The Calling

Mordred stood and the grass surveying the monument before him. He turned his head to Agravain who stood respectfully with his head bowed at a short distance behind his comrade. “Tis a shrine...” he commented returning his attention back to the monument and knelt close to the polished stone surface of the large stone obelisk set high on a marbled plinth. He ran his fingers over the metal plaque on the front of the monument and spoke over his shoulder, “a memorial” he continued, “to the fallen dead of this world” he eyes followed the line of letters as they spelt out name after name of soldiers fallen in the line of duty.

Agravain gazed around him, the wet grass flattened beneath his feet and placed his hand on the hilt of his sword for security. He nodded as an elderly couple passed the wall of the church and stared over the heavy set stonework, “how goes the day?” he called as the couple paused then lowered their heads and moved hurriedly along the winding road. He shrugged and turned back to face the back of his colleague, “what is this place?” he asked as he looked around. The church was prominent in the center of the ground, its heavy stones echoing eons of untold stories, and gather prayers of legions of believers throughout the ages. Stone crypts lay abandoned around the perimeter, each with a forgotten cargo within. Moss and grime transverse the stone and invaded the condition of the casket, forcing through slight cracks in the stone. Rows of headstones protruded from the ground, each hiding from view a hidden chamber holding silent occupants and staring out into the graveyard in a bitter reminded of mortality.

“Tis a graveyard...nothing more” said Mordred simply standing from his inspection and looking around at the accusing stones. “there is naught here for us to fear”

“No...my Lord, not the graveyard” insisted Agravain reaching out a hand to place on his friend’s arm. “Everywhere” he looked around and past the church into the road and out into the distant town.

“Why my Lord Agravain, there in nothing there but England. Our birthright...my heritage” he breathed deeply and listened to the sound of silence from the graves below.

“The smells...” said Agravain breathing deeply, “it does not smell like England my Lord” he continued glancing around him, “it smells of devil’s work”

Mordred considered for a moment and breathed heavily in air, indeed there was a residue in the atmosphere which displeased him, but nevertheless this was England. He could smell a heavy tang in the air and taste the bitter atmosphere of Sulphur and brimstone from the pits of depravity, the noises invaded and offended his hearing. “We have been asleep for many years Agravain; we cannot expect England to have remained the same” he said simply.

A new noise from the skies above their heads broke the conversation and caused the two men the glance upward. A plane smashed through the cloud coverage and climbed through the sky and out of sight. “But Mordred...this place, these creatures of metal” he looked into the sky as he spoke. “tis unholy, this is not England my Lord, tis a nightmare”

“Hold! Good Agravain, once we have Excalibur we can restore order to this society, we can return our world onto this” he waved around as he spoke. His face broke into a wide grin as he spoke and a flash of pure madness danced in his eyes. “Destiny belongs to us and once we have the sword, we can dispatch that harpy Morgan” he whispered, “and rule this land”

“You speak against Morgan...” gasped Agravain.

“Aye, I do” smiled Mordred, as he threw his arm around the shoulders of Agravain and led him down the overgrown path toward the rusted iron gate set in the stone wall. “politics are fought on the battlefield old friend...not by those plotting in the chambers and galleries in their ivory towers” he whispered and pointed across the road and smiled, “we will take the sword and the throne with or without the help of Lady Morgan. Now...I can see a tavern down yonder. Let us partake a beverage or two before combat” he slapped Agravain hard on the shoulder and laughed, “dismiss the men...I shall meet you in yon Inn!” Mordred pushed open the iron gate and listened as the hinges protested under his influence as the metal frame swung outward into the road.

Agravain turned and strode up the path toward the church toward the small congregation of Knights who stood stock still and to attention before the stone monument, each one holding his sword aloft before his face in silent respect to the fallen. “Troops!” snapped Agravain, “dismiss...return to the castle and await further orders” he turned to watch his commander walk away from the church, “and prepare for battle...and may God have mercy on our souls”

The heavy sword swept across the air and cut through the heavy roots which entwined around his body. Lord Kay pulled and heaved his frame out of the grip of the roots which held him placed in the glade. “Take heed...” he yelled as his hand brought down the heavy blade, connecting with vegetation and shards of bark and leaf fell as the sword cut through the creeper and vine forcing the plant to release its grip on the large Knight. Kay brought his sword down again and again as the blade chipped and cut wood, small tendrils snaking out desperately to stop the relentless pressure of the sharp implement as blows rained down through the forest. “Tristan...!” he called as he fought the bramble.

