A vicious blow hit him in the head, drawing blood. But Artan didn't buckle under the onslaught. As his forehead sheeted crimson, he relentlessly forged on. The wound might look terrible from afar, but it was merely surface damage.
Artan blocked another powerful blow and thrust his staff at Cael, who was sent reeling. The tide of battle was turning. Artan was beginning to dominate the duel, but Cael had decided that he wouldn’t accept defeat this time. The scale had to be tipped in his favor, a decisive victory had to be achieved. Cael was the heir to the throne and desired to best his brother in a definitive manner.
Cael spun his staff around, touching the end that had drawn Artan's blood. He stealthily rubbed the crimson liquid into one of his tattoos, a crown of thorns.
The tattoo magically absorbed the blood and thorns sprouted from the ground, ensnaring Artan's feet and tripping the young prince. As Artan went down, Cael attacked without mercy.
Later, Artan would learn that the means by which Cael had won the duel had not escaped the attention of the weapon master. That same night, the man shared his observation with the king, who registered the news with a heavy heart but wasn’t all that surprised. He knew Cael practiced the dark arts of the demon Balor, and he disapproved. But this was the confirmation Artan’s father needed to make his decision – he could not entrust Cael with the future of Kirkfall…
Artan’s mind snapped back to the present. The past had taught him what his brother was capable of. He wasn’t about to face a normal opponent. But neither was Cael. With any luck, he might end up teaching Cael a trick or two.
“You took away everything that ever mattered to me,” Artan said, his voice bereft of all emotion.
“Just returning the favor, little brother. The crown was my birthright. I was supposed to be king.”
“A king doesn't spill the blood of his own people.” Artan took a step closer. “A king protects his people.”
“The way you protected Samara and your little boy?”
Something snapped in Artan and his rage ignited. His blade lashed out at Cael, whose sword came up to parry this strike. Steel kissed steel, sparks danced, and the blades flashed back and forth with thundering power. Both men moved with superhuman grace and agility, their movements enhanced by the potent magic of the gargoyles. WHOOSH. Artan’s sword whipped toward Cael’s face, but the warrior-druid blocked his attack.
“One bit of advice, little brother. Don't go for the eye this time. Aim for the heart. I always do.”
Cael’s sword chopped at Artan's chest with the speed of a coiled serpent striking at its prey. Artan back-pedaled and Cael’s sword found thin air. Undeterred, the warrior-druid tore a tapestry from the wall and hurled it at the retreating Artan. The tapestry enveloped the former king and he lost his footing, stumbling backward.
Cael discarded his sword and instead relieved one of the Celtic mannequins of a mace, a three-foot chain attached an iron ball of spikes to a medieval war club. Cael wielded the armor-crushing weapon with the skill of a warrior trained in all forms of combat. In Kirkfall, royalty wasn’t shielded from battle but weaned on it.
Cael swung for Artan's skull. The medieval weapon shrieked. Artan ducked, backpedaling out of range. The weapon whistled over him and pulverized a display case in a hail of wood and glass.
Cael pivoted and launched a second attack. Artan was forced to jump back, a move that made him collide with one of the Celtic mannequins. The figure toppled over.
Artan let go of his sword so he could snatch the mannequin's shield, spun round and —
The shield rang as he deflected the next blow, the impact of the mace pounding into his shield rattling his teeth. Sparks flew off the bronze surface.
Cael kept bringing down his mace — once, twice, metal on metal, the vibrations of each blow thrumming up Artan's arm. The battle was fierce and furious, without any of the grace or form that was the hallmark of their royal combat training. These weren’t princes but two savages intent on ripping each other apart.
Cael closed in for the deathblow. The warrior-druid lifted the mace over his head. He was about to drive the steel club down on his brother’s head and pancake Artan’s skull in a hail of bone fragments.
Artan’s countermove was to hurl his shield at Cael's feet, the edge tearing into the druid’s knees and chopping his legs out from under him. Cael went down but rolled across the floor and sprung back to his feet with fluid grace.
