Tales of the Horns: Part 1 The Berserk Beast

  Chapter 24

  A visitor to the House of Horn

  These Horns are going to be the death of me!

  Timothy Lincoln wheezed his way back to the van. He grabbed another sack full of envelopes and parcels.

  A van! A bloody van! In all my time here I’ve never needed a van! Now I can’t keep up without it! Bastards are trying to ruin me, I know it!

  The postman picked up the sack with a bear-hug and shuffled his way over to the gate. He dumped it on the ground and gave it a kick for good measure then stood up straight with hands on hips to regard it.

  “Bastards.”

  He got to work emptying the sacks’ contents into the red letterbox. How it all fitted he didn’t know or care. His favourite pastime had long been abandoned. He couldn’t keep it up with the sheer volume of junk destined to the ‘House of Horn’ and do his normal rounds too. He wanted to complain to someone about this treatment but there was nobody to complain to. He didn’t even work for the Royal Mail Service! He was a fraud just like everyone else in the forgotten lands.

  Sweat began pouring off him in buckets under the heat of the afternoon sun.

  “Too bloody old for this carry-on now…” he muttered to himself.

  “You don’t look that old,” replied someone beside him.

  Tim fell over clutching his chest.

  “Oww. Damn near gave me a heart attack! Who is that?” he barked looking about.

  “Sorry about that. I thought you could see me. Old habits I suppose…” replied a man standing behind the iron worked gate. “I’m Remigius of the House of Horn. People call me Remy. Pleased to meet you.”

  Tim gaped up at him, slightly stunned. One of his hobbies was staring back at him in real life.

  “Are you okay? Did you hit your head or something?” asked Remy, smiling slightly.

  “You…” wheezed the postman. “I haven’t delivered a letter for you for a long time. I thought you had died!”

  Remy bit his lip. “Don’t you keep up with local gossip? I ran away.”

  “Never bothered keeping up with that lot. All a bit odd if you ask me. Very cliquey. Gets a bit like that with all the inbreeding and so on…” said Tim as he got to his feet.

  “Never thought of it that way. Explains a whole lot now that you mention it,” said Remy as he rubbed his hands together.

  The two men looked at each other for a moment before laughing.

  “I’ve got something to ask of you if you don’t mind,” said Remy after a suitable pause. “A favour if you will?”

  “Yes…?” replied Tim sceptically.

  Remy pulled out a large brass key from his pocket. “Would you mind delivering the post to the front door from now on? Please?”

  He offered it to the postman through the bars of the gate. “Please?”

  Tim stood stock still as he weighed up the pros and cons in his head.

  If it makes my job any easier…

  “Can I leave the mail in the sacks?”

  “Of course,” replied Remy with a grin.

  Tim reached out and grabbed the key.

  “Come inside with me. There is someone I’d like you to meet.”

  Reality often has a way of killing fantasy. Tim the postman learned this lesson today.

  It’s a lot shabbier than I imagined. Damned shabby.

  The only thing that did impress him was the degree of decay and damage. The hallway stunk of burnt carpet and charred wood. A layer of soot lined everything. It must have been quite the sight in its heyday, but now? Now it emanated neglect and sorrow.

  Remy seemed to read his thoughts. “The resident Brownie is on strike… you know…” he said shrugging.

  And they have a bloody Brownie too!

  “Did it do all this in protest?” he said gesturing around him.

  “Not the Brownie, no. My grandfather did some. Some rather unpleasant fellows did the rest.”

  “Oh…”

  “Anyway. Do come in. There is someone dying to meet you,” Remy said as he led the way to the sunroom.

  The ‘sunroom’ had seen better days. Cardboard covered what must have been a massive lead-glass window, completely blocking out any trace of natural light. Maps and pieces of paper had been tacked to every available surface within arm’s reach. Candles and a few sad electric lamps glowed above a dining table which had been repurposed to house a stack load of correspondence. A wiry man with swept back hair sat behind the table on a high stool, furiously writing with a fountain pen. No sooner had he finished one letter had he started on the next.

  Timothy frowned.

  The source of my discontent…

  The man looked familiar.

  “Sorry, I forgot to ask for your name,” whispered Remy behind his hand.

  “What? Oh! It’s Tim. Timothy Lincoln,” replied the postman, mesmerised by the stranger in front of him.

