I’d always known this warrior crap would get me killed.
I took a firm grip on Excalibur and smiled at the elf faces before me. There was something in that smile that gave them pause, but only for a moment.
They all pressed forward at once, dozens of swords thrusting towards me; and I raised my gift and found Excalibur. Not the sword; but what it really was. It wasn’t like talking with another person or even some kind of being; but there was communication. Excalibur was an extension of Gaea, her will made manifest in the world of men. And for a moment, she bestowed her grace upon me. Instead of the sword urging me on, I took control, and Excalibur blazed up, filling the whole hall with its glorious golden light. The sword had always blazed supernaturally brightly, but this was more, this was the essence of light itself, the light that first blazed across the universe when a great Voice said, Let there be light.
The elves screamed, in pain and horror and thwarted rage, and fell back, unable to face the terrible energies radiating from Excalibur. They turned and ran, shoving and scrambling and fighting each other, in their desperate need to escape a light they simply could not bear. The London Knights, dazed and awed by the light, let them go. In a few moments the hall was half-empty, knight after knight lowering his sword and looking round and wondering what the hell had happened. Excalibur’s light snapped off, and I shut down my gift and studied the blade thoughtfully. The Puck had been right. It’s not what you think it is. And it never was.
Sir Gareth came over to stand beside me and clap me on the shoulder. “Well done, John Taylor! Always knew you had it in you. You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”
“You have no idea,” I said. “Really.”
There were dead and injured knights lying the whole length of the hall. Other knights were helping where they could. I saw Sir Roland kneel beside one still form in shattered armour, and Sir Gareth and I went over to join him. Sir Roland had taken off his helmet, and his bare face looked shocked, as though he’d been hit. He’d removed the helmet from the dead knight before him; and in death Sir Percifal looked even older. Certainly far too old to be fighting on a battle-field.
“He shouldn’t have been here,” said Sir Roland. He sounded confused, as though unable to understand how such a thing could have happened. “He should have gone to the Redoubt, to be with the women and the children. But he was a warrior and a fighter all his life, and he didn’t know any other way. Even though he must have known it would bring him here, to this. Sleep well, old friend.”
I remembered a wise old voice, saying Yes and No at regular intervals. A man who shouldn’t have been able to stand upright in full armour, let alone fight in it; but there was golden blood on his sword that showed he had. He shouldn’t have come here, but he had. Because he knew his duty.
All across the hall, knights were putting away their swords, tending their wounds and each other’s, and clapping each other across the back and shoulder, laughing and shouting as they swapped tall tales of victory. Because it did feel so good to be alive after a battle even if old friends were dead. Given how outnumbered the knights had been, they were lucky to be alive, and they knew it. Not many people get to face an army of elves and live to talk about it. Hell, there are those who say the only way to win against an army of elves is to not be there when they turn up.
Many of the knights grinned at me and waved and shouted. I was their hero now. I nodded back. They’d done well. Elves are killing machines, delighting in slaughter and suffering, and the knights had been holding their own even before I turned up. I’d never doubted their reputation. I’d only wondered what drove them.
Sir Roland finally stood up and nodded to Sir Gareth, all business again.
“Did all our families get to the Redoubt in time?” said Sir Gareth.
“Yes. They all made it. I always said those regular panic drills were a good idea. I still can’t believe it, though: elves, inside Castle Inconnu. Unprecedented. Stark must have got them in, though I’m damned if I can see how. There’ll have to be an inquiry. As long as he’s out there, the castle is wide open to attack. We have to do what we should have done long before. We have to go out in force and hunt him down and put him out of everyone’s misery.”
“He’s not in his right mind,” said Sir Gareth. “Grief and loss have made him forget his vows. But I still believe he can be saved, brought back to a state of grace.”
“Of course you believe that, Gar,” said Sir Roland. “You’re his friend. I wanted to believe in him. He was the best of us. Best I ever trained. But what happened today changes everything. We must deal with the man he is and not the man we remember. Look round you, at all the dead and the wounded. He caused all this and meant worse. It’s time to put him down, like any suffering beast.”
