by A. J. Cronin
“Your Highness, you should eat.”
Gawain sits up, realizing now that he fell asleep in his armor. The King takes the plate, eating slowly.
“Where is Gallahad?” asks the King.
“With Eoin, readying our army.”
“Really? I thought Gallahad could not stand to work beside Eoin.”
“Lord Gallahad’s and my opinion of him drastically changed in light of what the Councilmen told us.”
Gawain now remembers what Gallahad said concerning Eoin’s defense of Theria.
“That is good to hear.”
“Though you managed to find slumber, he and I were both stirred so much that sleep was but a fantasy. We both left our tents and met together, each intent on speaking with Eoin.”
“What did you talk about?”
“It was mostly Gallahad and Eoin that spoke and that was usually about the battle to come, but your brother succeeded in steering their talk to the fall of Theria. Eoin was most reluctant, but conceded. Gallahad did not hide from Eoin his hatred for the Black Knight, but made sure to emphasize that he held no animosity for Eoin in light of what he did for Theria. Gallahad even congratulated Eoin for being the one to kill the Butcher of Theria, but I could see it pained the Knight to hear this. Despite that, the two became quick friends I think.”
“What about you?”
“I do not know what I feel, My Lord.”
“Why not?”
“I watched Theria burn. I saw as the Black Knight cut down man, woman and child. It is hard for me to accept that he has been killed. Although I know that a debt of gratitude is owed to Eoin, I cannot help but think I felt a sense of... loss. The revenge I hoped for has been snatched away.”
“It is nice to know that I am not the only one that feels this.”
“My Lord?”
“Persephone still wakes from nightmares of that day. As her husband, and as the King that took in the survivors, I felt it was my place, my duty, to avenge Theria. To learn that he fell to his own son through the manipulation of Mors, I felt an enormous emptiness. I could not place it, but I now see clearly what I felt.”
“Perhaps, My Lord, it was for the best that neither of us were the ones to have killed the Butcher.”
“Why is that?”
“A life craving the death of another is hardly a life at all. When that thirst is quenched, what is left but nothingness? Could little Lisa look at her father and not see a murderer? Could my brother still see me, and not see the beginnings of a new monster?”
“If you or I had been the one to kill Eoin’s father, who knows what manner of creature we could have become. You are right, Rachel. Thank you.”
Rachel smiles politely, glad that her King found wisdom in her words.
“This all reminds me of why I came here to begin with. Eoin asked me to tell you that as soon as you are ready, we will begin forming the lines at the valley mouth.”
“Did he say anything about the enemy?”
“Yes. Mikha’el flew in the night and discovered that Mors’ army is still at the edge of the Wastes, but were preparing to move out. Eoin thinks that the battle will take place in the ‘dead center,’ as he said, of the valley, which is apparently a good thing for him.”
“Thank you, Rachel.”
“No need, Your Highness.”
Gawain comes to an immediate decision, a resoluteness filling his eyes.
“It is time, Rachel.”
“My Lord?”
“Please, go to Gallahad. Tell him to inform the soldiers of Mors’ true identity.”
“As you wish, My Lord.”
Rachel nimbly vacates the tent, leaving Gawain to ruminate on the war slowly creeping towards him like a feral lion. He continues eating, the conversation with Rachel resounding in his ears, trying to indulge in this brief moment of solitude. Bit by bit, the plate is made empty. A loud shout erupts from outside which converts into cheering, chanting and yells from the Essain army. The King rises to his feet, checks over his armor, then he too exits his tent to meet with his people.
In the Essain camp, the complete army is gathered, every man on his feet. Gallahad has stirred the soldiers into a righteous fury. Eoin watches on with his arms crossed, nodding in agreement with every word that issues from Gallahad’s mouth. When the army sees Gawain, they let loose another cheer. Gawain nods, but lets his brother remain the focal point.
“With Eoin leading us,” Gallahad continues, “and Our King on his right, we will defeat this enemy, led by the demon Mors, and at long last return honor to those who fell at Theria!”
