Blackest Knights

by Phipps, C. T.

  “Yes,” the woman said. “You are the King of the Dead, are you not? The God of the Underworld and Evil?”

  I paused and looked around in the empty plains surrounding us. I stood there, alone, next to my devil’s steed. It had assumed the form of a human man akin to the one I’d once been. I wore a long black cloak over my chainmail with my sword, Chill’s Fury, tied at my side. I did not look like a god, but I was one—sort of.

  “I am, now,” I said, pausing. “Once I was a man. I was killed and passed on like so many others. Yet, my soul was bound and transformed into that of a Wraith Knight for the armies of Everfrost. The title of King Below passed to me due to…circumstances that are too complicated to explain.”

  The woman narrowed her eyes. “I do not care. For three centuries, I have prayed every All-Gods’ Night for the Dark Lord to come and fulfill my wishes. The dead have a right to request one thing, and that is what I am asking of you.”

  What she was speaking of was a superstition that had no basis. The Old King Below had never done anything for anyone but himself, let alone try to comfort the torment of the Restless Dead. However, my brides had persuaded me to honor the rituals associated with my former slavemaster. The Necromancer King may have been an honorless rogue, but I could prove myself the better deity. I wasn’t looking forward to answering the literally millions of requests which had piled up over the millennia.

  Marriage.

  “Fine,” I said, raising a gloved hand. “Tell me your story, and I shall see about granting it.”

  I was very particular in my words as I did not grant requests lightly. I was not some fictional character to be entrapped by a promise made in trickery like the miller’s daughter who caught the boggan via his true name, but I didn’t want to lie either.

  “Very well,” the ghost said, still looking less than satisfied with me. I was tempted to tell her she shouldn’t complain when a god showed up to answer her prayers. She could bring it up with the King Above if she wanted something better. “My name is Ysolde, and I was the daughter of a landowner in these lands. No. My lover was Renaud de Castillian. He was second son to Count Margaery of Iskander and a knight to Lord Karl Chaste of the Free Marches. He—”

  “Could we hurry this up?”

  Ysolde narrowed her eyes. “We met during his patrol of this region. We fell in love. Then, because he felt unworthy of me, he went off to slay the Witch of Devil’s Bog. That evil ogress slew my lover and tossed his remains into one of the many pits there. His soul is cursed, now, never to find its way back to me. I need you to find the witch, slay her, and give my lover a proper burial so he may reunite with me. Together, we may go to the golden gates of the World Above and live among our anc—”

  I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “Kill witch. Get body. Bury body. Got it.”

  Ysolde put her right hand on her hip. “Am I inconveniencing you, my lord?”

  “Terribly,” I said, honestly. “However, my word of honor is that I will handle this fairly and with the effort it deserves.”

  Honestly, I didn’t expect to find some random hedge witch still alive after three hundred years. Nor did I think there would be any remains left of Ser Renaud’s corpse after that long in the swamp. Frankly, I had severe doubts about the story to begin with. Going off to slay a monster and never coming back was a well-worn excuse even in my time when one wanted to leave one’s sweetheart. Then again, I had asked for the abridged version. The locals had claimed the Lady of the Tree had hanged herself after discovering she was pregnant, so I wasn’t about to question the tragedy of her tale.

  I just wanted to get my part in it done.

  “Then be off with you,” Ysolde said, making a dismissive gesture.

  I resisted the urge to smite her.

  Barely.

  “Son of a whore. There really is a witch of Devil’s Bog,” I said, sitting on the back of my demon steed staring at the decaying lodge on an island in the middle of the swamp.

  It hadn’t taken that long to find the location as, again, it turned out there was such a creature. The locals in the region had spoken of the Hag of the Swamp for centuries and attributed to her every manner of misfortune. I’d found out, as well, that the locals sent their unwanted children down a path to her in hopes she’d dispose of them. If such was true, it was as much reason to kill the creature as any.

