Gargoyle Knight: A Dark Urban Fantasy (19 page)

A druid performed an ancient Celtic wedding ceremony. Artan faced his beautiful Samara, their wrists bound by the piece of cloth that symbolized their union. Artan produced the necklace from his pocket and lovingly draped it over his wife's neck. As their lips came together in an emotional kiss filled with love and passion...

Artan gasped, thrown by the vividness of this memory. The fog wrapped the medieval warrior in its phantom embrace, blanketing the lot like a death shroud, sucking up all sights and sounds, erasing all hope.
 

An icy voice emanated from the encroaching mist. “Does it bring back memories?”

Artan whirled, sword ready, senses probing for the speaker’s position. The voice had been carried by the wind and there was no sign of Cael.

“Show yourself, coward!” Artan shouted and the fog swallowed up his words. Artan found it impossible to pinpoint Cael's location. The world seemed to be evaporating around him, afflicted by some terrible sickness that was eating away at reality like a cancer.

Cael’s voice resounded through the mist’s fisheye whiteness. “Samara was a beautiful woman, but I see that you are finally moving on...”

Artan whirled, sword stabbing the air in exploratory thrusts, but his steel found no solid target. Cael was as elusive as a wraith, his voice constantly changing direction in the fog.

“Keep talking, brother,” said Artan. “It makes it easier for my blade to find you.”

“You know why father chose you over me to be king, Artan? He knew he could control you. The perfect son. A loyal dog.”

Fury boiled in Artan as he countered Cael’s claim. “He chose me because he saw you for what you are. A monster.”

The accusation was met by momentary silence before Cael’s voice boomed out again. This time, the voice was closer. Etched with anger. Artan’s last statement had touched a sore nerve.
 

“A king has to be a monster...”

The fog grew even thicker, omnipresent. Artan was unable to see past the tip of his sword.

“A king needs to be ruthless…”

 
The guttural shrieks and roars of the gargoyles shredded the silence. Vague silhouettes dipped in and out of Artan’s view. Winged death lurked behind the chalky veil.
 

“A king can never show mercy...”

Artan heard the flapping of leathery wings.
 

“Maybe if you understood this, Samara and your son would have lived.”

The words hit Artan with the force of punches. Cael was pushing all the right buttons. He knew Artan's soul. Understood his pain.

Ignore him... He's trying to get to you...

Another sound. Stone brushing against stone.

Much closer now.

Blurry silhouettes flitted through the fog’s thick soup. Artan was forced to rely on his other senses. He draped the necklace around his neck, drawing strength from the pendant and what it symbolized — a love that had transcended time.

He spoke in a low whisper. “Wherever you are, my love, give me the strength to avenge you.”

Artan closed his eyes and the world went pitch black. His surroundings were reduced to a landscape of pure sound. Artan focused, homing in on the slightest distortion of the air. He heard a rustling of wings and caught a whiff of the beast as it burst from the mist...
 

Death was approaching.
 

Steel whistled and penetrated gargoyle flesh. Once, twice. Followed by bestial roars.

Artan opened his eyes. His face was now a mask of dark gargoyle blood. The downed beast was obscured by the impenetrable fog, but it didn't matter. Artan knew his blade had tasted blood, but its appetite had only been whetted. His dark look of satisfaction offered a glimpse of
the
gargoyle that dwelled inside him.
 

There was a moment of
anticipation. The silence stretched. The fog cleared, clouds of white breaking apart. Cars grew visible again and a snarl shredded the air. Artan spotted Rhianna a few feet away, still clutching her dad. He had passed out. Two gargoyles closed in on her.

Artan's blade cleaved one beast in two. An upward slash impaled a second gargoyle. His attackers collapsed just as...

More gargoyles emerged from between the parked vehicles, their wings flapping. Too many to count. Moving in from all sides in a ring of winged death. Lunging, jaws snapping.

Rhianna clutched his arm, nails digging deep into his flesh. He could feel her mounting terror. Artan’s face remained stoic but he knew the odds – he was seriously outnumbered here.

