Disclaimers: as ever.

Thanks so much for the reviews on the previous chapters and sorry this has been so long coming - its been a bit of a struggly, in many respects!! This chapter is for Shivani :)

CHAPTER SEVEN:

'By my reckoning,' said Nigel as he followed Sydney down yet another dark passage to the side of the Great Hall, 'the bedchamber ought to be around here somewhere…oh!'

As Sydney swooshed aside a decaying red curtain, Preston gasped and Claudia squealed. In an opening behind stood a Knight in rusting armour, standing to attention with a tall spear in one hand. It was nearly completely blocking the bottom of a small, winding staircase.

'It is alive?' whispered Nigel, from behind her shoulder. 'Or is it…uh, undead?'

'Oh my God!' quivered Claudia, 'Preston - please don't let it bite us!'

'Of course I won't, cupcake,' replied Preston, hoping she couldn't hear his teeth chattering with fear.

Sydney raised two cautious fingers and flicked up the flat, featureless visor on the Knight's helmet. There was no leering face - just a dark emptiness. 'Nothing,' she breathed. 'It looks like one of the suits of armour from the balcony - one of those that the manager said couldn't be moved…'

It was then they heard the moaning sound again. Since they'd heard it originally from the chapel, it had sounded again every few minutes. This time, however, it was much louder and clearer than before.

'It's coming from up the staircase,' said Sydney. 'And it sounds… vaguely familiar.'

'Maybe we shouldn't pursue it,' offered Preston. 'After all, it was following that scream earlier that got Nigel and I into that spot of bother – and it wasn't dear Claudia, after all!'

Sydney ignored him as she edged around the suit of armour, and started to climb the steps. 'Come on, guys. My gut tells me somebody is in trouble...'

…………….

'Uh - I think I've found the rest of the weaponry from the Great Hall!'

At the top of the stairs, through a narrow, wooden door they found a chamber furnished with a small, carved four-poster bed. Tapestries decorated with carnal scenes of Adam and Eve cast out of the Garden of Eden covered the walls and, against the far side, was a large wooden chest. However, it was impossible to get to any of this. Two further suits of armour, also disturbingly similar to those which had previously occupied the minstrel's gallery, flanked the bed. More problematically, though, the floor inside the door was heaped high with swords, axes, spears, shields and helmets. They stretched across the floor like a wall, over a metre high. Sydney could only just fully open the door.

'Hello?' called Sydney, still trying to locate the origin of the moan. 'Is anybody there?'

There was no answer. The storm outside had died down and all was quiet, apart from an eerily placid humming noise. It sounded like an electric appliance had been left on – although the room had no amenities less than four hundred years old!

'Weird,' murmured Sydney. 'You hear that buzz?'

Nigel nodded. He and the others watched nervously as Sydney took a step into the room, and stretched out her hand towards the pile of weaponry. She was about to grasp the hilt of one of the Indian forearm swords, when there was a 'crack.' A tiny arc of electricity zipped between her fingers and the sword. Sydney leapt backwards into the doorway.

'Syd – are you okay?' Nigel grabbed her arm and peered anxiously into her face.

Sydney looked bewildered for a moment then flexed her hand, as if to check everything was still working. 'I, uh, I think so. The sword gave me an electric shock!'

'This isn't good,' grimaced Claudia. 'This is a really nasty poltergeist. Somehow, he's managed to gobble up all the electric power of the storm, and use it to bring all the horrid pointy stuff here.'

'We've got to get past it,' said Sydney grimly. 'Those knights have been positioned like they are guarding something – or someone - for a reason.'

'Tristan's sword?' asked Nigel.

'Maybe,' shrugged Sydney.

'I don't think so,' piped up Claudia, the authority in her voice growing by the minute. 'My guess is he couldn't bring himself to raise the weapon that killed him. This could be some sort of diversion or…a trap.' Claudia gulped desperately then added as an afterthought: 'And all we've got guarding us is the two most pathetic guys in history!'

'Eh?' Preston was jolted back into the present, having been wondering if any of the more elaborate pieces of armoury could find a good home in the British Museum. 'What was that, cupcake?'

