The Calling

Tristan blinked at the sight before him and nodded his agreement at Bedivere’s comments, “tis how I recall” he said sadly, “the death...”

“Tis magnificent!” roared Kay from behind them and slapped them both hard on the shoulder.

“How would you know” laughed Galahad, “I seem to recall, you missed most of the battle!”

“Aye...my Lord, didn’t thee oversleep?” Percival laughed as he spoke interjecting his own memories. A symphony a laughter broke the deepening tension which was steadily growing around the cave.

“Have at thee!” snapped Kay, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword, “I fought with honour that day!” he could feel his anger grow as the laughter continued at his expense.

“Aye...with yon bedsheets!” roared Gawain.

“Enough!” roared the Fisher King, turning his head toward the errant Knights. “Cease your mindless prattling!” he snapped as the clouds thickened and darkened through the cavern. “Ancient mystics...show me thine destiny...show me what I need...” he urged. Francis struggled beneath his grip and sagged under the pressure of the Fisher King’s touch, small traces of blood seeped through the giants fingers and tinged his hair with a sickening crimson as streaks snaked down his forehead. His eyes rolled in his head, and a river of blood flowed quietly and absently from his nose while his mouth opened in a silent scream.

“He will die” whispered Bedivere as the Knights watched.

“He is not the true King” commented Galahad as blood cemented the boy’s hair.

“We cannot allow this” whispered Gawain. Galahad placed a hand over his fellow Knights chest and shook his head.

“We cannot interfere” he warned.

Tristan leant close to Gawain and placed a hand on his arm and smiled, “we must let this play...I have faith in the boy” Gawain nodded and stood amidst the Knights watching the images as they cast through the clouds.

“The King” whispered Kay peering through the darkness.

The silence in the cavern was deafening as the images danced over the walls and solidified around them. Arthur stood atop a small mound in the center of the field, his mouth yelling quiet commands to the army scattered around the cave. The ghosts of the past moved through the walls and cast their unseeing gaze around the wilderness which spread out before them. Two sides...one battlefield...a single goal, a single outcome, one final resolution. The two armies clashed as the memories laid dormant in the mind of Francis spilled out across the cavern, the smell of battle and the odour of blood invaded the senses, then almost inaudible at first...before rising into the fury of sound the noise of battle. The shouts, the clash of swords against metal...bone, the noise of a thousand feet running through the muddy wasteland, the sound of screams echoed through the cavern bouncing off the walls and rebounding from the ceiling. They watched as Arthur ran forward, wielding Excalibur before him slicing and hacking soldiers before he stood frozen briefly to the spot.

“Mordred...” his voice echoed through the cavern above the sound of fighting and carried over the expanse of the field. A figure bathed in dark armour turned and sneered at his rival and sliced viciously at a peasant dressed in simple rags. He fell away as Mordred stepped over his lifeless carcass and faced Arthur.

“My King...” he sneered as Arthur stood before him, “it has been a long time”

“Prepare my Lord” Arthur smiled as he raised Excalibur close to his face, his twisted smile reflected in the gleaming polished silver of the blade. The two men ran toward each other, weapons held out in vicious confrontation as metal struck metal, their bodies brought close as they tangled in a mass of raw power. The Knights watched the devastation as the two lords swung and blocked each other’s attacks, both evenly matched and neither gaining any advantage. Mordred swung his heavy sword violently at Arthur who brought up Excalibur to block the blow, then pushed the cold steel down toward the floor. “You fight well” he breathed as he stepped back watching Mordred’s movement and panting heavily through the exertion.

“As do thee” acknowledged Mordred, “but I shall have your blood today” he rushed forward, sword thrust before him and swung at Arthur’s body. The King blocked the attack and brought the hilt of his own sword down on the exposed neck of Mordred, sending the Knight reeling into the mud.

Arthur laughed as he watched his opponent sprawl and slide in the mud, “tis fitting...” laughed Arthur as he pointed Excalibur toward Mordred’s head.

“Dispatch me...or I swear I shall have your head” warned Mordred.

“There is no honour in killing a downed opponent” stated Arthur and he stepped back allowing Mordred to regain his footing.

