Unbound

by Shawn Speakman

  “You are mine,” Tathal said to the churchwarden, whose rage and fear could not be quelled by even the paralyzing spell the wizard had used. “Rise. And become an extension of my will.”

  As if a puppet on strings, Peter Fursdon regained control over his body and pushed himself up off the floor. Of course, he was not in control. Tathal maintained that. Getting a better look, he was pleased to see the strength in the younger man—a brutish strength but lithe enough to be quite quick. The churchman would be perfect for what was needed.

  “You have killed him,” Peter Fursdon whispered, suddenly realizing he could use his voice.

  “Yes. In time. A short time, methinks.”

  “You could have killed us easily, gotten the information you wanted easily,” the churchwarden growled, his fury returned. “Why toy with us?”

  “When one plans on speaking to the Word,” Tathal said, hefting the sword and finally examining it. “It is important to practice.”

  “There are forces of good in this world. In South Cadbury even.”

  “I know,” Tathal agreed. “And I look forward to killing them.”

  Looking away, he called upon his magic. It stirred immediately. And snaked its way up the blade—into the very metal—alive and revealing the secrets the weapon held. Many men and women had died upon the sword. He could sense that. But Tathal focused on one particular bloodletting—one set down and recorded as part of an epic battle in this part of the world. The magic then took a small part of what it had found and entered the world, reaching, delving, seeking for the one Tathal hunted.

  It did not take long.

  Frowning, he went to a window and gazed northwest with eyes keener than any night bird.

  To a hill, far in the distance, where a black stain with straight lines jutted from England—a tower, with darkness carved from the faint light of moon and star.

  A tower created to imprison.

  Tathal let his magic die, replacing it with burning conviction. He could see his quest’s endgame.

  And it was nigh.

  Carefully wrapping the sword in cloth and tugging on the magical strings of his new puppet, he left the dying Reverend Peter de Brug and his holy place. He exited the church and returned to the cool caress of the night. The scent of sweet lavender became his companion once more. For a moment, he looked backward, discerning if he had made a mistake in letting the rector live even moments longer, moments that might lead to downfall.

  But he sensed nothing. The path he took was his to win.

  With the churchwarden following against his will, Tathal embraced the journey before him.

  An hour after leaving South Cadbury, the six bells of the Church of Saint Thomas a Becket pealed with a manic undertone that echoed over the countryside, music not meant to sound the time.

  Tathal listened to them fade with every step.

  It was a nice night for a walk.

  * * * * *

  No one witnessed his arrival to Glastonbury Tor.

  It had taken the rest of the night and most of the following day to make his way across the south of Britain. Tathal had embraced the journey as he had done all of the events in his life—with patient conviction. Now he stood at the base of one of the oldest places in England, its settlement dating back to the Iron Age. And at its apex, a tower lorded, its construction older than he but not by much. He had been here before but never could have guessed part of his future lay buried in the tor’s past. Death, it seemed, could hide from even one such as he. But he now possessed one of the most marvelous blades in history and it had drawn him here like a lodestone, leaving no doubt. Buried in the hillside’s depths, darkness slept.

  And in that darkness, he would find a powerful tool that would protect him from Heliwr Richard McAllister and his foulmouthed fairy guide.

  With the churchwarden behind him, Tathal paused, sending magic into the surroundings for what felt like the hundredth time since they had left South Cadbury. He was not worried about the tourists who frequented Glastonbury Tor; they had vanished with the coming of night. No human was present on the tor, as far as Tathal could gauge. No night predators of significance were about either.

  Yet Tathal and his charge were far from alone.

  The bells of Saint Thomas a Becket church had summoned aid. Tathal had no idea who—or what—tracked them. Spirit. Demon. Fey. Angel. Any number of other entities not human. He could feel his tracker’s otherworldliness. It was a subtle suggestion on the air that grew stronger as the distance between them lessened.

  As fog began to infiltrate the lowlands, Tathal made his way above it, up the steep path toward the hill’s top. The tower of Saint Michael’s Church had stood on Glastonbury Tor for centuries. Once part of a much larger complex, the tower was all that remained, the memory of an age long since past. The Dissolution of Monasteries had been hard on all of the important buildings of ancient England. The tower was all that remained of a much greater church, its square spire three-stories tall and featuring corner buttresses, perpendicular bell openings, and a sculptured tablet bearing the image of an eagle below the parapet. The tower stood with resilience against the ages, sealed with concrete where weather and use had pitted it.

  Tathal now recognized that the tower had survived not by chance but by design. Men of secrets and power had preserved it at a time when they dismantled other churches.

  Those men understood what he now discerned.

  The tower held a dark secret.

  Tathal walked the grounds, taking it all in. He did not hurry. Reverend John de Brug did actually teach him something: never take a moment for granted. When one was as old as he, life depended on being cautious. In his arrogance, he had almost lost his life. He would not be careless again.

  That’s when four arrows shot with lightning speed punctured the night.

