A Hard Day's Knight

FOUR A Knight to Remember

The late evening was darkening into night as I hit Oxford Street, and I was starting to feel more at home. I could feel that little extra bounce in my step as I headed for a Door that was only there when it felt like it. The street was packed with people coming and going, shop lights blazed, and neon glared, but it all seemed somehow faded and subdued compared to the Nightside. The moon in the sky looked small and far away, and the stars were only stars. As though the real world couldn’t be bothered to put on a decent show.

Oxford Street had changed a lot in the years I’d been away. Lots of rebuilding and general cleaning up, tearing down the older and dodgier enterprises to replace them with safer and more comfortable brands and franchises. All the local colour was gone, and much of the character, and cold camera eyes watched every little thing you did. Though the messenger boys darting in and out of traffic and pedestrians on their stripped-down cycles were just as obnoxious.

After living so long in the Nightside, the real world seemed like a foreign place, where even the most obvious and everyday things seemed subtly different. To start with, no-one paid me any attention. I really wasn’t used to that. At first I quite liked just walking along, amongst people who didn’t have a clue as to who and what I was. Who didn’t stare or point, or turn and run. But I soon got tired of that when no-one gave way for me, or stepped aside to let me pass, and even jostled me when I didn’t get out of their way fast enough. How dare they treat me like everyone else? Didn’t they know who I was? Well, no ... That was the point. I had to smile, and even tried being polite and courteous for a while, if only to see what it felt like.

When I got to the Green Door, it wasn’t there. A bleak expanse of yellowing wall separated two perfectly respectable businesses, with no trace of any door or opening, or indeed anything to suggest there was anything special about the wall. Except, this was perhaps the only stretch of wall in London not covered with graffiti, posters, or dried streams of urine. I raised my Sight and studied the wall closely, and still couldn’t See the damned Door. I could See rough markings in dried troll blood, from some Scissorboys gang marking its territory, and a reptiloid alien hidden behind a human mask as it strode briskly past me, but the wall remained stubbornly a wall. The Green Door that provided the only entrance point to the London Knights’ headquarters remained thoroughly hidden. Which meant ... really powerful protections.

I knew the bloody thing was there because I’d once tracked a man all the way to it, back when I was being an ordinary private eye. I thought I had him run to ground and cornered until he said a Word I’d never heard outside the Nightside, and the Green Door appeared before him. He hurried through it, and the Door vanished before I could reach it. And I ... turned round and went home because I was determined not to get involved in cases of the weird and uncanny any more.

I heard later that the Knights executed the guy. Because he wasn’t worthy of their sanctuary.

But things were different now. I wasn’t afraid to use my gift any more. I reached deep inside me, concentrating, and my inner eye, my private eye, slowly opened ... and there was the Green Door, right before me. It could hide from my Sight but not from my gift. My sole inheritance from my Biblical Myth mother. The Door itself looked stubbornly real and ordinary: flat green paint over featureless wood, with no handle, no bell, not even a knocker or a keyhole. It was, in fact, a Door that suggested very firmly that either you knew how to get in, or you had no business even trying.

I tested the Green Door with my gift, searching out its secrets, and it didn’t take me long to discover the magical mechanisms that operated it. Very old, very simple, and very well protected. My gift could find them but not reach them. Which was frustrating. So I gave the Door a good kick on general principles, hurt my toe, and walked round in little circles for a while. I glared at the Green Door and seriously considered carving chunks out of it with Excalibur. However, since I’d come all this way to ask the London Knights a favour, open assault on their property probably wasn’t the best first impression I could be making. So, when everything else fails, try diplomacy. I put away my gift, dropped my Sight, and addressed the blank street wall in calm, civilised, and very polite tones. While studiously ignoring those passersby who wondered why I was talking to myself.

“Hello, London Knights. I’m John Taylor. From the Nightside. I need to talk to you concerning something that’s a lot more in your line of work than mine. If it helps, Julien Advent vouches for me. If it doesn’t, I never met the man. Look, this really is something you want to know about. It’s Arthurian as all hell, and the words deep shit and approaching fan should be taken into consideration.”

Still nothing. Arrogant bunch of pricks. I was considering the soothing properties of giving the wall another good hard kick when, almost without realising it, my hand rose and took a firm hold on the invisible hilt rising behind my shoulder. And the moment my bare flesh made contact with the ancient bone ... old, old words came to me.

“I bear Excalibur, the Sword of Morning, the Hand of Albion. In the name of the Lady who has granted me her power, and in the name of the man who last wielded it, the once-and-future King, I demand audience with the last defenders of Camelot.”

And the Green Door was suddenly there before me, very real and very solid, as though it always had been there and always would. I took my hand away from Excalibur’s hilt, and the Green Door opened slowly before me, retreating silently and not at all invitingly—revealing only an impenetrable darkness beyond. I took a deep breath, held my chin up, and walked right into it. Never let them think they’ve got you cowed, or they’ll walk right over you. The darkness swallowed me up, cold and limitless, and I barely had time to wonder whether I’d made a terrible mistake when a blast of light dispelled the darkness, and just like that I was standing in the entrance hall to a medieval castle.

Which was pretty much what I’d been expecting. The London Knights are firmly steeped in tradition. I looked cautiously about me. There was no-one round to greet me, or any signs of human habitation at all. Only great towering walls of a rich creamy white stone, spotlessly clean, without any trace of decoration. The whole place could have been built the day before. Every separate stone in the massive walls had been set so tightly and so perfectly together that no mortar was needed. And that takes real skill and expert measurement.

I appeared to have the whole great open space to myself. No-one there, and not even any windows or arrow slits through which I could be observed. I took a quick look behind me, but of course the Green Door was gone, replaced by a blank and very real wall. There was an open archway straight ahead of me, in the far wall. Silence filled the entrance hall, so complete I could hear my own breathing. A silence that seemed pointedly judgemental. I had no doubt I was being watched. So I stuck my hands in my coat-pockets, slouched, adopted a jaunty air, and strolled towards the open archway as though I had all the time in the world.

The sound of my footsteps hardly seemed to travel at all, not even a hint of an echo, as though the sheer massive size of the hall were soaking up the sound.

It took me a while to cross the long hall, and by the time I got to the archway it was filled with a heavy iron portcullis. I was pretty sure it hadn’t been there when I started walking, and I was pissed off enough to take this new snub personally. I glared at the portcullis.

“Lift this bloody thing right now. Or I’ll show you all a really nasty trick my mother taught me.”

There was a pause, then the iron portcullis rose silently before me, without any sound of straining mechanisms. I love it when a bluff comes together. I stuck my nose in the air and strode haughtily through the narrow stone tunnel into another great hall. The same creamy white stone as before, but richly adorned with hanging tapestries and colourful pennants, in sharp vivid shades of crimson, emerald, and gold. Huge silver crucifixes were mounted on the walls, between magnificent stained-glass windows depicting scenes from the lives of the Saints. The flooring was polished marble, with huge mosaics presenting scenes from the past—of knights in their armour, clashing armies, blood and mud and the fight for a dream.

I felt a very real lightening of the spirit, a feeling of calm and burdens lifted; the light was crystal clear, and even the air tasted fair. I relaxed a little, despite myself. I’d seen more impressive places in the Nightside, but not many. As medieval castles went, this one went all the way. But I still couldn’t help noting that the splendid crystal-and-diamond chandeliers at each end of the hall contained electric light bulbs rather than the usual massed candles. I stopped to study them for a moment, and when I looked down again, there were a dozen knights in full armour standing before me.

I hadn’t heard them come in. In fact, given the sheer weight of the armour they were wearing, I should have heard them approaching half a mile away. Clearly, I was meant to be impressed, so I nodded casually, as though I’d seen it all before, and much better done. My first thought was how ... practical, and functional, the suits of armour looked. They weren’t ceremonial, or works of art, or even symbols; this was battle armour, designed to keep its wearer alive in even the most dangerous of situations. Gleaming steel, from head to foot; expertly fashioned, and completely unadorned. No engraving or ornamentation, not even a coloured tabard over the torso to add a touch of colour. Steel helmets covered their entire heads, with only a Y-shaped slots for the eyes and mouths.

For a moment, I was reminded of the knight in dark armour I’d seen on the station platform, back in the Nightside. The nightmare armour that stood in utter opposition to the forces of chivalry before me.

The knights were still staring silently at me. I wondered whether there was some special password I was supposed to use; I still remembered the Word my quarry had used to get in all those years ago. But considering what had happened to him, I didn’t think I’d use it. The knights were trying to impress and/or intimidate me, but they really should have known better. If there was one thing that anyone should know about me, it’s that I don’t do impressed or intimidated. I considered drawing Excalibur and doing something dramatically destructive with it; but that might make me seem weak, in their eyes. And it seemed to me that the castle would be a very bad place in which to appear weak.

So I struck a casual pose and smiled easily at the knights, as though they were on parade in front of me. “Hi. I’m John Taylor.”

“Oh, we know who you are,” said an amused voice from within one of the steel helms. “Your reputation spreads a lot further than this.”

The knight speaking took off his helmet and tucked it casually under his arm. He had a fresh, cheerful face, with short-cropped blond hair and very blue eyes. The warmth in his smile gave every appearance of being genuine. He had the open, easy kind of charm you tend not to see a lot of in the Nightside. An honest, straightforward agent of the Good; exactly like the London Knights were supposed to be. I was immediately suspicious, but I gave him my best open smile in return.

“Hi!” said the knight, stepping forward and extending a mailed glove for me to shake. I grasped it firmly, and he gave it a good solid shake, like a young clergyman who played rugby on the side. “I’m Sir Gareth. Welcome to Castle Inconnu. I see you’ve noticed the electric lighting. We are a part of the twenty-first century, you know. We have central heating, indoor plumbing, cable, and broadband. We’re traditionalists, not barbarians. Sorry we had to give you a bit of a hard time getting in, but we live in dangerous times. You of all people should know that. You’re one of the people who makes these times dangerous. And you really should have known better than to drop the Victorian Adventurer’s name. He’s been persona non grata round here for years. But ... you say you have Excalibur. And you knew the old Words ... So here we are. Despite your really quite appalling reputation.”

