- Text Size +
Author's Chapter Notes:

There's not a lot of GTS stuff this time around, as the plot is kicking into high gear. So sorry about that if you're just here for the sexy ladies. That said, if you're a horror fan, you may enjoy this chapter as it features (I kid you not) zombies!

Part 5

Dindrane continued down the weathered path with Tom sitting pensively on her shoulder. It wouldn’t be long now. Only one last homunculus remained to face the Wasteland’s challenges. It was a pity. The girl had seen many brave knights enter the haunted forests and misty roads of her adopted homeland but few survived the tests. Most succumbed to temptation or despair, or were slain by the demonic creatures lurking in the dark. The handful that actually escaped were never quite the same—tortured by the madness of what they’d seen, little more than broken shells of their former selves. And none of them had ever achieved the Grail.

It always made her sad, though this was the price of being a Grail-Maiden. There were sacred laws and vows to fulfill. The ways of the Creator were not hers to judge and his holy vessel could not fall into the hands of just anybody. Still, none of the other questing heroes had been quite so small and adorable. The thought of these sweet little homunculi being destroyed by the Wasteland was almost too much to bear.

“My lady, stop here!” Tom exclaimed suddenly. “What is that up ahead?” Nimbly, the tiny man slid down the length of her arm and leaped from her wrist to her hip. From there, he used the cloth of her robes to clamber down to ground level.

“How agile you are, Sir Tom,” Dindrane chuckled. “I could have put you down if you’d only asked me t—” She stopped in mid-sentence when she saw what the miniature knight was scurrying towards.

Ahead of them was the rotting remnant of an ancient tree. It was a true giant of the forest with a vast trunk almost ten feet around and many black, gnarled limbs and branches extending in all directions. Not a leaf or apple was visible on the dead tree. In their place, the ghostly monolith bore a far different type of fruit.

On the end of each of the branches there hung a man. All of them were clad in armor or chainmail, dulled by rust, and they were suspended by nooses wrapped about their necks. The tree had been converted into a hideous makeshift gallows by unknown parties. And the hangman had apparently been busy. Some of the bodies were fresh, while others were in various states of decay. A few were little more than skeletons. Tom cried in anguish as he recognized the dead faces frozen in their rictus grins. These were his brother knights.

“Bedivere! Kay! Gawain! Oh, God, no, no…” The little man ran about the base of the tree, peering up at the hanged men in a panic.

“Percival! Uwain! Lionel! Bors! Caradoc! Slain, all of them, slain! How did this happen? Who is responsible for this butchery?”

His blood ran cold as he stood below the next branch. It hardly seemed possible. “Lancelot,” Tom whispered hoarsely. “Oh, Lancelot, not you too? The best among us…now we are truly lost…”

He continued to circle the tree, staring aghast at his fallen comrades. The Wasteland had conquered Arthur’s greatest knights. This Grail-quest, which had begun as a mere diversion to keep the warriors occupied, looked as though it would be the ruin of the Round Table.

The man on the final branch bore no armor; only a green tunic emblazoned with a red apple. “Pelleas,” Tom said, barely able to speak. “God, how long have we been gone? Oh, Pelleas, why would you not stay on Avalon? We would have brought you the Grail, if it was in our power. This will kill Nimue, if she’s not dead already.”

A horrible creaking sound filled Tom’s ears and he glanced up at the tree in shock. The lifeless head of Pelleas began to slowly turn towards him, slumping unnaturally on its broken neck. Empty, dead eyes seemed to bore into the little man’s soul.

“And what care you for my wife’s sorrow, faithless wretch?” a voice demanded. The mouth of the corpse did not move as these words were intoned. The sound seemed to come from somewhere deep in Tom’s very head.

“You bore no love for her,” the voice of Pelleas said. “You would have seen her dead yourself, had you the power!”

Tom’s blood turned to ice as he tried to wrap his mind around this new horror. “That’s not true!” the homunculus protested. “I…I carried a grudge for Merlin’s death, yes, but I would never harm a lady! Nimue repented. Her sins and her virtues will be judged by God. I didn’t mean what I—”

The creaking commenced again as more corpses began to turn towards their small visitor. “What are you doing here, Sir Tom?” the voice of Bedivere croaked. “You should not have come.”

“What made you think you could succeed where these goodly knights failed?” said Kay. A broken jaw hung loosely from his half-rotted skull.

“You’re a useless, tiny mouse!” Gawain bellowed. Blood drenched his battered form, gleaming as red in the moonlight as his fiery hair. “Your little menagerie of doll-men is nothing but a joke! What hope could you possibly have?”