Artan, meanwhile, scanned the wall for a new weapon. Honed in on a broadsword. His fingers closed around the hilt of the heavy weapon and plucked it from the wall. At the same time, Cael nabbed a nearby bow and arrow. He notched the first arrow into the bow and fired off the projectile. The arrow sliced across the exhibit hall, honing in on Artan’s exposed throat with deadly purpose.
Artan spotted the incoming arrow and instantly knew there was no way he could sidestep the projectile. A human warrior would have succumbed at this point. But Artan wasn’t a mere human any longer. A dark fire blazed inside him now, raging at the edge of conscious thought. A furious strength suffused his being, powering his reflexes and fueling his muscles.
The strength of the gargoyle.
Artan whipped up the broadsword in one impossibly swift motion and deflected the arrow in mid-flight, chopping it in two.
Tsssst. Two more arrows blasted toward Artan. Once again, he deflected the deadly projectiles with his broadsword, displaying superhuman speed and agility. Artan whirled, blade balanced in hand, and faced Cael. His brother had taken a step back and now stood in the circle of blood that had formed around the decapitated security guard. The warrior-druid crouched before the pool of blood on the floor, his magnetic intensity directed at Artan.
“Why fight me when you could join me? Balor's life force courses through your veins now. Deny it if you must, but you belong to him now.”
Cael dipped his fingers into the dead guard’s blood and drew the crimson liquid across the tattoo of a stylized sword that was inked across the full length of his forearm.
Artan took a step back, knowing full well the grave power of Cael’s ancient druid magic. A tremor passed through the exhibit hall. The knives and swords displayed across the walls began to come to unnatural life. Artan saw the growing disbelief spreading across Rhianna’s face. Up until this point she had witnessed terrible violence, but it was still within the bounds of the real world.
That was about to change.
The young archeology student was about to get a taste of Celtic magic.
Artan knew they didn’t have much time before all hell broke loose. He made a split-second decision and advanced toward Rhianna. She remained crouched in the far corner, cell phone pressed against her ear. She shrunk away from the fast-approaching warrior who grabbed her hand and hurled her back to her feet. Rhianna’s hand seemed tiny in his rough, calloused palm. She belonged to a world where most were spared the burden of hard labor.
The first sword detached from the wall and tore right at Rhianna. Artan forced her to duck and the blade whistled over their heads with savage momentum, thudding into a display case. Another blade whistled overhead and buried itself in one of the Celtic mannequins, slicing it in two. The torso toppled.
Artan whirled toward the nearest stained glass window. More swords and knives sliced through the air, adding another layer of urgency. Artan knew they had to get out of here. NOW!
He scooped up the shield he had abandoned earlier. The timing was perfect as he brought it up and deflected five incoming daggers, a hail of steel. He pushed Rhianna back to her feet and they barreled their way through the gauntlet of sharp metal. Knives and other blades stitched the air, missing them by inches or bouncing off the shield.
The medieval window jumped into view and Artan picked up speed, now moving at full bore. Rhianna’s face filled with panic the moment Artan’s intentions became clear. She mouthed a silent NOOO, but her protest went unheeded.
They disappeared through the window in an explosion of gl
ass.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CAEL APPROACHED THE shattered museum window, and was greeted by fading daylight beyond. He could make out Artan and the female vanishing among the thickets, the shadows of the trees erasing them from view. He touched the knife tattoo on his forearm and the storm died down. There was no need to waste more energy on the spell.
His first instinct was to press on and pursue Artan and the woman, to face his brother and finish him once and for all. But caution prevailed. Despite Cael’s magical advantage, Artan posed a considerable threat and Samhain was approaching fast. Time was of the essence. The window during which he could pave the way for Balor’s return to this world was shrinking. He had to acquire the Eye of Balor and complete the ritual his brother had interrupted all those years ago. His personal vengeance would have to wait.
The druid strode toward the nearest exit. He didn’t go far before a guard tried to intercept him. The man faced him with his strange weapon held high.
