The tableau was in motion, but glacially slow motion. Each beat of the lion’s heart was a dull, thudding boom, like the arc of an ancient pendulum. Its fangs still descended upon him, but their movement was so infinitesimally slow that it took him a moment to even realise they were moving.
Every bone and muscle in Zahariel’s body ached. His chest was on fire, and he could feel an aching cold seep into his bones as this new and unknown power flowed through him. He looked down at his flesh, seeing the veins and bones beneath his skin.
As he had suspected, the beast had fractured several of his ribs. He could see the splintered ends grinding together beneath the transparency of his breastplate.
He lifted his arm towards the beast, his hand passing through the ghostly outline of its translucent flesh as though it were no more substantial than smoke. He smiled dreamily as he saw that he still held Brother Amadis’s pistol, its mechanisms and internal workings laid bare to his newfound sight.
He pressed his pistol against the monster’s heart, within the ghostly outline of the beast’s body. He opened his eyes and pulled the trigger.
An awful snap of reality reasserted itself, as the beast died in a spectacular fashion.
Zahariel’s hand was buried in its flesh, his armoured vambrace penetrating its chest as though it had been implanted there. Its jaw snapped closed on his shoulder guard, the blades of its fangs punching through the plate armour and burying themselves in his body.
No sooner had its jaws closed than the lion’s chest expanded with internal detonations.
Fire built behind its eyes and portions of its flanks exploded outwards as ammunition blasted out from inside the monster’s body.
Its underbelly exploded in a wash of steaming entrails and it collapsed to the ground, bearing Zahariel down with it.
He groaned in pain, the weight of the beast incredible, and the pain in his shoulder like a furnace of torn muscle and blood. Every muscle ached, and he could feel a burning pain all the way down his ribcage.
Zahariel squeezed his eyes shut and bit down on his bottom lip as he pushed against the lion’s corpse, rolling it onto its side. Breath heaved in his lungs, and he cried out as his broken ribs ground against one another.
The pain in his shoulder was extraordinary, the lion’s fangs were still embedded in his flesh and armour. Taking a deep breath, he dropped his pistol and placed his hands on either side of the lion’s huge head. Its eyes were lifeless, yet its fearsome visage still had a monstrous power. Though he knew it was unquestionably dead, he half-expected the jaw to open once more and finish what it had started.
Faster was better than slower, and he screamed in agony as he wrenched the monster’s head backwards. The sharp fangs slid from his body, coated in his blood and, free of its toothy embrace, he slid backwards from its corpse.
Blood streamed from the puncture wounds in his shoulders, and he spent the next few minutes removing the armour plates and tending to the grisly injuries. He cleaned his wounds as best he could with supplies taken from the saddle bags of his broken and gored steed, and applied heavy, wadded bandages to his body.
Curiously, the pain appeared to have diminished, but he knew that was simply shock. Soon enough, it would return with interest. When he had done as much as he could for his poor, battered frame, he sank to his knees in exhaustion and finally allowed himself to think about how he had defeated the beast.
What strange power had allowed him to see the beast as he had? Had it been some after effect of his journey into the dark forest, some unknown energy that the Watchers had imparted to him?
Or was it something darker?
The Watchers had said that the taint was already in him.
Was this the manifestation of that taint?
Whatever it was, he could not explain it, and its utterly unknown quality terrified him more than the ferocity of the lion had. Whatever the cause of this strange, powerful eructation, he swore to keep it to himself. In Caliban’s ancient times, people had been burned alive for less, and he had no wish to end his days on a flaming pyre.
Swaying unsteadily, Zahariel got to his feet and gathered up his sword and pistol. It was customary for a supplicant to take some portion of his quest-creature as a trophy, but the explosions within the lion’s stomach had reduced much of it to gory fragments.
Searching among the grisly debris, Zahariel knew there was but one trophy he could take back to Endriago and then Aldurukh. Taking his sword, he set to work on removing the lion’s head from its body, the saw-toothed blade making short work of the job now that the strange, moving plates of chitinous armour were immobile.
