A Quest Like That (chapters 4 - 6)
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Chapter 4
The enormous trail of broken trunks and branches and foliage that the beast left behind it made hunting it one of Dean’s more straightforward jobs. No long stretch on the laptop carefully chronicling its movements; no making of traps, no laying of bait. Instead, Dean just strode out in the wake of the chaos that the monster had created, sword weighing heavy and comfortable in his hand. OK, so it wasn’t the Blade. It didn’t feel like a bloodthirsty extension of his arm, perfectly balanced and deadly sharp and throbbing with the power to kill. But it was a good enough sword, and it flashed suggestively in the light, and what with that and the weight of the armour on his shoulders, Dean felt pretty good about his chances in this fight.
Say what you wanted about the monster, though, the thing could move; and Dean found himself walking for several hours through the mess it had left him without seeing or hearing a trace. It was then that he began to hear the noise of water - not the rushing of a river, but something altogether more tinkling and artificial - sounding through the trees up ahead. So he was surprised, but not totally shocked, when he emerged through a break in the treeline to find a clearing with a fountain at its centre; and dozing by its side, a knight.
The man started up at the sight of Dean, hand flashing to the sword at his side. Dean blinked, overwhelmed for a second by a vision of the guy falling backward, throat slashed and life spraying out of him in a bloody, satisfying gush. His own hand tightened around the grip of his sword. But he could fight this. So he swallowed, breathing deeply, tamping it down.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I got no fight with you.”
The man looked cautious for a moment. Then his features relaxed, opening into a friendly smile. He held out his hand, sandy hair falling over his face as he leant forward. He was good-looking, in a washed-out kind of way; features verging on the colourless, mouth soft and chin recessive and weak. A bit of a pansy, Dean thought, even if he was a knight. But still, a friendly face was a friendly face; and the guy might be able to give him something useful on the beast. You never knew.
“Dean,” Dean said.
“Sir Pellinore,” said the Knight. Then he looked at Dean expectantly. Maybe Dean should know that name? Actually, now he thought of it, he was pretty sure that it’d shown up engraved into that table; that this guy was one of Arthur’s circle.
“Do you… have you come from the castle?” asked Dean. “From Camelot? Do you know where everybody went?”
Sir Pellinore sighed, deeply and dramatically, rearranging his body into a melodramatic pose of dismay complete with theatrical hand across the forehead. Dean raised his eyebrows, smirked.
“Alas! My brothers have all departed on a futile, fruitless, quest for the Holy Grail.”
“Huh,” said Dean. “And you?”
Pellinore opened his eyes where they had been closed in mock-anguish, directing a peevish look at Dean. “Did you not hear my introduction? I am Sir Pellinore.”
“Sorry, dude,” Dean said, aiming for apologetic. “I’m not from around here.”
“From generation to generation,” Pellinore intoned, “my forebears have hunted the questing beast. From the sprightly days of their youth to the bent and painful dragging of their age, every step has been bent in pursuit of this terrible monster. The quest for it is a birthright handed down with great moment from father to son.”
“The questing beast?” Dean said. “And you quest after it?”
Pellinore looked at him, unamused.
“Questing? Quest? Seems a little unlikely.”
Still nothing.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Dean. “But… I think maybe I’m after the same thing. Kinda huge, scaly, leopardy, liony, deer...y? Makes a helluva noise?”
He was surprised by Pellinore’s reaction. The sandy man’s face lit up and his whole body language shifted, so that he was bouncing enthusiastically on the balls of his feet. “Indeed! My friend! Oh, ‘twould be surely delightful to find a companion in my burdensome quest!”
“Oh,” said Dean. ‘Companion’.
“For many years,” Pellinore said, “the beast has terrorised our villagers, plowing through their markets and houses on a course of wanton destruction. Its strength is legendary and its ferocity unabated, the necessity to destroy it only growing more urgent with time.”
“Right,” Dean agreed. He knew Sam’d been being an asshole.
“You can only imagine my sorrow and frustration,” Pellinore continued, “when all of my compatriot knights abandoned me, leaving this mission, the blood of my life, to partake in their selfish quest for the Grail. What is the Grail? What are its powers? What its meaning? Surely the slaying of a mighty beast is a greater cause!”
And Dean found himself agreeing, again. “Don’t even tell me about the friggin’ Grail,” he said. OK, so this dude was a little… emotional, a little less butch and intimidating than Dean had expected the knights to be. But he obviously had his head screwed on right, had a better idea about what mattered than any of the rest of them - or than Charlie, or Sam. So yeah, why not work together? Dean hadn’t wanted to work with Benny, at first, either, and the guy had turned out to be solid. So, “Lead on, brother,” he said.
Pellinore beamed.
~~~
“OK, so, we’re in the woods,” said Charlie. “What now?”
“I guess… this way?” said Sam. He didn’t know, like really didn’t and it was all beginning to seem stupid. How could he have thought that he’d be able to complete this quest, when they knew for certain, both of them, that the rest of the knights had been months at the very same task? What made him so cocksure about finding it? There’d been nothing useful of the kind in his dream, just a vision of the cup, of a chapel, and the absolute certainty that this was what he had to do. And he’d been missing that certainty, since the months he’d spent absolutely driven in the hunt for Dean - since the moment in the bunker when he’d felt, for a brief, dizzy moment, that he’d finally completed a task. Of course, he’d failed at it, as it turned out. He’d fumbled it like he’d fumbled the trials, delivered his brother from demonhood but left him ticking with the power of the Mark. Another failure in a great long line of them. So why should the Grail be any different?
The thing was, this time, he wasn’t alone. It wasn’t fair to lead Charlie into the woods and then lead her back out of them, confess to her he was totally lost and that she ought to turn back after Dean. She’d put her trust in him and he should at least endeavour to deserve it.
So he drew up his shoulders, laid his hand on his sword and looked around. The trees spread out in every direction, identical, intimidating, dark.
And then he saw it, a movement through the trees, something white and glowing through the shadow of the woods.
“Hey, Charlie,” he said, pointing. “Did you -“
She nodded. “Over there.”
Together, they moved towards it, clambering carefully over the densely knotted roots. The shape had stopped moving, and as they approached Sam was able to see it properly. An enormous stag, silent and majestic and huge.
“I think we need to follow it,” he said, although he hadn’t known that that was what he thought before shaping the words. As soon as they were out of his mouth, though, he knew; knew that the stag was helping them, that he was part of their quest.
“Absolutely, man,” said Charlie. And to the stag, “Lead on, buddy.”
It did, walking at a steady, rapid place; guiding them certainly and surely through the forest, down into dips and up over hills and through acres and acres of trees. Finally, it brought them out beside an enormous river; and paused there, looking upstream. Then suddenly, as fast as it had appeared, it was gone.
“Are we there yet?” asked Charlie. They very obviously weren’t. But the river was wide and dark, and the prospect of crossing it wasn’t inviting.
“I guess… we continue up the river?” Sam said.
Charlie shrugged, nodded, still happy and excited.
~~~
That excitement didn’t last. Not over the course of the next two days; not as the rain kept on falling and the river kept on rushing and they walked on, quiet now, not hearing or meeting anybody.
“I hope the stag wanted us to go this way,” Sam would say, occasionally, still wrestling with self-doubt.
“Sure he did,” Charlie would reply.
And then they would be silent, pacing on for the next few hours.