“Turn back, Tom,” said Bors, one of Arthur’s most pious champions. “Leave this God-blighted land while there’s still time!”

“Turn back! Turn back!” the dead men all cried. Bony arms extended outward slowly, pointing away from the grisly scene.

“I—I can’t!” the miniature knight screamed at them, grasping his temples. “Nimue’s life depends on it! And now my friends’ lives as well! They’re out there somewhere in the mist. I can’t just abandon them.”

“They’re as dead as we are. Or soon will be, I fear,” called Uwain, Queen Morgan’s good-hearted son. It pained Tom to see him hanging there with the others. He was the only positive contribution that witch had made to society and now he was dead and rotting.

“Thomas,” Sir Lancelot’s corpse said softly up above. “Go home. There is nothing more you can do. Tell her majesty, the queen, that…that she will be ever in my thoughts. Until we see each other again…”

Tom hesitated. Perhaps there was wisdom in the words of these gruesome things. If Arthur’s finest had succumbed to the Wasteland, there was nothing that a small, helpless, insignificant creature like him could do. It would be better to retreat now before there was no hope. If he hurried, he could round up the other Leaguers (if they still lived) and be gone from this hellish kingdom. They had tried their best. No one could expect more. No one could possibly blame them for turning back when faced with such odds. Certainly, it was not cowardice to—

“No!” Tom shrieked. The words had filled his mind but they were not his. The land was playing with him, magnifying his doubts and fears. Tom had never been one to give up and he would not start now.

“I’ve faced the wrath of Morgan le Fay and her Sisterhood and the power of the Lady of Avalon,” he muttered to himself. “I’ve been menaced by beasts and giants and survived a world of hungry jaws and crushing feet. If I must face all the power of Hell on Earth then so be it! I will overcome it or die in the attempt!”

“Then, I fear you shall die,” Lancelot’s voice declared. “I’m sorry, my friend. We tried to warn you.”

The great tree swayed in the chill winds, its boughs creaking and cracking as horribly as the bones of the knights. One by one, its horrific fruit began to fall to the forest floor. The ropes came loose of their own power and the corpses each dropped to the ground, slumping unnaturally in a heap. Slowly, that heap began to move in a terrible mockery of life as the dead warriors picked themselves up and began to form ranks. Black, sunken eyes were trained on the tiny figure of Tom several yards away.

“We are the Wasteland’s puppets now,” called Lancelot. “Our will is not our own. Run, Thomas! I beg of you! We will destroy you if you don’t!”

The dead men shambled and staggered on their rotting limbs, drawing rusted swords from broken scabbards. Slowly but inexorably, they began to march towards the small, terrified homunculus. Ever chivalrous, Tom’s first instinct was to look for Dindrane, hoping to defend her. But the Grail-Maiden had vanished in the grey mists. He was alone.

For all his bravery, Tom knew he hadn’t a chance. The miniature warrior could not hope to defeat even a single knight, let alone a battalion of them unaffected by death’s touch. Strategy was his only hope. Strategy…and a hasty escape.

The wee knight turned about face and darted into the woods. Behind him, he could hear the shuffling boots of the ghastly revenants. Their pace quickened as the Wasteland seemed to give them new unnatural speed. Tom had to find shelter or locate the castle and the Grail as soon as possible. Surely the power of that holy chalice could banish these monsters.

After nearly an hour of running, he paused when he spotted a dark figure slumped against a fallen log. At first, he feared the dead warriors had surrounded him, cutting off his path. But as he approached, Tom saw that this mysterious newcomer was no fiend from Hell. It was a young man, hardly more than a boy, clad in an ill-fitting suit of armor and mail that seemed a size too big for him. Life was still in the boy’s veins, though his handsome face was pale from fright.

The youngster turned his shaggy blond head in Tom’s direction as he heard a rustling in the underbrush. Quickly, the boy drew his sword.

“Who goes there?!” he spat. “Face me, you devil! I am not afraid!” The uncontrollable quivering in his arm told a different story but Tom emerged from the shadows nonetheless.

The young knight’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the miniature man. “What is this new trickery? Get back, imp, or I’ll crush thee like an ant!”

“Peace, peace, Sir Knight!” Tom cried, throwing up his hands. “No trick, I assure you! I am Sir Thomas Thumb of—”

“Arthur’s homunculus!” the boy exclaimed. “I’ve heard stories of you! I am Galahad. I think you knew my mother, the Princess Elaine of Corbenic.”

