A Hard Day''s Knight

  I didn’t say anything, walking on and on past the dead heads of once-noble creatures. I had no doubt many of them had been man-killers in their day; but it still seemed to me that slaughter, no matter how necessary, shouldn’t be something you took a pride in. You did it because it needed doing, not because you had a gap on your trophy wall. It was only a step from there to mounting the heads of your enemies on spikes over your door, where everyone could see them.

  A unicorn’s head stared sullenly out from the wall, its skin still blindingly white though the curlicued horn was cracked from end to end. A gryphon, with a bullet hole left unrepaired in its forehead; a basilisk with no eyes; and a dire wolf with moulting fur, its jaws forever snarling defiance. And, protruding way out into the hall, a dragon’s head, at least fifteen feet wide, its scaled hide a dull bottle-green. The eyes were clearly glass and looked like no-one had dusted them in a while. I finally stopped before one head I didn’t recognise, and Sir Gareth stopped with me.

  “This is the fabled Questing Beast. It eluded us for centuries though many knights went after it, tracking it all across Europe. Finally brought down by Sir Bors, in 1876. One shot, from four hundred yards.”

  “How very sporting,” I said.

  The Questing Beast’s head was an odd mixture of beast and bird. And perhaps it was my imagination, but to me the Beast looked old and tired and pitiful, and maybe even a little resigned. It had outlived the time it was meant for, and the menaces it understood, like swords and lances, and finally died from an attack it never even saw coming.

  I looked back down the Hall of Forgotten Beasts, and it did not seem a place of pride to me. All I felt was a quiet air of melancholy.

  “You have to understand,” Sir Gareth said defensively, “every beast here preyed on people. It was a knight’s duty back then to hunt these creatures down and protect the innocent from attack. No-one thought about preserving endangered species. These days we only hunt bad guys, the real monsters of the world.”

  I looked at him thoughtfully. “Lots of monsters in the Nightside. You ever go hunting there?”

  “I told you,” Sir Gareth said steadily. “We stay out of the Nightside.”

  “Because Merlin was there?”

  “It’s all about territory,” said Sir Gareth. “You should understand that, John.”

  We moved on again and came to a long stone gallery where the walls were covered with long rows of framed portraits, reminders of those who’d fallen in service with the London Knights. There were hundreds of them, maybe even thousands, stretching away into the distance. The most recent were photographs, showing men of various ages, all striking the same stiff pose and determined smile. These gave way to black-and-white, then sepia prints, and finally to painted portraits, in the varying styles of the times. The same stiff pose, though, the same determined smile. All the way back to stylised images of the original knights of Arthur’s Camelot. Painted sometime after, I assumed, though of course I could be wrong. Merlin’s court was famous for its anachronisms. I stopped before one portrait.

  “Kae,” I said. “Arthur’s stepbrother.”

  “Yes!” said Sir Gareth. “You do get round, don’t you?”

  “You have no idea,” I said. “Really.” And then I looked at him as a thought struck me. I looked back and forth, at all the images of the original Round Table. “These knights are all from sixth-century England. So how come they’re wearing suits of the kind of plate armour that didn’t arrive until hundreds of years later?”

  “That was Merlin,” said Sir Gareth. “Remember, he could see the future as easily as he saw the past. He looked ahead, saw the armour, and knew a good idea when he saw one ... He presented the armourers with plans and designs, and next thing you know King Arthur and his knights had suits of armour that no-one else could match. That’s why they won so many victories ...”

  “Is that all Merlin gave the knights?” I said.

  Sir Gareth sighed heavily. “Who knows? So much was lost, so much was forgotten, after Camelot fell. By all accounts from that period, Arthur’s castle was full of wonders and glories, the greatest knowledge and science of that time, with marvellous devices and amazing inventions. All gone now.”

  “What did happen, to the original Castle of Camelot?” I said.

