Black Knight

A chilled air swept through the void lands, kicking up dust and slithering through the valley of black rock with a deathly howl. By the time this gust had reached Marcellus it was no more than a breeze, but its chill woke him from his fevered state. He had been set upon by a vicious beast, one commanded by a force stronger than he could have anticipated. Now, he rode his steed through the mountain path as blood coated his skin beneath punctured silver armour. His curled black hair draped partially over his dark blue eyes, matted with blood also and obscuring his sharp features as his head hung low. A young knight on death’s door, venturing where other men did not and paying a demon’s price for it.

Dissonant voices flooded his mind, the poison of the beast fracturing his thoughts, tugging at his sanity. He knew their kind and would not falter. Not yet. His steed whinnied as he groaned, kicking up onto its hind legs for a brief moment almost in recognition of his pain, pushing him to awaken fully. He did, and fixed blurry eyes on the landscape before him.

“Home soon Jasper.. Home soon” he said as he swayed in place, patting his steed's side. Before him a dark land presented itself, one of corrupted jagged rock that rose as tall as buildings in some places, steam from the earth below passing through it and coating the land with an ever present mist. The kingdom's castle lay just before the horizon of the setting sun, a rising shadow beckoning Marcellus forwards. He must reach them and give word of the dark sorcery that he now knew had caused this once bountiful land to be destroyed. They must know they were cursed.

The wolf borne man who had injured him was one of the Kethlen - a race of giant beasts standing as men mixed with hairless and demonic wolves. Usually their kind would not be so bold as to strike out at one of the king’s men outside of their own territory, but this time they had hunted him. A force had risen within them, guided by the words of a dark mage.

“Open the gates!” the strained voice of the wall guard echoed into the now pitch dark skies. A storm had followed Marcellus home, and now lightning tore through the sky with earth shuddering thunder as the young Knight bucked to and fro on his steed in pain, crying out into the night.

“My god what has happened to him?” the Kingdom’s princess cried as she watched from the King’s tower. The King slowly emerged, revealing his angular bearded face in the light of the moon.

“He has touched the darkness that binds itself to these lands… as soon as he is well we must alert the Knight’s Guild and hold a meeting” the King said with concern as he placed his hand upon the wall and gazed down. How her father knew this she did not know, but as she looked out into the dark lands before her and the young Knight Marcellus who was now in a state of mania, she felt he spoke the truth.

“In these dark times we must not fall to superstition, my lord. Your kingdom has always been governed with logic and prudence” the voice of the Queen said from within the gloom of the tower. The princess withdrew herself from the window, no longer able to watch Marcellus tormented by a demon’s poison as the King’s men tried to restrain him. The King did not respond, sensing something he could not explain.

Marcellus was finally subdued, now laying upon a four poster bed in the King's finest medical chambers. His brow was still covered in sweat, his sleep fevered, dream filled - but his wounds had been tended to. He would not die. The rising smoke from incense that burned all around, the scent of lavender that hung over his bed, filled the air.

“He has been like this for a full night and day… When will it cease?” the princess asked the Kingdom’s shaman. The shaman was a man who dealt in matters beyond mortal understanding, a communicator between death and the living realm.

“He will lay in this state until the demon’s poison either claims his soul or he prevails… could be weeks… could be hours… he communes with the forces beyond, now” the shaman explained as he threw blessed water around the edges of Marcellus’ bed.

The princess bit her nails as she perched on the small wooden stool by his bedside. This thought burdened her soul, and in this moment thunder rumbled through the keep as rain continued to pour outside, awakening the young Knight. He lurched upright, gripping the sheets he lay on with white knuckles, drenched in sweat.

“The darkness is within our own Kingdom… someone here wears a mask… I must talk to the King” he said through strained breath, struggling with each word as though they burned him as they came out of his mouth. The princess gripped Marcellus’ hands and he turned to her, startled with wide eyes.

“What did you see?” she asked in a tone as gentle as her touch. The Knight was soothed for a mere moment before leaping from his bed to fetch his armour, saying nothing.

The young Knight paced in the royal hall, before the King and Queen. His attention fell to his shoulder briefly and he rubbed it, wincing. The wound had not fully healed, and he sensed the beast's poison still within his mind.

“Tell me what you saw, Knight. If you speak of a mysterious force coming upon us from the void lands, we must know its origin” the King demanded. His eyes were expectant, desperation becoming apparent. He sensed the darkness too.

“The Kethlen leader I encountered was not overcome by mere bloodlust, my King. Something gripped his mind, commanding him to kill me. Now, as I almost reached the other side, a warning was given to me… the very darkness that has descended upon these lands comes from within the walls themselves” Marcellus explained. The Queen scoffed.

“Your mind is still wrapped in the poison of the beast, boy. You wake from fevered sleep to tell us your dreams?” she said, her voice smooth, judging from a place of elitist authority. Her hair was golden, her features soft and feminine as humanly possible and yet she was cold in demeanour. The King, though looking as a weathered warlord with his pointed grey and black beard and piercing scowl, was gentle and wise in his approach.

“A fine Knight with a sense as good as any man’s… I need us to be alert, consider all possibilities” the King replied. The Queen scowled still, and Marcellus felt a coldness washing over him. Whispers within his mind. Images of the gnashing maw of the beast he had barely slain in the void lands surged through his thoughts - blood and terror. Voices spoke to him again.