“Elaine?” said Tom. “Then, that would make your father…”

“Sir Lancelot, truest knight of the realm,” Galahad answered.

“Jesu, how old are you, boy? I remember when you were but a babe in your mother’s belly!”

“I am eighteen summers, sir,” the youth told him.

“Eighteen…has it been so long?” Tom mused, shaking his head. “But we have no time for this! We must prepare for battle! I am pursued by a troop of the living dead. There is no easy way to tell you this but…your father’s shade is among them, as well as every knight the Wasteland has conquered these past months.”

“Father?” Galahad was puzzled. “That’s impossible. I was just with my father not ten minutes past, as well as Sir Percival and Sir Bors. We were separated by the mist a few moments ago.”

“Lancelot lives?” Tom fairly jumped for joy. “And the others too? But of course they do. That grinning horde is but a trick of the Wasteland. It was the test, the test! How could I have been so blind? Oh, Galahad, I could kiss you!”

“Er, yes. Quite,” the young man answered, shifting uncomfortably.

“Wait,” Tom said, as a thought occurred to him. “How do I know it’s not you who is the illusion, meant to instill me with false hope?”

Galahad peered down at him sternly. “I could say the same of you. Then again, a pint-sized knight is a strange form for the Wasteland’s illusory promises to take.”

“Fair point,” Tom said. “We shall simply have to trust each other. We’re all the other has at the moment.”

“Whether your enemies are a trick or no, we should be ready for anything,” the younger man cautioned. “This land’s perils can be frightfully real.”

As if in answer, there was another rustle in the bush. Three dead warriors burst into the clearing, half-shattered swords gleaming in the moonlight. They lunged with inhuman ferocity at the youth and his tiny companion, baring their teeth and shrieking wildly.

Galahad was on his feet in an instant, sword drawn. He moved so swiftly, Tom’s eyes could barely follow. With a strafing swing of his sword arm, Galahad lopped off the first dead man’s head. The other two attacked him in fury but the warrior parried and countered their blows, fairly dancing across the green. A corpse-knight swung his blade towards the youth but Galahad dropped to one knee, barely avoiding the weapon as it whistled over his head. From this new position, he cut off his opponent’s legs, mid-shin, and watched the dead man tumble to the ground. As it was still twitching, he chopped off its arms as well.

As the third enemy charged him, the blond-haired juggernaut leaped into the air, bringing his sword down on the corpse’s head. Tom looked away in horror as the dead knight was sliced in twain.

Galahad stopped to rest at last, wiping black blood and viscera from his sword. Tom looked up at him in utter astonishment.

“You’re…you’re amazing,” he stammered.

“I was taught by the best,” the youth answered. He tried to look confident but the battle had clearly shaken him. Tom surmised that for all of Galahad’s vaunted skills, he had not yet seen much combat.

“We must away,” Galahad told him. “If these are indeed grave-wights returned from death, I fear these wounds will not stop them for long.”

Tom found himself riding on Galahad’s shoulder as the pair pressed onward through the forest. They found no sign of Lancelot or the rest of Galahad’s company. Again and again, the dead knights burst from the darkness and each time, the young warrior defeated them. But his arms were soon wearying and his spirit was close to breaking.

“Illusion or not,” said Galahad, “it is horrific to be fighting my fellow knights like this. I know these men. I’ve looked up to them for years and aspired to be like them. Now I find myself gutting and decapitating them left and right!”

Onward they marched, uncertain if they were even going the right direction. Tom suggested they climb a tree to get a better view of the landscape and determine if Castle Corbenic was near.

“I trust not these trees,” Galahad told him. “They are old and dying. They would never support my weight.”

“They should support mine well enough,” Tom smirked. “Give me a boost!”

With practiced skill, Tom scurried up the trunk of an aged tree and into the high branches. He drew his sewing-needle sword, ready to face any monstrous bird, insect, squirrel, or other dread beast that might inhabit the tree. Luckily, there was none. Tom clambered to the top of a leafless stem and peered out across the barren land. At once, his heart soared.

“I see it! There’s a castle ahead of us, a mile or two distant! We’re almost there!”

As he spoke these words, a rusted dagger suddenly shot through the air and embedded itself in the branch, mere inches from Tom’s position. Startled, the little knight glanced down and saw that the tree was surrounded by a pack of dead warriors. Their leader was the rotting corpse that resembled Lancelot.