  “They burned it,” said Sir Gareth. “Mordred’s followers—in revenge for the loss of their leader. No-one was there to stop them; all the knights had gone off, to fight and fall at Logres. The women and children had just enough warning to get out, before Mordred’s bastards arrived. And afterwards ... the last occupants of Camelot scattered, first across England, and later Europe, telling stories that became legends, of the glory that was Camelot. Nothing of the castle survived, and all too soon no-one even remembered where it once stood.”

  “You never found it while you were searching for Arthur?”

  “We never looked,” Sir Gareth said simply. “The London Knights preserve the best of the old, and we live by long-established and revered traditions ... but we have chosen to look forward, not back. There’s enough needs doing in the present without obsessing on the past.”

  We walked on, talking easily about this and that. It occurred to me that we’d been walking a long time without even a glimpse of the more civilised inner quarters. I was moved to wonder aloud exactly how big Castle Inconnu was.

  “Hard to tell,” said Sir Gareth. “We’ve been adding to the old place for centuries, as our order grew larger, and we needed more living space for our wives and families. We’re as much a city as a castle when you get right down to it.”

  “So who else wants to find Arthur?” I said. “Name some names. I might know some of them.”

  “Personally, or professionally?” said Sir Gareth. “I can remember when the good guys fought the bad guys; now it seems like half the time we end up working together to take down some outside force that can’t even tell the difference between good and evil. But, our main enemy at the moment used to be one of our own. Jerusalem Stark, the Knight Apostate—rogue, heretic, and blasphemer. Once our brightest light, our most accomplished warrior, now our greatest failure and most dedicated enemy. He was the best of us until he had his crisis of faith. Now the man who swore to follow our cause all his life has given his life to our destruction. Sworn to see us all dead, down to the last man. And to achieve that, he has shown himself ready to join with the worst there is. Poor Jerry. We tried to help him after it all went wrong; but he didn’t want to be helped. If he finds King Arthur first, he’ll kill him, if only to spite us.”

  “Why?” I said. “What happened, to turn him round so completely?”

  Sir Gareth paused, considering his words carefully. “We had gone to war, in another dimension. Worlds in the balance, whole civilisations at stake, everything to play for. We fought valiantly, with Jerusalem Stark at our head; and the enemy could not stand against us. So they fought dirty. They took Jerry’s wife, Julianne. Turn back, they said, or we’ll kill her. But we couldn’t turn back; it would have meant throwing away everything we’d gained. So many lives lost for nothing and so many more put at peril. So we pressed on, and they killed her. Jerry argued against it, begged for more time to come up with a rescue plan, but there wasn’t any time.

  “I was there with him when we found the body. After the battle was won. They’d taken their time with her, the bastards. We executed all the leaders, of course; but it didn’t bring Julianne back to life. Or undo one small part of what they’d done to her. Jerusalem Stark cursed us all and walked out. From that day on, he was our most relentless enemy, and all our previous enemies his friends. And as if that wasn’t enough, he made a deal with ... forces best not named out loud. They brought Julianne back from the dead, as a ghost. Now Jerry carries her preserved heart in a silver cage on his belt, to hold her to him.

  “He still believes that if he can only find powerful enough allies, someone will bring her all the way back to life. The fool. If it was at all possible, we would ha
ve done it. We all loved Julianne. She brought such light and warmth into this sometimes dry and dusty place.”

  “Are there any female knights?” I asked.

  “No. Tradition, you see. It shapes so much of who and what we are. The order does change, but only slowly. We are still mostly a religious order ... but it wouldn’t surprise me to see the first female knights ordained in my lifetime. We’re not celibate; but it is always understood that our lives and our loyalties belong to the order, first and foremost. ‘I could not love thee, dear, half so much, Loved I not honour more ...’ Most of us have wives and children. We keep them here in the castle with us, where they’re safe.”

  “So what do the women here do?” I said. “Act as servants?”