  When he had sensed their pursuer, Tathal had readied for the attack. The arrows bounced off a thin skein of magic he had maintained throughout the journey.

  They were no ordinary arrows.

  At least he knew who pursued him.

  “You might as well show yourself, Elf,” Tathal said, trying to keep the edge out of his spell-thick voice. “Few can follow me. Fewer still can harm me.”

  Movement showed in the darkness, quickly vanishing below the hill’s horizon.

  “Are you by chance a warden of this place?”

  No answer.

  “Or merely someone seeking revenge for last night?”

  “Wizard, I protect more than an evil like you can fathom,” the darkness said.

  In the voice, Tathal heard many things. Pain. Intelligence. Loneliness. Caution. Rage. Heart.

  And the last fracturing more with every passing sunrise.

  “I know you, better than I know many in your village of exile,” Tathal said, still peering into the gloom in an attempt to discover the other’s whereabouts. He felt like the universe was testing him with one last trial. “I felt your presence when I first entered South Cadbury. Are you the final piece to the puzzle of this night?”

  “I am not,” the Elf snarled, now on Tathal’s left. The wizard kept his magic up.

  “I know your story, Ruindolon Arl. The exile. The anguish. Shall I tell you the tale I know?” When the Elf said nothing, Tathal continued. “In a name, your exile is Rylynn Etton. Also known as Rylynn of Beauty. Her name says it all, yes?” No answer. “She was your love,” he continued. “And you, her love. Young love. The kind that many legends recount. But we know how those stories end, don’t we, Ruindolon Arl? The King of the Elves wooed Rylynn for his own. Royalty has ever done such things. It failed. The love you shared held true. Until the King used threat against you to win her hand. And in your jealousy and anger and righteousness—emotions only the deepest depths of one’s heart know—you attempted to assassinate your liege. And failed.

  “I do not begrudge the attempt, you understand,” Tathal said. “It is undoubtedly what I would have done. It was just poorly executed. Like y
our attempt on my life.”

  “I have much to pay for,” Ruindolon Arl agreed, now somewhere behind him.

  Tathal followed the voice. “You will serve my needs this day, Elf. And be released from pain.”

  “You know me,” the Elf said flatly. “But I know you as well. Why you are here. There are graves in the Misty Isles that hold great power. You seek one of those deaths here, beneath us. Not a forever death but a revenant of death chained beneath the weight of his bastardized past. The death you seek, it will undo you.” He paused, voice already in a different place near the tower. “I know you will not relent. But the priest is an innocent in this. Let him free.”

  Tathal grinned, magic tingling in his chest and at his fingertips. “Innocent like Rylynn’s flower beneath the sweaty body of the man you failed to kill?”

  No answer.

  “Innocent like Rylynn’s loins as they mount her king?”

  Nothing.

  “Innocent like the children Rylynn will bear him.”

  Rage in the deathly silence.

  With the churchwarden bidden to protect his back, Tathal swept the tor and the interior of its tower, eyes scanning the darkness. Nothing. Elves were capable of hiding in ways that human eyes could barely detect. But Tathal knew his barbs had buried deep; the Elf would not hide for long.

  Even with that knowledge, he barely had time to throw up his magical ward as a shadow darker than the sky fell from the heights of the tower.

  Ruindolon Arl hit him like a boulder, snarling, both men crashing to the ground. Short sword slashing, the Elf was relentless. His shielding spell barely holding, Tathal fought the fey creature physically, unable to break free of the other’s grip. Only magic kept the sword from killing him. Panic he had not felt in a very long time crystalized the moment—the crumbling of his protective spell as his own strength waned, the green eyes of his assailant flashing hatred, the dewy smell of the grass they fought upon, the sounds each of them growled even as they labored for breath, and the human attire the attacker wore to blend in with his neighbors.

  The killing would have been moments away if not for Peter Fursdon.

  Tathal directed the churchwarden with a thought. Unable to ignore the command, the big man responded immediately.

  Before the Elf could avoid it, a fist like a cinder block connected with his cheek.

  And Ruindolon Arl crumbled.

  Almost as quickly, unseen thick lines of magic chained the dazed Elf. Tathal regained his feet, wiping the indignity of grass and dirt off his clothing.

  “Besides, there is no innocence left in this world.”

  “You are wrong,” the Elf growled.

  “Wait until you see what I have in store for you.”

  Ruindolon Arl struggled against his invisible shackles. It would do the fey creature no good. If they could contain the elemental fury of a Praguian golem during World War II, the Elf would be no problem.

  Tathal turned back to the tower and entered its hallowed walls. The floor lay exposed to the night air; it had once been dirt but had more recently been covered in stone. Stars twinkled cold fire through the tower’s absent roof. He could see with his wizard eyes the wards that ran through the walls, pulsing with a faint blue-white veil of magic created to imprison the death he sought. Tathal began his work. The spells came easily. Like a handful of other wizards in the world, Tathal had lived long enough to acquire an unimaginable amount of knowledge. He used it now. Spoken words of enchantment. Accompanied hand movements. Focused intent. Tathal calmed his mind from the heat of battle and tore strand after strand of another magician’s work away.