“Galahad, my son,” the revenant hissed. “Have you come to join your old man in death?”

“You don’t fool me, spectre,” Galahad insisted. “My father is alive, elsewhere in this cursed land. He was at my side when Thomas faced you and your cronies.”

“Was he now?” the Lancelot-corpse asked, bemused. “Or was it merely a Wasteland shadow at your side when your true father was dying in agony, slain by the quest? Can you take the chance, boy? Will you face me in battle? You never were good enough to defeat me in single combat.”

Galahad raised his sword and adopted a battle stance. But once again, his hands were shaking and his eyes were filled with doubt. The dead knight smiled wickedly and began to advance.

Just then, a small object plummeted from the treetops and collided with the cadaver’s face, causing it to stumble backwards in surprise. Tom stood perched upon the fiend’s nose, tiny sword in hand.

“Run, Sir Galahad!” he cried, plunging the point of the needle deep into the monster’s eye. The Lancelot-corpse gave a piercing animalistic shriek, though whether out of rage or pain none could say. Skeletal hands swatted at the creature’s face and Tom was flung off into open air. The corpse’s eye was pulled from its socket, still skewered on the end of Tom’s sword. With catlike reflexes, Galahad caught the little man in cupped hands and fled from the scene.

“My thanks,” said Tom, looking up at the knight.

“Likewise,” Galahad told him.

The duo made for the spires of Castle Corbenic with all haste. Behind them, the troop of dead men continued its pursuit, gaining more members the further they went. Warriors who had already fallen to Galahad’s blade were re-summoned, shambling along with missing limbs or heads but refusing to give up. The knight doubled his speed, shielding his tiny ally as he ran. Below in his hands, Tom gave a cry as the rotting eyeball tilted forward on the end of his sword, still seemingly gazing at him. Cringing in disgust, he flung the offending orb away.

At last, they reached the castle and bolted through the gates in terror. Galahad hastily turned a crank to raise the drawbridge as the horde of dead approached the entrance. Those corpses that still had heads gazed up at the battlements warily and turned aside, sensing the power of the place. “Lancelot” snarled at his escaping quarry and rounded up his troops, disappearing into the night.

“Is this it? Is this Corbenic?” Tom asked once they had caught their breaths.

“I don’t know,” admitted Galahad. “I’ve passed several fortresses in this land already. Some were guarded by demons or were filled with beckoning temptresses. Let us hope we have chosen rightly.”

“You have,” a voice called from the shadows. A slender form slipped into the torchlight and Tom breathed a sigh of relief as he recognized Dindrane.

“You do get around,” he chuckled. His tone changed immediately as he noticed a tiny figure standing on her shoulder. “Issun! You’re alive!”

“Yes, the little warrior lives,” Dindrane said. “I am not certain about your other friends though.” She opened her hands to reveal the unmoving forms of Hop, Thumbling, and ‘Lina.

“I found them shortly after I arrived. According to Uncle Pelles’ visions, each of them faced the challenges but only Issun-boshi seems to have emerged unscathed.”

“I saw my wife die,” Issun said quietly. “It may have been illusion but I would hardly say I am unscathed.”

“What about the others?” Tom asked. “What’s wrong with them?” Galahad brought him closer to Dindrane’s hands, allowing him to jump across and tend to his friends.

“They’re comatose, still trapped in the Wasteland’s illusions,” Dindrane explained. “The perils they faced have overwhelmed them. Hop fought back only after he’d given in to temptation and vice. Thumbling was too late to prevent disaster and his guilt at causing it was crippling. The little princess conquered her foe but sacrificed herself to do so. Short answer, they…they failed their tests, Sir Tom. I’m sorry.”

“Failed?” Tom exclaimed. “But you said ‘Lina defeated her enemy!”

“Her mind is convinced she is dying, dwindling away to a world beyond sight or reason.”

Tom crouched in Dindrane’s cupped palms to examine his teammates. They were as pale as death but still seemed to be breathing. Each breath was shallow however and seemed like any moment, it would be their last. Tom reached down and gently nudged them or grasped their shoulders to lightly shake them awake. His friends did not move.

“Hop! ‘Ling! Come on, fellows, quit kidding around,” Tom said. “Open your eyes! You’re stronger than this, I know you are! ‘Lina! Come on, ‘Lina, fight it!”

“They’re slipping away, Tom,” Dindrane told him. “I’m sorry.”

Tom grabbed his friends’ shoulders and shook them more vigorously. It was like shaking rag dolls. Their limbs hung limply at their sides and their heads slumped unconsciously.

