The Silver Knight (3 page)

When he felt certain they were still alone, he replied, “I have heard stories of revenants in the Greek isles and of the restless dead in the kingdom of Hungary. How strange it is that these blood-fiends seem to develop only from the corpses of Christians. You are a heathen people.”

“And you are uttering blasphemies in the House of God.”

Sufyan smiled. “But I know how to rid this parish of its menace, and I have the seal of the Prince Bishop to approve the deed. You need me more than I need you, Everard de Montparnasse.”

Everard gazed at him. “Perhaps you are right.”

Sufyan thought he should ask about the smugglers. They were cunning men indeed to appoint this beautiful boy as their leader. No one would suspect such an innocent-looking youth of wrongdoing. He wondered if Everard would deny it all or stand and fight. Sufyan hoped he would fight. He wanted an excuse to wrestle with Everard, to pin him down and hold him close. In Sufyan's opinion, fighting was the next best thing to sex.

Before he could ask his first question, a ghastly shriek sounded in the air around them. Startled, Sufyan stepped back from the font and turned slowly, relaxing into a fighting stance. The shriek was the same noise he'd heard earlier in the woods.

“The fiend?” he asked unnecessarily.

“Yes.” Everard's voice came as a gentle whisper. “Waiting for it to show itself is always the worst part.”

Sufyan glanced over at the knight and saw his pale, resolute expression. “It can enter the church?”

Everard nodded.

“Has your Christ no power to stop a creature of evil?”

“Hush! It comes.”

Sufyan fell silent, senses straining as he listened for footsteps. In his knowledge of the Christian faith, gained partially from his master's learned discussions and mostly from idle chatter in alehouses throughout Europe, supernatural beings could not walk over consecrated ground and tended to flee in terror from the Crucifix, holy water, saintly relics, and the open pages of the Bible.

But now here was Everard telling him the blood-fiend could do the impossible, that it could cross the threshold into the church. Sufyan felt certain that his guess was right—the fiend was nothing more than a man, perhaps dressed in a frightening costume. Everard's words were meant to scare him away before he could reveal the truth to the villagers.

He gave a grim smile as he reached back to unsheathe his scimitars. Behind him, Everard gasped and protested, “For shame, summoner! Drawing steel in the sight of Our Lord!”

“Your god, not mine.” Sufyan hefted the blades, forcing warmth into his arms. His fingers felt cold from the dank chill surrounding them. He didn't want to make any mistakes when he faced the fiend. He thought of the Prince Bishop's gratitude at his solving of the mystery, and then he imagined a dozen enjoyable ways in which he would question Everard about this business once the conniving smugglers had been safely captured or killed.

And then all such pleasant thoughts went out of his head as the church door crashed open to admit the blood-fiend.

Sufyan had a clear view of it in the moments before the lamps went out. His breath froze in his throat and he felt a prickle of fear. This was no man in costume. This was something extraordinary, a creature pulled from the earth with the stench of decay thick around it. He had never seen anything like it, and after today, he never wanted to see its kind again.

The blood-fiend crouched in the doorway, seemingly more animal than man as it swung its head from side to side. It was almost naked, a scant length of winding-cloth wrapped around its loins as if to hold its body together. Its limbs were skeletal, the bones showing through, and its skin was like parchment, torn in places across torso and thigh to reveal blackened, empty orifices where once organs and muscle had lain.

Its gaze fastened on them and its eyes—mere pinpricks of glowing red deep within shriveled sockets—narrowed. It sniffed, even though it had no nose, just two stretched nostrils shrunk upon its rotting face. Its jaws opened and closed with an audible click.

“
Bism'allah!
” Sufyan exclaimed. He backed up against the font, keeping his swords wide apart, ready to defend himself if the fiend should attack.

“You call upon your god,” Everard remarked softly beside him. “Let us hope he is listening.”

Sufyan glanced up. The knight had circled around the font and now stood alongside him, the heavy, antiquated sword held out at a slight angle. The situation struck Sufyan as amusing: a Saracen and a Christian united against a common foe, their hands full of naked steel even though they stood on holy ground.

