Gargoyle Knight: A Dark Urban Fantasy (10 page)

“We must be swifter than Cael,” Artan said matter-of-factly.

“Nothing beats the subway for speed during rush hour traffic,” Rhianna said.

They entered the station. The place was packed with commuters on their way home from a long day at work. The temperature was hovering in the fifties and most people were bundled up in anticipation of a chilly evening. Rhianna spotted a few people decked out in Halloween costumes, mostly monsters and superheroes. Was that Freddy Krueger holding hands with Captain America?

Halloween was in the air, though the actual holiday was still a day away. Halloween fell on a Saturday this year and people were turning it into a three-day escape from reality. Rhianna envied their easy smiles and happy spirits, their sense of abandonment and pure, unbridled fun. Not a worry or responsibility to taint the day. Their lives seemed so perfect and uncomplicated, at least from where she was standing.

Rhianna returned her attention to her mysterious new friend. As a train screamed into the station, he was peering down the endless dark tunnel, a sense of wonder on his face. Was it possible he had never seen a subway before? Another thought suddenly occurred to her. “You seem pretty well adjusted for a man who skipped the last fifteen centuries. I would expect complete culture shock, like a total meltdown...”

“I saw the changes unfolding over the years, a dream I couldn’t wake up from.”

“What are you saying? The magic turned you into a stone gargoyle but you were aware all this time?”

“I saw the world without being part of it, cursed to be a silent witness until the end of time.”

There was a somber, almost forlorn quality to his words.

Rhianna's guarded expression softened.

“How did you stop yourself from going insane?”

“One thought. That one day vengeance would be mine.”

Rhianna digested this, still struggling with the reality of what was unfolding here.

“Why has Cael returned today? If you defeated him...”

The moment she asked the question, she grew silent. A terrible suspicion had hijacked her mind. She realized she may have answered her own question. If she thought about it, it made perfect sense. Within the context of this crazy story, it all seemed to add up.

“My blade shattered the gem,“ Artan explained. “But someone must have brought the two pieces together...”

Rhianna’s words came haltingly. “My father...”

Artan's face darkened, his suspicion confirmed.

“How could he be so foolish?”

A defensive note edged into Rhianna’s voice.

“It's the 21st Century. No one believes in this stuff.”

Artan took a step closer and a chill crept up Rhianna’s spine. She could feel the man’s coiled intensity, an inner darkness bubbling below the surface veneer of civilization, merely biding its time to erupt to the surface. The man’s voice echoed with icy intensity as he broke it down for Rhianna.
 

“Cael does not care what your world believes in. His magic is real and he will not hesitate to use it.”

Rhianna couldn’t stop the sour feeling rising from the pit of her stomach. Artan’s grave message was getting to her.
 

She suddenly believed this man.
 

Believed every word.

***

The police siren wailed as the cruiser hurtled down Seventh Avenue, leaving rush-hour traffic in the dust.

From the passenger seat, Cael watched as the city tore past him. He studied the towers of light, feeling disgusted at the display of cement and steel and technological excess.

Lord Balor, what have they turned your world into?

The city’s flashing lights bled into a kaleidoscopic blur and Cael’s thoughts turned toward the past.
 

Toward the beginning.
 

As far back as he could remember, Artan was his father’s favorite and the favoritism had over time become a festering wound. Cael could see why their father gravitated toward Artan: he saw a younger version of himself in the strapping, charismatic warrior with the easy smile and the twinkle in his eyes. While Artan effortlessly made friends, Cael was withdrawn and introspective. Artan would banter with the knights, at ease with himself and the world. No matter where he went, he’d catch the admiring glances of females everywhere.
 

Cael, on the other hand, was drawn to the mystical arts and chose to spend his free time with the druids, hunched over esoteric tomes that offered insights into the mysteries of the world. The two of them could not have been more different if they tried, and their father never ceased to remind Cael of the vast gulf separating his sons.
 

Cael was fourteen when he realized he hated his father. He was eighteen when he started looking forward to the day when his father would pass from this world and he could finally embrace his birthright and rule Kirkfall.
 

In the meantime, he would be patient and wait for his turn at the crown. But his father had other plans; he was going to take his favoritism one step further. Even though his younger brother prided himself as a warrior, it was Cael who drew up the battle plans against the neighboring states. In his mind, he envisioned a different future for Ireland. The island hadn’t reached its full potential and Kirkfall could overrun the surrounding kingdoms, unite the Emerald Isle under one banner and push its forces into Scotland and beyond. But Cael’s father was adamantly opposed to his oldest son’s dreams of conquest.

As Cael laid out his war plans on the large, oval-shaped conference table in the king’s tower, he could feel the energy of the various generals and advisors traveling from the young prince to their king, waiting for a decision to be made. Cael knew many of the men thought as he did and were consumed with visions of glorious battles that could expand their power base. But nothing would come of it until his father gave his nod of approval.
 

Cael’s voice shook with urgency as he addressed the king. “The men are ready and willing, father. The time has come to strike. The surrounding territories can be ours.”

To his surprise, his father grabbed Cael’s carefully drawn battle plans and tore them up right in front of him. “I will not start a war to satisfy your dreams of conquest,” the king said in a voice that entertained no further debate on the matter.
 

The generals and advisors who had earlier supported Cael now averted their eyes, knowing the matter was decided. Cael knew the wise and strategic response was to take a step back and bow his head. But something ignited in the young warrior-druid. A childhood of anger and hatred exploded to the surface and became plain for everyone to see. Cael slammed his steel-gloved hand down on the conference table, not bothering to disguise his unbridled fury.
 

His father met the outburst with an icy glare. “How do you expect to rule others when you cannot even control yourself?”

