The Black Knight

by Sean Christopher Allen

  “And if we cannot?”

  “Prepare for eternity.”

  Like in response to Alastor’s darkness, the sun’s light is suddenly dimmed, followed by the sound of thunder in the distance. Rain begins to pound the castle, taking all within off guard by the abrupt appearance of such a storm. Alastor laughs to himself softly, leaving the throne room as he does so.

  “Where are you going, Alastor?” Isolde calls after him.

  “Why, to stand in the rain, of course, Your Highness.”

  Uri’el and Shira chase after him, finally catching him outside. Uri’el grabs Alastor by the shoulder, twirling him around.

  “What is wrong with you!?” Uri’el demands.

  Alastor opens his mouth to argue, but instead swoons, nearly fainting. Uri’el and Shira hold him tight.

  “I wish I knew,” sighs Alastor as they bring him back up to his feet. “Cain’s blasphemous act has done more to me than change the physical. Something inside has been horribly influenced.”

  “We can all see that, Alastor.”

  “Can you? I guess you would...”

  “We are here if you need us, brother. Shira, myself, Taranis, Isolde, Cardea. All of Halvard and Judeheim. If you feel yourself slip, we are all here for you.”

  Alastor steps away from Uri’el and Shira, walking toward the militia sparring ground.

  “Thank you very much, but I do not think that any of you can really help me. Not anymore.”

  ~-~~-~

  The sparring arena is empty, but the training dummies are still set up. Alastor steps on a wooden sword and, picking it up, he haphazardly strikes at the nearest dummy. At first, his fight with the straw man is playful, a swing here, a parry there. But Alastor’s mind slips back to Valachia, when he stood at the stairs, looking up at Cain in his armor. His attacks on the dummy become more ferocious, and soon he dismembers the stuffed man until he breaks the wooden sword. He swipes up another, taking it to another dummy, then another and another. Minutes later, Alastor stands amidst the remains of all the straw men in the yard.

  “Not a vision of the future, I hope,” a voice calls out.

  Cardea steps carefully over the sackcloth and hay remains as though they were real men, slain in a war.

  “Only if my father has made duplicates of himself,” Alastor replies sarcastically.

  “What do you see in your future, Alastor? What do you see after defeating him?”

  Alastor has to think for a moment.

  “Truthfully?”

  “I would ask for nothing else.”

  “Nothing. I see absolutely nothing.”

  “Do you truly have no hope?”

  “I am empty, Cardea.”

  “Is this what Elizabetha and Charlotte would have wanted of you? To be a wraith-like shadow of who you really are?”

  “No more than they may have desired to be killed by Cain so that he could make a deal with the devil.”

  “Then why do this to yourself?”

  “It is all I feel anymore. Nothing good. Nothing pure. Just a hollow void and a hatred, burning like the sun, stoked by the evil Cain has wrought. Evil that I, through my inaction, allowed.”

  “I told you that your mother’s and sister’s deaths were not your fault.”

  “It is not only them I think of! All those who died, Uri’el’s brethren, those who followed mother and sister’s rebellion, those whose lives I forced them to forfeit by handing out those damned letters! All the lives since. All those to come. Past, present and future haunt me all at once, Cardea. Coupled with what father has inadvertently done to me, I am barely able to maintain my sanity, let alone think of a future with hope for myself.”

  Cardea looks deeply into Alastor’s eyes, into his soul, finding there the anguish so prominent in his voice.

  “What should I do?” she asks, feeling completely helpless in light of what Alastor has said.

  “Do you hold faith in this nameless God, Cardea?”

  “With all my heart, Alastor.”

  “Then... pray for me. Talk to your God on my behalf.”

  Cardea leaves, on the verge of tears, heading for Halvard’s temple, the second largest building in the whole city. Alastor falls down to the ground, still holding the wooden sword, and there he remains, alone, until Taranis visits with him a lifetime later.

  “A nice mess you have made here, Alastor.”

  “My apologies, but I need to spend the time until Cain arrives training.”

  “I would think that real men would offer more resistance than straw ones.”

  “What do you recommend?”