The large leaf which encased the other Knight bulged and swelled as it held the form of the smaller Knight as he struggled inside the plant. A point of a sword forced its way through the thick sinew of the green leaf and thrust out into the dying sunlight. The blade grew in size as it charged into the air, then forced its way down the massive leaf, cutting the heavy plant and creating a gaping maw to the cocoon. Tristan collapsed into the glade, a thick glutinous covering cast over his body and coughed violently, spitting out mouthfuls of gel as he gasped desperately against the air. He rolled onto his back and kicked out at the plant as it collapsed in on itself and forced himself to his feet, slashing the dying vegetation with the blade of his sword whilst gasping for breath. He stopped and surveyed the fallen mess of the plant which lay in a messy pool of glutinous gel around his feet and leant heavily on his sword, the tip burying itself into the soft ground of the clearing. His legs sagged briefly and he sank to his knee, leaning against the blade and pressing the hilt against his face. “I never thought I would hit out at a blessed plant in anger...” he whispered hoarsely catching his breath. He looked around the glade and could see a tangle of vines and thorns bulging and writhing in a mass of green and brown tentacles, while Kay fought back several other roots rising and falling beneath the pressure of his blade. “The boy...” he whispered forcing himself to his feet.

Tristan staggered to the writhing mass of thorn and brought his sword down onto the thick mass, cutting into the roots. He could see the boy on the brink of death beneath the mass of vegetation which swelled over his body. “Kay!” he called desperately, “Help me!”

Kay risked a quick glance in his direction as he brought his sword down the branches again, “Fend for yourself!” he yelled as a root rose high above his head, sprouting off several smaller buds and delivering a mist of poisonous intent. Kay covered his mouth with his free hand and brought down his sword into the thick branch above his head. “Get the boy and pull back to the cave!” he called, pulling the sword from the wood and thrusting it into the bramble.

“I cannot...” complained Tristan.

“Just do it!” snapped Kay.

Tristan sighed and forced his sword into the scabbard around his waist and thrust his hands deep into the bramble, immediately wishing he wore the thick heavy armour which covered his comrade. Thorns and bramble cut at his bare arms as he reached through the dense undergrowth and grasped at the body of the young man hidden from view.

Francis could feel his head swim under the intense pain of the thorns as they bit into his skin, his blood mixing with his tears as darkness swept over his conscious mind. He felt two hands grasp at his shoulders and pull him roughly through the undergrowth. He felt dizzy as the sudden inrush of air hit him forcibly, he could hear distant voices as the light from the sun blanked out and as his body was pushed through the wood he eventually succumbed to the sweet embrace of sleep.

Morgan emerged from the wood and cast her gaze around the road. He eyes fell upon the distant sea and she wished for a serenity which she could never have. The troop of Knight were disappearing into the distance and a faintest trace of a smile cast over her mouth as she allowed for the taste of oncoming victory, “soon...all will be mine” she whispered as the sun battered against her golden armour. She frowned in the sunlight and examined the precession in the distance and the absence of Mordred and Agravain from its head.

At that same moment, the two Knights stood before the old wood lined building of the public house. Mordred looked at the sign which swung from its frame above the door and smiled, “Look my friend...a sign of providence” he laughed pointing at the ageing wooden board which swung in the slight breeze.

“The Sword in the Stone...” mused Agravain as he examined the image of a sword protruding from a large boulder in gaudy colours from the hoarding.

“Tis a sign!” laughed Mordred again and spread his arms wide, spinning to face his comrade. “We drink...” he shouted, “for tomorrow we cast this country in the blood of our enemies!” He turned and pushed at the wooden door of the pub and crossed the threshold into the old house and stood in the midst of a range of tables. “Inn-keep!” he called, pushing aside the furniture and striding confidently through the tables toward the bar, Agravain close behind. The door to the kitchen behind the bar opened and Gwen stepped through into the bar, “You!” snapped “wench!”

Gwen looked behind her in mock surprise, then pointed to herself, “you talking to me?” she asked incredulously.

“Insolent girl...do you not know who I am?” he demanded, banging his fist down against the wooden top of the bar.

“I know you could do with a course in manners!” she snapped back.

“How dare you!” raged Mordred, raising his hand.

“What seems to be the problem?” came a heavy voice from the adjoining room.

“Ah!” breathed Mordred, “you sir, are the proprietor” he said waving around the room.

“I am” said the newcomer cautiously.

“Dad...”

“She is your daughter?” asked Mordred and watched as the landlord nodded, “she has fire in her stomach!” he laughed and slapped his hand against the counter top.

“Can I help you?” he asked

“Aye my good man...I wish refreshment” he said looking over the various pumps behind the bar, “you serve beverage?“, again the landlord nodded and recoiled as Mordred laughed and moved close to him placing a hand on his shoulder. “Then I wish to drink...myself and my friend!” Mordred said heartedly and sat at a table, “your finest Inn-keep, I wish to be entertained!”

“Gwen...” said the landlord softly and nodded toward his daughter cautiously eyeing the two men in armour as they sat at the table close to the fireplace. He turned to the men as Gwen began to pour ale into two glass vessels, the brown liquid clutching the edge of the glass swelling a white head across the top of the glass. “What brings you here?” he asked as he perched himself on a stool close to the bar.

Mordred regarded him for a moment before talking, “to take the sword Excalibur and flood this land in blood...” he laughed as he spoke and both the landlord and Gwen felt a chill cross over the room.