Knight Rising

by T. Mikita

  Asher turned the other way and proceeded at a jog. He showered and dressed at record speed, pulling his tie on over his head so he didn’t have to fuss with re-tying the blasted thing. He was out of the room in a scant ten minutes. His hair was still wet and he didn’t relish going back outside in the winter cold. Maybe the next class was in this building. One could hope. Asher jogged around the corner and was almost to the top of the stairs when he saw the man standing there. He halted abruptly. It was the strange man who had given cryptic warnings with his aunt at breakfast.

  Asher paused on the landing surprised anew that he looked so young and yet, the aura of power that radiated off of him made Asher’s skin crawl. He considered going for the opposite staircase. He turned to leave, but before he even saw the man move, a knife whizzed by Asher’s ear close enough to nick the skin before embedding itself in the doorjamb behind him.

  Asher made an almost un-masculine sound at the assault. “Jeez, Fu…” he bit his lip to cut off the swear, not wanting any more demerits. He clutched his ear and his hand came away with a drop of blood.

  “No running in the halls,” the man said, with a wicked grin.

  Asher just stared at him.

  The man made a strange wheezing sound. Asher wondered if it was meant to be laughter. Nothing about the moment seemed funny to Asher.

  “Asher Pendragon.” The man said. It was not a question.

  “I guess so,” Asher said numbly. His mouth was suddenly dry and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He resisted the urge to back away. There was something about this man that unsettled Asher. Perhaps it was his eyes. They were black as pitch, and his dark eyebrows were pulled together, as if locked in a perpetual frown. It tugged at the ugly scar on his right cheek.

  “Now, Young Pendragon,” the man said. “Surely your father taught you that it is not polite to stare. After all, I do not stare at your scars; you should not stare at mine.”

  “I don’t have any scars,” Asher stuttered confused. At least none that were currently visible, he thought, reminded of the thin line that he now bore on his abdomen. Could this guy know about that? Asher looked at the wall behind him where the knife was embedded.

  “Not yet,” the man said ominously, and Asher felt a cold shiver.

  “Fetch me my knife.” The man gestured with yet another blade. He tapped it against the palm of his hand impatiently. “And follow me. I want to speak with you.”

  Fuck. Asher did not want to have anything to do with this man and he most certainly didn’t want to be late for class, but he didn’t see that he really had a choice.

  Asher pulled the knife from the wall with some effort, and noted a neat line of holes dotting the doorjamb where a blade had embedded itself repeatedly into the wood. How many times had this guy stood here throwing the knife at the wall, or at a student for that matter? Asher could only surmise. Each divot in the wood was a precise inch from the previous one. Asher would bet that if he had a tape to measure, they would be exact. He couldn’t help but be impressed with the man’s skill. Asher looked down, embarrassed at staring once again. Why was he here, Asher wondered? He was too young to be a teacher, but he was clearly not a student.

  Asher moved to hand him back his knife.

  “You look like your father,” the man commented. “In fact, I could be looking at a ghost.”

  “Are there ghosts?” Asher asked edging away.

  “Stop fidgeting.” The man snapped, seizing Asher’s wrist.

  Asher realized he had unconsciously been edging backwards.

  The man studied him. “I can see the resemblance to Vanessa as well. In your movements.” He turned over Asher’s wrist. “And in your hands, if not in your face.”

  Asher pulled away resisting the need to rub his wrist, as if to wipe away the feeling…of what?

  “Who are you?” Asher demanded. He folded his arms across his chest like a protective armor. This man was certainly not old enough to know his mother. Vanessa died when Asher was a baby, and this guy couldn’t be more than a few years older than Asher himself.

  “I am Sir Merrick Niles,” the man said with a slight nod. “Order of Merlin, Ninth degree.” The edge of his lip quirked up, but it was not a smile. The man looked at Asher as if this declaration should mean something to him, but it did not.

  “I would say glad to meet you…” Asher muttered.

