A wind arose. Pieces of clothing slid from the mannequins in the exhibit and snapped around Cael's body, magically clothing him. Within seconds, he was decked out in Celtic armor – the burnished black leather wouldn’t seem out of place in many of Manhattan’s edgier nightclubs.
The wind died down and Cael’s thoughts turned to the moment when he awoke from his long slumber. At first he had experienced paralyzing confusion and his thoughts spun out of control. He found himself in strange surroundings both familiar yet alien. He knew time had passed — centuries, maybe even millennia — since he was last human. Even though the years of his imprisonment were vague and seemed outside of his grasp, a fragmented nightmare, certain memories carried greater weight than others and remained vividly etched in his mind. Among those was the day of his defeat.
Just thinking about it filled him with bitterness. Artan had struck at the moment of Cael’s greatest triumph. He was preparing his gargoyle army for the final, devastating battle. Hundreds of winged beasts had gathered around the monolithic ring of giant stones, the same Stonehengian configuration that now surrounded the museum. These stones had stood for centuries, hidden within a dense forest. Only the oldest druids knew the secret paths that led to this ancient place of worship. For the ring of stones was in fact a temple dedicated to the ancient demon Balor, ruler of the Otherworld and a dark Celtic god who had fallen out of favor with most of the other druids.
When Cael addressed the gargoyles, he wasn’t human any longer – he had allowed one of the creatures to bite him and infect him with its otherworldly evil. By day, Cael was still a man but by night, he transformed into the master-gargoyle who ruled over the hundreds of winged creatures now gathered around him in anticipation of carnage.
The Eye of Balor glittered in Cael's empty eye socket. It had taken the place of his own eye, which he willingly sacrificed to Balor in exchange for his power.
Cael had patiently waited one long day, wanting to draw out Artan’s suffering and guilt, to let the helplessness of his situation fully sink in. But the time had come to deliver the final deathblow. Kirkfall would fall and so would Artan. From the ashes, a new kingdom would be born. The kingdom of Balor.
Cael was the first-born prince and it was his birthright to inherit the king’s mantle of power, a right his own father had tried to deny him. Soon he would be expanding Balor’s empire here on Earth.
Cael was in the midst of readying his gargoyle army for their final attack on Kirkfall, the first step in a greater campaign to conquer the emerald isle and surrounding kingdoms, when one of his gargoyle warriors stole away from the ranks and advanced with ferocious speed.
It took Cael a moment to realize that this gargoyle minion was different from the animalistic beasts under his command. This gargoyle was part man, part monster, a hybrid creature identical to himself.
The instant Cael spotted the rune blade in the gargoyle’s clawed hand, he realized he’d underestimated Artan. His brother had refused to wait for Cael to make the next move and instead brought the battle to him.
Artan's gargoyle features distorted into a demonic snarl and he brought the blade down on his brother’s still stunned face. Magical steel rippled through the air, fueled by the force of vengeance, and slashed across Cael’s visage. It would have hacked off part of his head had the Eye of Balor in Cael’s eye socket not broken the sword’s momentum. But the impact of steel striking the stone was enough to shatter it in two. The broken gem erupted from Cael’s eye socket like two bloody tears being shed.
The two pieces of the Eye of Balor flew through the air and...
Everything changed in an instant.
Cael saw his winged army turn to stone before him. Seconds later, his own limbs grew heavy, reverting to the element that had originally spawned the gargoyles. The process wasn’t instantaneous for Cael — after all he was part human — but his gargoyle blood had to obey the laws of the ancient order.
His brother’s blade spun through the air, coming in for another attack. Artan’s movements were dulled in equal measure, muscles tightening and growing stiff. But for the moment at least, his rage seemed to have overcome the spell. There would be no ruby to deflect the sword this time. However, before the steel’s sharp edge could reach Cael, the brothers froze in mid-movement. Transformed into stone statues, they were mirror images of the frozen gargoyle army that surrounded Balor’s ancient temple.