At last the lion’s head came free from its body, and Zahariel turned towards the path that the woodsman had shown him what seemed like a lifetime ago.
Though dizzy from pain and blood loss, he was smiling as he set off in the direction of Endriago, dragging the heavy, fanged head behind him.
He wondered at what reaction his return would receive from Lord Domiel and Narel. He bore no grudge towards either man for doubting him and thinking the monster would kill him, he was simply happy to have proven them wrong. He had achieved all the aims of his quest. He had killed the beast, freeing the people of Endriago from their fear of it. At the same time, he had tested himself to his limits.
He had proved his ability. He had proved his commitment to the Order’s creed of excellence, and he had proved that he was worthy to be a knight.
But in the end, what mattered most was that he was alive.
Looking back at the beast’s head, he felt a deep and abiding sense of triumph. He had passed through his ordeal. He had succeeded in his hunt.
For the first time in his life, Zahariel felt he was truly worthy of the high standards he had set himself. He would never become complacent, not in the matter of proving his worth. He was made for the quest, whether it was given that name or not. There would always be another monster to slay, another battle to fight, another war to be win.
To the last heartbeat of his existence, he would never give up, he would never allow himself to falter. For the moment though, for this moment, he felt he had earned the right to a single instant of pride in his accomplishment.
Zahariel turned away from the clearing and began the long walk back to Endriago.
NINE
AT ENDRIAGO, LORD Domiel gifted him a new destrier to replace the one he had lost to the lion. Having spent a week of much needed rest at the settlement in order to give his ribs and shoulder enough time to begin healing, Zahariel had eagerly begun his journey home as soon as the joyously happy citizens had let him and he was able to move without agonising pain flaring in his ribs.
Given the fact that he was repeating an earlier journey, albeit from the opposite direction, he knew which paths to take, and he managed to complete his journey to the Order’s fortress monastery much more quickly than he would have expected. Thirty-eight days after leaving Endriago, he could already see the towers of Aldurukh in the distance. By the thirty-ninth day, he was at the gates.
The last part of the journey would always seem the most significant to him. As he came closer to the fortress, a sense of joyous expectation rose within him, as he thought about what it would be like to see Nemiel and the rest of his friends again.
Granted, he still had to face the Order’s examiners and have his achievement verified, but with the lion’s head, he expected no problem. Zahariel anticipated his homecoming warmly, expecting a heartfelt welcome from his friends, all the more so because almost everyone he knew had thought he would most likely die on the quest.
Naturally, he could not comprehend fully what that meant. Life seemed wonderful to him. It was made all the sweeter because of the relative hardships of his recent ordeal. He had faced one of the worst beasts Caliban could produce and he had survived. He wanted to celebrate that feeling with his friends.
He could not know how sorrowfully they had spent the weeks since he had left Aldurukh. His friends had thought him
dead. They had grieved for him.
In their minds they had all but buried him.
The fact that he had survived despite all the fears for his safety would lend Zahariel an extra glow of heroism in the eyes of many of his contemporaries, especially those who had been supplicants with him in the Order.
At the time of his return to Aldurukh, though, he did not realise these things.
‘WE ALL THOUGHT you were dead,’ said Attias eagerly.
The younger lad held a box containing Zahariel’s few meagre personal possessions, trailing excitedly after him as he carried his bedroll down the corridor. ‘Everyone did. They all thought the beast must have killed you. There was even talk of having a funeral ceremony for you. That would’ve been funny, wouldn’t it? Imagine if you rode back, only to find out we’d already carved your name on one of the memorial tablets in the catacombs.’
It was late afternoon on the first day after his return to Aldurukh. A few hours earlier, Zahariel had entered through the great gates of the fortress to be met by cheering and the stamping of feet. Apparently, word of his impending arrival had already come down from the lookouts, for when the gates opened it seemed as if the entire population of Aldurukh was waiting to greet him.
