“What name did you just speak!?” Cale demands.
“She called me by my real name,” Alastor tells him coldly.
Cale bares his teeth like an animal, full of rage. Amy looks upon Alastor with a mixture of surprise, horror and with hate boiling just at the edges of her mind. Morion’s head swims in a moment of timelessness. When it feels as though this would never end, the room explodes with violence.
Cale and Amy leap forward; Cale toward Morion, Amy toward Alastor. In that instant of flight, the bards undergo a visible transformation - they become like the creature Alastor slew in the town with no name, except winged and retaining their human elements. Alastor, apparently having expected this attack, dashes to defend Morion from Cale the moment they thought about moving. Amy is too slow in reacting to Alastor, finding herself leaping into the powerful arms of Mikha’el.
Alastor and the grotesque creature that was and still is Cale meet mid-air, falling to the ground, wrestling with one another, knocking Morion out of her chair and to the floor. The Queen watches in silent horror as the two exchange savage blows, strikes that should cause permanent damage in even the strongest man.
Amy, firm in Mikha’el’s grasp, struggles against her captor whilst cursing at Alastor in that strange, foreign tongue. Morion does not understand it, but the tone is unquestionably accusatory.
Cale eventually manages to get the upper hand, pinning Alastor to the ground. Unsheathing a hidden blade, he plunges it into Alastor’s chest and, thinking his foe defeated, sets his attention back to Morion, who had been distancing herself from the conflict. Cale stalks the terror-stricken Morion, fangs dripping with bile, an otherworldly hiss coming from deep in his throat.
Unbeknownst to Cale, Alastor pulls the dagger from his chest like it was an annoying splinter and comes up behind his enemy. Amy cries out to her partner, but too late. Wheeling about, Cale is met by Alastor’s left hand suddenly lashing out, grabbing Cale by the throat and Alastor’s right hand thrusting the dagger into him. Cale roars in agony. With hollow heart, Alastor twists the blade and then pulls it out through Cale’s side. What would have disemboweled a normal man does something different; black blood pours from Cale, but before it can splash on the stone it becomes ash. The creature Cale’s eyes roll up into his skull. Alastor releases his grip, and Cale falls to the floor, his body rapidly decaying, crumpling to dust and bones as it lands.
Blood trickling out from under Alastor’s shirt brings Morion up to her feet in a flash to help him. Alastor loses his balance, but Morion is there to catch him. A deep yell pulls them from this moment. Amy has dug her taloned fingers into Mikha’el’s arm, followed with a bite, causing him to lose his hold on her. Amy kicks him away, using this opportunity to escape.
Amy leaps from the north balcony, spreading her wings and beginning to fly away. Mikha’el moves like lightning to the balcony; upon reaching it his cloak springs open, revealing it to be not an ordinary cloak, but actually a large pair of wings. Just as he is about to give chase, Alastor calls out.
“Let her go.”
Mikha’el looks to Alastor with supreme disappointment written on his face. He then notices that Morion is staring at him wide eyed with astonishment. As is his custom, Mikha’el bows to the Queen, letting his wings flare majestically before folding them back into his false cloak and coming to Alastor’s aid.
“I told you not to bring them,” Alastor says to Morion jokingly.
“Who... what... were they?” Morion stammers.
“The Necromancer’s spies, Your Highness.”
“There is an infirmary on the same floor as the king’s armory,” Mikha’el tells Morion after giving Alastor a quick visual examination.
The two support Alastor along the way downstairs. Morion’s head swims with the images of what has just happened. More than anything, she feels a sense of absolute betrayal. She turns her face to Alastor, thinking, feeling. Above all, confused. The infirmary is situated similarly to the one Morion had seen back at the inn, where Alastor was previously treated. Alastor frees himself from the help of his companions with an annoyed grunt, bringing himself up onto the center table under his own strength. Mikha’el takes to lighting the room while, again, Alastor removes his shirts. Morion blushes and lowers her head, if only for a moment, as inevitably she finds herself peeking back up.