  Dismounting my horse and assuming a spectral form that glided across the waters, I reached the door before assuming a human form and banged on the door with my fist. It was possible I was facing something that might pose a challenge to me, even gods could be killed under the right circumstances after all, but I wasn’t going to play the role of a coward either.

  The door opened to reveal a lovely seven-foot-tall giantess with curly dark hair and a revealing brown cotton dress that displayed a generous figure. There was an aura of powerful magic to her, and I knew, at that moment, she was a formally trained sorceress rather than a mere hedge witch. Immortality required powerful magic to sustain oneself for as many centuries as she’d lived.

  Assuming this was the same witch.

  “Good evening,” I said, looking up into her eyes. “I am the King Below.”

  The witch looked at me and snorted. “The King Below is dead.”

  I glared at her. “I get that response from far too many people. You’d think being a god would entitle you to some automatic respect.”

  “Whoever you are, I do not deal with liars and—”

  I reached over and placed my forefinger and her head. Then I proceeded to fill her mind with a simple fact.

  What I was.

  Her eyes widened then closed before stepped aside. “My apologies, my lord, please come into my home.”

  “Thank you,” I said, walking past her.

  The interior of the witch’s cottage was a surprisingly homey location, sized for a giantess with an expansive kitchen, large hearth, comfortable chairs, and heavy furs. The place smelled of spice and incense while I saw stairs to a second level as well as third level. The magic in the air warped space so I saw the place was far larger than its exterior and probably equivalent to a small palace. Two seventeen-year-old humans were preparing a dinner of stuffed pigs.

  “Servants?” I asked.

  “The locals leave me their children,” the witch admitted to them. “I bind them to my service until they become too old to serve and then enchant locals to believe they’re grandparents to be taken care of.”

  “How kind of you,” I said, dryly. I was not entirely sarcastic.

  “Better than their parents,” the witch said. “I am Lagetha.”

  “A pleasure to meet you,” I said, simply.

  Lagetha crossed her arms under her breasts. “Now, what brings the ancient enemy of mankind to my humble cottage?”

  “A three-hundred-year-old murder.”

  “Has the God of Evil suddenly become the God of Justice?”

  “No, but it is All-Gods’ Night, and I am granting the request of a ghost.”

  “No one believes that superstition. What’s next, are you going to, be Father Winter and deliver presents to good children?”

  “I already send our fairies to steal children’s teeth. That’s how I work curses on them as adults.”

  Lagetha snorted. “Well, I’ll admit to you, I am a killer. I have murdered many people who have come to kill me, abusive husbands wives have asked me to curse, and other witches who sought my magic.”

  “If only all murderers,” I shrugged. “It is a specific person who came here to kill you. Renaud de Castillian.”

  Lagetha stared at me and walked over to a nearby cupboard. “Do you drink, demigod?”

  “God,” I corrected. “I have met no higher ones yet.”

  “That is not an answer.”

  “Yes.”

  She returned with a jug and a clay cup. Lagetha handed me the cup. “Here.”

  “Only one?” I asked.

  Lagetha took a swig of the jug. “I was bo
rn of the Bloodstone clan of giants before they were exterminated. I drink mine however I wish.”

  “You strike me as having a very interesting life,” I said.

  “Not really,” Lagetha said. “I was taken as a slave as a child by the High Lady Cuthienne. She taught me minor magics for the maintaining of her elfpalace. Eventually, I stole some of her books and fled here to dwell among peasants for centuries. What else I have learned and survived by is from deals with elementals, spirits, and demons in your service.”

  “And where does Renaud de Castillian fit into this? Did he come to take your life?”

  Lagetha gave a half smirk. “That he did, King Below.”

  “Call me Jacob.”

  “There were rumors Jacob the Bastard, Jacob Riverson, and Jacob the Lonely had become a Wraith Knight.”

  “Jacob is fine,” I said, annoyed. While Lagetha was considerably more charming than I’d expected her to be, I still wanted to get this over with. There were many more ghosts needing tending to. “What happened?”