What followed was a nightmarish, distorted blur of half-perceived sounds and sights. Cael felt as though he was trapped at the bottom of a lake, looking up at the world above. He saw the knights invade the temple, watched them wield hammers and shatter his soldiers, demolishing the gargoyle statues so no magic could ever reconstitute them.
Cael also remembered the rough hands of his hooded druid followers touching his stone skin, a vague sensation of contact. They stole away into the night after loading his stone form onto a horse-drawn wagon. Later that day, he was whisked off to an underground cave where his enemies would be unable to locate him.
Cael’s followers hid their master hoping that one day in the future he would return to carry out the dark will of Balor. Little did his acolytes realize that Cael, in his current state, would welcome the blows of his enemies’ hammers. It offered a way out of his terrible prison, even if it meant facing oblivion. Anything was better than this limbo state between life and death, a prison darkened by memories tainted by the sting of defeat.
With the passing centuries, Cael’s rage grew. He would spend fifteen interminable centuries in the dark cave that his followers had chosen for his final resting place. Half aware, teetering on the brink of madness, he waited for a day he thought would never come.
It had taken an eternity of darkness and prayers to Balor, but the miracle had finally happened. He was free to walk among men once more. The spell had been broken.
Cael took in the dying security guard on the floor before him. As the young man’s life force ebbed away and the black veil of death descended over him, Cael knew his mental prayers had been answered.
After all this time, he could finally fulfill his destiny and rule Balor’s kingdom here on Earth.
CHAPTER SIX
THE MOMENT HER father stepped out of his office, Rhianna’s let out a deep sigh.
Sorry, Natalie. No trick-or-treating for me this year.
Rhianna took a seat before the mountain of student essays waiting to be graded and became resigned to the fact that she would be sitting out the holiday this year. Her life was bound to change one day, but it would happen once she was done with her studies and she could come up for air from time to time. In the same way that a fire needed oxygen to keep burning, an active social life required an investment of time if it was to flourish (and if it was to include a boyfriend who didn’t end up in bed with her best friend).
While Rhianna debated how she would break the news to Natalie (she hated flaking out after giving her word), she decided to seek comfort from another energy drink. The museum vending machine didn’t carry Monster, but she might be able to hunt down a Rockstar.
With this thought in mind (and realizing she was procrastinating), Rhianna made her way to the nearest vending machine. Moments later, the machine was sucking up her dollars and she had made her selection. The act was followed by the reassuring thunk of the machine giving up one of its goodies. Rhianna scooped up her drink, a Full Throttle. The brand wasn’t her first choice and felt a little like a consolation prize, but it would do for tonight.
Who needs sleep anyway?
She decided to head back to the office by taking a shortcut through the Celtic exhibit. And that’s where she ran into the longhaired individual in the leather jacket.
Her first thought was to alert the guards but there was something in the man’s face — maybe it was the combination of his swarthy good looks and sad, forlorn eyes — that gave her momentary pause. But once she had earned the man’s undivided attention, those eyes weren’t sad any longer but regarded her wi
th unflinching intensity. He looked menacing (even though he was still a hottie) and she regretted not going with her first instinct and calling security.
To Rhianna’s stunned surprise, her mind still had managed to form words and string them together into questions. But instead of providing answers and identifying himself, the man remained silent and kept staring at her. He was acting like a creep but weirdly enough, Rhianna wasn’t creeped out.
The man finally turned away from her, still not having uttered a single word, and beat a hasty retreat.
Rhianna stared after him, strangely intrigued. As he disappeared down a bend in the corridor, she headed in the opposite direction, on her way back to her father’s office. She was navigating another wing of the museum, this one dedicated to Celtic armor and weaponry, when a squishing sound drew her attention.
