For all of his bravado and certainty whenever he went about his business, King needed someone to watch his back. To Lott, he wasn't Robin to King's Batman, but rather Batman to King's Superman. He rather reveled in that image.
Dred, though eastside hadn't been heard from; Night, once king of the west side, had been dropped by King (so the story went). The Eagle Terrace apartments bordered, but was a respectful distance from, Breton Court, King's undisputed dominion. A couple of non-descript fools, in baggy t-shirts and baggier pants who couldn't have been more than fourteen years old, not even a hard fourteen. Lott could practically smell their mother's milk on their breath. The first one leaned toward tall, a little bulk about the shoulders but with thin legs, like a basketball player growing into his body. A threat from the waist up, it was a dead giveaway that he'd found a set of weights and concentrated on his arms and never worked his legs. The other was short, stocky, with brown eyes too big for his head. Too quick to show his teeth, he cracked endless jokes about doing the other's girls heedless of the fact that he was on the clock. And that two brothers who meant business stepped to them from the shadows.
"You gonna have to move on," King said with no play in his voice.
"This is our spot. Who gonna move us?" the tall one said. His head had been filled with how good he was, the tone of entitlement in his voice.
"I am."
"I know you?"
"Name's King. Don't make me tell you again."
He'd said it and he meant it. King wasn't much older than either of them, but he had the hard and tested body of a man. As it was, it wasn't a fair fight. Lott hung back, mostly to enjoy the show and guard for the unexpected. But these two boys? King had this.
The lanky one turned as if to walk a way, but King read the positioning of his feet and the shifting of his weight to know that the fool planned to swing on him. When the boy pivoted to throw his punch in "surprise," King jabbed him in the kidneys, grabbed him by the throat, and slammed him onto the hood of a parked car. King had a way of blazing in and dropping fools before they knew what hit them.
A grin had broken and then froze on the face of the other boy. He reached under his shirt tail. King drew his Caliburn and trained it on the boy. Whenever he pulled out the
Caliburn, folks knew what was up.
"You got something you want to show me?"
"No," the boy slowly dropped his hand to his side.
"Good, cause I'm only saying this once. This here was a friendly warning. Our neighborhood is tired of this mess. So why don't you give it a rest. We cool?"
"We cool."
Lott reached into the boy's waist band and removed the Colt. He emptied it of its bullets and tossed the weapon into the bushes. "I didn't want any surprises should he scrap together some courage as we walked away."
King and Lott walked down the alley of the apartments nodding but not smiling to the folks they recognized. The respect left Lott so swoll, more so than any workout; respect born out of the work, of doing right by the neighborhood.
"You a good man."
King trained himself to keep full reign on his emotions. Prided himself on his ability to compartmentalize, remain objective, and disciplined. Some mistook it for aloof or indifferent, as if he didn't care, but Lott knew he cared too much.
With the Caliburn tucked into his dip, King adjusted his stride. He rolled his shoulders slightly, like a boxer entering a ring. Though it fit in his hand with a natural ease, as if he was always meant to wield it, he was still getting used to it.
"You need that?" King asked as Lott retrieved a bat from the back seat.
"Ain't all of us got weapons tucked in their shorts."
"Don't be jealous. It's not the size."
"When that thing busts a cap all premature, don't come limping to me."
A hill rolled down from the street leading into an impenetrable tract of trees, a scenic backdrop to the park. Lott put on his pimp roll strut for all eyes to see as he moved toward the bridge. His was a puffed up exaggerated gait accompanied by a cool blank stare, his face locked into a grimace of put on hostility purposefully designed to make old ladies clutch their purses and white suburbanites cross the street if they were in his path. He always saw himself as a wrong time/wrong place sort, always getting caught up in situations he didn't start but felt compelled to finish. In his experience, only jail or the grave were the typical finish lines that awaited him.
Despite his carefully contrived appearance, there was no way to ease down the hill and maintain any sense of street cool. They could take only a few awkward steps at a time, down the steep incline, as rocks littered the grass and made it difficult to maintain their balance and sure-footing. Down, down, down they went and it was as if they left one world and entered another. It didn't take long for the sounds of traffic overhead to fade against the steady thrum of the rushing White River. The currents roiled, the water climbed high up its banks due to the melted snow and recent heavy rains. The greenish water appeared brackish with up tilled silt, not that the White River was the healthiest of waterways to begin with.
Scattered among the thin brown weeds passed for grass was rebar and smashed concrete. A red and white umbrella canted against a tree. A bed of large white stones formed a channel leading from a pipe to the river. The bridge loomed above them, dwarfing them. It never seemed this large whenever they drove over it. The slate gray arches gleamed, only a few years old since the city remembered this side of town. The arches created an echo chamber as the water rushed under it.
