Ruins of Camelot

by G. Norman Lippert

  Gabriella's arm swept up and forwards, bringing the wrought-iron floor candelabra with it. The heavy metal clanged against the steel of Merodach's sword, smashing it against the wall, where it shattered. Merodach cried out in pain and clutched his hand to his chest, still gripping the hilt of his sword. Gabriella was not finished however. The candelabra whistled through air, unseen in the darkness, and struck her enemy firmly on the temple. He jerked aside and stumbled, barely keeping his feet.

  "Wait," he choked dizzily. Blood began to course down his temple, matting his black hair. "Wait. So be it, Queen. It does not have to end this way…"

  Gabriella followed him as he clambered backwards, clinging to the narrow walls of the arrow nooks for support. She hefted the heavy length of the candelabra and swung it again. It made a low whoosh as it arced down, connecting with the villain's left shoulder. He crumpled but still managed not to collapse fully. He supported himself on one knee, still scuttling backwards, waving his broken sword before him. Six inches of its blade still protruded from his fist, ending with a hard, glinting angle.

  "Stop," he demanded, and laughed wetly, deliriously. "You cannot! It is not possible!"

  Gabriella did not so much as blink. Her shadow fell over him as he scrambled backwards. With a jerk, she caught the candelabra in both hands, hefted it over her right shoulder, and brought it down on him like a spear.

  Merodach shrieked as the empty candle holders punctured his abdomen, driving deep into his flesh and sticking there. Blood welled in the wounds immediately. Still, flattened against the stone floor, he scrabbled backwards.

  "You cannot stop what has begun!" he babbled, his voice cracking with terror. "It is too late! You have failed! You will die like all the rest!" With that, his face hardened. He mustered his strength, ripped the candelabra from his guts with a grunt of pain, and lunged upwards, aiming to plant the remainder of his sword into Gabriella's belly. She caught his wrist in mid-stab, however, using her good right hand. A moment later, she wrested the broken sword from his grip, spun it around in her fist, and dropped onto him, pinning him with her knee.

  "What are you?" he spat up at her, terror and rage mingling on his bloody face, contorting it. A look of dreadful suspicion widened his eyes. "Are you a witch?"

  "No," Gabriella seethed down at him through gritted teeth, raising the broken sword. "I am just a very determined human."

  And she drove the shattered blade deep into his chest, burying it there.

  Merodach convulsed beneath her, only once but massively. He coughed a mouthful of blood, fell back, and then met her gaze. For a second, the rage was still there, radiating from his eyes like heat from a furnace. And then, with no perceptible change at all, they simply went blank.

  Merodach was dead.

  Chapter 12

  When it was over, she could not bear to be near the villain's body. The realisation of what she had done overwhelmed her. She struggled to her feet, began to walk away from the body, then broke into a shambling run, lunging for the stairs.

  It simply could not be. Her son could not be dead. Everything else paled in comparison to that sudden, unbearable truth. She no longer cared that her castle home had been attacked and was in flames, or that Camelot, her kingdom, was under siege and effectively overthrown. She did not even care that Merodach, the architect of it all, was dead by her own hand. The moment the life had flickered from his eyes, he had ceased to matter.

  All that mattered was the fate of her child.

  She refused to believe that he could be no more. It was too huge a tragedy for her to comprehend. Her beautiful son, her only remaining hope…

  She made her way to the lower landing and the entrance to the citadel's grand hall. Near the descending stairs, Darrick's dark candle sat. Gabriella stopped, dazed, and stared at it.

  You must return to him, her dead husband's voice had said. Make him the man he is meant to be. Only you can do that now…

  How could he not have known? Was that even possible? Then she recalled something else he had told her, something characteristically teasing but with a ring of truth to it: No one ever said trust was easy. But it is always better than the alternative…

  Perhaps Merodach had been wrong. Or even lying. Perhaps there was a chance…

  A tiny flicker of hope alit inside her chest. It was not much, but it was enough to keep her moving, to keep her from simply falling to the rotten, red carpet, bereft and hopeless. She walked into the bar of light that led into the grand hall and peered inside.

