Rather than going back up to the Cloud Hall as he said he would, Alastor heads for the armory.
Chapter Twenty
The Return of the Black Knight
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The Black Armor stands where it has since Eoin encased it, the helmet looking as though it wears a mocking smile, knowing that it is soon to have a new wearer. Alastor reaches out, forcing a reaction from the bracers. What was once solid metal changes, moving, reforming, and finally becoming taloned gauntlets. Alastor looks at them with a mix of fascination and disgust. He flexes his fingers, forming fists, feeling a taste of what the armor has to offer.
The Knight digs his talons into the crystalline formation, piercing it with loud cracking, splintered slivers falling to the ground. The armor itself reacts, expanding and contracting to help free itself from its casing. Tendrils form from the talons, burrowing in and finally causing the crystal to shatter. The talons retract their tendrils, and Alastor is left staring at the armor, into the eye slits of the helmet. He reaches out to take the helmet, but it, the armor, reaches out first. Alastor briefly panics, but he remembers what his father taught him. He remembers hearing Eoin’s explanation of how it felt to have this parasitic armor latch on for the first time. The shock fades, and he becomes motionless, letting the armor do what it will, reshaping itself to mirror Alastor’s internal state.
More disturbing than the fact that the armor is alive is that Alastor can hear, as well as feel, a heartbeat from the armor. No story, nor tale, from his father ever warned of this. The spirit of the armor finally enters Alastor’s psyche, triggering the darkness of Cain’s curse. Alastor drops to his knees, trying to cope with this change. Pounding his fists into the floor, he cracks it, shakes the tower itself.
He roars.
He snarls.
He then remembers Lucius. Cain. His mind refocuses, the building rage and darkness channeled and the overwhelming desire for self-destruction calmed. The Knight faces the armory wall, the west wall, as though he can see his brother from here. He plows toward it, smashing through the wall and leaping from the keep to the ground far below.
When he lands, he discovers his stallion there as though it had been waiting the whole time. A bit of ice can be seen on the reins. When the Knight mounts, the armor spreads over the animal. It rears up, frightened, but soon finds control once the armor has finished its work. The stallion, without Alastor needing to rein it, starts the journey to the west. This, the greatest of horses, has proven its worth.
Halvard awaits them both.
~-~~-~
Morion, Amy and Mikha’el discuss the best way to infiltrate Halvard and avoid the turncoat army. A roar interrupts them, followed by the keep shaking violently.
“Alastor!” Morion whispers before she runs down to the armory, Amy and Mikha’el following after her with panic in their hearts.
The keep staggers severely, dust being knocked free from the bricks, followed by one final tremor and a loud crash. They come into the armory, see the hole in the wall, and below Alastor riding away at unnatural speed. Morion and Amy stand there, watching, while Mikha’el examines the shards that used to hold the Black Armor.
“No, Alastor,” he speaks softly, “what have you done?”
Amy hears Mikha’el, coming up behind the winged one, she too seeing the shards.
“He did not... ?”
Mikha’el leans against the wall, gathering the shards into a pile with his foot.
“Why, friend? This is not how it was supposed to be.”
Morion storms out of the armory back up to the Cloud Hall, her friends following after. Morion takes up Charlotte’s Defiance, slinging it over her shoulder, wearing it as Alastor would. She tries to leave, but Mikha’el stops her.
“Get out of my way!” the Queen demands.
“You intend to follow after him?” Mikha’el asks authoritatively.
“Yes!”
“How do you plan on doing that? Running?”
“If I have to!”
“That will not be necessary,” Amy says.
She has reverted to her creature form, wings open.
~-~~-~
Alastor’s heart pounds wildly, the speed with which the horse runs bordering on nauseating. Except, the heartbeat of the armor drowns out his own.
“Do not let the darkness consume you, Son,” a small, strong voice whispers. “It is for you to dominate, not it of you.”
The voice sobers Alastor. It is not one that he has ever heard.
