The Black Knight

by Sean Christopher Allen

  “He?”

  “Lucius, the Necromancer,” Morrigan responds on Amy’s behalf.

  “He somehow came into the spirit world, still made of flesh,” Amy explains. “He offered us, the dishonored, a chance for revenge against those who condemned us if we would serve him. Many agreed to his terms and through his dark powers, we were ripped from the dishonored land, given again flesh and bone, but a new flesh to suit his needs. He seemed to know who I was, my history, and how I died. As such, he chose me as his second lieutenant. He needed only say the name, the name of the man I hated, the man I wanted so very much to kill, Alastor, and I would do anything for him. Knowing this, Lucius sent me on my first mission: to find the rogue princess of Halvard and kill her. Alastor, I was assured, would show himself. When he did, I was at my discretion to do as I pleased, so long as it did not conflict with Lucius’ ultimate goal.”

  Morion is confused at this.

  “I do not understand. If that were true, why did you not simply kill us when you had the chance?”

  “We tried. Well, Cale tried. It was his idea to use Hector’s assassins in the forest. Then ‘Tristan,’ as you had taken to calling Alastor, came. Cale did not know anything about Alastor, and I could not fully remember his face. The man who saved you and the Alastor I knew seemed so different that Cale and I had little choice but to play along, continuing the bard masquerade, fearful of whoever this man was because, clearly, he was not normal.”

  “Why not just kill us as we slept?”

  “Well, if I wanted to, I could not have anyway. ‘Tristan’ never slept, as though his life depended on not sleeping. Which is just a nice way of telling you that he always suspected us of our ties. Twice we signaled for more assassins, and twice ‘Tristan’ defended you.”

  “You say ‘if you wanted to.’ Why?”

  “Meeting you, talking to you and ‘Tristan’... it stirred something in my soul, a soul I forgot I had. Lost memories that I could not see. Being with you two, I felt human again. I did not want to hurt you anymore.”

  “Yet you attacked Alastor when he revealed himself,” Mikha’el points out.

  “Cale saw what he called my ‘growing cowardice.’ He threatened to inform Lucius if I did not do what I was sent to do. Cale then began reminding me of the hell that he and I had been living in, that Alastor had sent me to. He rekindled my hatred. But only for Alastor. So it was he and he alone that I tried to attack.”

  Mikha’el rubs his chin, pondering over the story he has heard.

  “Many questions have you answered, except one,” he says.

  “What might that be?”

  “Why the change of heart? Why did you help us?”

  Amy looks to Morrigan as she answers.

  “Understand that it was Alastor that I helped, first and foremost. That you two benefitted is secondary to me. That said, remember that my memories had faded. Who I was had long ago, by my accounting, vanished. This Fairy gave them back to me. I went against my new master in an effort to right my wrongs, as Alastor has done, and his father before him. I see Lucius for what he is, and anything I can do to help Alastor end his terror, I will do.”

  “Then you can begin by telling us how the Necromancer is able to move between this world and the other.”

  “I did not learn how he managed the feat in the short time between being pulled from the dishonored land and sent on my mission with Cale. All I do know for certain is that all of us, the elite former dead that is, can at will do it ourselves... though at great physical and spiritual toll.”

  “A toll? You mean to say Lucius would limit his own lieutenants?” remarks Morion.

  “I do not think it to be intentional, but the nature of his power.”

  “He is strong, but his craft is not perfect,” Morrigan adds.

  “Not yet anyway,” muses Amy.

  “What sort of toll is it?” asks Mikha’el.

  “Our bond to this world loosens each time we move between the two. Lucius would have been forced to fashion new bodies for those who have been weakened drastically. If we break the bond totally, we are pulled back into the dishonored, wrecked and ruined. A mere shade. In that state, there is no coming back.”

  “Is there any way that this can be used against the Necromancer?” asks the Queen.

  “I do not know. I hoped Alastor would have some insight into that.”

