Metahumans vs the Undead: A Superhero vs Zombie Anthology (6 page)

“Mercy,” he gurgled.

“May God grant you mercy,” the Crusader replied as he thrust the dagger up under the man’s shattered ribs.

The strongbox lay in the shallow ditch beside the road, undamaged by the fall.

“Best to do this while I’m still young and strong,” the Crusader said, although none but his horse could hear his words.

He lifted the strongbox without effort and replaced it on the seat. Next, he checked the right wheel of his cart. The hub appeared to bear a golden mark in the shape of a sword, its pommel at the center of the hub and its blade pointing up and to the left.

“An hour, or perhaps a little more,” the Crusader muttered to himself. There had been so much work for him lately.

He removed the helm from his head. The years fell on Old Jack like a great yoke upon his shoulders. Helm,
surcoat
and mail disappeared. The arrow remained, hanging from his tunic. He snapped the shaft in two and removed the head from the inside, rather than risk enlarging the hole. He reached up and took the top of his cowl between his fingers, feeling the scrap of leather that was sewn within, and gave thanks that it had done its job again.

The scrap of leather was from the Scabbard of Excalibur, an artifact no less wondrous than the sword itself. It had given the wearer eternal youth, enhanced his speed, strength and stamina, and protected him from wounds. It had made King Arthur unbeatable until Morgan le Fay had stolen it from him and thrown it into a lake. The lord abbot had discovered it many years ago, within a heap of clay destined for the potter’s wheel. The scabbard had disintegrated, but not before the lord abbot recognized it for what it was. He had been able to salvage two scraps of leather that had been preserved by the clay. One of these was sewn into Old Jack’s cowl. The other was within the hub of the right wheel of the cart. The motion of the wheel created the energy that remained in the scabbard, enabling it to confer the powers it still had.

Its residual powers were still miraculous, but limited. The scabbard could restore Old Jack’s youth, further increase his physical prowess, and protect him at least as well as the finest armor. It also caused others to see Old Jack as he had been at the height of his abilities, with a crusader’s armor and knightly accouterments,
including
saddle
and bridle when he was mounted.

This effect was at once real and illusory. The magic artifacts looked and functioned as though real, but had no more weight than the clothing they replaced. This gave the Crusader an even greater advantage in mobility than his enhanced strength and speed alone would have done. Further, although others saw the helm, he did not, which eliminated the restricted vision problem that was the great helm’s main disadvantage.

The other limit to the scabbard’s powers was time, for after a time it ceased to function until its power was renewed. Old Jack had found through experience that a full day’s travel, about twelve hours, gave him an hour of time. Only the Crusader could see the golden mark on the cart’s right wheel, by which he could judge how much longer the scabbard could maintain him in that state. However, as Old Jack, he was unable to see the golden mark just like everyone else.

Probably because it had originally been paired with Excalibur, the most potent weapon of its time, the scabbard would not provide weapons. Therefore, the Crusader’s sword, dagger and shield were neither magic nor illusion, but merely the best that the lord abbot’s gold could buy. Old Jack returned them to their secret compartment in the cart. He gathered up the outlaw band’s weapons and the leader’s helmet and tossed them into the back of the cart, and then set about hitching the horse between the poles again. He could still reach the abbey in time for the evening meal, if only the weather would hold.

It was raining heavily when Old Jack finally arrived at the abbey. He turned horse, cart and cargo over to the monk in charge of the stable and headed straight to the refectory. It was dark and empty, but there was light coming from the kitchen, giving him renewed hope. There was bound to be something left over from the evening meal, he told himself, and with any luck it might still be warm.

He found the lord abbot himself standing by a cooking fire, stirring the contents of a small pot with a wooden spoon.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Old Jack said drily. “Again.”

“Do not mock the Sacrament of Penance, John.” The lord abbot’s words were plainly a command, though his tone was not unkind. “How many was it this time?”

“Five. Their leader would have relieved me of the strongbox along the forest road
—
without hesitation or remorse, he said.”

“Then he was the one everyone has been seeking. They were outlaws all, wolf’s heads.”

Old Jack knew as well as anyone what this meant. To be an outlaw meant exactly that
—
outside the protection of the law. Outlaws were referred to as wolf’s heads because their legal status was equivalent to that of a wolf, the most feared and hated animal, which was to be killed on sight. Even so, his conscience was not completely eased.

“There was one, a bowman. I put my dagger into his back as he ran away, to protect the Crusader’s secret.”

“I will take the rest of your confession after we have eaten,” the lord abbot replied. “How much time remains to the Crusader?”

“About an hour and a half. Why do you ask?”

“Because you will in all likelihood be needing it, and soon.”

The lord abbot was a man of great influence and power. The abbey’s honour
—
the land it held
—
was large, extending into the two adjacent counties. Since there could be no land without a lord, that role naturally fell to the lord abbot. As such, his immediate superior was the king.

In ecclesiastical terms the lord abbot was of even higher de facto rank. Normally an abbot was subordinate to the bishop of the diocese where the abbey was situate, but like a number of other abbeys it had been declared exempt from episcopal control. So it was that in affairs of the Church, the lord abbot was responsible only to the Bishop of Rome
—
the Pope.

For a man of such high degree to share a private meal with one such as Old Jack was unthinkable. Yet dine together they did, simply but well. From this, a subtle mind might have come to suspect that Old Jack’s station in life was far higher up in the feudal pecking order than it seemed.

They had finished off all of the stew and most of the bread before the lord abbot finally explained himself. “There has been some trouble to the west.”

“What manner of trouble?”

“That I do not know. Sir Hugh was here when we first received word a week ago, but the news was second-hand. I sent him to find out what was going on, and I haven’t heard from him since.”

“Then this had best be my last cup of ale. If I leave at a decent hour tomorrow, I should get there sometime in the afternoon.”