Gargoyle Knight: A Dark Urban Fantasy (7 page)

Who needs sleep anyway?

She decided to head back to the office by taking a shortcut through the Celtic exhibit. And that’s where she ran into the longhaired individual in the leather jacket.
 

Her first thought was to alert the guards but there was something in the man’s face — maybe it was the combination of his swarthy good looks and sad, forlorn eyes — that gave her momentary pause. But once she had earned the man’s undivided attention, those eyes weren’t sad any longer but regarded her with unflinching intensity. He looked menacing (even though he was still a hottie) and she regretted not going with her first instinct and calling security.
 

To Rhianna’s stunned surprise, her mind still had managed to form words and string them together into questions. But instead of providing answers and identifying himself, the man remained silent and kept staring at her. He was acting like a creep but weirdly enough, Rhianna wasn’t creeped out.
 

The man finally turned away from her, still not having uttered a single word, and beat a hasty retreat.

Rhianna stared after him, strangely intrigued. As he disappeared down a bend in the corridor, she headed in the opposite direction, on her way back to her father’s office. She was navigating another wing of the museum, this one dedicated to Celtic armor and weaponry, when a squishing sound drew her attention.
 

Rhianna peered down at her feet and realized she was standing in a pool of blood. Stunned, she backed away, terror taking root within her. Sitting atop a mannequin's body was the head of the young security guard who smiled at her earlier.
 

Rhianna let out a choked gasp. “Oh my God...” She was still retreating from this horrific display when the voice behind her made her grow stock-still.

“It is strange to see my past as entertainment of the future.”

Rhianna whirled toward the speaker and stopped dead, her body growing rigid. A chiseled bald man with brutal features stood before her. She couldn’t stop staring at the webbed scar tissue of the man’s empty eye socket, a fleshy crater that seemed to exert a hypnotic spell over her.
 

The intimidating figure had addressed her in ancient Gaellic. Being of Irish ancestry and having spent a year abroad as part of a student exchange in high school, Rhianna had mastered the old language a few years back. At the time, her linguistic pursuits had been motivated by her desire to fully decipher some of the older texts her dad kept in his extensive library.

Cael advanced with animal grace, sword in hand, blade leveled at Rhianna’s throat.
 

Unable to utter a single word, gripped by horror, Rhianna took a step backward but Cael was upon her within seconds, his crimson sword hovering inches from her face. Cold steel caressed her chin and left a red smear of the dead man’s blood on her face. Rhianna could still feel the heat of the dead guard’s life force against her skin, a hot kiss that carried a sinister promise. More blood would be spilled tonight.

“You want to know what my world was like? Let me give you a taste.”

Rhianna was terrified but to her surprise, her voice sounded almost calm and in control as she uttered words in the ancient tongue. “Please let me go.”

Rhianna didn’t know what effect she expected her words to achieve — Kenny’s head sitting atop a mannequin might account for her pessimistic outlook — but Cael grew stock-still. His gaze became distant, tuning into some invisible frequency. The moment lasted for a few seconds before his good eye shifted back to Rhianna.

“It is not here.“ Mounting fury edged into Cael’s voice. “Where
is it? Where is the
Eye of Balor
?”

“I don't know...”

“I can smell your fear. You're lying.”
 

A sudden realization dawned on Cael. “The old man who left earlier. He took it with him, didn't he?”
 

Cael leaned closer and his eyes narrowed, a dangerous animalistic quality edging into his hawklike features.
 

“How do I find him?”
 

The question barely registered, Rhianna’s attention riveted on the blade that ominously loomed near her face.

“Please.”

“Perhaps the sight of your own blood will loosen your tongue. Tell me his name.”

Rhianna was on the verge of terror but she was not willing to give up anything that would endanger her father. She braced herself for the worst.
 

A thin smile played across Cael’s ascetic features.

“Your love runs deep for a father, but your thoughts betray you.”