  “Without Alastor,” Morrigan says with authority, “any more talk on this subject is pointless. The best thing we can do right now is the simplest.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Rest of course,” the Fairy says, looking to Morion.

  “She is right,” Mikha’el says to Morion. “My Lady, it has been a long day. Rest is in order, for all of us I think.”

  The Queen nods in acceptance. Amy’s story has fatigued her more than the events of the day, which seem now to exist in some far off place. Now, she thinks, she understands Alastor fully. His coldness, the callousness. Its origin could easily have driven a lesser man to untold depths of insanity. Perhaps, she muses to herself, that process had already began.

  “Sleep is most tempting, but I need to see Alastor first,” she tells Mikha’el.

  “As you wish, My Lady.”

  With a final glance to Morrigan, Amy and Mikha’el, the Queen leaves the hall.

  ~-~~-~

  Back in Alastor’s room, Morion finds the Knight in an ill state. His skin has grown ever paler, his body twitching for some unknowable reason. She looks to his forearms, there seeing the black metal, now freed of their former leather facades. She reaches out her hand to touch the metal.

  “I would not do that, My Lady,” Mikha’el’s voice suddenly rings out.

  Morion turns to his voice. Mikha’el stands at the doors.

  “Why?”

  Walking to the water basin, Mikha’el dips a finger into it, then lets a droplet fall into the metal. It evaporates immediately on contact with a loud crackle.

  “How is that possible? He is not burnt, and the sheets are not singed. I do not understand.”

  “Nor do I, fully at least.”

  “What do you suspect?”

  “I think it to be a defensive reaction from the armor itself, to protect the wearer. You see, it only reacts in such a way to those things which carry an element of life. It would not burn Alastor, as it protects him, and the sheets are far from living.”

  The Queen eyes the armor with aversion. Moving her hand away from the bracers to Alastor’s forehead only to recoil it in horror at the touch.

  “He is cold as ice!”

  “That he is, though it is of a most unnatural cause.”

  “Is there anything we can do for him?”

  “My Lady, what afflicts Alastor is beyond my ability to heal. For the first time in many a year, I am at a complete loss.”

  “I suppose then that we must trust in fate’s course.”

  Mikha’el walks passed Morion, stepping out on to the balcony.

  “I have looked into the eyes of Fate, My Lady, and I for one do not believe her competent to complete the task.” As he steps on to the railing, he looks back to the Queen. “I must be alone for a time, to let all I have learned today brew in my mind. I have already lit an oil lamp for you in your room. You should sleep.”

  With woe filled heart, Mikha’el flies off.

  Morion places her attention back upon Alastor, wanting so much to help him yet crushed by the knowledge that she can do nothing of the sort. Unsure of everything, she kisses him on the forehead, ignoring the chill, before leaving to her own room.

  The oil lamp burns brightly from its place on the vanity, the light reflecting in the mirror helping to illuminate the whole room. She carries it to the night stand, ready to extinguish it. She stops herself. There are no windows in this room. Rather than face the black of night again, she lets the lamp burn as she tries to fall asleep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Man in the Coffin

  Retu
rn to Table of Contents

  In her dream Morion is home again, but it is cold and silent. No one is seen in the city. The world has a darkly serene beauty to it.

  Tragically magnificent.

  The Queen drifts down the streets, through rain which hangs in the air, never to fall, always to be frozen in place. Her feet guide her against her will to the castle. Inside the hall, the music of a harpsichord is playing, coming from the direction of the throne room. Two lines of blue flames, floating on nothingness, light the way. She follows, a fly into the spider’s web.

  The blue flames all fly into the throne room, fanning out in an arc then closing in, becoming a halo around the throne seat. Morion follows them in cautiously. The music continues, a lamentable song. A funeral dirge.

  “Who comes into my resting place?” an ominous yet wise voice asks.

  “Who wishes to know?” Morion responds defiantly.

  “Oh, just a sad, lonely man. No different than so many others.”

  Morion surveys the throne room apprehensively, but there is no one there.