“First a heartbeat, now a voice. Have I finally gone insane?” he asks.
“No, child. This is not mania.”
“Why have I never heard of the armor speaking, or of being alive for that matter, then?”
“Because until recently, I have been silent for the most part, waiting through the centuries for you, child. Those whom I have spoken to knew their place.”
“You called me Son.”
“I did, Alastor, but that is of no consequence at this time.”
“Then why speak?”
“Know this: live or die, how today ends cannot be changed. What you do, you have been groomed to do.”
“Eoin was wrong?”
“No, just short of sight, like so many of my grandsons.”
“Then all the choices I have made were nothing but illusions?”
“No, dearest Son. You are nothing if not the sum of the paths you have chosen. Always remember that you are who you made yourself.”
The voice goes silent. Elizabetha goes silent. Alastor is left with only the heartbeat, and a newly cleared mind. The darkness of the curse slithers like a serpent, but Alastor keeps it away.
“Dominate it,” he speaks softly to himself.
When Alastor takes notice of his surroundings, he ascertains himself being closer to Halvard than expected. Rain falls in heavy sheets while lightning arcs across the sky like white veins, the thunder sharp and swift. This is Alastor’s weather.
The stallion feeds on, finds its strength from, the Knight. It fears not the land, pushing through swelling flood water, plowing through briar patches, and gliding over rocky ground with uniform ease. Over hill and through forest, the Knight finally comes into Halvard’s boundary, the walls of the city coming ever closer. A grave sound pierces through the Knight’s helmet; the thunder is nothing to it, the heartbeat of the armor dim as the flapping of bird wings.
From Halvard, war.
The Knight comes onto the road to Halvard, spurring the stallion for more speed. As the gate comes into view, Alastor is given an atrocious sight; a river of blood-tinged rain water pours from the city. Flames roar like monsters from the homes and shops. Smoke rises like a serpent from its lair. He leaps from the animal, the armor retracting from it as he does so, and runs headlong into Halvard.
The militia has come out of hiding and fights their former brothers, the turncoat army. The Necromancer’s army of dishonored bolsters their numbers. The militia faces sure destruction, but they are rallied together nonetheless, fighting with such fierceness as none have ever had before, bravely facing certain death.
Alastor holds out his right hand, calling on the armor to form a sword, a claymore like he used to wield. Pleased with his armor, the Knight runs to the closest battle he can find, which takes no searching whatsoever. The Knight comes across a lone militiaman about to be executed by a group of turncoats. They are completely oblivious to the Knight. The armored one moves as a shadow, impaling the soldier whom was readying to murder the militiaman. The turncoats give a shout of fear, taken surprise by the Knight. They angle their swords on him, but the armor reacts, lashing out with bladed tendrils. The turncoats lay dead before they are even aware of it; the Knight lets the body of the impaled soldier fall from his sword. The militiaman looks at this armored savior, breathless.
“What has happened here?”Alastor asks, his voice suddenly noble and fierce and all together not his own.
The militiaman stands
, not afraid of the Knight. Not any more at least.
“Halvard was told that Our Lady Morion was dead, and that she killed her own father. We, the militia and the city itself, decided as a whole that Hector was just as trustworthy as Samael, so we rebelled rather than endure his rule.”
Alastor looks hard at the man, trying to see if there is anything hidden in his words. There is nothing but truth in them he decides.
“Morion lives,” the Knight says.
The militiaman smiles, spirit lifted by the words, but he suppresses this as soon as he does.
“Is this the truth?”
“It is. Tell the rest of your militia to spread the word. I am sure that Lady Morion will want her kingdom back.”
The militiaman readies to run off, but he stops himself, swinging back to Alastor.
“Knight, will you be aiding us again?”
At that moment, the creatures raised by Lucius all become aware of the Knight, murder filling their dead eyes, and to him they run, shamble and crawl.
“I have business in the castle, which will draw most of the enemy to me. Do what you can against your traitorous army.”
