His father met the outburst with an icy glare. “How do you expect to rule others when you cannot even control yourself?”
The words stung and the fact that Artan, who stood silently at the far edge of the table, was spared such humiliation brought back all the other humiliations Cael had endured over the years. He stormed out of the conference room, convinced his father would never let him rule Kirkfall. The king would cheat him out of his birthright. Artan would inherit the crown while Cael was destined to dwell in the shadows of his younger brother’s glory.
That night, Cael decided his father’s reign would have to end sooner rather than later. He would strike before his father knew what hit him. Over the years, Cael had mastered the dark arts and he knew how to tap into ancient mysteries, unleashing their frightening power upon the world. He would not hesitate to use his knowledge and direct it against the man who was keeping him from his destiny.
Cael gathered with his closest followers at a secret temple in the dense woods surrounding the city. The bloated moon illuminated a ring of monolithic stones. No one knew exactly when the massive obelisks were erected and what miraculous technology had enabled that process. Some believed it was the work of giants who had once walked the forests.
Cael knew that the structure was the work of men. Humanity’s greatest flaw was the ability to underestimate its own potential. The reason for this was simple. Mankind was mostly made up of sheep. Followers who lived their lives filled with doubt, regret and untapped potential, lacking any vision or real purpose.
Cael had no intention of joining their ranks simply because his father wished that he would. He would defy the old man and will his own future into existence.
Hooded druids stood in a ring around the slab of stone that served as an altar in this ancient temple. Flickering torches distorted and shrouded their features. A woman was tied to the altar’s surface, her dull, drugged gaze drifting from one druid to another. Runes were inscribed all over her naked, writhing body.
Cael advanced toward the altar, his own features hidden by a hood that mirrored the ones worn by his acolytes. He regarded the woman before him as she weakly squirmed against her restraints. The flames painted her flesh scarlet and a light sheen of moisture glowed on her skin. She lacked the strength to free herself from the thick ropes that bound her in place.
Cael knew little of the struggling victim before him except that her sacrifice would power the spell he was about to cast. The end of one journey meant the beginning of another.
A guttural incantation rose in Cael’s throat and he swiftly brought down a curved, razor-sharp sacrificial knife on the woman‘s chest, plunging the blade all the way to the hilt. The victim didn’t scream and died the way she had lived her worthless life – a quiet follower, to the bitter end.
Cael dropped the blade and scooped up the hot blood pulsing from her gushing wound. He rubbed it across a death’s head tattoo that covered the tough bands of muscles spanning his chest.
The symbol of death.
Cael was taking control of his future. The king would die. And his death would pave the way for a new order.
***
That night, the king fell ill. It had begun as a mild discomfort that rapidly became a painful, persistent stomach ache. His royal advisers and healers gathered and they all said the same thing – he must have ingested spoilt food and the proper amount of herbs, liquids and bed-rest would restore his constitution. There was no need to worry; he would feel better in the morning.
But the next day the cramps had grown worse and the pain had become a terrible agony. His resistance to every medicine the healers administered was taken as an ominous sign and Artan was called to his father’s quarters. The moment he gazed upon the fevered figure buried under heavy blankets of fur, an icy hand brushed against Artan’s heart. The face staring back at him bore little resemblance to the virile ruler of Kirkfall. The haunted skull mask he saw in the bed was the face of death itself.
Artan had faced the grim reaper many times on the battlefield, but this was different. This was his father and he felt helpless against the foul disease running rampant within the man who had raised him.
The shock flashing across Artan’s face penetrated his father’s veil of sickness and a bony arm shot out at the young prince. Skeletal fingers dug into Artan’s shoulder and he was surprised by the strength still within them. Despite the terrible affliction ravaging the king, he managed to tap into a last reservoir of strength. He pulled Artan closer, cheeks quivering with urgency.
Only the closest advisers and Artan heard the final message the king uttered before he succumbed to his illness. The words chilled Artan to the bone because with his dying breath, King McKeltar had decreed that Artan and not Cael should rule his people.
***
Before his father had even been put into the ground, Artan was crowned king of Kirkfall. The succession had to be immediate to maintain order and quell any fears of instability. The coronation ceremony was a surreal affair conducted in the lushly decked-out throne room. As Artan knelt before a high-ranking knight, his beautiful Samara stood at his side.
Her face was a worried mask, tears welling. She had loved Artan’s father with all her heart and the king’s sudden passing had come as a shock. Artan shared the sentiment. This morning he had woken without a concern in the world. He played with his two children during breakfast, oblivious to what the day would bring. Now he faced a knight in ceremonial robes who was about to lower the crown onto his head.
Artan traded a worried look with his wife. There was no joy in his features, the crown already weighing heavily on him. Suddenly his hairs bristled, reacting to the dark intensity of someone staring at him from the far corner of the room. It was none other than Cael, and the hatred in his brother’s eyes could not be denied.
Artan knew the ominous portent of that baleful glare. Years of peace would soon come to an end and Kirkfall would descend into bloody civil war. That night, Cael’s army would meet Artan’s followers in their first battle for the future of the kingdom.