Charlie didn’t want to be mean to Sam. She did think that they were going the right way, and she knew that he was suffering as much as her; that he was likely just as chilled, just as tired and hopeless. Sleeping on the wet ground just inside the treeline hadn’t proven particularly soothing; there were too many beasties out in the woods, so that one of them had to stay awake to guard for the other, and they didn’t want to stop for too long, so that they were only getting a few hours’ sleep at a time. Add to that that they were hungry, and it was too wet for a fire; so even if they had been able to catch a bird, or a rabbit, or a fish, it would have been a whole lot more complicated to try and eat it; and they had long since burned through the protein bars in Sam’s bag. They had some of the salted meat that the villagers had given them, but who knew how long they’d be walking for? It seemed sensible to save their rations. And so she was hungry, as well as being cold, and miserable; with the glamour and excitement of the quest slowly ebbing away.
On top of that, her armour was heavy, really heavy in a way that the cosplay stuff never was. She didn’t know if it was to do with technology - maybe people were better at making lighter, more efficient armour nowadays - or purpose - the LARPing stuff didn’t really have to work - but either way around, the small suit that she’d snagged from the castle was heavy and uncomfortable and really not a lot of fun to be wearing, not during a long-haul hike through the woods.
She sneaked a glance at Sam, pacing beside her, silent, thoughtful as always.
“I could murder a burger and fries,” she said.
Sam smiled: effortful, unnatural, kind. “You oughta get Dean to make you a burger, one day. It’s his speciality. He’s a pretty good cook.”
Charlie nodded. And then, because fuck it, why not ask him, “Hey. What’s going on with Dean?”
Sam’s brow furrowed, his mouth twisting uncertainly. He obviously wasn’t sure how much he ought to reveal. “Uh. He’s having a little trouble,” he offered reluctantly. “Some… supernatural stuff.”
“Gee thanks,” said Charlie. “Sure you won’t have to kill me for knowing too much?”
Sam smiled, genuine now, shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. It’s not my secret to tell, you know? He’s just… he’s not himself lately and I don’t know how to fix it. I mean. We know the problem but we can’t make it go away.” He paused. “Sorry I can’t be more specific.”
Charlie shook her head. “It’s OK.” She paused, then, wondering if there was something else she ought to say - something about the stuff that Sam had spilled out during his confrontation with Dean. Like, if he really still felt that way about himself, then maybe someone ought to tell him that whatever he felt was inside him, none of it mattered - not really. He was a lovely, kind, sweet, brave, good guy.
She opened her mouth, trying to frame the right words to begin her sentence. But then she stopped. Sam was distracted, looking over her shoulder, surprised. He pointed and yeah, she could see what he was looking at - looming through the dusk, at a point where the river widened up ahead, the small strong keep of a castle. There were lights at the windows and even from where they stood, Sam could hear the soft sounds of music drifting over the water.
“Oh man,” said Charlie. “Warmth!”
Chapter 5
This castle by the river was nothing like Camelot - maybe a sixth or an eighth of the size. It was really just one stone keep, solid and circular and strong.
As they stood uncertain outside it, the main gate flung open with a bang. A woman, bright-faced and brightly dressed in blue, smiled at the bedraggled travellers standing outside. Her face was fresh, pretty and inviting; the whole picture couldn’t have been more welcome, nor stood in greater contrast to the drizzly, empty wilderness at their backs. “Welcome, friends,” she said. “Come in. Join us. Eat.”
“Sure thing, lady,” said Charlie, happily; before Sam’s hand at her shoulder pulled her back. “What’s your problem, dude?” she hissed. “Don’t you want to get something to eat? Maybe take a bath?”
“Charlie…” Sam said. “You know the stories. This doesn’t seem right. Who are they? Why are they inviting us in? I just don’t think it’s safe.”
Charlie shook her head. “You’re too cautious, bro, you know that? Haven’t you read your fantasy literature? We have guest-right! They can’t just… you know… slaughter us in our beds. It’s, like, totally against the code of conduct around these parts.”
“You don’t know these parts, Charlie!”
“Come on, it’s basically Westeros.”
“Yeah, and I think we all remember the Red Wedding, am I right?”
Charlie frowned. Damn Stanford logic. This would have worked on Dean. So she tried another tactic. “Pleeeeeease?”
Sam wavered.
“I promise if anything looks weird, I’ll head out with you straight away. No questions asked.”
He was obviously still reluctant, but Charlie was pretty sure that Sam’s good nature would win out in the end. And yeah, it seemed she was right; Sam lifted his head and smiled at the girl still waiting patiently just inside the gate. “My friend wants to come in.”
“You are rightly welcome,” said the girl. “Come in. Join us. Eat.”
She stepped backward, gesturing them inside.
~~~
“Are you seriously not going to eat anything?” Charlie asked Sam, again. “This is crazy! How are you going to find the Grail if you haven’t got the energy to walk?”
“I’m not… I’ll eat what I’ve got in my backpack. Charlie. I’m just… this doesn’t feel right.”
Charlie looked around her. They were in the castle’s hall, towards the head of one of three long wooden tables that stretched out across the floor. On a raised dais above them, the lord of the house sat with his wife and his children, faces pink and shiny with alcohol and sweat. A band was playing, people were laughing, and the tables were heaving with food. Charlie had been eating for a good twenty minutes and had barely made a dent in the plates stood in front of her.
“What’s so wrong about this?”
Sam looked uncomfortable. “I’m really sorry, Charlie. I just… I think I have to go.”
“Are you serious? Like, right now? You wanna just walk out the door - away from the bedrooms, which have beds in them, might I remind you - and into the rainy night?”
“I’m sorry, Charlie. I have to. I think… this sounds crazy. I think the stag is waiting for me outside. I keep seeing him.”
“Seeing him?”
“In my head.”
Charlie fought back the urge to roll her eyes. Damn stag. Then, “You can’t just go,” she said.
“Why not?”
“It’s rude! We’ve accepted their hospitality!”
“I haven’t,” Sam said. “I haven’t eaten or drunk.”
As he spoke, the woman who had first let them into the castle appeared beside them, carrying a steaming jug of something in her hands. The sweet, heady scent of it flooded into Charlie’s nostrils, joining the delicious, savoury smell of the food.
“Sam,” she said, “You are legitimately crazy. Why would you walk out on this?”
The woman looked disconcerted. “Are you intending to depart?” she said.
Sam looked from side to side, obviously considering. “Yeah,” he said eventually, drawing himself to his feet. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean any rudeness. But… I’m a pilgrim. And I have to go on.”
The woman cast a quick glance up towards the platform, where the lord sat, cheeks pink and belly shaking in mirth. “It is not permitted,” she began.
“I’m sorry,” Sam said again. “But… I haven’t accepted your hospitality. I'm not formally a guest. And I'm going to leave.”
She hesitated, and he took advantage of the moment to begin backing outwards, extricating his long legs from underneath the bench. “Come on, Charlie,” he said.
Charlie didn’t want to. Like, she should have been concerned about the separation - about what would happen to her, and to Sam, if they were split up. But it was somehow hard to find the inclination. She was so completely full, and warm, and satisfied. And the rain was still beating hard against the castle windows, and the wind was howling, and it was so very dark outside. So…
“You go on without me,” she said.
Sam was shocked. “Charlie, I can’t…”
“Don’t worry about it!” she told him. “It’s cool!”
Sam looked seriously suspicious; but their serving-woman was already at the side of the lord, whispering into his ear - and as they looked at him, he turned a glowering gaze towards in their direction.
“Charlie,” said Sam, tugging at her sleeve.
“I’m not going,” she told him, shaking her head with a smile. “It’s fine!” She could see him deciding, glancing anxious up at the dais and finally, resolved, shaking his head and turning to leave.
“Enjoy yourself!” Charlie called, watching his tall figure retreating rapidly out of the hall. Crazy kid. Why would you take yourself back out into the night, when you could be here, nice and cosy, surrounded by all these friendly faces, all these buxom ladies in their period dress? Dude must have a problem with self-punishment, she resolved.