“Freeze!”
Cael wondered how the man planned to stop him with the metallic object that he was pointing at him. He raised his dagger to test the guard’s response and the wall next to his head exploded.
Interesting.
The warrior-druid smelled the cordite in the air and realized fire and steel had evolved during the years of his imprisonment. He respected the ingenuity of this advanced lethal technology but didn’t share the same sentiment for a warrior who wielded such a weapon. It took skill and courage to face oblivion armed with just a piece of sharp steel and one’s own physicality. Taking a life from a distance was easy. A mere child could become a killer. This was the weapon of a coward. And the guard who addressed him now with a quivering voice did little to sway the low opinion Cael was beginning to form for this modern-day warrior.
“I said freeze! Stay right where you are…”
The guard’s words died on his lips as Cael spun toward him. Before the man could draw a bead on him, Cael was in his face, blade up, six inches of glittering death. There was no hesitation as he drove his dagger into the man. In and out, once, twice. Cael withdrew the bloody knife with a splash of gore, and the man crumpled into a lifeless ball.
The warrior-druid didn’t even break a sweat. His breath didn’t accelerate and his nerves were pure steel. He was a warrior forged by a brutal period in human history when weakness wasn’t tolerated. Among a people the world would now deem savages, Cael had been the most savage of them all. You lived or you died, and the warrior-druid intended to live. He had been granted a second chance to carry out his master’s will and he planned to take full advantage of it.
Cael exited the Cloisters through the main doorway. The sun had transformed into a bloody ball about to be lidded into darkness, and a fresh gust of wind greeted him. Instead of recoiling from the cold, he took a deep breath of the brisk air, basking in the simple pleasure of being flesh and blood again. His enjoyment of being part of the world was tempered by another sensation: as he faced the red light of the sun, he could feel the caged monster stirring inside of him. The change was upon him. For now, he could still resist the call of the gargoyle, but soon the beast would demand to be released from the prison of its human form.
Cael was making his way down the stone staircase when a police cruiser pulled up, blocking his escape. Raptorlike, he tracked the approaching vehicle while he languidly stroked the bloody dagger concealed within his shirt. His fingers traced the blood and proceeded to rub the dead guard's life force into his forearm. It was inked with the tattoo of a large, bald head.
A Celtic symbol of the human spirit.
A second later, the door snapped open and one of the police officers emerged, weapon ready.
More fools pretending to be men.
“Hands up! Do not move!”
The cop’s voice cut across the museum grounds and Cael experienced a sense of déjà vu. Once again he faced a knight foolishly trying to assert his authority. Cael brought up his hands, but his penetrating glare remained fixed on the cop. Cael’s commanding voice allowed for no protest. “You now serve Balor.”
As soon as the words were spoken, the cop's expression went slack - the man’s will was shattered by the ancient druid magic. A helpless puppet now under Cael’s control, the man spun around, gun up, and without a trace of hesitation pumped a full magazine into his stunned partner, who had emerged from the driver’s side of the police cruiser. The bullets hurled the officer against the side of the vehicle, the weight of his body cracking glass while tattooing the car with the spray of his own blood.
Cael lowered his hands and strode with dark confidence toward the cruiser. He knelt before the dead cop. The other officer watched him in mindless silence, a wan, slack-jawed smile pasted across his puffy face.
“I’m seek Dr. Benjamin Sharpe.”
The words were spoken in ancient Gaelic, but their meaning was clear to the officer. They were communicating on another level now. All the modern-day knight needed to understand was the name.
Benjamin Sharpe.
The man who held the prize.
An automaton, the police officer nodded and turned toward his car. Cael followed him with genuine curiosity.
The knight of this modern realm activated a strange device inside the steel contraption. Cael marveled at the spectral green light emanating from the cruiser’s computer. He saw strange symbols that must be a form of writing appear as the cop accessed a database and punched in Sharpe’s name.
What sort of magic was this?