As Zahariel rode into the courtyard, he saw knights, supplicants and seneschals all rejoicing at his safe return. The noise of their welcome had been deafening. It was a moment he would always keep with him, the end of his first great adventure, a moment of profound homecoming, when he finally felt accepted as an equal among the ranks of the Order.
Nemiel had been waiting for him, when he arrived. He was the first to greet Zahariel, grabbing him in a great bear hug. Nemiel had talked to him, his mouth working at a frantic pace, but his words were lost to the sound of the crowd.
Afterwards, once the excitement had quietened down and Zahariel had reported to the gate keeper as was expected, he was given a time at which he should present himself to the Order’s examiners. In the meantime, he had been ordered to move out of the supplicants’ barracks. Half a dozen sleeping rooms were reserved in a little-visited corner of the fortress for those who had completed their quests, but had not yet been officially raised to the status of knights.
‘So, this is it,’ said Zahariel as he pushed open the door to his new room and looked inside. The room was empty. In keeping with the Order’s monastic traditions, it was little more than a spartan cell. There was a cot in the corner for him to sleep on, but other than that there were no furnishings, not even a chair.
‘I don’t suppose they expect you to be here long,’ jabbered Attias beside him.
Zahariel smiled indulgently, knowing that Master Ramiel was pleased with the boy’s progress.
‘You’re so lucky,’ Attias muttered. The boy said the words quietly, almost whispering.
‘Lucky?’ said Zahariel. He indicated the room around them. ‘I take it you’re going blind or haven’t you noticed our fine surroundings? You’ve seen my new room, Attias, and yet, you call me lucky?’
‘I wasn’t talking about the room,’ replied Attias.
Growing tired of holding the box, Attias lowered it to the cell’s floor. ‘I mean, you got to hunt one of the great beasts. You got to finish your quest of knighthood. I’m happy for you, really I am. You deserve it. You’ll be Sar Zahariel. You’ll fight wars and battles with the best of the Order’s knights, alongside heroes like the Lion and Sar Luther. You’ll make Master Ramiel proud. You’ll be a knight’
‘And so will you, little one,’ said Zahariel. ‘I know it seems a long time away, but it won’t be long before you are given your own quest. A couple of years, that’s all it is. Follow your lessons, practise assiduously, and it will be here almost before you know it.’
‘But that’s just it,’ Attias shook his head. ‘By the time I’m old enough, things will have changed. The Order’s campaign against the great beasts will be over by then. There won’t be any left. And, without the great beasts, there won’t be any more quests. There won’t be any way to become a knight. You’ve done something I’ll never be able to, Zahariel. You’ve hunted one of the great beasts. I’ll never get that chance.’
As he spoke, Attias wore an expression of wistful sadness that was almost heart-breaking on the face of one so young. Attias saw a world in which there was no longer any way for a man to ascend to knighthood.
Instinctively, Zahariel rejected that bleak vision. He was an optimist and an idealist to the core of his soul.
When he looked at the Order’s campaign against the beasts, he lauded its achievements. He was sure the future could only hold the things that Luther and the Lion had promised the people of Caliban before they began their campaign. When he looked to the future he saw peace and prosperity on the horizon. He saw an end to fear. He saw an end to suffering and want. He saw a better tomorrow.
When Zahariel looked to the future, he always saw the best of all possible worlds.
It was his curse.
‘You are looking at these things too darkly, my friend,’ said Zahariel. He smiled at the boy to reassure him. ‘I know every day people talk about the campaign nearly being over, but I suspect it may well last for a good while longer. Certainly, if the monster I fought is any kind of guide, I doubt the great beasts are about to give up and die. They will fight tooth-and-nail to survive, just as they always have. So, I wouldn’t worry too much, Attias. You’ve still got time to kill your beast, and you’ve got plenty of time left to become a knight.’
There was a slit window at the other end of the room, looking out across the treetops of the forest. Zahariel found his eyes drawn to it.