'I, err, I'm not sure.' Claudia looked confused – why did she suddenly feel grateful that Nigel had been discovered under the bed before she did anything even she might regret? 'Syd - I think something might be screwing with my mind again… but I'm not sure.'

Nigel sniggered at his bewildered brother in a way that Sydney found usually irritating.

'Okay, everyone,' she said calmly. 'Just try not to think about anything apart from how we're going to beat this thing. There are still some weapons which aren't tied up in this crackling mess - Nigel, remember the sword in the Great Hall?'

'Of course,' said Nigel, narrowing his eyes in thought. 'For some reason, Morholt left that out of the way. You don't think it could be…'

'Tristan's sword?' Sydney shrugged. 'There's only one way to find out. You go and have a look at it. See if you can locate any damage – it would have a portion missing remember – and try and get it off the wall. I'll stay here with Claudia and we'll see if we can find a way to get past this lot.'

'Alone?' winced Nigel. 'I'm not sure it would be wise for any of us to go about alone right now…'

'Good point,' agreed Sydney. 'Preston - you can go with him!'

……………………………………..

'I assume you realise it's all hopeless - you and Claudia, I mean,' said Nigel, matter-of-factly, as he led the way back along the passage towards the Great Hall.

'I realise nothing of the sort,' retaliated Preston. 'She's a wonderful girl – and she's clearly smitten by me!'

'Yes – until about lunchtime tomorrow, when she spots her next Mr Destiny! I hate to break this to you,' continued Nigel, clearly relishing the task, 'but Claudia is not exactly known for her constancy.'

'Now look here!' Nigel felt the sharp jab of a finger on his left shoulder. 'Sydney was hardly a blushing virgin when you got your paws on her, was she?'

He turned angrily. 'What the hell do you mean?'

'Well, she's a gorgeous woman – and her previous conquests have hardly been kept a secret, have they? But she loves you…and…and…'

'And what?' demanded Nigel, not giving an inch. 'She told me about that time you asked her to dinner - I know you'd steal her off me, giving a sniff of a chance. Like you did Amanda… and all the rest!'

'Yes, well,' muttered Preston, barely suppressing a chuckle. 'Amanda was hardly the prize we thought her, eh?' His glimmer of humour vanished as Nigel persisted to glare venomously at him. 'All I'm saying is that if you and Sydney can be so perfect together, why can't Claudia and I? I know I've only just met her, but I think…I think…' Preston broke of as the most wonderful realisation flooded his senses: 'I love her, Nigel!'

'Ugh!' Nigel felt like tearing his hair out, but instead he turned abruptly and stalked off down the corridor, muttering audibly: 'It'll never work!'

……………………………

'You think they'll be okay?' asked Claudia, still hovering behind Sydney at the door with the chamber.

'I hope so,' said Sydney, twitching frustratedly as she failed to see a way past the electrically charged pile of weapons. 'I thought it might be safer if we put a little distance between us and our, err, 'other halves,' just until we've got a solid plan. Let's not give Morholt any more ammunition from our emotions!'

'There seems to have been plenty of bad feeling between Preston and Nigel,' said Claudia slowly. 'What if he feeds on that?'

Sydney turned sharply to face her friend. 'You think he's that devious?'

Claudia's shrugged indecisively. 'You're the historian, Syd. All I know is that we're dealing with a nasty undead thing. And I've watched a lot of movies about nasty undead things… '

'We'd better work fast, then. Okay Claudia - you're on. How do we get past that wall of metal without being fried?'

'Err, we could perform an exorcism? Damn.' Claudia sighed loudly. 'I hope things don't get too messy. For once, I so wish I'd changed out of my new Donna Karen mini-dress!'

'Yeah - let's hope this doesn't cause to another fashion emergency,' replied Sydney, deadpan. 'So, how do we go about an, err, exorcism?'

Claudia looked slightly forlorn. 'I'm not really an expert… but you have to say the proper words. Yes, that's it. The words…um, what were they?'

Claudia looked more and more perplexed; Sydney laid an encouraging hand on her arm: 'Come on - you remembered everything about tarot cards when you had too. It must be in there somewhere!'