  The man laughed then but there was no real mirth in the sound. “But you’re not,” Niles said, flatly. “The proper response is your own name, order and rank, Asher Pendragon.”

  “Pendrick,” Asher said, somewhat hesitantly.

  “Your name is Pendragon,” Niles said harshly. “Though it is not yet a name you have earned, you wear it nonetheless. Pendragon is your blood, as well as the Order of Lancelot. You will learn soon enough what that means.”

  “Lancelot?” Asher questioned. “But I thought it was Arthur who…?”

  His words stumbled to a halt at the man’s look. “Do you think Arthur had time to train knights? He was a king.” Niles said.

  Asher shrugged sheepishly.

  “Arthur established the First Order, but he did not train the future generations. Lancelot did. As well as the others of the Round Table.” Niles had a strange far-away look on his face. “Gawain, Galahad, Gwenivere…”

  Asher didn’t point out that Gwenivere was not a knight. He was once again struck by an oppressive wave of unease, as if Niles’s gaze had weight to it. “Did you know them?” Asher blurted. Then he felt supremely stupid. Of course, Niles could not have known them. The Knights of the Round Table had lived centuries ago.

  “You sense it,” Niles said, his dark eyes burning against Asher’s skin.

  “Sense what?” Asher asked.

  “The dust of time.”

  Asher said nothing, but Niles nodded as if he had made a decision. “Perhaps you are good for something, Young Pendragon.” He continued to look at Asher, or look through him as if he wasn’t really there at all.

  “Are you a teacher here?” Asher asked, in part not wanting to antagonize a teacher and in part wondering if he could get a note or something to excuse his tardiness. He was going to be late for his next class.

  “No.”

  “Then I have class.” Asher snapped fed up with this man’s games. He started to walk swiftly away, but something stilled his footsteps.

  “Stay away from the Gate,” Niles said with an intonation of doom.

  “I know. Everyone is supposed to stay away from it,” Asher said. He wanted desperately to get away from the man, but somehow, he could not bring himself to move. It felt as if he was frozen in place. “I heard my aunt’s death speech.”

  “No!” Niles barked. “Death is a moment. The Gates are eternal. They bend reality. They change time. They are infinitely more powerful than you think they are, Asher Pendragon. Especially for you. They are more dangerous than you can dream, and not just because of what comes through them. But because of what they really are. And what you are. Nosce teipsum,” he said.

  “What the hell does that mean?” Asher snapped trying once again to move. “Let me go!”

  “As you wish.” Niles waved his knife in the air. “Run away, little dragon. You will find out soon enough.”

  Asher fled, the sound of Niles’s harsh laughter ringing in his ears.

  15

  The Chronicles

  After the fight with Lacey and meeting with Niles the rest of the day was positively boring. By the last class of the afternoon, Asher was dozing. He had gotten very little sleep last night and the morning workout combined with a large lunch, had a sedating effect. Sleep pulled at him. Magical History and Theory was taught by a squat balding man named Henry Palmer who claimed the Order of Perceval. He had the most monotone voice imaginable and Asher thought that if a strategy against Otherworlders was to bore them to death, Palmer was indeed a champion.

  Dorren poked him awake, and Asher jumped.

  Lacey’s sniggered. He
had returned to classes looking no worse for wear.

  Asher threw him a hard look.

  “Nap-time Asher?” Dorren whispered.

  “I’d have let you sleep,” Joel yawned, grinning at Asher. “Kenny has the notes. This class is always boring.”

  Asher listened for a moment, realizing he had trouble following now that he had missed half of what was said.

  “It’s about the Sentinels,” Joel provided. “We all know not everyone gains powers. It’s no big deal.”

  “Except for the porker,” Lacey said glancing at Kenny.

  Asher rolled his eyes. “Go back to second grade, Lacey,” he said. He was beginning to wonder if Lacey had some power for hearing things he wasn’t supposed to hear, or if he was just nosy.

  “Worried for yourself, Pen-dick? Scared of what’s out there now that you can’t run home to Daddy?”

