by A. J. Cronin
Alastor rolls over to face Rennir.
“I would much rather be a dog than the half-breed son of a whore,” Alastor growls defiantly.
Rennir grunts and brings the heel of his boot down upon Alastor’s forehead, rendering him unconscious.
~-~~-~
Alastor wakes briefly, watching as the ceiling slowly crawls by before his eyes. He with much taxation raises his head to see that he is being dragged by two soldiers down a hall but, before he can let the thought of escaping fully form, he falls back into the black nothingness of sleep.
~-~~-~
Alastor regains consciousness, but does not open his eyes. Rather, he cannot. He becomes painfully aware of the throbbing in his head, and the burning in his ribs that slowly increase to the point of becoming agonizing. A moan escapes his lips of its own volition.
“Finally coming around, are you?”
The voice is small and distant, but comfortingly familiar. Alastor forces his eyes open to see Gawain, chained about the ankle but otherwise fine. Alastor fully awakens and attempts to move, only to learn that his hands are shackled together and that he hangs by chains from the ceiling, his feet inches off the ground. He moves, but it causes another wave of pain to radiate through his torso.
“Try not to move. Even after you fell unconscious, Rennir continued to kick you. It would seem he did not like having his mother being called a whore.”
“Of course he would think I was talking about him,” Alastor brings himself to say.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Gawain asks, genuinely confused.
“Nothing. Forget about it.”
“Very well...”
Gawain says no more, but forgetting about it is now an impossibility. Alastor looks over his surroundings, ascertaining that he and Gawain have been placed in a barred cell, part of a dungeon. Gawain sits under a small window which is set at the top of the wall. The only window in the dungeon.
“How long have I been out?” Alastor asks.
“A couple of hours, I think. It is not easy to tell time from in here.”
The sound of boots and the opening of a heavy door resonates out through the dank cavern. Gawain stands. Rennir walks up to their cell and unlocks it. Stepping into the cell, Rennir smirks at seeing Alastor awake and miserable. He steps closer to Alastor, a smile growing on his lips.
“And how are we feeling?” Rennir asks with dark sarcasm. Alastor does not answer. He simply hangs there. “What? Nothing to say?” Rennir asks in response, taking a step closer.
Alastor suddenly kicks down on Rennir’s knee, a loud crack filling the cell, followed by a roar of pain. Rennir’s fury seethes. Limping, he draws his sword. As he reaches back, a voice calls out.
“What do you think you are doing?”
Both Alastor and Gawain raise their eyes to the voice. Another figure enters the cell. He is wearing a black hooded cloak.
“The little bastard! He - ” Rennir begins.
“You were acting like a fool,” the cloaked man interrupts. “Not to mention disobeying me. Anything that he did was a warranted outcome. Be glad he did no more.”
Rennir sheathes his weapon with a sneer and hobbles back with a bow. The cloaked figure now stands before Alastor and Gawain.
“You are the Necromancer I presume?” Gawain asks with a dry voice.
“That I am,” the Necromancer replies politely with a slight bow of his head.
He raises his head high, allowing the light from the window to illuminate his face. It is pale and sickly white. His eyes are dark. But, his face might also be called young and attractive. The paradox is unnerving. The Necromancer smiles.
“And you must be Gawain, King of Essain. Your near mythical life is the thing of immortal legend. It is a pleasure to meet you, face to face, as the saying goes.” The Necromancer steps closer to Alastor, looking at him, trying to learn as much as he can. A foot soldier comes in carrying Alastor’s claymore and dagger. The soldier hands Alastor’s effects to Rennir and quickly leaves. “And just who might you be?” the Necromancer asks Alastor rhetorically. “Who is the man that can bring such, what is the word... ah yes, malcontent, in one such as Rennir? A feat not easily accomplished.”
Alastor locks eyes with the Necromancer for a brief moment. His eyes harden, the Necromancer smiles in response.
“He is Tristan, my most trusted knight,” Gawain answers on Alastor’s behalf.
The Necromancer faces Gawain nonchalantly.