A cold wind blew around the church, extinguishing the lamps. Sufyan took a deep breath, inhaling the twilight along with the cloying scent of old incense, burnt wicks, and rotting flesh. As his eyesight adjusted to the darkness, he saw the blood-fiend move from the door. It didn't run or shamble; it darted, as fast as a greyhound, crouched on all fours—and it came straight at them.

Everard flung himself to meet the monster, swinging up his sword to cleave a path through the blood-fiend's body. But the fiend dropped to one side, dodging the blow easily. It crashed against Everard, knocking him off balance, and ricocheted onward. Its skeletal hands opened, grasping like claws as it launched itself at Sufyan with a horrible shriek.

Sufyan snarled in response, crossing his scimitars to catch the fiend against both blades. It drove against the swords, shrilling wildly as it tried to break through with brute strength. Sufyan stood his ground, his arms trembling with effort as he kept the monster back. It screamed at him, its jaws yawning wide to reveal sharp teeth. He gagged at the stench of decay that rolled from its open mouth, but dared not turn his head.

Everard staggered to his feet and clouted the blood-fiend across its back with one strike of his sword. Sufyan saw dried flesh and dust fly into the air like spores released from a fungus. The fiend seemed confused. Its red eyes glared at Sufyan as it pulled itself free of his swords and collapsed onto the floor.

“It is defeated!” Sufyan shouted. He stamped a foot on the fiend's chest and began to crouch beside it, ready to send the monster back to Hell.

“No!”

Everard's cry stopped him. Sufyan hesitated long enough for the fiend to jerk back into life. Undamaged and angry, it leaped up and tried to seize the sleeve of Sufyan's surcoat, its nails scrabbling at the leather and velvet.

“Don't let it bite you,” Everard warned. “Otherwise, you will be twice damned, a Muslim and a blood-fiend both. A sorry state in which to exist.”

“I will cut off my own head before I become a creature as foul as this.” Sufyan retreated a few steps and then charged at the blood-fiend. It whipped around and snapped at his swords, dropping down onto its haunches like a dog and uttering sharp, angry cries. Then it sprang at him.

Sufyan spun around and kicked the fiend in the chest. He felt its ribcage give way beneath his boot as dust exploded around him. A wave of coldness struck him, and he fought the urge to vomit. He jumped back and then attacked the moldering fiend with both swords, hacking at it while it writhed and screeched.

Everard dragged the wooden lid from the font. Sufyan caught a gleam of silver mail as the knight plunged his hands inside, and then Sufyan cursed as Everard dashed a rain of holy water over him and the blood-fiend.

The monster curled up, shaking uncontrollably. It split the air with such piercing howls that the echo set the church bells humming in response. Sufyan watched it twist as if it would break itself apart, waiting for his chance to cut off its head. He managed to contain his disgust as the fiend seemed to disintegrate in front of him, and yet still it lived.

“Kill it!” Everard cried.

Sufyan glanced over at him and saw an expression of agonized anticipation on the knight's face. Skin paler than a lily, eyes black in the half-light, he looked like Azrael, the beautiful Angel of Death. Sufyan knew Everard must long for this victory more than he did, and cried, “Help me. Let's destroy it together.”

Everard paused only to dip his sword into the holy water before he advanced on the fallen blood-fiend. The creature tried to drag itself away. Sufyan lifted one scimitar at the same time as Everard raised his sword.

The fiend cringed, whining in terror.

Sufyan and Everard brought their blades arcing down simultaneously upon the monster. The sword points met, clashing so hard that sparks flew, and then both weapons slammed onto the stone pavement.

The blood-fiend had vanished.

Sufyan looked up, furious. The monster crouched a short distance away, its jaw hanging open as if it was laughing at him. How had it moved so fast? He couldn't believe it had escaped them so easily. With a growl, he ran forward and chopped at its horrible grinning visage. The fiend ducked and slipped away, bounding out of the church door into the graveyard.

“Follow it!” Everard brushed past, his gaze wild. “Quickly, it may lead us to its resting place!”

They hurried outside, dashing clear of the porch in case the fiend lay in wait for them upon its roof, and then they stood back to back, circling slowly through the cemetery with its simple markers of wood and stone.