“Are you by any chance suggesting that I’m not worthy to bear Excalibur?” I said carefully.

“Not on the best day you ever had,” Sir Gareth said cheerfully. “But then neither am I, or any of the London Knights. Excalibur is so much more than a sword, or any enchanted blade. Whoever bears Excalibur has the power to shape the fate of nations or change the course of history.”

“Is that why you felt compelled to make a show of strength?” I said, glancing at the other knights, standing still and silent and watchful.

“Just being cautious,” said Sir Gareth. “And, to show respect. To the sword Excalibur.”

“And to the man who bears it?”

“Perhaps. As I said: your reputation goes before you, John Taylor.”

“Who are you people?” I said bluntly. “What, exactly, are the London Knights? I know the name, I know the reputation, but I don’t think anyone knows exactly what it is you do. And I’m not handing Excalibur over to just anybody.”

“Fair enough,” said Sir Gareth. “We go to great pains to keep what we do secret. We’re not in it for the applause. Now, do you want the long version, or the short version? The short version misses out a lot of fun stuff, but the other version does tend to go on a bit. We have been round for a very long time ... What say I hit the high spots, and you can ask questions afterwards?”

“Can you guarantee there will be an afterwards?” I said. “One of the few things I have heard is that you people have a tendency to execute those you consider unworthy.”

“Oh, we don’t do that any more,” Sir Gareth said briskly. “Or at least, hardly ever. Only when we feel we absolutely have to. Now then, the London Knights are descended from those original knights who sat at the Round Table in Camelot, serving King Arthur and his glorious dream of justice, of Might for Right. The knights themselves were slaughtered at the final battle of Logres, fighting Mordred’s army. All save one. The knights fell, and the dream was over.”

“You did win, in the end,” I said.

“Nobody won. Arthur and Mordred killed each other, both armies were destroyed, and the land was devastated. All they had built, gone, less than the dust. Good men, the finest of their generation—all that was left were piled-up bodies in the blood-soaked mud. But one knight survived. He gathered up all the families of those who fell and took them to a safe place. To the Unknown Castle. And down the centuries he slowly rebuilt the order of knights and based them here in London. That the might and the glory and the traditions of Arthur’s dream might not vanish from this Earth. We maintain the chivalric way, serving the good and battling evil. The London Knights.

“We are warriors. We are the secret army, the hidden force, the men who ride to battle when all else has failed. We don’t solve problems, we don’t investigate mysteries, and we don’t do diplomacy. We fight. We are the steel hand; we are sudden death; we are vengeance.

“Mostly we work behind the scenes, apart from everyday society, that we might not be corrupted by it. We fight our wars on far-off worlds and in hidden places, and no-one knows our triumphs and our losses but us. The London Knights stand firm against evil; that is all you know and all you need to know. We are still a religious order as much as an army, with every knight sworn to give his life and honour and everything else that matters to the cause that never ends.

“We are the guardians of the world. Any questions?”

“Where were you when we could have used you, during the Lilith War?”

“We don’t sweat the small stuff,” said Sir Gareth.

I glared at him. “All right. Who’s in charge here?”

“Our leader is the Grand Master. That last original knight who survived the battle of Logres. Perhaps immortal, certainly very long-lived. He goes on, ensuring we still follow the right path and maintain the old traditions.”

I didn’t say anything, but I thought I had a pretty good idea of who this Grand Master might be. Though how he was still round was a mystery to me. I met Sir Kae, Arthur’s stepbrother, back in the sixth century; sometime after the final battle of Logres. In fact, I bashed his head in with his own spiked mace after he disfigured my Suzie. Hopefully, he didn’t still bear a grudge after all these years.

“How is it that your Grand Master is still alive?” I said finally. “I don’t remember any immortal knights in Arthur’s Court.”

Another knight stepped forward, to stand beside Sir Gareth. “Those are our secrets. Ours to know, not yours.”

“Allow me to introduce Sir Roland,” said Sir Gareth. “Hardcore traditionalist, doughty fighter, and a real pain in the arse when it comes to getting your paper-work in on time.”

There was a brief chuckle amongst the other knights, quickly dying away as Sir Roland looked back at them. He carefully lifted off his steel helm and tucked it firmly under one arm, revealing the face of a man in his fifties with close-cropped grey hair, cold grey eyes, and a steady gaze. He looked hard used by life, with deep lines etched into his face, but a small smile kept appearing at the corners of his mouth as though it couldn’t quite help itself. There was a sense of barely suppressed energy about the man, of a need for battle or just plain violence, to soothe his inner fires.

“I can’t believe the Lady gave Excalibur to a jumped-up thug like you, Taylor,” Sir Roland said briskly. “Oh yes, boy, I know all about you.”

“He has a subscription to the Night Times,” said Sir Gareth. “And the Unnatural Inquirer.”

“John Taylor, a man who has warred with angels, battled with immortals, and meddled in more ethically dubious areas than is good for any one man,” said Sir Roland. “You choose your enemies well, boy, but your friends are little better. Is it true you and Shotgun Suzie are an item now?”

“Yes,” I said, taken aback.

Sir Roland smiled his brief smile. “Well. Never saw that one coming. You have consorted with gods and immortals, the dead and the undead, and worst of all, you spent time with that despicable sorcerer, Merlin Satanspawn.”

“He wasn’t that bad,” I said. “Well, actually, he was ... but he had his redeeming qualities. And he did go to his final rest rescuing the Nightside from destruction.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing,” said Sir Roland.

“We’re not going to get along, are we?” I said.

“Who knows?” said Sir Roland, suddenly all bluff and cheerful. “Early days yet! Now, if you really have got Excalibur ... show it to us.”

“That is why I’m here,” I said.

I reached up over my shoulder, taking my time about it. The knights’ eyes followed my every move. I grasped the invisible hilt and drew Excalibur from its invisible scabbard with one easy move. The sword flashed into life between us, the golden blade filling the air with its glorious light. It was as though the sun had come down amongst us, to bless us with its life. The sword blazed more brightly in the castle hall than it ever had in the Nightside, as though it was back where it belonged. As though it had finally come home. And one by one, amidst a soft clattering of armour, the last and greatest of all the knights in the world slowly lowered themselves onto one knee, to bow their heads to that most ancient and honourable blade, Excalibur. I stood before them, holding the sword, and never felt less worthy in my life.

I have done good things and bad, great things and terrible, but nothing that justified bearing a sword like Excalibur.

I put the sword away, and the golden light snapped off in a moment. The knights slowly got back onto their feet again, with a rather louder clattering of armour and a certain amount of leaning on each other for support. Sir Gareth and Sir Roland looked at each other, then at me. They both looked a bit dazed, as though someone had sneaked up and hit them both a good one while they weren’t looking.

“It’s certainly Excalibur,” said Sir Gareth. “No doubt about that.”

“To be blessed by its presence, after so many years ...” Sir Roland frowned and fixed me with a stern look. “How did you get your hands on such a sword?”

I took a certain amount of pleasure in telling him, and a little bit more in watching Sir Roland’s face turn an unhealthy shade of purple. His hands clenched the air before him as though he couldn’t decide whether to grab the sword away from me, or settle for choking the life out of me on general principles. Sir Gareth looked very much like he wanted to go off on his own somewhere and have an extended fit of the giggles. The other knights gave every impression of being stunned speechless.

“In the post?” Sir Roland said finally, veins bulging in his neck. “You’re supposed to have the holy blade bestowed on you by the Lady of the Lake, not simply dropped on your doorstep, wrapped in brown paper!”

“Well,” I said lightly, “that’s the Nightside for you.”

“Would you like to take some of your little blue pills, Roland?” murmured Sir Gareth.

“I could spit soot,” Sir Roland said bitterly. “All these years I dreamed of the holy blade returning to us in glory, to the order where it belongs, but this ... this ... this is what comes of watching too much television! Excalibur, in the hands of a private eye!”

“You like television,” said Sir Gareth. “You never miss Strictly Come Dancing.”

“Entertaining though this is,” I said, “it would help if someone here would take the time to explain exactly what Excalibur is and what makes it so important. I’m guessing it’s not because the sword comes with its own built-in night-light. Someone told me ... that it’s not what we think it is. And it never was. And while we’re on the subject: who or what is the Lady of the Lake? I did do some research before I came here, and I couldn’t find two books that would agree on the subject. The best guess seemed to be that she might have been Vivienne Le Fae, sister to the more infamous Morgan Le Fae.”

“No,” Sir Gareth said immediately. “Not even close. That’s what comes of historians who love a good story; they always want everything to tie up neatly. The Lady, and the sword, are much older than that. Older than human history, older than the Fae, old as the land itself. All the other great artefacts and symbols of Arthur’s reign were Christian in nature. We’d only recently put our pagan past behind us, in the sixth century, and we saw Christian significance in everything. And, of course, there was the Holy Grail ...”

“Do you have it?” I said.

“No,” said Sir Roland, and he sounded honestly regretful. “The Grand Master has forbidden any of the order to go questing for it. He still believes that was what broke up the original Round Table ...”

“The Lady,” I said. “And the sword ...”

“They both predate Christianity,” said Sir Gareth. “By quite a while. The Lady of the Lake is Gaea. Mother Earth herself. And the sword is her will made manifest in the world. To wield Excalibur is to take the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

“Hold everything,” I said. “Gaea? As in, the whole world, personified? She’s real?”

“You’re from the Nightside,” said Sir Gareth. “Are you really having trouble getting your head round such a simple concept?”

I really was. Even after everything I’d seen and done, to know for a fact that the world we all lived on was alive and aware ...

