Gargoyle Knight: A Dark Urban Fantasy

by Massa, William

Artan was still adjusting to his gargoyle form. He had spent less than a night as a winged monster before bringing defeat to his brother. Cael, on the other hand, had reigned as the gargoyle for weeks, and knew both the strengths and vulnerabilities of his new form. He had mastered how to move this heavily muscled body, knew how to tap into its full strength and devastating power, and knew how to incorporate flight into his attacks.

  The air was a gargoyle’s natural habitat, an environment where all its advantages could come into play in combat. Artan recalled the skill and brutality of the aerial assaults when Cael had first unleashed his gargoyle horde upon the world. The beasts had swept down from the heavens, tearing warriors off their horses before they even knew what hit them.

  Artan faced a superior opponent and thus would have to use his wits to even the odds. A part of him felt disgusted at himself for being so calculating when faced with the killer of his loved ones. He yearned to throw all caution to the wind and hurl himself into battle with reckless abandon but nothing would be gained if Cael managed to put an end to him in the bowels of this strange city. He could not give in to his rage-filled impulses even though the gargoyle blood surging in his veins made such self-control difficult.

  Vengeance would be his. In time.

  Artan whirled and shot down the subway tunnel, Cael staying right on his tail. The two gargoyles sped down the winding tunnels of the New York City subway system as if they were riding a subterranean rollercoaster.

  Another sound built at the edge of Artan’s awareness. Steel rippling across steel. A split second later, a subway rocketed into the turn, hurtling toward the two gargoyles at breakneck speed.

  A wild grin that would have looked like a snarl to an outside observer flashed across Artan’s inhuman features. Where the average person might succumb to panic, the king of Kirkfall recognized opportunity.

  Artan didn't slow down.

  He sped up and found himself on a direct collision course with the train rushing toward him. Part of him questioned the sanity of this brazen maneuver, but Artan never played it safe. The advantage he stood to gain outweighed the possible drawbacks of any given tactic.

  Wind buffeted his body and wings, the screeching of the train, deafening. Artan caught a glimpse of the terrified subway operator in the front booth. It was too late to pull the emergency brake. Too late to scream.

  The train operator closed his eyes, bracing for the inevitable impact.

  ***

  Dwayne Kuciak belonged to two worlds nowadays. By day, he lived in a nice three-bedroom house in a residential community in upstate New York that was populated by middle-class suburbanites. By night, Dwayne kissed his wife goodnight, hugged his eight-year-old daughter Penny, slipped into his MTA-blue shirt and began his commute into Manhattan, where he worked the night shift as a subway train operator. His nighttime couldn’t have been more different from the idyllic life he built for himself outside the city, and he wouldn’t want it any other way.

  Manhattan, with its pulsing energy and never-ending crowds, was almost another planet. This was compounded the moment he descended those stairs into the station and mentally prepared for his shift. Down in the bowels of the city, where the cement baked you in the summer and seemed to entomb you in the winter, another world awaited. Dwayne didn’t love the smell nor was he particular fond of the crowds and the late-night weirdos. He did enjoy running the trains, feeling in his bones the power of the machine under his feet and the deafening sound of metal screeching against metal.

  Dwayne loved his job and couldn’t imagine doing anything else, even if he sometimes worried he wasn’t getting enough sleep. Trying to catch up on his Z’s during the day, while his wife and daughter ran around the house, could be challenging. With Halloween just around the corner it had turned out to be impossible. His wife was too busy to take his daughter Halloween shopping, so Dwayne had volunteered. He loved the holiday and got a kick out of seeing his daughter light up as she tried on different costumes. He had wanted to share this experience with her.

  But it had come at a price. He had managed to squeeze in just three hours of sleep the night before and for some reason, it affected him more today than at other times. He felt unsteady on his feet and kept downing cup after cup of coffee. But it wasn’t helping. Not even the scream of the train could prevent his eyelids from drooping.