  It took barely ten minutes to undo the magical jail. Glancing to ensure the Elf remained frozen, Tathal ordered the churchwarden to stand at the center of the tower.

  And began the last part of his work.

  Tathal unwrapped the sword. It had once been plunged into the chest of a father by an enraged bastard son. The wizard handed it to the churchwarden.

  Peter Fursdon took the broadsword, resistance and hate in his eyes.

  “Soon those eyes will look at me with more fury than you can imagine, Priest,” Tathal said, grinning. “But it will not be your soul within them.”

  The churchwarden tried his voice. Tathal liked the silence.

  “To my work,” he said.

  Prison undone, Tathal beckoned the dead. Rather, he called for one fatal revenant. Ghosts inhabited the land everywhere, and summoning the wrong one would complicate the night. It did not take long to find the right death though. The wail started first, a hoarse scream that became a banshee from hell, its rage consuming the hilltop. Tathal focused on it, the sword the key. The weapon became a lightning rod, drawing the spirit from his hidden grave beneath the tower to the sword with which it had once dealt death. Ethereal emanations seeped from the floor and gathered about the young churchwarden, settling around him—entering him. Peter Fursdon screamed.

  Tathal paid his pain no mind. The culmination of his plan settled into its new body even as the wizard witnessed a ghostly illumination of golden armor beginning to form about the once-churchman, invisible to all but those who knew magic.

  As the armor coalesced, Tathal saw the rent in the breastplate where the killing stroke had fallen more than fifteen centuries earlier, the final result of the spirit’s attempt at overthrowing his king—his father—and taking his place upon the throne.

  The anguished screams of the revenant and its new host died on the night.

  “Speak,” Tathal said.

  The man before him took a deep breath. He stood taller, prouder, replaced with stern steel not original in his making, chin lifted, regal and powerful. The soul that stared at Tathal was not that of the churchwarden.

  It was a spirit far darker.

  “What is the name your mother gave you at birth?” Tathal asked.

  The flicker of annoyance crossed the other’s face. “I am Mordred, bastard of King Arthur Pendragon of Caer Llion.”

  “And who am I?”

  “You are Tathal Ennis, wizard of the Fallen Court,” Mordred growled. “And I will kill you, cur.”

  “That remains to be seen,” Tathal said, admiring the revenant’s bloodlust. It would come in handy soon. “You are no longer Mordred. You are now the Mordred. My knight. My protector. An extension of my will. I have given you freedom from eternal torment. And whether you like it or not, you are mine to command. Yet I would not do so without giving you a gift as well—what you most yearn for.”

  “And what is it you think I desire, wizard of the Fallen Court?”

  “Revenge against your slayer.”

  The Mordred frowned darkly, staring off into the night, thinking. When his gaze returned to the wizard, he had sensed what Tathal knew to be true.

  “There can be no witnesses,” Tathal asserted.

  “I understand.”

  Tathal nodded. “A first test then.”

  Sword gripped and invisible armor encasing his new mortal body, he charged Ruindolon Arl from the tower even as Tathal undid the Elf’s magical shackles. The fey creature was on his feet as quick as a cat, steady and strong in the way of the Seelie Court, his own short sword brought up in protection. The Elf would be more than a match for any human. It was time to see if the Mordred lived up to the history and legends of his previous life.

  The two combatants met, steel meeting and ringing. No sound escaped the Mordred. Every step, every feint, every parry, and every attack was carried out with precise and systematic ease. The Elf had more speed—if barely—but his much shorter weapon lacked the reach that his foe possessed.

  After several minutes of combat, though outmatched in almost every way, the Mordred swept the Elf’s feet from out under him.

  And drove his sword into the chest of Ruindolon Arl.

  Eyes big with surprise and fear, the Elf lay pinned to Glastonbury Tor, his blood a darkness upon the hill’s grass.

  He took his memories of Rylynn the Beauty with him.


  “Well done, my Mordred,” Tathal breathed.

  The dead knight gave the wizard a dark look. Before Tathal could say something more, the Mordred pulled free his weapon and in moments vanished down the tor, an ancient ghost in a new, powerful body. It would take him several hours to reach South Cadbury, but when he did, the sword that Tathal had fought so hard to acquire would lay waste to all it touched.

  Death would enter the town. And leave none alive.

  “Now we will see, Myrddin Emrys,” Tathal hissed to the stars and moon. “You have your unfettered knight. But now I have mine.”

  The night responded with the silence of the dead.

  Feeling confident in his future once more, Tathal Ennis descended Glastonbury Tor, leaving the body of Ruindolon Arl behind. He cared not who found the Elf and what that would mean for the world. Instead, he entered the night that cloaked his passage. The Mordred would join him when he had finished his task.

  When that happened, the wizard had two more places to visit, two more items to acquire. Then he would have his answers.

  He breathed deep of the night and couldn’t help but grin.

  The prelude of the world’s end began now.