  Taranis smiles, cunning and humored.

  “Wait here,” he says, leaving in a rush.

  Alastor is clueless as to what the King has planned. Taranis soon enough reappears with Uri’el, and with them come winged ones and Taranis’ own Elite Guard. Wordlessly, they surround Alastor, taking up wooden swords. At first Alastor is unsure what to make of this, but then that malignant smile spreads across his face. He stands and they all attack him at once, leading to a grand mock battle which migrates around the whole militia complex.

  Alastor spars with them far into the night, none able to best him. The King, eventually forgetting that this is supposed to only be a means of training, unleashes his full fury on Alastor. Alastor comes to learn the means of controlling the darkness inside, sending Taranis to the ground at every turn.

  And so, the next three days are spent similarly; Cardea is joined by Isolde, Shira and her newborn in the temple, while Taranis leads the others in the preparations, using Alastor to gauge the potential strength of Cain. Alastor uses them likewise, gaining greater and greater mastery of himself.

  The whole time, the rain does not cease.

  On the morning of the day Cain is to arrive, Alastor stays in his allotted section of the castle, watching the lake move as the rain hits its surface.

  A knock at the door.

  “Enter,” Alastor calls out.

  Uri’el walks in.

  “Taranis has given you permission to take what you want from his family’s armory.”

  Alastor reluctantly steps away from the window, following Uri’el.

  “So, a son or a daughter?” Alastor asks while the two walk.

  “A son.”

  “What did you name him?”

  “Ari’el.”

  Alastor smirks, looking to Uri’el.

  “Nice name.”

  “Shira thought so.”

  “She is too kind.”

  “I like the name also.”

  The castle, Alastor comes to discover, is devoid of any of the court. The halls quiet and unlit.

  “A little empty, is it not?”

  “Taranis sent everyone to their homes, to spend time with their families.”

  “Good man.”

  “Indeed he is.”

  “Where is Cain?”

  “Roughly a mile away by now. He is alone, making his way slowly.”

  “Do you think he might be afraid?”

  “Of you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I believe so. He feared you before, and now that you are a bit more difficult to kill, I would believe that fear in all likelihood remains.”

  “What was there to fear? Mother had told me that I was sent to Elenesia so that I could not interfere with him, and it was not the first time she spoke such.”

  “Elizabetha was enigmatic. Frighteningly so, to be honest. Her and Cain were the antithesis of one another. Why she chose him as a husband I could never get her to explain.”

  “Wait... she chose Cain?”

  “You did not know?”

  “I never heard of such a thing. Why the hell would she have chosen a man like Cain?”

  “As I said, she never told me, but that did not stop me from forming an hypothesis.”

  “What is that?”

  “To give birth to you. Cain probably knew this was why she married him, and is probably why he feared you. Why h
e raised you the way that he did.”

  “How could she know...”

  Alastor stops in the middle of speaking, recalling the ways in which his mother spoke. ‘It is the prayer of my heart that someday, somehow, you will see as I do, Leon.’ Was that a simple hope of him seeing Cain for what he was, or something more?

  “Elizabetha was not normal by any means, Alastor,” Uri’el says with a lower voice. “Part of me wants to say that she was not even human.”

  “Coming from someone that is not human, I am not sure what to think of that.”

  “I have spent enough time with your kind to know when one is abnormal.”

  “Abnormal?”

  The two continue walking to the King’s armory.

  “I have not the words to articulate my thoughts on her, but I know she was different from the rest of your kind.”

  “Was she wholly unique in that regard?”

  Uri’el pauses, formulating his answer.

  “No, actually. She was not, but she was fairly unique amongst the abnormal, with the exception of one, if that makes any sense to you.”

  They enter the armory, finding Taranis there, looking through the weapons, armor and other pieces of equipment.

  “Alastor,” says the King as the two walk in, “feel free to take what you want. You need to be well armed when you fight Cain.”

  Alastor scrutinizes the contents of the armory room, unimpressed. The metal work is good, the swords and shields are expertly detailed, but he finds fault in it all.

  “There is nothing here that could stop father,” Alastor tells Taranis.