The archeologist’s address flashed across the screen.
“You found him.”
More of a statement than a question.
The officer nodded.
“Take me to him.”
Cael slipped into the car, taking a seat next to the will-less officer. The cop started the car and robotically put it in gear, turning on the sirens. The sound assaulted the museum grounds and filled the night.
As the cruiser shot down the museum’s driveway, trees blurring past the window, Cael’s malevolent stare locked on Fort Tryon Park. Artan was out there. The warrior-druid’s bloody hand made contact with another of the inked images covering his body — the tattoo of a snake, which wrapped around his neck.
Deeper within the park, the grass began to move, now transformed into a heaving, writhing mass. The ground came alive as hundreds of serpents erupted from the soil.
Back inside the moving cruiser, a cruel smile slashed across Cael’s face.
Hope you enjoy my little surprise, brother.
***
Rhianna screamed as the stained-glass church window shattered around her. But the longhaired man’s powerful arm shielded her from the vortex of pulverized glass. Her savior took the blunt of the impact. As they cut through the air, all Rhianna could think of was that they had just demolished a priceless Gothic window, and how furious her dad would be when he found out. But her ruminations were cut short as they landed on the grass below. The impact of her feet slamming into the ground jolted her bones and rattled her teeth.
Shell-shocked, she backed away from the stranger, her wobbly legs barely able to support her weight. There were cuts on her forearms, souvenirs from the maneuver, but overall she was spared any major injuries. The man shot a rapid-fire glance up at the broken window before he snatched Rhianna’s hand and pulled her along. She offered up a half-hearted protest but her words were choked off by fear. The man’s intense demeanor spoke volumes - they were not out of the clear yet. As Rhianna was whisked through the mazelike garden that surrounded the museum, her mind burned with questions.
Who was this stranger? What the hell just happened?
But the answers would have to wait. Right now, the man seemed intent on putting some distance between them and the Cloisters, and Rhianna wasn’t going to persuade him otherwise. They fought through the dense undergrowth, thickets lashing out as if alive. Rhianna could make out a police siren growing louder in the distance and hope flooded her face – hel
p was drawing near.
A few moments later they had reached a clearing, a small stretch of grass enclosed by shady oak trees. Rhianna was still reeling. Panic bubbled to the surface and she regarded the Celtic warrior with undisguised fear.
“Please, don't hurt me.”
“I mean you no harm.”
Rhianna regarded the man with surprise. That made the second man who addressed her in ancient Gaellic today. What was going on? There was something in the stranger’s voice that transcended his exotic tongue: an earnestness of character that she could not deny. Rhianna realized she believed him. After all, he had selflessly put himself at risk to save her from the psycho back at the museum.
“What is your name?” the man asked.
There was a moment of hesitation before she answered. “Rhianna.”
“A good name.”
Rhianna realized that the man was trying to calm her down, and this insight achieved the desired effect.
“What’s happening here? How could he make those objects move without touching them?”
“Dark druid magic. The spells are inked across his skin and require the blood of his victims to be cast.”
Rhianna swallowed an acerbic comeback.
Dark druid magic.
Hmm, why hadn’t she thought of that?
One answer immediately came to mind.
“This is crazy...”
Rhianna’s voice trailed off as a mass of hissing snakes burst from the bushes.
“Oh my God...”
The stranger reacted immediately. He grabbed Rhianna by the arm again and they kept moving deeper into the park. Everywhere they turned, more serpents appeared, relentlessly closing in. They were burrowing their way out of the ground, dropping from the trees... An undulating mass of hissing death.
Rhianna’s savior managed to sidestep the snakes, cutting a brisk path through the carpet of slithering reptiles, and they arrived at a street that ran alongside the park — just in time to see a police cruiser scream past them. Rhianna caught a super-fast glimpse of the one-eyed killer inside the vehicle. Cael flashed them a mocking grin. A moment later, the druid was gone.
Gargoyle Knight: A Dark Urban Fantasy Page 6