  Asher clenched his fists. If he wasn’t actually in class, he would hit the motherfucker again.

  Joel laid a hand on his arm. “Later,” he said.

  Asher nodded as Professor Palmer gave several examples of Sentinels who documented certain powers. Asher had already learned that Professor Palmer did not have offensive powers of his own, so Asher supposed he wanted to expand upon the worth of the Sentinels. “It’s not all about brute strength,” Palmer said. “It’s not what power you have, but how you use it. It’s about knowing what you are up against.”

  “But doesn’t lopping off the head mostly work?” Phoenix asked stifling a yawn.

  “Mostly,” Professor Palmer agreed. “But not all threats are physical. Not all creatures are even corporeal. You must plan for every eventuality. For example, what if you can’t get that close? What if the creature breathes fire? That might be an important point to know ahead of time.”

  “Fire? Like a dragon?” Asher asked.

  “Dragons are extinct,” Joel said with certainty.

  “Not completely,” Galina added. “I heard they had one at the school in Britain, raised in captivity. And several eggs have been preserved.”

  “Back to the point,” Professor Palmer said. “The Sentinel chronicles document how different Guardians may have killed an Otherworlder.”

  “Aren’t the Knight’s journals the same?” asked Dorren.

  “They are similar, but the Sentinels’ chronicles differ from the Knights’ in that Knight’s journals are generally accounts of practical personal experiences; whereas the Sentinels are asked to draw from every experience, studying strategies and making adjustments.”

  Galina nodded. “There might be several ways to kill a certain thing or to track it.”

  “That is correct. Sometimes it simply important to identify the creature or entity causing a disturbance. Additionally, there are various methods that can be used with varying degrees of efficiency in order to dispatch it. Or to harness the power of a Gate. The Sentinel chronicles often list the specifics of ingredients or rituals used in a potion or spell rather than a boastful recounting. It isn’t all about slash and stab. Reacting in an instant is important, but what you perceive in the moment is not the same perception as can be gained by careful study before you meet with danger. It is most important to identify what it is that you face. It is important to see your way clearly.”

  “What about mundane humans?” Dorren asked. “They don’t see the creatures at all.”

  Asher started at that statement, sitting up straight in his seat. What? Pure humans couldn’t even see Otherworlders?

  “Seeing the otherworldly is the most general sign of the Guardian gene,” Palmer agreed. “But even then, the power must be awakened within us. Only then do we see the world for what it really is, but not all individuals see at the same time. Some can perceive the monsters under their bed as preschoolers, others are far older before their sight awakens. Usually, it requires a catalyst, an otherworldly event or attack that triggers the sight. Even then not all of those with Guardian ancestry gain the ability, and purely mundane humans are unable to see or sense the power of other realms at all. Instead, their brains turn the otherworldly into something their minds can comprehend.”

  “We all see what we want to see,” said Galina.

  “Exactly,” Professor Palmer agreed.

  Asher nodded thinking of the creatures he and Jules had fought at the convention center. No one in the line had commented on the claws, and yet he and Jules had unmistakably seen them. And it was Jules who killed the thing at his house that night. If mundanes didn’t even see the Otherworlders, did that mean Jules was a Guardian too? A possible Knight or at least a Sentinel? Jules should be here, Asher thought, not for the first time. He had to talk to his aunt.

  “So the Sentinel chronicles are what? Magical cookbooks?” said Lacey derisively, pulling Asher’s mind back to the discussion.

  “No of course not,” Professor Palmer argued. “Although there may be recipes of as sort, for spells and protections. For the most part, the chronicles describe things that may not be seen in the heat of the moment. Tracks and signs left before the encounter as well as what happens after. Sometimes the aftereffects are most important.”

  Professor Palmer continued to drone on, but Asher was unable to take notes at all. At least he was no longer sleeping. If Jules could see the creatures too, she belonged here at Whitehall. He vowed to talk to his aunt as soon as he was able.

