The Forever Knight

by John Marco

  Cricket’s eyes got big. She was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. She put her head against me sleepily. “That’s how I feel sometimes. Like Cassandra. Like a prisoner.”

  “Because you can’t remember?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  She felt warm against me. Not a lover’s warmth, but a child’s. I put my arm around her. “Do you remember what I told you when we started out?” I said. “Your memories are here. Somewhere. Just like me finding Cassandra. I knew she was there, so I kept looking. That’s what we’re going to do-keep looking. We’ll find them.”

  “I thought so too at first. But now. .” She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “We will,” I said confidently.

  “We only have a week.”

  “No,” I said in a hush. “Plenty of time. You’re young, and I’ve got all the time in the world.”

  She didn’t laugh at my dark joke. She just rested in the crux of my arm. I laid there against the tree, unmoving, studying the constellations until she fell asleep.

  * * *

  All the next morning we followed the river. The sunlight had broken our melancholy moods, and we stopped for a time to watch fish jumping in the chop. It was a remarkably beautiful day for the Bitter Kingdoms, the first one I could remember since laying eyes on Isowon. Once again the landscape was changing, shifting from the bleakness of Akyre to southern greenery. We were less than a full day’s ride to Fallon’s palace, and only an hour or so from the dell where the tomb lay. The river meandered toward the valley where we’d first encountered the monster.

  When we saw the valley, each of us fell silent.

  It was Cricket who first sniffed the air. Once, then again, deeper. I did the same, but couldn’t catch a whiff of the pile of bones and flesh that had greeted us last time. Cricket, who’d already seen her share of horrors, braced for another. This time, though, we’d prepared ourselves. My mind touched Malator as he stretched out over the dell, looking for the creature. Through his eyes I saw him racing through the trees and around the rocky enclaves, like a wild bird set loose from a cage. This time, we were determined to find the monster first.

  It’s nowhere, said Malator. His frustration grew. I don’t sense it anywhere.

  “It’s daytime,” I said. “It must be here.”

  Just because it kills at night doesn’t mean it won’t move about in the day. It’s a spirit, Lukien, not an owl.

  “Check the tomb,” I said as I continued riding toward it. “Do you see it?”

  It’s just ahead. But I don’t feel the monster. I would if it were here.

  Perplexed, I turned to Cricket. “It’s not here,” I said. “Malator can’t sense it.”

  “He’s sure?” she asked.

  “Seems to be.”

  I am, Malator replied. It was unmistakable last time.

  “Then where is it?”

  “Maybe eating,” suggested Cricket. “We saw all those bones last time. Like they were licked clean.”

  “Malator, do demons eat?”

  Maybe. If they get hungry.

  “Quit joking,” I snapped.

  I’m not. This creature isn’t like me, Lukien. It’s here in your realm as flesh. It shouldn’t be, but it is. Maybe it gets hungry, cold. .

  “Lonely?” I scoffed. “Maybe we should sing to it.”

  Malator suddenly flashed out of my mind. The next second he was standing in front of me, glaring and frightening my horse.

  “Are you an expert on the realms of the dead?” he asked. He folded his arms over his shimmering self. “We’re here to learn about this creature, aren’t we?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  Malator glowered at Cricket. “You?”

  Cricket just looked overwhelmed to see him. “Uh-huh.”

  “Then do as I say. Get down from your horses. We’ll go on foot from here.”

  I was uncomfortable but trusted Malator. The two of us dismounted, then reined the animals to a nearby tree. We were at the edge of the dell, but coming at it from the north this time. I could see the river cutting across the valley, disappearing in places amongst the evergreens. We walked downhill, skidding over loose rocks until we came to the river again, moving sluggishly toward a hillside where it disappeared into a cave.

  “That’s the tomb,” said Malator, pointing toward it.

  The way the river cut through the hill surprised me. The cave was open to anyone who dared enter. I supposed the river came out the other side somewhere.

  “It’ll be dark in there,” said Cricket. “The sun won’t help much.”

  “Leave that to me,” said Malator. “Stay close.”