“I’m still not sure what this was all about,” I said. “Did the elves want to take Excalibur, or was that only Stark? Did they want to destroy the castle and everyone in it, with their hellgate? Or did they have some other end in mind? Do you have any prisoners we can question? I can’t help feeling we’re missing something here.”
“Of course we are,” said Sir Gareth. “They’re elves. A secret hidden inside a mystery hidden inside an enigma.”
“We should never have put you in charge of the library,” said Sir Roland.
As it turned out, the knights did have one elf prisoner. Two knights had knocked him down during the battle, then sat on him when all the other elves ran. The elf was currently chained to a wall with a hell of a lot of cold iron. The metal burned his bare flesh where it touched, but the elf wouldn’t even acknowledge it. He glared at Sir Roland, Sir Gareth, and me with cold, aristocratic disdain. The kind of blunt contempt that makes you want to punch someone in the face. We didn’t. It was what he wanted, so he could feel superior to us. To the elves, humans will always be barbarians. His spelled armour had been stripped off him, revealing a bare pale torso covered in cuts and bruises. He was almost supernaturally slender, his pale skin covered with hundreds of etched, burned, and tattooed signs and sigils. Even chained naked to a wall, he still had that basic elf poise and arrogance, designed to make us mere humans feel base and clumsy.
“Jerusalem Stark brought you here,” Sir Roland said heavily. “Why? Talk to me, elf. Are we at war with Oberon and Titania, or with Mab?”
The elf said nothing because that would have interrupted his sneer, which was now so concentrated it was almost a work of art. He stared straight through us as though we weren’t worth looking at. I leaned forward, and, to his credit, he didn’t flinch. I studied the designs etched deep into his bare hairless chest, and grimaced despite myself.
“I know a few things about elves,” I said, straightening up painfully. My muscles were really starting to ache and complain, after the battle. “I know those markings. This one serves Queen Mab.”
“Why?” barked Sir Roland, sticking his face right into the elf’s. “Why has Mab declared war on the London Knights?”
“He won’t answer to threats or intimidation,” I said. “He won’t even give you his name. He’s waiting for the torture to start because that’s what he’d do if the positions were reversed.”
“We don’t torture prisoners!” said Sir Roland. “We are honourable men. And I think ... we already know everything we need to know.”
He drew his sword, raised it high, and brought it swinging down in a long arc so that it sheared right through the main lock on the elf’s chains. They fell apart instantly, freeing the elf. Sir Roland stepped back, lowered his sword, and nodded stiffly to the elf. “Off you go. On your way. We give you your freedom.”
For the first time, the elf acknowledged Sir Roland’s presence. “Why?”
The knight smiled. “Because it’s the proper thing to do. The chivalric way. Because we’re better than you.”
The elf turned his back on us and strode off through the knights, who all made a point of bowing and saluting him. When the elf was a safe distance away, he muttered a Word and
disappeared. Because elves always have to have the last word.
And then, all the alarums all went off again. A knight in blood-smeared armour came running up to us.
“We’ve been breached again! Small-scale, this time. We think Stark’s back somewhere inside the castle!”
“Search everywhere,” said Sir Roland. “Inner and outer. And send word to the Redoubt for the families to stay where they are. I don’t think Stark would stoop to taking hostages, but after today’s events, it’s clear we don’t know him at all any more. The order is given: kill Stark on sight.”
He strode off with the other knight, still barking orders. Sir Gareth and I looked at each other. He shrugged.
“Might as well make ourselves useful. Come with me; we’ll check the outer layers.”
“Do you think Stark has come back?” I said.
“He still wants Excalibur,” said Sir Gareth. “Where else can he go?”
