One Knight Only

by Peter David

  And with the shocking suddenness of a heart attack, the great iron ring and the locking mechanism to which it was attached gave way, ripping free of the door like a cannon shot. The door was almost half bent inward as Percival grabbed the newly made, gaping hole and yanked the door open as hard as he could.

  The beefy guard was standing there. Had he been sporting a machine gun, it might have been problematic, but instead he was standing there with a sword slung on his hip, still safely in its sheath. He obviously hadn’t realized the severity of the problem he was about to face; he’d just been checking out what sounded like excess noise in Percival’s cell. His jaw dropped even as he took a step back and grabbed for the hilt of his sword.

  The sword, apparently not as well-oiled as it should have been, stuck for a moment in the scabbard. Truthfully, it wouldn’t have mattered in the end if it had come clear when he’d first pulled on it, because Percival was simply too fast. With one quick movement he closed the distance between the two of them and brought his fist up in a blur. It connected squarely with the guard’s throat, temporarily paralyzing his vocal cords so he could not cry out. The guard should have considered himself lucky. If Percival had struck harder, he could have crushed his windpipe and doomed the guard to suffocation within minutes.

  As it was, the guard staggered, grabbing reflexively at his throat and still trying to cry out. Percival moved with the practiced ease of one for whom combat is not a hurried endeavor, but instead something that is won through maintaining one’s center of calm. He took two steps forward, deftly turned sideways as a desperate punch from the disoriented guard glanced past his chest, and backhanded the guard in the face. The impact sent him staggering back and he slammed his head against the wall of the corridor. Consciousness slid away from him even as he slid to the floor.

  Percival unbuckled the guard’s sword belt and strapped it around his own waist. He yanked out the sword then, swept it back and forth. He smiled approvingly. The balance on the weapon was certainly respectable, and the edge of the blade seemed quite keen. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, though. He’d had more than enough trouble during his unexpected stay.

  Nevertheless, he gripped the sword firmly as he started cautiously down the corridor. It was illuminated with faintly flickering torches. It was hard for Percival to believe that he was in the twenty-first century, considering everything around him seemed transported from an earlier age. He moved with impressive silence, his feet padding along the floor. Out of his cell, he became aware of the stink that was radiating from his body, and he felt as if he was going to pass out from his own stench. He wondered whether that alone would be enough to raise some sort of alarm.

  He turned a corner.

  Gilgamesh was right in front of him.

  Both of them froze for an instant, each equally surprised to see the other, but it was Percival who recovered faster. His action was instinctive and, therefore, impossible to foresee.

  Percival swung his right foot up with as much strength as he could muster and delivered a powerful kick directly to the private parts of the High King.

  Immortal or not, warrior or not, legend or not . . . a kick in the balls remains the great leveler of all men.

  Gilgamesh went down, gasping, his eyes widening in shock. For a heartbeat Percival considered bringing his sword around and down and trying to behead Gilgamesh on the spot. But he sensed, correctly, that anything he did to prolong the encounter would work in Gilgamesh’s favor, would give him time to recover. Gilgamesh was powerful enough that, even in his agony, he would be able to block a sword thrust with his bare hands, and as Percival continued to try and assail him, Gilgamesh would slowly work through his pain until the knight eventually found himself facing a fully recuperated and wildly infuriated High King.

  All of this became quite clear to Percival even as he realized that the best place for him to be at that moment was anyplace but where he was.

  Percival vaulted forward, landing squarely on Gilgamesh’s back, which was not a difficult chore since Gilgamesh was bent over at that moment. The impact shoved the High King flat onto his stomach, a stunned “Bastard!” shoved out from him, but Percival kept going. And as he ran, he heard Gilgamesh gather what little air he was able to get into his lungs and gasp out, “Enkidu!”

  That was exactly the name that Percival did not wish to hear escape the High King’s lips, but he had no time to dwell on it. Instead, he ran.

  Gods, he had forgotten what that was like. Cooped up for over half a year, he had exercised constantly in his cell because he’d really had nothing much else to do. He had kept his muscles honed and stretched, so they would not become lax from lack of use, but this was the first opportunity he’d had to really cut loose. And he seized the opportunity with both hands . . . and, even more accurately, both legs.

  He sprinted through the corridors. There was a door at the far end standing in his way. He had no idea what was on the opposite side: Enkidu, an opposing army, or freedom. It didn’t matter, nor did he slow. He hit the door at a dead run and it splintered and burst open from the impact.

  Full daylight struck his eyes, and he felt as if the sun was going to sear his eyeballs from the sockets. For the briefest of moments he paused, shielding his face, squinting against the brightness. There were no clouds overhead, and he inhaled deeply the invigorating air of freedom.

  He had emerged onto a flat but verdant plateau, and there was thick tree coverage less than a hundred yards away. He glanced briefly behind him, saw a simple building that looked like a jail of old, and then thought no more of it. He was far more concerned with what was ahead of him than what was behind him, liberty as opposed to more captivity.

  And he would not be captured again. He’d sooner die first . . . presuming death was truly willing to take one such as he.