The militiaman does as ordered, going to find his fellow city defenders before the damned creatures descend upon the Knight. The armor comes to life again, aiding Alastor as he cuts through the creatures who now block his way to the castle. With each creature felled, another worms up from the ground to replace it.
It does not take long for the Halvard main road to be up heaved completely.
The perpetual numbers do little to make the Knight care. To unleash his full fury and strength brings an almost maniacal joy, and with no guilt or fear, Alastor embraces this whole heartedly.
~-~~-~
Amy, carrying Morion, and Mikha’el fly faster than either has ever flown before. With the rain pelting them in the face like rocks, they have to keep their eyes half closed, making the flight all the more treacherous. Morion is Amy’s only burden, while Mikha’el has taken it upon himself to carry their weapons. The lightning starts to exhibit signs of being controlled, or even perhaps is itself sentient, as the strikes grow more frequent and closer to the trio.
“Is it me, or does it seem like the lightning is trying to hit us?” Morion asks Amy.
Amy does not answer, focused completely on flying. Soaring over a patch of trees, lightning manages to split the trunks, sparking fires even in the rain. Amy flies closer to Mikha’el, brow furrowed.
“Blood is being shed,” is all she says.
Halvard lays just before them. Morion can hear the nerve wracking sound of metal on metal, her fears have been consummated. Passing over the walls, they spot Alastor fighting in the midst of a glut of creatures. Amy lands, setting Morion down, followed by Mikha’el. They start to run after Alastor, but a battle between militia and turncoats spills out from a side street. Mikha’el gives his companions their weapons and the three join the fray.
Amy remembers her form and reverts to her human shape so as to avoid being mistaken for an enemy.
Detested by the mere sight of the traitors to Gawain, Mikha’el, using his twin swords, takes to fighting the turncoats without mercy, using his blades and wings to separate them from the militia. Not so much to help the defenders, rather he wants the betrayer army to himself. The militia watch in shock as Mikha’el moves and battles in his inhuman way. One militia member turns to see Morion standing beside him, sword drawn.
“Lady Morion!” he exclaims. “You are alive!”
“Very much so,” she answers. “Why would you think otherwise?”
“Hector announced to the kingdom that after you supposedly killed Gawain, you ran off in fear. He claimed to have caught and killed you.”
Morion’s eyes fill with tears, but her heart with anger and hate.
“Worry not, Your Highness,” another militia soldier says, coming forward from the group. “No one in Halvard believed Hector, which is why we started up this little rebellion!”
Morion cannot help but smile at the allegiance shown to her and her father. A runner comes up to the idle militia group.
“We need help at the northwestern quarter!” the runner shouts.
The militia follow the runner, but Morion stays in place. The first man she spoke with notices.
“Your Highness, come with us! Seeing you will undoubtedly give the people a second wind and allow us to crush these traitors!”
Morion forgets Amy, forgets Mikha’el, even Alastor. She follows the militia, only thinking of reclaiming the kingdom.
~-~~-~
Amy stands near the Halvard entrance alone. She can see Mikha’el, his battle moving deeper into the center of the city. Morion has gone out of eyeshot completely. Alastor, on the other hand, is still very much visible, farther up the main road, surrounded by Lucius’ dishonored, making progress toward the castle with the speed of one ensnared within a mire. Although she has grown to care for Mikha’el and Morion, at the forefront of her mind, clawing its way through the years of accumulated hatred and confusion, her love for Alastor blooms full once again. She runs over the bodies and piles of decayed matter toward the Knight so that she might aid him. Running, she remembers the words spoken to her at Valkyr. Fear and hope both battle within her, as clear and as real as the death-giving taking place.
A sudden sensation of sickness overtakes her, stopping her cold, doubled over.
“Why would you have come back, I wonder?” a cheerless male voice asks.
Amy transfigures into her creature form against her will. She cries in pain, her blood becoming like liquid fire, pulsing through her, threatening to rupture her skin. Through the agony, she forces her head up, seeing one like herself. Cale reborn, given a new body but his face remains.