  Considering how he felt already, it wasn’t surprising that he thought he might have nodded off and was dreaming when he caught a glimpse of the gargoyle. The monster was tearing down the tunnel, on a direct path to the operator booth. Immediately, Dwayne was wide awake, his heart pumping furiously with a burst of adrenaline. It was as if one of the Halloween-store gargoyles that had freaked out Penny the day before had suddenly come to life. The beast roared at him and Dwayne was too terrified to react, remaining fixed in place, bracing for the imminent impact that... never came. There was no twisting steel or splash of gore across a cracked windshield.

  The gargoyle had disappeared into thin air.

  ***

  Cael slowed his pursuit the moment he spotted the incoming steel behemoth. He spun around in mid-air and shot away from the subway. He could feel the steel monster closing in behind him, a rush of air blasting across his gargoyle form, buffeting his wings. For a moment, he considered using a spell against the incoming train. There were ways but they would require time, concentration and the blood of a fresh victim. Retreat was the sole option.

  The warrior-druid caught sight of an intersecting service tunnel and darted that way. The train exploded past him, missing him by seconds. As the subway rattled down the tracks, Cael’s mind was consumed with one burning question...

  Where was Artan? Had his enemy succumbed to the deadly force of the train?

  Cael doubted that. He had underestimated his brother before, but he wouldn’t do it again. Artan was a crafty one and he must have found a way around the steel serpent. Cael’s only choice was to comb the tunnel, hoping the gem’s magic would show him the way.

  He waited until the sound of the subway had grown distant before he returned to the main tunnel and commenced his search. His brother couldn’t have gone far.

  Cael tore through the dimly lit tunnels, the sound of other trains echoing in this city below the city. Voices crackled over speakers and the druid caught glimpses of commuters waiting listlessly on the platforms that rushed past. But there was no sign of Artan. His brother had somehow managed to elude him.

  Unbridled rage exploded across the dread creature’s animalistic features. His chilling, bestial voice boomed through the subway system, and those who heard him drew back from the edge of the platform and cowered in sudden terror.

  “You will not escape, Artan! I'll find you and take the Eye, just as I took your beloved Samara.”

  Cael's inhuman features twisted in frustration. He hoped with all his heart that, wherever his brother was hiding, whatever hole he had crawled into, he could hear him.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE SUBWAY TRAIN barreled out of a tunnel and streaked over the city on elevated tracks. Artan clung to the train’s rooftop, claws dug deep into the steel, head and wings kept low, night air sizzling across his leathery skin. The train moved into a sharp turn, steel wheels rattling over the wooden track, and Artan let go of the roof. He allowed momentum to sweep him into the air.

  As his wings extended and lifted him upward, he surveyed his surroundings. An industrial area of Astoria, Queens, it was a spooky wasteland of abandoned warehouses and industrial lofts. The Manhattan skyline glittered in the distance, separated by the East River.

  Artan’s wound was throbbing, the pain growing more intense with each passing moment. He needed rest and time to heal. Artan swept toward a nearby alley, knowing Cael might at any moment emerge from the nearby tunnel that connected Queens with Manhattan.

  His clawed feet touched the ground and his night-vision cut through the darkness of the alley. But for a few rats burrowing their way into an overflowing dumpst
er, he was alone. He waited for a moment, his senses alert and on edge. His enhanced hearing focused on the sound of the wind, hoping to pick up any indicator that the enemy was near.

  Nothing.

  He was safe. For now.

  Artan touched his shredded side. An ugly mass of torn, scaly flesh, it was speckled with rivulets of ebony blood. He turned inward, lids growing heavy, and the world was erased by blackness.

  ***

  Artan and his wife Samara had ventured out to the castle’s courtyard to take a little walk. For days now, the responsibilities that came with the crown had consumed him. The kingdom was still reeling from the effects of the civil war just waged. Coin was spent, lives were lost. Kirkfall had incurred debt and now owed favors to the neighboring cities, but with a woman’s intuitive sense of knowing what mattered most, Samara had a way of putting life in perspective.