The serving woman was immediately back at her side. “Please, my lady,” she said. “Will you not drink?”
So Charlie did, upending the contents of the goblet into her mouth. It was just as delicious as its odour suggested, thick and viscous and fiery as it ran down her throat. “What is this stuff?” she asked the man beside her; but he barely looked at her, merely reached forward to take more food.
Up in the musician’s gallery, a man began singing, a honey-sweet song that caught the movement of Charlie’s dreamy, hazy mind. She was tired, so tired after her walking. It felt like any moment, she might drop off to sleep.
~~~
Charlie sat bolt upright in bed with a gasp, tugged out of a dreamless doze with a sharp yank right into her chest. What was that? And more to the point, where was she? She rubbed her forehead, frowning with the concentration of trying to remember. She couldn’t remember coming to bed… couldn’t remember much, actually, except that Sam had been increasingly reluctant all evening and that he’d slipped quietly, swiftly back out into the rain.
She felt a sudden clutch of concern. What had she been thinking, letting him go on without her? She didn’t know what the hell she was doing here, and she was pretty sure that the helpful stag-shaped tour guide was a psychic Sam special. She’d casually abandoned her best chance of getting home - getting anywhere - safely, and what for? A warm meal, and a bed.
This bed wasn’t all that, anyway, not the fur-piled comfortable cosiness she’d been envisaging at dinner. In fact, the whole room was more like a cell in a monastery than a room in a castle: bare walls, narrow bed, nothing else at all. Moreover, the small window in the wooden door was covered over with strong iron bars.
This didn’t seem good.
“Here goes,” breathed Charlie, swinging her legs off the bed, standing to find herself woozy but more or less stable. “Where have you put me, you weirdos?”
She tried the door, expecting it to be locked; but to her surprise, it swung open under her hand. Poking her head cautiously out into the corridor, she saw a row of identical doors extending in either direction. This was definitely odd.
On the plus side, there were no guards visible; so she tiptoed out of her cell, made her way along to the next room. Standing on tiptoes, she peered through the bars. She could make out a figure lying in the bed. Somebody else, asleep. Well, of itself that wasn’t too weird, right? This might just be the bedroom… wing. But there was the same in every chamber, empty little cells with bodies breathing soft in the moonlight. There were people here, like way more people then there had been at dinner. Where had they all come from?
Charlie sighed. Then she pushed open the nearest door, crossed the floor and looked down at the sleeper in the bed.
Like most of the occupants of the bedrooms, it was a man; young and good-looking, his hair curling dark on the pillow.
“Hey, dude,” said Charlie, shaking him. “Wake up.”
The man rolled over, his body pliant under her hand. His eyelids remained firmly closed.
“Seriously?” asked Charlie. She bent forward, to try calling him again right in his ear. The metal chain she was wearing around her neck swung down, catching across his cheek; and suddenly the man’s eyes shot open, sending Charlie startling back out of his way.
“What is it?” said the man, blinking. “Is it time to depart?” Then, looking around him, “Madam. I fear you have waked me too early. The sun is not yet up.”
“No,” agreed Charlie. “Sorry. I didn’t… Do you know how you got here?”
The man smiled, amused. “Why, lady, what a strange question. I was riding with my friends when we came upon this place. A very genteel maiden bid us enter and they feasted us royally.”
“And then what?” Charlie prompted.
A pause.
“And then we came to bed?”
“Ahhh. But do you remember it?” Charlie asked him.
“Well,” the man said, blustering it out. “Many nights have been lost to mead! Haha!”
“Sure,” said Charlie. “But not last night, I’m pretty sure. You weren’t at dinner. Not when I was here.”
“You must be mistaken,” said the guy. “We were revelling for hours! We were certainly there.” He looked at her quizzically.
“And yet… I do not remember your face.”
“You and your friends,” said Charlie. “What are you actually up to? Like, where were you travelling when you turned up here?”
The man beamed. “We are hunting the Grail! Truly, a noble quest.”
“Been hunting it long?” said Charlie.
“Perhaps two or three weeks,” he said.
“And you’re… one of Arthur’s knights, are you?”
“Indeed! Sir Geraint, at your service.”
“And… two or three weeks, you say?”
Sir Geraint had begun to look worried. “Is there something wrong with my story, madam?”
“Just… just a thought,” Charlie said. “What month would you say it was when you arrived at this castle?”
“Why, September,” Sir Geraint said.
“Yeah. Some news for you, buddy,” Charlie told him. “We’re currently in March.”
Sir Geraint’s face froze in horror. “It cannot be!” he said.
“It definitely can… or does… be,” Charlie said. “Sorry about your wasted six months and all.”
The knight was silent, thinking. “And my friends?” he said.
“I guess they’re probably somewhere in the other rooms,” said Charlie. “You might have some trouble waking them up.”
Chapter 6
Dean stole a glance at Pellinore, back flush up against a tree about twenty yards to his left. Behind them, the hooting noise of the howling beast sounded again. It had taken them long enough to get to this point, days of wearying wandering in the path of the animal before Dean had finally realised that the thing was moving in zigzags, managing after long discussion to persuade Pellinore to change their course and cut sideways through the forest, finally giving them the edge to catch up. So, here they were.
“Follow your lead?” Dean bellowed, under cover of the roar.
Pellinore nodded ‘yes’.
Dean wasn’t a natural follower - that was for damn sure - but Pellinore had been adamant that he was the expert in this instance, recounting his family history at a length made ten times more tedious by the fact that Dean had heard it several times over already. So, Dean had finally conceded, not really too bothered about who was nominally leading now that the thing was so close by and the chance of a fight was before him. He was buzzing with it, jumping with jostling energy, sword flashing in his hand. Yeah. He was gonna sick it to this horrible creature and then maybe he could start to feel good about a job well done.
The noise came again, and it was upon them, crashing through the bushes and past Sir Pellinore’s outstretched sword. Pellinore yelled and charged after it, waving his weapon high in the air; and Dean ventured out behind him, to stand at the animal’s back.
It was certainly fearsome to look at, snake-mouth open to reveal sharp, dangerous fangs; and the blast of the noise that came from its throat acted with the force of a weapon, sending Pellinore stumbling back on his heels. Dean slashed at it and the thing wheeled around, clawing at him with one of its forepaws. He moved back, waiting for Pellinore to move in behind. But the knight didn’t seem to be really engaging, feinting dramatically with his sword but not making the killer blow into its side.
Dean didn’t get it. With the beast distracted, running towards him, Pellinore had a clear run. So why didn’t he take it?
There wasn’t a lot of time to think about it, as the thing swung round, heading back for Pellinore and leaving its back unprotected. Dean lunged at it, getting in a strike, a thick cut across its back flank that had the thing howling in pain.
Pellinore looked at him in shock.
“Come on!” Dean said. But the beast had sensed the guy’s weakness and was storming towards him, building up speed as it ran.
God, Dean thought. This was so frustrating. He found himself missing Sam and their easy choreography, their ability to anticipate one another’s next move. This dude was just… erratic. Which made the whole thing a lot more dangerous.
And then Dean had a thought. If it was good enough for Harrison Ford…
Taking advantage of a particularly loud shriek from Pellinore, he dove back towards the tree where he’d left his bag, scrabbling frantically through the packages of food that he’d left there to find the comforting grip of his gun. Spinning back around, he saw the beast drawing back, towering over Pellinore, poised as though about to strike.
Swift, practised, definite, Dean let the beast have it with all six cylinders, discharging bullet after bullet into its side.
~~~
Sir Geraint was becoming increasingly agitated, calling helplessly and at increasing volume into the unresponsive ears of his sleeping friends. He and Charlie had identified the pair pretty easily, found them sleeping in the rooms just beside Geraint’s. But they just refused to wake, breathing steadily and quietly and undisturbed no matter how much Charlie and Geraint shouted or slapped them around.