“Given all the damage we as a species have done to her, I’m amazed she’s still talking to us,” I said, finally.

“She doesn’t, much,” said Sir Gareth. “But she’ll want to speak to you.”

“She’s here?” I said.

“She visits,” said Sir Gareth. “When she feels like it. She’s always taken an interest in us, her favoured children.”

“When she’s not giving us a right bollocking for not doing more,” said Sir Roland. “Though, strictly speaking, she’s in no position to complain ... You’d better come with us, boy. And for once in your disreputable life, concentrate on making a good impression. She hasn’t actually struck anyone down with a lightning bolt in ages, but there’s no point in tempting fate.”

All twelve of the knights escorted me through the wide stone corridors of Castle Inconnu. Sir Gareth and Sir Roland led the way, one on each side of me, so I wouldn’t get lost. Sir Gareth kept up a stream of cheerful chatter, all of it safely inconsequential. Sir Roland contributed the occasional grunt, and every now and again I caught him looking at me out of the corner of his eye as though he still couldn’t quite believe what was happening. Didn’t bother me. I’ve always enjoyed being a disappointment to those in authority.

Little victories ...

We passed through a number of stone galleries, splendid indoor gardens, and comfortable gathering places, and finally ascended a long, winding stairway that ended in a circular stone chamber that felt like it was some way up in the air. (Since there were still no windows, it was impossible to be sure.) The chamber was wide and airy, and dominated by a great well in the centre of the room. (A well, in a tower. Six impossible things before breakfast ...) The chamber was a good sixty feet in diameter, and fifty feet of it were taken up by the well. The stone rim was only a few feet high, and when I leaned forward and looked down, all I could see was darkness looking back at me. It reminded me of the oracle I’d consulted in the Mammon Emporium. Except that here, I got a definite smell of the sea, far below.

Sir Gareth took me politely but firmly by one arm and pulled me back from the well. One of the other knights removed his helmet and approached the well. Sir Gareth murmured the knight’s name in my ear, Sir Percifal. He was an old man, well into his eighties, with a deeply lined face, sunken eyes, a pursed mouth, and a great mane of pure white hair. His face was grave, even grim, but his eyes were sharp and clear. The hands he placed gently on the stone rim were frail and covered in liver spots, but they didn’t shake. I was quietly amazed he could stand upright, carrying that much armour. But you could tell, just from looking: Sir Percifal was still a knight and a warrior, an old soldier in a war that never ended. And there was something about him that suggested he could still be a very dangerous man when the situation demanded. You don’t get to be an old solider without learning some very nasty tricks along the way. He bent over the well and called down into it; and his voice was firm and sure.

“Lady Gaea, it is Sir Percifal of the London Knights who calls you. Come speak with us, in Arthur’s name, for the bearer of Excalibur has come amongst us. John Taylor of the Nightside is here; and we’d all like to have a few words with you about that ...”

He straightened up quickly, as from deep in the well there came a great roaring sound, of something rushing towards us, building and building like an approaching tidal wave. I could feel the pressure of something big coming, of something too large to fit easily into our fragile material world. I looked round and realised that all the knights had backed away from the well, as far as they could go, their steel backs pressed against the stone wall. A few had even retreated into the stairway. I moved quickly back to stand in the doorway. I can pick up a hint if you hit me with it hard enough.

And then a jet of water blasted up out of the well, dark blue-green sea-water, and it slammed against the stone ceiling before falling back as a shower of rain. Drops of water ran harmlessly down the knights’ armour. I wasn’t so lucky, but there are times when a white trench coat comes in handy. The water fell back into the well, and when I’d wiped the moisture from my face and eyes, a young woman was standing elegantly on the surface of the water filling the well.

An extremely good-looking woman, in a long dark dress with a bright scarlet sash round her waist. And not a drop of water on her anywhere. She smiled brilliantly about her, stepped forward, and set an elegant bare foot on the rim of the well. She reached out a hand to me, so I could help her step down. I took her hand automatically and was quietly surprised at how normal and human her hand felt in mine.

She was human, and she was beautiful, but she was also so very much more than that. She was Gaea. All the world in a woman. You only had to be in her company to know it.

She had a classic face with a strong bone structure, a great mane of night-dark hair, warm blue eyes, and a really nice mouth. She smiled at me, and I realised I was still holding her hand. I dropped it like it was red-hot, and she smiled again, understanding. And then I made the mistake of looking her in the eye. Her eyes were old, ancient, far older than any living thing had a right to be. I felt small, and insignificant, next to her, like I was shrinking away to nothing. She looked away, and the moment was broken, and I could breathe again. I swallowed hard and took control of myself. I have known gods and monsters in the Nightside, but never anything like her.

She felt ... like the mother I’d never known and always wanted. The mother I dreamed of. And a part of me wondered if Gaea, old as she was, might have known my mother, Lilith. I was tempted to raise my Sight, sweep aside the illusion, and see Gaea for who and what she really was; but I had more sense. Some things in this world shouldn’t be seen too clearly. We are not worthy.

The knights bowed to Gaea, and she smiled on them.

“Hello, boys. What’s up?”

“Lady Gaea,” said Sir Percifal. “You must forgive us on not preparing for your arrival, but ...”

“Call me Gayle,” she said, in a perfectly ordinary, perfectly wonderful voice. “You know very well I haven’t used the old name for ages. And I know you boys get off on all these formalities; but really, life’s too short. Let’s get to it.” She shot me an amused glance. “So, John, not quite what you were expecting?”

“Damned if I know,” I said, and she laughed. Sir Percifal was trying to say something formal, but she was still looking at me, so I talked right over him. “Are you really the personification of the whole world?”

“I used to be,” said Gayle. “But it all got a bit much once Humanity arrived, so I abdicated. In order to understand you, I had to become one of you and live amongst you. So I left much of me sleeping, and became Gayle.”

“So,” I said. “This ... understanding Humanity. How’s it going?”

“Still working on it,” said Gayle.

“Lady ... Gayle,” said Sir Roland, as impatiently as his respect would allow, “why has Excalibur reappeared after all this time? Why weren’t we told in advance? And why to him?”

“I have returned the sword to Humanity because it has a duty to perform,” said Gayle. “And I have bestowed it on John Taylor because his involvement is necessary. I sent it to the Nightside through the offices of the elf Puck. That one has long owed me a favour, and there aren’t many who can say that. Because he usually kills them rather than remain obligated. I’d been holding on to that favour for centuries, not quite knowing why ... and a good thing I did.

“Only the Puck could smuggle Excalibur into the Nightside, to my chosen bearer, past so many watchful eyes. Too many enemies just now, too many ready to seize the sword for themselves, for good reasons and bad. Too many ready to destroy the sword, for reasons good and bad. And far too many waiting for a chance to take it for themselves, even though it would inevitably destroy them, as not worthy.” She looked at me. “I have granted you a special dispensation for this one time only.”

“I thought as much,” I said. “I keep telling people I’m not worthy, and I should know.”

Actually, I felt rather relieved. I’d had a hard time believing I could be so wrong about myself.

“Puck served me well, at least partly because it appealed to his warped sense of humour,” said Gayle. She sat down elegantly on the stone rim of the well, crossing her long legs neatly and resting her joined hands on the knees. “No-one can better an elf when it comes to sneaking things round. While you were helping smuggle him through the Nightside, John Taylor, he wasn’t only providing a diversion for the elf Peace Treaty. He was also keeping all eyes focused on him because with so much excitement going on, who would notice one small package moving through the mail?”

“Why didn’t he just give it to me?” I said.

“Probably because messing with your head was so much more fun,” said Gayle.

“But why give the sword to Taylor in the first place?” Sir Roland said stubbornly. “Why a man like him? Why not one of us? Any one of us would be happy to bear the burden of Excalibur. We would all die for you, Lady!”

“Exactly,” said Gayle. “I wanted a man who’d live for me. And, to answer your previous question, I couldn’t send the sword here. You’re being watched. You must have noticed.”

The knights looked at each other. Sir Percifal seized his chance to rejoin the conversation. “We knew. Of course we knew. Our security is second to none. Yes. But for all our skills, and all our sources, I have to say ... We are currently unable to ascertain who it is that’s watching us. Yes.”

“We’ve leaned on all the usual unusual suspects,” said Sir Gareth. “And it isn’t any of them.”

“And given how powerful our resources are,” Sir Percifal said doggedly, “it would have to be somebody powerful. Yes. Extremely powerful. And that ... is a very short list. Oh yes.”

“Quite,” said Gayle. “Anyway, John Taylor is my choice to bear Excalibur, and no, you don’t get to bitch about it. He has a destiny to fulfil.”

“Oh bloody hell,” I said loudly. “Not another one. I had a hard enough time getting rid of the last one. What have I got to do now?”

“You will give Excalibur to King Arthur. After you have helped bring him back.”

There was a long silence. The knights all looked at Gayle, then at me. Sir Percifal looked ecstatic. Sir Roland looked like he might have a stroke. Sir Gareth looked ... thoughtful. Gayle smiled enchantingly on one and all. I didn’t say a word. I hadn’t a clue what to say. Sir Roland finally broke the silence, looking like he would explode if he didn’t, but his voice was still barely under control.

“Arthur is coming back? King Arthur? Our long-lost King is finally returning, in our lifetime? You never said anything about this before! What are our regular consultations for if you’re not going to share important information like this? Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Somebody is shouting,” said Gayle, to no-one in particular. “And he’d better knock it off if he doesn’t want me to slap him with an earthquake.”

“Beg pardon, Lady,” said Sir Roland. “I fear I am ... overexcited.”

“Better,” said Gayle. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d all act like a bunch of schoolgirls when you found out you couldn’t be a part of this. You’re too close, too involved. You can’t do what’s necessary.”

“Who has a better right to be involved,” said Sir Percifal, “than those who have spent centuries preserving Arthur’s legacy, ready for his return? Hmm?”