Another massive cheer. Eoin steps forward with a raised hand, trying to bring silence to the men.
“You will be intermixed with the Judeheim army, standing shoulder to shoulder with your brothers and friends. The two armies will be divided into three groups, one led by myself, another by Lord Gallahad and the last by your good King Gawain himself,” Eoin speaks with a booming voice. “The Councilmen of Judeheim will act as lieutenants to each of us, and should be treated as such. Once we exit these woods, you are to line up, two men thick and no more, along the mouth of Magda. I am going to lead the center force. When we have met the foe, Gawain and Gallahad will use the valley walls to sneak around and envelop Mors’ army unseen.
“They are violent and fierce, holding fanatical devotion to their lord, but they do have one immense fault: they are slow, both physically and mentally. They will wield cumbersome weaponry, the sort used to cause horrific results. You, however, are faster, lighter on your feet. You will easily decimate this army and forever be remembered as heroes.” Eoin stops as the army shouts in response. He again raises a hand. “Men, heed these words: keep Theria in your minds and in your hearts! Never falter! Maintain your will and, above all else, do not lose faith! If you do these things, death will have no choice but to pass you by!”
Eoin’s final words garner the greatest applause from the Essain army. All fear these men had of the Knight have been evaporated completely. Even Mikha’el and Rachel join in the praise of the Knight.
Seeing his men, his brothers, his friends like this brings a realization to Gawain. The day will not even come close to what he anticipated. Seeing these soldiers, under the watch of this armored man, Gawain realizes that winning is not a possibility, but an inevitability.
“Continue to give me wisdom and courage,” Gawain whispers. A small, simple prayer to the unnamed God.
Today’s outcome will forever mark Gawain, and he knows it. The Council comes to Gawain with resolute faces.
“We are ready to fight, friend,” says the youngest of them.
“As are we,” the King replies, looking to Eoin.
“Gather the men together, sirs,” the Knight calls. “The chaos of war calls to us as a father calls to his sons; a call we shall heed obediently.”
~-~~-~
The camp is left standing, wasting strength on packing it away being of no profit. The animals are left too. The army gathered, Eoin leads them out of the Grey Woods and to Magda’s mouth. The sun still sits low, but its light assaults the valley below harshly. From this vantage point, the Wastes can be seen; plain, barren and dark. At the opposing end of Magda, a cloud of dust swarms upward, drifting towards them. Mors’ Samaelites are on the move. Eoin steps out in front of the army as they form their lines and separate into their three groups. The Knight speaks now in voice heroic to the gathered leaders of the two nations.
“Your Highness, Lord Gallahad, High Council. When the battle comes, you will all know what to do. I have faith in all of you. We will win, and you shall all return home to your loved ones. I promise.”
Mikha’el steps out from the mass of soldiers.
“What shall I do, Knight?”
“Stay with your sister, watching over Gawain. Protecting his life is your utmost interest.”
“I will die before I fail, Knight.”
Mikha’el falls back into his position beside Rachel, who herself stands beside
Gawain.
“To your groups!” the Knight calls out.
The order is followed. The Council distributes between Gawain and Gallahad’s armies. Eoin speaks now to his own men.
“Remember what I told you, everyone. Do as I said, and you will be for this day immortal and, every day hence, a legend.”
In Magda, the Samaelites near the center of the valley.
The time has finally come.
With a shout, Eoin leads his group down into the forsaken land. Gawain and Gallahad watch as the villain-turned-hero races headlong towards the enemy. Now the Samaelite army is no longer absorbed by the cloud of dust, and it is clear that their numbers are greater than desired. This does not, however, dishearten the combined forces of Essain and Judeheim. No. It, in fact, encourages them. Theria is thought upon by all, and each foe that is to be felled will be done in Her remembrance.
The King, the Council, Gallahad, Rachel, Mikha’el and every gathered man watch each step of Eoin and his diversionary soldiers. The wind and the valley carry the sound of their running, mingled with the shouts and yells. The world slows down as Eoin and the Samaelites come closer and closer.