***
The fighting was both savage and drawn out, a battle of muscle, sweat and blood followed by attrition of the spirit. Brother was pitted against brother. The two armies met in a forest clearing blanketed by a fog. One force was under the command of Artan, the other was loyal to Cael. The two armies collided in fury — blades clanged, sparks flew, blood was spilled. The din of combat rang through the night. Everywhere Artan looked, men succumbed to the merciless power of steel. By the time the new moon arrived, Cael’s men were defeated.
Hungry flames painted eerie shadows as a bare-chested Cael was brought before Artan, hands shackled, features alive with unflinching hatred. Artan raised his sword, preparing to drive it through his older brother’s heart, but he hesitated.
Despite rumors flying around the camp — rumors that Cael’s foul magic was responsible for their father’s demise — Artan couldn’t do it. The man before him was a traitor, but he was also his older brother. Artan could not slay his own flesh and blood. It would have been Artan’s right to end Cael’s life but he chose to be merciful, a kindness that he would soon regret.
Instead of taking the life of the warrior-druid, Artan opted for another solution – banishment. Cael would be exiled from Kirkfall and forced to spend the rest of his days away from the land of his birth.
To Cael, this was a fate far worse than death and Artan’s mercy only served to fan the flames of his hatred.
***
Cael stumbled through a dark, primordial forest. Gnarled branches reached out for him like skeletal hands. He had walked for three days straight without sustenance or sleep. Consumed with hatred, his body was fueled by the corrosive sting of defeat.
Cael had no specific destination – Artan had decreed that if he were to ever be spotted within the borders of Kirkfall, he would be executed on sight.
A normal man might have headed for Scotland and sought his fortune among one of the othe
r tribes, but Cael shared no such intentions. Compromise was not in his nature. He wouldn’t run away like a dog with his tail between his legs. Artan had won the battle, but not the war. He had made a fatal mistake by trying to defeat his brother in a fight of man versus man. Cael knew there were other forces in the world, dark powers that couldn’t be overcome with either fire or steel.
Bringing these forces into play came at a price, but it was a price he was willing to pay in his moment of defeat. He would beseech the aid of the one-eyed demon Balor, king of the Otherworld. In the years to come, the Celts would move away from the old gods and beliefs to embrace the Christian faith. But whether one called it Otherworld or Hell, these demonic realms were essentially one and the same.
Cael reached a small clearing and stopped. He raised his tattooed arms toward the bright moon. Guttural words erupted from his parched throat, his anger and hatred a living organism. As the words flew off his lips, the surrounding forest grew silent. All sounds seemed to drain from the world.
Cael probed the giant trees above him, sensing movement in the branches. A series of black shapes grew dimly visible. Ravens. The dark birds peered down at Cael with dead eyes. An instant later, the birds exploded from the trees in a black, fearsome cloud.
One bird dove toward Cael.
Zeroed in on his face.
His eyes.
A spray of crimson was followed by a cry of agony as the bird pecked out his right eye, the black beak finding the soft, wet orb and scooping it right out of its socket. With one vicious peck it severed the muscle tissue that kept the eye in place. A wail of agony exploded from Cael’s lungs as blood spurted from the newly formed crater in his face. The raven cut through the air and dropped the eye in the wet mud before Cael’s feet.
Blood oozed down Cael's face and pooled in the mud. A gored crater where his right eye was, Cael stared with his other eye at the wet ground below him. The mud before him swirled and parted, the soil hungrily sucking up the bloody eyeball.
This was the warrior-druid’s offering to Balor.
An eye for an eye.
According to the stories told to children before bedtime, Balor’s eye had the ability to kill on sight and would come for them if they did not behave, but these were fairy tales for children. The truth was far more disturbing. The demon had been imprisoned in the Otherworld centuries ago and only weak traces of his former glory remained in the world of men. One had to know exactly where to go and what rituals to perform if one hoped to tap into those faint echoes of power. Cael had done his part and he was about to receive a gift from the demon that would allow him to turn the tides of war in his favor.
The ground had fully absorbed Cael’s biological eye and a new thing emerged from the bloody soil. Gaining size and density, growing solid, it was a ruby in the shape of an eye.
Cael's fingers closed around the glittering gem, awe-stricken as he beheld Balor’s gift. This was a source of great power that would serve as his bridge to the Otherworld.
The Eye of Balor.
Cael’s sacrifice had opened a crack between the worlds where the barrier was at its weakest. Too tiny for man or demon to cross over, but porous enough to let something slip through.
The warrior-druid’s greedy fingers closed around the gem, establishing physical contact with an object from another world. The exchange would link Cael to the demon Balor for all time.
Cael admired the ruby a second longer before ramming it into the ground. Tendrils of red energy forked out from the magical jewel and pierced the surrounding earth. The ground began to shake, fissures rippling across its surface. The earth undulated as if lashed by an invisible force from below.
