The Calling

The smell struck Francis before the image of the creature appeared silhouetted in the light from the end of the tunnel. He looked down the long tunnel in abject horror as the shadow peeled away from the wall and slowly progressed along the passage toward the group in the main cavern. “What is it?” he whispered, transfixed to the image.

“Not what...who” whispered Tristan in his ear. Francis looked at him through the darkness of the cavern and could see his own expression mirrored in the Knights face.

“What do you mean who”

“That is the Fisher King” Tristan stated simply as though that explained everything he needed to know. Francis glanced back briefly down the tunnel as the shadow continued to move along the corridor of darkness toward them and looked back at Tristan who was moving back to the group of Knights at a respectful distance. Francis could see at the back of the group, almost hiding from the creature...no man the form of one of the smaller Knights cowering from the impending arrival of the Fisher King.

“Percival...” indicated Merlin nodding in his general direction, “had the opportunity to heal the wounds of the Fisher King, but failed to perform the correct incantation” he explained, “that is why he hides”

“His wounds?” Francis enquired returning his gaze down the tunnel.

“The Fisher King is cursed to protect the Grail” Merlin said following the gaze of Francis, “his wounds prevent him from travelling away from his Kingdom”

“How did he get his wounds?” asked Francis.

“We do not know...and we dare not ask” chided Merlin, “the Fisher King may be impotent, but he has his pride and he is powerful. Be careful child, do not upset the Fisher King”

Francis could feel a chill descend over the cavern as the shadow neared and from this distance he noticed that the creature appeared to drag a heavy weight behind him as he walked. He felt an ultimate sense of foreboding enter the cavern as the Fisher King neared, and recoiled at the stench of death which followed.

The shadow appeared to stop in the mouth of the cavern and raised itself to its full height as it spoke into the cave. “Merlin...” the voice was loud and deafening as it echoed over the walls of the cave.

“I am here” Merlin replied stepping from behind the chalice.

“Old friend” the voice softened slightly as Merlin approached. “He is here?”

“Yes”

“Where?” Merlin turned and pointed toward the chalice where Francis stood almost self-consciously of his own mortality. “He knows why he is here?” asked the Fisher King, still bathed in shadow.

“Only partially” admitted Merlin.

“He knows the procedure?”

“No”

“He knows he will be tested?”

“Yes”

“He knows the consequence?”

“No”

“It is better, that he does not”. The Fisher King stepped from the shadows and bathed in the light from the flickering torches on the walls. Francis recoiled at the horror of the behemoth before him and involuntarily took a step back. “Does my form scare you?” asked the Fisher King, the faintest of smiles crossing his deformed face. He stretched in the cavern to his full height and towered above both Merlin and the Knights of the Round Table and stepped closer to Francis who found himself cowering behind the stone chalice and close to the altar. “Do not fear me...you only need to fear, fear itself. I shall not harm you if you are the true successor”

“And what if I’m not?” asked Francis meekly, his voice quavering under the scrutiny of the Fisher King.

“Then you die” stated the Fisher King simply.

Morgan ran her fingers across the cold hard plastic flowers which adorned the fake scabbard that hung over the fireplace in the public house. “The boy does not have Excalibur...” she mused as she traced the line of the replica as it hung distracted from the rigors of finery. Her fingers gently stroked the object and wistfully spoke, “and he will not part with it”

“Then we take it” scoffed Mordred as he took a deep gulp of ale. “His forces are but small” he offered, resting the glass on the table and wiping the froth from his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic. He slapped the front of his black chest plate and laughed, throwing his arms wide “and we are strong. We can take Excalibur by force if we wish!” he boasted.

“Silence fool!” snapped Morgan still toying with the scabbard. “You forget our forces at Camlaan were large and yet...” her voice trailed off as her thoughts spun back over the events millennia ago.

“But that force was led by Arthur” said Mordred, “this is but a boy”

“And that boy has Excalibur...or will have” she mused as her hand came down heavily on the plastic scabbard angrily. “We must find a way for the boy to give us the sword of his own free will” she turned her back to the scabbard and the fireplace and gazed over the room. Tables lay scattered throughout the room sitting amidst the debris of broken glass shattered in a multitude of pieces, sparkling and gleaming from the floor.

“I still say we take it by force”

“Then you are a fool Mordred” snapped Morgan with distain, “what I ever saw in you...” she shook her head as she spoke and looked over the bedraggled figure at the table.

“You saw greatness” he offered grinning.

“I saw weakness, which I could use to my own ends” she replied smiling at his discomfort. “I offered you certain favours, in reward for the crown...and all I got was...” she flung her arms in the air, “this!”

Mordred brought his glass down heavy on the table, anger clouding his mind. “You, girl...more drinks!” he snapped directing his anger at the slender form of Gwen who watched with interest from the bar.

Morgan returned her attention back to the scabbard and ran her fingers over the plastic, deep in thought. “He has been here” she mused, “I can sense it...I can feel it” she closed her eyes and her head spun as she recoiled under her own ferocity. “I can taste it” she whispered. Gwen carefully lowered the tray to the table and cast her eyes toward Morgan as she swayed under her own hypnotic trance. She placed four glasses, each laden with a thick brown liquid on the table and watched entranced at the bewitchment that encompassed Morgan as she stood before the scabbard. “The boy was here...” she whispered.

“Francis?” Gwen almost winched as she blurted out his name and turned from the table. She heard a slight click of fingers from behind her, then the sudden pain burning through her wrist as a heavy thick hand grabbed at her slender hand. “Let go...” she begged as she turned as looked down at Mordred gazing up at her from his seat.

“Wench!” he spat through his stained teeth.

