Mad Queen, page 5
Thomas drew Cindlar's Blade in a smooth motion, the ancient Dwarven weapon's runes flaring to life as it cleared its scabbard. The sword's weight felt reassuring in his grip, its enchanted edge catching the chamber's lighting as he settled into his own defensive stance.
"If you're planning to attack me," Thomas said quietly, "you should know that I won't hold back."
"Attack you?" Morgana's eyebrows rose in apparent surprise, though her grip on the practice weapon never wavered. "My dear Sir Dragon, I'm simply having a conversation. Perhaps I’d like to demonstrate a few of the techniques Arthur taught me, show you the level of skill you'll eventually need to face me."
Without warning, she exploded into motion, the practice sword carving a silver arc through the air in an attack that would have opened his throat—something even a practice sword was capable of doing—if he hadn't been ready for it. Thomas parried, Cindlar's enchanted edge meeting the simple metal with a ringing clash that sent vibrations through both weapons. The impact and resulting blade lock should have shattered the practice blade, but undoubtedly it was reinforced by magical energy Morgana channeled through her grip.
She immediately spun away, her scales reflecting the chamber's lighting as she flowed into a series of attacks testing every defensive technique Lancelot had taught him. Thomas found himself giving ground, his reflexes barely sufficient to keep pace with her speed and accumulated skill.
"You're very good," Morgana observed conversationally as she pressed her assault, her breathing controlled despite the intensity of their exchange. "Arthur's essence lends you capabilities beyond normal, but skill and power aren't the same thing, are they?"
Her next attack came from an impossible angle, the practice sword seeming to bend around his guard as she exploited a gap in his defenses. Only a desperate backward leap saved him from a strike that would have collapsed ribs, while her follow-up thrust nicked the helix of his ear. Thomas ignored the blood that welled and ran down to drip off his ear lobe.
"The thing about Arthur," Morgana continued as they circled each other, looking for openings, "was that he always fought with restraint. Always held something back, always tried to find solutions that didn't require complete destruction of his opponents. It was one of his most admirable qualities."
Thomas launched his own attack, Cindlar's Blade weaving through patterns designed to overwhelm her defenses through sheer speed and aggression. Morgana met every strike with effortless grace, her nanite-enhanced physiology allowing her to match and exceed his capabilities. Where his attacks sought to end the fight quickly, hers seemed designed to demonstrate her superiority through prolonged engagement.
"It was also his greatest weakness," she said, deflecting a thrust aimed at her heart while simultaneously launching a counter-attack that forced him to abandon his offensive entirely. "He could never quite bring himself to do what was necessary when it really mattered. Could never quite cross that final line that separated victory from mere survival. I don’t have that weakness.” She smirked, her voice carrying absolute conviction as her practice sword carved through the air close enough to his face, drawing a thin line of blood across his cheek.
Thomas realized with sudden clarity that Morgana wasn't holding back the way their circumstances should have demanded. She was fighting with the full lethal intent of someone who meant to kill, regardless of the consequences.
Their blades locked and she pressed him back toward the compartment’s bulkhead, holding him there. "When I decide something needs to be destroyed, I destroy it completely. When I identify an obstacle in the way of my goals, I remove it. Permanently. When someone takes something that belongs to me..."
She didn't finish the sentence, but she didn't need to. The implication was clear enough to make Thomas's blood run cold. This wasn't just a demonstration of her skills. It was a preview of what would happen once their agreement expired, once she was free to pursue her own agenda without the constraints of honor or mutual benefit.
"One way or another, I will have something to show for all the losses I've endured," Morgana said quietly, her orange eyes blazing with fanatic intensity. "If you think your crew's loyalty or this ship's defenses will be enough to stop me, you're more naive than I thought."
Thomas shoved her back, Cindlar's superior leverage breaking the blade lock and forcing her weapon aside. Even as he created distance between them and regained his footing, he could see the cold certainty in her expression. She had absolutely decided on a course of action and was merely waiting for the right moment to implement it.
“You truly have learned nothing,” Thomas said quietly, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
Morgana's laugh was sharp and bitter, the sound echoing off the bulkheads as she stepped back and lowered her practice weapon. “On the contrary. I realized long ago that the universe was fundamentally unjust and that the only way to achieve anything meaningful was to impose your will through superior force. I almost thought differently for a short time. But Mordred’s death. Your survival. They’ve served to reinforce what I always believed.”
She dropped the blade on the deck and moved toward the exit, brushing his shoulder as she passed him almost hard enough to push him aside. The casual contempt in the move spoke of absolute confidence in her eventual victory and her complete disrespect of everything he stood for.
As she reached the doorway, she paused and looked back over her shoulder. "Excalibur won't be enough to save you. Your crew's loyalty won't be enough. Arthur's essence won't be enough. When I decide what I want, nothing will be enough to stop me."
“We have an agreement,” Thomas said, the words coming out in a weak defense after the verbal pummeling he had just endured.
“Our agreement won’t stand forever,” she replied.
With that, she walked away, leaving Thomas alone in the training room with the latent echo of her threats.