  “Stephen. I’d like to introduce Tim. He’s the local postman here in Pennysworth.”

  Tim gasped. This was the infamous Stephen Horn! He had heard plenty of rumours about him.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mister Horn,” said Tim as he doffed his hat and offered a hand.

  Stephen looked up from his work. A sneer quirked his lips. When he saw the postman’s uniform it slid, rather unnaturally, into a queasy smile.

  “Hi Jim. Stephen of the House of Horn,” he said, getting to his feet and shaking hands.

  Tim couldn’t tell what emotion he should be registering. He stuck with ‘fan-boy’ glee as that’s what felt natural at the time.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mister Horn,” he said smiling widely.

  Remy smirked at his grandfather. Stephen gave him a rude gesture back.

  Something about this wiry walnut of a man reminded Tim of somebody.

  “Have we met before?”

  Stephen narrowed his eyes. “Yes. Only the once. You were drunk out of your mind when you stumbled into Pennysworth. Constable Manhire wanted my opinion on whether we should keep you or kick you out. I suggested the former.”

  Tim’s smile sagged. “Oh… Well, thanks. I guess.”

  “You do like it here?” inquired Stephen. “You’re happy you stayed?”

  “Yeah… well… I got a job don’t I? And it’s a nice place and all. Yeah…I’m happy,” said Tim as he stroked the back of his balding head.

  “That’s good,” said Stephen as he sat back down on his stool. Elbows on the table and hands clasped, Stephen gave Tim his most friendly of smiles.

  “Jim, I hear you have quite the knack of finding and leaving this place. Could you please share your secret?”

  “Oh, it’s no real secret. Not really,” said Tim blushing slightly.

  He patted his pocket and pulled out a hipflask.

  “Just need a little sauce when I’m trying to get back in is all.”

  Stephen raised an eyebrow. “Is that it? That’s all you do? How do you get lost every time? Do you take different routes?”

  Tim scratched at the back of his neck. “Well, most of the time if I drink a little grog and close my eyes I get here. If I’m really stuck I try driving through Manchester. That always stumps me.”

  Stephen gazed off into space nodding his head. “You must be really good at getting lost, a consummate expert in fact.”

  “Thanks…” replied Tim, unsure whether it was an insult or not.

  Stephen got back on to his feet and walked over to stand by Tim.

  “I need to ask you a favour, Jim.”

  The postman nodded his head enthusiastically.

  “If I gave you a list of people and where to find them, do you think you could bring them here for me? I’ll reimburse you handsomely, of course,” said Stephen, biting his lip.

  “Here? You want to bring them here?” stammered Tim. “What about the council? Do they know about this?”

  “Don’t you worry about the council, I’ll deal with them,” said Stephen. “Can you do it, Jim???
?

  “But… What about my job?” replied Tim, his voice starting to crack.

  “We will find you an assistant. An apprentice or the like for your peculiar… gift”

  Remy rolled his eyes behind Tim. Stephen gave him another quick hand gesture.

  “Can I sit down, please?” asked Tim. “I need to think.”

  Remy ushered him over to a chair. Tim plopped himself down. After a moments thinking he raised his head. “How many people are we talking about here?”

  Stephen gave a piece of paper to Remy, who in turn passed it to Tim. The postman started reading the list of names and addresses.

  “There must be a hundred names on this! At the very least! And you want me to bring them here?” asked Tim incredulously.

  Stephen patted a giant pile of paper next him. “That is only the start.”

  Tim shook his head. This was nonsense. What were they doing? Throwing a party to end all parties? “What could you possibly want with all of these people?”

  Stephen folded his arms and leaned back against the table. “The end of the world draws near. I plan on fighting it. That, and I need to rescue my granddaughter from the most devious wizard ever known. Is that going to be a problem? ”

  Tim slumped back in his chair, stunned. Stephen shrugged his shoulders and went back to writing his letters. Remy walked out of the room in search of his family, whistling a jaunty tune along the way.

  Elsewhere in the forgotten county, Mr and Mrs Fletcher started on another barrel load of arrows, the Archers stopped drinking for a moment and practiced their true craft and the Knights of the old abbey inspected their ancestors’ ancient weapons and battle dress. The people of Pennysworth were preparing for war.