“Maybe we should try a different tactic,” said Charlie. “Maybe we need to go talk to the lord of the manor, or whatever you’d call him.”
Geraint’s face became thunderous. “Only show me a weapon,” he said to her, “and I will kill the man myself for this outrage he has visited upon my fellows and me.”
“Sure,” said Charlie, “Big talk. Big talk. But until we can find a weapon, let’s just have a sneaky look, OK?”
So they headed down the corridor together, breath sounding loud in the castle’s silent air.
It didn’t take long for Charlie to find her way back to the hall. It was empty, now, with the polished wood of the four long tables gleaming in the light from the moon. With Geraint behind her, she crossed towards the platform where the lord had been sitting. And then, from the musician’s gallery, she heard a cry.
It was the woman who had opened the castle gates, who had summoned her in and then poured her wine.
“How have you woken?” she asked Charlie. “What magic is this?”
Right, thought Charlie. Time to think on her feet. “Stand back, mortal! I am a powerful sorceress,” she said.
Beside her, she could feel Geraint start backward. “Not really,” she hissed under her breath.
Then, louder, “I demand that you release your prisoners. No longer must you hold them under your spell.”
The woman’s face fell. “I do not have that power.”
“Then… you better take me to someone who does!” Charlie hoped that she was exuding more authority than she actually felt, that she wasn’t about to get herself into a magical fist-fight she’d definitely lose.
“As you wish, madam,” said the serving woman, turning and leading them on.
She took them up a staircase, into a lighted corridor where the hangings were rich and where noise emanated from all of the doors. At the end of it was an antechamber and through there, a bedroom where the lord lay fat and rosy in his bed. His wife was beside him, wrapped in a furry robe.
“Sir,” said Charlie. “I demand that you let your prisoners free.”
He spluttered in outrage. “These people are my right,” he told her. “They have accepted my hospitality. And I wish them to remain my guests.”
“Well… you can’t,” said Charlie. “Sorry. They want to go.”
The lord turned his attention to Geraint. “If I let you free, Sir Knight,” he asked him, “whither would you direct your steps?”
Geraint coughed. “I hunt the Holy Grail.”
The lord looked back at Charlie. “He must not leave.”
“Wait,” said Charlie. “I don’t get it.”
“Those who can be so easily distracted from their path,” said the lord, “Do not deserve to reach such a goal. So it has been ordained.”
He shrugged.
“My apologies, sorceress.”
“Wait,” said Charlie. “Wait. I feel like we can work this out.”
The man looked at her. “How about if these guys agree not to hunt the Grail. What do you reckon to that? How about if they say they’ll turn around - shut up, Geraint - and go back to the castle, where they belong, you know, to take care of the villagers and, I don’t know, do a bit of falconry… play the lute… actually, what do you guys do with your time?”
Geraint bristled. “Jousting. Fencing. Sometimes, I mean, sometimes feasting.”
“Sounds super noble,” said Charlie. “Whatever. So. What about that?”
The lord looked suspicious. “This is not how I was told it.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Charlie. “Live a little. And just think… you could expand into that wing. Install a swimming pool. Or a… music room. I don’t know. Whatever.”
He was clearly considering it. He looked at his wife. “You have been wanting an additional chamber to display your tapestry.” Then, back to Charlie: “They must vow never to return to their quest.”
“Totally cool,” said Charlie. “Vows all around.”
Geraint nodded. “Just allow my friends out of their slumber.”
“And just to remind you,” Charlie said. “I’m a totally powerful sorceress. Like, I could turn you all into pigs. I’m being extremely merciful right now.”
The man blanched. “Do not harm me, lady,” he said. “I will let them go.”
~~~
Falling, the Questing Beast gave a nightmare sound, a screeching wheeze that grated at Dean’s nerves like nails on a blackboard, chorusing in a thousand wailing voices as it stuttered and fell. Pellinore flung himself out of its path as the thing crashed heavily down onto the floor, limbs sprawling and flopping until it finally stilled. A thick, dark blood oozed from its wounds.
Job well done, Dean thought. And he swaggered out of his hiding place, heading towards Pellinore to give him a slap on the back.
He was seriously discomfited when he found the knight on his knees, keening thinly, tugging violently at his long, tangled hair.
“You killed it!” Pellinore wailed, accusatory.
“Yeah,” said Dean, incredulous. “Yeah, man, I did.”
“Aaaahhhhhhh…” the knight was lamenting, sounds torn out of his breast like he was almost in pain.
“Is it…” Dean wracked his brain. “Is this, like, a pride thing? Are you bothered because you weren’t the one to take it down? Because, dude, I understand vengeance quests, like seriously, I would have let you do it but the thing was about to kill you! I didn’t want you to die.”
Pellinore was silent.
“Look, I don’t care about… about the honour, or the glory, or whatever,” Dean continued. “Seriously. I couldn’t care less. If you wanna tell everybody that you killed it…” - he looked critically at the beast - “I mean maybe you need to stab it a little but I’m sure they won’t question you too closely. Or just chop off its head, take that with you like a trophy. I don’t know how you guys do these things.”
Pellinore opened his mouth again and Dean was pretty sure he was going to agree with him, happy with taking the credit for completing his family quest. But instead, the knight began howling in earnest, tears spilling out of his pale blue eyes and over his cheeks.
“Dude,” said Dean, backing away. Then, because he was a good guy, really, stepping forward again. “Dude, what’s wrong?”
“What do I do nooooooooooooow?” sobbed Pellinore. “What - what - what do I dooooo without the beast?”
“Uhhh…” Dean wasn’t really equipped to handle this. “Did I do something wrong? I thought you were hunting the beast. I thought that was, you know, your whole life existence.”
“Exactly,” Pellinore cried. “I don’t know how to do anything else!”
This was ridiculous. “What, so you’re sad because you haven’t got anything else on the schedule? Haven’t you got, I don’t know, a girlfriend? Is there nothing else that you’d like to do?”
Pellinore jutted his chin, sulky, like a child. “No. No there is not. And it is not merely a matter of my… schedule. Being a Pellinore is hunting the beast. It’s the definition of my whole existence.”
“Right,” Dean said. “Right.” He was beginning to see why the rest of the knights might have bailed on this joker; might have left him alone to the hunt he never really wanted to end. “And… how many times would you say that you’ve fought him?”
Pellinore sniffled. “Several dozen at least. My prowess with the sword is legendary.”
“Huh,” said Dean. “I’ll bet.” He looked at the beast, still and heavy on the cold hard ground. “Sorry man, I don’t know what to say.”
Pellinore remained dejected, hunched over where he sat. Then suddenly, something seemed to strike him; he looked up with hope in his eyes.
“It is possible…” he began. “There is a great mage living in the forest.”
“Oh great,” Dean said. “Because witchcraft never causes problems.”
“Not a witch; a wizard,” Pellinore said. “Mayhap he will have the skill to revive the beast.”
“Just to get this straight,” Dean said. “You were hunting the beast. We killed the beast.” Pellinore sniffed again. “And now you want to find some magic dude to bring it back to life.”
Pellinore nodded. “Will you help me, friend?”
There was nothing else for Dean to do; he had no idea where Sam and Charlie might have headed, still less clue about the route he ought to take in order to get back home. And at least the prospect of finding a wizard seemed hopeful - maybe the guy could help him out with either or both of those questions. Plus, who knew what desperate thing Pellinore might do in his present condition? He didn’t really seem in the best frame of mind.
No, all things considered, Dean didn’t really have much of a choice. “Lead on, partner,” he said.
