A Knight’s Charge
by
G.A. Whitfield
A Knight’s Charge
Copyright © 2011 by G. A. Whitfield
Disclaimer:
This work is 100% fiction. All scenes and events within these pages have been an invention of the author's imagination, and to his knowledge never occurred in reality. Any resemblance to the reader's own experiences is purely coincidental. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A Knight’s Charge
Prologue
Dawn breaks clear on shining dew,
We are not many, the chosen few,
In burnished silver and tarnished gold,
Banners flare, they swirl, unfold.
Horses stamp, their breath on fire,
Upon their backs the men aspire,
To fight, to die, to live once more
Here amongst the battle’s roar.
The blare of trumpets leads them on,
Steeds quicken, shake, begin to run,
Down from the heights, they race ahead,
To strike the ranks of yet undead
A clash of steel, a martyr’s cry,
No-one to yield, yet all to die,
Brave souls in front, none left behind,
A clarion call, to heart and mind.
And now it’s done, we are no more,
Our bodies lie upon the floor,
In blood, for honour, we paid the price,
Look well upon our sacrifice.
Pain; overwhelming, bowel-loosening agony. That was the sum total of my world. I could see the intricately and ritualistic scarred face leering down at me. His hand, I could not see, but I could feel it, as the barbarian twisted his blade deep into my thigh. Thankfully, the rust and blood-smeared metal was hidden from sight between the overlapping plates of my armour. It was a small mercy, but it was about all I could hold on to.
A warm breath wafted weakly against my face, as I turned away from my hated enemy. It was the dying benediction of my faithful steed, who had so gloriously carried me to my final moments. We had been many; strong, proud and unbeatable. Knee-to-knee we charged gloriously down upon the unwashed bodies below us. Our lances drank thirstily from the rotting bodies, slipping easily through their poor defences and casting them aside.
Shining banners and blaring trumpets urged us on. Rank upon rank fell before us, yet they were limitless. We slowed, yet battled bravely. Stopped, we clove skulls and smashed bone. Dark blood dripped endlessly before us, yet we were to fail. A traitor had delivered us to an ignomious death and even now I could hear him; his whining voice, the insipid laughter and the answering gutturals of the unshriven.
It was true then; the undead had woken and walked amongst the weak, the self-serving and the unprotected. As Knights we had sworn a terrible oath, but as humans we had failed. Now, there would be no-one to hold the line, to strike down the enemy with righteous prayers and strong arms. Beyond this field of the fallen, lay an innocent and soon to be sullied populace and our sacrifice would be for nought.
I can hear in my mind my father’s voice, berating me for my cowardice, my rendition. My life should not be sold this cheaply. Anger coursed through me, stirring my limbs. I snarled, my right hand snapping out to grip the cursed one’s wrist. His grunt of surprise was followed by a squeal of pain, as my gauntleted hand squeezed, crushing and grinding bone. With a wrench I pulled clear his rusted blade. I could see it now, wet with my own life’s blood. One twist and it faced towards him, the movement pulling him off-balance.
He fell. His sweat-steeped body crashed down upon me, the weight causing me to roar in answer to my body’s protest. I was satisfied though. I had felt the metal slip into his putrid chest and with the last reserve of my strength had twisted and sawed. Blood had been my reward, that and the onrushing darkness of oblivion.
Temple Mount
New Sevilla
Vincent Kombel looked up from the scroll he was reading and stared into the wan light of early evening. It was incredible that such as this survived. They had broken into the crypt as part of the authorised study of the Temple ruins, yet never expected such a find. The ceramic urns were hidden beneath the dry bones of what appeared to be three separate people. One, at least, was not human.
Cracking open the seal at the top of the smallest of the receptacles, Vincent found the poem and below it in a spidery scrawl, what seemed the ramblings of a madman. He would have dismissed it out of hand, if it had not been for the crest etched into the surface of the coffin lid and crudely wrought into the bottom left of the scroll. It was that of his family, or at least of what his family had been.
None but Vincent knew of the crest. It was from a different time and a deadly disgrace. He looked guiltily around to see if anyone was watching, but the tomb was deserted. His Master left him in charge of the closing of the doors, whilst he hurried to avail himself of a fine meal and less than salubrious company.
Good. Vincent needed no witnesses. He retrieved his satchel and stuffed the urns within. Closing the drawstring neck, he swung it over his shoulder and carefully placed the folded scroll inside the pocket of his jacket. With a last look around to see if he had missed anything, he switched off his light and left, the door’s muffled crash as it swung together startling him momentarily.
*****
The door did not close fully. A crack of light played across the half-open coffin. Dust began to swirl madly, as though in response to the passage of a wayward breeze. There was no wind. Motes attempted to coalesce into a thin spiral. Ever more rapidly they span, an accusing finger pointing out towards the disappearing scholar.
Inside the tomb, the temperature dropped, ice forming on the stone. It spread in a crazed pattern from the coffin, spearing towards the back wall and a half-hidden mosaic. A sharp crack signalled the shattering of the faded picture into a thousand pieces. Then there was nothing but the moaning; the sound of a non-existent wind, which drew ever closer.