  We were in his hands now, so we did as he asked, following him toward the mouth of the cave, the rocks like teeth rimming a jaw. Cricket walked rigidly beside him, determined not to bolt. I still didn’t know if the knock on her head had helped or harmed her. Her eyes were steely and alert. Malator paused right at the edge of the cave, his feet disappearing into the water without disturbing the river at all. He peered inside in an oddly human way, as he himself didn’t trust his Akari instincts. Then he let out a breath.

  “All right,” he said. “It’s clear. I’m sure of it.”

  I unsheathed my sword anyway. “Go.”

  Once the darkness touched him, Malator’s body began to glow. His figure was like a torch inside the cave, shedding its soft light on the damp walls and gravel. He turned up his palm and lit a flame in it with his mind, the way I’d seen him do before. Then he turned to Cricket.

  “Take this,” he told her.

  Cricket took the flame without hesitation, marveling as it flared in her hand. “It’s not hot,” she remarked. “Almost cool.”

  I remembered the sensation myself. Malator was full of tricks these days. But I didn’t want a flame of my own, just my sword. I pointed ahead with it. “Look.”

  Through the gloom I saw the river rounding a bend in the cavern. Where it turned was a gash in the wall of the cave, like a doorway. Slabs of rock had been moved away from the opening, discarded into the river.

  “Fallon,” I whispered. “He must have used horses to move the slabs.”

  Cricket leaned forward with a squint. “That opening is barely wide enough for a person. How’d the monster get out?”

  I wondered about that myself. “Somehow it squeezed itself into those bones,” I remembered. “It changes itself, maybe.”

  “We can get through,” said Malator. “Me first.”

  He floated over the river where the slabs lay like tombstones, then slipped easily through the crack. His iridescent body appeared on the other side, lighting up a vast chamber beyond.

  “Lukien, Cricket.” He turned and smiled at us through the portal. “You have to see this.”

  Cricket stomped anxiously through the river. She barely had to turn sidewise to make it through the opening. When she did, she gasped.

  “Whoa!”

  I felt like an explorer. I sheathed my sword in a hurry and squeezed myself through the gash in the rocky wall, scraping my nose and breastplate. Fallon had obviously rushed his excavation. But once inside, every sense of tightness fled. Suddenly I was in a vast chamber with a sky-high ceiling and a finger of the river running through it. A hundred stone eyes watched me, the glorious work of long-dead sculptors, awash in Malator’s magic light. Cricket held up her flame for us to see. I saw dozens of sculptures, all of them animals, cut into the walls of the tomb or built up high on pedestals, like a lush jungle of wild cats and birds. Faded paintings in gold and scarlet decorated the walls, depicting battles and forests, a landscape of an Akyre that no longer existed. The entire chamber was filled with vases and urns, their contents turned to dust. Another chamber echoed to our left. The little tributary disappeared into its darkness.

  “Lukien,” whispered Cricket. “Look.”

  She walked toward the center of the chamber, where a large stone coffin stood, raised up on a marble pedestal chiseled with words. The slab t
hat had once covered the coffin lay to the side, a reminder of Fallon’s grave-robbing. Atop the slab was another sculpture, this one of a bird. Cricket ignored the coffin and looked at the bird instead.

  “It’s empty,” said Malator as he floated over the coffin.

  “Of course. Fallon got what he needed. Whoever it was has been turned into mummy powder.”

  Malator moved his hand over the words inscribed on the pedestal. They were foreign to me, like runes. “Can you read it?” I asked.

  “No,” said Malator. “It’s probably some old Akyren language.”

  “His name was Atarkin,” said Cricket. I turned and saw her reading the words, holding out her flaming palm as she knelt near the slab. “He was the last Emperor of Akyre.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked. “Not even Malator knows that.”

  “The words,” said Cricket. “I can understand them.”

  “Well, now we know you’re definitely from Akyre,” joked Malator.

  “How can you remember that?” I asked “How can you remember a whole language when you can’t remember who you are?”