  The enchanted musical instruments had stopped playing. The fiddle and flute lay on the little stage as if dropped. Fire still roared in the hearth, flickering over the ruins of the enormous chandelier. Beyond all of it stood the horrible, dark sculpture, the eight-fingered skeletal claw embracing its cursed prize. Eerily lithe shadows surrounded the black candle, protecting and hiding it. The flame burnt like an eye of midnight.

  She had to put it out. But how? If others had died simply by moving into its black glow, cursed to ashy bones, then how could she?

  "No human can touch it," she mused aloud, frowning. "Only those of magical blood may approach it and live…"

  Magical blood. That meant witches and wizards. Those like Helena and Goodrik…

  Gabriella's eyes suddenly widened. Her mouth opened in amazement. How could she have forgotten? Quickly, she turned back towards the outer landing, darted to where Darrick's candle still sat on the floor near the stairs. Her pack lay there as well, flat and empty. And yet, as she had suddenly remembered, it was not completely empty. She snatched it up, buried her arm inside its depths, and found a long, narrow object in the bottom. Her heart leapt. Slowly, she withdrew the object and peered at it. It looked no different than the first time she had seen it. It was merely a length of wooden stick, slightly tapered to a dull point.

  Goodrik had not known how she could use it, but he had said that it might be of use at some point. It might, he suggested, focus the magic of her falcon sigil, make it more potent and useful if the need arose.

  The need, Gabriella felt quite sure, had finally arisen.

  She dropped her pack and stood slowly, fingering the wand. It was probably an insane errand. Likely, she would die in the attempt. But she had to try. Resolutely, she turned back towards the entrance of the grand hall and paced into its flickering light.

  The giant claw awaited her, its cloud of shadows shifting and swirling. Within this, the black candle burnt.

  As Gabriella neared it, she sensed the cold of it. It chilled the metal of her armour, even blew her hair back slightly. She stopped outside the cage of the metal fingers, studying it. Then, crouching and setting her wand on the stone of the floor, she began to undo the clasps of her armour. She no longer needed it, and the cold of it was uncomfortable. Her breastplate clanked as she set it aside, followed by her wrist gauntlets, shoulder plates, and shin guards. Her once glorious armour, she realised, was now dull with scratches, dents, even patters of dried blood. It had served its purpose.

  Finally, clad only in her trousers and tunic, she collected the wand again. She had hoped she would feel its power somehow, as assurance that her plan would work, but the wood felt perfectly prosaic in her fingers. The sigil at her throat was still warm, however, just as always. She felt it there and sighed. Still on one knee, she raised her eyes.

  The bishop had taught her to close her eyes when she prayed, but she was not quite ready for that step yet. Instead, she stared up into the high rafters. Bats still skirled there, chattering faintly.

  "Well," she whispered, shaking her head slightly, somewhat at a loss for words, "so here I am. I have blood on my hands, and my heart is filled with doubt. I have exercised vengeance rather than leaving it to You as the scriptures teach. And I cannot even tell You that I repent of those actions. Perhaps I will do so in time, if I am granted it. As yet, I do not regret what I have done. But now…"

  She stopped and drew a deep breath. She felt foolish, not because she doubted
God was there, but because she feared He would not deign to hear her. She determined to go on anyway.

  "Now… I am embarking on a task that I do not believe I can accomplish on my own. I need Your help and Your blessing. Not because I deserve it, but because this evil must be stopped. I am willing to die in the attempt. Just please… if that is how it must be, do not let my death count for nothing."

  She gripped the wand in both of her hands and looked down at it. "Amen," she finished, frowning.

  She did not feel any different. Perhaps no one ever did. Perhaps the prayer was not about gaining courage, but simply assurance—the assurance that everything that should be done, had been. She pushed herself to her feet, took the wand firmly into her right hand, and held it out.

  Very slowly, she began to creep into the shadow of the gigantic claw.