“A knight, you say? Sir Tristan? Not a very lordly name, is it Rennir?” Rennir does not speak, but grunts in agreement. The Necromancer gestures to Rennir for Alastor’s claymore. Slowly the Necromancer examines the blade carefully, not wanting to miss any details, running his finger along its length. “Oh, I do believe you lied to me. This is not the standard weapon of the men in your court, Gawain.”
“He is also our weapons master; an expert in the use of many types of combat, bladed and not.”
“Sir Tristan, knight and weapon master of Essain,” the Necromancer muses. “And what a weapon master indeed to wield a sword such as this. Too bad it was of absolutely no use when you were in the guardhouse, just outside of the moat tunnels.” The Necromancer and Rennir laugh. “No,” continues the Necromancer, “I do not believe you have been entirely truthful in the slightest, Gawain. Essain has no knights.” The Necromancer steps even closer to Alastor. “Tristan was a poor name to pick. A shame to your ancestors. You are Alastor, son of Eoin, correct?”
“What makes you think that?” Alastor asks, his voice empty of soul and hollow.
The Necromancer lifts the blade to Alastor’s face.
“The crest on this blade was last seen as my Master ran Eoin through.”
Alastor suppresses all emotion. The Necromancer hands the claymore back to Rennir.
“Your master?” repeats Alastor.
“The Black Knight. Who else?”
“You lie!” Gawain shouts.
The Necromancer turns to him, his whole demeanor becoming more impassive.
“Do I?” the Necromancer asks innocently, as though hurt by Gawain’s accusation. “How else could one man completely overtake a city like Judeheim, save one that serves The Black Knight himself.”
Alastor makes a sort of dismissive sound.
“Something to say?” asks the Necromancer as he adopts a more defensive tone.
“What reason would the Black Knight have had to kill my father?”
“Let us just say that he was collecting on a long outstanding debt, shall we, Alastor? Besides, my Master will no longer accept opposition to his rightful claim on these lands.”
“I know the Black Knight,” Gawain speaks up. “Do you really expect me to believe he has become a tyrannical murderer?”
“You dare speak ill of such a noble and just ruler? It matters not. Soon, Judeheim will be under complete control and serve as the capital for the New Kingdom.”
Gawain’s eyes show that those words - New Kingdom - perplex him. Another soldier comes into the dungeon, handing Rennir a rolled parchment. After reading this, Rennir sends the soldier away. He steps next to the Necromancer and whispers in his ear. The Necromancer’s smile fades into a sneer.
“Has she now?”
Rennir nods, whispering something else.
“So be it,” the Necromancer finally says, turning back to his prisoners. “I will be back to discuss Essain’s place in the New Kingdom, Gawain. Alastor, you can just... hang around... and I shall deal with you in due time.”
With a fake smile, the Necromancer leaves. Rennir exits the cell, walking now rather than limping, locks the door and he too leaves, still carrying Alastor’s weaponry. A beat passes as the sound of Rennir closing and locking the dungeon door reverberates and fades. Alastor’s body goes slack and he hangs his head. Gawain attempts to run to his side, but the chain binding him to the wall is too short.
“Alastor?”
Alastor looks up at Gawain, but lets his head drop
again.
“I am alive, if that is what you are wondering at.”
As if infected by Alastor’s grief, Gawain slumps against the wall and falls to the ground. He looks at the shackle on his leg, hoping to find a way to remove it. It has no keyhole, nor hinge. Nothing more than a solid ring of metal.
“What do you make of this Alastor? There is no apparent means of removing these chains.”
Alastor looks up at his own hands, examining his own restraints.
“You were awake when they chained us, were you not?”
“Yes, but I had been blind folded.”
“I see. They are arcane most likely. The work of dark magic.”
“And how would one go about escaping from said magical bindings?”
Alastor’s body goes slack again.
“I have no clue. Escaping magical bindings is something I have never managed to figure out,” Alastor answers with an intone of memory, not simple joking.
Gawain rests his head on the wall, looks up and sighs.
