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A Weekly Serial
by Olly Omani
1.3 - Rebirth
1.3---
Thick, pungent goop flew from around him at the impact and his breath was knocked out of him. The gunk he was in had softened the impact, however and he struggled to get up, the muck sucking at his arms, torso and legs, fighting him, almost intelligently. As he struggled, he knocked aside the skull of a large animal that was caught in the muck and he realized that he was likely literally stuck in the beast's shit.
The creature began to shift its body, its bulk plotting out what light passed through the gray haze that was the sky. He could see the underside of the creature, then. Covered in muck, slime and much thicker tentacle-like legs. Thick tendrils, possibly actual roots rather than tentacles, also adorned its underside. Soon, the Knight was cast in shadow as the beast leveled off horizontally. Its tentacles seemed too short to reach him, but he was still stuck for the moment.
The Raven flew beneath the beast, a dot upon its enormous bulk and soared upward, letting out a piercing shriek before it tore its talons out at a protrusion on the creature. The Knight had not noticed it before, but the bird's attack drew his eye to a faintly glowing, purplish sphere. It seemed to be captured within the flesh of the beast, its light dim and only just visible from the surface. Then, the creature began to fall.
Panic flooded through the Knight and he fought the muck with renewed vigor. With a slurping squelch, he pulled one arm free. It became easier then, the other arm was freed and he rose to a crouch, then pushed himself upward and began to run. The muck made his 'run' turn into more of a shuffle and he nearly fell. The bulk continued to lower and he realized he had no chance of escaping. The sphere was closer to him than the edge of the beast's form, so he charged for it.
He'd managed to keep both blades in his hands, but sheathed his dagger as he trudged. The creature's great form was nearly atop him now, but he managed to reach a spot beneath the protrusion. Tentacles writhed all about the creature, perhaps in an effort to keep him boxed in, though they did not extend to below the beast. Muck dripped and flowed off of him as he entered into a crouch, his blade's hilt held in both hands, waiting.
The sphere was scant feet above him, the horrid, rotten stench of the monster's shit was nearly suffocating, as of the proximity of the creature was sucking the very air away from the Knight, leaving him only in the pungent, putrid presence of death, decay and excrement. The Knight's very core seemed to throb from the blow he'd taken, but he clenched his teeth, his lips peeling back in a grimace that nearly matched his helm's expression. His blade was thrust forward and tore through the outer flesh of the creature, burying within the purple sphere within.
The sphere, he realized, was some kind of construct. In the center of it was the form of a human child, curled up upon itself, as if within a womb. The purple liquid within the sac that contained it spilled over the Knight and he turned his head down against the flow. When the initial eruption had passed, he looked up to find his sword buried within the torso of the child, its eyes open and staring down at him, a look of utter shock and confusion on his face.
The child that had been within the sphere was the same that had been used as the 'decoy appendage', though he was naked and his hair was matted to his skull. The purplish liquid on the Knight's armor and in the muck all about him began to change, becoming vaporous and ethereal. The creature above him shuddered and recoiled. Barely a second had passed since he had killed the child in the sphere. The Knight kept hold of his sword as the creature died.
Though the mud on its exterior remained moist and slick, its body began to crack and harden. The Knight crouched, his head down as the Siren's body fell and went still, its tentacles gone lifeless, hanging like dead ivy from its tumorous form.
The Knight was unable to rise above a crouch, but he was spared, for the moment, from being crushed under the behemoth. He began to crawl, his blade still held in one hand, the muck grasping for him, trying to pull him deeper within. The smell drove him to vomit, and the half-digested meat and water he'd consumed mostly remained within his helmet, the liquid dripping through the ragged hole in his mask over his eye and through the holes that had been cut into it to allow for breathing.
He crawled on, through the bone-filled graveyard that had been the Siren's latrine.
***
When he reached the end of the muck, he pushed through a curtain of the lifeless tentacles, lifted his faceplate to release the vomit within his helm and fell upon his back. Only then did he let his sword go. He'd been bleeding as he crawled and the effort of fighting the muck had sapped all the strength from him.
Unconsciousness beckoned to him, a warm, seductive call. An avenue he could take to evade the pain, horror and exhaustion coursing through his body. It would be so easy to give in, to let the darkness take hold and to sink back within it. It would be much simpler than pressing on and enduring. He closed his eyes, consciousness began to fade as darkness crept in.
The Raven cried once more, perching on the hilt of his sword. It pecked at his gauntlet, trying perhaps to rouse him. He did not feel the peck, but the cry pulled him up from within the warm, liquid abyss he'd begun to sink within. The Raven cried once more, fluttered to his chest and pecked the end of his nose, sending a fresh, sharp pang of pain through him and he jerked fully awake.