She is able now to see closer the scars on Alastor’s body, varying in length and severity, but all appearing somewhat old. The sight helps her to forget the events of only moments ago. Mikha’el returns, carrying jars of leaves and salves.
“How did you get all those scars?” Morion asks Alastor, unashamed.
Alastor smiles while Mikha’el answers.
“Our mutual friend here thinks - or thought, rather - that he was an immortal. In his younger years, which honestly was not that long ago, he did many things that grown men would fear to do even for eternal glory and limitless treasure. One such thing was wrestling with wild animals, eventually culminating in fighting bears, apparently.”
“Bears?” Morion repeats in disbelief.
Alastor meets Morion’s eyes, a grin on his lips.
“Yes, bears. Among other things.”
“Braggart.”
“I do not brag, Your Highness.”
“I was joking.”
“I figured as much.”
“Even so, those do not look like the markings of animal claws.”
“Think for a moment how you might define what an animal is, Your Highness.”
Mikha’el begins to clean not only Alastor’s fresh wound, but also the older ones previously attended.
“Why would you do such a thing?”
“Fighting bears?”
“Or whatever it is you actually fought.”
“One can never be sure of his limits until he faces them, I suppose, and the only way to face one’s limit is to search for it.”
Morion stares at Alastor, thinking curiously on this. Before even realizing, Mikha’el has fully dressed Alastor’s wounds.
“Alastor, I shall fetch you clean clothes,” he says, then nodding to Morion, “My Lady, I shall return shortly.”
Morion smiles as Mikha’el leaves. She cannot help but feel a deep respect for him in her heart, seeing in him a pure genuineness not present in many others. The face of the Queen hardens though as she faces Alastor. He meets her burning gaze, knowing exactly what she is about to say.
“You cannot be the Black Knight. I met him.”
“When you were a child, of that there is no question.”
“Then explain this whole charade.”
“The Knight you met, the man under that armor, the eyes you looked into: he was my father.”
“Your... father?”
“Yes.”
Another moment of silence. Mikha’el returns. Alastor stands, putting on the shirts and tunic brought for him.
“My Lady knows the truth now, I would wager.” Mikha’el says, reading the faces of Morion and Alastor.
“Indeed she does, or will,” Alastor replies as he signals for them to follow out of the room. “Come.”
Mikha’el hands a candlestick to Morion, then takes one himself. Alastor leads them back down the spiral stair, only the echoing of their footfalls to be heard. The climb down is rapid, feeling like the distance has been halved. In her mind, Morion attributes this to the climb up being full of uncertainty, fear and anxiety; with the descent all that has been allayed, her suspicions confirmed, or at least painted a different color.
Back on the entrance floor of the keep, Alastor now guides Morion and Mikha’el to the far rear of the keep, where they come to a large oak door. Beyond the door, another staircase, going down into the bowels of the structure. They come into a labyrinthine network of tunnels and closed doors, but never do the three veer onto these paths, Alastor always going straight ahead. Shortly, they find a dead end with only a heavy set of double doors before them, which takes the combined strength of Mikha’el an
d Alastor to push them open.
The blood drains from Morion’s face as it dawns on her what the room contains.
The room is roughly cut from the earth, and in the center of which lays a lone coffin made of some crystalline mineral. The room, Morion discerns, is none other than a mausoleum. She is drawn to the coffin; in her mind’s eye she remembers and sees that day; that day when her mythical hero visited her. The face she remembered clouded by time is now all too clear. The face she remembers now rests peacefully, turned up toward her from behind the crystal.
The man she had for so long revered is dead.
Tears well in her eyes as she presses her hands to the crystal coffin, her hero eternally preserved within. Alastor sneers, annoyed, and starts to walk away.
“I do believe that I have fulfilled my obligation. I have safely brought you to the Black Knight,” he says before leaving completely.
Morion tries to react, but Alastor has already gone, leaving her alone with Mikha’el. Mikha’el, seeing the confusion and conflict in Morion, begins to explain in a low but powerful tone.