“It has to be Taylor,” said Gayle, not unkindly. “He’s the only one who can do this. Get used to the idea, boys. And no, I can’t tell you why. Not yet. There are ... complications. Sometimes, things have to sort themselves out. So make John Taylor welcome amongst you, in my name. Or do my wishes mean nothing to you any more?”

“You are our Lady,” said Sir Percifal. “Our lives are yours. Yes.”

“Dear Percy,” said Gayle. “You were such a handsome boy. Now be good, boys, for goodness’ sake. And all things shall be made well.”

And then she rose, turned lightly on one foot, and leapt gracefully into the well. She disappeared from sight in a moment, taking all the water in the well with her. Sir Percifal sighed and shook his great head fondly.

“Well, that’s one way to avoid answering questions.” He looked at me with sharp and piercing eyes. “It would seem there’s no getting rid of you. No. That you are ... necessary. So be welcome amongst us while we work out how best we can aid you in your quest. Yes. Stop rumbling, Roland; the decision has been made. Hmm ... Sir Gareth; show Mr. Taylor round the castle. Get to know him. Give him the grand tour but keep him away from anything ... sensitive. Yes. You might bear Excalibur, Mr. Taylor, but you are not one of us. No. No. Off you go, the pair of you. The rest of us have to go off somewhere private and shout a lot.”

Sir Gareth took me on a walking tour of Castle Inconnu. The winding stone corridors seemed to go on forever, passing through halls and chambers and galleries beyond counting. He was happy to point out things of interest and not answer any questions I might have. He was also quite open about the fact that he was keeping me occupied, while the knights decided what the hell they were going to do next. But there were all kinds of interesting things to see, and I had a lot to think about. So I followed Sir Gareth past magnificent murals, through portrait galleries and banqueting halls, and past wonderfully carved fountains, until the sheer scale of things began to depress me. Architecture is all very nice, but you can have too much of a good thing.

“Don’t you have anywhere normal-sized in this castle?” I said finally. “Some of these halls are so big, I feel I should be adjusting my watch for different time zones.”

Sir Gareth chuckled easily. “Oh sure; these are only the public areas, designed to awe and intimidate the casual visitor. We don’t actually use most of this any more, except for the odd game of polo, or the occasional martial re-enactment. We live in the inner quarters, which are built on a far more bearable scale. Much more comfortable; you’d hardly know you were inside a castle. We’ve got Gameboys and everything. I’m afraid you’re not cleared to see the inner quarters yet. Feel free to ask questions, though; and I’ll try not to be too evasive.”

“All right,” I said. “Where is this castle, exactly? It’s not a part of the Nightside, or any of London’s other hidden worlds that I know of.”

“You’re not cleared for that information either. Everything about Castle Inconnu is a secret unless you’re one of us. And even we don’t know everything. We have many enemies, and one of our best safeguards is that no-one knows how to find us. We could be anywhere, any time, and for all I know we are. The Green Door is our only link to London Proper, and you couldn’t get through that Door with an enchanted battering ram. And now King Arthur is coming back ... Well, you can bet everyone up to and including the Grand Master is in major panic mode. Everything we ever dreamed and worked for is finally within our grasp ... and we’re not ready.”

“And possibly ... not worthy?” I said.

“The Lady gave Excalibur to you and not one of us,” said Sir Gareth. “That has to mean something. That maybe we’ve spent too long hidden away from the world. Some of us will be making the case for war; for taking our fight public, for the first time in centuries. If King Arthur is coming back, perhaps it’s time for the Final Battle against all the evil in the world, when all things shall be decided, once and for all.”

“I’ve been through a lot of battles like that,” I said. “Nothing ever changes.”

“This is different,” insisted Sir Gareth. “King Arthur reborn and returned will be a major player in everything that is happening, perhaps even the Major Player. Especially the upcoming elf civil war.”

“Is that still on?” I said. “What about the Peace Treaty?”

“Didn’t work. No-one ever thought it would. Neither side really wants peace—just some breathing space to muster their forces. Both sides want this war, John. Their survival as a race depends upon it. They’re dying out. No elven children have been born for ages; either in Shadows Fall, under Oberon and Titania, or in the Sundered Lands, under the returned Mab. They will fight their civil war here on Earth, destroying our civilisation in the process, then the surviving elves will take this world for their own again. And thus restore their ... vitality.”

“Could they really wipe us out while divided amongst themselves?” I said.

“Who knows what a species can do with its back against the wall,” said Sir Gareth. “We’ve always known they had weapons beyond our reach or imagination. Either way, it won’t be good for the Earth. Which is probably why the Lady Gaea is getting personally involved for the first time in centuries. I’d be worried if I were the worrying kind.”

“I did hear,” I said, “that the elves chose to leave this world, all those years ago. That they were running from something, and not us.”

“Presumably, things have changed,” said Sir Gareth.

“What makes King Arthur so important to the elves?”

“His stepsister was Morgan Le Fae,” Sir Gareth said simply.

“But who was she? I mean, yes, obviously, the clue is in the name. But was she an elf, a half-elf, or what?”

“Good question,” said Sir Gareth. “If you ever find out, please let us know. We’ve got libraries full of books, from official histories to personal accounts, and none of them can agree on an answer. So much knowledge was lost ... after the fall of Logres and the destruction of Camelot.”

“Merlin told me ... he never believed she was really family to Arthur,” I said.

Sir Gareth looked at me sharply. “Of course; you had dealings with the Satanspawn, in the Nightside. None of us could ever talk to him; the Grand Master would never allow it. He always said Merlin disgraced himself by not being there at Logres when he was needed the most.”

“He did say he regretted that,” I said.

“Not good enough,” Sir Gareth said flatly. “We do not forget, or forgive.”

“I don’t think he gave a damn what you thought about him,” I said. “He had far more serious sins on his conscience. Anyway, he’s dead and gone now.”

Sir Gareth looked at me thoughtfully. “Word is you knew him as well as any man could. You must write us a full report while you’re here, for our records.”

“No,” I said. “He and I were never friends, but ... some things should stay private. You knights made the decision to have nothing to do with him; and I think he’d want me to tell you to go to Hell.”

“Yes,” said Sir Gareth. “That sounds like him.”

We walked on in silence for a while, each of us thinking his separate thoughts. I knew a lot of things about Merlin that I was pretty sure the Knights didn’t. I knew Merlin wasn’t present for the final battle of Logres because he was obsessed with tracking down and killing the missing Morgan Le Fae for her betrayal of Arthur. By the time he was finished with her, and got back, it was all over; and Arthur was dead. Though Merlin did once admit to me that he wasn’t entirely sure Morgan was dead. Could she still be round, and ready to reappear, now that Merlin was gone and Arthur was coming back? One more thing to worry about ... I couldn’t tell the knights any of this; because if Merlin had wanted them to know, he would have told them himself. He must have had his reasons for maintaining his silence.

And I definitely couldn’t tell Sir Gareth that I’d met the living Merlin, back in the sixth century, taken his heart, and brought about his death. Or that while I was there, I’d briefly seen the living King Arthur, in his last communication with Merlin; in a sending, a dream walking, that arrived too late. Some things should be kept private.

Especially as I still wasn’t sure whether I trusted the London Knights yet. Nothing does more harm than a good man doing good in a bad way.

“I’m surprised you guys know so much about me,” I said finally. “I wouldn’t have thought I was important enough to register on your radar.”

“Don’t be disingenuous,” said Sir Gareth. “It doesn’t suit you. We know who you are, and what you are, and what you’ve done. We always said we’d have to do something about you if you ever left the Nightside. Some kind of high explosive, probably. There was a lot of talk about whether we should intervene during the Angel War, then the Lilith War; but we held off. Partly because we really hate getting involved with the Nightside, but mostly because we were curious to see what you would do.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I think.”

“And there have always been those amongst us who think we should ride into the Nightside in force and wipe you all out once and for all.”

“Well,” I said. “You could try ...”

“Quite. We have been keeping a more than usually close eye on the Nightside, recently. Ever since King Artur turned up there from Sinister Albion. That damned and corrupt dimension where a Golden Age was drowned in blood and horror. The only reason we haven’t gone there in force and put everything right the hard way is because we can’t find a way in. That Merlin is still alive, and protecting his own little infernal playground. Which is why we were so interested when King Artur appeared. How did he leave his world and enter the Nightside?”

“A Timeslip, presumably,” I said. “The Nightside is lousy with the things.”

“If so, we haven’t been able to find it. And we looked really hard.”

I gave him a stern look. “You people have been to the Nightside?”

“Hardly. We wouldn’t fit in. We’d be noticed. But we do have certain resources ...”

“Do you know what happened to Artur?” I said. “He seemed to vanish.”

“Haven’t a clue. Do you ... ?”

“No. Do you know why he came to the Nightside?”

“Yes. He wanted to get his hands on our Excalibur and make it his own because the Lady of his world refused him her sword. He was not worthy.”

“But what would Artur want with our Excalibur?”

“If he could seize it by force, and make it serve him, Excalibur would make Artur powerful enough to stand up to his Merlin,” Sir Gareth said patiently. “Artur might be King of Sinister Albion; but he still bows his head to Merlin Satanspawn if he wants to keep his throne.”

“Civil war everywhere you look,” I murmured. “Why can’t people just get along?”

Sir Gareth looked at me sharply. “Both sides of the Fae, and a great many other interested parties, would very much like to know where King Arthur is sleeping. Where his body lies, hidden and protected. Including us.”

“You don’t know?” I said, honestly surprised.

“We’ve never known. Whoever put Arthur to rest, dead or sleeping, went to great pains to hide him from everyone, friends and enemies alike. The London Knights have spent centuries searching, to no avail. And we only wanted to protect him. Many others would give everything they possess to discover Arthur’s hiding-place. Because whoever controls him potentially controls everything else. He is the greatest hero and warrior this world has ever known.”