  They walked across the castle’s vast courtyard, the purple rays of the setting sun playing across their faces. Everywhere they went, Samara’s beauty drew stares and admiring glances from all who passed by. A few days from now, Artan would allow a gargoyle to sink its venom into his veins in this same courtyard, but that fateful day seemed distant.

  Laughter rang out and Artan’s twinkling gaze found the little one who had produced the sound of pure delight. It was Cian, Artan’s five year old. The child beamed at his father, thrilled as he played with the toy Artan had made for him. He moved the wooden horse through the air in galloping motions, under the spell of his own imagination. Artan drank in this sight, touched by the boy's simple joy, but there was also a sadness in the king’s expression. His mind was beset by dark thoughts.

  Samara took note and studied her husband with concern.

  “What troubles you, my love?”

  Artan removed his crown, regarding it with trepidation. “I just wish life could go back to the way it was. This was never supposed to be my burden.”

  “Your father chose you for a reason.”

  “My brother...”

  “Your brother would have turned us into a nation of conquerors. Whole generations would be sacrificed to achieve his dreams of power and glory.”

  The conviction in Samara’s voice felt reassuring, but it didn't make what lay ahead any easier. Almost as if Samara could read his thoughts (and Artan knew she could), she added, “The crown rests heavily on you, my husband. You will make a great king. I know it.”

  Samara leaned into Artan, squeezing his hands.

  “You are the leader Kirkfall deserves.”

  Artan smiled at his wife with love. Once again he wondered how he had been so lucky as to meet a woman both wise and beautiful. She was his rock.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a keening shriek. Something about the alien nature of the bestial cry sent a chill down Artan’s spine and turned his blood to ice. He saw the unbridled terror in Samara’s face. Artan whirled and a series of demonic shadows washed over his dismayed face. Nearby, an open-mouthed Cian dropped his wooden horse.

  Five gargoyle beasts sliced across the night sky, monstrous silhouettes in the pale moonlight. The royal guard reacted in alarm, lances and swords drawn. Time slowed to a crawl as the first gargoyle dove toward them. With horror, Artan realized the brute had targeted his little boy.

  He surged toward Cian but was stopped dead in his tracks as two of the winged beasts landed right in front of him. The earth trembled and spat out plumes of soil and dust as the monsters’ weight made contact with the ground. Artan’s surroundings became a ferocious blur of claws and fangs. He whipped out his sword, but he never had time to wield it against the gargoyles.

  Before Artan could launch a counter-attack, he was flung through the air. He landed seven feet away in a cloud of blood and dust. He tried to move but his body was numb from the impact, unable to obey his will. Through a haze of blood, he saw his wife shield their son from the approaching nightmare. His eyes met hers one last time before she was erased from view by the giant wings of the gargoyles.

  “NOOO!”

  Artan’s cry of dread was drowned out by a raucous bellow and...

  ***

  The roar of the gargoyle turned into the whoop-whoop of an approaching police car. The cruiser rolled past the abandoned warehouses, red-blue lights spearing the darkness.

  Artan jolted back to consciousness. For a moment, he was disoriented, not quite sure of his surroundings. Once again, the lines between what was real and what wasn’t had grown blurry.

  The cruiser continued rolling down the street, past the alley where Artan had sought refuge. It seemed to slow for a moment but picked up speed again and disappeared from view.

  Something stirred in the dank alley and it wasn’t Artan, nor was it a rat. Rats didn’t stink so bad. A shadow moved. A grizzled homeless man stirred from his slumber, sensing another presence in the darkness. Bloodshot eyes peered from behind a tangle of long, unwashed gray hair. Lips formed words yet remained hidden under a dirt-encrusted beard.

  “Get the hell out of here! I found this spot first...”

  The words died in his throat as Artan stepped from the shadows.

  Large wings unfurled behind him. His teeth glittered in the moonlight. The gargoyle let out a bellowing growl and ascended into the night air. The homeless man gasped and swore off the bottle.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE SHRIEKING MONSTROSITY lunged after Rhianna, a relentless force of darkness. The monster had blocked the exit and was backing her into a corner. Her only way out was to retreat, and that path led her onto the balcony. In a mad burst of panic that defied rational thought, she had tumbled over the railing. Any end was preferable to the claws and teeth of the beast now upon her.