(On to Chapters 7 & 8)
Chapter 4
The enormous trail of broken trunks and branches and foliage that the beast left behind it made hunting it one of Dean’s more straightforward jobs. No long stretch on the laptop carefully chronicling its movements; no making of traps, no laying of bait. Instead, Dean just strode out in the wake of the chaos that the monster had created, sword weighing heavy and comfortable in his hand. OK, so it wasn’t the Blade. It didn’t feel like a bloodthirsty extension of his arm, perfectly balanced and deadly sharp and throbbing with the power to kill. But it was a good enough sword, and it flashed suggestively in the light, and what with that and the weight of the armour on his shoulders, Dean felt pretty good about his chances in this fight.
Say what you wanted about the monster, though, the thing could move; and Dean found himself walking for several hours through the mess it had left him without seeing or hearing a trace. It was then that he began to hear the noise of water - not the rushing of a river, but something altogether more tinkling and artificial - sounding through the trees up ahead. So he was surprised, but not totally shocked, when he emerged through a break in the treeline to find a clearing with a fountain at its centre; and dozing by its side, a knight.
The man started up at the sight of Dean, hand flashing to the sword at his side. Dean blinked, overwhelmed for a second by a vision of the guy falling backward, throat slashed and life spraying out of him in a bloody, satisfying gush. His own hand tightened around the grip of his sword. But he could fight this. So he swallowed, breathing deeply, tamping it down.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I got no fight with you.”
The man looked cautious for a moment. Then his features relaxed, opening into a friendly smile. He held out his hand, sandy hair falling over his face as he leant forward. He was good-looking, in a washed-out kind of way; features verging on the colourless, mouth soft and chin recessive and weak. A bit of a pansy, Dean thought, even if he was a knight. But still, a friendly face was a friendly face; and the guy might be able to give him something useful on the beast. You never knew.
“Dean,” Dean said.
“Sir Pellinore,” said the Knight. Then he looked at Dean expectantly. Maybe Dean should know that name? Actually, now he thought of it, he was pretty sure that it’d shown up engraved into that table; that this guy was one of Arthur’s circle.
“Do you… have you come from the castle?” asked Dean. “From Camelot? Do you know where everybody went?”
Sir Pellinore sighed, deeply and dramatically, rearranging his body into a melodramatic pose of dismay complete with theatrical hand across the forehead. Dean raised his eyebrows, smirked.
“Alas! My brothers have all departed on a futile, fruitless, quest for the Holy Grail.”
“Huh,” said Dean. “And you?”
Pellinore opened his eyes where they had been closed in mock-anguish, directing a peevish look at Dean. “Did you not hear my introduction? I am Sir Pellinore.”
“Sorry, dude,” Dean said, aiming for apologetic. “I’m not from around here.”
“From generation to generation,” Pellinore intoned, “my forebears have hunted the questing beast. From the sprightly days of their youth to the bent and painful dragging of their age, every step has been bent in pursuit of this terrible monster. The quest for it is a birthright handed down with great moment from father to son.”
“The questing beast?” Dean said. “And you quest after it?”
Pellinore looked at him, unamused.
“Questing? Quest? Seems a little unlikely.”
Still nothing.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Dean. “But… I think maybe I’m after the same thing. Kinda huge, scaly, leopardy, liony, deer...y? Makes a helluva noise?”
He was surprised by Pellinore’s reaction. The sandy man’s face lit up and his whole body language shifted, so that he was bouncing enthusiastically on the balls of his feet. “Indeed! My friend! Oh, ‘twould be surely delightful to find a companion in my burdensome quest!”
“Oh,” said Dean. ‘Companion’.
“For many years,” Pellinore said, “the beast has terrorised our villagers, plowing through their markets and houses on a course of wanton destruction. Its strength is legendary and its ferocity unabated, the necessity to destroy it only growing more urgent with time.”
“Right,” Dean agreed. He knew Sam’d been being an asshole.
“You can only imagine my sorrow and frustration,” Pellinore continued, “when all of my compatriot knights abandoned me, leaving this mission, the blood of my life, to partake in their selfish quest for the Grail. What is the Grail? What are its powers? What its meaning? Surely the slaying of a mighty beast is a greater cause!”
And Dean found himself agreeing, again. “Don’t even tell me about the friggin’ Grail,” he said. OK, so this dude was a little… emotional, a little less butch and intimidating than Dean had expected the knights to be. But he obviously had his head screwed on right, had a better idea about what mattered than any of the rest of them - or than Charlie, or Sam. So yeah, why not work together? Dean hadn’t wanted to work with Benny, at first, either, and the guy had turned out to be solid. So, “Lead on, brother,” he said.
Pellinore beamed.
~~~
“OK, so, we’re in the woods,” said Charlie. “What now?”
“I guess… this way?” said Sam. He didn’t know, like really didn’t and it was all beginning to seem stupid. How could he have thought that he’d be able to complete this quest, when they knew for certain, both of them, that the rest of the knights had been months at the very same task? What made him so cocksure about finding it? There’d been nothing useful of the kind in his dream, just a vision of the cup, of a chapel, and the absolute certainty that this was what he had to do. And he’d been missing that certainty, since the months he’d spent absolutely driven in the hunt for Dean - since the moment in the bunker when he’d felt, for a brief, dizzy moment, that he’d finally completed a task. Of course, he’d failed at it, as it turned out. He’d fumbled it like he’d fumbled the trials, delivered his brother from demonhood but left him ticking with the power of the Mark. Another failure in a great long line of them. So why should the Grail be any different?
The thing was, this time, he wasn’t alone. It wasn’t fair to lead Charlie into the woods and then lead her back out of them, confess to her he was totally lost and that she ought to turn back after Dean. She’d put her trust in him and he should at least endeavour to deserve it.
So he drew up his shoulders, laid his hand on his sword and looked around. The trees spread out in every direction, identical, intimidating, dark.
And then he saw it, a movement through the trees, something white and glowing through the shadow of the woods.
“Hey, Charlie,” he said, pointing. “Did you -“
She nodded. “Over there.”
Together, they moved towards it, clambering carefully over the densely knotted roots. The shape had stopped moving, and as they approached Sam was able to see it properly. An enormous stag, silent and majestic and huge.
“I think we need to follow it,” he said, although he hadn’t known that that was what he thought before shaping the words. As soon as they were out of his mouth, though, he knew; knew that the stag was helping them, that he was part of their quest.
“Absolutely, man,” said Charlie. And to the stag, “Lead on, buddy.”
It did, walking at a steady, rapid place; guiding them certainly and surely through the forest, down into dips and up over hills and through acres and acres of trees. Finally, it brought them out beside an enormous river; and paused there, looking upstream. Then suddenly, as fast as it had appeared, it was gone.
“Are we there yet?” asked Charlie. They very obviously weren’t. But the river was wide and dark, and the prospect of crossing it wasn’t inviting.
“I guess… we continue up the river?” Sam said.
Charlie shrugged, nodded, still happy and excited.
~~~
That excitement didn’t last. Not over the course of the next two days; not as the rain kept on falling and the river kept on rushing and they walked on, quiet now, not hearing or meeting anybody.
“I hope the stag wanted us to go this way,” Sam would say, occasionally, still wrestling with self-doubt.
“Sure he did,” Charlie would reply.
And then they would be silent, pacing on for the next few hours.
