The Age of Knights & Dames

by Patrick Harris

  The Watchmaker saw Clay’s whitening face.

  “That’s right, boy,” the Watchmaker growled. “I’m as good as cursed. At least a dozen of your fellow defenders fell on my watch. I won’t drag you along to die, too.”

  Clay felt his hands begin to shake again. Cold sweat formed on his brow. But he couldn’t shrink away out of fear. He had a reputation to uphold.

  “They may have failed you,” Clay said, forcing himself to sound bold, “but I won’t.”

  The Watchmaker bellowed with laughter.

  “I don’t need a knight. I need a thinker. A shrewd eye. A fierce mind.”

  Clay stammered, now in quite the conundrum. Here he was, pretending to be a fighter to win the Watchmaker’s favor, but the Watchmaker needed exactly what Clay was: a thinker and analyzer.

  “Be on your way,” the Watchmaker said. “Bother someone else for their troubles.”

  Clay didn’t move.

  “I am here to help you,” Clay insisted. “You want to kill the Dreadnaught, but you need something from the cliffside keep.”

  The Watchmaker gave Clay a look.

  “You heard the mage’s musings. So have a hundred other defenders. How do you think they died?”

  Clay shuddered, but kept walking with the Watchmaker. After a few strides, the mountain of a man grumbled.

  “Alright, shorty. Here’s the rough of it. The Dreadnaught needs to die. It’s killed plenty, destroyed more, and took something of mine. But I can’t just cut its head off. No manmade weapon can pierce its skin. However, there is a sword, a fortissium blade, that was crafted long ago that can cut through any material, wood or metal, flesh or stone. It resided in the Horror Hollow on Ryderwyle for centuries and was nigh impossible to retrieve. The metal gives off this scent that lures in monsters. I made a few attempts, but the little beasties guarding it weren’t too keen on letting it go. A few defenders tried to help me, but…well, they’re in the catacombs now. Then, a few days ago, that fool of a knight, Sir Kenneth, finally did something right. He got the sword. Whole lot of good it did though. It caused the winter wonderland on Ryderwyle and all the little beasties pursued it to the mainland. The sword didn’t work for Sir Kenneth, so now it’s somewhere in Cliffside Tower, guarded again by the monsters of Horror Hollow. I tried to retrieve it a few days ago, but the queen ordered us remaining Civium to stick together. Probably because we’re all part of the mage’s quests. But enough of that nonsense. I have a task, and I’ll be cursed twice if Sir Kenneth could get the blade from Horror Hollow and I can’t get it from the Cliffside Tower.”

  So that was it, Clay realized with another shudder. The Dreadnaught was to die, and the only way to do it was a sword in Cliffside Tower after failing its previous owner. Didn’t seem too bad…except for the monsters. The Dreadnaught was one thing, but the “little beasties” of Horror Hollow now gathered in Cliffside Tower, intoxicated on the smell of the sword, willing to fiercely protect their prize… That was enough to shake the bravest man’s soul.

  “Let’s do this, then,” Clay said, forcing the bravado in his voice.

  The Watchmaker gave him a raised eyebrow.

  “You’ll die for it,” the Watchmaker replied.

  Clay puffed up his chest.

  “Then I’ll die for Dembroch,” he said, his voice straining.

  The Watchmaker let out a bark of a laugh. “I misjudged you, boy. You’re brave and stupid. Come along then. If you must follow through with this task and die like the others, who am I to stop you?”

  And so they walked into the woods. Clay’s heart thundered with fear, but also the prospect of adventure. Dare he say it, or even think it, he felt young again.

  CHAPTER 19:

  The Gate Grounds

  Wind blasted Meg in the face. She hunkered down and pressed on, the light of the sunset lighting her way.

  The southeast lands of Dembroch were alien and strange compared to the rest of the mainland. Limbless, burnt trees stood among plates of sandstone. Wind raced across the flat expanse, creating winding trails of sand and salt. Dark waves splashed chaotically on the sandstone cliffs and inlets.