The sky had darkened now into full night. Above them, the stars shone and a half-moon glowed bright. A chill breeze moved through the yews and elms, setting the branches creaking. Sufyan was glad of Everard at his back. He could feel the press of the knight's mail shirt through his surcoat and tunic. Although he'd learned to fight alone, Everard's presence reassured him.

“Where did it go?” Sufyan whispered.

Everard turned his head. “I don't know.”

They both jumped when an unearthly shriek came from the woods. When the noise was followed by a short yapping sound, Everard relaxed. “A screech owl.” He shuddered briefly and moved closer.

Sufyan's attention wandered. He wanted nothing more than to turn and take the silver knight in his arms and protect him from the blood-fiend. Not that he'd done a particularly good job of it so far, but he hadn't expected the fiend to be quite so repellent, nor so strong. But now he knew what it looked like, its methods of attack and defense, Sufyan felt confident he could capture and destroy the monster the next time it showed its ugly face.

He heard a slithering sound from behind a gravestone. “There!” he cried and leapt at the mass of darkness that moved into sight. Everard followed him, and together they chased the blood-fiend back from the church door, across the length of the cemetery, and into the lychgate. There it withdrew into the rafters of the wooden roof and hissed at them, taking a swipe with its long, ragged fingernails every time they got too close.

“Now what?” Everard retreated to a safe distance and eyed the fiend warily.

“We burn the lychgate,” Sufyan said. “Revenants cannot survive fire.”

“Burn the lychgate? But what will the villagers say?”

“'Thank you,’ I should think.” Sufyan gave him a quick smile. “You keep it there. I'll go back into the church and see if any of the lamps are still alight.”

“Very well.” Everard's mouth trembled, but he held his sword steady.

Sufyan hesitated. “No. You go to the church. You know it better than I do. You'll be able to find tinder. I'll stay here.”

Everard's spine stiffened and a look of injured pride flashed across his face. “You believe me a coward, incapable of the task of guarding the fiend?”

“
In'al yomuk!
Do not argue with me, Christian!” Sufyan lowered his swords and stared at the knight with all the hauteur he could summon.

“And may you curse the day you were born, too,” Everard snapped. He turned on his heel and marched back toward the church door.

Sufyan sighed and then spun around, startled. Everard understood Arabic. Twice now he'd known what Sufyan had said. The first time could have been a coincidence—even Christians knew the name that Muslims used for God, after all—but to understand a humble curse...

Behind him, he heard the fiend shift in the rafters of the lychgate. He turned back, pointing his scimitars up at the skeletal monster. “Come on,” he coaxed. “Perish in the flames or die again on my swords, it makes no difference to me.”

The fiend hissed at him.

A few minutes later, Everard returned. “The lamps are all out and there's no tinder to be found. One of us would have to go to the village for help, and the villagers won't open their doors until morning.”

“Then we will stand here for the rest of the night,” Sufyan said.

Everard touched his arm. “Summoner...”

“My name is Sufyan.”

“Sufyan.” Everard made his name sound like a caress. “Sufyan, I think we should return to the church. At least there we have more chance of capturing the fiend with holy water.”

Sufyan gave him a puzzled look. “But we have it captured now.”

“Do we?” Everard pointed up at the roof of the lychgate. Where moments ago there had been the snarling face of the blood-fiend, now the ghostly white shape of the screech owl fluttered.

Sufyan swore. “How does it keep escaping from us?”

“Because you are distracted. It knows this.” Everard did not look at him. “Do not make the mistake of thinking the blood-fiend is a mindless creature. It has some rough intelligence and animal cunning. I believe it can sense a man's true feelings. I have acted alone in all the years I have fought this fiend. This year, you joined me, unasked for but welcome. You made it confused.”

“Confused,” Sufyan repeated, feeling foolish.

Everard glanced over and gave him a half-smile. “It knows me. It does not know you, and so it is trying to find your measure. It seeks for a way to defeat you, to exploit any weaknesses you may have. And already it knows you are easily distracted.”

Sufyan snorted and shook his head. “If I am easily distracted, it is because I, too, am used to working alone. Your fighting technique is crude and your armor makes a noise whenever you move. Of course I am distracted. Also, you are argumentative and cannot follow orders...”

He stopped as Everard began to shake, and then he realized the knight was laughing silently.