“You can’t leave me!” he screamed at them. “Not after all these years, all we’ve done together! It doesn’t end like this, damn it!”

Tom reached out and clutched Thumbelina’s hand, leaning in close to whisper to her. “’Lina, you can’t be dying. You can’t. I never…I never told you this but…I love you, ‘Lina. I always have, from the moment we met. You’re the most beautiful, perfect, amazing person I know. I love your smile, your laugh, your feistiness…that look you get in your eye when we’re blundering into some new, ridiculous mission.”

By now, the words were flowing out of him, a release after years of suppression.

“Before I met you, ‘Lina, I felt so alone. A freak, an oddity. I was a wizard’s parlor trick come to life with no place or purpose in the world. You gave me that. I wasn’t alone anymore. There was someone else like me, someone wrestling with the same struggles and doubts of not fitting in or knowing what we were made for. I didn’t have to face it on my own. It broke my heart that you had a husband. But I thought…if she exists…if this incredible, gorgeous, little creature exists, maybe there’s hope for me. And if not, at least she’s part of my life.”

Tom gently stroked ‘Lina’s fiery red hair and kissed her forehead. “I hope Cornu knows how lucky he is. If you’re gone, ‘Lina, and Hop and Thumbling too…I don’t know if I can go on.”

Galahad watched the drama unfolding in Dindrane’s hands with pity. Though he couldn’t hear Tom’s tiny whispers, the emotion on the miniature man’s face was obvious.

“Surely there is something that can be done for them,” he asked.

“The Wasteland has passed its judgment. We cannot break the spell,” she told him.

“Perhaps the Grail can,” Galahad suggested. “We have come this far, my lady. Surely the cup of Christ is within our grasp. Tell us what we must do.”

Dindrane’s brow furrowed and she let out a slow sigh. “There is but one final challenge…”

“I am sick to death of your challenges!” Tom howled. “I want my friends back!”

“You may resent this ordeal but you should count yourself lucky, Tom,” Dindrane suddenly snapped. “You were to face your test alone but it seems yours overlapped with Sir Galahad’s. You two were fortunate to have found each other.”

“And we are grateful,” Galahad quickly added before Tom could speak. “Now please, what must we do?”

Gingerly, Dindrane reached down to pick Tom up. The little man cried out and struggled, trying to return to his sleeping teammates, but the lady’s grasp was too strong. She placed him on Galahad’s shoulder and picked up Issun, placing him on the knight’s other shoulder.

“Through that door, my champions,” she said, indicating a nearby chamber. “If you are worthy, you’ll know what to do.”

Sir Galahad marched forward to the old wooden door. Casting a quick backwards glance at Dindrane, he grasped the handle and pulled it open. A brilliant golden light issued forth, nearly blinding them all. From somewhere within, a deep, booming voice echoed.

“WHOM DOES THE GRAIL SERVE?”

“A riddle then,” Galahad whispered to his tiny companions. “Well, lads, any ideas?”

“Perhaps the Fisher King,” argued Issun from one shoulder. “He is the lord of this castle.”

Tom wiped the tears from his eyes and tried to shake himself back to his senses. He was a Knight of Camelot and there was still the quest to think of. He could not give in to despair. Not yet.

“Pelles is but the Grail’s guardian,” he finally said from the other shoulder. “Not its master.”

“Arthur?” Issun ventured. “The ruler of the kingdom?”

“I can’t imagine the Grail would belong to any mortal king,” said Tom. “Even the best of them.”

“Mayhap it serves only the Christians’ God,” Issun said. “It is his vessel, yes?”

“If it truly is,” Tom added, “it’s a symbol of everything divine in this world, in every one of us. Who could command such a thing?”

“WHOM DOES THE GRAIL SERVE?” the voice bellowed once again.

“I think I have it,” said Galahad, stepping towards the light.

Tom shifted nervously. “You do realize that if you guess incorrectly, this light will likely incinerate us, right?”

“That seems very probable,” Issun agreed.

“WHOM DOES THE GRAIL SERVE?” the voice boomed a third and final time. “ANSWER!”

“All mankind,” Galahad called into the void. “The Grail serves us all.”

Silence fell. The golden light began to intensify, followed by a rush of wind and a surge of heat. The trio peered at each other with unease, certain that these were their final moments. Soon, the light drowned out all else, making it impossible to see. The three questing heroes were swallowed up into a void of brilliant gold.

To be continued...

You must login (register) to review.