Gargoyle Quest (3 page)

He was taking his final bite of his second breakfast when Rhianna emerged from the bathroom. A pink bathrobe clung to her shapely form as she toweled off her wild mane of red hair. He planted a quick kiss on her cheek as he brushed past her, fighting back the temptation to throw her over his shoulder and drag her to the bedroom, obligations be damned. If he gave in to temptation, she would never make it to work in time. Time-telling devices in the form of watches and cell phones were ubiquitous in this city. A mad surge of people rushing from one place to another defined the rhythm of life. Just thinking about it made Artan dizzy.

Artan showered next while Rhianna continued to get ready for the day ahead. Ten minutes later, he was dressed and prepared to accompany his love on her morning commute into Manhattan. Joining Rhianna for her subway ride into the city wasn’t just a way to extend their time together before they were parted by her work; Artan found it valuable to get out into the city and observe the people of the modern world, studying their habits.
 

Artan wore dark jeans, boots, a black T-shirt and a leather jacket, a style he gravitated toward even though modern clothes still felt strange against his skin. His fashion sense combined with his longish hair and myriad of Celtic tattoos made people think he was a musician. At least until they got a close-up look at him. There was something in his haunted eyes that defied the image of a soulful artist, an undercurrent of danger and violence that went beyond the posturing of some wannabe rock star. He might not carry a sword or wear armor when walking the streets of Manhattan, but he remained a warrior. Nobody who looked into his eyes would ever mistake him for some Brooklyn hipster.

“You ready?” Rhianna yelled as she slipped into a crisp business jacket.
 

The two of them never failed to turn heads and earn curious glances when they went out, her polished and professional, him rugged and a little dangerous.
 

Seconds later he was at her side as they made their way into the crisp fall morning. Holding hands, they briskly walked down the block until they arrived at the nearest subway stop. Within a few minutes, they were inside the next train bound for Manhattan, their home borough streaking past the train’s windows in a rapid blur.
 

Artan considered the heaving throng of commuters around him. He’d led massive armies of men in battle, but their numbers paled in comparison to the millions who called this metropolis their home. He wondered what sort of jobs all these people were headed to. Their distant, sleepy expressions suggested they weren’t all that eager to face their duties of the day—yet on some level he envied them. They were needed. They had a role to play in this world, minor as it may be. He, on the other hand, was just tagging along for the ride.

About a half an hour later, the train screeched into the 77
th
Street station. Artan and Rhianna walked in silence toward the massive entrance of the MET’s main building located on the eastern edge of Central Park, a stretch known as Manhattan’s Museum Mile. According to Rhianna the MET was the largest art museum in the United States and among the most visited in the world, containing over 5000 years of artistic achievement. The Cloisters, where he’d first met Rhianna during the confrontation with his brother Cael, was a much smaller branch of this vast museum.

“You going to be okay?” Rhianna asked, a trace of concern in her voice.

Artan smiled. “I know how to keep myself busy.”

They shared a quick kiss before Rhianna vanished inside the walls of the impressive structure, leaving Artan alone on the sidewalk. Traffic flowed past him, yellow cabs dominating the streets as buses and trucks belched and honked. Sounds of nearby construction drowned out the traffic in intermittent bursts. The modern world was
loud
.

Artan inhaled Rhianna’s perfume, which still clung to him, and turned away from the museum. The bustling city awaited.

A chilly morning breeze whistled through Manhattan’s cement arteries as he began his long walk. Steel and glass towers loomed above him, both humbling and awe-inspiring. It was hard to imagine that mere men had constructed these monoliths. Was there any limit to humanity’s ingenuity? While frozen in his stone gargoyle form all those centuries, trapped in a state between death and life, vague details had penetrated Artan’s hazy curtain of awareness. Faint echoes of reality, a taste of what the world would be like when he awoke. It had eased the culture shock to a degree, but this time period would never quite feel like home.
 