“I knew he had been here...” whispered Morgan as she moved toward Gwen, her eyes intense with fire. She stood over the girl and took a deep breath and smiled, “the boy has been here...” she whispered cruelly as leant close to Gwen’s ear. With a sudden movement of speed defying her age, Morgan flashed out with her hand and grasped at the chin of the young girl and smiled as her face contorted with pain under her grasp. She held her firm and strong in place, while stroking her hair with her free hand and moving it away from her ear, smiling as she whispered “he was here wasn’t he girl” she goaded.

“Gwen!” the male voice resounded from the kitchen as the door opened and the Landlord stepped through into the bar. He moved through the tables, but slowed under the harsh gaze of Morgan.

“He was here...” snapped Morgan, still holding Gwen firmly around her delicate chin, then she forcibly thrust her other her between her legs grasping at Gwen’s groin. Morgan smiled as she looked the girl in the eyes as she slowly moved her hand around her groin, “or should I say he was here” she laughed and thrust her hand hard against her pelvis causing Gwen to close her eyes under the sudden attention and finding desire rising through her body at Morgan’s touch.

“Gwen...I...” stammered her father.

“Oh my dear” goaded Morgan, “Least I forget...your payment” she released her grip on Gwen and allowed her to fall on the floor at Mordred’s feet. Morgan strode confidently toward the Landlord who stopped dead in his tracks, transfixed to the floor and frozen on the spot. “My nephew drank well” she said looking around her at the mess littered across the floor. “I see he did” her tone was pleasant, but her words betrayed a bitter threat. “I must offer his tally” she spoke quietly and rested the back of her hand against his forehead and closed her eyes, raising her head to the ceiling, laughing.

Gwen screamed as Mordred pulled her to her feet and forced her to watch as the life began to drain from her father’s body under the touch of Morgan. His skin withered and became brittle as streaks of ageing snaked across his face. Deep lines furrowed through his brow as his skin dried and lightened in colour, his cheeks sank beneath the weight of age while his hair thinned and withered from a dark black to a fine sliver of white before dissipating over the skull. His body shrank and withered beneath his clothing as his frame shrunk under the intense touch of Morgan, her hand still planted firmly on his ageing forehead. His legs sagged and buckled beneath the weight of his body as brittle bones struggled to cope with the harsh ravages of time as years passed in seconds. Leo gazed out through now bulging eyes as his cheeks and face withered around his pleading brown eyes and he reached toward his daughter, who was held watching by Mordred. He raised his arms outstretched toward her almost pleading to hold her for one final time, his fingers bent as his skin tightened and constricted over his hands. “Gwen...” he whispered almost inaudibly as his voice separate chipped and cracked lips. Bones cracked and snapped as his body slowly mummified and sank lower to the floor with his skin finally stretching and straining against the skeleton beneath. Morgan finally released her grip and smiled as the body collapsed to the floor with a sickening thud and turned to the door, walking gracefully through the tables.

“Did you enjoy the show” sneered Mordred in Gwen’s ear.

“Bastard!” spat Gwen as Mordred held her arms behind her back and flinched as the Knight laughed down her ear.

“By the saints!” declared Mordred, “I like this one” he laughed running his hand through her long flowing locks and sniffing heavily at her hair.

“Dad...” Gwen sobbed as she watched the lifeless form of her father sprawled, bent and twisted amidst the debris of the room. Tears welled in her eyes and drifted down her cheeks, masking rivers which etched over her ivory skin. Her vision blurred and through the tears she saw the image of Mordred as he released his grip over her arms and moved before her, staring into her face...smiling, taunting. She sneered through her tears and spat into his face, watching as her saliva slowly crossed over his face. Mordred laughed and wiped away her fluid with the back of his hand, his eyes never flinching from hers.

Mordred slowly raised his hand to his eye line and looked at the signs of her spit on his hand and a smile broke his face. His hand whipped out and grasped at her slender neck, and using his body weight lifted her body and thrust her backward against the wall of the pub. She gasped as her legs were lifted off the floor and her back thrust against the roughly sewn brickwork of the wall, the pressure on her neck and the hot breath of Mordred against her face. “You have fire” he whispered as he placed a hand beneath her buttocks and raised her hips to his own, her legs draped around his waist and he pushed his groin close to hers. “It has been so long since I tasted flesh” he sneered through clenched teeth. Gwen struggled beneath his touch and could feel his body swelling against her own. “Even those of a cheap whore as yourself” he laughed and hoisted her from the wall and roughly down onto a table, her back crashing hard against the wooden surface of the furniture. Mordred grasped at her hand and forced it down the front of his clothing, where her hand played around his genitals against her own will as he roughly grasped her breast through her blue long sleeved shirt. He smiled as she struggled in vain against his pressure and turned her over on the table, her face forced against the beer stained wood, her hands gripping the edge of the table, tears streaking across her face. Mordred moved behind her looking lustfully at her tight bottom through Gwen’s tight white jodhpurs as they stretched and strained over her buttocks. He leant forward over her body, pressing his body weight against her pinning down on the table and whispered deep into her ear, “I will make you weep” her promised.

Gwen could feel the pressure of his groin pressing hard through her clothing, and the clawing of his hand as it grasped firmly at her buttock. Mordred laughed as he held her flesh in his grip and he looked over her body, pulling her hair hard and forcing her head back as she gripped the table harder fearing what was to come. He pulled at her jodhpurs and pulled them roughly down, exposing her naked buttocks and smiled evilly a sliver of drool sprouting over his mouth as he stared down at her half clothed body. His hand traced over her hips and streaked down her buttocks until it rested between her legs, “I will enjoy this more than you...” he sneered as he pressed his body against hers, “of this I promise thee”