After a minute of umming, erring and lip-chewing, Claudia's sparkling eyes snapped onto hers. 'I've got it! I've got it… I think we need a priest and smelly incense, or something, for it to work best but you say…' She took a deep breath, and then continued in a voice so deep and serious that Sydney could barely believe it was hers: 'Depart, then, transgressor. Depart, seducer, full of lies and cunning, foe of virtue, persecutor of the innocent!'

'Woh!' whispered Sydney - Claudia still had it in her to surprise even her oldest friends.

'Go see if the pointy stuff is still all crackly,' suggested Claudia, the return of her usual little-girl voice making her seem all the more fragile.

Sydney reached her hand towards the metallic wall and felt a sharp tingle in her fingers. 'It hasn't worked,' she began. 'Maybe we need to say it in Celtic or something…'

Sydney stopped dead as Claudia gave a stifled cry. Looking back at her friend, Sydney saw that a chunky, gauntleted hand had clamped itself around Claudia's delicate neck. Behind her loomed the apparently empty suit of armour.

'Get your hands off her!'

Sydney swung into a flying kick – it never reached its target. She was jolted back violently as something coiled around her waist, digging into her stomach and snatching her breath.

As Sydney clawed at what appeared to be the thick, black cord of a whip, she heard a terrible, creaking noise behind her.

'Hold on in there, Claudia' shouted Sydney. Failing to free herself, she shot a glance over her shoulder. Slowly, and terribly, the entire wall of weaponry was rising into the air and moving towards them, axes, saws, spears and shields apparently taking on an animated life of their own.

Then Claudia screamed.

……………………..

With only the dim light of a clouded moon shining through the stained-glass windows, the Great Hall was a gloomy, cavernous space; the air felt still, cold and crisp against Nigel's skin. He didn't know if Preston was still behind him. Frankly, despite his antipathy to ghosts and flying candelabras, he didn't care. Preston had never done anything for him, he thought angrily, and he was hardly going to be much use to him now. His raw emotions swelled as he thought of Preston loving Claudia, and her loving him back. No! He wouldn't let it happen. Claudia was his friend - his brother wouldn't have her!

Nigel had all but forgotten the task in hand, when the silvery blade of the sword flashed in the rays of his wildly scanning torch. A sudden awareness of its beauty caused him to inhale sharply; the next moment he had sprinted to its side, and was standing, staring at it breathlessly.

Although pinned beneath two thin, 17th-century French epées, it was obviously an early mediaeval longsword - a fine piece of workmanship, just light enough to wield with one hand. Its long, cruciform hilt was decorated with an intricately carved pattern, resembling interlinked knots. It was a Celtic design - like that on the cross outside.

Could it really be Tristan's sword? There was only one way to find out.

Nigel leaned in close and touched it; there was a slight static fizz as his fingers touched the metal, but not enough convey a shock. Undeterred, Nigel ran his fingers along the flat of the blade, revelling in the near-erotic beauty of the object, its smooth coolness, and the sharpness of its edge, which nearly slit the skin at the lightest of touches.

Then he felt a tiny imperfection against his fingertips. Nigel could feel his heart beating very fast as he leaned in to inspect an expertly rendered repair. A small, jaggedly triangular chunk – hewn of what appeared to be metal of a slightly later date, had been welded into the blade of the sword to replace a gap – the gap left when a portion of the blade had lodged itself fatally in Morholt's skull!

Nigel shivered with expectation: it was Tristan's sword- he just knew it!

In order to get at it properly, Nigel had to lift off the two epées. They were surprisingly hard to pry from their holdings - as if a strong magnet was pulling them back against the wall but, with a little effort, he succeeded.

Nigel reached up and folded his fingers firmly around the hilt of the sword. Even with his arm twisted awkwardly like this, his knuckles facing him, holding the sword felt good – natural, even - as if it had been wrought from the elements just for him.

He was about to pull it triumphantly from its resting place, when a familiar voice barked loudly behind him:

'Careful with that, Nigel! It must be worth a fortune!'

With an unexpected surge of passion, Nigel ripped the sword from its fitting, breaking the leather straps that partially held it in place. Preston, alarmed, took a step back.

'It's priceless,' snarled Nigel. 'And it'll never be yours! This is one thing you won't take from me! It won't be going back to the British Museum in triumph!'