Mordred pulled himself to his feet, using his sword for leverage in the soft mud beneath his feet. “Then thoust are a fool!” he spat. Both men stood stock still for a moment, each weighing and sizing their opponent for signs of weakness. They stood on opposing sides, yet wanting and fighting for the same goal...the crown. Mordred looked bedraggled in his armour, as blood stained his black polished metal giving it an uneven tired complexion. The wings on the sides of his helmet gave off his instantly recognisable armour and he stared with hatred and contempt at his rival on the field. “Arthur” he nodded and pulled his sword before him, “only one of us shall be destined to die” he smirked under the mud smeared across his face.

“For my crown” breathed Arthur as he surged forward once again, Excalibur held aloft over his head. The blade swung down and halted sharply as Mordred blocked the attack with his own blade and forced the thrust of the attack away. He grimaced under the attack of Arthur and sagged under the pressure of the swing, sinking to one knee under the brutal volley of blows. The two men clashed as the sound of battle erupted around them marred only by the noise of metal striking metal. Sparks from the metal illuminated the armour of the two men as Arthur lunged into the body of Mordred, who in turn swept away yet another attack from his adversary. Arthur looked at his opposition and smiled, flecks of mud smearing his features.

“You tire Mordred” mocked Arthur as he surged forward, Excalibur high in his grip. Mordred grimaced as he pushed away the force of the attack and swept through the air with the thrust his own sword. The speed of the attack caught Arthur by surprise and the momentum of his defense pushed him to his knees. His armour hit heavy in the soft mud of the field of Camlaan, and small spray of dark brown cast over his armour, he cast a quick glance upward and rolled as Mordred brought his heavy sword crashing into the mud. Mordred watched as Arthur desperately struggled in the mud and brought his sword down again on the prone King. “You have no honour in your heart” panted Arthur under the relentless of volley of blows. Arthur pulled Excalibur before his chest and pushed away the attack of Mordred, he could feel the tide of the battle change as Mordred became spurred on by his own success and grew in confidence. He swung wildly as Arthur pulled himself to his feet and caught his blade deep into the shoulder of the King.

He smiled as Arthur cried in pain as the blade broke through the joint by his shoulder and bit into the soft flesh beneath the metal and gushing a red smear over the armour. Mordred stepped back and regained his own composure and inspected the blade of his sword, smiling through his own helmet at the sight of deep crimson toying with the mud on the metal. “First blood” he breathed as he lunged forward again growing with a resumed eagerness and confidence.

Arthur counted the movement and defended the attack with ease, pulling the Knight close to him. He could feel the hot breath of Mordred against his armour as the two men stood nose to nose. A burning sensation coursed through his shoulder as blood ran its way along his arm, “A minor victory my Lord” he whispered as he pushed Mordred away. The two men circled each other in the mud for a moment, each surveying the other scanning and analysing any weakness in the others’ armour. The fight continued around them, with the sound of death overcoming all other sounds. They circled for a moment as time passed, before Arthur lunged, his sword barring down upon Mordred in a swarm of brutal attacks. He could feel his shoulder burn with every thrust, he could feel the pain seer through his body as the reverberation of Mordred’s defense shattered his nerves and grated his senses. Mordred reeled under the pressure and moved back out of reach of the swing of Excalibur and could feel his lungs burst under the strain of battle.

He slipped as the mud beneath his feet gave way in a puddle of soft earth and as he struggled to regain his footing, his concentration of defending against Arthur’s attacks became compromised and as Excalibur struck his chest plate he fell backward. Arthur watched as Mordred sagged and stumbled under the hazardous conditions and swung his sword savagely, catching Mordred square in the chest. He pulled back and watched Mordred fall to his knees, his sword falling momentarily by his side as his hand drifted to his chest plate.