“Not long after that day when the Knight visited Halvard, he placed himself in absolute seclusion so that he might study. In the years that followed, he was eventually betrayed by one that was thought an ally. This betrayal led to his murder. The murderer was attempting to absorb the power, the essence I suppose, of the Knight. However, the murderer failed to take the Knight’s son, Alastor, in to account. Alastor was the heir to the mysterious power that the Knight held, and it transferred to Alastor upon the death of his father.”
Morion withdraws her hands from the coffin. She prays for wisdom.
“I had always thought that the Black Knight was something else. Something divine perhaps.”
“You mean to say not human.”
“More than human to be accurate.”
“I would think you are not far from the truth. The Knight and his son are extraordinary, of that I am certain. But, divine? Perhaps, but also perhaps not.”
“You know them better than any it would seem, yet you do not know their origin?”
“What I know is fragmented. Bits and pieces from various sources. Alastor occasionally speaks, but what I learned, I for the most part heard in stories as a child, handed down generationally and watered down, as is the nature of such stories.”
“Tell me what you know, please.”
“It will not satiate your appetite for knowledge, but I will share. Untold centuries ago, either just before or just after the All Kingdoms War, an event occurred. The event changes with each telling; be it alchemy, magic, divine providence or the doings of a rogue fairy; the very bloodline of the Knight was altered, and they came into possession of the Black Armor. Whatever this event was, it transformed them, made them more than men, yet at the same time, less... or so the legend goes.”
Morion says nothing, absorbing Mikha’el’s words intently.
“I will freely admit,” continues Mikha’el, “that Alastor is in fact the only one to speak with on this matter, though getting him to speak on this subject is quite difficult,” Mikha’el finishes with a laugh.
The Queen steps closer to the coffin containing her fallen hero. She is drawn to his face, peaceful yet stern, even in death. She thinks about Alastor; his actions, his words, yes, but more of his demeanor - his sadness. Without breaking her gaze, she asks.
“Is this why Alastor seems so removed? Even when he told me of his journey to Judeheim with father, I could tell that he set himself apart from, well, everyone else.”
“You mean did the murder of Alastor’s father bring about his self-imposed spiritual isolation?”
“Yes.”
“I, of course, think it plays a rather large role in his coldness. His separation from others. I doubt however that he would ever readily admit it.” Mikha’el moves beside Morion, looking down at her with soft eyes. “Besides, My Lady, is it really surprising? You know firsthand the very same feeling, do you not? It, I would think, makes any who feels it feel quite alone, quite apart. One might say that you and he are more alike than appearances show.”
The mausoleum falls silent, Mikha’el bowing his head in prayer. Before long, Mikha’el’s words sink into Morion mind. Her eyes open wide, coming to an epiphany.
“The Necromancer! The ghoul that aids my cousin; he was the murderer you spoke of!”
Mikha’el nods.
“One and the same, Alastor believes. The source of your grief and that of Alastor are entwined.” Mikha’el smirks. “I do think you have reason enough to go find him again. He is the one which you should be speaking with, My Lady.”
Morion nods and smiles politely before she leaves as fast as her feet can carry her. For the first time in what seems ages, her life is again making sense. Inversely, however, the very things she had spent her life believing in are now shrouded in uncertainty.
Up the stairs she strides, so fast even she is shocked. Intuition tells her, guides her, to Alastor where she finds him, as expected, in the armory. He is glaring at the armor with crossed arms. Words flow from Morion’s mouth without her even thinking to.
“The night at the tavern, why did you not just tell me then who you were? We could have rode to my home; we could have killed the Necromancer!”
“I would have,” Alastor says defiantly, “if you were more judicious in the company you kept.” His voice almost accusing as he faces her. “Even if I did tell you who I was, even if those spies were never there, can you honestly say you would have believed me? Trusted me? No, Your Highness; not without you gazing on the body of my father with your own eyes.”
