Nightside 11 - A Hard Days Knight

Excalibur.”
    “Elves in the castle?” Sir Gareth was abruptly himself again. “John and I will be with you as soon as we can, Roland. Get the knights moving and organised; put up a wall between the invaders and our families; give them time to get to the safety of the Redoubt. Stop them with cold steel and pile their bodies high.” He looked at me, and suddenly he was grinning, his face full of the joy of battle. “Stark is here for you, John. He wants the sword you carry. Will you fight alongside us?”
    “Of course,” I said. “Never could stand elves.”
    “Good man. Roland, see that our families are safe. And if worst comes to worst, see they have a dead man’s switch so they can take the enemy with them.”
    “Of course,” said Sir Roland. And his face disappeared from the portrait.
    “Was that last bit really necessary?” I said.
    “Yes. You know what elves do to women and children. Death would be a kindness.”
    I nodded. I knew. “You should never have kept your families here in the castle.”
    “We thought they were safe here, where we could protect them! No-one’s ever got past our defences before! Never! No-one ever anticipated elves inside the castle. Let’s go.”
    “Sir Roland jumped pretty fast there, when you gave him orders,” I said. “Are you in charge here, or something?”
    “Something,” said Sir Gareth. “You didn’t think they’d leave you with just anyone, did you?”

    We sprinted back through the stone corridors, and I had to work hard to keep up with Sir Gareth. Even though he was wearing full plate armour, and all I had was my trench coat, he still led all the way. Because he was a trained warrior, in the peak of condition; and I wasn’t. But I pounded grimly along after him, and all too soon we heard the sounds of fighting up ahead. We rounded a sudden corner, charged into one of the great open halls, and found it full to bursting with elves and knights in their armour.
    Sir Gareth plunged straight in, sword in hand, but I made myself hang back in the archway, so I could study the situation. Excalibur was burning on my back, urging me on, but I’d had enough of that. I wasn’t a warrior or a hero, and acting like one would get me killed. If I was going to take on an army of elves, it wouldn’t be by running straight at them. I’d do it my own way.
    Elves in glowing armour, in vivid shades of gold and crimson and emerald, brandishing shimmering swords and glowing axes, went head to head with London Knights in cold steel armour with solid, deadly blades. The elves leapt and pirouetted, dancing through the chaos with deadly grace, supernaturally quick and vicious, impossibly light on their feet; and the knights stamped and spun, meeting the elves’ speed with the practiced skill that comes from years of training. Most of the action was simply too fast to follow, as elf and man slammed together, blades flashing and blood spurting. The air was full of the sound of blade clashing against blade, or clanging against armour, and over all, shrieks and howls and war cries, exclamations of pain and rage and hate.
    Given the sheer number fighting in the hall, hardly any were dead yet. The elves’ enchanted armour turned aside most sword blows while the knights’ armour had its own protection, enough to stand against glowing elf blades. Both sides had to search for weak spots and brief openings; joints in the armour, exposed throats, or the eyeholes in a helm. Blood spurted here and there, and I saw one knight crash to the floor. Immediately, half a dozen elves were stooping over him, stabbing down again and again. Two more knights rushed forward to protect their fallen friend, standing proud and powerful over him, beating aside the elves’ blades with sharp precision. The elves danced and leapt round them, horribly graceful, laughing lightly.
    Sir Gareth was right there in the thick of it, swinging his long sword with both hands, roaring harsh guttural war cries as he struck down one elf after another. They were quick, and they were elegant, but he was an unstoppable force, moving always forward, throwing elves back through main strength. An elf leaned right over to cut at the back of his knee, but somehow Sir Gareth turned at the very last moment to block the elf’s sword with his own. He stabbed the elf in the groin, the tip of his blade finding a brief opening in the glowing armour; and golden blood flowed down the elf’s thigh. He fell to one knee, and Sir