CHAPTER 6
The void of space stretched endlessly before the stolen shuttle as it emerged from the Blackveil Corridor. Within the cockpit, Sir Ironside—ensconced in the acquired flesh of Sir Lancelot—allowed himself a moment of satisfaction as he studied the navigation display.
Free.
After centuries of imprisonment within crystalline walls, forced to do Arthur’s bidding in the Wastes. After being forced to serve as Turquine's tactical advisor in exchange for this permanent manifestation. After the humiliation of being bound to lesser beings, he was finally free once more to chart his own course through the galaxy.
As the Red Knight's stolen hands moved across the shuttle's controls with growing familiarity, he could feel subtle movements that were gentler and more precise than his own. Every gesture carried the impulses of two consciousnesses, two sets of experiences layered one atop the other like sediment in stone.
Ironside reflected on the events that had led him here, replaying each moment in his calculating mind. The duel with Sir Dragon had been...illuminating. The boy possessed genuine skill, enhanced by Arthur's essence combined with real experience and training. When their blades first met, Ironside had expected to overwhelm him within seconds. After all, he commanded Lancelot's physical capabilities enhanced by his own centuries of combat wisdom.
The contest had proven more challenging than anticipated. Sir Dragon fought with a peculiar combination of textbook technique and improvisational flair, adapting to Ironside's attacks with responses that seemed almost familiar. It wasn't until the middle exchanges that the Red Knight realized what was happening. Lancelot's own fighting patterns were being executed by someone who had studied under the ancient knight's tutelage.
The irony was delicious. Ironside had been defeated not by Sir Dragon's superior skill, but by his host's own muscle memory working against him. Lancelot's body had moved in ways that his opponent expected, creating openings for his student to exploit. A masterful trap indeed.
Still, honor had demanded he gracefully accept defeat. The code that bound knights—even rogue knights like himself—required acknowledgment of legitimate victory achieved through honest combat. He had yielded properly, as was fitting for a warrior of his standing.
What followed, however, had been an entirely different matter. Turquine's betrayal still rankled, burning like acid in Ironside's acquired chest. The enhanced Draconite had sent him forth as his champion, bound by ancient customs that governed such contests. When Sir Dragon defeated him in honorable combat, those same customs required Turquine to honor the agreement—to surrender and deactivate the Telemuter as promised.
Instead, the coward had simply ignored the outcome, ordering his undead hordes to attack regardless of what oaths had been sworn or bonds accepted. It was the behavior of a barbarian, not a knight, and it had transformed Ironside's defeat from an honorable conclusion to a meaningless charade.
The betrayal had served one useful purpose. It released Ironside from any obligation to serve Turquine's cause or respect his commands. When the moment came to choose sides in the final battle, the Red Knight joined forces with Sir Dragon against their mutual enemy. Not out of any sudden conversion to righteousness, but because honor demanded he stand with those who kept their word against those who broke theirs.
Fighting alongside the legendary ship's crew had been an unexpected pleasure. They moved with the coordination of warriors who completely trusted each other, each member contributing their unique capabilities to the collective effort. Ironside found himself impressed despite his natural cynicism. He’d recognized in them the same bonds of loyalty and mutual respect that had once defined the knights of old.
When the battle ended and the undead began to collapse, Ironside had found himself facing a choice. Sir Dragon had reached the laboratory and no doubt possessed his crystal prison, which he could use to remove the Red Knight from his host and trap him back in his cell. Honor might have demanded he surrender himself for imprisonment, accepting the consequences of his defeat in single combat. But honor was a complex thing. Competing obligations within one’s self sometimes contradicted each other. His duty to accept defeat warred with his need to punish Turquine's betrayal. After so long in captivity, his respect for Sir Dragon's victory had been balanced against his own desire for freedom. Besides, he had never promised Sir Dragon he wouldn’t escape if the opportunity presented itself. That left a gray area that his conscience allowed him to exploit.
When Thorgrim's attention wandered for a crucial moment, Ironside had struck. Not to kill—the Dwarf had fought honorably and deserved better—but to disable his powered armor and create an opportunity for escape. A few precise cuts to hydraulic lines and power conduits had left the exosuit immobilized, but he’d still had to inflict a broken ankle to keep the Dwarf from pursuing him once he was able to engage his suit’s emergency exit system.
The sprint to Turquine's shuttle had been exhilarating, Lancelot's enhanced physiology carrying him across the blasted landscape with supernatural speed. The vessel possessed no security system, or if it did it had been left deactivated. Within minutes, he was airborne and climbing toward orbit, leaving behind the wreckage of Klingsor's ambitions and the complications of unwanted allegiances.
Now, as the shuttle continued its journey through interstellar space, Ironside contemplated his options with the methodical patience of a master strategist. Freedom was meaningless without purpose, and purpose required careful consideration of available resources to achieve potential objectives.
His first thought had been of Arxenor, the Ursan world where he had maintained estates during his mortal existence. He remembered rolling hills covered in golden grain, vineyards that produced wine of legendary quality, and a manor house built from local stone that had weathered centuries with graceful dignity. He had been lord of those lands once, before his fall into darkness, before his transformation into something that existed only for conquest and domination.