An ear-splitting crash echoes through the valley, metal upon metal.
Roars and screams.
The two forces have met like titan waves that clash and mingle together. The battle has begun. Gawain and Gallahad unsheathe their swords and with a great cry lead their soldiers as Eoin had instructed.
~-~~-~
As planned, Gawain comes out from the shadows of one of the valley walls, looking upon the rear of the Samaelite army. The King can scarcely hear anything over the battle cries of his soldiers as they run to join the fray. The Samaelites are in a flurry, but they cannot best Eoin and his soldiers. Eoin himself has separated from the majority of his men, splitting the focus of the Samaelites in half.
They attack Eoin relentlessly, but he easily defeats all who come across him, and occasionally some are thrown away viciously like they were nothing more than rag dolls. Although he cannot see him, Gawain smiles broadly at this apparent display of the Knight’s power.
Each step closer, every moment which passes, Gawain tightens and tightens again his grip upon his sword. Across the valley can be seen Gallahad and his company. Eoin’s plan has worked. The Samaelites are encircled completely.
The noose closes in.
There, in the midst of the foes, Eoin can finally be seen, brandishing twin blades which appear to have grown from his forearms. He swings wildly but, being so surrounded by enemies, this tactic is effective, cutting through the Samaelites by the dozens.
The unoccupied foes take notice of the ranks closing in around them and reform their numbers to face them. A seemingly innumerable flood of Samaelites run toward Gawain, teeth bared equally as fearsome as their blades. The King leaps at them with a roar, bringing his sword down on the closest Samaelite, earning his first kill. Others swarm about him, but the King feels a sudden exhilaration, his own strength and speed increasing beyond what he knew possible. Easily he defends himself and defeats those which attack him. So lost in the bloodshed, the King loses count of how many he has slain, but he cares not. All that matters to Gawain is that there is an ample supply upon which his sword can feast.
From the corner of his eye, Gawain can see that his soldiers are in a similar position, standing knee deep in dead, victoriously increasing the numbers of the fallen Samaelites. The din of battle spirals out of all semblance of control, deteriorating into an uncontrollable maelstrom of savagery and slaughter, spreading out over the valley floor. Gawain’s blade sings its beautiful siren call before yet another Samaelite falls at the King’s feet, bringing him a momentary lull. He examines the battlefield, finding no sign of Mors himself. Gawain’s mind suddenly changes, feeling like he did in the throne room after Eoin’s first visit.
To not exist.
Completely empty and hollow.
The sword falls from Gawain’s hand as he braces his forehead, struck incapable of action by this mysterious sensation. A spear strikes the King, only glancing off his armor, but the force knocks him off his feet. He lands in a collected pool of blood, which is icy cold to his skin as it seeps through his armor. This rouses him, allowing him to regain control of his mind just in time to see a Samaelite preparing to bring his weapon down on the King. Gawain smiles to himself. This, he thinks, is to be his end.
“Be a good girl, Lisa.”
The Samaelite stops cold, two blades piercing through him. One withdraws, and by the other is the Samaelite thrown away. Forward steps Eoin and Mikha’el. Mikha’el extending his free hand to the King while Eoin defends them.
“On your feet, Your Highness!”
“Thank you,” says Gawain as Mikha’el pulls the King up from the befouled valley floor.
“Think nothing of it.”
“What happened to you?” Eoin asks gruffly.
“I do not know. I suddenly felt as though I - ”
“Ceased to be in control of your body, like you no longer existed?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Mors is near, but I cannot find him.”
“Mors did that to me? How can he have done such a thing? It is not the first time I felt such.”
“It is not? Well, there is no time to explain, just avoid him if at all possible if you see him.”
“The King is safe. I need to return to my sister,” Mikha’el announces, flying away.
The Samaelites, as though of one mind, set their collective attention to Eoin and Gawain, evidently forgetting everyone else. The two men fight back to back, striking down their assailants like they were pests.