  She knew no incantations, could not even remember the words to draw the smoke shapes that she had practised in Professor Toph's classes. She could only hope that the strength of the wand, focusing the power of her sigil, would be enough to protect her, and ultimately to extinguish that dreaded, black flame.

  As she pressed between two of the skeletal fingers, the sense of cold increased to a nearly physical presence, almost a barrier. She felt its boundary creep over her outstretched hand up her arm. Faintly, however, the wand in her fist began to glow as it preceded her. Dim, blue light streamed back from it like smoke. It flowed over her hand and arm and formed a sort of corona, spreading to encompass her against the cloud of shadows. Gabriella's heart lightened inside her and began to pound. She pressed on, slowly but insistently, moving fully into the cage of the monstrous claw.

  Before her, the candle became even darker and more solid. Its black flame was as tall and straight as an obelisk but perfectly void. Its depths seemed to suck at her as she neared it, and suddenly, she began to understand what had happened to the unfortunate skeletons at her feet. This one candle was the unholy twin of all the magical candles she had known throughout her life. But rather than mirroring life, reflecting it, this black flame fed on it. It sucked life force into itself and converted it into hideous energy. It was this abominable force that fueled the undead armies and gave them breath. Worst of all, Gabriella sensed that there was no limit to the candle's power. It would simply keep feeding, sucking the life energy of those that the armies murdered and thereby empowering more and more of the hellish soldiers.

  Her father's life force was inside that flame. Not his soul, but that which had bound him to this world and given his body breath. Darrick's life force was there as well. And perhaps, most horrid of all, even that of the Little Prince.

  Gabriella neared it, her wand outstretched. The pressure of the cold, shadowy shield fought back at her, trying to thwart away from its prize, but she did not falter. Her fist trembled, forcing the tip of the wand closer and closer to the black flame. Blue magic streamed back over her, as if blown in a soundless, magical gale. Her hair fluttered back, and even her clothing rippled faintly, blown by the silent force.

  The shadows swirled faster, condensing on the candle as if to protect it. The pressure grew nearly too strong for her to overcome, and yet she pressed on, her fist shaking against the force, pushing the wand inexorably towards the candle's flame. The wand's tip began to flare brightly, and Gabriella felt the sigil at her throat thrumming in response, going from merely warm to ember hot.

  The black flame began to flicker, to retreat from the advancing flare of the wand. The light and the dark began to war. Neither could abide the other; one had to overcome, and the other be annihilated. The candle shuddered as its flame began to tatter, to shred against the light.

  Something swooped out of the swirling shadows. Gabriella barely saw it before it was upon her, battening onto her outstretched fist with a flurry of leathery wings. It was a bat, its tiny teeth gnashing, its claws dragging deep slashes into the flesh of her hand. Gabriella screamed in shock and pain. Her hand spasmed involuntarily, and the wand flashed backwards from her fingers, trailing blue sparks. The protective corona collapsed around her, and she felt herself launched away from the black candle, tossed like a rag doll in a wind storm.

  She tumbled to the stone floor and rolled, her hand leaving bloody smears behind her. Her broken forearm blared with pain as she landed upon it. Struggling dazedly to her knees, she turned to look back at the swirling dark.

  The black candle still burnt within it. And then a shape fluttered out of the shifting shadows. The bat bobbed out of the cage of the skeletal claw and swooped towards her. As it came, however, it began to change. It bulged, warped in mid-air, became horribly misshapen. It landed before her and grew much larger, taller, taking on the unmistakable form of a sinewy human figure. For an instant, the features were still tainted with those of the bat, and then, finally, they receded. A man stood before her in a black robe. His head was bald, and his face was sharp, full of humourless angles and cold confidence. He regarded her where she knelt on the floor, her hand dripping rivulets of blood.

  "I do apologize, Queen," the man said coolly, "but there is nothing more abhorrent to me than the sight of a wand in the hand of a mere human. And a woman at that."

  Gabriella was too stunned to speak. She cradled her hand to her chest, clutching it there with her broken left forearm.