So we went walking back through the outer stone corridors and hallways. All was quiet. At the Hall of Forgotten Beasts, the long-dead animal bodies still lay where they had fallen. The stone walls were still cracked and broken, the wall mounts shattered. We made our way slowly between the piled-up dead, and I don’t think I ever saw anything so simply sad in all my life.
“We’ll clear this all away, when there’s time,” said Sir Gareth.
“Make sure it’s done respectfully,” I said.
“Don’t worry,” said Sir Gareth. “They won’t remount the heads. I’ll have a word. For a man of your destructive reputation, you can be remarkably sentimental sometimes, John.”
We hurried on and came at last to the Portrait Gallery. Excalibur stirred in its invisible scabbard on my back, and I stopped immediately. Sir Gareth stopped with me and looked round sharply.
“I don’t see anything,” he said.
“Something’s wrong,” I said. “Excalibur is warning me.”
Sir Gareth drew his sword. The Gallery was quiet and empty. And while we were both standing and looking, the portrait behind me, that I hadn’t even looked at, came alive; and Jerusalem Stark reached out of his portrait, grabbed Excalibur and its sheath, invisible as they were, and hauled them right off my back. It was all over in a moment. Before I could even cry out, Stark had retreated back into his portrait with his prize, and was gone. And the portrait was only a photo again.
I swayed sickly on my feet. It felt as though part of my soul had been ripped away. Sir Gareth grabbed me by the shoulder to steady me.
“He’s got it, hasn’t he? He’s got Excalibur!”
“Yes,” I said. “I don’t know if he can hold on to it, but he’s got it.”
Sir Gareth pushed me away. “Only John bloody Taylor could gain and lose Excalibur in the same day!”
“Don’t count me out yet,” I said, matching his glare with one of my own. “I can get it back. I have a special gift for finding things, no matter where they are.”
I raised my gift, forcing my inner eye open as wide as it would go. It didn’t take me long to find Excalibur.
“Of course,” I said. “It’s back in the Nightside. Only place he could hope to hide it. I’ll have to go back and get it.”
“I’ll go with you,” Sir Gareth said immediately.
“No,” I said, just as quickly. “I already have a partner in the Nightside. And ... you’re a London Knight. You don’t belong there. You wouldn’t know how to act, in the Nightside.”
FIVE
Sinister Doings in the Nightside
I left London Proper for the Nightside with a certain sense of relief and emerged from the Underground station into a refreshing dazzle of neon noir, amber street-lights under an endless night sky, and a bustling sea of Humanity driven along by unhealthy appetites and bad intentions. It felt good to be back, to leave the London Knights behind me, with their strict morality and uncomplicated sense of good and evil. And it felt even better to dive back into the usual crowd of gods and monsters, saints and sinners, and all the lost and battered souls who couldn’t hope to survive anywhere else. I was home again, back where I belonged. And the moment I stepped out of the station, there was Suzie Shooter, waiting patiently for me. I went straight to her, and we hugged each other tightly for a long moment. Then Suzie pushed me away, so she could look me over thoroughly.
“No visible wounds. Blood on your coat, but it doesn’t seem to be yours. Kill anyone interesting?”
“No-one you’d know,” I said. “I would have brought you back a present, but the knights didn’t have anything you’d want.”
“The London Knights,” said Suzie, sniffing loudly. “Bunch of stiffs. Do they really wear chastity belts under their armour?”
“I’m relieved to say I never got the chance to find out,” I said. “Suzie ... Tell me you haven’t been waiting here for me all this time?”
She gave her usual sharp bark of laughter. “You wish. I’m your partner, not your nanny. I dropped into the Mammon Emporium and put a little pressure on an oracle in a well to tell me exactly when you’d be back. It didn’t really want to talk to me, but I persuaded it.”
“Tell me you didn’t drop a grenade in.”
“Of course not. That would have attracted attention. I pissed in it.”
I sighed, quietly. “You’re a class act, Suzie.”
She slipped an arm through mine, and we headed off down the street. I was pleased to note that everyone was getting out of my way again. It’s the little things you miss the most.