  The otherwise uninteresting landscape was punctuated by pools of boiling water and glistening cones of mineral build-up. The scent of sulfur hung in the air. At varying times, the pools boiled over and colorful steam of various colors poured from the surface. The air was filled with faint greens, blues, yellows, and reds. It was enough to give anyone pause, but Meg was in no mood to gawk. There was less than twenty-four hours to save this kingdom, and she would save it if it was the last thing she did.

  As she had expected, Page Trey stood in a ring of hot springs some hundred feet ahead. His eyes were closed and he was murmuring under his breath. The wind tossed his golden hair and mustard yellow robes. A couple walking sticks lay at his feet. The swords gleamed in the sunset.

  When she was next to him, Meg cleared her throat.

  Page Trey’s eyes snapped open. He frowned heavily, quite the contrast to the jovial, youthful expression he’d demonstrated earlier.

  “Try not to move, Lady Meghan,” he said, some of his words getting lost in the wind. “We wouldn’t want you to fall into the wrong door.”

  “What?” Meg shouted, her patience growing thin.

  Abruptly, all the geysers fell still. Burning hot water splashed back to the ground and only white steam emitted from the pools.

  The page exhaled sharply.

  “What can I do for you, Lady Meghan?” he asked, frustration oozing from him.

  “I’m here to help you,” Meg replied. “With whatever it is you’re doing.”

  Page Trey stuck his nose in the air.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I am honored. However, you may carry on with your tasks. I am in no need of assistance, I assure you.”

  “That’s not what you said back in the castle,” Meg reminded him.

  “And you politely declined my request,” Page Trey replied.

  Meg grumbled under her breath. She knew what the page was doing.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Please let me help you?”

  “No need,” he scoffed. “I can do this on my own.”

  I’ve heard that before, Meg thought angrily, having said the same thing several times a day to her incapable employees.

  Meg forcibly removed her ego and politely said, “I’m sorry for offending you earlier. May I help you now?”

  “You have had a change of heart?” he asked. “You believe in saving my master?”

  “Yes,” Meg said solemnly.

  “You’ll have to change more if you hope to stir the Gate Grounds.”

  “Try me.”

  Page Trey considered her for a moment.

  “You will help me find the gate?”

  “Whatever that means, yes.”

  “You will come with me to Ryderwyle?” he asked.

  Meg bit her lip.

  “If I have to,” she said.

  Page Trey sighed heavily.

  “Fine,” he said. “But only because you insist.” A smirk tugged at the edges of his lips. “Now, to business. I am here to seek my master, a magician in his own right and the combat trainer of the kingdom’s defenders. He was trapped on Ryderwyle after that idiot knight took the fortissium blade—a sword—from Horror Hollow. Then the Dreadnaught destroyed the skybridge.”

  “What? Speak English, please?”

  Page Trey scowled.

  “On Ryderwyle, there is a hollow which holds a storm stone. When the fortissium blade was taken, the stone was disturbed, thus the winter storm sieging the island. The knight who did this escaped before the surrounding ocean froze over. My master has been trapped ever since.”

  “For how long?”

  “In standard time,” the page mused, “perhaps a week.”

  “And he’s still alive?”

  “You doubt my master?” the page asked. “He is quite accomplished with survival techniques and can bend the kingd
om’s magic to his every whim. I have no doubt he survived this last week. But since the magic has fully died, I fear he is in danger. I need to find him before he freezes to death…if he has not already.”

  “Don’t you need to find the sword first?” Meg asked, thinking this seemed obvious. “Get the sword back to the Hollow thing and the storm goes away?”

  “Saving my master is my priority,” Page Trey said. “Fixing the weather can come later.”

  “So just row over to the island—”

  “You would freeze before you reached the one accessible shore on the northern edge. The rest of the island is steep cliffs.”

  “Okay, then,” she said, trying to hide her arrogance. “Why are we standing here then? How does this get us to Ryderwyle?”

  Page Trey motioned to the land around them.

  “We stand in the Gate Grounds. There are dozens—nay, hundreds—of gates that lead to elsewhere in the kingdom and the world beyond.”

