King's Justice: The Knights of Breton Court, Volume 2 (39 page)

  "I feel like I've been here before," King said.

  "Déjà vu is the word," Merle said. "God's way of telling you that you're exactly where you're supposed to be." 

  "So I'm right in line with my own destiny."

  They wound along the river's edge. Branches snapped underfoot and leaves crunched as their inexperience as woodsmen betrayed them. The scent of campfire swept through the trees. Still early Spring, the blues and yellows of the tents popped against the bleak landscape, easily spotted against the brown background of bare trees and dead leaves. Easily spotted once one chose to look for them.

  A lone figure leaned against a thin tree, using a long wooden spoon to stir within a large metal saucepan. A University of Miami jacked, blue jeans, socks pulled up over the cuff. A thick beard, gray streaked hair. A thick skim of gray to his face, as if caked in ash. A black bag slung over his shoulder. A foot shorter than King, but he barely glanced up at their approach. 

  "Who that is?" the man asked.

   "King."

  "You say that like it's supposed to mean something."

  He had. It did. It meant the weight of responsibility. It meant the consciousness of leadership. It meant the burden of his people. "I'm here to help." 

  "Anyone ask for your help?" the man asked.

  "Methinks, young liege," Merle said, "that perhaps this situation bears further investigation."

  "What? You rule these here parts… King? You got a crown tucked away in that mess of hair of yours. Maybe you just got a cape under that jacket or something."

  "There are things out here." The heft of the Caliburn became acute in King's waistband.

  "And what you gonna do?" The man took a bite of his macaroni and cheese. His face upturned and with a shrug, took a heaping spoonful. Bits of food flew from his mouth as he spoke. "You ain't nothing but a punk with a gun. We know what's out here. And we got our own protection." 

  King didn't notice any movement, but he sensed something was amiss. It was as if now that his eyes had been opened to the story he found himself in, he could see it all around him. His eyes widened as he caught sight of the shadow. Perched on a thick limb, hidden in gloom among the tangle of branches, the creature's granite gaze narrowed to grim slits studying King. Now that King spotted it, he recognized the silhouette of such beasts from atop cathedrals and lining many buildings downtown. A gargoyle. Industrial magic come to life. Obviously the great beast which haunted his streets. A supreme grotesquerie, a disturbing ornamentation to the camp. Its concrete body transmogrified to flesh, stone to color – gray, like shark hide – newly awakened; cracks and dents gave way to barely healed wounds. Scars.

  Knees bent, ready to flex, its corded muscles tensed with the patience to squat immobile for decades. Nails which could drive into a skull with the ease of digging into overripe cantaloupe, gripped and re-gripped the branch. Lids over lizard eyes, the beast frowned, a fool grimace of slobber and bared fangs, leering down at them. In its eyes, King saw brooding nightmares invested with the lusts, hatreds, and angers of its creators. 

  King pulled out the Caliburn with the ease of reflex. As he assumed a battle posture, Lott fell to his flank, preparing to guard it as well as stand by his friend. Another reflex. The creature became a mass of snarling lips, murderous eyes, claws, gothic wings and clenching talons. King fired a shot, hitting it center mass. 

  "No!" the man and Merle screamed in unison.

  Their piercing cry shattered King from his battle fervor. The gargoyle spread its bat-like wings, fibrous and leathery, flapping them to stir the camp. The creature skimmed skyward. 

  Lott ducked as the gargoyle dove in and swooped low, barely dodging as its talons grasped at empty air. Wind whooshed as it passed him. Off balance, he didn't have a chance to reposition himself and swing his bat. The beast, however, grabbed its intended target.

  Talons dug into King's shoulder, tearing deeply before it flung him into a tree. Mid-swoon, the world spinning. The beast was a series of half caught images. Yellow orbs. Huge teeth gleaming. Gaping jaw. The creature towered over him, swaddled in shadows, feral eyes gleaming down at him. Atonal chittering gave way to a blast of the beast's fetid breath. Sick with pain, King raised the Caliburn again and took aim. 

  "King, stop!" Merle cried out. "You are the intruder here." 

  "But it attacked us." King paused, half-turning toward Merle but not wanting to take his eyes from the beast.

  "Only after you so carelessly brandished your Caliburn. Were all those years with Pastor Ector wasted? Didn't he teach you how to think? You can't fight every battle with guns. Jesus didn't arm his disciples and start taking out Roman soldiers." 

  "I'm not Jesus."

  "Believe me, I know. You would've early on called out Judas as 'a trick ass bitch' or some such." Merle reached for the pointed snout of the gargoyle, holding his hand out as if letting it catch his scent. Blood trailed down the beast's bulbous belly. "Oh dear, the wound is serious. It will take much to heal it." 

  King searched the beast's eyes again. Truly seeing it this time for what it was, he saw the soul in its eyes, the passion of devotion, awakened to yet another new age from its long sleep. Gentle. Protective. In a lot of ways, it reminded him of Percy, the young boy who so often followed them around. Large, awkward, yet ferocious when those he cared about were threatened. Only then did it occur to him that he might as well hunt a unicorn.

  "Thanks for looking out for us, O king. We are much safer without our protector in play," the man said. 

  "I didn't know."

  "You don't know much." The man stroked the back of the gargoyle with the affection of a boy and his dog. 

  Merle sidled alongside King. "It's okay, King. We are all ignorant about something or another at one time or another. The question is: are you willing to learn?"

  "And you know things?" King asked without sarcasm.

  "I know your real name. I know your father. I know the magic. I know your call."
  "Anything else?"
  "I know your glorious doom." Merle turned from him.
  "And you'll stand by me through all of it?"
  "I will be by your side until I'm not."

  There is no guarantee with friendships, Lott thought to himself. It was easy to make promises. The true test was if the person would be around when times got tough. Friendships were forged in fire.

  Looking back, they would consider this to be the good days.

 

 

 

 

 

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Dragon's den

 

An Angry Robot paperback original 2011 

1

 

Copyright © Maurice Broaddus 2011

 

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ISBN: 978 0 85766 081 7 

EBook ISBN: 978 0 85766 083 1

 

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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.