Simon Green - A Hard Day's Knight

Elves in glowing armour, in vivid shades of gold and crimson and emerald, brandishing shimmering swords and glowing axes, went head to head with London Knights in cold steel armour with solid, deadly blades. The elves leapt and pirouetted, dancing through the chaos with deadly grace, supernaturally quick and vicious, impossibly light on their feet; and the knights stamped and spun, meeting the elves’ speed with the practiced skill that comes from years of training. Most of the action was simply too fast to follow, as elf and man slammed together, blades flashing and blood spurting. The air was full of the sound of blade clashing against blade, or clanging against armour, and over all, shrieks and howls and war cries, exclamations of pain and rage and hate.

Given the sheer number fighting in the hall, hardly any were dead yet. The elves’ enchanted armour turned aside most sword blows while the knights’ armour had its own protection, enough to stand against glowing elf blades. Both sides had to search for weak spots and brief openings; joints in the armour, exposed throats, or the eyeholes in a helm. Blood spurted here and there, and I saw one knight crash to the floor. Immediately, half a dozen elves were stooping over him, stabbing down again and again. Two more knights rushed forward to protect their fallen friend, standing proud and powerful over him, beating aside the elves’ blades with sharp precision. The elves danced and leapt round them, horribly graceful, laughing lightly.

Sir Gareth was right there in the thick of it, swinging his long sword with both hands, roaring harsh guttural war cries as he struck down one elf after another. They were quick, and they were elegant, but he was an unstoppable force, moving always forward, throwing elves back through main strength. An elf leaned right over to cut at the back of his knee, but somehow Sir Gareth turned at the very last moment to block the elf’s sword with his own. He stabbed the elf in the groin, the tip of his blade finding a brief opening in the glowing armour; and golden blood flowed down the elf’s thigh. He fell to one knee, and Sir Gareth brought his sword sweeping round in a long arc that cut right through the elf’s neck. The head in its glowing helmet tumbled free, golden blood fountaining from the neck stump; and Sir Gareth didn’t even wait to see the body fall before moving on to the next.

I stood in the open archway, watching it all, and knew that none of my little tricks and lateral thinking would work here. I could stay back and let the two forces fight it out amongst themselves. But I couldn’t do that. Excalibur made this my business, my problem, and besides, I really don’t like elves. In any battle, if you want to know who the good guys are, look to see which side has the elves. And then join the other one. The elves are the enemies of humanity because they chose to be. So I took a deep breath, did my best to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, drew Excalibur, and went forward into battle.

Calling myself an idiot every step of the way.

The moment I drew Excalibur, everything changed. Its golden glow leapt forth, illuminating the entire hall; and both sides sent up a great cry, as though its very existence validated their being there. The elves all turned to look in my direction and surged forward, aimed right at me. They were singing now, a sweetly inhuman sound that hurt my ears. The London Knights moved quickly to stop them, putting their steel and themselves between the elves and Excalibur, and the man who bore it. And I moved forward, swinging the great golden blade before me as though it were weightless, an unfamiliar exhilaration filling my heart. I might never be a knight, but I had met both Merlin and Arthur, and at that moment it felt like I had both their blessings.

An elf reared up before me in shimmering silver armour, his blade glowing bright as the sun. I cut him down with a single stroke, Excalibur shearing through his enchanted armour as though it weren’t even there. The blade sank deep into his chest. I jerked it out again, and golden blood flew on the air. The elf fell away, and I moved on. I didn’t have skill or grace; Excalibur was unstoppable. I stabbed and hacked and cut, and elves died at my hand, and it felt good, so good. I was grinning broadly now, shouting and laughing as I cut my way through the elves, like a gardener through tall weeds.

That wasn’t like me, and I knew it even then, but I wasn’t in charge any more. The sword was. It knew what it was doing; I was only along for the ride. I swung the sword with a speed and a skill that weren’t mine, killing elves. Excalibur was in its element, come home again, to do what it was made to do.

I ran an elf through, the sword punching through his breast-plate and out his back. Golden blood streamed down the armour, but the elf didn’t even cry out. He stood his ground and tried to force himself forward, along the blade, so he could get his hands on me. I stared impassively into his contorted face and hauled the sword out of his body in one brutal movement. He cried out then, and I cut his exposed throat. And then I continued the movement, spinning round to block the attack of an elf moving in on my blind side. I hadn’t known he was there, but the sword had. The new elf stabbed at me, but I blocked his blade with Excalibur, and the glowing elven sword shattered into a dozen pieces. And while the elf hesitated, startled, I cut him down and moved on to my next victim. I wasn’t even breathing hard.

And then I stopped, and looked round me, because suddenly there were no more elves. They were all dead, lying scattered and still across the wide and bloody marble floor. The London Knights sent up a great cry of triumph, punching the air with their raised blood-stained blades, then they turned to me and cried out their praises. I nodded. It didn’t feel like I’d done anything. I looked round for Sir Gareth; but he was already racing through the archway and back down the corridor, idly flicking drops of golden blood from his blade. I went after him. He was thinking of the women and children hidden in the Redoubt; and so was I.

I caught up with him more easily this time. Excalibur was providing me with all the strength and speed I needed. He shot me a quick grin. An enchanted blade had opened up a long groove along the armour over his left ribs, and blood had trickled down the gleaming steel. But his eyes were bright, and his smile was infectious. He laughed at the expression on my face.

“Is it not a glorious thing, to be a knight in armour and strike down your enemies? To punish the guilty with your own hands, to be brave and strong and know that everything you do matters? This is what it is, John, to be a London Knight!”

“You speak for yourself,” I said. “Trust me; I am not warrior material. It’s only the sword that’s keeping me going.”

“Excalibur couldn’t bring it out of you if it wasn’t there to begin with. A reluctant hero is still a hero, my friend.”

I was still trying to come up with an answer to that when we burst into the Hall of Forgotten Beasts. An elven sorcerer was standing at the far end, clad in sweeping crimson silks. He smiled easily at us, as though we were guests arrived just in time for dinner, then he made one sweeping gesture with a pale long-fingered hand, and every trophied head mounted on the walls opened its mouth and cried out in pain and rage.

They weren’t alive; but they were awake and aware, and they knew what had been done to them. They rolled their eyes and snapped their mouths, and strained against the mounting boards that held them to the walls. Great cracks appeared in the stonework round each head, the old stone splitting apart as though some unimaginable weight and pressure had been set against the other side of the wall. And then the heads surged forward, and the rest of their bodies crashed through the stone after them. They were complete again, all the great lost beasts of history and legend, and each and every one of them had revenge and retribution on their minds. They were long and sleek, huge and powerful, swift and deadly; and they only had eyes for Sir Gareth and me. Hundreds of enraged beasts and one really big, really pissed-off dragon.