  Confused, Meg glanced around. She saw ocean and rocks, dead trees and hot springs, steam and far-off castle turrets, but no gates.

  Before she could say anything, Page Trey added, “They’re invisible.”

  Meg nearly laughed, but bit her tongue hard.

  “You’re trying to find an invisible gate?” Meg asked. “As in a doorway?”

  “Not just any,” Page Trey said. “The one to Ryderwyle.”

  Meg began to roam around the circle of hot springs, looking for any sign of a doorway or gateway.

  “Careful, my lady,” Page Trey said. “Just because you cannot see them doesn’t mean you can’t walk through. Some are stationary, others orbit the grounds. It’s a miracle you made it to my side without stumbling through one. I myself use the staves to prevent falling into a gate.” He motioned to the walking sticks at his feet. “Once through, there is no return trip. I ended up in Scotland not long ago.”

  Impatience ground away within her. This all seemed so ludicrous, so outrageous, so impossible… But in the last few hours, she’d seen too much she couldn’t explain. And if those were real, these invisible doors must have been too.

  “Okay, okay,” she said, standing still. “So how do you find a doorway you can’t see?”

  “The geysers,” Page Trey explained. “There is a chemical in the eruption vapor that illuminates the doors. Once they’re visible, we can see which to walk through and which to avoid. But the trick is getting the geysers to explode at the same time. Only then is there enough colored steam to illuminate all the doors. At least…that’s how it worked when the magic was thriving.”

  “You’re just standing here, waiting for geysers to explode simultaneously?” Meg asked.

  Page Trey nodded. “And stay that way. The longer the geysers gush, the longer I can see the doors.”

  “That seems like a waste of time. And if it doesn’t work anymore because your magic is gone…”

  “Nothing is a waste of time,” Page Trey implored. “There is merely the march of time and how we decide to use it. As for myself, with the kingdom on the verge of collapse, I know I must reach my master. It is time-consuming, yes, but I cannot just hope to stumble around the Gate Grounds and miraculously fall through the right gate.”

  “Seems faster—” Meg began, circling the geysers again, reaching out to see if she would feel an invisible door or if her hand would miraculously disappear.

  “Lady Meghan! Wait!” Page Trey suddenly shouted.

  Meg felt a lurch in her stomach. It was like an invisible blanket wrapped around her arm and pulled. The world around her became alarmingly blue. The next instant, she landed with a splash in a shallow pond.

  She shook her head, confused. She was no longer on the white flats of the Gate Grounds, but instead at the bottom of a deep, steep canyon, waist deep in a shallow pool of water. Dozens of other pools surrounded her, baby turtles and crawfish wandering lazily from one to the next. The setting sun was shining bright in her face now, reflecting off the sea. High above, past the canyon walls and gnarled trees, she could the tips of castle turrets.

  She knew instantly what had happened: she had found a door, an invisible one, and fallen right through it into the shallows of Coral Canyon.

  Meg waded out of the pool and began searching for the invisible door. She swept the shallows for it, looking absurd with her outstretched arms. A few minutes later, she remembered what Page Trey had said: the doors were one-way trips. Once you walked through them, you couldn’t get back.

  “Dammit,” Meg grumbled, and she began her long walk out of the Coral Canyon and back to Page Trey and the Gate Grounds.

  ◆◆◆

  It took her the better part of a half hour to get back, only because she borrowed a horse from the Bridgemaster’s stables. Her thighs were chaffed, she had a blister, it was dark, and she was in a foul mood.

  At the edge of the Gate Grounds, Meg dismounted the stead and began walking in. Page Trey was a quarter of a mile away, still in the center of the springs, arms stretched to the sky. The entire ring of geysers spat up colorful columns of water and steam. And there, scattered around the pools of water, Meg saw doors. Seven feet tall and four feet wide, she saw at least twenty rectangular doors, some standing still, others moving slowly in orbits, all illuminated green and blue and brown by the colorful geyser mist.

  “Wait!” she shouted at Page Trey. “I’m coming!”

  “Patience!” Page Trey called to her, motioning for her to stop walking.