“I take it we’re not only talking about the good guys here,” I said. “The bad guys want him, too?”

“Of course. Artur from Sinister Albion was corrupted by his Merlin. For all his many qualities, Arthur was just a man. He could be swayed, turned, dominated by an outside force. Excalibur was never the most powerful weapon in Camelot; that was always Arthur. And as he goes ... so goes the world.”

“I never know whether we’re talking about history or legend when it comes to Arthur,” I said. “Most of the stories say he was taken away, to sleep in Avalon.”

“What is Avalon?” said Sir Gareth. “Only a name. In the whole existence of our order, we’ve never found any place or any land called Avalon. No-one knows where Arthur is. And before you ask, no, he couldn’t be in Shadows Fall. That’s where legends go to die when the world stops believing in them; and the world still believes in Arthur. But now Excalibur has come back into the world, the chase is on. Everyone will be after Arthur; and it’s vital for the good of everybody that we get there first.”

I didn’t say anything. But I did wonder if perhaps certain elements inside the London Knights might not prefer it if Arthur were to stay sleeping, even if found. That they might even take steps to ensure he never awoke. Because if he did, would he approve of what the London Knights had become? Of all the things they’d done, and made of themselves, in the fifteen hundred years since Logres? They may have meant well; but we all know what road is paved with good intentions.

We moved on, into the Hall of Forgotten Beasts. A long hall whose walls were decorated with the severed, stuffed, and mounted heads of fantastical creatures that were no longer a part of history. The only remaining examples of hundreds, maybe thousands, of exotic beasts. I walked slowly past row upon row of glassily staring, slack-jawed heads. Some I recognised, some I’d heard of, and some that were perhaps completely unknown now, outside of Castle Inconnu.

“For a long time, hunting was a central part of knightly tradition,” said Sir Gareth. “We don’t do it any more, of course. We’re all conservationists now. But we still take a pride in this hall. It took brave men to hunt these beasts and bring them down.”

I didn’t say anything, walking on and on past the dead heads of once-noble creatures. I had no doubt many of them had been man-killers in their day; but it still seemed to me that slaughter, no matter how necessary, shouldn’t be something you took a pride in. You did it because it needed doing, not because you had a gap on your trophy wall. It was only a step from there to mounting the heads of your enemies on spikes over your door, where everyone could see them.

A unicorn’s head stared sullenly out from the wall, its skin still blindingly white though the curlicued horn was cracked from end to end. A gryphon, with a bullet hole left unrepaired in its forehead; a basilisk with no eyes; and a dire wolf with moulting fur, its jaws forever snarling defiance. And, protruding way out into the hall, a dragon’s head, at least fifteen feet wide, its scaled hide a dull bottle-green. The eyes were clearly glass and looked like no-one had dusted them in a while. I finally stopped before one head I didn’t recognise, and Sir Gareth stopped with me.

“This is the fabled Questing Beast. It eluded us for centuries though many knights went after it, tracking it all across Europe. Finally brought down by Sir Bors, in 1876. One shot, from four hundred yards.”

“How very sporting,” I said.

The Questing Beast’s head was an odd mixture of beast and bird. And perhaps it was my imagination, but to me the Beast looked old and tired and pitiful, and maybe even a little resigned. It had outlived the time it was meant for, and the menaces it understood, like swords and lances, and finally died from an attack it never even saw coming.

I looked back down the Hall of Forgotten Beasts, and it did not seem a place of pride to me. All I felt was a quiet air of melancholy.

“You have to understand,” Sir Gareth said defensively, “every beast here preyed on people. It was a knight’s duty back then to hunt these creatures down and protect the innocent from attack. No-one thought about preserving endangered species. These days we only hunt bad guys, the real monsters of the world.”

I looked at him thoughtfully. “Lots of monsters in the Nightside. You ever go hunting there?”

“I told you,” Sir Gareth said steadily. “We stay out of the Nightside.”

“Because Merlin was there?”

“It’s all about territory,” said Sir Gareth. “You should understand that, John.”

We moved on again and came to a long stone gallery where the walls were covered with long rows of framed portraits, reminders of those who’d fallen in service with the London Knights. There were hundreds of them, maybe even thousands, stretching away into the distance. The most recent were photographs, showing men of various ages, all striking the same stiff pose and determined smile. These gave way to black-and-white, then sepia prints, and finally to painted portraits, in the varying styles of the times. The same stiff pose, though, the same determined smile. All the way back to stylised images of the original knights of Arthur’s Camelot. Painted sometime after, I assumed, though of course I could be wrong. Merlin’s court was famous for its anachronisms. I stopped before one portrait.

“Kae,” I said. “Arthur’s stepbrother.”

“Yes!” said Sir Gareth. “You do get round, don’t you?”

“You have no idea,” I said. “Really.” And then I looked at him as a thought struck me. I looked back and forth, at all the images of the original Round Table. “These knights are all from sixth-century England. So how come they’re wearing suits of the kind of plate armour that didn’t arrive until hundreds of years later?”

“That was Merlin,” said Sir Gareth. “Remember, he could see the future as easily as he saw the past. He looked ahead, saw the armour, and knew a good idea when he saw one ... He presented the armourers with plans and designs, and next thing you know King Arthur and his knights had suits of armour that no-one else could match. That’s why they won so many victories ...”

“Is that all Merlin gave the knights?” I said.

Sir Gareth sighed heavily. “Who knows? So much was lost, so much was forgotten, after Camelot fell. By all accounts from that period, Arthur’s castle was full of wonders and glories, the greatest knowledge and science of that time, with marvellous devices and amazing inventions. All gone now.”

“What did happen, to the original Castle of Camelot?” I said.

“They burned it,” said Sir Gareth. “Mordred’s followers—in revenge for the loss of their leader. No-one was there to stop them; all the knights had gone off, to fight and fall at Logres. The women and children had just enough warning to get out, before Mordred’s bastards arrived. And afterwards ... the last occupants of Camelot scattered, first across England, and later Europe, telling stories that became legends, of the glory that was Camelot. Nothing of the castle survived, and all too soon no-one even remembered where it once stood.”

“You never found it while you were searching for Arthur?”

“We never looked,” Sir Gareth said simply. “The London Knights preserve the best of the old, and we live by long-established and revered traditions ... but we have chosen to look forward, not back. There’s enough needs doing in the present without obsessing on the past.”

We walked on, talking easily about this and that. It occurred to me that we’d been walking a long time without even a glimpse of the more civilised inner quarters. I was moved to wonder aloud exactly how big Castle Inconnu was.

“Hard to tell,” said Sir Gareth. “We’ve been adding to the old place for centuries, as our order grew larger, and we needed more living space for our wives and families. We’re as much a city as a castle when you get right down to it.”

“So who else wants to find Arthur?” I said. “Name some names. I might know some of them.”

“Personally, or professionally?” said Sir Gareth. “I can remember when the good guys fought the bad guys; now it seems like half the time we end up working together to take down some outside force that can’t even tell the difference between good and evil. But, our main enemy at the moment used to be one of our own. Jerusalem Stark, the Knight Apostate—rogue, heretic, and blasphemer. Once our brightest light, our most accomplished warrior, now our greatest failure and most dedicated enemy. He was the best of us until he had his crisis of faith. Now the man who swore to follow our cause all his life has given his life to our destruction. Sworn to see us all dead, down to the last man. And to achieve that, he has shown himself ready to join with the worst there is. Poor Jerry. We tried to help him after it all went wrong; but he didn’t want to be helped. If he finds King Arthur first, he’ll kill him, if only to spite us.”

“Why?” I said. “What happened, to turn him round so completely?”

Sir Gareth paused, considering his words carefully. “We had gone to war, in another dimension. Worlds in the balance, whole civilisations at stake, everything to play for. We fought valiantly, with Jerusalem Stark at our head; and the enemy could not stand against us. So they fought dirty. They took Jerry’s wife, Julianne. Turn back, they said, or we’ll kill her. But we couldn’t turn back; it would have meant throwing away everything we’d gained. So many lives lost for nothing and so many more put at peril. So we pressed on, and they killed her. Jerry argued against it, begged for more time to come up with a rescue plan, but there wasn’t any time.

“I was there with him when we found the body. After the battle was won. They’d taken their time with her, the bastards. We executed all the leaders, of course; but it didn’t bring Julianne back to life. Or undo one small part of what they’d done to her. Jerusalem Stark cursed us all and walked out. From that day on, he was our most relentless enemy, and all our previous enemies his friends. And as if that wasn’t enough, he made a deal with ... forces best not named out loud. They brought Julianne back from the dead, as a ghost. Now Jerry carries her preserved heart in a silver cage on his belt, to hold her to him.

“He still believes that if he can only find powerful enough allies, someone will bring her all the way back to life. The fool. If it was at all possible, we would have done it. We all loved Julianne. She brought such light and warmth into this sometimes dry and dusty place.”

“Are there any female knights?” I asked.

“No. Tradition, you see. It shapes so much of who and what we are. The order does change, but only slowly. We are still mostly a religious order ... but it wouldn’t surprise me to see the first female knights ordained in my lifetime. We’re not celibate; but it is always understood that our lives and our loyalties belong to the order, first and foremost. ‘I could not love thee, dear, half so much, Loved I not honour more ...’ Most of us have wives and children. We keep them here in the castle with us, where they’re safe.”

“So what do the women here do?” I said. “Act as servants?”

“No,” Sir Gareth said patiently. “The castle may be medieval, but we’re not. Castle Inconnu is full of airy spirits that do all the necessary things. The knights fight; our women provide all the necessary backup work. Doctors, librarians, teachers, historians, armourers ... We couldn’t do what we do without them. Julianne was our spiritual councillor. Our priest confessor in all but name. That’s why she was with us on that fateful battle-field so far from home. We would have saved her if we could. There wasn’t enough time. I would have died for her; but we couldn’t let so many innocents die for her. And she wouldn’t have wanted that anyway.”