Charlie didn’t want to be mean to Sam. She did think that they were going the right way, and she knew that he was suffering as much as her; that he was likely just as chilled, just as tired and hopeless. Sleeping on the wet ground just inside the treeline hadn’t proven particularly soothing; there were too many beasties out in the woods, so that one of them had to stay awake to guard for the other, and they didn’t want to stop for too long, so that they were only getting a few hours’ sleep at a time. Add to that that they were hungry, and it was too wet for a fire; so even if they had been able to catch a bird, or a rabbit, or a fish, it would have been a whole lot more complicated to try and eat it; and they had long since burned through the protein bars in Sam’s bag. They had some of the salted meat that the villagers had given them, but who knew how long they’d be walking for? It seemed sensible to save their rations. And so she was hungry, as well as being cold, and miserable; with the glamour and excitement of the quest slowly ebbing away.
On top of that, her armour was heavy, really heavy in a way that the cosplay stuff never was. She didn’t know if it was to do with technology - maybe people were better at making lighter, more efficient armour nowadays - or purpose - the LARPing stuff didn’t really have to work - but either way around, the small suit that she’d snagged from the castle was heavy and uncomfortable and really not a lot of fun to be wearing, not during a long-haul hike through the woods.
She sneaked a glance at Sam, pacing beside her, silent, thoughtful as always.
“I could murder a burger and fries,” she said.
Sam smiled: effortful, unnatural, kind. “You oughta get Dean to make you a burger, one day. It’s his speciality. He’s a pretty good cook.”
Charlie nodded. And then, because fuck it, why not ask him, “Hey. What’s going on with Dean?”
Sam’s brow furrowed, his mouth twisting uncertainly. He obviously wasn’t sure how much he ought to reveal. “Uh. He’s having a little trouble,” he offered reluctantly. “Some… supernatural stuff.”
“Gee thanks,” said Charlie. “Sure you won’t have to kill me for knowing too much?”
Sam smiled, genuine now, shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. It’s not my secret to tell, you know? He’s just… he’s not himself lately and I don’t know how to fix it. I mean. We know the problem but we can’t make it go away.” He paused. “Sorry I can’t be more specific.”
Charlie shook her head. “It’s OK.” She paused, then, wondering if there was something else she ought to say - something about the stuff that Sam had spilled out during his confrontation with Dean. Like, if he really still felt that way about himself, then maybe someone ought to tell him that whatever he felt was inside him, none of it mattered - not really. He was a lovely, kind, sweet, brave, good guy.
She opened her mouth, trying to frame the right words to begin her sentence. But then she stopped. Sam was distracted, looking over her shoulder, surprised. He pointed and yeah, she could see what he was looking at - looming through the dusk, at a point where the river widened up ahead, the small strong keep of a castle. There were lights at the windows and even from where they stood, Sam could hear the soft sounds of music drifting over the water.
“Oh man,” said Charlie. “Warmth!”
Chapter 5
This castle by the river was nothing like Camelot - maybe a sixth or an eighth of the size. It was really just one stone keep, solid and circular and strong.
As they stood uncertain outside it, the main gate flung open with a bang. A woman, bright-faced and brightly dressed in blue, smiled at the bedraggled travellers standing outside. Her face was fresh, pretty and inviting; the whole picture couldn’t have been more welcome, nor stood in greater contrast to the drizzly, empty wilderness at their backs. “Welcome, friends,” she said. “Come in. Join us. Eat.”
“Sure thing, lady,” said Charlie, happily; before Sam’s hand at her shoulder pulled her back. “What’s your problem, dude?” she hissed. “Don’t you want to get something to eat? Maybe take a bath?”
“Charlie…” Sam said. “You know the stories. This doesn’t seem right. Who are they? Why are they inviting us in? I just don’t think it’s safe.”
Charlie shook her head. “You’re too cautious, bro, you know that? Haven’t you read your fantasy literature? We have guest-right! They can’t just… you know… slaughter us in our beds. It’s, like, totally against the code of conduct around these parts.”
“You don’t know these parts, Charlie!”
“Come on, it’s basically Westeros.”
“Yeah, and I think we all remember the Red Wedding, am I right?”
Charlie frowned. Damn Stanford logic. This would have worked on Dean. So she tried another tactic. “Pleeeeeease?”
Sam wavered.
“I promise if anything looks weird, I’ll head out with you straight away. No questions asked.”
He was obviously still reluctant, but Charlie was pretty sure that Sam’s good nature would win out in the end. And yeah, it seemed she was right; Sam lifted his head and smiled at the girl still waiting patiently just inside the gate. “My friend wants to come in.”
“You are rightly welcome,” said the girl. “Come in. Join us. Eat.”
She stepped backward, gesturing them inside.
~~~
“Are you seriously not going to eat anything?” Charlie asked Sam, again. “This is crazy! How are you going to find the Grail if you haven’t got the energy to walk?”
“I’m not… I’ll eat what I’ve got in my backpack. Charlie. I’m just… this doesn’t feel right.”
Charlie looked around her. They were in the castle’s hall, towards the head of one of three long wooden tables that stretched out across the floor. On a raised dais above them, the lord of the house sat with his wife and his children, faces pink and shiny with alcohol and sweat. A band was playing, people were laughing, and the tables were heaving with food. Charlie had been eating for a good twenty minutes and had barely made a dent in the plates stood in front of her.
“What’s so wrong about this?”
Sam looked uncomfortable. “I’m really sorry, Charlie. I just… I think I have to go.”
“Are you serious? Like, right now? You wanna just walk out the door - away from the bedrooms, which have beds in them, might I remind you - and into the rainy night?”
“I’m sorry, Charlie. I have to. I think… this sounds crazy. I think the stag is waiting for me outside. I keep seeing him.”
“Seeing him?”
“In my head.”
Charlie fought back the urge to roll her eyes. Damn stag. Then, “You can’t just go,” she said.
“Why not?”
“It’s rude! We’ve accepted their hospitality!”
“I haven’t,” Sam said. “I haven’t eaten or drunk.”
As he spoke, the woman who had first let them into the castle appeared beside them, carrying a steaming jug of something in her hands. The sweet, heady scent of it flooded into Charlie’s nostrils, joining the delicious, savoury smell of the food.
“Sam,” she said, “You are legitimately crazy. Why would you walk out on this?”
The woman looked disconcerted. “Are you intending to depart?” she said.
Sam looked from side to side, obviously considering. “Yeah,” he said eventually, drawing himself to his feet. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean any rudeness. But… I’m a pilgrim. And I have to go on.”
The woman cast a quick glance up towards the platform, where the lord sat, cheeks pink and belly shaking in mirth. “It is not permitted,” she began.
“I’m sorry,” Sam said again. “But… I haven’t accepted your hospitality. I'm not formally a guest. And I'm going to leave.”
She hesitated, and he took advantage of the moment to begin backing outwards, extricating his long legs from underneath the bench. “Come on, Charlie,” he said.
Charlie didn’t want to. Like, she should have been concerned about the separation - about what would happen to her, and to Sam, if they were split up. But it was somehow hard to find the inclination. She was so completely full, and warm, and satisfied. And the rain was still beating hard against the castle windows, and the wind was howling, and it was so very dark outside. So…
“You go on without me,” she said.
Sam was shocked. “Charlie, I can’t…”
“Don’t worry about it!” she told him. “It’s cool!”
Sam looked seriously suspicious; but their serving-woman was already at the side of the lord, whispering into his ear - and as they looked at him, he turned a glowering gaze towards in their direction.
“Charlie,” said Sam, tugging at her sleeve.
“I’m not going,” she told him, shaking her head with a smile. “It’s fine!” She could see him deciding, glancing anxious up at the dais and finally, resolved, shaking his head and turning to leave.
“Enjoy yourself!” Charlie called, watching his tall figure retreating rapidly out of the hall. Crazy kid. Why would you take yourself back out into the night, when you could be here, nice and cosy, surrounded by all these friendly faces, all these buxom ladies in their period dress? Dude must have a problem with self-punishment, she resolved.