  “No,” Sir Gareth said patiently. “The castle may be medieval, but we’re not. Castle Inconnu is full of airy spirits that do all the necessary things. The knights fight; our women provide all the necessary backup work. Doctors, librarians, teachers, historians, armourers ... We couldn’t do what we do without them. Julianne was our spiritual councillor. Our priest confessor in all but name. That’s why she was with us on that fateful battle-field so far from home. We would have saved her if we could. There wasn’t enough time. I would have died for her; but we couldn’t let so many innocents die for her. And she wouldn’t have wanted that anyway.”

  “How could you know what she would have wanted?” said a harsh new voice. “You never really knew her. You never loved her.”

  We both looked round sharply. Somehow, our steps had brought us round in a circle, and we were back at the beginning of the portrait gallery. And one portrait had come alive on the wall; the calm and peaceful head-and-shoulders pose replaced by a living image. I didn’t need to be told who it was. I never saw a more bitter and haunted face in my life. Jerusalem Stark glared out of his portrait at us, his eyes dark and unblinking, his lips pulled back in a grimace that was as much a snarl as a smile. He had the look of a man who would go anywhere, do anything, for the cause that drove him on. And would never, ever, let him rest. A very dangerous man.

  “Hello, Jerry,” Sir Gareth said calmly. “It’s been a while since you last spoke to any of us.”

  “As a London Knight, I was granted many privileges,” said Stark, still smiling his unnerving smile. “And they cannot be taken back. I will always have access to Castle Inconnu. You can’t keep me out. You can’t keep the truth out.”

  “What truth would that be, Jerry?” Sir Gareth said politely. “That you betrayed the cause you swore your life to? Your life and your sacred honour? That you have betrayed good men and true to the monsters you have taken as allies, men who once fought at your side and trusted you with their lives? That you have betrayed the memory of your wife, who would never have wanted to be saved at such a terrible cost?”

  “You could have found a way to save her if you’d wanted!” Stark’s glare was unwavering, his voice unforgiving. “We had time. There were options. But the Grand Master wouldn’t listen. All he cared about was victory, whatever the cost. He sacrificed my love for his triumph. Because that’s the knightly way. The truth is, Gar, you serve an inhuman cause, in inhuman ways. You’ve become the very thing you used to fight.”

  “You know that isn’t true, Jerry.” Sir Gareth’s voice remained calm, in contrast to the dark passion in Stark’s every word. “Come back to us. It’s not too late. Come home. We can help you find your way again.”

  “I have my way. You forced it on me when you let my wife die; and I have embraced it.”

  “We were friends once, Jerry. It wasn’t that long ago. Please. I don’t want to have to kill you.”

  “You see? In one breath you call me friend, and in the other you threaten to kill me. See what the order has done to you, Gar.”

  “ ‘I could not love thee, dear, half so much ...’”

  “Shut up! I don’t have to listen to that any more! They’re just words. I only wanted one thing in my life, only cared for one thing, and you let them take her from me. I will have my revenge, Gareth. I know you have Excalibur.”

  Sir Gareth carefully didn’t look at me. “How do you know that, Jerry? Which of your new friends told you that?”

  Stark sneered at him. “I have new allies. Very old and very powerful allies. They want you all dead nearly as much as I do.” He turned his cold gaze abruptly to me. “I know you, John Taylor. Get out of here while you still can. Forget whatever you were promised; you can’t trust anything they tell you. They’ll lie, cheat, and betray, in the name of their precious cause. Don’t be fooled by their fine words; they’ve forgotten what it is to be human.”

  “I always said you were the most dangerous of our enemies, Jerry,” said Sir Gareth. “Because you think you’re the good guy.”

  “I am the good guy.” The image in the portrait suddenly changed, the view pulling back sharply to show Jerusalem Stark in full figure, clad in the same gleaming steel armour as Sir Gareth. And standing beside him was the pale and shimmering image of his dead wife, Julianne. She wasn’t much of a ghost; just a semi-transparent shape in a long white dress who wasn’t always there. She faded in and out, her details vague and uncertain, her face a blur. Sir Gareth made a low noise of distress.

  “Oh don’t, Jerry. Don’t do this. Let her go.”