Chapter One
Chavez City
New Sevilla
Evening on New Sevilla came abruptly. Dusk was but a moment and then darkness crashed in. Automatic lighting could not respond quickly enough to banish the deep blackness and it always left its indelible mark on Vincent. He was close to the city, yet had still to traverse the brush-strewn footpath leading from the dig site.
His heart thumped wildly. He could never lose the primal fear that something awful had happened and the world would stay plunged in the stygian blackness. Again though, as in all of his twenty-five years living in and around the teeming habitats, he was mistaken. Lights sparked and drove away the nameless nightmares and he continued in his journey.
The main gate was open and a pair of soldiers stood idly by their guardhouse. One passed a smoke to another; there was a flare of red flame and normality resumed. He nodded to them as he passed. They ignored him. All was as it should be.
Three turns later and he was close to his lodgings. Master Sextus would no doubt still be availing himself of the delights of the nearby tavern and so Vincent would have time to safely hide away his guilty secret. It was as he keyed the lock that a shiver ran down his spine, causing him to fumble the combination and bring the discordant note of a failed entry. He cursed, settled the satchel on his shoulder and re-entered the code successfully.
Sweat beaded his brow in response to the nameless dread which once again gripped him. The door could not close fast enough and he scurried to his room. It was not until he was safely inside, with every single light shining brightly, that he breathed a sigh of relief.
*****
Sextus knew of Vincent’s family history. At least in part, that is. Th
e young man’s mother had been a famous courtesan who had fallen on hard times, when the Planetary Governor had discarded her. The lecherous old man had arranged a deal; Victor would receive the best of education as long as his mother kept the Master happy.
This had worked very well for the first few years, until the woman had contracted a fever and died. By then, Sextus had found that Vincent was indeed a bright and ready pupil. He could see in him the means to continue with the style of living he was accustomed to and the continued favour of the Governor. Of course, Vincent knew nothing of the old man’s duplicity and gladly accepted his role.
What none of them knew was the identity of Vincent’s father. Some suspected that it may have been the Governor himself. Vincent knew, as had his mother, and she had taken that secret to the grave with her.
His father, who he had been named for, was a young officer from Wose IV. A world little-liked within the Protectorate and definitely avoided. There were stories. Yet the stories told were held in contempt; fairy tales for the young and gullible. Time had muddied fact and as Wose IV was far off the beaten track, it was dismissed by rational and thinking men.
As if that were not enough, Vincent’s genetic heritage had a dual past, one which had been deliberately undermined and ignored. Here in New Sevilla, history was a secret jealously guarded by the powerful. A sad past from another world, carried in the hold of a refugee ship, had been rewritten into a tale of heroism and faith. Vincent held, within his grasp, a startling piece of history, and one whose dissemination he meant to control.
*****
The muffled thud of heavy guns woke Vincent. He scrambled out of bed and drew open the shutters; the sound augmented. Muzzle flashes flared intermittently, yet the darkness was well and truly banished. There was nothing to be seen apart from the Church Force’s response. No drop pods or alien craft flitted over the city, yet something had to be there.
Nearby auto rifles began to crackle, the narrow alleyways catching and warping the sound. Shouts heralded the arrival of soldiers, who ran from danger, firing wildly. There was nothing there.
Then the first returning rounds hit the pleasure quarter, showering the surrounding area with wood, brick and body parts. Faster and faster they struck, their pounding a deadly metronome. No troops assailed the city walls, so what were the soldier’s running from?
“Vin-ce-e-e-nt!”
The voice was cold, harsh. It seemed to be all around him, but his mad search could find nothing.
“Vin-ce-e-e-nt!”
Although in a whisper, it cut into his brain. It was insistent, a dirty violation. He ignored it, instead straining to watch for invading troops.
“To-o-o La-a-te!”
It was the last he heard as a heavy object smashed into the back of his head, of that he was sure.
*****
Master Sextus was paying for his lifetime of debauchery; running was not an option. Neither his weak heart, nor his atrophied muscles could respond to the adrenalin pumping through his veins. It was a condition induced by the horrid apparition which had just fallen from the night sky. Sextus had recently done the same thing, tumbling from a lady’s bed after a sumptuous meal and copious quantities of alcohol.
The ceiling and part of the floor had crumbled away; the result of a shell’s explosion. He followed the wall as it slid out onto the street and arrived just in time to see the monster’s appearance. Its cloven feet crushed the ornate paving in front of the tavern and the rifle in its hands was speaking even before its owner had touched down properly.
Sextus’ large bulk initially saved him from death, but now the thing had him cornered and he fell whimpering to the ground.
“Where is your Prelate now?” it hissed through filed teeth at Master Sextus. He neither knew nor cared and was still protesting when the explosive round blew him into his next incarnation.
Temple Mount
New Sevilla
The thudding was still there when Vincent woke, but this time it was accompanied by a sharp pain as his head struck the floor. He was being carried, rather carelessly, but still transported by another creature.