“How could you know what she would have wanted?” said a harsh new voice. “You never really knew her. You never loved her.”

We both looked round sharply. Somehow, our steps had brought us round in a circle, and we were back at the beginning of the portrait gallery. And one portrait had come alive on the wall; the calm and peaceful head-and-shoulders pose replaced by a living image. I didn’t need to be told who it was. I never saw a more bitter and haunted face in my life. Jerusalem Stark glared out of his portrait at us, his eyes dark and unblinking, his lips pulled back in a grimace that was as much a snarl as a smile. He had the look of a man who would go anywhere, do anything, for the cause that drove him on. And would never, ever, let him rest. A very dangerous man.

“Hello, Jerry,” Sir Gareth said calmly. “It’s been a while since you last spoke to any of us.”

“As a London Knight, I was granted many privileges,” said Stark, still smiling his unnerving smile. “And they cannot be taken back. I will always have access to Castle Inconnu. You can’t keep me out. You can’t keep the truth out.”

“What truth would that be, Jerry?” Sir Gareth said politely. “That you betrayed the cause you swore your life to? Your life and your sacred honour? That you have betrayed good men and true to the monsters you have taken as allies, men who once fought at your side and trusted you with their lives? That you have betrayed the memory of your wife, who would never have wanted to be saved at such a terrible cost?”

“You could have found a way to save her if you’d wanted!” Stark’s glare was unwavering, his voice unforgiving. “We had time. There were options. But the Grand Master wouldn’t listen. All he cared about was victory, whatever the cost. He sacrificed my love for his triumph. Because that’s the knightly way. The truth is, Gar, you serve an inhuman cause, in inhuman ways. You’ve become the very thing you used to fight.”

“You know that isn’t true, Jerry.” Sir Gareth’s voice remained calm, in contrast to the dark passion in Stark’s every word. “Come back to us. It’s not too late. Come home. We can help you find your way again.”

“I have my way. You forced it on me when you let my wife die; and I have embraced it.”

“We were friends once, Jerry. It wasn’t that long ago. Please. I don’t want to have to kill you.”

“You see? In one breath you call me friend, and in the other you threaten to kill me. See what the order has done to you, Gar.”

“ ‘I could not love thee, dear, half so much ...’”

“Shut up! I don’t have to listen to that any more! They’re just words. I only wanted one thing in my life, only cared for one thing, and you let them take her from me. I will have my revenge, Gareth. I know you have Excalibur.”

Sir Gareth carefully didn’t look at me. “How do you know that, Jerry? Which of your new friends told you that?”

Stark sneered at him. “I have new allies. Very old and very powerful allies. They want you all dead nearly as much as I do.” He turned his cold gaze abruptly to me. “I know you, John Taylor. Get out of here while you still can. Forget whatever you were promised; you can’t trust anything they tell you. They’ll lie, cheat, and betray, in the name of their precious cause. Don’t be fooled by their fine words; they’ve forgotten what it is to be human.”

“I always said you were the most dangerous of our enemies, Jerry,” said Sir Gareth. “Because you think you’re the good guy.”

“I am the good guy.” The image in the portrait suddenly changed, the view pulling back sharply to show Jerusalem Stark in full figure, clad in the same gleaming steel armour as Sir Gareth. And standing beside him was the pale and shimmering image of his dead wife, Julianne. She wasn’t much of a ghost; just a semi-transparent shape in a long white dress who wasn’t always there. She faded in and out, her details vague and uncertain, her face a blur. Sir Gareth made a low noise of distress.

“Oh don’t, Jerry. Don’t do this. Let her go.”

Stark’s hand fell to the spun-silver cage at his belt, and at the touch of his fingers, the image of his dead wife became firm and clear. Her white dress was soaked in blood, all the way down her front. Her face was sharp and distinct now, but it held no expression at all. She looked dead. She turned her head slowly to look at Stark.

“Let me go. If you love me, let me go.”

Her voice gave me chills. I’ve heard the dead speak before, but never like this. Her voice was a whisper, as though it had to travel unimaginable distances to reach us. And it was full of all the despair and suffering in the world.

“I can’t let you go,” said Stark. “I can’t. You’re all that matters to me now.”

She reached out a hand and took his arm, and Stark shuddered despite himself. The living and the dead aren’t supposed to be close.

“Come home, Jerry,” said Sir Gareth. “Stop tormenting yourself. It wasn’t your fault.”

“No. It was your fault. You let her die.”

“There must be something we can do for you ...”

“There is. Give me Excalibur.”

“What would you do with Excalibur?” said Sir Gareth. “What possible use could it be to you?”

“I don’t give a damn for your magic sword,” said Stark. “But my allies want it. And they want it so much, they’ve promised to bring my Julianne back to life in return for Excalibur.”

“They lied, Jerry,” Sir Gareth said sadly. “They can’t bring her back. No-one can. She’s gone. Accept it.”

“Never! They can do it, Gar. I’ve seen them do it. I’m going to take Excalibur from you and give it to them. And then I’ll watch and laugh while they wipe you all out, down to the last man. Because that’s all you’ve left me.”

The portrait was suddenly only a photograph again. The dark and driven knight was gone and his dead wife with him. There was a distinct chill on the air, and Sir Gareth and I both shuddered a little, despite ourselves.

“New allies,” said Sir Gareth, after a moment. “That can’t be good. Who the hell could he have found who can bring the dead back to life? Only one man could ever do that, and that was our Lord ...”

“Well, the dead can return,” I said. “As zombies, in various forms. Dead bodies possessed by various beings. Not actually alive but better than nothing.”

“Jerry wouldn’t settle for that. But, he says he saw proof ...” Sir Gareth shook his head angrily. “Jerry is out of his depth.”

“Who do you think these new allies are?”

“There’s someone we’ve been keeping an eye on ... Prince Gaylord the Damned, Nuncio to the Court of King Artur, of Sinister Albion. He turned up in the Nightside three days ago by a means we couldn’t identify. Apparently, his Merlin sent him to the Nightside to search for Artur after he disappeared. I’m surprised you don’t know about him.”

“I’ve been a bit busy the past few days,” I said defensively.

“Well, when Prince Gaylord couldn’t find King Artur anywhere in the Nightside, he got it into his head that we must have him. He’s been trying to find or force a way into Castle Inconnu ever since.”

“Could he do that? Is he powerful enough?”

“Who knows anything, where Sinister Albion is concerned? If he has his Merlin’s backing ... maybe.”

“Do you have Artur?” I said carefully.

“No. He seems to have disappeared. No-one knows where he is. And given everything that’s happening, the last thing we need right now is another major player in the game.”

And that was when every alarum in the world went off at once. Bells, sirens, electronic alarms, and what sounded very much like a cloister bell. Sir Roland’s photograph on the wall suddenly came alive, replaced by an angry and seriously worried face.

“Castle Inconnu is under attack! Our security has been breached! The enemy is within our walls, dammit!”

“What? How the hell is that possible?” Sir Gareth’s face was almost colourless from shock. He looked like he’d been hit.

“It’s Stark. Somehow he’s used his old access rights to force a way through our outer defences and hold open a door for the enemy. They’re inside the walls, Gareth; inside the castle! Stark has brought an army in past all our protections! They’ve invaded the outer layers, and they’re heading inwards!”

“What army?” said Sir Gareth. “Who are they?”

“Elves!” said Sir Roland. “Stark’s allied himself with the elves!”

“No ...” Sir Gareth shook his head dazedly. “No, he couldn’t ... Oh, Jerry, you bloody fool. What have you done?”

“How many elves are there?” I said, pushing in beside Sir Gareth. “What kind of numbers are we talking about? Have they any elven weapons?”

“Hundreds of them,” said Sir Roland. “And more flooding in all the time. There’s a lot of magical armour, and enchanted swords, but no major weapons that we’ve seen—no Airgedlamh, or Sword of the Daun.”

“Well, that’s something,” I said. “Do we know which faction? Who do they serve: Oberon and Titania, or the returned Mab?”

“What the hell difference does that make?”

“I’ve had dealings with the Puck,” I said. “Through him, I might be able to negotiate with Oberon and Titania. But if these elves belong to Mab, we don’t have anything they want. Except our deaths. And Excalibur.”

“Elves in the castle?” Sir Gareth was abruptly himself again. “John and I will be with you as soon as we can, Roland. Get the knights moving and organised; put up a wall between the invaders and our families; give them time to get to the safety of the Redoubt. Stop them with cold steel and pile their bodies high.” He looked at me, and suddenly he was grinning, his face full of the joy of battle. “Stark is here for you, John. He wants the sword you carry. Will you fight alongside us?”

“Of course,” I said. “Never could stand elves.”

“Good man. Roland, see that our families are safe. And if worst comes to worst, see they have a dead man’s switch so they can take the enemy with them.”

“Of course,” said Sir Roland. And his face disappeared from the portrait.

“Was that last bit really necessary?” I said.

“Yes. You know what elves do to women and children. Death would be a kindness.”

I nodded. I knew. “You should never have kept your families here in the castle.”

“We thought they were safe here, where we could protect them! No-one’s ever got past our defences before! Never! No-one ever anticipated elves inside the castle. Let’s go.”

“Sir Roland jumped pretty fast there, when you gave him orders,” I said. “Are you in charge here, or something?”

“Something,” said Sir Gareth. “You didn’t think they’d leave you with just anyone, did you?”

We sprinted back through the stone corridors, and I had to work hard to keep up with Sir Gareth. Even though he was wearing full plate armour, and all I had was my trench coat, he still led all the way. Because he was a trained warrior, in the peak of condition; and I wasn’t. But I pounded grimly along after him, and all too soon we heard the sounds of fighting up ahead. We rounded a sudden corner, charged into one of the great open halls, and found it full to bursting with elves and knights in their armour.