Morion lowers her head, knowing he is right. Alastor goes back to the armor.
“What will we do about the Necromancer and my cousin?” she asks sheepishly.
Alastor answers sharp and brutal.
“I will kill the Necromancer. Your cousin, however, is your problem.”
“But the Necromancer strengthens and emboldens Hector.”
“When the Necromancer is dead, everything he has done will crumble and Hector will return to being the bumbling, inept idiot he always was. You shall take the kingdom which is rightfully yours and, as its Queen, deal with your traitorous kin as you see fit.”
At that thought, Morion smiles grimly.
“Mikha’el told me of your father’s death. Of the betrayal of a friend, and how it was the Necromancer that killed him.”
“Did he?”
“Is it true?”
“Was it true that there was a betrayal and that it brought about my father’s murder? Unfortunately, it is.”
“So then, in Judeheim, you did know who the Necromancer was all along?”
“I did.”
“But, if your father was the Black Knight, why would the Necromancer claim that it was the Knight that had him killed?”
“The Necromancer tried to steal my father’s power. He failed, and blamed me. He saw himself as the true Black Knight and decided to refer to himself as such. More intended as an insult, I believe, than anything else.”
Alastor’s story takes a new dimension, but this trove of new information breeds new questions. Morion takes a step closer to Alastor.
“Alastor, who was the one that betrayed your father?”
“I would rather not talk about that,” Alastor says, his voice shaky and uneven.
Morion cannot ignore this change in his usually solid facade, but again intuition tells her not to press this. She takes another step toward Alastor.
“Mikha’el also told me what little he knows of your bloodline. That you were changed and came into possession of that armor.”
“This is true, for the most part.”
“But what was this mysterious ‘event’ that changed your family, and what is the importance of that armor?”
Alastor laughs, not fully; rather like one does to a personal joke, known only to him.
“So many questions, yet not the one I would expect to hear.”
Morion raises an eyebrow. Yet another epiphany.
“Why do you not wear the armor?”
“There it is,” Alastor says with mock amazement. “If you took Mikha’el’s story at face value, his version makes it sound as though a gift from God himself was imparted upon my family.”
“One was not?” Morion asks, puzzled.
“No, Your Highness. Quite the contrary. We were cursed. The armor was part of our penance.”
Alastor, a sad smile on his face, shakes his head in disbelief.
“I do not think I know how to react, what to say...” Morion tells him.
“You need not worry about it now, Morion. It will all be clear eventually. For now, we should go back to the Cloud Hall and make a plan.”
~-~~-~
Following Alastor up the spiral stair, Morion comes to realize that her life has become of late one question after another; a thought that nearly makes her physically ill. So many secrets and half-deceits, people purposefully keeping her in the dark, even though her fate appears to be fatally tied to that of everyone else. The frustration is enough to drive her to scream, but she chooses instead to merely crack her knuckles.
Mikha’el is already in the Cloud Hall, standing statuesque on the west facing balcony.
“Alastor,” he calls out, “come look at this.”
Intrigued, Alastor and Morion go to Mikha’el. Far in the western sky, lights like ribbons dance and wave as banners caught in the wind.
“What would you make of that?” asks Mikha’el.
“Perhaps our little assassin has arrived at her master’s foot,” Alastor thinks aloud.
“But that distance took us days to cover. How could she have done it so fast?” queries Morion.
Mikha’el turns to her with a sly grin.
“It does not take nearly as long by wing, My Lady.”
“Assuming she flew the whole way,” Alastor whispers darkly.
A thick fog rolls in, obscuring the view. Alastor slinks away to sit in his chair, Morion following, sitting to his right. Mikha’el stands behind her, watching over them both. Alastor rubs his forehead as if in pain.
“Morion, what is the size of Halvard’s standing army?” he asks.
“Five thousand full time soldiers, another five thousand in reserve. Halvard rotates the standing army every six months to maintain battle edge, but also to allow the men plenty of time to be with their families.”
The Black Knight Page 15