“It is her, you know it to be true” they said from the place he had been sprung from, the place within his dreams. Had he fallen to madness? Or had the spirit corrupting these lands been sat at the throne all along - the Queen herself a dark mage. Marcellus drew his sword, surging forwards with sweat coating his brow.

“Forgive me my King. She is lost to evil” he said as he did so, pausing for a second before delivering the killing blow. The King withdrew his own blade and swiped upwards, pushing Marcellus’ sword upwards out of reach.

“Enter at once, he has lost his mind!” the King cried. The Queen smiled as the royal guard made way into the hall. Now many men were between Marcellus and the Queen - and yet his will still told him to kill her. He lunged forwards, stabbing forwards as she sat still, watching him with vacant eyes. The King’s guard gripped at his arm, and the blow swiped across the Queen’s cheek, drawing blood. She turned away in shock as Marcellus was subdued, clubbed over the back of the head unconscious. As the light from his vision faded out, he saw her smiling face.

Marcellus awoke in the chambers below the castle, the darkness of the dungeon on the morning of his hanging. A single ray of sunlight pierced through the tiny window, igniting the dripping water a golden colour as it fell. His body was battered, from both the beating the royal guards had given him and the wound of the beast. Blood had dried on the tattered grey robes of a prisoner - his armour had been stripped from him. He was to be executed in front of a crowd, the King and Queen watching over to show an example of what happens to those who attempt to bring harm to royalty. The fact that he had lived his life as an honourable Knight and seemingly fallen to madness was the only reason he was not to be tortured first. A quick yet brutal death, with the Kingdom watching. As he lay his head back against the cold stone of his dungeon cell, the poison of the beast had finally left his body. There were no calling voices, no tales of dark magic from a hidden sorcerer. These lands had fallen on hard times, and he had gone mad after a savage fight with a demonic being. Tears coated Marcellus’ cheeks as he gazed up at the slither of sunlight coming from above his cell. At least he was to die with honour.

“Tears won’t save you now” one of the hangmen said from the darkness beyond his cell. A looming figure with a dirty face twisted in malice appeared before his cell, his expression half covered by a hangman’s hood. Marcellus stood with a face of defiance. He would keep his head high in his final moments.

The crowd jeered, booed and hurled obscenities at Marcellus. They threw rotten food, spitting at him, alive with hate and entertainment. They had heard what he had done; this event was to satisfy their bloodlust for a just cause. How easy they were to manipulate, Marcellus thought. Marcellus was marched through the town square, up into the middle of the courtyard where they had constructed the hangman’s noose specifically for this crime. The King and Queen sat perched just above on wooden thrones, there to speak to the people of what happened to those who dared harm the Queen. Marcellus cast his eyes up and saw the princess’ silhouette in the tower above. She withdrew into the shadows as she met his gaze, tears in her eyes. Finally Marcellus was before the crowd, surrounded by five hangmen. They would ensure he would have no means of escape.

Overhead a raven cawed as wind swept over the Kingdom. A storm of demonic proportions was brewing, blowing in from the forsaken lands beyond. As the wind kicked up the peasants and townspeople below braced, their hoods up, ready to brave the weather for this spectacle. Amongst the hooded crowd, Marcellus saw the wrinkled face of the shaman. He nodded, a slight smile on his face behind his dark brown eyes. Marcellus raised his head up to the grey skies above. He would commune with him soon, he hoped. The King raised his hand and the jeering rabble fell silent.

“People of the Kingdom… I call you in these dark times to deliver a simple message. No matter what evils befall us, no matter the hardships we endure we must uphold a standard. That standard is one of sovereign authority. Even a man who spent his life in service to us cannot escape this hand of power, and you will pay the price for your sins. Death comes to all those who insult the name of the Queen. Hanging will be the weakest penalty for all those who insult her name, from this day forth!” the King cried as he stood up to address his people. They met this message with applause seemingly born from the storm itself, a ferocious will coming over them. The Queen smiled.

“I can give you but a moment, Knight. The words you heard were mine. The true Queen is dead!” a voice said within Marcellus’ mind, cutting through the noise. Marcellus gazed all around, his eyes falling back to the shaman. The mysterious old man commanded magic of his own. Marcellus watched as he raised one hand to the storm and it began swirling, many ravens taking flight above the place of his execution. The ravens began to breach down into the crowds as thunder rumbled through the keep, what started as few now becoming hundreds of swooping, cawing creatures, commanded by a force. Marcellus gripped tight to the ropes that bound him as the ravens swept the hangmen who had his shoulder and then thrust upwards, the point of his elbow meeting his nose harshly. He then leapt from the stage before the crowd - eyeing the shaman who threw him his trusty broadsword. As the ravens cleared he realised he would have but a single moment and met eyes with the Queen. In a lunging final cry, Marcellus tossed his sword in an arcing motion, its blade falling tip over hilt once before slamming into the Queen’s chest. In the same breath, countless arrows soared down into Marcellus’ body. He fell back as the ravens continued to storm overhead, his vision fading into the place beyond, darkness enveloping him as deep as the wings above. The screams of a demon filled his ears, and the young Knight fell into the realm beyond the living praying they came from the Queen herself, not the depths of his own mind.