Sir Gareth plunged straight in, sword in hand, but I made myself hang back in the archway, so I could study the situation. Excalibur was burning on my back, urging me on, but I’d had enough of that. I wasn’t a warrior or a hero, and acting like one would get me killed. If I was going to take on an army of elves, it wouldn’t be by running straight at them. I’d do it my own way.

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.

“Oh shit,” I said.

“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” said Sir Gareth. “Do you think it would help if I explained we’re much more into conservation these days?”

“You go ahead and try. I plan on running. Try and keep up.”

“Love to join you, John, but unfortunately the way to the inner chambers, and the Redoubt, lies at the other end of this hall.”

“Oh shit.”

“Couldn’t agree more. So, forward into battle it is. Try and keep up.”

Sir Gareth strode forward, sword at the ready, not intimidated in the least by the odds against him. I stayed right where I was. Excalibur seemed almost to leap in my hand, pulling me forward and urging me on, but I rejected its call and put the sword away. Courage is all very well, but sometimes all it can get you is a glorious death. I know overwhelming odds when I see them. I’ve faced them before. And I know from experience that you don’t beat them by meeting them head-on. You win by thinking outside the box, and by blatant cheating.

I still couldn’t find it in myself to see these long-dead creatures as a threat. They were the victims here. They hadn’t asked to be killed and mounted on a wall, then brought back again by a sorcerer’s spell. Poor bastards. So I raised my gift, and used it to find the magic the elf sorcerer had used to haul them back into this world. It turned out to be a series of silver threads, trailing back from the head of every animal to the sorcerer’s upraised hand. So many puppets on magical strings. Elves have always preferred to let others do their dirty work and not give a damn about the pawns they use. And so it was the easiest thing in the world for me to sever all the threads in a moment and set the beasts free.

The elf sorcerer cried out in shock and pain, and the psychic backlash from the ruptured spell sent him staggering backwards, clutching at his head. All the undead beasts in the hall dropped to their knees and crashed to the floor, released from their new existence and the undead bodies they never asked for. Finally dead, at last. For with my gift and my Sight raised, I Saw the ghosts of hundreds of ancient beasts rise up, freed at last, and turn away from the world to face a new bright light that called to them. One by one they moved away in a direction I could sense, but not See, leaving the Hall of Forgotten Beasts forever. Going home, at last. Bound to this place no longer.

The Questing Beast was the last to go. It turned its noble head to look at me, with huge, kind eyes. And then it bowed its great head to me briefly before hobbling off after all the others.

Sir Gareth looked about him, his sword drooping unheeded in his hand. He looked at me. “John, did you do this? What did you do?”

I could have told him about the original hunters of his order, who had not only mounted the heads of their kills as trophies but also bound the beasts’ spirits to those heads, as a sign of ownership ... but I didn’t. The sins of the past should stay in the past. I smiled at Sir Gareth.

“Sometimes,” I said, “try a little tenderness.”

“The reports were right,” he said. “You are weird. And someone’s going to have to clean up all these dead animals, but it isn’t going to be me. Come on; we have an elf sorcerer to deal with.”

The elf was still leaning heavily against the wall at the end of the hall, trying to get his thoughts back together. Having a major working interrupted is never a good idea. He didn’t look up till Sir Gareth and I had almost pushed our way through the piled-up bodies; and then he forced himself upright and glared at both of us. But, being an elf, he still had to strike a dramatic pose before he could throw a spell, and while he was busy doing that, Sir Gareth threw his sword at him. The gleaming steel blade flashed through the intervening space and slammed into the elf’s thigh, pinning him to the stone wall. The elf didn’t cry out. He grabbed at the sword with both hands and tried to pull it out.

He didn’t have a hope in hell of shifting the blade before we got to him. The blade had gone right through the meat of his upper thigh and sunk deep into the stone wall behind him. Golden blood streamed down his leg, and pooled on the floor. The elf was still tugging stubbornly at the blade when we got to him. He sneered at us, opened his mouth to say something, and Sir Gareth cut his throat with a knife. I had to step quickly aside to avoid getting soaked. Sir Gareth jerked the sword out of the dead elf’s leg with one hard tug. The body slumped forward, and Sir Gareth stepped aside to let it fall. I glared at him.

“You didn’t have to kill him! He was helpless!”

“He was an elf and a sorcerer,” Sir Gareth said mildly. “He could have cursed us both with just a Word.”

“He was in no condition to work magic. He could have been useful. He could have answered questions.”

“What questions?” said Sir Gareth, fastidiously shaking golden blood off his sword blade. “We know why they’re here and who let them in, and we know what they want. You over-complicate things, John.”

“It’s the principle of the thing!”

“Wait. You’ve got principles? We’ll have to update your file.”

“You know nothing about me,” I said. “Nothing at all.”

We came at last to the Main Hall, hundreds of feet long and half as wide, packed from end to end with a great surging mass of fighting men and elves. I never knew there were so many London Knights. The whole place was a battle-field, with two great armies hammering at each other with not one ounce of mercy or quarter. Neither side was interested in simply winning; this was a fight to the death. To the last death. The clash of weapons meeting, the shouts of triumph and the screams of the dying, made a sound loud enough to fill my head. It was like watching two great herds of deer slamming their antlers together in a blind fury. Sir Gareth might talk of honour and glory in battle; all I saw was butchery.

Elven spells blasted through the air, or detonated in the crush of bodies, but mostly there was only room for one-on-one combat, man against elf, cold steel versus enchanted blades, one implacable force slamming up against another. But one figure stood out for me, walking untouched amidst the chaos, ignored by the elves, disdained by the knights. Jerusalem Stark, looking every bit as haunted and driven as he had in the portrait gallery, striding purposefully through the battle-field as though it weren’t there. And perhaps for him, it wasn’t. He didn’t care about any of it. He was looking right at me, coming straight for me, for what I had that he wanted. I met his gaze across the crowded hall and drew Excalibur. His step didn’t even hesitate as he saw the blade’s golden light. He kept on coming, and I went forward to meet him. Not for glory, or even for justice, but because some things just need to be done.

I plunged into the battle with Sir Gareth at my side, but Stark and I only had eyes for each other. If an elf got in my way, or a knight got in his, we both cut them down and kept going. Our speed increased as we drew nearer, until finally we were running through the crowd, opening up a way through the crush through sheer force of will. Until, finally, we slammed together, swords hammering against each other, driven with all our strength and all our fury. His blade didn’t shatter when Excalibur met it, but he couldn’t meet my attack either. I pressed forward, beating his sword aside with Excalibur, and he fell back, step by controlled step. I kept hammering away at him, and he kept retreating, but I couldn’t force my way past his defence. I rained blow after blow on him, and he parried and turned and let himself be driven back, on his own terms. The London Knights had trained him well. Against the most powerful sword in the world, he was holding his own. He couldn’t stand against Excalibur for long, and both of us knew it, but he only had to get lucky once.

I did try my very best to kill him, there in that hall, but he was an amazing swordsman and a canny warrior. Excalibur made me a great fighter, but he already was one. I had power, but he had experience. I could drive him back, but I couldn’t reach him. And even as I was fighting, striking at him with all my strength and Excalibur’s speed, I still couldn’t help noticing something else. Something that quickly seemed more important than striking down one sad, embittered soul. So I stepped suddenly forward, slammed his sword aside, and shoved two extended fingers into his eyes. He cried out and fell backwards, lashing blindly back and forth with his sword, as tears streamed down his cheeks from screwed-shut eyes. He really should have worn a helmet.

I left him staggering blindly, and went to see what was happening in the middle of the hall. Some elves tried to stop me, and Excalibur cut them down with almost contemptuous ease. Ahead of me, surrounded by protective rings of heavily armed elves, kept separate from the main battle, three elf sorcerers were killing one of their own. He stood tall and proud as they cut him to pieces, not raising one pale hand to defend himself. Golden blood flooded down his naked, mutilated body, until he couldn’t stand any more, and collapsed. The sorcerers crowded in round him as he hit the floor, tearing him limb from limb, carving him up like a side of beef. And then they took the pieces, and began to build something with them.

By the time I hit the first protective wall, I’d worked it out. The sorcerer elves were making a hellgate out of a willing victim. A willing suicide could produce a hellgate so powerful it would be almost impossible to close. Powered by necromancy and a suicide’s will, the hellgate would suck every living thing in Castle Inconnu down into the agonies of the Pit.

I hit the elves before me with Excalibur, and they didn’t stand a chance. Their swords shattered against my golden blade, and their spelled armour couldn’t protect them. I was moving impossibly fast now, the strength in my arms Excalibur’s strength, and nothing could stand against me. I cut the elves down and threw myself against the next protective wall. Meat cleaved and blood flew, and bodies fell to every side; and still the elves fought to stand between me and the hellgate. They knew they were going to die, and they didn’t care. They only had to hold me off long enough, and the hellgate would destroy the London Knights forever. Powerful energies were already forming, pulsing in the air. Something really bad was struggling to manifest, something cold and terrible and malignant.

I slammed right through the elves and threw myself at the sorcerers. I cut them down with swift, vicious blows, and they died, still trying to finish their work. The thing they’d built from the dead parts of their willing victim was already glowing and steaming. I kicked the assemblage apart, stamping on bones and grinding flesh underfoot, and the last of the life went out of it.

I looked up to find I was alone, cut off from the knights, with elves on every side. They advanced on me with glowing swords and axes, smiling awful smiles. They were wary of Excalibur, edging forward a step at a time, darting back if I brought the sword to bear on them, while others darted in. I kept circling, lashing out with my sword, looking for a way out; but everywhere I looked, cold elven eyes looked back. They had me. I could hear knights calling out to me; they’d seen what was happening, and they were coming. But they knew, and I knew; they wouldn’t get to me in time. Excalibur made me strong, but it didn’t make me invincible. It could protect me from an exploding soulbomb, but not a stab in the back from an enchanted sword.