Slimy, shit covered fingers began to tug at one of the restorative vials. He considered drinking it, but instead he set it aside. He dug through his things instead and located a flask of water. He washed his wound as best he could. The armor had been broken away, but it had likely saved his life. The wound was deep, but did not seem to have reached his lung. He was, however, quite sure his ribs were bruised, if not fractured.
Once the wound was clear, he poured the restorative into his wound and exhaled a muted groan of pain, one gauntleted fist slammed on the ground over and over, then he fumbled for his flint and steel. It took him a few tries to ignite a spark, but the liquid went up as if it were pitch. Fresh agony flew through the Knight's small form and his back arched, his tendons rose against his flesh. He'd never felt such pain. His bowels let loose and he spilled his urine as he screamed silently, unable to draw in breath in order to give birth to a shriek.
Electricity seemed to course through every one of his nerve endings and the purplish vapor that had clung to him after he slew the Siren reacted. The pain or perhaps the bluish-white flame that burned within his wound seemed to attract it. The Knight did not notice, but the haze of purple began to push within the flame, causing it to burn with greater intensity. Soon, the haze had been entirely consumed and the Knight was unable to regain consciousness. The pain fell away and he knew no more.
***
He remembered the children, then.
Dirty, malnourished, each tied to a thin wooden plank that kept their arms up and spread, each plank tied to the child behind and the child ahead. They had walked in a line down that road, the waxing moon still full enough to bare the earth to its luminescent glow.
The sky had been clear then. Stars could be seen. Days seemed to actually pass.
He had been given a tip by one of his sources, a witch had been rounding up children, preparing for a ritual. He had not known what the ritual was for and he had not cared. It was his duty to stamp out those that used magic, the fact that this particular witch had sought to use children as fuel for its sinful activities only made his intent to stop them more urgent.
He hadn't been a fool, no. Cocky, reckless and perhaps self-destructive, but he hadn't been a fool. Flanking him were a pair of his trusted guardsmen. Knights as well, but in service to him and his cause. They'd come upon the procession of nearly two dozen children. They moved listlessly, their eyes heavy-lidded, expressions slack in the moonlight. Ensorcelled, he had no doubt.
At their head was a tall figure, wearing a hooded robe, its featured hidden. The mage, he assumed. A few of the witch's underlings walked beside the children and a pair brought up the rear. He was confident that this was the witch, and if he were wrong, then they were slavers, and while that wasn't strictly his duty, he was certain he'd be glorified, not vilified, for stopping such an immoral and illegal atrocity.
He began to run, his armor clinking in the night. Back then, it had been in better shape, secured more tightly to prevent noise, but it was still steel and his precautions weren't perfect. He and his retinue attacked the rear, for he doubted they could move around to the head of the procession without being seen. The underlings in the back turned and before either could draw a weapon or utter a word of power, a pair of throwing knives, launched from either of his hands, buried into their flesh. He'd caught one in the eye, the other in the throat. Both crumpled.
The children stopped and the other underlings turned to face the three knights. Their leader stepped back and began to draw upon the earth, unholy light pouring upward from the ground as it etched out an arcane symbol and began to chant. The leader was male, it seemed.
He drew his blade and his companions brought their weapons forth. He let them deal with the underlings, though his blade drank of the blood of one of the underlings as he cut him down, a nuisance in his path, split nearly in half from a horizontal slash.
The Grinning Knight stepped into a ray of moonlight, illuminating the grotesquely grinning face on his helm. He wrapped his lips around the pipe that had been fitted into one of its breathing holes, inhaled and blew out smoke from the faceplate's nostrils and holes as the witch completed his ritual. It was a circle, full of arcane symbols that faded. A dark, nearly shapeless figure appeared within what remained of the circle, its eyes were of fire and it wore claws of shadow and fangs of darkness.
The witch uttered something in an arcane tongue and the Knight threw a third knife. The shadow demon's claws lashed out and though it struck the blade off course, it still embedded within the shoulder of the witch, rather than into the witch's face. His hood fell back as he jerked in pain, revealing the face of the Golden Man. The Knight knew him, knew his name... but the name would not come.
One of his companions had been injured in the fight with the underlings and both of them sought to move the children from the battlefield, back toward the city. They had discussed the importance of freeing the children in a hush, prior to their assault. The Grinning Knight was alone with the witch and the shadow demon. His companions might return in time to assist him, but they may not. He'd faced worse odds.
He took another pull from his pipe and lunged forward, his cape billowing behind him as a fourth knife was thrown. It buried into the chest of the shadow demon, but did little else. Still, it served as a distraction. His sword cut out, once, twice, three times. Puffs of inky, shadowy flesh and blood fell away, evaporating into the night before the demon'd had a chance to react. He'd always been fast, the Grinning Knight, even in armor.