His struggles went unanswered until he started to shout. His captor swung him up into the air and then dropped him to the packed earth. Vincent recognised this trail, it led to the Temple Ruins; he was going back. Seeing the full extent of his captor’s attire was almost impossible; a brown leather coat, grubby shirt and a sodden hat were all that was in his field of vision.
Bunched muscles waited for their moment, but as he exploded up from the floor, a meaty forearm slammed into his forehead and for the second time in quick succession, consciousness became impossible to hold on to.
*****
A beam of light speared the darkness, motes of dust dancing in its enfolding embrace. The sound of clicking and scraping could be heard distinctly, and it was this which woke Vincent. He tasted blood on his lips and he hawked and spat to clear the dryness at the back of his throat.
“Ah,” the voice was artificial, wheezing, “you are awake at last.”
“Wh-who are you?” even to Vincent the words sounded weak and childish, as though he lived still within a strange nightmare.
“A friend,” was the curt reply, “someone who has just saved your life.”
As he tried to rise, pain thumped in his head, forcing Vincent to clutch at his temple.
“Some friend,” he snapped, “what did you hit me with?”
“My good arm,” laughed his captor, “be thankful.”
The man moved into the light. He had discarded his hat and coat. Vincent gasped at the face before him; a mass of intertwined scars criss-crossed the bald pate and scrolled like crazy-paving around his eye sockets and along his jaw line. Eyes were non-existent, replaced by mechanical augmentation which whirred in and out as he focused on Vincent where he lay. One arm looked normal, the other betrayed its bionic nature, ending as it did in a snapping claw. From his shoulders rose twin appendages which writhed absently as he moved. Vincent could not see his feet, but had no doubt of what he would find.
“You’re not human!” It was out before he could stop it, and he flushed with shame at his lapse.
“Was, and in a way I suppose I still am,” replied the man in front of him, moving back into the darkness, and then almost casually, “I knew your father.”
Shock smashed Vincent awake, “How?” he gasped.
“We worked together and I made him a promise, and Lector keeps his promises.”
Instead of asking one of the many questions bouncing in his head, all that Vincent could ask was, “Your name is Lector?”
“That it is,” the man-machine replied, tapping his metallic claw on the lid of the nearby open coffin, “and I’m afraid I arrived too late.”
Chavez City
New Sevilla
The city was burning. Not the casual by-blow of errant missile strikes, but the studied conflagration of an arsonist. Flames fanned out in a well planned pattern, new hot spots springing up with explosive frequency. One man stood on the highest building and watched the destruction greedily. This was war. His favourite pastime.
A noise behind startled him, surprise the strongest of his emotions. It was unusual that any could get so close to one such as he unnoticed. He spun quickly, his dark blade keening hungrily. Before him, clinging to the wavering shadows was a slight man, shrouded in coarse cloth. It hung from an emaciated body, topped by a wrinkled face. One or two white strands of hair were plastered to the old face and now Kayn laughed in derision.
Enhanced muscles pushed him forward, his blade flashing out. Kayn was brought up short by a massive blow to his stomach. Looking down he saw the old man’s hand where it was buried into his armour. Again he struck, but his arm was caught in an iron grip. Amazed he felt himself pulled forward towards the hideous visage.
There was the roar of a pistol and the thing was smashed away, landing cat-like on all fours. It looked up once, dark pitiless eyes boring into him, befor
e more fire drove it away, announcing the arrival of his men. It leapt out over the edge of the roof into the darkness, disappearing from his view. Kayn trembled with fear, he clearly had felt it enter his mind and he knew it would be back.
Chapter Two
Temple Mount
New Sevilla
“Was it you whispering sweet nothings in my ear earlier?”
Lector laughed, or that was what Vincent interpreted the strange sounds coming from his mouth to be.
“No, that was something else.”
“Don’t you mean someone…” asked Vincent, still a little fuzzy.
“You tell me,” replied Lector, “you woke it up.”
Vincent was about to deny the charge, but glancing at the coffin, he realised that it now really was empty. The bones had disappeared.
“That’s nothing more than a story,” he scoffed.
“Ah, you know something of your family history then?” and then not waiting for an answer, “So, you should know that there are things inexplicable by normal means, The Wildwose, for instance?”
Who was this Lector? A quick scan showed his clothes still in place, so no tell-tale signs were visible.
“Let me tell you a story,” continued Lector, “of a young officer, whose career took him right across the Universe. Whose duties included time with the Inspectorate, working at their right hand. Rebellion, we can discuss as well. How that man fled from persecution, once his true nature was discovered. Of a friend, who protected him and swore to do so for his family.”
“You’re a little late,” mumbled Vincent.
“No,” disagreed Lector, “I am perhaps, here at just the right moment. For you, at least.”
“What do you…”
Vincent’s question was never fully voiced, as he felt a cold touch on his mind. A hunger which made him shiver with fear and an awful longing. Pale white fingers grasped the half-open door and with a horrible screeching it gave way to the promised terror from without.
Chavez City