  “He did not expect me to look like a comely woman versus an old sharp-toothed hag. I was only seventy-five then and didn’t need magic to appear in the bloom of my life.”

  “There is no end to the number of old women put the sword, stake, or rope because they were witches and darksworn but turned out to be neither.”

  “Men can find many uses for a beautiful young woman with property but none for an older one. I thought Renaud was different, though.”

  “Was he not?”

  Lagetha took another swig. “He was the embodiment of chivalry, war, and justice. He pledged himself to be my protector and swore himself to be my husband under the sight of the gods. For months he enjoyed my hospitality before he learned via my birds that he had dishonored some bitch farmer’s daughter to the East.”

  “It is her ghost I come on behalf of.”

  The bitterness in Lagetha’s expression exposed her true age. It was the face of a woman bearing three lifetimes of grudges. “She was a naive and stupid girl abused by her family. One who still held hope for her dashing prince and when she thought him dead, believed it her duty to bear his heir.”

  “I can’t imagine he took that well.”

  Lagetha stared at me. “He decided to abandon me and marry her. I struck him down and tossed his body in the swamp. If you wish to kill me for that, it is your bidding. I am powerful but not strong enough to kill a god.”

  “Where is the body? If there is anything left of it, I would like to reclaim it,” I asked, unconcerned with her act. I was, after all, not the god of justice and this was hardly the first time a spouse had murdered their husband for adultery. Something about her story did not sit right with me, though.

  “Bodies can last untouched in this bog forever. I will draw you a map.”

  I didn’t bother to fish around in the bog but floated over the water until I came to the closest island to the location. Sitting down against an old gnarled tree, I reached out of my power and summoned the corpse of the late Renaud. He rose from the swampy water, surprisingly well preserved, but for sunken eyes and the aura of the undead radiating from him.

  “Why have you called me back from the Halls of Valor?” Renaud de Castillian said, growling at me.

  So much for him waiting for his lost love.

  “I am the King Below,” I said.

  “The King Below is—”

  That was when I lifted my hand, and he screamed, balefire burning one of his arms before I stopped conjuring it.

  “What was that?” I asked. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you over all the screaming.”

  The man glared at me. “What do you want, evil spirit?”

  “I am investigating your death.”

  Renaud stared at me. “It took you long enough.”

  I raised my hand before he backed down. “Ysolde says you were murdered by the Witch of Devil Bog and Lagetha agrees but only after you planned on abandoning her for the former. What is the truth of it?”

  Renaud looked embarrassed. “Truth be told, I slipped and fell into the bog on my way to leaving Lagetha.”

  I stared at him. “Really? Even though you had impregnated a woman and married another before the gods.”

  Renaud shrugged. “Ysolde was a silly peasant girl. Northern women know nothing of how to keep themselves free of complications. I couldn’t keep myself tied down to someone like her, especially since her brother was going to inherit everything. She would have been fine once she left the bastard on the nearest nunnery’s doorstep.”

  “She killed herself after her father cast her out.”

  Renaud grimaced. “Unfortunate. She was never very smart, though. There’s always a need for priestesses too.”

  “And Lagetha?”

  Renaud gave a despicable half-smile as if remembering something pleasant. “She was a pleasant enough distraction. Her birds showed me my brother had died, though. That meant I was the heir to the county.”

  “Why claim to have killed you?”

  Renaud laughed. “Proud women are the worst. They would rather people think they had murdered their lover than remember they got on their hands and knees begging for you to stay. As for the marriage, is a promise to an ogre binding? I think not. I might as well marry a Fir Bolg and sire children with antlers.”

  “And you were welcomed in the Halls of Valor.”

  Renaud puffed up his chest. “I killed fifteen men. Unbelievers one and all.”

  “You just couldn’t manage a boat in the middle of the night.”

  “So it seems.” Renaud looked embarrassed by that fact. Which was a great contrast to his otherwise complete lack of remorse regarding his philandering.

  “Is there anything else?” Renaud said, crossing his arms despite one of them being quite singed.