“Why would a weak traitor like you return!?” Cale demands.
“To earn a wondrous gift that has been given to me,” she whispers as she pushes through the pain and draws her sword on Cale.
Cale grins through his dog-like teeth as he catches her sword on his.
~-~~-~
“Wail and cower!” the Knight shouts to the creatures as he swings his blade through some that try to flee.
The heartbeat has gone silent, or it beats so fast that it has no end. Alastor cannot discern. The remainder of the creatures run in terror, and before Alastor can think of giving chase, Bladers and Berserkers pour out from the castle.
In Alastor’s left hand, the armor forms a second claymore.
Even with their immense size and cruel weaponry, Alastor cuts through Lucius’ elite minions just as he did the lesser dishonorable creatures. The few which manage to bring their weapons into contact with the Knight are left unarmed, the metal of their swords and war hammers twisted and shattered by the living tendrils of the armor.
“This is too easy,” Alastor whispers.
“How else should it be?” the spirit of Elizabetha responds. “Did you expect to face equals?”
“Elizabetha, I feel inhuman.”
“You are wholly unique, separate from all. Even those whose physical strength might far exceed yours, you are unrivaled. Remember this, Son.”
Again, Elizabetha is a sobering force on Alastor. He stops fighting, letting his more than capable armor do the dirty work. While he strides to the castle indifferently, the Bladers and Berserkers stop attacking, seeing no way to penetrate the Knight’s defense. Alastor ultimately arrives at the grand outer court. Standing at the castle entrance is a lone man, large and ghastly.
“Rennir,” fumes Alastor.
“How did it feel to kill me?” Rennir asks as the Knight nears him. “To feel my life end through the steel of your sword?”
“I felt the most horrible thing a man can feel after killing another: nothing.”
Rennir examines Alastor’s statement for a moment, finally coming to the conclusion that it was not an insult. Nor does he truly understand the statement.
“Why Lucius did not let me kill you in Judeheim, I may ne
ver know... but here I am, in the land of the living, facing you, yet again. Fate is quite funny.”
“You have no clue just how funny it actually is.”
Rennir wastes no more time mincing words, attacking Alastor. The Lucian elites do so as well, thinking Rennir will sap the Knight’s attention. A fatal mistake on their parts, not that they would care; being nothing more than a pseudo-living wall to slow, not stop, the Knight. Alastor does not direct his weapons upon Rennir, only defending while the armor deals in its own way with the elites. Rennir grows angry that Alastor exerts no effort at all to fight him.
Alastor abruptly falters, a short moment of that non-existence Eoin had told him, warned him, about many years ago. Rennir tries to run his blade into Alastor’s back, but his sword breaks. The armor finishes off the last of the Lucian elites before impaling Rennir against Alastor’s will. The Knight stands, the armor holding up Rennir, struggling upon the tendrils, before him.
“Are you a coward now, Alastor? Hesitation is for the weak. Kill me!”
The Knight allows the claymores in his hands to rejoin with the armor.
“I killed you once. I have no desire to do so again.”
The armor throws Rennir aside. Without looking back or with a second thought of his foe, Alastor walks to the castle entrance. Lucius’ former right hand is deeply shamed by Alastor’s reluctance to kill him, so he slinks away.
“You do me proud, Son. Very proud,” Elizabetha whispers as the heartbeat of the armor slowly calms back down to its normal rate.
Alastor does not answer. He does not need to.
The castle is barred from inside, not even the slightest amount of give in the doors. The Knight digs his taloned fingers into the wood much like he did when he freed the armor. The talons again form tendrils which burrow in, splinter the wood and twist the iron, opening the way. The interior of Halvard castle is lit by those lamps which seem to follow Lucius, smelling horrid and giving an unnaturally colored light. The Knight’s footfalls echo balefully loud within the castle, making it feel far more empty than it in actuality is. The closer he comes to the throne room, the stronger a previously unnoticed scent becomes.
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