Cael's voice boomed through the parking lot. Artan followed the sound, locating his brother surrounded by winged supplicants. Artan split his focus between Cael and the advancing gargoyle horde, never losing sight of the approaching monsters.

“It is finished, little brother. I have the
Eye of Balor
and Samhain is upon us...”

The final wisps of fog dispersed and Artan realized in alarm that the sun was already vanishing below the horizon. He could feel Rhianna looking at him, her expression asking the same question he was considering himself.
 

How could the sun be going down already?

It had been early afternoon when they arrived at Lord Irish’s loft. Artan saw Rhianna scan her phone. It was almost six o’clock.
 

They had lost four hours.
 

A dark realization hit Artan. “The mist...”
 

Artan recalled the tales he heard in Kirkfall about people lost in a supernatural fog. When they emerged from the mist, years or weeks would have passed. At the time, he had thought they were just stories. Now he knew better. The fog was just another form of Celtic magic. Time would slow for anyone who entered its blinding whiteness. The question: why had this spell been cast? Why did Cael want to slow down time? He had the gem. Unless...
 

Artan suddenly knew the answer. And it filled him with dread.

“You could have destroyed the Eye, yet you chose not to,” Cael said. You could have saved this world, but your revenge was more important. I thought a king protected his people?”

Cael’s words felt like quick thrusts from a knife. When Artan spoke there was an air of defeat in his voice. “My people are dead and I am no longer king.”

A dark smile played over Cael’s face. “Finally you understand that you serve a new master now.”

Artan observed the sinking sun as it washed away the last tendrils of fog. Darkness was falling over the parking lot and...

Artan changed once more. His features distorted, the beast commingling with the man.
 

He could feel Rhianna watching him in fascinated horror as the magic remade him. The transformation unfolded faster this time around, and there was less pain. He was either getting used to the change or Samhain was changing the rules.
 

Moments later, the gargoyle had reclaimed the former king of Kirkfall. He held his sword high, moonlight creating the Gothic silhouette of a monster.

Cael’s other minions resumed their advance.
 

Muscles tensed. Wings flared out. The gargoyle warrior attacked.

Artan took to the air and soared over three gargoyles. He landed behind them, blade lashing out. He drove his sword-point through the first creature's throat and right through the back of its head in a spritz of black blood.

Rhianna watched the aerial ballet of deadly steel as Artan decimated the horde with deft sword strokes. He jumped and floated over opponents, spinning in midair, steel striking out with the lethal precision of a cobra.

Wings were severed, taloned arms and legs hacked off, torsos cleaved. Soon Artan was surrounded by grotesquely frozen death. The former king let out a bone-chilling roar of triumph.
 

Artan’s monstrous features shifted toward Rhianna. Moonlight washed over his savage visage, which showed uncertainty as his thoughts grew hazy and confused...
 

No!
 

Artan could feel the change come over him, reality altering on an almost molecular level. The parking lot warped and twisted like a funhouse mirror. The moon overhead seemed to expand, becoming a churning eye of darkness.
 

The changes went beyond the visual and impacted even his other senses. Sounds took on a strange buzzing quality, becoming the chittering of a million insects — a hymn of darkness. Smells grew stronger, the coppery scent of Dr. Sharpe’s blood intermingling with the revolting stench of the monsters’ gory remains.
 

Rhianna’s lips were moving, but Artan couldn't make out any words. It looked like she was screaming at him. Human language had lost its meaning. He was perceiving reality like a beast now, his intelligence and humanity swept away by the dark tide of Samhain.

Artan understood why Cael had slowed down time.
 

A final humiliation remained. One last gargoyle would have to serve at the druid’s side for his victory to be complete. Cael had been right. No one could resist the dark call of the gargoyle on Samhain.

Artan turned to Rhianna. Her beautiful features dissolved before him, melting like wax, erasing all forms of human individuality, leaving only muscle, blood and bone. A faceless meat puppet. She had ceased to be human. Now she was... PREY.
 

***

Rhianna could see the light seeping from Artan’s eyes. As if the real Artan had left his body and something dark and sinister had taken over. She recalled his earlier words.
 