'Err, I never dreamed it would,' said Preston, lying only slightly. 'Why is it you always think the worst of me… oh, and please be mindful with that thing. One of us could lose a limb!'

'Yes – one of us might!' replied Nigel, swishing the sword in front of him, his voice strangely skittish, his mind a hurricane of increasingly unfocused hatred. It was as if he was under that bed again, and all he could hear was his brother kissing, moaning, making love - but this time the answering cries were not Claudia's - they were Sydney's!

Something snapped inside. Strangely calm, Nigel stuffed his torch into one of the halters that had held up the swords; yellow rays, stretched out across the bare, wooden floor, resembling the lowlights of a theatre. Stepping into its dusky stream, he took a firm stance with his feet, his right arm curling decorously behind him. With his left hand, he pointed the sword straight at his brother's heart.

'En guard!'

'Nigel…err, what are you doing?'

'This!' Nigel jabbed the sword towards his brother, who yelped and darted out of the way. In pursuit, Nigel shuffled sideways and reiterated his gesture.

'This is ridiculous!' squeaked Preston. 'These aren't practice foils, you know? That sword is dangerous – put it down!'

'I don't think so!' yelled Nigel, a wild, untamed fury burning on his usually soft, placid countenance.

'Right, then!' Preston grabbed one of the two French epées with his right hand. Before he had even taken position, Nigel had hopped forward and lightly touched the tip of his elder brother's blade with his – Preston knew instantly it was an invitation to attack.

Hardly believing what he was doing, Preston assumed the correct position like a true professional and then issued a final warning: 'I was the under 18's Southern Counties Fencing Champion remember?'

'I remember,' spat Nigel: he had once mustered third prize in an under 14's competition before he gave the sport up, unable to bear the negative comparisons to his brother any longer. 'Still - I'm guessing you're a bit rusty!'

Before Preston could reply, Nigel lunged forward, bending his knee, thrusting the sword directly at Preston's chest. His brother parried neatly, deflecting the blow with a flicking motion of his forearm. Nigel jammed his blade forward again - two, three, and then four more times. Each time Preston blocked it without offering any real reply.

Frustrated at his lack of progress, Nigel disengaged his blade with a flourish, but did not withdraw it. Although he backed off a little, its deadly point was still aimed straight for the kill.

'You've gone mad!' blurted Preston; nevertheless, an un-summoned fire was beginning to corse through his veins, too. All Nigel's dreams had come true, he reasoned, yet the ungrateful little toad continued to resent him – and, now, not only was he attempting to split him up from the girl of his dreams, he was trying to hack him to death!

Preston growled under his breath and found it was a good moment to draw upon an Americanism: 'Bring it on!'

And Nigel did. Bouncing energetically off his the front foot, he charged towards his brother, swiping the sword through the air like a jousting knight on his charger. Preston, years of expert training flooding back into his instincts, ducked the blow – which could have taken his head off - dropping a hand to the floor then springing forward into an immediate, low counter attack. Nigel – nearly too late - blocked defensively with the back of his sword. Preston's aim was below the belt, and Nigel's was a weak move: his arm buckled towards him and he staggered backward at the force of the impact.

A vague consciousness of what he was doing trickled into Nigel's memory, as the sweat began to prick on the back of his neck. Despite the berating cries of 'kill, kill, kill!' that ached through his brain, he thought to himself vacantly: 'I gave this stupid sport up for a reason…'

Preston, having gained what he saw as the upper ground, was now standing a few paces away, eyeing his brother almost predatorily. His sword dropped to his side, he was fully engaged in his own mental struggle: his bastard of a brother had just tried to take his head off – surely it was time he showed for once and for all who was boss! Yet a strong suspicion was struggling against his tidal-wave of anger that told him that the force that attacked him was not entirely Nigel. Oh, and after that last lunge, his poor old back was killing him…

'This is ridiculous,' he muttered again.

Nigel was standing on the edge of the stream of light, glaring murderously from under his flopping fringe. Something – mistrust or fear - animated the elder brother to raise his sword, tentatively pointing it ahead, as if to ward off another attack.