The serving woman was immediately back at her side. “Please, my lady,” she said. “Will you not drink?”
So Charlie did, upending the contents of the goblet into her mouth. It was just as delicious as its odour suggested, thick and viscous and fiery as it ran down her throat. “What is this stuff?” she asked the man beside her; but he barely looked at her, merely reached forward to take more food.
Up in the musician’s gallery, a man began singing, a honey-sweet song that caught the movement of Charlie’s dreamy, hazy mind. She was tired, so tired after her walking. It felt like any moment, she might drop off to sleep.
~~~
Charlie sat bolt upright in bed with a gasp, tugged out of a dreamless doze with a sharp yank right into her chest. What was that? And more to the point, where was she? She rubbed her forehead, frowning with the concentration of trying to remember. She couldn’t remember coming to bed… couldn’t remember much, actually, except that Sam had been increasingly reluctant all evening and that he’d slipped quietly, swiftly back out into the rain.
She felt a sudden clutch of concern. What had she been thinking, letting him go on without her? She didn’t know what the hell she was doing here, and she was pretty sure that the helpful stag-shaped tour guide was a psychic Sam special. She’d casually abandoned her best chance of getting home - getting anywhere - safely, and what for? A warm meal, and a bed.
This bed wasn’t all that, anyway, not the fur-piled comfortable cosiness she’d been envisaging at dinner. In fact, the whole room was more like a cell in a monastery than a room in a castle: bare walls, narrow bed, nothing else at all. Moreover, the small window in the wooden door was covered over with strong iron bars.
This didn’t seem good.
“Here goes,” breathed Charlie, swinging her legs off the bed, standing to find herself woozy but more or less stable. “Where have you put me, you weirdos?”
She tried the door, expecting it to be locked; but to her surprise, it swung open under her hand. Poking her head cautiously out into the corridor, she saw a row of identical doors extending in either direction. This was definitely odd.
On the plus side, there were no guards visible; so she tiptoed out of her cell, made her way along to the next room. Standing on tiptoes, she peered through the bars. She could make out a figure lying in the bed. Somebody else, asleep. Well, of itself that wasn’t too weird, right? This might just be the bedroom… wing. But there was the same in every chamber, empty little cells with bodies breathing soft in the moonlight. There were people here, like way more people then there had been at dinner. Where had they all come from?
Charlie sighed. Then she pushed open the nearest door, crossed the floor and looked down at the sleeper in the bed.
Like most of the occupants of the bedrooms, it was a man; young and good-looking, his hair curling dark on the pillow.
“Hey, dude,” said Charlie, shaking him. “Wake up.”
The man rolled over, his body pliant under her hand. His eyelids remained firmly closed.
“Seriously?” asked Charlie. She bent forward, to try calling him again right in his ear. The metal chain she was wearing around her neck swung down, catching across his cheek; and suddenly the man’s eyes shot open, sending Charlie startling back out of his way.
“What is it?” said the man, blinking. “Is it time to depart?” Then, looking around him, “Madam. I fear you have waked me too early. The sun is not yet up.”
“No,” agreed Charlie. “Sorry. I didn’t… Do you know how you got here?”
The man smiled, amused. “Why, lady, what a strange question. I was riding with my friends when we came upon this place. A very genteel maiden bid us enter and they feasted us royally.”
“And then what?” Charlie prompted.
A pause.
“And then we came to bed?”
“Ahhh. But do you remember it?” Charlie asked him.
“Well,” the man said, blustering it out. “Many nights have been lost to mead! Haha!”
“Sure,” said Charlie. “But not last night, I’m pretty sure. You weren’t at dinner. Not when I was here.”
“You must be mistaken,” said the guy. “We were revelling for hours! We were certainly there.” He looked at her quizzically.
“And yet… I do not remember your face.”
“You and your friends,” said Charlie. “What are you actually up to? Like, where were you travelling when you turned up here?”
The man beamed. “We are hunting the Grail! Truly, a noble quest.”
“Been hunting it long?” said Charlie.
“Perhaps two or three weeks,” he said.
“And you’re… one of Arthur’s knights, are you?”
“Indeed! Sir Geraint, at your service.”
“And… two or three weeks, you say?”
Sir Geraint had begun to look worried. “Is there something wrong with my story, madam?”
“Just… just a thought,” Charlie said. “What month would you say it was when you arrived at this castle?”
“Why, September,” Sir Geraint said.
“Yeah. Some news for you, buddy,” Charlie told him. “We’re currently in March.”
Sir Geraint’s face froze in horror. “It cannot be!” he said.
“It definitely can… or does… be,” Charlie said. “Sorry about your wasted six months and all.”
The knight was silent, thinking. “And my friends?” he said.
“I guess they’re probably somewhere in the other rooms,” said Charlie. “You might have some trouble waking them up.”
Chapter 6
Dean stole a glance at Pellinore, back flush up against a tree about twenty yards to his left. Behind them, the hooting noise of the howling beast sounded again. It had taken them long enough to get to this point, days of wearying wandering in the path of the animal before Dean had finally realised that the thing was moving in zigzags, managing after long discussion to persuade Pellinore to change their course and cut sideways through the forest, finally giving them the edge to catch up. So, here they were.
“Follow your lead?” Dean bellowed, under cover of the roar.
Pellinore nodded ‘yes’.
Dean wasn’t a natural follower - that was for damn sure - but Pellinore had been adamant that he was the expert in this instance, recounting his family history at a length made ten times more tedious by the fact that Dean had heard it several times over already. So, Dean had finally conceded, not really too bothered about who was nominally leading now that the thing was so close by and the chance of a fight was before him. He was buzzing with it, jumping with jostling energy, sword flashing in his hand. Yeah. He was gonna sick it to this horrible creature and then maybe he could start to feel good about a job well done.
The noise came again, and it was upon them, crashing through the bushes and past Sir Pellinore’s outstretched sword. Pellinore yelled and charged after it, waving his weapon high in the air; and Dean ventured out behind him, to stand at the animal’s back.
It was certainly fearsome to look at, snake-mouth open to reveal sharp, dangerous fangs; and the blast of the noise that came from its throat acted with the force of a weapon, sending Pellinore stumbling back on his heels. Dean slashed at it and the thing wheeled around, clawing at him with one of its forepaws. He moved back, waiting for Pellinore to move in behind. But the knight didn’t seem to be really engaging, feinting dramatically with his sword but not making the killer blow into its side.
Dean didn’t get it. With the beast distracted, running towards him, Pellinore had a clear run. So why didn’t he take it?
There wasn’t a lot of time to think about it, as the thing swung round, heading back for Pellinore and leaving its back unprotected. Dean lunged at it, getting in a strike, a thick cut across its back flank that had the thing howling in pain.
Pellinore looked at him in shock.
“Come on!” Dean said. But the beast had sensed the guy’s weakness and was storming towards him, building up speed as it ran.
God, Dean thought. This was so frustrating. He found himself missing Sam and their easy choreography, their ability to anticipate one another’s next move. This dude was just… erratic. Which made the whole thing a lot more dangerous.
And then Dean had a thought. If it was good enough for Harrison Ford…
Taking advantage of a particularly loud shriek from Pellinore, he dove back towards the tree where he’d left his bag, scrabbling frantically through the packages of food that he’d left there to find the comforting grip of his gun. Spinning back around, he saw the beast drawing back, towering over Pellinore, poised as though about to strike.
Swift, practised, definite, Dean let the beast have it with all six cylinders, discharging bullet after bullet into its side.
~~~
Sir Geraint was becoming increasingly agitated, calling helplessly and at increasing volume into the unresponsive ears of his sleeping friends. He and Charlie had identified the pair pretty easily, found them sleeping in the rooms just beside Geraint’s. But they just refused to wake, breathing steadily and quietly and undisturbed no matter how much Charlie and Geraint shouted or slapped them around.