As had so often happened in the past, he briefly wondered at the dual nature of their world. From a distance, the forests were beautiful in a grim and forbidding way. Yet, inside those same picturesque woodlands, lived creatures that were the stuff of human nightmares, creatures like the one he had killed.
Zahariel loved Caliban, but he was not blind to it horrors. At times, it seemed as though they lived on a planet that was both hell and paradise simultaneously. Yet, the bond he felt towards his home and its forests was stronger and more powerful than almost anything else in his life. He loved his world unconditionally, whatever its flaws.
‘Do you know why people sometimes call this fortress the Rock?’ he asked suddenly. The view from the window, and the sight of the forests so far below them, had inspired him. He wanted to share his insight with Attias, to coax the boy from his sorrows.
‘It is because the name of the fortress is Aldurukh,’ answered Attias. ‘It means “Rock of Eternity” in one of the old dialects. Master Ramiel said that it was originally the name of the mountain we are standing on. Then, when the Order’s founders decided to build a fortress monastery at this site, they chose to use the name of the mountain for the fortress as well.’
‘That’s one reason,’ Zahariel said, ‘but there’s another as well. Think about the name, Aldurukh, The Rock of Eternity. The Order has other fortress monasteries, but this was the first. It is our spiritual home and the seat of all our endeavours. So, the founders gave it a name that mattered, a name that summed up exactly what they were trying to build here. This place is our rock, Attias. It is our foundation stone. As long as it endures, then some part of our ideals will always be alive. You understand what I am trying to tell you?’
‘I think so,’ nodded Attias, his face screwed in an expression of concentration. ‘You are saying that even after the beasts are gone, the Order will still be here, and there will still be knights.’
‘Exactly,’ Zahariel agreed. ‘So, you see, there is no reason for you to look so sad. If it puts your mind at ease, look at it this way. It is our duty to protect people from the creatures that live in the forests. Even once the beasts are gone, that duty will not change. This is Caliban. There will always be monsters here.’
MASTER RAMIEL WAS one of the first to congratulate him on becoming a knight. His former tutor clearly wanted to say more, but he
was swallowed up by the throng of knights closing in from all sides to welcome Zahariel to the Order.
In contrast to the solemnity of the ceremony to induct him to the Order many years ago, his ascension to knighthood was marked by sudden pandemonium. It was a great moment in any man’s life to ascend to knighthood: a moment that each of the men present had known and shared.
They swept forward en masse to accept the latest newcomer to their ranks. Beneath the hooded surplices, Zahariel saw friendly and joyful faces.
Before he knew what was happening, he was grabbed by a number of the closest men to him. Confused, Zahariel felt them hoist him off his feet. Suddenly, through the action of a dozen knights in unison, Zahariel’s body was tossed into the air. He rose to above the level of their shoulders, before falling back to be caught in the hands of the same men who had thrown him.
He heard people laughing as they threw him up into the air again. His body tumbling in mid-air, Zahariel saw skewed kaleidoscope images of the faces of the men around him. They were all laughing. He knew some of them personally, but many were men who had only ever been stern and distant figures in his life.
He saw the Lion, Luther, Lord Cypher and Master Ramiel, all of them were either smiling or laughing.
Of all the sights he would see in his life, that one image would stay with him as the strangest and most improbable.
‘IT IS A tradition,’ Luther said to him, laughing as they shared a goblet of wine later, ‘the springboard, I mean. It is something we do for all the new men. Oh, but your face, that was the best part.’
They were in the main dining hall at Aldurukh. Much to Zahariel’s relief, his fellow knights had reverted to more prosaic methods of marking his initiation once they had finished throwing him back-and-forth into the air like a rag doll. A feast had been held in his honour, in which numerous celebratory toasts and words of congratulation had come his way.
Knights he had only ever seen before from afar had solemnly clasped his arm and called him their brother. Zahariel did not know whether it was because they respected his achievement in killing the Beast of Endriago, or simply that they treated all new knights in a similar fashion. Either way, he had found the reaction to his ascension to knighthood almost overwhelming.
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