John Marco - The Forever Knight

My father was the kind of man who never taught me anything. This is not because he abandoned me when I was young, or because he worked in the foundry each day until his face was sooty black. It is simply because he showed no interest in me, not even enough to strike me. Most men have strong memories of their fathers, even if they were tyrants. My father was a ghost, no more memorable than a day when nothing happens.

Without a father’s love, a man might still become many things. I have seen people pray to all manner of gods, and I have seen genuine magic, but I don’t account my fortune to anything of heaven. I’ve learned to place faith only in myself. It was merely good luck that plucked me from the streets as a boy. I grew up in the house of a king and became a man there, with the king’s own son for a brother. You could say I didn’t deserve any of this, and you’d be right. But in those years I endured jealous stares.

Then, one day before I knew it, I was no longer a bastard. I was a knight, one of Liiria’s Royal Chargers. They say that our gifts are the things we are best at, and if that is so then killing is my gift. My real home, I discovered, was the battlefield, and I proudly carried the standard of my king to war; to make our country great only to see it fall. In my lifetime I’ve spilled much blood, but I have paid for these sins dearly. All the things I touch seem to wither just for being close to me. To be honest, I think I’m owed some solace now. In some parts of the world I am called a legend, a hero, a traitor, a myth. But the only thing I want to be is forgotten.

I remember a story from when I was a boy, about a knight who spent his whole life protecting his city from a monster that lived in the hills. Every year, when the monster came to find a maiden, the knight would ride out from the city and fight the beast, and every year he would win his battle and send the monster back to the hills. Then, one year when the knight was very old, a little boy asked him why he never killed the monster and wouldn’t that make much more sense, instead of having to fight the monster every year.

The next day, the knight rode out to the monster’s lair and killed it while it slept. When the city people heard the news, they rejoiced. The little boy asked the knight if he was happy now.

“No,” the knight told the boy. “Now I have no reason to live.”

For years I wondered what the story meant. Now, I think I understand.

My father told me that story. So perhaps he taught me something after all.

Easy. .

The sand, still warm from the day, clung to my lips as I slithered. My one remaining eye blinked away the burning. Head down, chin scraping the sand, I pulled myself with bloody fingers closer to the lair. Whenever I stalk a rass I get the same sick feeling of excitement. My guts churn. My brain turns to fire. I wanted to leap but I calmed myself. I told myself to wait, but the voice in my head wasn’t my own.

Easy, Lukien. .

I know , I answered back.

Malator fell silent, but I could feel his unrest. He’s like a second skin on me, impossible to get away from. I laid my face down flat in the sand and cursed him. His home, the sword, pulsed against my thigh.

Stay out of my head , I said. I wondered if the rass could hear my heartbeat. Let me do this alone.

Malator retreated. I spread my fingers in the sand, took the smallest breath, and lifted my face to see. The moonlight had turned the desert into a shimmering sea, the dunes like waves. The sun had gone down an hour ago and the temperature was dropping quickly. Rass love the first, cool hours of the night, when they come awake to feed. I spied the lair, surrounded by bones. The scarlet markings of the creature’s hood writhed as it awoke.

The sight of a rass can make a man’s heart shrivel like a dead flower. In Torlis, where I found the Sword of Angels, the rass are worshiped. I can almost understand that, but here in the real world we hate them for a reason. This one is old, a scarlet monster that kills for pleasure. Not many travelers come through the desert any more, not since the war with Ganjor, but this rass has made sport of them. He’s a hunter.

So am I.

I should have killed it in its lair. One stab through the brain and I could have walked away. Instead I tracked it and stopped, giving it every chance to taste me in the air. Finally, I pushed myself up just a little too quickly, just loud enough for it to sense the tremor in the sand. Its hood rose up and its red eyes opened wide. Across the sand, it gazed at me.

I was amazed by the thing. How easily it saw me in the darkness! With no more reason to hide, I stood up. The sand fell like rain from my white robes. Curious, the rass uncoiled from its lair, swaying high against the moon. I must have looked like a mouse to it, a stupid rodent who had stumbled into its own death, because the thing seemed to smile.

“You think this was an accident?” I asked it. “You think I made a mistake?” I hooked my thumb over my sword pommel and felt the instant surge of strength. “I’ve been watching you and asking myself the same question. It’s your nature to kill. Maybe I should just have accepted that and stayed in Jador.”

Malator had enough. Lukien! Stop talking and do it!

If I moved quickly the rass would strike. Very slowly I unsheathed the sword. The Sword of Angels isn’t a beautiful weapon, but now it glowed like starlight. It was my talisman, the only thing keeping me alive. I held it out in both fists and looked up into the serpent’s shining eyes.

“Don’t think you can kill me,” I said. It wasn’t a warning. I’d been out in the desert for more than a week. I should have been dead from lack of food, or at least too exhausted to stand, but I wasn’t. I was still alive and always would be, and for that I hated Malator. “You should run,” I warned my prey.

We both chose that instant to strike. I thrust out the sword and saw the fanged mouth coming down at me. A rass doesn’t fight like a regular snake. It’s whole body moves at once. I leapt and watched the tail fling out from the lair, trying to snare me. My blade caught its throat as I twisted away, rolling quickly through the sand. Without a sound the rass encircled me. The patterns of its body, like tattoos, rose up around me like a prison.

There’s no time to think in battle. Strategy is for the night before. Every plan you make just disappears, and all you have is instinct.

Draw it closer, said Malator.

In his own life he had been a soldier too. Instead of hurdling over the snake’s body, I let the noose close around me. I squatted on my haunches, held the sword down low, and waited for the monster’s face to block the moonlight. As I felt its scaly flesh press against me, the burning eyes appeared above.

I jumped, screaming, both arms thrusting up. I felt the sword puncture skin. Hot blood and saliva struck my face. I drew the blade deeper, not really sure what I had struck. But I was still in the creature’s coils. For a moment the rass opened its grasp in shock, only to tighten up quickly around me. The thing hissed and spat, its dripping venom popping on my skin. I pulled out the blade then stabbed it again.

“Malator!” I summoned. “Strengthen me!”

The snake’s muscled body wrapped around my own, crushing out my air. I thought about the mouse again. Red eyes flashed before me. I worked the sword, slicing through the creature’s jaw. It reared back its bloodied head, half its mouth hanging from fibers of flesh. It would die from the wound, but not quickly. Not before I did. And still Malator’s magic strength didn’t come. My voice was gurgled as I shouted his name.