Rianna could suddenly feel the fiend reaching deep inside her head and she gasped. It was a feeling that was hard to describe but she sensed that another consciousness had invaded her most private thoughts. The alien presence was roaming through her mind, probing, guided by his memory of her father. Rhianna tried to fight back but nothing in her life had prepared her for such a mental assault. The stranger overcame her laughable defenses with ease and plucked the information right out of her mind.
 

Dr. Benjamin Sharpe.

A dark smile of satisfaction rippled across Cael’s face. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

What had just happened?
 

Rhianna was reeling, her feet rooted. She had never been this afraid in her life. The rules of the world as she understood it had shifted. If someone could snatch memories right out of her head, what else were they capable of?
 

Cael took a step towards her. Light played across the blade in his hand. The weapon was forged centuries ago but looked just as deadly today as it must have then.

“Do not worry. You and your father will soon be reunited…”

Cael brought up the blade for the deathblow. He was about to make due on his dark promise when a knife rippled across the exhibit space. The
dagger tore into Cael’s blade in mid-descent. With an explosion of sparks, the druid’s sword went flying. It clanged across the floor, steel connecting with stone, and the sound echoed throughout the exhibit hall.
 

Rhianna cried out and looked up at her savior. It was the longhaired man she had encountered moments earlier. Rhianna didn’t know who the enigmatic stranger was or where he came from, but she was glad he’d decided to overstay his welcome.

Rhianna backed away from Cael, who had lost all interest in the archeology student. His focus was now directed at Artan. While the two men faced each other, Rhianna remained scrunched against the wall. Too terrified to move but also entranced by the powerful confrontation she bore witness to.
 

For a moment, Rhianna contemplated making a go for the nearest exit, but she decided it was too risky. She had no intention of becoming collateral damage. She had seen what the bald psycho had done to Kenny and could only imagine the atrocities he was capable of. Her best bet was to wait this out, at least for the time being. She had been too scared to think of it earlier, but now she palmed her cell and dialed security. As her phone kept ringing and ringing —
pick up, goddammit!
— Rhianna thought about how appealing grading freshman papers suddenly sounded.
 

***

Artan arrived in the exhibit hall just in time to see Cael’s blade heading right for Rhianna’s upturned face, as a scream tugged at her lips. Artan reacted without conscious thought, muscles springing into action, and sought out the nearest weapon he could use.
 

Fortunately, the exhibit offered plenty of choices. In a fraction of a second, Artan had snagged the nearest dagger and sent it spinning toward Cael’s descending blade. There was a sense of relief when the knife found its target. Steel impacted steel and Cael’s sword leapt from his hand.
 

Rhianna was safe for the moment.

Artan shifted his focus toward his greatest foe. His hands were balled into fists and his whole body shook with emotion. He had pictured this moment in his mind’s eye countless times over the last fifteen centuries. The feeling must have been mutual, judging from the baleful way his brother was studying him.
 

The two classic adversaries regarded each other across the exhibit hall, the intense emotion between them beyond simple words. Not even the vast gulf of time was able to quell the flames of their hatred, the scars of the past still as fresh as if they had been inflicted the night before. Bitter enemies, each demanding blood to make up for what they had endured at the hands of the other.

“I hope you enjoyed your nap, little brother,” Cael said. “You look well rested.”
 

“I've waited fifteen centuries for this moment.”

Cael’s lips curled into an icy smile. “Let's hope it lives up to the anticipation.”

Cael whirled and scooped up the sword Artan had knocked out of his hand. Artan mirrored the move and snatched another exhibit sword from the wall. The brothers began to circle each other, blades up and almost touching. The former king of Kirkfall followed Cael’s every move.

Facing his brother like this, man versus man, sword versus sword, his mind flashed back to the last time he had faced his brother in single combat...

The sound of wood impacting wood filled the air. Cael’s fighting staff rippled toward Artan’s shoulder but he sidestepped the blow at the last moment, the stick finding thin air.
 