  “How do you mean? This is the finest Halvard’s smiths have ever produced in the entire history of the kingdom.”

  Alastor takes a simple blade, holds it out and breaks it with his bare hand, sending shards flying.

  “If I can do this, so can he. These might be of use against men, but not him, especially with the armor he wears.”

  “You cannot face him unarmed.”

  “I do not think that will be an issue,” Alastor says, turning to Uri’el.

  Taranis observes them, unsure what to make of Alastor’s somewhat cryptic words and that slight glance between the two.

  “What about armor?”

  “Unnecessary.”

  “So, you will face him unarmed and without armor. Tell me, Alastor... have you gone completely insane?”

  “While I would rather not be without a sword, armor is too cumbersome anyway. And to answer your question: not completely. At least, I do not think I have.”

  Alastor leaves the armory, Taranis and Uri’el following.

  On the streets of Halvard, both the army and militia stand, waiting and ready to act if they are needed. The grand courtyard outside the castle is empty. Alastor moves to its center and there he kneels on one knee.

  “Should not you two be with your wives?” he asks Uri’el and Taranis.

  As if hearing Alastor, the castle empties into the court, and the winged ones take to the roofs of Halvard’s houses and businesses.

  “While we might not be able to fight him, we will not abandon you to Cain,” Uri’el assures Alastor.

  Cardea comes to Alastor, steps soft as a ghost, carrying a bundle. She falls to her knees, Alastor staring at the bundle in disbelief as she opens it, revealing a leather sheathed sword. The hilt leaves no doubt. Cardea hands it over to Alastor.

  “Lionkiller,” he stammers. “How do you have it?”

  “You told Charlotte to hide it when you came home from Elenesia, remember? In her last letter to me, she explained that it was Elizabetha who told her to send it here.”

  As Alastor unsheathes the blade, a small, tattered piece of parchment falls out. On it is written three words in a delicately beautiful script:

  Take heart, Alastor

  “Mother,” he whispers as he reads it and reads it again.

  He folds the parchment and puts it in his shirt. The horn at the gates is sounded, causing all eyes to migrate toward its direction. As he stands, Cardea embraces Alastor, kissing him softly on his cheek.

  “We have faith in you,” she whispers in his ear. “We always have.”

  Cardea retreats, standing with Isolde and Shira, who holds little Ari’el. The soldiers and militia run up the main road to the castle, fear in their hearts and on their faces. The Guardians on the tops of the buildings flare their wings and growl as Cain passes by them.

  Cain is steady and apathetic to the men and winged as he makes his way up the road, his armor different than it was in Valachia; spikes, hooks and other disgusting things used to literally rip his victims to shreds. Coming into the courtyard, Cain stops, looking around at all gathered there. Inevitably, he looks to Alastor, and then to Lionkiller in his right hand.

  “That sword!” Cain growls, his voice inhuman and unholy. “Why does it still exist?”

  “Consider it Charlotte’s last act of defiance, father,” Alastor answers dryly.

  Cain wastes no time, barreling toward Alastor with sword drawn. Alastor does the same, running at Cain, throwing Lionkiller’s sheathe to the wayside. Cain swings wide, trying to cut Alastor down, but Alastor falls to his knees, sliding on the wet, rain soaked road, rotating and plunging Lionkiller into Cain’s side. Alastor rips his sword out of his father’s side, cutting clean through the Black Armor.

  “Damn that sword!” Cain roars as he staggers from Alastor’s attack.

  Alastor jumps to his feet, ready to face Cain, but Cain is already mid-swing. Alastor instinctively raises his shield arm to catch the attack, but his eyes open wide as he remembers that he has no shield. Cain’s sword cuts through Alastor’s flesh, but is stopped at the bone. He shunts Cain’s sword away and thrusts Lionkiller into Cain’s ribs. They push each other away, standing still for a moment.

  “What have you done to me?” Alastor demands.

  “I did nothing, pathetic child, except unlock what was apparently within you all this time,” Cain answers vindictively.

  “And what was within me?”

  “Ask your mother!”