  “No,” I said, snapping my fingers and causing the undead creature to burn to death.

  Ysolde waited for me by her tree. “Is it done, King Below?”

  “Yes,” I said, lying to her. “The man’s remains have been dealt with as well as his killer struck down.”

  Ysolde looked down. “Then why is my beloved not here? Surely he would have come to greet me and carry me on.”

  I paused, feeling disgusted at this whole business. “The truth is…”

  Ysolde stared at me. “What?”

  I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but he survived the battle with the witch of Devil Bog. He, however, became crippled in the process and decided to become a monk.”

  “What?” Ysolde stared in horror. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Yes, he devoted himself to a life of celibacy and poverty. He sent a letter informing you he had already taken his vows, but it was lost along the way.”

  It was an outrageous lie that sullied not only the spirit but the letter of my oath. I couldn’t bring myself to tell the truth to the young woman, though. If she had as much faith in the man as to wait patiently in a field for centuries, no matter how differently spirits perceived time, then it required something truly drastic to free her. I also didn’t want to smite her spirit the way I had done Renaud’s and send her to the afterlife in agony. I didn’t even know if she would believe me when I claimed the venile piece of shit had suddenly found religion.

  Ysolde answered that question soon enough. “That bastard! He chose the Grand Temple over me? Over our child?”

  I nodded sagely. “I am sorry, but he is married to the gods now. In his mortal life as well as in the World Above.”

  Ysolde screamed a torrent of violent insults then slowly faded away. Her love of Renaud had been the last tie binding her to this world. She would probably find out the truth in her next life, but that was not my concern.

  I burned her tree for good measure.

  It seemed I was destined to break my promises.

  Honor was just a word, though.

  Death Becomes Him

  By Matthew Johnson

  Vicious heat sweated from his burned scalp
, raising blisters that seeped viscid pus, repeatedly scabbing over and cracking open. A blood crusted hole marked where his left ear had been torn off. Razor wire bound his arms and legs to the wooden post, secured by a spike driven through the radial bones. Bloated hands flexed numb fingers, marking the passing moments before he died. The moments stretched out into hours and then days, and yet he still lived.

  Days ago, soldiers raised his post, razors slicing flesh and bones cracking under his weight. They secured it in the ground through ropes tied into stakes, wagering how long he would last. After the last stake was pounded into the hard dirt, they agreed on getting drinks and left him alone. They would never know who had won. Not once did they return to check on him.

  He’d expected visitors; a widow to curse his name and spit at him in the very least, or an orphan to throw a stone at his skull. No one did. Two days passed. He was alone, drying under the hot sun. On the morning of the third, a black shadow crossed his blurred vision, deftly landing on the wooden-cross arm.

  “Are you death?” he asked. Hope crept into his voice, and he bit his tongue. He didn’t want to suffer long, but godsdamnit, he wouldn’t beg. He’d seen men take days to die, pleading in dry, hoarse whispers, tongues too shriveled to form words. They grunted: Let me die! Let me die! Let me die! Followed by bouts of cackles, until they wrinkled up like prunes, desiccated bodies collapsing in on themselves.

  The raven blinked, cocked its head, one black eye staring into his. In that moment, he understood this feathered priest. It was waiting for his confession, to absolve his sins before partaking of the communion meal—this is my eyeball, eat in remembrance of me.

  “Fuck off,” he said. “I’m too fresh.”

  The raven didn’t fuck off. It hopped closer. Taloned feet clicked over the razor wire unimpeded. Gurgling sounds came from its throat. Laughter. The fucking bird was laughing at him.

  “Eat shit and die!”

  Its beak shot out, and he turned his face away. A sharp pinch on his earlobe. He growled, shaking his head in hope of scaring his tormentor away. The lobe stretched and then tore, peeling from the bottom up. He screamed, wetness spreading across his face. A shifting of weight on the wood and he saw his dark tormentor soaring away, glob of flesh dangling from its beak.