  Panic lodged in her throat as she plunged toward the pavement below. For the first time in her short life, she knew with absolute certainty that she was about to die. As she dropped twenty stories, she was surprised to realize that she felt strangely calm, almost as if a part of her brain understood that there was nothing she could do to prevent her impending fate.

  Only two options remained over which she could exert some control. How would she face the end? She could close her eyes and wait for the devastating impact, or she could rush toward her doom with her eyes wide open. And even though these thoughts cycled through her mind in a split second, it felt like an eternity; time had truly frozen in that moment.

  As the sidewalk grew closer, instinct took over and her arms came up in a futile attempt to protect herself from the devastating moment when flesh met cement and the forces of physics unmade her. She had just decided that she would rather close her eyes after all when she felt a rush of air, a lightning fast shadow enveloped her, and a pair of powerful arms wrapped around her in a jarring embrace.

  Rhianna wasn’t falling any longer. She was actually hurtling over the street, which meant she was... flying. Correction — whoever had snatched her from mid-air was the one who was flying. She was just along for the ride.

  She twisted her head and caught glimpses of leathery gray skin. She could feel the alien texture of the inhuman hide against her own bare flesh, but most of her attention was focused on the road below as the streets rushed past her.

  Before she knew it, her feet were touching a rooftop. Her legs buckled, the shock having turned her muscles into spaghetti. She almost fell but the powerful arms that had caught her in mid-fall now lifted her back to her feet. She looked upon her savior and part of her wished she hadn’t. A hideous beast was glaring back at her.

  The GARGOYLE.

  The creature now facing her made her think of the Uruk-hai from Lord of the Rings, and specifically the brute Viggo Mortensen battled at the end of the first movie. Except this creature had giant wings — a demon made flesh.

  Rhianna’s mind went completely blank, all thoughts ceased and as the beast spoke (he could speak!), she barely heard a word. The brain had ceased to function, her mouth frozen in place as if she was suffering a severe case of lockjaw. She merely managed to gas
p at the creature. And even though her conscious mind hadn’t registered the words uttered by the gargoyle, another part of her was paying attention because her body started running for the nearby water tower.

  Hide.

  That was the creature’s advice, and she took it to heart.

  Rhianna found refuge behind the tower and peeking out from the steel web of its support legs, she saw another winged gargoyle slicing past the building. Either it was oblivious to her presence or had lost interest in her.

  It’s after the Eye of Balor.

  The thought was reassuring, at least for the moment. Once the gargoyle had disappeared among the maze of buildings, she had waited. And waited. The creature never returned. She could have spent the whole night in this position. She was shivering, the biting late-October night penetrating the layers of her clothing, but she felt safe.

  As her pulse steadied and her fear began to subside, her thoughts turned to her father. She had seen the gargoyle fling him aside, remembered the impact of his body slamming against the living room wall, and grave concern filled her heart. Had her dad sustained serious injuries? What if he was in need of medical attention? Or worse, had the monster returned to his apartment to finish him off?

  Rhianna refused to entertain the last possibility. He was going to be okay. He had to be. She was going to return to her dad’s place and make damn sure of it. Screw the risks.

  Rhianna found a roof-access door, but it was locked. She let out a sharp curse. Fortunately, the building had a fire escape, and she decided to make use of it. Fifteen minutes later, her jeans sporting two new holes and now greased with rust and dirt, she once again felt the pavement under her feet.

  Bundled-up New Yorkers streamed past her, rushing to and fro. Somewhere in the distance a car started honking, followed by a string of expletives. The city remained its normal self, going about its business unaware that Rhianna’s reality had completely changed. The full weight of what had happened this evening hit her. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe and was afraid she might pass out. She had almost died, but a monster had saved her from certain death and offered her a new lease on life. A savior who appeared to be the mythical Artan McKeltar. The old stories she was researching, the ancient texts and scrolls she had devoted hours to — they were all true.