  Cain attacks Alastor again, and the two fight wild and savage, each wounding the other with strikes and gouges that should be fatal to anyone else. The sound of their epic battle rumbles through Halvard, louder and more powerful than the rain and the thunder. The more frenzied they become, the more that their injuries and lacerations stop healing. Alastor’s clothes are torn, leaving his wounds exposed, while blood flows out from under Cain’s armor.

  Seeing both men so winded and hurt, the soldiers, the militia, the winged and even Uri’el and Taranis unsheathe their weapons, ready to pounce in at any moment.

  Even with the armor, Cain is only an equal to Alastor. This thought infuriates Cain, causing him to find a second wind. Father beats son down; Alastor, unable to maintain his strength, falls to the ground, Lionkiller slipping from his hand.

  “Just like when you were younger, right Alastor!?” yells Cain as he punches and kicks Alastor. “Or is it still Leon? You are nothing but a weak little kitten!”

  Alastor struggles to move, slipping on the wet ground each time he tries to find a foot or hand hold. Cain circles Alastor, watching. All of Halvard is frozen, by fear, by disbelief. Cain readies a final blow, pulling his arm back to thrust into Alastor.

  Alastor can only think of those three words on the parchment. Take heart, Alastor. Elizabetha had never called him by that name, even before she gave him his second name. Could she have seen what was to come? Could she have known he would abandon the name he earned? Time stops as a cheerless smile crosses his lips.

  Just as Cain’s blade is but a hair’s breadth from him, Alastor rolls to avoid it while retrieving Lionkiller. Cain plunges his sword deep into the stone road, all the way through and into the earth itself. In that same instant, Alastor drives Lionkiller into Cain, upward through his ribs, piercing his black heart. With a final twist of Lionkiller, Cain falls backward, lifeless.

  No roars.


  No screams.

  He falls silently. The crowd looks on breathlessly, the reality of what they have seen not yet sinking into their minds.

  Alastor lurches forward, standing over Cain, he himself unwilling to accept that he is dead. He kneels down, thinking of removing Cain’s helmet to check. The moment his finger touches the black metal, the armor reacts, showing a life of its own. It reaches out, like the tendrils of some sea-beast, coiling around Alastor, smothering him, encasing him. Alastor screams out in agony as the living armor holds him, but more terrifying to Alastor than the act is the will, the armor reacting to his own darkness and turmoil.

  He feels it looking into his heart and soul. The armor becoming part of him.

  Alastor writhes, overcome by the armor’s affect on his mind. But, like with all things, it subsides. Alastor rolls to his hands and knees. Through his blurred vision he can tell that his hands are not bare, but gauntleted, and his head covered by a helmet. Sitting up, he sees Cain, nothing more than a battered, broken man. Alastor feels his chest. There the armor is too. He stands, still in a daze, just noticing the hundreds of horrified faces looking at him, none of which matter except for Cardea, though she looks at him as she always had. A cough breaks the silence.

  Cain still lives.

  “How can this be?” Taranis says, running to Alastor’s side.

  Alastor again looks at his metal clad hands.

  “Samael’s agent will not so easily be killed it seems, Your Highness.”

  “Is there nothing you can do? Use the armor perhaps?”

  Without consciously thinking, Alastor wills a blade to come from the armor, a small laugh coming from him as he sees it. He attempts to run Cain through, but the blade retracts the closer to Cain it gets. Uri’el retrieves Lionkiller, which had been sent flying away when the armor latched onto Alastor. Uri’el hands Lionkiller to Alastor, but the armor prevents him from taking possession of it, the joints of the armor locking up until Alastor stops trying to take his weapon.

  “Behead him,” Alastor orders Uri’el.

  Uri’el swings the sword, but even as it passes through Cain’s flesh, the wound heals instantly.

  “This is not good,” Uri’el says darkly.

  “Uri’el, fly to Judeheim and let them know Cain is fallen but still alive,” Alastor orders. “They might know what we can do.”

  Uri’el gives Lionkiller to Cardea before leaving. Cain stirs. With a shriek of hatred, Cardea thrusts Lionkiller back into his heart. Cain stops moving, but his breathing continues.