I’d always known this warrior crap would get me killed.

I took a firm grip on Excalibur and smiled at the elf faces before me. There was something in that smile that gave them pause, but only for a moment.

They all pressed forward at once, dozens of swords thrusting towards me; and I raised my gift and found Excalibur. Not the sword; but what it really was. It wasn’t like talking with another person or even some kind of being; but there was communication. Excalibur was an extension of Gaea, her will made manifest in the world of men. And for a moment, she bestowed her grace upon me. Instead of the sword urging me on, I took control, and Excalibur blazed up, filling the whole hall with its glorious golden light. The sword had always blazed supernaturally brightly, but this was more, this was the essence of light itself, the light that first blazed across the universe when a great Voice said, Let there be light.

The elves screamed, in pain and horror and thwarted rage, and fell back, unable to face the terrible energies radiating from Excalibur. They turned and ran, shoving and scrambling and fighting each other, in their desperate need to escape a light they simply could not bear. The London Knights, dazed and awed by the light, let them go. In a few moments the hall was half-empty, knight after knight lowering his sword and looking round and wondering what the hell had happened. Excalibur’s light snapped off, and I shut down my gift and studied the blade thoughtfully. The Puck had been right. It’s not what you think it is. And it never was.

Sir Gareth came over to stand beside me and clap me on the shoulder. “Well done, John Taylor! Always knew you had it in you. You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“You have no idea,” I said. “Really.”

There were dead and injured knights lying the whole length of the hall. Other knights were helping where they could. I saw Sir Roland kneel beside one still form in shattered armour, and Sir Gareth and I went over to join him. Sir Roland had taken off his helmet, and his bare face looked shocked, as though he’d been hit. He’d removed the helmet from the dead knight before him; and in death Sir Percifal looked even older. Certainly far too old to be fighting on a battle-field.

“He shouldn’t have been here,” said Sir Roland. He sounded confused, as though unable to understand how such a thing could have happened. “He should have gone to the Redoubt, to be with the women and the children. But he was a warrior and a fighter all his life, and he didn’t know any other way. Even though he must have known it would bring him here, to this. Sleep well, old friend.”

I remembered a wise old voice, saying Yes and No at regular intervals. A man who shouldn’t have been able to stand upright in full armour, let alone fight in it; but there was golden blood on his sword that showed he had. He shouldn’t have come here, but he had. Because he knew his duty.

All across the hall, knights were putting away their swords, tending their wounds and each other’s, and clapping each other across the back and shoulder, laughing and shouting as they swapped tall tales of victory. Because it did feel so good to be alive after a battle even if old friends were dead. Given how outnumbered the knights had been, they were lucky to be alive, and they knew it. Not many people get to face an army of elves and live to talk about it. Hell, there are those who say the only way to win against an army of elves is to not be there when they turn up.

Many of the knights grinned at me and waved and shouted. I was their hero now. I nodded back. They’d done well. Elves are killing machines, delighting in slaughter and suffering, and the knights had been holding their own even before I turned up. I’d never doubted their reputation. I’d only wondered what drove them.

Sir Roland finally stood up and nodded to Sir Gareth, all business again.

“Did all our families get to the Redoubt in time?” said Sir Gareth.

“Yes. They all made it. I always said those regular panic drills were a good idea. I still can’t believe it, though: elves, inside Castle Inconnu. Unprecedented. Stark must have got them in, though I’m damned if I can see how. There’ll have to be an inquiry. As long as he’s out there, the castle is wide open to attack. We have to do what we should have done long before. We have to go out in force and hunt him down and put him out of everyone’s misery.”

“He’s not in his right mind,” said Sir Gareth. “Grief and loss have made him forget his vows. But I still believe he can be saved, brought back to a state of grace.”

“Of course you believe that, Gar,” said Sir Roland. “You’re his friend. I wanted to believe in him. He was the best of us. Best I ever trained. But what happened today changes everything. We must deal with the man he is and not the man we remember. Look round you, at all the dead and the wounded. He caused all this and meant worse. It’s time to put him down, like any suffering beast.”

“I’m still not sure what this was all about,” I said. “Did the elves want to take Excalibur, or was that only Stark? Did they want to destroy the castle and everyone in it, with their hellgate? Or did they have some other end in mind? Do you have any prisoners we can question? I can’t help feeling we’re missing something here.”

“Of course we are,” said Sir Gareth. “They’re elves. A secret hidden inside a mystery hidden inside an enigma.”

“We should never have put you in charge of the library,” said Sir Roland.

As it turned out, the knights did have one elf prisoner. Two knights had knocked him down during the battle, then sat on him when all the other elves ran. The elf was currently chained to a wall with a hell of a lot of cold iron. The metal burned his bare flesh where it touched, but the elf wouldn’t even acknowledge it. He glared at Sir Roland, Sir Gareth, and me with cold, aristocratic disdain. The kind of blunt contempt that makes you want to punch someone in the face. We didn’t. It was what he wanted, so he could feel superior to us. To the elves, humans will always be barbarians. His spelled armour had been stripped off him, revealing a bare pale torso covered in cuts and bruises. He was almost supernaturally slender, his pale skin covered with hundreds of etched, burned, and tattooed signs and sigils. Even chained naked to a wall, he still had that basic elf poise and arrogance, designed to make us mere humans feel base and clumsy.

“Jerusalem Stark brought you here,” Sir Roland said heavily. “Why? Talk to me, elf. Are we at war with Oberon and Titania, or with Mab?”

The elf said nothing because that would have interrupted his sneer, which was now so concentrated it was almost a work of art. He stared straight through us as though we weren’t worth looking at. I leaned forward, and, to his credit, he didn’t flinch. I studied the designs etched deep into his bare hairless chest, and grimaced despite myself.

“I know a few things about elves,” I said, straightening up painfully. My muscles were really starting to ache and complain, after the battle. “I know those markings. This one serves Queen Mab.”

“Why?” barked Sir Roland, sticking his face right into the elf’s. “Why has Mab declared war on the London Knights?”

“He won’t answer to threats or intimidation,” I said. “He won’t even give you his name. He’s waiting for the torture to start because that’s what he’d do if the positions were reversed.”

“We don’t torture prisoners!” said Sir Roland. “We are honourable men. And I think ... we already know everything we need to know.”

He drew his sword, raised it high, and brought it swinging down in a long arc so that it sheared right through the main lock on the elf’s chains. They fell apart instantly, freeing the elf. Sir Roland stepped back, lowered his sword, and nodded stiffly to the elf. “Off you go. On your way. We give you your freedom.”

For the first time, the elf acknowledged Sir Roland’s presence. “Why?”

The knight smiled. “Because it’s the proper thing to do. The chivalric way. Because we’re better than you.”

The elf turned his back on us and strode off through the knights, who all made a point of bowing and saluting him. When the elf was a safe distance away, he muttered a Word and disappeared. Because elves always have to have the last word.

And then, all the alarums all went off again. A knight in blood-smeared armour came running up to us.

“We’ve been breached again! Small-scale, this time. We think Stark’s back somewhere inside the castle!”

“Search everywhere,” said Sir Roland. “Inner and outer. And send word to the Redoubt for the families to stay where they are. I don’t think Stark would stoop to taking hostages, but after today’s events, it’s clear we don’t know him at all any more. The order is given: kill Stark on sight.”

He strode off with the other knight, still barking orders. Sir Gareth and I looked at each other. He shrugged.

“Might as well make ourselves useful. Come with me; we’ll check the outer layers.”

“Do you think Stark has come back?” I said.

“He still wants Excalibur,” said Sir Gareth. “Where else can he go?”

So we went walking back through the outer stone corridors and hallways. All was quiet. At the Hall of Forgotten Beasts, the long-dead animal bodies still lay where they had fallen. The stone walls were still cracked and broken, the wall mounts shattered. We made our way slowly between the piled-up dead, and I don’t think I ever saw anything so simply sad in all my life.

“We’ll clear this all away, when there’s time,” said Sir Gareth.

“Make sure it’s done respectfully,” I said.

“Don’t worry,” said Sir Gareth. “They won’t remount the heads. I’ll have a word. For a man of your destructive reputation, you can be remarkably sentimental sometimes, John.”

We hurried on and came at last to the Portrait Gallery. Excalibur stirred in its invisible scabbard on my back, and I stopped immediately. Sir Gareth stopped with me and looked round sharply.

“I don’t see anything,” he said.

“Something’s wrong,” I said. “Excalibur is warning me.”

Sir Gareth drew his sword. The Gallery was quiet and empty. And while we were both standing and looking, the portrait behind me, that I hadn’t even looked at, came alive; and Jerusalem Stark reached out of his portrait, grabbed Excalibur and its sheath, invisible as they were, and hauled them right off my back. It was all over in a moment. Before I could even cry out, Stark had retreated back into his portrait with his prize, and was gone. And the portrait was only a photo again.

I swayed sickly on my feet. It felt as though part of my soul had been ripped away. Sir Gareth grabbed me by the shoulder to steady me.

“He’s got it, hasn’t he? He’s got Excalibur!”

“Yes,” I said. “I don’t know if he can hold on to it, but he’s got it.”

Sir Gareth pushed me away. “Only John bloody Taylor could gain and lose Excalibur in the same day!”

“Don’t count me out yet,” I said, matching his glare with one of my own. “I can get it back. I have a special gift for finding things, no matter where they are.”

I raised my gift, forcing my inner eye open as wide as it would go. It didn’t take me long to find Excalibur.

“Of course,” I said. “It’s back in the Nightside. Only place he could hope to hide it. I’ll have to go back and get it.”

“I’ll go with you,” Sir Gareth said immediately.

“No,” I said, just as quickly. “I already have a partner in the Nightside. And ... you’re a London Knight. You don’t belong there. You wouldn’t know how to act, in the Nightside.”