His Dark Knights - Prologue

(I should have posted this before Ch 1, but I'll post a new chapter 1 shortly, edited, so stay tuned)

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Arthur ran his tongue along his elongated fangs as he prepared to enter the fray, armed with Excalibur and the curse that made him a feared warrior of the night.

On the battlefield below, his army fought strong. His loyal Knights of the Round Table held off men twice their size. Half-giants made up the front line of the enemy force, propelled by dark magic and several Shadowspun—a mercenary group that could only be bought by giving up part of one’s soul. 

As much damage as they were doing to Arthur’s side, he knew it wouldn’t last if he took out the enemy’s general. Once the general fell, the Shadowspun’s price would be paid and they would have no more reason to fight. 

Arthur had his strengths to rely on, not the least of which was Merlin’s spells of protection and enchantments on his soldiers’ weapons. More than that, the old sorcerer had perfected the front line of attack by casting a special curse of the moon on them, then spinning his web so that this battle would take place on the full moon. 

“Talk to me!” Arthur commanded, shouting over the clash of swords and screams of pain from below. He dismounted, handing his horse’s reins off so that he would be able to fight the way that best fit the creature he had become. “What do we see?”

“A force…” his warger’s eyes blinked rapidly as the woman switched between her birds to scout the army below. “To the east, a dark presence indeed.”

“Find out whether it is this necromancer,” Arthur ordered, “so that we might put a stop to this.”

“I’m on it, Sire.” Percival gathered a handful of knights to ride into the fray. Watching them move out was like observing a massive wave as it crashed against the shore. They owned the night as they paired up against their much larger opponents and tore through those who weren’t. 

Arthur never doubted his knights for a moment, but that didn’t mean he underestimated the threat the enemy posed. Even with his warger watching the battlefield, his front line of werewolves, and Merlin’s magic, they had to take out the necromancer if they were to stand a chance. 

It wasn’t until he saw a group of his closest knights surrounded that he charged in to take matters into his hands. He darted around in the night, using darkness as an ally against those mortals among the enemy who were handicapped by it. When he needed energy, he fed, but mostly he tore through them with a fury only one so cursed could bring. 

Each strike brought more of the enemy down, but others rose in their place. If Arthur was to have any hope of winning this battle, he needed to destroy the necromancer. First, Arthur needed to find him. 

As the enemy spun his sword and caused corpses to rise and rejoin the fight, he gave himself away. The man wore all black with green steam rising from his sword. His heavy cloak fell around him and his horse, and a wide hood obscured his face. The green, glowing runes etched into his skin confirmed what Arthur already knew. 

The cursed king charged across the battlefield like a bat out of hell. Flashes of darkness carried him forward as his sword rose to taste the enemy’s flesh. The man spun on Arthur and brought that green, glowing blade up to parry his in a clash of two forces that were never meant to meet. Each man felt that stinging vibration through their sword, and the mixed taste of evil that promised so much more.

Strike down your opponent, and be immortal, it enticed. Arthur knew somewhere in him that he didn’t normally care for such things. Now, the craving had taken over and he wanted blood. 

His eyes landed on the symbol at the blade’s hilt—a crystal skull embraced by black wings. It was a familiar symbol from Arthur’s past, but from when and where, he couldn’t remember. That moment’s hesitation caused him to lose the advantage. The next spell shot him back, making him stumble and nearly fall as it attempted to drain his life force. 

The man could fight, Arthur had to give him that. Each strike threatened to end Arthur, but the king hadn’t unleashed his full potential. He hated letting it get to that—hated falling to the madness. Sometimes, it was the only way to win. 

Against magic such as this, Arthur saw no other option. He tore his helmet from his head and tossed it back. His long blond locks flew, and his vision reddened as the craving struck. Rage and desire washed over him—a thirst for blood. His fangs elongated. Claws drove out through the slits in his gauntlets. 

At his signal, his soldiers followed suit. They converged on their enemy en masse. It wasn’t simply the threat of consuming the enemy’s blood, but of the enhanced speed and power. Moving too fast would be folly, though, as the craving could lead his army to the point of chaos and take away his control on the battlefield. Choosing the right moment was everything, and this was it. Arthur struck with a fury his opponent had little chance of standing against. 

A flurry of movements followed, ending in the man tumbling from his horse. Arthur ignored the spells that made his skin boil, along with the attempted searing burns and daggers of ice. None of them came from holy magic, since this man was about as far from being a paladin as one could be. He was of the dark magic, and dark magic could do little lasting damage against one it had cursed with its gift. 

So when Arthur bared the man’s neck and sank his teeth in, all the man’s spells and thrashing led to nothing. Even the burns Arthur had suffered quickly healed as he consumed the man’s blood, draining every drop he could stomach until the man was on his last heartbeat. Arthur pulled back to watch the last ounce of life drain from the man’s eyes. A burst of green light shot out from the fresh corpse and was gone as his soul retreated to whatever dark force it was promised to. 

As Arthur rose, he saw his Knights of the Round Table finishing their feasts, and his minions of the lower ranks in the valley below tearing at their clothes, armor be damned. Those of the moon curse stripped completely and leaned back to howl at the moon. Pointed ears and fur-covered bodies shone silver-tipped in its cold, pale light. Next, they would fuck. He knew this from previous battle experience. His closest knights would drink until they were healed, while his wolves finished off the rest of the enemy. They would leave no survivors. 

So was the way of King Arthur’s victory. Fierce, merciless, so that fear would tear through enemy armies and cause them to doubt any leader who might declare war on Camelot. 

But it didn’t sit right with Arthur. Now that he had a clear head and was done feasting, he remembered a piece of him that didn’t agree with this method of warfare. One that never wanted the curse, and that realized he needed to resist. Not someday, but now. Where did these thoughts come from? he asked himself. 

An answer came in the form of a woman crawling toward him. She wore heavy armor with that same mark he had recognized on the necromancer’s sword. Her head was shaved on the sides with the remaining hair pulled back into a braid, and her gray eyes stared at him amid the blood that flowed from a cut on the side of her brow. Warmth flowed from her like a bath he had stepped out of, and now desperately needed to return to. Was it a spell, or something deeper?

When she was within earshot, she stopped and pushed herself up to a sitting position before managing to say, “It’s time you returned.”

“Excuse me?” Arthur looked around to see that they were alone.

“Your people need you, King Arthur.” She coughed and spat blood onto the back of her hand. Her eyes took on a distant look. “It’s time.”

At that, her eyes rolled back and she fell face-first into the mud. Arthur stared at her and wiped the blood from his chin. He would have dismissed her without a second thought, except for that warmth and the unsettling familiarity the symbol evoked. More than anything, he wanted to believe her. He had felt the unease for several months now—the knowledge that everything was wrong.

Lancelot and Rodain stood waiting at the top of a nearby incline. Blood covered their chins and hands as well. To Arthur, they looked like monsters, not the noble knights he knew they could be. 

“This cannot continue,” Arthur said. 

“What do you propose, Sire?” Rodain’s red eyes lifted to meet his. 

As Arthur fought the curse and pushed back the darkness within, he stood tall, eyeing his closest knights. “It’s time for a change. Time to break the shackles that bind us to our slaver… To end Merlin.”