  16

  Lost in the Ether

  It was later in the week before Asher was able to speak with his aunt. They talked briefly about Asher’s other classes and his new friends.

  He wanted to ask about Jules coming to Whitehall, but it was obvious that his aunt had another agenda. She kept evading his questions about why Jules couldn’t come to the school.

  Finally, his aunt sighed. “Asher you know that the creatures that targeted you in Pittsburgh wanted to kill you, right? You are aware that it was not a random mugging?”

  “I know,” he said. “But Jules was with me. And she saw them too.”

  “They targeted you,” his aunt insisted. “Not Julianna Martin. You.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “You are a Pendragon. All the ancient bloodlines are somewhat susceptible to attack, but not like the Pendragon legacy. The Otherworlders have a sixth sense about these things. Some say it stems from an ancient curse.”

  Asher raised his eyebrows.

  “Never-mind,” his aunt said. “The fact that your father was killed on the same night, says they wanted you separated. This was a planned attack. They wanted Arthur’s sword. They want it still.”

  “Arthur’s?” Asher stuttered. “My father had Excalibur?” Asher remembered that day, his father covered in blood and gore from the creatures and his own wounds, a sword still clenched in his hand. He remembered the sword from his dreams. He had never seen that particular sword before that night. Was that the sword his aunt was talking about? It must be.

  “Why would my father take it with him? Why wouldn’t he leave it here?”

  “He did,” his aunt said. “It was lost many years ago, in ancient times actually, and the tales tell a story of a hero who will wield it in a time of great tribulation to rebuild the Order. When Michael called it for the first time, I thought he was that hero. We all did. Then your mother was killed, and the fight went out of him. Many are galvanized against the Otherworlders when they lose someone close to them. Your father was not. He was beside himself with grief.”

  “He never talked about her,” Asher said softly. “My mother.”

  “Vanessa was a beautiful woman in all aspects; kind, strong and resolute. She lost her life defending several of the younger children here at this very school. She would not leave them no matter the threat. Your father was devastated that he was not here. He was sure that if he had been, he would have been able to save her.”

  Evelyn sighed. “I told Michael their numbers were too great. He could not have stood against them. He said he would have called upon the sword or the power of the Gat
e to defend her. He insisted he would have kept her out of harm’s way, but I knew Vanessa. She would not have hidden away. She would have been by his side, fighting to defend those who could not defend themselves. Perhaps they both would have died that day.”

  “How did my mother die?” Asher asked, but his aunt shook her head.

  “I do not want to speak of it. She was my friend as well as my brother’s wife. When Michael returned, he left the sword here in the vaults. He said that if he could not protect the ones he loved with it, then what good was it? Not long afterwards, he took you and left the school. We all thought he would come back. He only needed some time away. We thought his grief would run its course, but several years later he met his mundane wife, and did not return.”

  Sharon, thought Asher. His dad married Sharon.

  “You said the sword was in the vault, but it wasn’t,” Asher said. “I saw it. It was in his hand on that night. The night he died. He fought with it, and he still lost.”

  Asher’s aunt turned and stared at him. “You saw it? You are sure?” his aunt asked. “He called the sword?”

  “Yes. I assumed it was with the weapons that were packed up to be sent here…” Asher trailed off when his aunt shook her head in the negative.

  “But how did it get from the vaults to my father…”

  “It was his,” Evelyn said. “The sword responded to his need.”

  Asher raised an eyebrow.

  “It is a magical sword, Asher,” his aunt said in explanation. “In many respects the magical sword.”

  “So the sword chooses the Knight?” he said with surprise in his voice.

  “It does. Or at least, this sword does. It chose your father just like it chose Arthur.”

  “How does that work?” Asher said becoming distracted. “I mean, I’ve always wondered, how did the sword get in the stone in the first place?”

  His aunt rubbed a spot between her eyes as if he was giving her a headache, but she recovered momentarily. “The answer to that is an entire semester of transmutation magic,” she said. “You are in no way ready for the explanation. In due time there will be answers. Now, I have a most important question for you.”