered right now. Instead of heading for the nearest exit, Artan dipped behind a stone column. He was not planning to leave just yet.

  ***

  The security guard kept patrolling the museum, scanning the more disturbing pieces of Celtic artwork. Dr. Sharpe wasn’t kidding. This place had creep factor written all over it.

  The guard’s name was Kenny Cordero. Twenty-three years old, he was taking classes in his off hours at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice. He might be a security guard at the moment, but his dream was to pursue a career in law enforcement. The schedule was rough — he was averaging six hours of sleep during the week — but he was young, hopeful about the future, and enjoyed his day gig. The pay was shit but he reveled in the sense of authority that came with the position. Girls sure looked differently at him when he patrolled the halls of the museum in his uniform. In particular, Dr. Sharpe’s daughter.

  He remembered the day he first caught a glimpse of her. She was buried behind a stack of books, face bathed in the glow of her laptop while she attacked the keyboard. She had looked up from her work and flashed a demure smile at Kenny.

  There was something about that smile. He h
ad paid special attention to her ever since. Rhianna was smart and gorgeous too, but she didn’t seem to know it or refused to flaunt it, unlike so many of the girls he dated in high school and college. Kenny went out with too many bratty, loudmouth party girls. He appreciated someone who was more reserved and what was the word... graceful.

  Kenny was still wondering if Rhianna might be single when he took note of the deserted pedestal and a terrible realization hit him.

  The one-eyed gargoyle was... gone.

  Shit.

  The guard palmed his mic. But before he could alert other members of the security team, he made out a noise behind him.

  Kenny whirled, just in time to catch a flash of steel. A sword bit through his starched blue shirt, puncturing skin, muscle and bone, severing nerves and tendons. His stunned eyes fastened on the blade planted inside his now scarlet chest, mouth working spasmodically in shocked confusion.

  WHOOSH. The blade was withdrawn with a spray of blood. The stunned guard staggered back and collapsed. A naked, heavily tattooed bald man brandishing a bloody sword loomed before him. There was a raw mass of scar tissue where his right eye should be. It was both repellent and hypnotic. A split second later, the sword whipped down on Kenny, turning the hapless guard’s world black.

  ***

  Artan’s older brother Cael, the warrior-druid, stepped back from the slain guard. He touched his bloody blade and rubbed the still-hot crimson liquid into one of his tattoos. The one he chose was shaped like a spiral.

  The Celtic symbol for the wind.

  Each tattoo represented a spell and required blood to be activated. Cael whispered a few words in the language of the old Gods. A wind kicked up within the display area and rapidly built in intensity. The ancient druid magic had been activated.