  He sprinted for the forest, and that was when he heard the ground beginning to shake beneath him. Something was coming, and it was large and making no endeavor at all to hide its arrival.

  Behind him, at the opposite end of the clearing, was more of the forest; apparently it ringed the area. He heard the crashing of limbs from that area behind it. Whatever was coming was already hard on his trail, and he wasn’t going to have much time. Taking a deep breath, Percival ran. He tried to tell himself that, once he gained the woods, he would be safe. He knew that he was kidding himself, but it helped him to believe that pleasant notion rather than the truth . . . the truth being that the creature pursuing him could probably track him through forest, across desert, and even into hell and back.

  He reached the woods, practically threw himself into them, and kept going. There was no easily demarcated trail for him to follow, but fortunately things were not incredibly overgrown. If he’d needed to hack his way through, he wouldn’t have had a prayer. Not that his chances were very promising as things stood.

  He heard a cessation of branches crashing behind him. His pursuer had reached the open land, and would be back after him within seconds. Unfortunately, Percival had absolutely no idea where he was going. He reasoned that, since he was on an island, he couldn’t go terribly wrong if he just headed in one direction. Sooner or later he would get to the edge of it. He just couldn’t be sure whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

  There was a distant roar, and once again the noise of pursuit reached his ears. The ground was angling upward, the slick ground beneath his feet not providing much in the way of traction. He tried to tell himself that if the angle of the terrain was slowing him down, it would have the same effect on his pursuer. And right after he told himself that, he further told himself that Santa Claus would likely swoop down with his magic sleigh and whisk him away to safety.

  Branches whipped into his face and he shoved them aside, running blindly. He wasn’t feeling any exertion, which was good. What was bad was that he was positive his pursuer was gaining. It was becoming obvious what he was going to have to do. He was going to have to pull out his sword and take a stand again
st whatever the creature stalking him was. He wasn’t looking forward to it. Legends of Enkidu’s prowess had been handed down for century upon century, and Percival might be an immortal man and a powerful man, but a man he remained. He had encountered Enkidu only briefly those long months ago, and granted, yes, he’d been taken by surprise, but even so the speed, strength, and power of the creature was so overwhelming that Percival did not count his chances as being particularly good.

  And suddenly he was out in the open.

  For a heartbeat he thought he had gone in a circle, but no. No, the ground was continuing to rise, and he ran across the open area as fast as he could, his arms pumping . . .

  And then skidded to a halt.

  He was at the edge of a huge cliff. Obviously Pus Island was not entirely flat. It had some serious elevation to it. He looked down. It had to be at least a two-hundred-foot drop, and there was the ocean slamming into the bottom of the cliff, and he was reasonably sure there were some jagged rocks there, too. There were some darker areas of blue as well indicating that there was some depth, but if he hit the wrong area, he would wind up a battered and broken shell. Perhaps it would be a devastating enough injury to kill even him. Or he might recover from it. Or, worst case scenario, he would remain immortal and trapped within a meat sack of a body that was human in name only.

  The prospects were not promising.

  He turned, briefly considering the option of heading back into the forest at a different angle, perhaps evading his pursuer long enough to find his way around to another point with less altitude. Instead he froze in his place as Enkidu emerged from the woods, looking not the least out of breath after having chased Percival all this time.

  The distance between them was not more than about twenty yards, and yet Percival felt as if they were staring at each other over a span of centuries. Percival retreated, and Enkidu remained precisely where he was.

  It was the first time that Percival had seen the creature out in the fullness of the sun and standing still. If it weren’t for the fact that Enkidu was chasing him down in order to drag Percival back into the darkness, he would have found much to admire about the great beast-man.

  Enkidu was naked in the sense that he was devoid of clothing. But he had need of none. His entire body was covered with thick, glistening, tawny fur, with an extremely liberal amount of darker brown, manelike hair in the area of his loins. It matched the mane of hair that surrounded his face, and he had an extended snout that was—at the moment—pulled back in a sort of grimace. His teeth were bared, his nostrils twitching, and he looked as if he were fighting to rein himself in. Despite the thick pelt, Percival could see incredible, rippling sinews in his arms, his shoulders, his legs. He was not, however, as massively built as Gilgamesh was. But the power was there nevertheless, sleek and potentially devastating in the attack.

  His posture was definitely human, as was much of his basic musculature. His hands did not end in pads, but extended with elegant, tapered fingers and opposable thumb . . . albeit with long, hard nails that bore not a little resemblance to claws. His eyes, though, were the most human thing about him. They were large and brown and, despite all the raging power that the beast clearly contained, appeared to look upon the world with infinite sadness. The color was different, but in every other way those bottomless eyes reminded Percival of Arthur’s.

  For a long moment nothing further occurred after Percival’s minimal retreat, each of them waiting for the other to make some sort of move. Percival realized that he wasn’t more than a foot from the edge of the cliff, and obviously Enkidu was aware of that as well.

  Percival’s lips and throat were suddenly very dry. He licked them with what small moisture he could manage, and then said, “Can you speak?”