Centuries had passed since then, since his death and imprisonment. His properties would have been redistributed, his name likely forgotten or remembered only in cautionary tales. Returning to Arxenor would accomplish nothing except to stir memories better left undisturbed. Besides, there was another destination that called to him with greater urgency.
Vrakos. The remote world where he had fallen in his original body, where Sir Culwich, the White Knight, had finally managed what so many others had failed to achieve. The battle—two master swordsmen at the peak of their abilities, fighting within the courtyard of Culwich’s keep—had been legendary. In the end, superior endurance decided the contest, the White Knight's stamina outlasting Ironside's fury until exhaustion created the opening that ended everything.
His original body would be buried there, along with the sword and armor that had served him through countless campaigns. The Red Knight felt a pull toward those artifacts, a desire to reclaim the physical trappings of his identity even if his consciousness now inhabited another body rather than the one he’d been born in. There would be symbolism in the retrieval of his possessions, completion of a circle that had been left incomplete for far too long.
He input new coordinates into the navigation system, then frowned as the display responded with unwelcome information. The shuttle was equipped only with a standard burst drive, capable of covering only a single light year per hour. Reaching Vrakos from the edge of the Montsalvat system would take months to complete.
Ironside considered his options with growing irritation. He could attempt the journey despite its length, but that would mean weeks of isolation in the shuttle's cramped confines with only Lancelot's consciousness for company. The prospect held little appeal, particularly given the increasing signs of resistance from his unwilling host.
Even now, he could feel Lancelot's presence testing the boundaries of their shared existence. They were mostly small things. Muscles that responded fractionally slower than he intended. Reflexes that hesitated when they should have been instant. The accumulation of minor rebellions suggested a more significant challenge might be brewing.
The ancient knight was learning to work within the constraints of their merged consciousness, finding ways to assert influence despite his subordinate position. It was impressive, though also deeply concerning. If he allowed Lancelot's resistance to grow, it might eventually reach a point where their roles were reversed, where the original owner of the body reclaimed control and left Ironside as the trapped passenger instead of Lancelot.
That possibility required serious consideration. The Red Knight had no desire to trade one prison for another, even if this new captivity came with the illusion of physical freedom. Better to use his current liberty productively while he still possessed it rather than waste time on extended travel in which he might never reach his intended destination. The decision led him to review the star map carried by the shuttle. He needed to locate the closest world with more than a pittance of a population.
He settled on Alorion, another Ursan world, but one accessible within days rather than months. It wasn’t his preferred destination by any means, but it was practical given the circumstances. The planet maintained several major spaceports where he could potentially acquire or gain passage on a ship better suited to long-range travel.
Considering the various challenges that lay ahead, Ironside set the navigation computer for Alorion, a burst course that would get him there in short order. Identity would be his first consideration. Lancelot's face was known throughout the galaxy. His sudden appearance would raise questions that couldn't be honestly answered. Some form of disguise would be necessary, or perhaps a complete change of identity backed by forged documentation.
Then there was the matter of resources. The shuttle contained minimal supplies and no significant valuables like gold on board. Perhaps Lancelot had a vault full of riches somewhere, but he only had the knight’s body, not his mind to know where to find it. And Lancelot surely wouldn’t give him the means to locate and access it. He would need to acquire funds through other means. Thievery was dishonorable, as was murder-for-hire and most other less savory pursuits. Honest work would take too long to pay for what he needed. He knew he had to find something in between. Again, something that landed in the gray areas of the chivalric code.
Perhaps mercenary work would be readily available for someone with his capabilities, though he would need to be selective about employers. Some causes were beneath his dignity, no matter how desperate his circumstances.
His wandering thoughts slowly led to his host testing the Red Knight’s boundaries and asserting himself once more. This time it was more than subtle muscle memory.
"Thomas..."
The name emerged unbidden from his acquired lips, carrying emotional weight that belonged entirely to Lancelot’s consciousness. Ironside couldn’t allow it to continue. He clamped down on the unauthorized vocalization, reasserting control through sheer force of will. Still, the incident was troubling. Lancelot was growing stronger, more capable of brief moments of dominance. Soon he might be able to manage complete sentences, then entire conversations, then...
The Red Knight pushed such concerns aside. Control. He merely needed to maintain control, something that would be easier once he reached Alorion and established himself in more secure circumstances. For now, he needed to focus on the immediate priorities of arrival, concealment, and the acquisition of resources necessary for his longer-term objectives.
The shuttle’s computer completed its calculations. The burst would take nearly two days. Still a long time to be trapped on the small ship, but he had no other choice. He accepted the plotted course and initiated the burst drive, the force pressing him lightly back into his seat as the shuttle rapidly accelerated.
Ahead of him, as the universe narrowed to a cone of light in the utter darkness and the first minutes at burst speed passed, Ironside's thoughts turned inevitably toward the grander design that would define his newfound freedom. The immediate concerns of identity and currency were merely stepping stones toward a far more significant goal, one that had crystallized during his humiliating defeat on Kheir-Lossan's blasted surface.