As Samhain approaches, the darkness inside me grows. Every time I change, I lose a little bit more of myself. In time, the curse of Balor will corrupt me.
 

The medieval king was waging an internal war, a desperate battle between man and beast for control over his soul, and the beast was winning.
 

Artan had ceased to exist. There was only the gargoyle now.
 

His attention snapped toward Rhianna. His eyes were vacant chips of ice oozing malevolence.
 

Rhianna backed away from the gargoyle. “Artan...?”

He closed in, advancing with evil purpose.

“Artan, what's going on?”

There was movement behind her. It was Cael.
In his gargoyle form.

Artan grew still, face to face with his enemy, but instead of launching into an attack...

Artan knelt before Cael.

“No one can resist the call of the Otherworld on Samhain. Not even the king of Kirkfall,” the warrior-druid said.

Rhianna's spirit sagged as Cael's inhuman laughter echoed in the night. Within seconds, the gargoyles were upon her and her world went black.

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

LIGHTNING RIPPED THE sky, sizzling bursts of energy that crackled with evil intent. Thunder detonated and the trees of Fort Tryon Park swayed wildly as furious gusts of wind howled through the park. Nature had turned its wrath against the city.
 

Rhianna was awakened by the spatter of fat raindrops. She had no idea how long she had been out. Her return to consciousness was both tentative and filled with urgency. A part of her wanted to let the blackness envelop her once more but she knew if she gave in to that temptation, the darkness would become permanent, a place from which there was no return.

She shook off the cobwebs and processed her surroundings, the dire nature of her new reality dawning on her. She was back in Fort Tryon Park, surrounded by the ring of giant standing stones that had been erected on the museum grounds.
 

Vines were wrapped around her body, securing her to an elliptical stone altar that formed the center of the Celtic monument. Her dripping wet clothes were pasted to her skin. She strained against the vines but imbued with magical life, they matched her movements. One of the vines tightened around her throat, choking off her air supply. She eased her resistance and the vine loosened its hold on her.
 

It was hopeless.
 

She looked up at the stone head of Balor. The malevolent sculpture loomed over her, backlit by a jagged flicker of lightning. Its cyclopean eye was cold and inscrutable, awaiting its human sacrifice. The face seemed more lifelike than usual, almost as if the demon had already begun its transition into the world of men.
 

Samhain was upon them.

Rhianna averted her face from the sinister effigy and squinted against the downpour. Lightning flashed and revealed Artan, who stood a few feet from the altar. Sheets of rain cascaded down his gray hide. He regarded Rhianna as if she were an insect, his features devoid of any emotion.

For a second she thought Artan might have reverted back to a statue, but the next burst of lightning disproved her assumption. All humanity had left his monstrous features, his eyes now vacant pools of blackness that were bereft of emotion.
 

A servant of darkness.

She knew it was hopeless but the words flowed from her lips anyway. “Artan, please help me...”

The gargoyle didn’t respond, remaining coiled in stony indifference. Rhianna was totally drenched now and even if she somehow made it out of this predicament in one piece, she‘d be lucky to escape without catching pneumonia. Her hair was plastered against her head in thick, wet clumps and she could feel her teeth chattering. The storm be damned, Rhianna wasn’t going to give up without a fight. If it was her destiny to end up as a sacrifice in an occult ritual on this night, she would fight until the last breath. She directed her words to the stoic sentinel before her, once upon a time her protector, now her captor.
 

“Artan, you can... You must... Fight this...” Rhianna would have kept going, hoping against hope that her words might reach the man now subsumed by the beast, but Cael interrupted her desperate pleas. “You are wasting your breath. Artan serves a new master now.”

The one-eyed gargoyle loomed above her. The empty eye socket was a dark, gaping wound. Rain cascaded down his leathery wings. Rhianna realized that Cael’s tattoos were dimly visible over his gray, thickly muscled gargoyle skin. Strange the details one noticed before death. She fought back a gasp when she spotted the curved
Blade of Kings
in his clawed hand. Cael held up the sword, lightning playing over its surface.