Getting the hang of modern technology had, to his surprise, been the easy part. Understanding the people born of this age of miracles proved a bit more challenging. He could wander the streets of the metropolis all day long without exchanging a word despite being surrounded by teeming crowds. This would have been unthinkable in Kirkfall. Human interaction was of little interest to these city dwellers who seemed more enamored with their beeping and chiming devices than their fellow man.
 

His daily excursions through New York used to invigorate him. There was a whole world out there for him to explore. Recently, though, his walks had been losing some of their initial appeal. He wasn’t navigating the urban canyons any longer but was adrift within them. While the world went along its daily business all around him, his days were an exercise in killing time. He was merely keeping himself busy until Rhianna returned from work.

What is wrong with you?
he asked himself.
You were given a new lease on life, found love again, and escaped an eternity frozen in stone. You should be happy and grateful.
 

He should indeed. So why did he feel so…lost?

Pushing aside his concerns, he headed for his first destination of the day: Bryant Park, located in the 40
th
Street Plaza, where he would meet Rhianna’s father for a game or two of chess. Artan welcomed the distraction. As he neared the park, he made a quick pit stop at McDonald’s and ordered a sack of cheeseburgers and fries. Leaving the fast food joint, he greeted the homeless man rooted near the entrance. The man’s worn features were covered in a filthy beard and tangle of unwashed hair.
 

“How are things hanging, boss? Why the long face? Don’t let life get you down.”
 

Artan smiled at the homeless man’s pep talk. His name was Ronny, a constant fixture at the fast food joint and one of the few folks Artan exchanged words with during his long walks through the city. Artan knew few details about Ronny except that he’d served in a great war in the desert and that the stress of his battle experiences had sent him on a downward spiral of alcohol and drug addiction. When Artan looked at the ragged, emaciated figure sprawled out in front the yellow arches, he tried to look past the sickening body odor and dirt-caked hair, past the madness. Instead, he focused on the haunted pale gray eyes. Perhaps he recognized a part of himself in that slightly lost gaze.
 

Smiling, he handed Ronny one of the cheeseburgers. Ronny flashed him a crooked, grateful grin. “You’re the best, boss. Have a blessed day.” The burger was a small gesture, but he always tried to have some food ready when he spotted Ronny. War could shatter the spirit as much as it could break the body. Ronny was just one of its many victims. Artan understood all too well how the past could poison a man’s future.
 

He walked toward the park and crossed the street, the scent of the cheeseburgers making his mouth water. He headed straight for the collection of chess tables lined up under a canopy of trees. Rhianna’s father spotted him and grinned from behind an army of chess pieces. Despite the smile on the archaeologist’s weather-beaten face, Artan felt a pang of guilt upon greeting his beloved’s father. Cael had claimed the man’s right eye and left him lame, and Artan couldn’t help but blame himself. Over the course of the last twelve months, Artan had grown close to the middle-aged former swashbuckler.

Despite being in his mid-fifties, an age that would have been quite elderly in Artan’s time, Sharpe retained a youthful, roguish charm. At first, the doctors had predicted Doctor Sharpe would never walk again after his ordeal with Cael. Sharpe had surprised them all, and within three months he was hobbling down the corridors of the hospital and raising hell with the nursing staff. The man’s energy couldn’t be contained, even if his days of scouring the globe for buried treasure were likely over.
 

“Good morning, Artan. How are you on this fine morning?”

“Good,” he replied, knowing it to be a lie. “What about you, my friend?”

“I woke up with a fire in my heart and a spring in my step. You better be ready for some chess. I’m not pulling any punches today.”

Artan forced a smile, but he didn’t feel much in the mood for games.

As Sharpe eagerly unwrapped his cheeseburger, Artan listlessly made his first move. His heart and mind weren’t in the game today, and it showed. After Doctor Sharpe snatched his fifth chess piece within fifteen minutes of starting the match, he rolled his eyes and said, “Where’s your fighting spirit? You keep this up and I’ll have your queen before noon.”

Artan grunted a non-response.

Sharpe arched his eyebrows. “Something on your mind?”

Artan shrugged and tried to shift his focus back to the game.