Rhianna peered down at her feet and realized she was standing in a pool of blood. Stunned, she backed away, terror taking root within her. Sitting atop a mannequin's body was the head of the young security guard who smiled at her earlier.
Rhianna let out a choked gasp. “Oh my God...” She was still retreating from this horrific display when the voice behind her made her grow stock-still.
“It is strange to see my past as entertainment of the future.”
Rhianna whirled toward the speaker and stopped dead, her body growing rigid. A chiseled bald man with brutal features stood before her. She couldn’t stop staring at the webbed scar tissue of the man’s empty eye socket, a fleshy crater that seemed to exert a hypnotic spell over her.
The intimidating figure had addressed her in ancient Gaellic. Being of Irish ancestry and having spent a year abroad as part of a student exchange in high school, Rhianna had mastered the old language a few years back. At the time, her linguistic pursuits had been motivated by her desire to fully decipher some of the older texts her dad kept in his extensive library.
Cael advanced with animal grace, sword in hand, blade leveled at Rhianna’s throat.
Unable to utter a single word, gripped by horror, Rhianna took a step backward but Cael was upon her within seconds, his crimson sword hovering inches from her face. Cold steel caressed her chin and left a red smear of the dead man’s blood on her face. Rhianna could still feel the heat of the dead guard’s life force against her skin, a hot kiss that carried a sinister promise. More blood would be spilled tonight.
“You want to know what my world was like? Let me give you a taste.”
Rhianna was terrified but to her surprise, her voice sounded almost calm and in control as she uttered words in the ancient tongue. “Please let me go.”
Rhianna didn’t know what effect she expected her words to achieve — Kenny’s head sitting atop a mannequin might account for her pessimistic outlook — but Cael grew stock-still. His gaze became distant, tuning into some invisible frequency. The moment lasted for a few seconds before his good eye shifted back to Rhianna.
“It is not here.“ Mounting fury edged into Cael’s voice. “Where is it? Where is the Eye of Balor?”
“I don't know...”
“I can smell your fear. You're lying.”
A sudden realization dawned on Cael. “The old man who left earlier. He took it with him, didn't he?”
Cael leaned closer and his eyes narrowed, a dangerous animalistic quality edging into his hawklike features.
“How do I find him?”
The question barely registered, Rhianna’s attention riveted on the blade that ominously loomed near her face.
“Please.”
“Perhaps the sight of your own blood will loosen your tongue. Tell me his name.”
Rhianna was on the verge of terror but she was not willing to give up anything that would endanger her father. She braced herself for the worst.
A thin smile played across Cael’s ascetic features.
“Your love runs deep for a father, but your thoughts betray you.”
Rianna could suddenly feel the fiend reaching deep inside her head and she gasped. It was a feeling that was hard to describe but she sensed that another consciousness had invaded her most private thoughts. The alien presence was roaming through her mind, probing, guided by his memory of her father. Rhianna tried to fight back but nothing in her life had prepared her for such a mental assault. The stranger overcame her laughable defenses with ease and plucked the information right out of her mind.
Dr. Benjamin Sharpe.
A dark smile of satisfaction rippled across Cael’s face. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”
What had just happened?
Rhianna was reeling, her feet rooted. She had never been this afraid in her life. The rules of the world as she understood it had shifted. If someone could snatch memories right out of her head, what else were they capable of?
Cael took a step towards her. Light played across the blade in his hand. The weapon was forged centuries ago but looked just as deadly today as it must have then.
“Do not worry. You and your father will soon be reunited…”
Cael brought up the blade for the deathblow. He was about to make due on his dark promise when a knife rippled across the exhibit space. The dagger tore into Cael’s blade in mid-descent. With an explosion of sparks, the druid’s sword went flying. It clanged across the floor, steel connecting with stone, and the sound echoed throughout the exhibit hall.
Rhianna cried out and looked up at her savior. It was the longhaired man she had encountered moments earlier. Rhianna didn’t know who the enigmatic stranger was or where he came from, but she was glad he’d decided to overstay his welcome.