"Some nice work." Lott nodded toward the groups of tags along the base of the bridge. The spray-painted figure of a life-sized, 1950s-era wind-up robot with a head of a kangaroo. Two sets of names in so stylized a script, the letters were indistinguishable. The final figure was of a Latino boy with his cap turned to one side with an expression reminiscent of Edvard Munch's "The Scream".
"Too bad you can't tell what they're saying." King squatted in front of the formation of rocks on the opposite side. Halfrotted textbooks, newspapers, and Mountain Dew bottles littered the ground in between. Sweatshirts, pants, the occasional blanket, coats, and towels piled between two rows of stacked rocks. Another circle of stones, all charred, had a grill top resting on them.
"Odd place to lay out your stuff," Lott said.
"It's a mattress."
Lott stared at the arrangement again and pointed to the blackened rocks. "Yeah, I see it now. That's his stove. We in someone's squat."
"Someone not a part of tent city."
"Means we on the right track."
"You ought to wipe your feet before entering a man's abode. It's just plain rude."
At the sound of the voice, King and Lott turned. Merle's slate gray eyes peered at them. His craggily auburn beard matched what wisps remained around his huge bald spot. Aluminum foil formed a chrome cap, which didn't quite fit atop his head. A black raincoat draped about him like a cloak.
"You stay here?" Lott asked.
"It's one place I stay, wayward knight, though not my secret place. You don't think I only spend my time with you lot. Sir Rupert craves the outdoors." A washcloth popped up, causing King to jump back. A squirrel peered left and then right, then dashed from beneath the cloth and scampered past his legs.
Lott could never shake the feeling that Merle never quite trusted him, like they shared a best forgotten secret only the crazy old man knew. He would chide himself for caring what the bum thought of him, though part of him feared it might be jealousy as Merle seemed to have King's ear in a way he didn't.
"Don't mean to bust your roll or nothing," King said, "but we on a mission."
"Oh? A quest? Is it that time already? Mayhaps we'll encounter a questing beast." Merle danced in a circle around King, hands spreading from his face in jazz hands wiggles as he cried out. "'A star appearing in the sky, its head like a dragon from whose mouth two beams came at an angle.' An egg shaped keystone, mayhaps a tower. A keystone illumination on the winter solstice. A s
acred geometry. A date carved in stone. No wait, a stone unearthed from under a poplar tree, archaic names scribed into it along with strange symbols. A silver chalice, the Chalice of Antioch."
With that, Merle curtsied.
"You done?" King asked.
"It is finished," Merle said.
"Come on, we're checking in on Glein."
"So shut up and stay down," Lott said.
"Aren't you people supposed to be sassy?" Merle said. "Wayne would say something sassy."
They tromped through the woods. The smell of car exhaust from overhead gave way to the trill of budding flowers and furtive spring. Merle occasionally muttered about the state of his shoes or the ubiquity of mud in the tract of land. Undistracted, King charged forward. Glein, the tent city, was the name of this ad hoc ministry. Rumors spread about how a church sponsored the site. They collected men from their various squats and put them up here. The men had their own assortment of stories. Vets, businessmen, and Ph.Ds alike among their number. Some found themselves without homes after the housing market crashed, or after layoffs. Some simply had dropped out of society, not wishing to live by anyone else's rules. Some were simply sick. The church had a regimen for the men and if they worked it, they were moved to some apartments the church owned. The whole set up had an odd vibe to it. Wayne said that Outreach Inc, was investigating, but if the site dealt strictly with older men – most of whom had already checked out of society – it was out of their purview.
"I feel like I've been here before," King said.
"Déjà vu is the word," Merle said. "God's way of telling you that you're exactly where you're supposed to be."
"So I'm right in line with my own destiny."
They wound along the river's edge. Branches snapped underfoot and leaves crunched as their inexperience as woodsmen betrayed them. The scent of campfire swept through the trees. Still early Spring, the blues and yellows of the tents popped against the bleak landscape, easily spotted against the brown background of bare trees and dead leaves. Easily spotted once one chose to look for them.
A lone figure leaned against a thin tree, using a long wooden spoon to stir within a large metal saucepan. A University of Miami jacked, blue jeans, socks pulled up over the cuff. A thick beard, gray streaked hair. A thick skim of gray to his face, as if caked in ash. A black bag slung over his shoulder. A foot shorter than King, but he barely glanced up at their approach.
"Who that is?" the man asked.
"King."
"You say that like it's supposed to mean something."
He had. It did. It meant the weight of responsibility. It meant the consciousness of leadership. It meant the burden of his people. "I'm here to help."
"Anyone ask for your help?" the man asked.
"Methinks, young liege," Merle said, "that perhaps this situation bears further investigation."
"What? You rule these here parts… King? You got a crown tucked away in that mess of hair of yours. Maybe you just got a cape under that jacket or something."
"There are things out here." The heft of the Caliburn became acute in King's waistband.