“Did you visit your old haunts in London Proper?” said Suzie, after a while.
“Yes,” I said. “A lot had changed, but not enough. Never go back.”
“I could have told you that. In fact, I’m pretty sure I did. How did you get on with the London Knights?”
“Hard to tell,” I said. “I think I was doing quite well ... right up to the point where I lost Excalibur.”
Suzie gave me a hard look. “How can anyone lose Excalibur?”
“It wasn’t easy! And I didn’t exactly lose it. More ... had it stolen while I was distracted.”
“Ah,” said Suzie. “That’s more like it. You always were easily distracted. Do you know where the sword is now?”
“Not yet. But I will. I need the right setting, and preparations, before I fire up my gift.”
“And then we’ll go get it,” Suzie said comfortably. “Will I by any chance get to kill a whole bunch of people?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” I said.
We strolled along, under the night sky that never ends, contemplating justice and violence. Wild things rode the night skies, starlight gleaming on their outstretched wings, while dangerous traffic thundered unceasingly up and down; and something foul and fierce went somersaulting over the vehicles, howling and cackling and spitting sparks in all directions. It was good to be back.
“So,” I said, “have you finished dealing with all the suddenly deceased persons who were cluttering up our property when I left?”
“All gone,” she said cheerfully.
“I won’t ask.”
“Best not to. But we’re going to have some really big flowers in the garden this time next year.”
“You hate flowers,” I said, amused.
“All right then, I’ll plant some fruit trees. I’ve always wanted to make my own jam.”
“You are an endless source of surprises to me,” I said solemnly. “Now, let us away to Strangefellows. I need to pick up something I left there with Alex, sometime back. Something I’d really hoped I’d never need to see again.”
And so Suzie and I came to Strangefellows, the oldest bar in the world, and still our favourite watering hole. Quite possibly the sleaziest and most disreputable drinking den in the whole of the Nightside, Strangefellows has the saving grace that no-one there will ever give a damn who or what you were. And most of my enemies are too scared to go in. The perfect place to drink and brood and plan revenges against a manifestly unfair and uncaring world. When Suzie and
I clattered down the long, metal stairs into the great stone pit that was the bar proper, the background music was already playing Rick Wakeman’s King Arthur album. Just the bar owner’s little way of letting me know he knew what was going on. Alex Morrisey knows everything, except for when he doesn’t; and then he fakes it so convincingly that the world often changes to accommodate him. Because his gossip is always more entertaining than mere facts could ever be.
It was a pretty usual night, for Strangefellows. An unfrocked hair-stylist with a piercing through her left eye-ball was busy shaving complicated patterns into the thick body fur of a teenage werewolf. The things people will put themselves through to appear fashionable. Over in the large open fireplace, a pleasant fire was burning in a miniature Wicker Man, while a group of young business men in smart City suits, each with one eye missing, toasted bread against the flames before dipping it into a vat of steaming goat’s-cheese fondue. Alex must be trying to drive the bar up-market again. He’d have better luck with a chair and a whip. Two Japanese teenage girl vampires were draining the blood out of a resigned-looking goat through two straws, racing each other to the middle. And a quartet of fuzzy post-nuclear mutants were showing each other strange alien porn on the televisions they had implanted in their stomachs.
At the bar, the owner, bartender, and tall dark pain in the neck, Alex Morrisey, greeted Suzie and me with a sullen nod. Alex was born under a cloud, which surprised the midwife. He was the world’s first clinically depressed toddler, and has only got worse down the years. He only ever wears black, including shades and a beret, mixes the worst martinis in the world, doesn’t wash the glasses nearly often enough, and could gloom for the Olympics. Always check your change with Alex, and never ever try the bar snacks. You never know who they might have been. He glared at his pet vulture, Agatha, still perched menacingly on his old-fashioned till and still extremely pregnant. Alex put out a hand to pet her. The vulture fixed him with a malignant look, and Alex pulled his hand back.
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