  Cricket pondered that, as confused as I was. “I don’t know. It’s like remembering how to talk I guess.”

  “What else does it say?”

  She leaned in and read some more. “He was called ‘the Nightingale.’ That’s what the people called him.”

  “The bird,” said Malator, noting the sculpture on his slab.

  “The Nightingale? Strange thing to call a tyrant.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t a tyrant,” said Cricket. “Maybe he was a good king.”

  I knew she wanted to believe that. “Maybe.” I touched the coffin, noticing for the first time the stone flowers carved into it. “Roses,” I whispered. “Nightingales and roses.” I looked around the tomb, struck by all the beautiful paintings and statues. “Was this Akyre? Is this what it was like?”

  Cricket went on studying the words. “He was the master of the dead. Huh.”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s what it says, Master of the Dead.” She pointed to show me. “What’s that mean, Malator?”

  Malator thought for a moment. “Master of the Dead.” He looked around the chamber. He stroked his chin with his glowing hand. “Emperor. Master of the Dead. What did Diriel say to you, Lukien? About magic?”

  “He said the old kings called on the powers of the dead,” I recalled. “Whatever that means.”

  “Master of the Dead,” Malator repeated. “Master.” He tipped his head over the empty coffin and looked inside. “Atarkin’s body. You can’t just grind up any old mummy and expect to make men immortal from it. Something about Atarkin was special.”

  “His bloodline maybe?” said Cricket.

  “That’s what Diriel said,” I pointed out. “He said it was his right to control the monster.”

  “It’s a puzzle,” sighed Malator. I could feel his frustration. “The monster came from here. From right here in this chamber.” He turned toward the darker part of the tomb, where the tributary flowed. “From there.”

  Cricket and I both froze as we watched Malator drift along the side of the water, gradually illuminating a tunnel of stone. The monster wasn’t here-I believed Malator about that. So why was I so anxious? I helped Cricket up and walked with her after Malator, following him into a dark antechamber. The flame still burned in Cricket’s hand. She held it up, revealing the opposite wall. Jagged rock, like all the others, the wall was painted with an enormous mural depicting a place I’d never seen before, a twisted landscape with blighted trees and burning mountains, peopled with tormented ghosts. In the center of the world stood a multi-armed, multi-headed beast, its long tongue roped around a naked woman, its tails rimmed with bloody thorns. It had the face of a human and a goat and a bird and a pig, and it was the goat’s tongue that held the woman, about to devour her. Above the painting was chiseled more of the Akyren letters.

  “Gahoreth,” said Cricket. She turned to Malator. “What’s that?”

  But Malator didn’t answer. He was looking down at the ribbon of water. “Look at the river.”

  I’d been so struck by the painting I hadn’t noticed the river at all. It didn’t wind off into the darkness as I’d supposed, but disappeared directly into the wall. I peered closer, not sure what I was seeing. The river was there, right at my feet, and then it wasn’t. It didn’t pool at the wall like a dam. It just flowed right into it, into the painted world.

  “Gahoreth,” said Malator. “One of the realms of the dead. A hell. That’s where our monster comes from.”

  Cricket’s white face filled with awe. She shifted her magical flame from one palm to the other, then reached out to touch the wall. But her hand didn’t go through it the way the water did. She looked oddly surprised. She dipped her fingers into the water, then touched the wall again.

  “It’s real,” she gasped. “But where’s it going?”

  “Into Gahoreth,” said Malator.

  “How’s that possible?” I was neither awestruck nor afraid. All I felt was baffled. “You know this place Gahoreth? You’ve heard of it?”

  “It’s a place where souls go after life,” said Malator.

  “I thought souls go to their own death place. That’s what Minikin taught me. You said so, too. Like Cassandra in the apple orchard. You never said anything about them going to hell.”

  “Not hell,” said Malator. “Like a hell. That’s the best word for it. The souls trapped in Gahoreth aren’t in their resting places. They’ve been stolen. Taken to Gahoreth.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know.” Malator turned back to the painting. “The monster perhaps.”