Time passes relentlessly, and as the sun reaches its noon peak, it is usurped by the coming of storm clouds. The heavens are ripped open, letting loose a deluge of rain. The rain mingles with the blood, fashioning the floor of Magda into a red-brown pit of mud. Many Samaelites try to flee, and the soldiers of Essain and Judeheim give chase. Unfortunately, they could not have seen they were entering a trap. From behind rock walls, behind hills, and coming up from the mud itself, reinforcements reveal themselves. The soldiers of good stop in their tracks, quickly retreating before being overwhelmed.
Eoin and Gawain run to meet with the soldiers, reuniting with Gallahad and a number of the Council on the way. Above, Mikha’el and Rachel circle the field.
“Mors!” Mikha’el cries to the men below. Eoin’s attention is immediately piqued. “He comes from the south with more men!”
Eoin breaks away from the group to make for a hill. Gawain follows. From the higher vantage, they can see for themselves that Mors has indeed joined the fray. Gawain looks on aghast at Mors. He is a giant of a man, taller even than Eoin. His armor, while similar in shape to Eoin’s, is far more evil looking, covered in spikes and blades.
“Coward,” Eoin snarls as he starts running toward Mors.
The Samaelites try to stop the Knight’s progress, only to find death sooner than later. He cuts a bloody swath through them, his blades becoming the last thing the Samaelites see. Through the human wall he pushes, finally coming before Mors. He leaps at his enemy. Mors deflects the attack. The Knight takes a step back, the two armor clad figures standing motionless, staring the other down intensely.
“Greetings, Eoin. It has been far too long,” Mors says with venomous sarcasm. “How do you like my armor?”
“A cheap imitation if I ever saw one.”
“Do not be so sure, child.”
Mors swings his serrated sword at Eoin, but Mors’ movements are sluggish in comparison to that of the Knight. Gawain watches them fight, slowly walking toward them unnoticed. The Samaelites become disjointed, forgetting not only about the King, but the battle around them all together, standing in a daze.
“You should be dead right now,” Eoin growls.
“And you should be thanking me! We both knew your father never stood a chance against you, and now you have the power of that glorious armor!”
“There is no power in this walking coffin worth having.”
Eoin plunges his blades into Mors’ mid-section. Mors yells in pain, but it gives way to a slight laugh. He still lives.
“I will not be that easy to kill, Eoin.”
Mors kicks Eoin away. He cradles the wounds given him by the Knight, blood still flowing out from under his armor, but he remains standing. Mors snarls, standing upright and continuing his assault on Eoin like nothing has happened. Their duel increases in intensity, even as the war around has ended completely. Eoin pays no heed to anything except Mors, and so does not notice as Mors’ elite soldiers take up position behind him. Just as one tries to strike Eoin, Gawain slays the elite soldier, than another and another.
“King of Essain!” shouts Mors.
“At your service,” says Gawain mockingly as he swings his sword upon Mors.
Mors catches Gawain’s edge with his free hand. Eoin attacks as well, with one of his blades, forcing Mors to defend with his sword. Eoin thrusts his other blade into Mors’ side. The villain roars angrily, kicking Gawain away, but is unable to free himself of Eoin. The Knight, having Mors immobile, begins to rapidly stab his enemy with his other blade, cutting through Mors’ armor like paper. Mors regains his composure, sending Eoin flying away, skidding through the mud, with a single backhand blow. Mors storms over to the Knight as he tries to stand, swinging his sword madly upon Eoin.
The serrated blade cuts through the air with a high pitched scream. When the blade comes into contact with the Black Armor, it shatters violently, sending the shards flying in all directions. Mors reels back from the force. Eoin strikes swift, bringing his blades up into Mors’ chest. The Knight stands, raising Mors into the air, then pulls his blades out through Mors’ sides, nearly cutting him in half.
Mors crumples to the ground, his helmet falling off. Eoin stands over him, stepping on his chest, blade at Mors’ neck, ready to finish his foe. Faced with death, Mors does not beg. Rather, he laughs. Gawain stands beside Eoin, joined by Gallahad and the Council, all unsure what to make of this.
“Do you find your coming death funny, Mors?” Eoin asks.