  Epilogue

  The Fields of Camlann 665 AD

  Screams split the artificial night. Lost in the shadows, men were dying in droves. Merlin searched on, fearing the worst.

  Where is the boy? Where is the king?

  The wizard held a globe of swirling fire in his palm, the light pushing back the icy darkness assaulting his army. Frost-rimmed bodies were strewn over the ground. He inspected each in turn, just to be certain it was not him. Each had had their throat cut by the devilish Dökkálfar, the cowardly masters of shadow and allies of the witch Morgause.

  Merlin cursed himself. He should have torn out her heart when he had the chance.

  Instead, he had let the woman and her bastard son live.

  And now, they were killing his dream.

  Merlin felt a cold presence surge from the shadows behind him. He spun about and unleashed a wall of flame. The dark-elf assassin was caught off guard. The creature screamed its last breath and fell to the earth twitching. Merlin plunged his belt knife into the elf’s back to be sure it was not another illusion. Dark red blood confirmed the kill.

  There came the rustling of cloth – such as a cloak makes when whipping in high wind.

  Merlin froze.

  “Turn and face me, boy,” commanded his former master.

  The wizard slowly turned around. Nestled in the shadows at the perimeter of his light was the demon who had granted him his craft.

  “Do you come to finish your grisly work, Goodfellow?” called Merlin.

  “I come to gloat,” purred the devil through a wide toothy maw. “Tis the hour of my victory.”

  “I am not dead yet, spirit!” roared Merlin, brandishing his stolen Hellfire. “If you desire the return of your gift, I offer a full measure!” Merlin threw flames at the demon, bathing him in the wretched heat.

  The devil laughed as the flames enveloped him. “I fear not that which birthed me, son of Adhur.”

  Merlin stalled his attack, leaving the fire to pool in his cupped hand. “Say your words, if any you have, Goodfellow. I tire of your tricks.”

  Robin Goodfellow grinned back at Merlin through his wide mouth. “All your hard work has been for naught. Albion shall not stand united in the long night. Her ruler and only hope dies now. See for yourself.”

  The devil pointed a long arm. The shadows parted to reveal two knights in the distance, locked in combat. One wore a suit enamelled in black with the figure of a winged dragon on his helmet. The other wore a simple suit with a white surcoat. A gold band circled his helm. Merlin recognised both men – King Arthur and his bastard son Mordred.

  As Merlin watched helplessly, Arthur drove his enchanted blade deep into Mordred’s bowels. The dark knight staggered backwards clutching the wound and fell to his knees. Arthur raised his sword to deliver the final blow. He paused, however, and stood wavering with Excalibur above his head. Mordred pleaded with his father, the words lost to Merlin over the distance.

  “Kill him or doom us all!” warned Merlin.

  Arthur looked in his mentor’s direction, momentarily surprised.

  Mordred took the opportunity to unsheathe a dirk from his hip and buried the blade in Arthur’s chest while he was distracted. Both men tumbled to the ground, bleeding. Shadow rolled in, hiding the men once again.

  “So much for your gift of prophecy, boy,” laughed Robin Goodfellow. “Who will you pin your hopes to now?”

  Merlin paid him no heed. He was too shocked to act, too stunned to think.

  Arthur was like a child to him. He had spent years engineering his birth, preparing not only his forebears but the very world for his coming. The lad was going to save them all from Ragnarök, this much he had seen.

  Merlin quit his nemesis, scrabbling over the rough earth on hand and foot in a mad dash to reach Arthur’s side. Perhaps not all was lost.

  “We will meet again before this is through, dear boy,” called Robin Goodfellow after his former apprentice. His towering form unravelled into a black sheet and was carried away on the west wind.

  Merlin stumbled his way through the dark, combing the floor with his hands. Finally he saw the gleam of the fairy weapon in the gloom. Arthur still held the blade in one hand – the other clutched his messy wound. He looked up at his mentor through heavy-lidded eyes.

  “…old friend…” he wheezed.

  Merlin strangled a cry in his throat at the sight of him. “Arthur lad, hold still. I can save you yet.”

  “…no use… the blade… poisoned…” croaked Arthur.

  Merlin looked at the wound. Dark fluid was leaking out with the blood.

  “I… I…” stammered Merlin. He scoured his brain for the lore to heal such a wound.