The words stung and the fact that Artan, who stood silently at the far edge of the table, was spared such humiliation brought back all the other humiliations Cael had endured over the years. He stormed out of the conference room, convinced his father would never let him rule Kirkfall. The king would cheat him out of his birthright. Artan would inherit the crown while Cael was destined to dwell in the shadows of his younger brother’s glory.
 

That night, Cael decided his father’s reign would have to end sooner rather than later. He would strike before his father knew what hit him. Over the years, Cael had mastered the dark arts and he knew how to tap into ancient mysteries, unleashing their frightening power upon the world. He would not hesitate to use his knowledge and direct it against the man who was keeping him from his destiny.
 

Cael gathered with his closest followers at a secret temple in the dense woods surrounding the city. The bloated moon illuminated a ring of monolithic stones. No one knew exactly when the massive obelisks were erected and what miraculous technology had enabled that process. Some believed it was the work of giants who had once walked the forests.
 

Cael knew that the structure was the work of men. Humanity’s greatest flaw was the ability to underestimate its own potential. The reason for this was simple. Mankind was mostly made up of sheep. Followers who lived their lives filled with doubt, regret and untapped potential, lacking any vision or real purpose.
 

Cael had no intention of joining their ranks simply because his father wished that he would. He would defy the old man and will his own future into existence.

Hooded druids stood in a ring around the slab of stone that served as an altar in this ancient temple. Flickering torches distorted and shrouded their features. A woman was tied to the altar’s surface, her dull, drugged gaze drifting from one druid to another. Runes were inscribed all over her naked, writhing body.
 

Cael advanced toward the altar, his own features hidden by a hood that mirrored the ones worn by his acolytes. He regarded the woman before him as she weakly squirmed against her restraints. The flames painted her flesh scarlet and a light sheen of moisture glowed on her skin. She lacked the strength to free herself from the thick ropes that bound her in place.
 

Cael knew little of the struggling victim before him except that her sacrifice would power the spell he was about to cast. The end of one journey meant the beginning of another.
 

A guttural incantation rose in Cael’s throat and he swiftly brought down a curved, razor-sharp sacrificial knife on the woman‘s chest, plunging the blade all the way to the hilt. The victim didn’t scream and died the way she had lived her worthless life – a quiet follower, to the bitter end.

Cael dropped the blade and scooped up the hot blood pulsing from her gushing wound. He rubbed it across a death’s head tattoo that covered the tough bands of muscles spanning his chest.
 

The symbol of death.
 

Cael was taking control of his future. The king would die. And his death would pave the way for a new order.
 

***

That night, the king fell ill. It had begun as a mild discomfort that rapidly became a painful, persistent stomach ache. His royal advisers and healers gathered and they all said the same thing – he must have ingested spoilt food and the proper amount of herbs, liquids and bed-rest would restore his constitution. There was no need to worry; he would feel better in the morning.
 

But the next day the cramps had grown worse and the pain had become a terrible agony. His resistance to every medicine the healers administered was taken as an ominous sign and Artan was called to his father’s quarters. The moment he gazed upon the fevered figure buried under heavy blankets of fur, an icy hand brushed against Artan’s heart. The face staring back at him bore little resemblance to the virile ruler of Kirkfall. The haunted skull mask he saw in the bed was the face of death itself.
 

Artan had faced the grim reaper many times on the battlefield, but this was different. This was his father and he felt helpless against the foul disease running rampant within the man who had raised him.

The shock flashing across Artan’s face penetrated his father’s veil of sickness and a bony arm shot out at the young prince. Skeletal fingers dug into Artan’s shoulder and he was surprised by the strength still within them. Despite the terrible affliction ravaging the king, he managed to tap into a last reservoir of strength. He pulled Artan closer, cheeks quivering with urgency.
 

Only the closest advisers and Artan heard the final message the king uttered before he succumbed to his illness. The words chilled Artan to the bone because with his dying breath, King McKeltar had decreed that Artan and not Cael should rule his people.

***

Before his father had even been put into the ground, Artan was crowned king of Kirkfall. The succession had to be immediate to maintain order and quell any fears of instability. The coronation ceremony was a surreal affair conducted in the lushly decked-out throne room. As Artan knelt before a high-ranking knight, his beautiful Samara stood at his side.
 

Her face was a worried mask, tears welling. She had loved Artan’s father with all her heart and the king’s sudden passing had come as a shock. Artan shared the sentiment. This morning he had woken without a concern in the world. He played with his two children during breakfast, oblivious to what the day would bring. Now he faced a knight in ceremonial robes who was about to lower the crown onto his head.
 

Artan traded a worried look with his wife. There was no joy in his features, the crown already weighing heavily on him. Suddenly his hairs bristled, reacting to the dark intensity of someone staring at him from the far corner of the room. It was none other than Cael, and the hatred in his brother’s eyes could not be denied.
 

Artan knew the ominous portent of that baleful glare. Years of peace would soon come to an end and Kirkfall would descend into bloody civil war. That night, Cael’s army would meet Artan’s followers in their first battle for the future of the kingdom.

***

The fighting was both savage and drawn out, a battle of muscle, sweat and blood followed by attrition of the spirit. Brother was pitted against brother. The two armies met in a forest clearing blanketed by a fog. One force was under the command of Artan, the other was loyal to Cael. The two armies collided in fury — blades clanged, sparks flew, blood was spilled. The din of combat rang through the night. Everywhere Artan looked, men succumbed to the merciless power of steel. By the time the new moon arrived, Cael’s men were defeated.
 

Hungry flames painted eerie shadows as a bare-chested Cael was brought before Artan, hands shackled, features alive with unflinching hatred. Artan raised his sword, preparing to drive it through his older brother’s heart, but he hesitated.