“So what’s new in your world?” Sharpe inquired, his voice softening a touch.

“Rhianna is enjoying her job at the MET—”

“I meant, what’s new with
you
? Something’s up. Now, you don’t seem nervous, so I doubt you’re about to ask for my daughter’s hand in marriage. Or tell me she’s expecting and I’m the last one to find out. That said, the role of being a grandfather does hold some appeal, in case you’re wondering.…”

Doctor Sharpe broke off as Artan shot him a dark look.

“Sorry, I’m just an old man with a habit of talking too much,” he said sheepishly.

“Let’s keep playing.” Artan tightened his jaw, irritated that the archeologist could so easily see through him.
 

The older adventurer nodded and their game resumed. Once again it proved to be a one-sided battle as Sharpe snatched one piece after another. Five minutes later, it was all over.
 

“Check mate, Artan.” For a moment, the two of them sat in silence while Sharpe set up the game for a potential rematch. “Now, let me guess. The twenty-first century is getting to you, isn’t it?”

Artan blinked in surprise. Could the archeologist read minds like some of the seers had claimed to do back in Kirkfall? Or was his inner turmoil so plainly written on his face?
 

Artan held Sharpe’s gaze as he replied, “Each day, I gain a better understanding of this world.”

“Understanding the world is important. But knowing your place in it is a whole other matter.”
 

Artan eyed the archeologist curiously. “What do you mean?”

“Ever since your brother took my eye, life hasn’t been the same for me. I used to travel the world, but now I spend most of my days playing chess with other old farts in the park.” He gestured at the other chess tables, which were indeed mostly occupied by elderly men.

“I’m sorry,” Artan began.

“Don’t get me wrong. Not a day goes by that I’m not grateful to be alive. But I miss the man I once was.”

Artan nodded. “The man you once were,” he echoed.
 

“If anyone, you understand where I’m going with this. Neither one of us is satisfied with living a normal life. Cael didn’t just take my eye; he took my life’s work from me. The consulting I do for the museum isn’t quite the same as fieldwork.”

Sharpe leaned closer, his grip tight around Artan’s forearm. He was surprised by the old man’s strength; Sharpe was a fighter.

“You were a king, Artan. A warrior. You sacrificed yourself for your people.”

“For vengeance,” he interjected.

“Call it what you like, but you gave up your humanity so you could save them. Like me, you’ve always known your place in the world. You had a purpose. So what defines you now?”

The words resonated uncomfortably with Artan. Indeed, who was he in this modern world? Where did he go from here? What was his purpose now that his ancient foe was vanquished and the curse of the gargoyles broken? Wandering the city, observing its people and culture while learning their language and customs had distracted him for months and taken his mind off the deeper questions tormenting him.
 

“What do you recommend I do? My people are long gone. I…I don’t belong here.”

“Maybe you should take a trip to Ireland?”

Artan’s features hardened into an unreadable mask. “No. I will never go back.”

“I know you’re not crazy about flying….”

Artan balled his fists, and Dr. Sharpe wisely backed off. The idea of setting foot on one of the iron birds, which allowed people to travel to the farthest reaches of the world, held little appeal to him. But that wasn’t the real reason he was reluctant to revisit his homeland.

Deep emotion tinged his voice as he said, “The Kirkfall I knew and loved is no more. Better to keep it alive in my memories than to see it in ruins, a city of ghosts.”
 

Dr. Sharpe nodded and said, “I understand.”

“This isn’t my world,” he said. There was a grim finality to this words that scared him. He had not admitted it aloud before.

“Does Rhianna know how you feel?”
 

The question hung in the air. Artan had never voiced these feelings to his beloved even though she probably suspected something might be amiss. Her job was stressful enough without him adding to her worries, and he did not want her to see him as weak.
 

Doctor Sharpe’s features softened. “Artan, I know it’s difficult. But you
will
find a place here. I truly believe that.”

Artan was touched by the archeologist’s positive outlook even if he didn’t share it.
 

“Just look around, watch the news,” Sharpe continued. “There will always a need for men like yourself.”