Summary: In Victorian London, an emigre count, Uther, and his landlady listen to an innocent girl's bloodcurdling story.
The Dark Place by frostygossamer
Part 4: The Duel
Arthur told him to let the girl go. She had nothing to do with their business there. Merlin flung Guinevere aside, and she fell amongst the pews.
The antagonists approached like boxers in the ring. Arthur's was the first blow, but it was returned with effect. Punches were evenly exchanged, but the two men struggled in vain to knock each other down. A streak of red blood ran down Merlin's cheek, from a cut above his eye, staining his shirt collar.
There was the glint of a knife, Arthur's knife, but it fell clattering on the flagstones. Then Arthur got his hands around Merlin's throat. The Dutchman tried to prise them off his neck. He staggered back choking, driven to his knees, unable to get a purchase on his adversary. Then, and with a grotesque cracking sound, another pair of arms ripped out from his sides. But they were not human arms; they carried fearsome claws.
The girl flung out her arms to demonstrate, and the Count and Hunith gasped with astonishment.
He pushed Arthur backwards onto the ground with a sickening thud, and his own back split top to bottom, as a ghastly, coal black thing pushed its way out of his flesh, like a snake sloughing off its skin.
It was huge and powerful, giantlike, with the hard, lustrous sheen of polished ebony, tinged with indigo and besmirched by clots of fresh gore. On its doublehorned head was a scarlet crest. There was blood and guts everywhere. Blood puddled the floor of the sanctuary, and oozed between the flagstones like rainwater.
The thing tore at the man pinioned beneath him, ripping flesh from bone until it revealed a black carapace like its own. Now they were two, wading in discarded flesh. The two hideous monsters slashed viciously at one another. Terrible unearthly shrieks filled the apse, gruesome shadows played on the walls. The air grew nauseating with the stench of decay, shell clashing against shell, mandible crunching against mandible.
The second creature rent one of Red Crest's limbs out of its body. Its screeching was horrifying. Piece by piece the two monsters clawed each other apart, but Red Crest was prevailing. It was stronger. It was more relentless. At last it crushed its opponent against the floor, smashed under its horrible weight. Then it proceeded to devour its victim, noisily. Blood, flesh and entrails littered the grisly scene. The battle was won.
Guinevere was still crouching out of sight behind a pew, numb. She had never been so afraid. An icy hand gripped her heart and she could scarcely breathe. Somehow she managed to crawl to a side door. She crept on all fours out into the dark, drenched churchyard, and huddled against a headstone, getting soaking wet, trying to regain her breath, and calm her racing heart. She had to get away.
('o')
Staggering along the street, Guinevere was overtaken by a hansom, occupied by a top-hatted bon-viveur. He stopped the cab and offered her a lift. She hesitated, stealing an anxious glance over her shoulder. Did she catch a glimpse of a flailing black hulk behind the churchyard wall? Was it just a tortured yew battered by the storm? She scrambled into the cab. Guinevere told her deliverer that she had to get to His Lordship's townhouse; she had friends there.
"So have I, by God", he brayed, "On, my good fellow!", and tapped on the roof of the cab with his cane.
The horse clattered off leaving that ominous place behind.
Guinevere wanted to look back at the evil spot where she had left her dead lover, or rather, where she had left for dead the monster that had once been the man she loved. But she felt sick at the memory of all that blood.
A tiny insect landed on the finger of her blue glove. She crushed it mercilessly. Then she tore off the gloves in disgust, tossing them onto the floor of the cab. What in the name of God had she allowed herself to love? A hideous creature? A monstrous thing? and yet she loved him so.
After a few minutes they passed a park, muddy and empty, some modest middle-class homes with curtains drawn, and then some bigger houses; their windows cheerfully illuminated. Then the fare tried to get too friendly. She freed herself from him, and shouted "Stop" to the driver.
The hansom cab drew to a sudden halt, and she dropped out into the street. As the cab bounced on, tipsy laughter echoing behind, a strong gust of stormy wind blew off her bonnet. Raindrops joined the tears cascading down her face.
She was at the rear of a street of redbrick houses. She staggered to the garden gate of the nearest. Stumbling in the darkness, she tripped over a manhole cover and broke the heel off her right shoe; the only pair of shoes she owned. Defeated she slumped against the back door, completely exhausted and without the strength to go on.
"And that is where I found you", Hunith observed, releasing the tension in the room.
She gave the girl a motherly hug, and Uther put more coal on the fire. Even in the warmth of the room, Guinevere trembled, as if from the cold. She wrang her hands.
"What shall I do?", she whispered fearfully, "My Arthur is surely dead, but the one I ran from, that one still lives!"
Hunith patted the poor girl's head, then rose, shivered and crossed to the window to draw Uther's long red velvet curtains against the night.
"That's better", she said.
But of course it was no better. If what the girl had told them was half true then it would never be better.
"When we've eaten, we can decide what to do", she said, in her most matter of fact voice, on her way to the door.
Uther was at her elbow. "I think we must send for the doctor, Signora Hunith", he whispered on the landing, "Cette pauvre fille..."
('o')
At that very moment, there was a loud knock at the front door. Hunith caught her breath. The solemn pounding continued. It reminded her of a story her grandmother had told her as a child, about the Angel of Death. Guinevere joined them and, in the gaslight of the passageway, Hunith noticed the raw, red circles around her anxious dark eyes.
Uther went slowly down the stairs, while the two women huddled together on the landing. The Count was gallant, Hunith thought, and in this so like her husband, the late and sorely missed Sgt. Balinor, who had perished bravely in Afghanistan. After a moment's hesitation, Uther unlocked the door, and opened it wide.
On the doorstep, there stood a tall figure enveloped in a long cape, his face obscured by a wide hat.
"Good day, friend", the visitor said in a low tone.
It was a colonial accent, Uther thought, but before he could close the door again the man had pushed inside.
"I'm looking for someone who might have come this way", he persisted, "A lady..."
At this, Guinevere screamed. and fainted into Hunith's arms.
TBC
A/N: Shorter but eventful, I think. Hope you're liking it so far. Updating soon.