  But patience had never been Meg’s strong suit. Time and efficiency was her master, and she was its slave.

  She felt it too late, the tug and pull. The next instant, she was pulled through another door. The Gate Grounds disappeared, and she was in darkness, laying at an incline on cold wood. Her impatience got the best of her and she let out an infuriated shriek.

  CHAPTER 20:

  The Catacombs

  Jenn and Sir Rignot’s footsteps echoed off the stone walls as they descended the stairs to the catacombs. The further they went, the colder and danker it became. Chiseled black stones became stained with moss and dew.

  The librarian was surprisingly silent. Jenn sensed he was more scared than her.

  At last, they reached the foot of the stairs. It was freezing cold. The librarian’s hands shook as he fit the key into the metal door and opened it. Beyond was a hallway of oily blackness. There was a dim light at the far end.

  Jenn motioned for the librarian to lead her, but he insisted she lead the way. Any other day, she would have turned and run but she had to complete her task. She had to save Dembroch and all the good it stood for. Maybe, just maybe, she could be part of it and help people in a way she had always wanted. But not without finding the seer’s Sight.

  Despite her fear and panic, she gulped and, holding her torch ahead of her, led the way.

  Through the hallway, they emerged into an immense cavern. High above, Jenn saw the glistening edges of stalactites, tiny rectangular windows dim with sunset, and the foundations of the castle. There were glimmers of light up there too, in the middle of the ceiling, perhaps lightning bugs or stars or reflective surfaces.

  On the cavern floor were aisles of coffins, all hand carved out of dark wood and stacked three high and two wide. Sprouting amongst the aisles were immense trees with black bark and luminescent leaves that dimly lit the cavernous catacombs.

  “Do you know where she hid the Sight?” the librarian asked.

  “In an unmarked grave—”

  Sir Rignot hissed his obvious disapproval. “Such a gift placed in a dwelling of inequity?”

  “She said it was Solomon’s grave,” Jenn said.

  The librarian grumbled under his breath.

  “Lead on,” he said. “We’ll find the wretch somewhere down here. I might break one of his bones while we’re at it.”

  They began to roam the aisles in search of Solomon’s open, unmarked casket. It was a simple, if not time-consuming, task. Most of the coffins were sealed. In the few
that had missing lids, Jenn saw skeletons of pure white and corpses of inhuman colors, but also small nameplates scored with the name of the dead defender lying within.

  Jenn and Sir Rignot reached the opposite side of the cavern where there was another door of wrought iron bars, presumably another exit, and a giant statue of King Richard atop a crypt.

  The two turned back and wandered new aisles. They were halfway through when Jenn came upon an atrocious mess. A stack of coffins had collapsed atop each other. Goo leaked from the middle one, saturating the ground with a dark, sticky mass. The topmost coffin had lost its lid, and within, Jenn saw a horrific corpse. Half-eaten and half-disintegrated, the corpse was dressed in the chainmail of a knight. The half-decayed face still captured an expression of absolute agony.

  Jenn turned away, gagging. Maybe this task wasn’t for her. Maybe she could wait at the exit while the librarian did the searching for her.

  No, she told herself. She couldn’t rely on her husband or the librarian or others to do her work for her. She had to do this on her own.

  Suddenly, there was a thump. Jenn and Sir Rignot spun to its source. One row of coffins away was the stone wall of the chamber. Caskets had been propped upon the wall.

  There was another thud. This time Jenn saw the coffin tremble. The body inside was trying to escape.

  Her imagination was on fire, already predicting what would happen next. The dead would arise. The many knights and dames would seek out Jenn, bringing another into the fold and deep into the grave.

  That’s when, as if beckoned by Jenn’s fears, the trembling coffin let out a bone-chilling scream.

  Jenn screamed, too. She tried to run, but tripped on Sir Rignot. They scrambled to her feet just as the coffin broke open. A skeleton flew out at Jenn. She swung with her torch and the skeleton exploded into pieces.

  Jenn shuddered, breathing hard. Movement caught her eye.

  Another being emerged from the coffin. But it was a human, not a skeleton.