The fight was unfolding in a circular arena that served as the royal sparring chamber. The rules of the duel were simple. If either of them stepped outside the circle, the fight would be over. The brothers had faced each other countless times and were equally matched, alternating between victory and defeat. But something was different about the duel today. It was the first time Cael incorporated magic into his attacks, the first time Artan realized his older brother was tampering with ancient forces that should remain beyond the reach of man.

Just outside the circle, their weapon master observed in impassive silence. A detailed critique of technique and style would follow once the sparring session had run its course. Flaws would be dissected and analyzed ad nauseam. The weapon master always found a flaw
—
even the winner wouldn’t be beyond the reproach of his discerning eye. The man couldn’t be pleased.
 

Artan hated the weapon master, but he would grudgingly admit that his swordsmanship had vastly improved under his grueling tutelage. Later Artan would realize the man wasn’t here to win a popularity contest but to keep the two princes alive. The weapon master’s job was to train them in all forms of hand-to-hand combat and he had done a fine job on that account. Their practiced movements were fluid and skilled, the play of muscle and steel perfectly synchronized. Artan parried his brother's savage attacks, sweat dripping down his face as he was pushed toward the edge of the circle. If he stepped outside the line, the fight would be over and Cael would win the bout.
 

A vicious blow hit him in the head, drawing blood. But Artan didn't buckle under the onslaught. As his forehead sheeted crimson, he relentlessly forged on. The wound might look terrible from afar, but it was merely surface damage.
 

Artan blocked another powerful blow and thrust his staff at Cael, who was sent reeling. The tide of battle was turning. Artan was beginning to dominate the duel, but Cael had decided that he wouldn’t accept defeat this time. The scale had to be tipped in his favor, a decisive victory had to be achieved. Cael was the heir to the throne and desired to best his brother in a definitive manner.
 

Cael spun his staff around, touching the end that had drawn Artan's blood. He stealthily rubbed the crimson liquid into one of his tattoos, a crown of thorns.
 

The tattoo magically absorbed the blood and thorns sprouted from the ground, ensnaring Artan's feet and tripping the young prince. As Artan went down, Cael attacked without mercy.
 

Later, Artan would learn that the means by which Cael had won the duel had not escaped the attention of the weapon master. That same night, the man shared his observation with the king, who registered the news with a heavy heart but wasn’t all that surprised. He knew Cael practiced the dark arts of the demon Balor, and he disapproved. But this was the confirmation Artan’s father needed to make his decision – he could not entrust Cael with the future of Kirkfall…

Artan’s mind snapped back to the present. The past had taught him what his brother was capable of. He wasn’t about to face a normal opponent. But neither was Cael. With any luck, he might end up teaching Cael a trick or two.

“You took away everything that ever mattered to me,” Artan said, his voice bereft of all emotion.

“Just returning the favor, little brother. The crown was my birthright. I was supposed to be king.”

“A king doesn't spill the blood of his own people.” Artan took a step closer. “A king protects his people.”

“The way you protected Samara and your little boy?”

Something snapped in Artan and his rage ignited. His blade lashed out at Cael, whose sword came up to parry this strike. Steel kissed steel, sparks danced, and the blades flashed back and forth with thundering power. Both men moved with superhuman grace and agility, their movements enhanced by the potent magic of the gargoyles.
WHOOSH.
Artan’s sword whipped toward Cael’s face, but the warrior-druid blocked his attack.

“One bit of advice, little brother. Don't go for the eye this time. Aim for the heart. I
always
do.”

Cael’s sword chopped at Artan's chest with the speed of a coiled serpent striking at its prey. Artan back-pedaled and Cael’s sword found thin air. Undeterred, the warrior-druid tore a tapestry from the wall and hurled it at the retreating Artan. The tapestry enveloped the former king and he lost his footing, stumbling backward.
 

Cael discarded his sword and instead relieved one of the Celtic mannequins of a mace, a three-foot chain attached an iron ball of spikes to a medieval war club. Cael wielded the armor-crushing weapon with the skill of a warrior trained in all forms of combat. In Kirkfall, royalty wasn’t shielded from battle but weaned on it.