Rhianna backed away from Cael, who had lost all interest in the archeology student. His focus was now directed at Artan. While the two men faced each other, Rhianna remained scrunched against the wall. Too terrified to move but also entranced by the powerful confrontation she bore witness to.
For a moment, Rhianna contemplated making a go for the nearest exit, but she decided it was too risky. She had no intention of becoming collateral damage. She had seen what the bald psycho had done to Kenny and could only imagine the atrocities he was capable of. Her best bet was to wait this out, at least for the time being. She had been too scared to think of it earlier, but now she palmed her cell and dialed security. As her phone kept ringing and ringing — pick up, goddammit! — Rhianna thought about how appealing grading freshman papers suddenly sounded.
***
Artan arrived in the exhibit hall just in time to see Cael’s blade heading right for Rhianna’s upturned face, as a scream tugged at her lips. Artan reacted without conscious thought, muscles springing into action, and sought out the nearest weapon he could use.
Fortunately, the exhibit offered plenty of choices. In a fraction of a second, Artan had snagged the nearest dagger and sent it spinning toward Cael’s descending blade. There was a sense of relief when the knife found its target. Steel impacted steel and Cael’s sword leapt from his hand.
Rhianna was safe for the moment.
Artan shifted his focus toward his greatest foe. His hands were balled into fists and his whole body shook with emotion. He had pictured this moment in his mind’s eye countless times over the last fifteen centuries. The feeling must have been mutual, judging from the baleful way his brother was studying him.
The two classic adversaries regarded each other across the exhibit hall, the intense emotion between them beyond simple words. Not even the vast gulf of time was able to quell the flames of their hatred, the scars of the past still as fresh as if they had been inflicted the night before. Bitter enemies, each demanding blood to make up for what they had endured at the hands of the other.
“I hope you enjoyed your nap, little brother,” Cael said. “You look well rested.”
“I've waited fifteen centuries for this moment.”
Cael’s lips curled into an icy smile. “Let's hope it lives up to the anticipation.”
Cael whirled and scooped up the sword Artan had knocked out of his hand. Artan mi
rrored the move and snatched another exhibit sword from the wall. The brothers began to circle each other, blades up and almost touching. The former king of Kirkfall followed Cael’s every move.
Facing his brother like this, man versus man, sword versus sword, his mind flashed back to the last time he had faced his brother in single combat...
The sound of wood impacting wood filled the air. Cael’s fighting staff rippled toward Artan’s shoulder but he sidestepped the blow at the last moment, the stick finding thin air.
The fight was unfolding in a circular arena that served as the royal sparring chamber. The rules of the duel were simple. If either of them stepped outside the circle, the fight would be over. The brothers had faced each other countless times and were equally matched, alternating between victory and defeat. But something was different about the duel today. It was the first time Cael incorporated magic into his attacks, the first time Artan realized his older brother was tampering with ancient forces that should remain beyond the reach of man.
Just outside the circle, their weapon master observed in impassive silence. A detailed critique of technique and style would follow once the sparring session had run its course. Flaws would be dissected and analyzed ad nauseam. The weapon master always found a flaw — even the winner wouldn’t be beyond the reproach of his discerning eye. The man couldn’t be pleased.
Artan hated the weapon master, but he would grudgingly admit that his swordsmanship had vastly improved under his grueling tutelage. Later Artan would realize the man wasn’t here to win a popularity contest but to keep the two princes alive. The weapon master’s job was to train them in all forms of hand-to-hand combat and he had done a fine job on that account. Their practiced movements were fluid and skilled, the play of muscle and steel perfectly synchronized. Artan parried his brother's savage attacks, sweat dripping down his face as he was pushed toward the edge of the circle. If he stepped outside the line, the fight would be over and Cael would win the bout.
Gargoyle Knight: A Dark Urban Fantasy Page 5