  Enkidu didn’t reply at first, and then he made a sort of bodily motion, which Percival realized was close to a shrug. Enkidu’s mouth opened and the voice that emerged was surprisingly light, gentle, reflecting that same sadness borne in the eyes. “What is there to say?” he asked, in very carefully enunciated English, with an accent that Percival couldn’t place.

  “Well,” Percival said, trying to sound reasonable, “you could say you were going to let me go.”

  “I can’t.” He shook his head. It was the slightest of movements, but on him everything seemed huge.

  “Yes, you can. You can simply walk away . . .” When Enkidu once again shook his maned head, Percival continued, “So you’re not saying you can’t. What you’re saying is you won’t.”

  Again that shrug. Then he tilted his head slightly and asked, with obvious curiosity and even a touch of hope, “Are you to fight me?”

  Gods, I hope not, thought Percival. “I’d as soon avoid it, if I could,” he replied.

  “Oh.” Enkidu looked a touch disappointed upon hearing that. “It has been too long . . . since I have fought.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Percival said. He remained at the ready, poised on the balls of his feet, not allowing his concentration to stray from Enkidu for so much as a second. “In this instance, I’d just as soon go for avoiding a conflict altogether.”

  Enkidu frowned at that, and shook his head more vehemently, as if trying to shrug off a tormentor. It was a far more animal-looking reaction than any so far. When he focused on Percival once more, he spoke with a rumble from deep in his chest. “Too many words. Come here.”

  “I’m afraid that wouldn’t exactly be in my best interests to—”

  “Come here!” This time it sounded far more like a roar, and suddenly Enkidu was tired of waiting. He did not even require a running start. His legs simply coiled and then unwound like released springs, and Enkidu vaulted the distance between the two of them, landing squarely on the spot on which Percival was standing.

  Except that Percival was no longer standing there. What he did might have been seen as insane or foolhardy or wildly brave, but as far as Percival was concerned, it was simply a matter of having no choice whatsoever. The instant that Enkidu was airborne, Percival pivoted, bolted for the edge of the cliff, and leaped.

  Enkidu let out a roar of frustration, skidding to a halt and barely stopping his forward slide by digging his talons into the ground. As it was he tore up a good chunk of ground before arresting his headlong skew. Anchored, he threw himself forward as far as his powerful body would allow himself to extend and swiped at the empty air as Percival’s legs cleared the assault by barely a centimeter.

  Percival arced through the air as far as the hurried thrust of his legs would carry him. The rolling waters far below him seemed to tilt at an odd angle, and then he threw his arms forward in proper diving form and plunged. Behind him was the frustrated roar of Enkidu; below him was the beckoning roar of the ocean. What flashed through his mind was the knowledge that nothing was definite when it came to the Holy Grail, and this might actually prove to be the end of him. On one level, that didn’t seem such a horrible thing. On another, it very much did, particularly because he was utterly convinced—for no reason he could really determine—that it was imperative he tell his liege lord what he had discovered upon this bizarre island.

  Don’t let me die . . . I have too much I still need to do, he pleaded, wondering who it was he was pleading to, and there were the rocks right below him and he wasn’t going to clear them, he just knew it, and suddenly the rocks were gone because he was falling at an angle, and a watery grave yawned upward toward him as he hit the water far more cleanly than he would have thought possible. But the impact stunned him nevertheless, his mind going numb, the world swirling black around him, and the cold enveloped him and carried him away.

  CHAPTRE THE FIFTEENTH

  NELLIE PORTER COULDN’T shake the feeling that she was being watched.

  The streetlights had come on, casting a glow that should have been comforting but only seemed eerie to her. The small one-bedroom house in which she lived was half a block away, yet might as well have been a mile off for all the comfort she derived from
its proximity. It was a crisp, unseasonably cool September night. A brisk ocean breeze was blowing in, as was not unusual for this time of year in Avalon, New Jersey.

  She couldn’t comprehend what it was that Arthur saw in the place. Avalon was a perfectly decent resort town, considered by some to be the best in New Jersey. Situated in Cape May County, the main thing the town had to offer—until the arrival of a former president, that was—was excellent family-oriented shore facilities. The population was just under two thousand, which made the Secret Service men happy. Agent Cook had once told Nellie that they easily had enough bullets on them to blow away the entire citizenry in the off-chance that the whole of the population should arise en masse against Mr. Penn. Oddly enough, she had not taken tremendous comfort in this piece of information.

  In truth, Nellie wouldn’t have minded simply living full-time at the modest domicile that housed Arthur, Gwen, and the other staff people who occasionally came in and out. But Arthur had insisted that Nellie have a place of her own. “You’re a young woman, Nellie, and should have a life outside of this half-life that Gwen and I live,” he had told her firmly, and had arranged for her little home out of his own pocket. It was nothing extraordinary: a modest A-frame, creamy white with red shutters and a fireplace that would suit her nicely during the winter months. She didn’t much see the point: The entirety of Nellie’s existence focused around the Penns, attending to as much of their daily business as she was capable of, taking care of Gwen, monitoring her fluid intake, and endlessly looking for some sign of higher life functions, even though she knew none would be forthcoming.

  She had realized months earlier that she was literally in a dead-end job. She did not, however, care. Her devotion to Gwen was absolutely unassailable.