  Cricket was busy studying the picture. She traced her finger over a bit of writing beneath the image of the beast. Her lips moved while she read.

  “Cricket? What’s it say?”

  “It’s name. It’s name is Crezil.”

  “Crezil?” I looked closer at the writing. “All those words for that? What else?”

  “I don’t really understand it, Lukien. It says Kasdeyi Orioc. Or Oriox. Something like that. The words don’t mean anything though. They mean like. . Guardian Slave. Kasdeyi is an old Akyren word for a guardian or even a lighthouse. Oriox means slave.” Cricket read again, stringing the whole thing together, “I am Crezil the guardian slave. I’m sorry, Lukien. That’s the best I can figure.”

  “Malator?” I called. “What do you think?”

  Malator didn’t answer. He cocked his translucent head, examining the creature in the painting. It didn’t look like the one we’d seen, but something made me sure this was it. A guardian. A slave. I tried to unravel it.

  “It guards the tomb,” I suggested. “The Akyren kings summoned it, maybe.”

  “Or they thought they summoned it,” said Malator.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “A creature like this Crezil doesn’t guard a tomb. It doesn’t even belong in this world.” Malator pointed at the painting. “It belongs there. That’s its world. Gahoreth.”

  “Then it’s the guardian of Gahoreth,” said Cricket. “You think so?”

  “A guardian and a slave,” I said. “But a slave to who? Or what?”

  “The ruler of Gahoreth, presumably,” said Malator.

  “That doesn’t help. Who’s the ruler of Gahoreth, then?”

  Malator didn’t answer.

  “We’re just guessing,” I grumbled. “We’re wasting time. Diriel’s army is on its way. We need to get to Isowon.”

  I turned to go, but neither Malator nor Cricket followed. Both were still enthralled by the painting and the disappearing river.

  “They’re all clues,” said Cricket. She looked up at Malator. “Right, Malator?”

  “Pieces to the puzzle, Cricket,” he agreed. “The monster came through here-through this wall. Like the river. It crossed between worlds.” He grinned at me. “Hear that, Lukien?”

  “We know that already,” I said. “
What else?”

  Malator crossed the chamber to face me. “We learned a lot,” he insisted. “The name of the monster, the fact that it’s from Gahoreth. .”

  “And none of us has any idea what that means,” I said. “Fallon set that monster free when he stole Atarkin’s body. But why? What’s it looking for? Revenge? Souls? Do you know, either of you?”

  Cricket looked away. Malator seethed but didn’t say a word.

  “I didn’t think so. Well, enough now.” I trudged my way into the main chamber, splashing through the water. “I’m done with riddles and clues. I’m done with running and hiding. It’s time to fight.”

  “Oh,” said Cricket, “now I see. You’re mad because you didn’t learn anything helpful to kill it. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To fight it. To kill it.”

  “That’s right.” I turned on her. “You want to know? I’m mad because the damn thing isn’t here. But I’m going to find it, and when I do I’m going to kill it. And then I’m going to find Wrestler and I’m going to kill him, too. That’s what I do, Cricket. I’m a killer.” It felt so good to finally admit it! Like chains had been broken. I couldn’t get to Isowon fast enough. “We’re done here,” I told them. “Let’s go.”

  “We just started looking!” argued Malator. “There’s time. We have the whole tomb to explore.”

  “Malator. .” I struggled to control myself. “You’ve taken me astray. Remember when we set out? I told you I was in charge. You’re my Akari. But then I let you show me visions, get my head all turned around. Look at us. We’re in a tomb! Like grave robbers. Like that scoundrel Anton Fallon. Well, no more.” I pulled my sword a few inches out of its sheath. “Time for you to go home.”

  Malator eyed the blade. “You’re making a mistake.”

  “Go on, get in there,” I coaxed. “I’ll call you when I need you.”

  “I’m not a slave-”

  “Yes, Malator, you are! That’s the price you pay for keeping me alive. For keeping me away from Cassandra and everything that makes sense to me! I say where we go from here. Not you. Not anyone else. Now, get in the sword.”