A unexpected chill blasts in through the window, accompanied with ice and snow. Gawain stands to peer out of the small slot in the wall. The outside world is covered now in snow, ice and sleet. A group of soldiers run by the window, oblivious to Gawain, shouting. The wind kicks up and a strange sound akin to a sword through flesh is heard.
The shouting has abruptly stopped. The soldiers drop lifeless to the ground.
Gawain becomes aware of a strange sensation at his ankle. He looks down to see that the metal of the restraint, as well as the chains binding him to the wall, have changed, looking as though they have been frozen solid through their cores.
“Alastor, look at this!”
As Alastor eyes Gawain’s shackle, he too feels that strange cold sensation on his wrists. They have likewise also been transformed. With a surge of strength, Alastor pulls down on his shackles, shattering the chains. Gawain swings his leg against the wall, destroying the frozen bracelet. Alastor does the same, freeing his hands. Alastor rotates his arms and rubs his wrists, trying to alleviate the pain of hanging for so long.
“Perhaps these can be of use,” a voice says from outside.
Gawain and Alastor look to the window as two swords are slid in. They hit the ground with a metallic clang. Taking the blades, they see that they are those of the armored soldiers that had just fallen.
“You are taking quite the risk helping us, are you not?” Alastor asks.
“I have nothing to fear,” the voice says. There is now no doubt. It is the Fairy.
“So, you can render arcane chains useless. How about doing the same to the doors in our way?” Alastor asks as a smirk plays across his face.
“As you wish,” the Fairy replies in a careless tone. Immediately the bars of the cell begin to freeze over. “If you hurry, you can still help those whom cannot defend themselves.”
“Where will you be, Fairy?”
“Waiting at the gates.”
“Why are you helping us?” Gawain asks.
“I have vested interest in ensuring the safety of the innocent. Need I a better reason?”
“Not at all.”
Alastor kicks the cell bars, sending them crashing to the ground.
“Let us take our leave,” he says to Gawain.
They depart the cell, walking down the dungeon halls. The other cells are empty, the devices of torture sit unused, rusted and caked in, presumably, old blood. As they come to the exit, they find that the lock of the massive door is frozen. Rather than kicking the door, Alastor uses the sword to cut through the deadbolt quietly. A ramp leads up to another door that already stands wide open. Passing through the open door, finding themselves back in the citadel’s main hall. The door out to the city lies shattered on the floor, letting the wind and snow in.
“We are free. What course of action shall we take, Alastor?”
“We need what help we can find.”
“Dahlia and the others she was jailed with?”
“Precisely.”
The King and his knight sprint to the catacomb entrance, making their way back down. Again at the hub, Gawain starts to make way to the western tunnel and to the prisoners, but Alastor holds him back.
“Perhaps this time we take the north passage.”
“Is something amiss?”
“No. Maybe. I am not sure.”
The north passage leads to a large sparring ground, for training of the Necromancer’s men, as indicated by the weapons found strewn about. Straw dummies line the right side of the room, to the left a staircase leading up to a second level. Up on the second level, they find the walkway that the archers had been on earlier. The ceiling has been moved back into place. Gawain searches for and finds the mechanism for opening the ceiling. He rotates it, causing the stone to again slide into the walls. The prisoners look up, fear in their eyes, expecting nothing good. Seeing Gawain and Alastor, a soft cheer rises up from them all.
“How would you like the chance to thank your beloved host for his hospitality?” Alastor asks them, sarcasm exuding from every word. They all shout in the affirmative. “Gawain, go fetch some of those weapons on the sparring ground.” The King nods and quickly searches for the best blades he can find. Returning, he gives them to Alastor. “Stay up here,” Alastor instructs, “and I will go down there. Once they are armed we can reunite in the central chamber.”
“Not too many kings would abide taking orders like this you know,” Gawain playfully reminds Alastor.
“I will repay you with double measure someday in exchange for allowing it.”
“Of that you can be sure,” the King smirks.
Alastor leaps down into the small prison, the blades under his left arm and the sword from the Ice Fairy in his right.
“Stand clear,” he says in a low tone.