Unfortunately, the move ignited a fireball of hatred in Nigel's possessed consciousness. Snarling through gritted teeth he launched himself forward – but, this time, Preston was quicker. He lunged first, and blade hit blade with a resonant clang. Nigel gave a desperate, effortful cry as his brother dexterously wove his sword in a series of circular motions, confounding any attacks of his own, and forcing his wrist backwards until he could hold his weapon no more. His sword fell with a clatter to the floor.

'You bastard!' spluttered Nigel as he turned and scrambled after it. Preston plunged forward furiously, the tip of his blade intent on his brother's unprotected back, even as a distant high-pitched scream pierced the surrounding silence and, fortunately, Preston's soul.

He took control of his faculties at the very last moment – the blade slashed sideways. It tore through Nigel's thin, cotton shirt, skimming lightly across his flesh.

Nigel hissed at the stinging pain as his own awareness flooded back. Leaving the sword, he lifted a shaking hand to his wound. Either his senses were dead, or it was only a scratch: but how close had had Preston been to killing him?

Any revival of anger was stilled by the clattering sound of another blade falling to the floor and a surprisingly gentle hand on his shoulder. 'My God, Nigel…I…I…'

Nigel turned quickly. 'It's okay…I'm sorry. I started it…I never meant to…go for you like that.'

'Me neither.' Preston offered a feeble smile. 'I know we've had our little rifts, but…but…I would never…' He trailed off awkwardly, dropping his voice to a whisper. 'You know who it must be, of course.'

Nigel nodded. 'Of course,' he replied. Recalling he was still not on the best of terms with his brother, he added: 'We've got to keep our…our… differences under control or he's going to take control of us again.'

'Quite, quite', agreed Preston. 'Well, if you're quite all right, what are we waiting for? That scream - it sounded like my Claudia again! We've got to go.'

With that, he grabbed the torch and his sword and sprinted from the room, leaving Nigel regrouping his emotions in the darkness, smarting with pain and irrepressible irritation.

………………………………………..

When Nigel gained on Preston, his brother was standing very still. He was apparently locked in a staring contest with the empty suit of armour that filled the pool of light.

Hearing Nigel's footsteps, he pointing accusingly at the apparently inanimate object.

'It moved again!' He whispered. 'It marched out of the doorway and pointed its spear at me!'

Nigel's immediate concerns were not for his brother. 'Sydney?' He called, speculatively. 'We might have a problem here…'

A muffled reply came from the room at the top of the staircase, low and barely audible: 'We've got a bit of a problem here too!'

Now, it was Nigel who froze – Syd was in real trouble, he knew it.

'We need to get past,' he hissed at Preston. 'I'll sidle by - keep your sword drawn.'

Preston nodded speechlessly, and let his brother take the lead. He held his breath as Nigel crept by, his back flat up against the wall, but still in easy stabbing distance of the spear. Then he followed, starting forward with furtive, shuffling footsteps.

It all happened in an instant: the spear shot out even as Preston stabbed with his sword, a reflex blow, and severed its wooden shaft into. He then gawped up at Nigel, his wide eyes like a stricken rabbit's.

'You're not as rusty as I thought,' observed Nigel, his voice tinged with irony.

'I keep surprising myself,' confessed Preston honestly. 'Let's find the girls.'

………………………………….

Even outside the door, the ominous, electric hum was almost deafening. Nigel, his heart full of foreboding, held his breath as he eased open the bedchamber door. Then he stared in disbelief.

Sydney and Claudia were standing in the middle of the room, back-to-back, their arms lashed together behind them with what appeared to be the 18th-century French riding whip with a carved Egyptian-cat handle. They were surrounded by a halo of ominously levitating weapons, their lethally jagged edges pointed towards their unprotected bodies and bare throats. Sydney's eyes were blazing with frustrated anger. Claudia, pale and trembling, just looked plain terrified.

Before anybody could think of anything appropriate to say, the two other, apparently empty, suits of armour marched from the edge of the room, stopping in front Sydney and Claudia's terrible prison, defying the men to attempt a rescue. It was then Nigel saw, the deep grey cloud, swelling and darkening behind them. An icy wind suddenly blasted down his spine, smothering him with panic.

'Oh my God,' whimpered Claudia. 'This is just like a horror movie, I once saw. He's taking form so he can watch us die!!'

Clueless for the first move, Nigel looked imploringly at Sydney.

'The sword?' She asked, motioning with one eyebrow.