Powered by black magic, shapes began to rise from the ground as the stone and soil re-formed. Invisible hands sculpted the earth into winged beasts the world would soon come to know as gargoyles. Stone turned into sinew and muscle as clay was given unnatural life. Wings burst from heavily muscled backs in a cloud of dust and loose rocks. These creatures were demonic and animalistic in appearance, their limbs short and mounted to squat, thickly muscled torsos.
The pain of Cael’s missing eye was fading, replaced with a sense of blazing triumph. He regarded his growing army of beasts and a cruel smile twisted his lips. Soon Artan would feel the full power of the Otherworld. Soon the young prince who had stolen his birthright would be kneeling before Cael. And he would be far less merciful once their roles were reversed.
One final act remained. Cael placed the Eye of Balor in his bloody ocular cavity. The gem slid into place, a perfect fit. It sucked up all the surrounding blood, greedy for the spilled life force.
A man with a glowing ruby for an eye, Cael surveyed the forest and his growing ranks of monsters. He looked up at the fat orb of the moon and shards of light refracted off the gem, bleeding into the night. In the sickly glow of the moon, it wasn’t clear who made for the more disturbing sight: the winged monsters or their one-eyed master.
The gargoyles snarled. Sharp teeth snapped at the air. Guttural shrieks reverberated. Cael had used Balor’s magic to create an army, a furious force that couldn’t be defeated by mere men. If he wanted to lead these creatures he would have to prove himself their master here on earth. A final step awaited – he must become one of them. Their rank evil would have to flow through his own veins.
The beasts instinctively sensed what was expected of them and advanced toward Cael as if he was prey. One of the more daring gargoyles launched into Cael and sank its fangs into the fallen prince. Its razor-sharp teeth penetrated soft flesh and brittle bone. Cael’s face distorted into a grimace of pain, but the terrible agony soon subsided and made way for an expression of ecstatic elation.
As the moonlight washed over Cael’s face, his features began to change. Eyes retreating under a protruding brow, jaw lengthening. His bones began to crack and contort. The change was upon him. Cael would walk the path between man and beast, one foot in the Otherworld, the other in the world of men. He let out a piercing scream that built into a monstrous roar as human anguish was replaced by the triumph of the beast.
Balor’s children, the gargoyles, had crowned their new master here on earth and soon the world would experience the first taste of their wrath.
***
The police cruiser slowed and came to a halt. They had reached the Central Park West address written out in phosphorescent green across the police car’s dashboard.
Cael ended his inner journey, musings about the past making way for thoughts of the future. He could feel the proximity of the magical gem – its power electrified the air and his senses were attuned to its otherworldly frequency. Cael was a predator who had caught a whiff of his quarry and it was affecting him on a physical level. His pulse pumped in his ears, claws of heat sinking deep into his skull. His heart pounded so hard that for a second he thought it might rupture his ribcage.
Cael’s mind blazed with images of what lay ahead. He could see his fingers closing around the gem and placing it into his empty eye socket, his scarred flesh once more enshrouding the pulsating magic of the Otherworld. The ritual Artan had interrupted all those years ago would be brought to completion, paving the way for Balor’s return to the world of man.
The officer stopped the cruiser and his blank gaze peered back at Cael from the rear-view mirror.
“We’re here, master.”
“You served me well. You know what must be done.”
The officer nodded with marble eyes.
Cael climbed out of the vehicle. The moment the door slammed shut behind the warrior-druid, the cop brought up his service revolver and stuck it in his mouth. Without hesitation, he squeezed the trigger and sent a mass of brains, bone and gore against the headrest of his car seat. What was left of his cratered face thunked against the steering wheel. Had anyone walked past the double-parked cop car, they would have seen the front of the vehicle disappearing in a crimson mist. The small pockets of pedestrians surging down the sidewalk near Central Park were oc
cupied with other thoughts and remained oblivious to the cop’s suicide.
Cael never looked back as he strode toward Dr. Sharpe’s apartment building, his servant already forgotten. The warrior-druid was satisfied with the knowledge that this sacrifice of human life would please Balor. As Cael regarded the tall structure before him, anticipation rose inside him. His skin felt sizzling hot to the touch, the gargoyle blood boiling from the inside. Very soon he would stop fighting the change and give in to the transformation, embracing the monster that was struggling to emerge.
Darkness had fallen across the park and resisting the transformation was growing more difficult with each passing moment. The first signs of the change were already upon Cael. He could feel the tension building in his shoulder blades. His muscles were elongating, adrenaline feeding them.
Only minutes now.
The blood of the Otherworld rushed through his arteries. A roar was building behind his ears, a monstrous keening. It was still constrained to his thoughts but soon it would explode off his lips and echo through the encroaching night. Darkness was upon him. Before long, man would give way to beast and the reign of the gargoyle would commence once more.
This time he would not fail his master.
Balor’s return was near. Soon Artan would get to see the world burn.
CHAPTER NINE
THE EYE OF Balor sparkled in the fading sunlight that streamed into Dr. Sharpe’s apartment through the large French doors. His apartment was located on the twentieth floor of a pre-war structure and its large balcony overlooked Central Park, offering a breathtaking vista of the lush vegetation below.
Gargoyle Knight: A Dark Urban Fantasy Page 8