  Stark’s hand fell to the spun-silver cage at his belt, and at the touch of his fingers, the image of his dead wife became firm and clear. Her white dress was soaked in blood, all the way down her front. Her face was sharp and distinct now, but it held no expression at all. She looked dead. She turned her head slowly to look at Stark.

  “Let me go. If you love me, let me go.”

  Her voice gave me chills. I’ve heard the dead speak before, but never like this. Her voice was a whisper, as though it had to travel unimaginable distances to reach us. And it was full of all the despair and suffering in the world.

  “I can’t let you go,” said Stark. “I can’t. You’re all that matters to me now.”

  She reached out a hand and took his arm, and Stark shuddered despite himself. The living and the dead aren’t supposed to be close.

  “Come home, Jerry,” said Sir Gareth. “Stop tormenting yourself. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “No. It was your fault. You let her die.”

  “There must be something we can do for you ...”

  “There is. Give me Excalibur.”

  “What would you do with Excalibur?” said Sir Gareth. “What possible use could it be to you?”

  “I don’t give a damn for your magic sword,” said Stark. “But my allies want it. And they want it so much, they’ve promised to bring my Julianne back to life in return for Excalibur.”

  “They lied, Jerry,” Sir Gareth said sadly. “They can’t bring her back. No-one can. She’s gone. Accept it.”

  “Never! They can do it, Gar. I’ve seen them do it. I’m going to take Excalibur from you and give it to them. And then I’ll watch and laugh while they wipe you all out, down to the last man. Because that’s all you’ve left me.”

  The portrait was suddenly only a photograph again. The dark and driven knight was gone and his dead wife with him. There was a distinct chill on the air, and Sir Gareth and I both shuddered a little, despite ourselves.

  “New allies,” said Sir Gareth, after a moment. “That can’t be good. Who the hell could he have found who can bring the dead back to life? Only one man could ever do that, and that was our Lord ...”

  “Well, the dead can return,” I said. “As zombies, in various forms. Dead bodies possessed by various beings. Not actually alive but better than nothing.”

  “Jerry wouldn’t settle for that. But, he says he saw proof ...” Sir Gareth shook his head angrily. “Jerry is out of his depth.”

  “Who do you think these new allies are?”

  “There’s someone we’ve been keeping an eye on ... Prince Gaylord the Damned, Nuncio to the Court of King Artur, of Sinister Albion. He turned up in the Nightside three days ago
by a means we couldn’t identify. Apparently, his Merlin sent him to the Nightside to search for Artur after he disappeared. I’m surprised you don’t know about him.”

  “I’ve been a bit busy the past few days,” I said defensively.

  “Well, when Prince Gaylord couldn’t find King Artur anywhere in the Nightside, he got it into his head that we must have him. He’s been trying to find or force a way into Castle Inconnu ever since.”

  “Could he do that? Is he powerful enough?”

  “Who knows anything, where Sinister Albion is concerned? If he has his Merlin’s backing ... maybe.”

  “Do you have Artur?” I said carefully.

  “No. He seems to have disappeared. No-one knows where he is. And given everything that’s happening, the last thing we need right now is another major player in the game.”

  And that was when every alarum in the world went off at once. Bells, sirens, electronic alarms, and what sounded very much like a cloister bell. Sir Roland’s photograph on the wall suddenly came alive, replaced by an angry and seriously worried face.

  “Castle Inconnu is under attack! Our security has been breached! The enemy is within our walls, dammit!”

  “What? How the hell is that possible?” Sir Gareth’s face was almost colourless from shock. He looked like he’d been hit.

  “It’s Stark. Somehow he’s used his old access rights to force a way through our outer defences and hold open a door for the enemy. They’re inside the walls, Gareth; inside the castle! Stark has brought an army in past all our protections! They’ve invaded the outer layers, and they’re heading inwards!”

  “What army?” said Sir Gareth. “Who are they?”

  “Elves!” said Sir Roland. “Stark’s allied himself with the elves!”

  “No ...” Sir Gareth shook his head dazedly. “No, he couldn’t ... Oh, Jerry, you bloody fool. What have you done?”