  Around him the shadows were unravelling to reveal the gory battleground. As Merlin desperately thought of a solution, brilliant light stabbed down from the heavens behind the enemy lines. His ears popped just before he was thrown to the ground. Dazed, he got back to his knees. Horns blared, signalling retreat. Morgause’s army was running.

  Merlin looked skywards. Radiant figures were circling above the battle, throwing burning light amongst the rebels.

  The Ljósálfar had joined the fight after all.

  He promised himself he would punish them if Arthur died.

  “My Lord, Merlin?” asked a rough voice. “How fare you?”

  Merlin craned his neck around. Behind him was a troupe of brightly coloured knights mounted on horseback. They gasped at the sight of their king bleeding in the dirt.

  “What have you done, wizard?!” yelled the brave but idiotic Sir Bors.

  Merlin came to a decision, though it pained him deeply. “A horse. Bring me a horse.”

  The knights stared at him; some exchanged awkward glances with each other.

  “Now, or he dies!” screamed Merlin.

  Sir Percival, the newest member of the Knights of the Round Table, dismounted first. “You may take my mount, Master Merlin.”

  The wizard pried Excalibur from Arthur’s hand and sheathed the precious blade. Merlin hopped onto the charger without hesitation. “Hand me the King. Quickly!”

  Percival and Sir Galahad picked up their king between them and hauled him into a sitting position in front of Merlin. Merlin turned the ho
rse about, looking at the battlefield. Too many bodies clad in white lay unmoving in the mud.

  “Bring our dead to the sea,” commanded Merlin. “All of them.”

  Merlin kicked the charger into a gallop and was gone.

  Arthur was slipping away again; his breathing grew shallow and his skin felt cold and clammy. Merlin tipped his head to the side and pressed his own mouth to the king’s. He vomited up another portion of his own essence. It poured like molasses down the limp man’s throat, suffusing him with its simmering energy. Arthur gagged but was too far gone to comprehend what was happening. Merlin swayed in the saddle. He didn’t have much more of himself to give. A little farther and they would be at the water’s edge. They only had to survive until then.

  As the moon rose and the waters danced to its silver touch, Merlin ploughed the flagging horse into the surf. He walked the beast into the icy water until his knees were immersed. Arthur struggled in his sleep then stopped moving. Merlin looked to the horizon, muttering ancient words of summoning, then ran his belt knife over his palm. The sea foamed where his blood touched. He waited patiently for what seemed like hours, fighting to hold the drowsy charger in place.

  Finally, he heard their song. Sweet and sorrowful, it reverberated from the depths of the ocean and echoed through the bay. Soon he saw their faces, dipping and bobbing beneath the surface.

  “Sisters, I seek a boon of thee,” said Merlin.

  Speak and we may grant it, favoured son of Adhur, said a voice from beneath the waves.

  Merlin licked his lips nervously. He was hesitant to bargain with such creatures. Something had to be done though.

  “Bear this man to distant Avalon,” said Merlin. “Let him rest in its hallowed grounds until Ragnarök comes, taking care of his person and all other deserving bothers who join him in these sacred waters.”

  Merlin waited for a reply. As the minutes dragged by he feared he had asked for too much.

  We care not if Ragnarök comes.

  Merlin stifled a cry.

  What do you offer in return?

  Merlin bit his lip. “Name any price! Anything within my power shall be yours!”

  The ocean sighed. Merlin stirred in his saddle uneasily.

  We will take the body of the king and all other worthies who join him in our halls. To heal is beyond our craft. Their souls will be bound to this plane, however…

  Several sets of cold-white hands snaked out of the water and grabbed Arthur. More were rising, reaching for the bridle and tack of the charger.

  “No! Wait! How do I get him back?”

  No answer came. Merlin fought himself free as the hands pulled Arthur and the poor horse beneath. Merlin felt fingers lock onto his robes and he too was dragged under. Pale faces with streaming hair filled his blurry vision. One of the sisters came closer and pressed her icy lips to his ear.

  She spoke her terms.

  Merlin screamed and tore at the hands pinning him. He fought his way to the shore, thrashing at the grasping submerged hands.

  He stood alone on the beach, shivering in the cold. In his mind he sought to justify what he had done. Arthur would survive, in a fashion, until Ragnarök doomed the mortal plane.

  That was all that mattered.