  “Where are you?” she asks.

  The voice laughs softly, the music increasing in tempo, but retaining its miserable spirit. A horrid grinding sound is added to it, stone upon stone. Morion watches the throne itself moving, sliding to the left. Once it has stopped, the Queen can see a dark entryway leading down, under the castle. Secret passages in ancient earth.

  “I reside down here, child. Come.”

  Against her better wisdom, Morion does so.

  Deep in the underbelly of her castle, a feeling of dread sparks to life, feeds on her fear, manifests in the form of a rapid heartbeat. The blue flames follow, burning pixies of ill omen. Morion cannot be sure if it is real or her imagination, but she would swear that she can hear the flames laughing, giggling, and just overall making fun of the Queen.

  “Who are you?” she asks the guiding voice again.

  “Has so much time elapsed that I have become utterly forgotten? A day is as a year in the eye of a god, but to one such as myself, though, centuries could very well have passed in the blink of an eye.”

  Morion treads into a coarsely hewn antechamber, opening into a large round room with a domed ceiling. In the center, over a pit of metal spikes like splintered bones and blades like razors, hangs a huge iron coffin bound by heavy chains anchored into the very walls. The music continues, emanating from within.

  “Is this a crypt or a prison?” she asks herself.

  “A bit of both,” the voice answers mirthfully from within the coffin, hearing her question.

  “You are in this coffin?”

  “Put all the pieces together yourself, have you? Yes. I am within, bound as a criminal within a box for the dead.”

  “I do not understand. Who bound you here?”

  The music comes to a ruthless end. Killed with a pound of the keys.

  “My bastard son and his pathetic allies,” the voice seethes. “The traitor and the coward! Him and the king of this insignificant castle!” he roars.

  The coffin stirs, whomever inside it thrashing about, screaming in agony and hatred.

  “What is your name?” Morion calmly asks.

  The thrashing stops. For a moment, a sickeningly eerie silence pervades the chamber, but is broken by an odd sound. A sound like sniffing, as a dog on a trail, comes from the coffin.

  “I know that blood. The stench has filled my nostrils for far too long in my sleep. Oh, innocent child, how I lament for thee. To be an unwitting accessory in their grand scheme and know me not. Free me, child, and grace shall be given to thee.”

  Without thinking, Morion sternly answers.

  “Never.”

  “You would deny me, child?”

  “Your chains tell me that I should hate you, and to condemn you to remain here. So I shall.”

  “Then I will slay you, and my son, and bathe in your blood!” the voice roars. The man in the coffin rages, pounding upon its interior with so much force as to cause the chains to rattle and creak. “Free me!”

  “Never.”

  “Free me!” he yells, slamming his fists against his metal prison.

  He continues, yelling and thrashing, his voice growing ever more desperate until at last he lets loose a wail of agony. So loud is the wail that Morion is awoken.

  ~-~~-~

  Sitting up in her bed, cold sweat covering her and with pounding heart, the Queen finds herself in safe haven. She shakes her head, trying to toss out the sound of that abominable pounding and wailing yet, try as she might, it will not end. Her initial thought is that she has finally gone mad but, after a quick tally of her mental faculties, it becomes clear that the sounds are not coming from her mind, rather it comes from outside her room.

  She throws back the covers, rushing to the door, unsure what to expect. Morion tries to ready herself, fingers trembling on the handle. She pulls the door open, exiting the room. In her dark imagination, she thinks she might find signs of supreme violence, conflict most foul. Instead, she comes upon Mikha’el on his knees, striking the wall and given to a half weep, half loathing.

  Morrigan and Amy come into the hallway also, descending from the Cloud Hall with distressed faces.

  “Mikha’el? What is the meaning of this?” asks Morion.

  Mikha’el grits his teeth, agony written on his face. His eyes looking beyond the wall before him, digging his taloned fingers into the stone. He turns his face up to Morion, but he cannot share her gaze.

  “My Lady, I have failed everyone.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Alastor has died!”