'I…I think so,' said Nigel. 'But…but… what's going on? I don't know what to do!'

'You've got to kill him!' squealed Claudia.

'Go with the flow?' offered Sydney, her dry humour defying the bejewelled, Incan sacrificial dagger whose tip now tickled the soft flesh of her throat.

Nigel couldn't help suppress a smile - hell, he loved that woman! He'd always love her! He'd do anything for her! He'd die for her…

He turned to Preston, who had backed down onto the staircase, blankly terrified. 'Cover me?' whispered Nigel.

'Eh?'

'Cover me! You've got to distract the two Knights, so I can get around the edge and take on Morholt with Tristan's sword!'

'Both at once?' spluttered Preston. 'But… but I'm rusty!'

'No you're not,' pleaded Nigel. He saw his brothers, focus drawn to Claudia - she looked so tiny and vulnerable, the perfect damsel in distress. Something tender moved in Preston's eyes.

'I'll do it!' he said, as resolute as a hardened warrior, and raised his sword, vertically in front of him, so it nearly touched his forehead, and nodded.

Nigel recognised the warrior's salute at once. He returned it with a wry smile, even as he wondered if the first sign of respect that he had remembered his brother giving him might be also be the last he was to receive from anyone! Despite the Genghis Kahn era Mongolian spear that was now pressing into her ribs, the sight made Sydney feel strangely warm inside - though she also kind of wished they'd stop posing and get on with it!

What happened next played out in front of her eyes as if it was in slow motion, or in time to the music of a magisterial passage of Wagnerian opera.

Brandishing their swords, Nigel and Preston did not quite storm into battle. Rather, they stepped furtively over the threshold together - then Nigel made his move. Darting quickly to the side, he was too quick for the clumsily moving Knights that were coming towards him. He squeezed off along the edge of the quagmire of hovering weapons.

Preston, still standing just inside doorway, thought his knees might buckle beneath him as the first Knight swung his sword towards him. He blocked it all the same - as if on autopilot. Then, as the first metallic menace recovered from the counterblow, he swivelled to meet the sword of the second, which swished through the air from the opposite direction. Two foes at once – this was too much! Preston prayed that the suits of armour were even rustier that he was…

'Go Preston!' squealed Claudia. 'Kill 'em!' Preston shot her a strained, lopsided grin and, with a crashing blow, smashed both the first Knights sword, and the gantlet that held it, to the floor. 'Oh my God…you're my hero,' she sighed, even as the second Knight came at him from behind again…

'Go Nigel,' willed Sydney – although unable to move, her eyes were strained sideways upon her fiancé's progress.

Nigel was standing just feet from the dour, ever expanding spectre, its form increasingly resembling that of an enormous man - or beast. It loomed above him, making him look very small. A gaping hole in its blobby head resembled a horrible grin.

Sydney was about a yell that he should go 'in for the kill' when she saw a tiny arc of electric charge crackling from one of the monsters protruding limbs to the floor. Every muscle in her body clenched with a horrible realisation – the essence of the ghost was a living cloud of fatally charged electricity. No wonder Morholt was smiling: if he was going to die, he was taking Nigel with him…

The sword was raised at Nigel's shoulder - his whole being was aglow with determination; he had already started the fateful swing.

'No! It's a trap…'

It was too late: momentum propelled the sword forward, slicing decisively through the poltergeist.

There was a monumental flash. Multicoloured forks of lightning - yellow, gold, silver and red – zigzagged through the sword, from the daemon to the man, engulfing them both completely. As Morholt gave a preternatural roar and imploded with a pop, Nigel was thrown violently backwards, his eyes wide as his body smacked hard against the cold, stone wall below the tapestries.

Sydney cried out, even as the weapons surrounding her and Claudia descended with a clatter.

Ripping her hands from the unravelling whip, she didn't notice as it tore into the skin. Neither did she noticed that one of the suits of armour had descended forward on to Preston – impaling itself on his sword but, pinning him, unharmed but humiliated, to the floor.

She didn't even hear Claudia's impassioned sobs. All that mattered now with Nigel. Her Nigel – the man she was supposed to be marrying – who lay, limp and apparently lifeless, on the bed-chamber floor.

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