But not fast enough, that night. While he was distracted by the demon, the witch had put distance between the pair. From his hand a glowing orb appeared and he felt, before he saw, a pillar of flame start up under him. He launched himself backward, hellfire bursting upward, momentarily throwing back the darkness of the night, illuminating the entire stretch of road and countryside.
The shadow demon stepped through the flame and it did not slow a bit. Its claw lashed out, cleaving against the Grinning Knight's faceplate even as he was still in the midst of dodging backward. The impact tore away sections of the helm, knocked his pipe from his breathing hole and claws tore into his flesh. The claws, searing hot from either the fire, or perhaps simply from the demon itself, caused the wounds to cauterize almost instantly. His sight was spared, but his small form flew to to the side, pain throbbing in his face.
His lips peeled back into a savage grin behind his faceplate and though he felt fear, he always felt fear, he felt exhilaration and something darker inside. He'd faced demons before, he'd nearly died to them, but this one was different. He launched himself forward and fought. As he and the demon battled, the pillar of flame spread out at the top, showering around them. The flames cut the Knight off from the Golden Man, containing him within the half-sphere with the shadow demon.
Claws tore for him, shredding his cloak and he cut off one of the demon's hands, its inky flesh hit the ground and began to liquify, then evaporated in thick globules of black. The demon struck him in the chest with its stump and he was thrown backward, the liquid that hit his breastplate steamed and he let out a shout as he felt the flesh beneath slowly start to cook. They engaged again, for every slash of the demon's remaining claw, the Grinning Knight cut four times. He was diminishing the creature, piece by piece, its very being began to become translucent, but not without cost.
His armor had been slashed at his thigh, his flesh seared and cauterized there. A similar wound was suffered to his ribs, the armor completely stripped away, strips of flesh simply erased from the demon's attacks. The herb he had been smoking prior and during the combat helped to reduce the pain, helped to keep him going, but he was growing fatigued. The demon barely bothered to defend itself, he hadn't missed a single slash, but it kept coming.
He uttered a quiet prayer under his breath and though he was certain it was merely adrenaline and the aftereffects of the drug, he felt a low thrum of power course through him, the firelight seemed to reflect more strongly upon his blade and he lunged in once more, lips peeled back, his teeth clenched as he struck.
His blade carved the demon's head off of its neck and the Knight landed on his feet before the headless beast. His gaze dropped to follow the head as it rolled to the side, leaving a slug-like trail of inky blood behind it. The red eyes died in the shadow-beast's eyes and the head began to collapse, evaporating. The Knight lowered his head, his grinning helm pointed down at the creature's remaining claw. Its entire hand was buried in his chest, the wrist visible from the break in the armor and the wound in his seared skin.
He dropped his sword, then. The fire-globe around them continued to rage and he almost collapsed. There was, surprisingly, very little pain. The demon's lifeless body began to evaporate, and when its arm became more liquidy and gaseous than solid, the little Knight's body collapsed to his knees and fell backward.
The globe seemed to vanish when the demon did. One of his knights... he couldn't remember his name... ran to him as soon as the globe was down. He couldn't remember the content of the exchange, but he knew he was dying. He wanted to pass on what he wanted for his lands, for his son, for his lover... not the mother of his son, no, she had died before, hadn't she? Eventually, the damage inside was too much for the Grinning Knight to endure any longer. His amber eyes remained open and his strained words ended as his breath rattled out of his broken, wounded form, the grin he'd worn throughout the battle still on his lips as he died.
***
Earth, suffocating earth. The Grinning Knight was disoriented and panicked, his gauntletted hands tore through the earth, seemingly clawing and tunneling for days before they drove up from the ground, found purchase and hauled him upward. He found himself in a world where the life had been blasted out of it, where the sounds of insects and animals seemed to be gone, or fleeting. The sky a gray haze overhead. He was in a graveyard. Broken, chipped and crumbling headstones all around him. He had tried to read his own, but the name engraved on the headstone had been too worn to read. That was the first memory he had, since his rebirth.
***
When the Knight opened his eyes, once more in the present, the amber irises were encircled with a faint, purple glow, and he coughed up a mouthful of partially clotted blood. He looked down to find the armor around his wound partially melted and singed, but the flesh itself was sealed, and whole. There was pain, but the restorative seemed to have stopped him from dying. He coughed, retching and spit up more vomit and clotted blood. When he tried to get up, he found himself without the energy to do so. He searched then, for the Raven, but could not find the bird before he fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.
--End Chapter 1--
The Grinning Knight, Chapter 2, will begin Next Issue
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