  "I was pleased to observe your actions thus far," the man said, turning aside and moving towards the fire, "but I am afraid I could not allow you to threaten my greatest triumph. I have worked too long and hard on it, using means that you would not even begin to comprehend. It has cost me much, both in time and effort, but all you can think to do with it is to destroy. This is but one reason why I detest your kind so very much."

  Gabriella inched back from the man as he passed near her. "I seek to destroy it," she countered, "because it is evil. As are you, I am quite certain."

  "The word 'evil' is a convenient word used by deluded creatures to condemn that which they do not understand," the man said, moving before the hearth and turning his back to it, as if to warm himself. Lazily, he produced a black wand from his robes, pointed it before him, and gave it a flick.

  A gasp escaped Gabriella's throat as the ruined chandelier behind her leapt up into the air, dragging its chains noisily and trailing its freight of candles. It lofted back into the upper reaches, its candles reseating themselves into their bases and then, with a series of hissing pops, flaring back alight.

  "Do you see?" the man said, as if she were his student and he her instructor. "I do not come to destroy, as you do, but to restore… to create."

  "Lie to yourself if you wish," Gabriella said, climbing to her feet. "But I have seen your methods first-hand. Your armies are an abomination of death. You create nothing. You only know how to pervert."

  The man smiled coldly, still fingering his wand. "I have taken that which was dead, that which was cast off, useful for nothing more than the sustenance of worms, and I have transformed it back into life. I admit, at present, they may be rather rough, Queen, but refinement takes time."

  He drew a deep breath and went on. "For years, I have toiled over my creations, practising and testing, preparing them for this day. At present, they are mere shadows, but soon, they shall reach perfection. When that happens, they will not require mounds of dead flesh, but mere blood, which, in moderation, does not even require the death of the host. I have even," he added, tilting his head conspiratorially, "given some of them the ability to transform themselves into bats. In honour of me, their creator."

  Finally, his smile fell away, and he raised his chin. "You may choose to call that perversion. I call it the ultimate expression of creation. After all these years, I have finally… finally, found a use for dead humans."

  Gabriella chilled before the man's refined hatred. She backed slightly away from him. "Someone will stop you," she whispered. "If not me, then your own kind. For I know what you are. You are a wizard. And not all wizards are like you. Some of them are good. They will fight you."


  "Oh, I doubt that very much," the man replied, stepping towards her, his wand still raised. "You see, I am the most powerful of my kind yet alive. I have cultivated allegiances with wizards of similar motivations, wizards who form an unbroken chain of strength. My Circle of Nine, as I call them. Even now, they advance across the furthest reaches of the land, leading their own dark armies at my behest, conquering all in their path. Nothing shall stand against me, neither human nor my own wizarding kin, should they foolishly choose to oppose. The reign of men shall finally be scoured from the earth. A wizard shall take his rightful place as lord of all things. And I have you partly to thank for that, Queen."

  Gabriella narrowed her eyes at him as he approached her slowly. "What do you mean by that?" she breathed, anger welling up even within her fear.

  "You still do not know who I really am then, do you?" he said quietly, a small smile curling his lip. "I am somewhat surprised. I had come to believe that you were rather intelligent, for a human."

  Gabriella shook her head. "If I had met a beast like you, I would remember it."

  "Alas," the man hissed, drawing close to her, "we did not meet. But our paths have indeed crossed, and very importantly. Why, I daresay, if it were not for me, Queen… you would not be alive to stand here with me this night."

  Gabriella's eyes widened slowly. She raised her bloody hand, touching her fingers to the sigil at her throat.

  "Yes," the man went on, circling behind her. "It was I. My fellows were with me that night when you were but a small child, but it was I who entered your winter cottage. It was by my art that the invading werewolf was chased away. And it was by my choice that I left my marker for your people to find. I did not know then how very useful that marker would be, but I had an inkling. You do not know me, Queen, but I once saved your young life. And since then, I have watched you. Faintly, yes, divined through the vaguest of hazes, broadcast through the magic of my own distant marker, but watch you I have. And with the greatest of interest."