Mordred looked down at the thick mark on his chest plate and grinned, reaching for the hilt of his sword. Excalibur had badly dented the armour, but apart from the visible damage, no penetration had been made by the sword. Arthur made forward, lunging past Mordred as he struggled to his feet. As Mordred moved aside, Arthur’s thrust and momentum took him past the Knight, leaving his midriff open to attack. Mordred grimaced as he swung viciously, striking the King deep into the side of Arthur’s armour. The blade cut deep into the side of the King, causing Arthur to winch in pain as Mordred pulled his sword along the side of his body. He collapsed into the mud, dropping Excalibur as he grasped at the gaping wound in his side. Agony and pain surged through is body and he could feel the life drain as blood flowed across his armour. He looked up at Mordred who stood over his weakened body smirking at his imminent victory.

“I am better than you” he mocked as he grasped his own sword in his arm as he watched Arthur flail in the mud, desperately crawling through the mud toward Excalibur. “The crown is rightfully mine by battle!”

Arthur winched under the volley of words and struggled along the floor, reaching for the hilt of Excalibur which lay in the mud just out of reach. “You shall never be King!” replied Arthur weakly as he clawed the discarded remains of battle. Staffs, banners and armour lay as remnants of death around his sprawling body.

“You are wrong” crowed Mordred, “I had your sister, now I shall have you crown”

“What?” Arthur’s eyes narrowed as he whispered at Mordred’s boasting.

Mordred bent forward and smirked in Arthur’s face, “Your sister...” he mocked, blood smearing his teeth and his rancid breath invading Arthur’s nostrils. Arthur could feel the pressure of a hard cylindrical shape fall into his hand and he slowly closed his fingers, grasping at the cold dirty metal as he listened to Mordred mocking him, “she cried for mercy” he laughed and stood at full height, rising his sword over his head. “She begged me to stop! Oh how she screamed as I took her again and again” he cried as he positioned his sword over the King, “I enjoyed taking her, almost as much as killing you” he looked down at the prone Knight and smiled, “now you shall die as in the knowledge that she begged for you...over and over, even as I took her...she cried your name”. Mordred stood for a moment, a grimace frozen over his face and a look of horror crossing his features. His eyes bulged and blood trickled from his mouth as a sharp pain suddenly erupted through his mid-rift. He lowered his head as the pain coursed through his body and stared uncomprehending at the end of a large spear which protruding from a widening hole spreading across his body. He followed the expanse of the steel and metal object and stared into the eyes of Arthur who stared up from the mud, spear held aloft in his hands, skewering the Knight.

Blood forced its way up his throat and over his tongue as his sword fell heavily to the floor, his hands wandering to the spear thrust between the plates in his armour. Mordred grasped at the sharp blade attached to the wooden shaft and pressed the flow of blood erupting from his stomach. He fell to his knees and faced Arthur, meeting his eye line, and could see the pure hatred burn in the King’s eyes as mist clouded his vision. Arthur watched as Mordred feebly grasped at the spear as the blood flowed down the wood, staining his own gloves with the blood of his enemy. “I am King” he breathed quietly as Mordred slid slowly down the expanse of wood until he lay heavily on the prone body of the King. “It is over...” he whispered into Mordred’s ear and as the Knight lay on top of him Arthur could feel the life die in Mordred’s heart.

The Knight gazed at him through dying eyes and spat into his face, a tinged reddening patch of saliva coursing over Arthur’s face and spoke through blood stained teeth. “Thoust shall not be King” he whispered as he pulled a small blade from his waistline and thrust it deep into the King’s neck. Arthur cast Mordred from his body and knelt in the mud, blood seeping from the wound in his neck. He could see seven survivors from the battle...only seven he thought out of so many, and for what? He looked at the crown in his hand and dwelt briefly on the gold and jewels which were smear in the blood of hundreds...no... thousands. “It is over...” he whispered as the first of the Knights came through the mist and allowed himself a smile, “Galahad...”

Francis screamed and collapsed to the floor as the eyes of King Arthur closed and the life drained from his body. The clouds disappeared and the ghosts faded from view as the Fisher King released Francis from his icy grip. “It is over...” he said sadly and looked down at the image of the boy crumpled in a huddled bundle on the floor. Francis lay amidst the water, barely breathing as the efforts overwhelmed his body as through the eons of time, he could feel the death of the King.

Sir Galahad stepped forward and picked up the boy from the floor and laid him onto the stone altar and looked across the body, “The King is dead...” he declared as Francis lay unmoving on the rough cold stone.