The prisoners all move to the rear of their respective cells and Alastor commences to hack at the padlocks, cutting through the metal without problem. Soon all the locks are broken and the prisoners freed. Alastor hands the prisoners each a blade, giving the last to Dahlia.
“Thank you,” she says softly. “Again.”
“Where might the others be?” Alastor asks her.
“The only suitable place would be the catacombs further down, but they would not be large enough to hold the whole city.”
“Do not count on that. The Necromancer has been quite busy changing the citadel and the areas around the city itself to fit his whims and needs.”
Dahlia’s eyes change, not wanting to believe Alastor’s words, but knowing that they are undoubtedly true.
“Are we gonna stand ‘ere gabbing, or are we gonna get to saving our people!?” one of the prisoners barks out.
The rest shout in agreement. As Alastor leads them out, they all stop to look on the dead citadel priests, each uttering a silent prayer on passing. Loud shouts and the sound of metal striking metal break the solemn moment. They come from the central chamber. Remembering Gawain and fearing the worst, Alastor runs after the sounds, not caring if the prisoners follow, but follow they do.
Gawain has been ambushed by a group of the barbarian men, carrying blackened axes and swords. They number fifteen, and their attention lays fully on the warrior king. Gawain stands his ground, defending as the men attempt, and fail, to best him.
Concepts such as honor and fairness do not enter Alastor’s mind; he strikes down many of the men as their backs remain to him. Taken unaware, the barbarians set their offense on Alastor, and Gawain seizes the opportunity to fell the remainder of his opponents.
“That should not have worked. Whoever these ones are, they are no more than trained dogs at best,” Gawain says as he and Alastor unite.
The prisoners finally arrive in the central chamber, shocked by Alastor’s and the King’s ferocity. A violent burst of cold air rushes down from the citadel’s main hall, and the cries of slain men follow on its wings.
“What was that? It sounds as though there is a battle in the citadel,”
Dahlia speaks.
“Did you bring friends?” one prisoner asks with a laugh.
Gawain looks at Alastor and the two smirk.
“You might say that,” Alastor says, amused.
Gawain moves toward Dahlia.
“Half of you need to keep this area secured. The other half will come with me and...” Gawain catches himself, realizing he was about to say Alastor’s name, “me and Tristan.”
Dahlia herself divides the group and, without words, those chosen to guard fan out and stand like sentries. Dahlia has counted herself as one of those who will go with the King and his knight. She turns to face Gawain.
“My city needs saving, I wager.”
Alastor leads the way down the eastern most passage. The tunnel itself is very wide, and descends in a sort of back and forth manner. They eventually come to another pavilion-like structure, except designed for the soldiers of the Necromancer. Stone barracks and sparring grounds fill this underground chamber. The pavilion is made of a series of three tiers growing smaller with each successive higher tier with stone ramps connecting them, and a open court in the center, with the tiers looking over it. At the far end of this pavilion is a massive iron door.
Large braziers hang from the roughly cut stone ceiling, illuminating the pavilion. The means of lighting these cannot be seen, nor vaguely imagined. Just as Alastor steps into the court proper, the chain mail wearing soldiers that entered the citadel earlier emerge from the barracks and charge toward them. Alastor forgets those following him and rushes forward to meet the coming soldiers with a look on his face that could easily be mistaken for glee.
Easily mistaken, since what he really feels is lust.
Gawain and Dahlia, stunned for a moment, then lead the prisoners in Alastor’s wake.
~-~~-~
Alastor flourishes his weapon and clashes headlong with the soldiers. His first foe is unprepared for Alastor’s rage and is knocked down. Alastor takes the soldier’s own weapon, using it to end him. Two soldiers attempt to strike Alastor, but using a sword in each hand he deflects the swipes harmlessly to the side. Before they react, Alastor swings for the only exposed flesh he can find: their necks. Shocked at first and then emboldened by the sight of their headless comrades, the soldiers yell and redouble their efforts. As Alastor finds yet another challenger, the sound of battle, real battle, starts to surround him; the prisoners, led by Dahlia and Gawain have entered the fray.