  Morion becomes expressionless. Shocked numb.

  “That is not possible,” she whispers.

  “Most impossible,” the Fairy reiterates.

  Mikha’el looks to the women, hoping for answers.

  “How so?” he asks. “There is no pulse in him, no breath.”

  Morrigan refuses to believe this. She enters Alastor’s room, quickly followed by the others. The Fairy removes Alastor’s bandages, his wounds are closed but now of a sickly color, like putrid, rotten flesh. She also checks the wounds on his back. They too are closed but nevertheless akin to the look of being week long dead. Laying him back down, the Fairy becomes confused. Where Alastor is unwounded, his flesh is normal, and that which was wounded appears to belong to a corpse. Closing her eyes, she places her hands on his chest, over his heart. After a time, she sneers in disgust, opening her eyes and looking at the bracers.

  “You damnable villain. Is there no end to your treachery?”

  “What is it Edna?” Morion asks, accidently using the Fairy’s false name.

  “Alastor is dead, and at the same time, he is alive. Just barely, but the spark is still there.”

  “How can he be alive yet dead? Such a thing is madness,” Mikha’el says.

  “Mikha’el, has Alastor ever told you, or for that matter any of you, what the Black Armor is?”

  “He made allusions, never more than that.”

  “Morion?”

  “He had said to me that ‘although this armor can bestow incredible power to us, the armor acts more as a sort of doorway into the best - but far more oft worst - elements of our souls. Even those with the best of intentions in their minds can, and usually were, drawn to serve evil.’ That is all he told me, and is thus all I know.”

  “Is that all he said?”

  Morion thinks for a second.

  “No, he had said before that the armor was a penance, not a gift. But he may as well have been speaking in riddles.”

  “Those things combine to become a rather accurate, albeit vague, representation of the armor. Adding to what Alastor said, with each wearer the armor does different things, granting power or knowledge. The effect of the armor is as widely varied as those who have worn it.”

  Morion is struck by a thought.

  “What did it give to Alastor?”

  Morrigan smiles broadly, rememberin
g some far off event.

  “Alastor, before coming into ownership of these bracers, had the strength of many men and it was nearly impossible to kill him, though he was quite mortal, as both Amy and Mikha’el can attest.”

  “And with the bracers?”

  “He is, in essence, immortal. Incapable of dying even if he wanted to, it appears.”

  “What if he had worn the whole suit?” Mikha’el asks quietly.

  “There is no telling, but Alastor and Eoin both believed whatever he became, it would be at the cost of his humanity. It was why Alastor was so fearful of the armor, and why he needed Eoin to seal it.”

  “If Alastor is immortal, Fairy, how is it that he lays here now, skirting the two worlds?”

  “Lucius must have learned of Alastor’s wearing the bracers, and discerned the effect they have upon him. With that knowledge, it seems that the Necromancer has set into motion a plan to incapacitate his brother.”

  “Incapacitate?” Amy repeats.

  “A powerful toxin works through Alastor’s veins. A compound forged by Lucius specifically for Alastor. Any other person, and death would have already come. But Alastor’s body is kept alive by the armor. The armor is trying to keep its wearer alive at all costs, but the toxin seems to become agitated by this, growing in potency. The armor reacts to this, the toxin is further agitated. It is as though - ”

  “He lives only to die the next instant, in an unending cycle,” Amy interjects, enmity in her voice for her former master.

  “Yes, that would have been the result of Lucius’ little trap, except...”

  “Except what?” Morion demands.

  “Alastor is not in his body. That is, his soul no longer occupies it.”

  “So he is dead?”

  “No. This is what confuses me. If he was truly dead, his soul gone from the body, the power within the bracers would have ceased, the toxin would take over and Alastor’s body would be overcome by it. None of this is right.”

  All of the company in that room become distant and brooding. A horrible thought comes to Morion.

  “If Alastor were to die, where would his soul go?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He said his bloodline was cursed. If he died, would he have done so dishonored?”