"And what you gonna do?" The man took a bite of his macaroni and cheese. His face upturned and with a shrug, took a heaping spoonful. Bits of food flew from his mouth as he spoke. "You ain't nothing but a punk with a gun. We know what's out here. And we got our own protection."
King didn't notice any movement, but he sensed something was amiss. It was as if now that his eyes had been opened to the story he found himself in, he could see it all around him. His eyes widened as he caught sight of the shadow. Perched on a thick limb, hidden in gloom among the tangle of branches, the creature's granite gaze narrowed to grim slits studying King. Now that King spotted it, he recognized the silhouette of such beasts from atop cathedrals and lining many buildings downtown. A gargoyle. Industrial magic come to life. Obviously the great beast which haunted his streets. A supreme grotesquerie, a disturbing ornamentation to the camp. Its concrete body transmogrified to flesh, stone to color – gray, like shark hide – newly awakened; cracks and dents gave way to barely healed wounds. Scars.
Knees bent, ready to flex, its corded muscles tensed with the patience to squat immobile for decades. Nails which could drive into a skull with the ease of digging into overripe cantaloupe, gripped and re-gripped the branch. Lids over lizard eyes, the beast frowned, a fool grimace of slobber and bared fangs, leering down at them. In its eyes, King saw brooding nightmares invested with the lusts, hatreds, and angers of its creators.
King pulled out the Caliburn with the ease of reflex. As he assumed a battle posture, Lott fell to his flank, preparing to guard it as well as stand by his friend. Another reflex. The creature became a mass of snarling lips, murderous eyes, claws, gothic wings and clenching talons. King fired a shot, hitting it center mass.
"No!" the man and Merle screamed in unison.
Their piercing cry shattered King from his battle fervor. The gargoyle spread its bat-like wings, fibrous and leathery, flapping them to stir the camp. The creature skimmed skyward.
Lott ducked as the gargoyle dove in and swooped low, barely dodging as its talons grasped at empty air. Wind whooshed as it passed him. Off balance, he didn't have a chance to reposition himself and swing his bat. The beast, however, grabbed its intended target.
Talons dug into King's shoulder, tearing deeply before it flung him into a tree. Mid-swoon, the world spinning. The beast was a series of half caught images. Yellow orbs. Huge teeth gleaming. Gaping jaw. The creature towered over him, swaddled in shadows, feral eyes gleaming down at him. Atonal chittering gave way to a blast of the beast's fetid breath. Sick with pain, King raised the Caliburn again and took aim.
"King, stop!" Merle cried out. "You are the intruder here."
"But it attacked us." King paused, half-turning toward Merle but not wanting to take his eyes from the beast.
"Only after you so carelessly brandished your Caliburn. Were all those years with Pastor Ector wasted? Didn't he teach you how to think? You can't fight every battle with guns. Jesus didn't arm his disciples and start taking out Roman soldiers."
"I'm not Jesus."
"Believe me, I know. You would've early on called out Judas as 'a trick ass bitch' or some such." Merle reached for the pointed snout of the gargoyle, holding his hand out as if letting it catch his scent. Blood trailed down the beast's bulbous belly. "Oh dear, the wound is serious. It will take much to heal it."
King searched the beast's eyes again. Truly seeing it this time for what it was, he saw the soul in its eyes, the passion of devotion, awakened to yet another new age from its long sleep. Gentle. Protective. In a lot of ways, it reminded him of Percy, the young boy who so often followed them around. Large, awkward, yet ferocious when those he cared about were threatened. Only then did it occur to him that he might as well hunt a unicorn.
"Thanks for looking out for us, O king. We are much safer without our protector in play," the man said.
"I didn't know."
"You don't know much." The man stroked the back of the gargoyle with the affection of a boy and his dog.
Merle sidled alongside King. "It's okay, King. We are all ignorant about something or another at one time or another. The question is: are you willing to learn?"
"And you know things?" King asked without sarcasm.
"I know your real name. I know your father. I know the magic. I know your call."
"Anything else?"
"I know your glorious doom." Merle turned from him.
"And you'll stand by me through all of it?"
"I will be by your side until I'm not."
There is no guarantee with friendships, Lott thought to himself. It was easy to make promises. The true test was if the person would be around when times got tough. Friendships were forged in fire.
Looking back, they would consider this to be the good days.
KING'S WAR
BY MAURICE BROADDUS
COMING SOON
; ANGRY ROBOT
A member of the Osprey Group
Midland House, West Way
Botley, Oxford
OX2 0HP
UK
www.angryrobotbooks.com
Dragon's den
An Angry Robot paperback original 2011
1
Copyright © Maurice Broaddus 2011
Maurice Broaddus asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978 0 85766 081 7
EBook ISBN: 978 0 85766 083 1
Set in Meridien by THL Design.
Printed in the UK by CPI Mackays, Chatham, ME5 8TD.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
King's Justice: The Knights of Breton Court, Volume 2 Page 31