“Maybe we should try a different tactic,” said Charlie. “Maybe we need to go talk to the lord of the manor, or whatever you’d call him.”
Geraint’s face became thunderous. “Only show me a weapon,” he said to her, “and I will kill the man myself for this outrage he has visited upon my fellows and me.”
“Sure,” said Charlie, “Big talk. Big talk. But until we can find a weapon, let’s just have a sneaky look, OK?”
So they headed down the corridor together, breath sounding loud in the castle’s silent air.
It didn’t take long for Charlie to find her way back to the hall. It was empty, now, with the polished wood of the four long tables gleaming in the light from the moon. With Geraint behind her, she crossed towards the platform where the lord had been sitting. And then, from the musician’s gallery, she heard a cry.
It was the woman who had opened the castle gates, who had summoned her in and then poured her wine.
“How have you woken?” she asked Charlie. “What magic is this?”
Right, thought Charlie. Time to think on her feet. “Stand back, mortal! I am a powerful sorceress,” she said.
Beside her, she could feel Geraint start backward. “Not really,” she hissed under her breath.
Then, louder, “I demand that you release your prisoners. No longer must you hold them under your spell.”
The woman’s face fell. “I do not have that power.”
“Then… you better take me to someone who does!” Charlie hoped that she was exuding more authority than she actually felt, that she wasn’t about to get herself into a magical fist-fight she’d definitely lose.
“As you wish, madam,” said the serving woman, turning and leading them on.
She took them up a staircase, into a lighted corridor where the hangings were rich and where noise emanated from all of the doors. At the end of it was an antechamber and through there, a bedroom where the lord lay fat and rosy in his bed. His wife was beside him, wrapped in a furry robe.
“Sir,” said Charlie. “I demand that you let your prisoners free.”
He spluttered in outrage. “These people are my right,” he told her. “They have accepted my hospitality. And I wish them to remain my guests.”
“Well… you can’t,” said Charlie. “Sorry. They want to go.”
The lord turned his attention to Geraint. “If I let you free, Sir Knight,” he asked him, “whither would you direct your steps?”
Geraint coughed. “I hunt the Holy Grail.”
The lord looked back at Charlie. “He must not leave.”
“Wait,” said Charlie. “I don’t get it.”
“Those who can be so easily distracted from their path,” said the lord, “Do not deserve to reach such a goal. So it has been ordained.”
He shrugged.
“My apologies, sorceress.”
“Wait,” said Charlie. “Wait. I feel like we can work this out.”
The man looked at her. “How about if these guys agree not to hunt the Grail. What do you reckon to that? How about if they say they’ll turn around - shut up, Geraint - and go back to the castle, where they belong, you know, to take care of the villagers and, I don’t know, do a bit of falconry… play the lute… actually, what do you guys do with your time?”
Geraint bristled. “Jousting. Fencing. Sometimes, I mean, sometimes feasting.”
“Sounds super noble,” said Charlie. “Whatever. So. What about that?”
The lord looked suspicious. “This is not how I was told it.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Charlie. “Live a little. And just think… you could expand into that wing. Install a swimming pool. Or a… music room. I don’t know. Whatever.”
He was clearly considering it. He looked at his wife. “You have been wanting an additional chamber to display your tapestry.” Then, back to Charlie: “They must vow never to return to their quest.”
“Totally cool,” said Charlie. “Vows all around.”
Geraint nodded. “Just allow my friends out of their slumber.”
“And just to remind you,” Charlie said. “I’m a totally powerful sorceress. Like, I could turn you all into pigs. I’m being extremely merciful right now.”
The man blanched. “Do not harm me, lady,” he said. “I will let them go.”
~~~
Falling, the Questing Beast gave a nightmare sound, a screeching wheeze that grated at Dean’s nerves like nails on a blackboard, chorusing in a thousand wailing voices as it stuttered and fell. Pellinore flung himself out of its path as the thing crashed heavily down onto the floor, limbs sprawling and flopping until it finally stilled. A thick, dark blood oozed from its wounds.
Job well done, Dean thought. And he swaggered out of his hiding place, heading towards Pellinore to give him a slap on the back.
He was seriously discomfited when he found the knight on his knees, keening thinly, tugging violently at his long, tangled hair.
“You killed it!” Pellinore wailed, accusatory.
“Yeah,” said Dean, incredulous. “Yeah, man, I did.”
“Aaaahhhhhhh…” the knight was lamenting, sounds torn out of his breast like he was almost in pain.
“Is it…” Dean wracked his brain. “Is this, like, a pride thing? Are you bothered because you weren’t the one to take it down? Because, dude, I understand vengeance quests, like seriously, I would have let you do it but the thing was about to kill you! I didn’t want you to die.”
Pellinore was silent.
“Look, I don’t care about… about the honour, or the glory, or whatever,” Dean continued. “Seriously. I couldn’t care less. If you wanna tell everybody that you killed it…” - he looked critically at the beast - “I mean maybe you need to stab it a little but I’m sure they won’t question you too closely. Or just chop off its head, take that with you like a trophy. I don’t know how you guys do these things.”
Pellinore opened his mouth again and Dean was pretty sure he was going to agree with him, happy with taking the credit for completing his family quest. But instead, the knight began howling in earnest, tears spilling out of his pale blue eyes and over his cheeks.
“Dude,” said Dean, backing away. Then, because he was a good guy, really, stepping forward again. “Dude, what’s wrong?”
“What do I do nooooooooooooow?” sobbed Pellinore. “What - what - what do I dooooo without the beast?”
“Uhhh…” Dean wasn’t really equipped to handle this. “Did I do something wrong? I thought you were hunting the beast. I thought that was, you know, your whole life existence.”
“Exactly,” Pellinore cried. “I don’t know how to do anything else!”
This was ridiculous. “What, so you’re sad because you haven’t got anything else on the schedule? Haven’t you got, I don’t know, a girlfriend? Is there nothing else that you’d like to do?”
Pellinore jutted his chin, sulky, like a child. “No. No there is not. And it is not merely a matter of my… schedule. Being a Pellinore is hunting the beast. It’s the definition of my whole existence.”
“Right,” Dean said. “Right.” He was beginning to see why the rest of the knights might have bailed on this joker; might have left him alone to the hunt he never really wanted to end. “And… how many times would you say that you’ve fought him?”
Pellinore sniffled. “Several dozen at least. My prowess with the sword is legendary.”
“Huh,” said Dean. “I’ll bet.” He looked at the beast, still and heavy on the cold hard ground. “Sorry man, I don’t know what to say.”
Pellinore remained dejected, hunched over where he sat. Then suddenly, something seemed to strike him; he looked up with hope in his eyes.
“It is possible…” he began. “There is a great mage living in the forest.”
“Oh great,” Dean said. “Because witchcraft never causes problems.”
“Not a witch; a wizard,” Pellinore said. “Mayhap he will have the skill to revive the beast.”
“Just to get this straight,” Dean said. “You were hunting the beast. We killed the beast.” Pellinore sniffed again. “And now you want to find some magic dude to bring it back to life.”
Pellinore nodded. “Will you help me, friend?”
There was nothing else for Dean to do; he had no idea where Sam and Charlie might have headed, still less clue about the route he ought to take in order to get back home. And at least the prospect of finding a wizard seemed hopeful - maybe the guy could help him out with either or both of those questions. Plus, who knew what desperate thing Pellinore might do in his present condition? He didn’t really seem in the best frame of mind.
No, all things considered, Dean didn’t really have much of a choice. “Lead on, partner,” he said.
(On to Chapters 7 & 8)