Pendragon Rising

By Frazer Lee

published in Maelstrom (chapbook) 2004

I. Descent

Arthur stumbled wearily from the feasting hall. On the field, the battle had been won. Yet his head still reeled from the cacophony of an internal torment.

Crashing through the heavy oak door leading to the servant's staircase, sparks leaping from his mighty sword's blade as he dragged it behind him, Arthur headed for the only place in the castle where he might find solitude.

He tumbled into the cellar and the bitter stench hit him hard. Dim candlelight revealed a graveyard of twisted and punctured armour. Broken weapons jutted out from between ruined breastplates and crushed gauntlets reached out at him pathetically like the hands of the dying. The armoury dump felt like a moment on the battlefield had been frozen in time with the bodies of the dead and wounded shedding their metal skins and leaving behind only their pain, their torture. But strongest of all was the smell. The sickly sweet aroma of blood, sweat, excrement and rain on scarred armour hung thick and heavy in the air and Arthur inhaled its rancidity with each laboured breath. His head swam as a rush of dizzy nausea flooded his brain. Sinking to the floor, he came to rest on a funereal pyre of corrupted chain mail and corroded weaponry. There he spiralled down into sleep, driven by his despair, embracing his misery.

Outside, the warm breeze turned to an icy chill as a cloaked figure snaked her way through the trees and over the drawbridge. The sentry guards did not stir from their wine-sodden slumbers as she slid past them, silent as a ghost.

A sly smile curled her lips as her nostrils located Arthur's scent. It was delicious, a heady mixture of torment and decay. She knew exactly where to find him. Her lithe body glided down the spiral staircase and into the armoury. The fetid odour of blood on metal assaulted her senses and her arousal heightened as she surveyed the exotic scrap-yard surrounding her. Slipping her cloak, she crawled naked across the iron, mail and steel toward Arthur's sleeping form. He was like a broken puppet beneath her as she mounted him ravenously, her ashen skin slicked with blood and her head thrown back like a carrion bird's cawing for its prey. As she took his seed from him, her long canines pierced the warm flesh of his neck like shards of ice. Triumphant, she spat her own blood down into his throat with a guttural hiss before whispering, "The circle is complete, my brother. You will die. You will change, and the future I have dreamed is now real." Disappearing into the folds of her cloak, she took her leave of him.

Searing pains in Arthur's stomach awoke him with a start. Every inch of his intestine was aflame and as he tried to move, a violent muscle spasm caused him to vomit horribly onto the armour lying next to him. Bile and blood slid across the dented surface and, for a moment, he saw his own terrible reflection staring back at him. His pallid face looked centuries old, his skin an outward image of the rotting misery which dwelt so deep within him. He vainly tried to measure the hours he had been lying there, vague memories of the woman who had loved him amidst the filth coming back to him in nauseous waves.

Tears of blood streamed from his eyes as he remembered what had passed before he fled to the cellar. His own wife with another in the forest. His bedchamber empty, as silent and mocking as an open grave. Arthur cried in outrage as hot pain invaded his every nerve ending causing him to double up and shudder spasmodically. The very marrow in his bones felt like molten lava, his flesh as cracked and dry as scorched earth. He was dying. His last breath left his body like an unanswered question.

II. Rising

He rose again three nights later. Shocked mourners fled from his wake screaming their fear into every corner of the castle. Horrified knights rushed to their master and stood agape, not knowing whether to kneel before him or strike him down, so unholy was his form. Arthur strode unto his minions greatly transformed. All his enemies, even death, had fallen before him and he felt a burning need within to do battle once more, to make a mockery of the hundreds who would collapse around him, driven by the knowledge that no blade could harm him ever again. Maidens wept in ecstatic terror as he drained their nubile bodies of life's blood in great draughts atop his throne that night.

Many fled the castle in horror, becoming prey to those who stayed to join the invincible ranks of Arthur's new undead army, their thick blood replacing wine in the knight's chalices. Peasants, whores and the dispossessed flocked to Camelot in droves to lose themselves in dark days and depraved nights, offering themselves as sustenance to the castle's collectively unquenchable thirst. A squalid stench billowed forth from the moat, which had itself turned red and stagnant with the blood and carcasses of the dead.

Those outside Camelot, taking refuge in convents and monasteries, declared holy war on any creature leaving the castle in defiance of those who had once been their protectors and who were now their hunters. Any attempt to overcome Arthur's legions proved futile however, and so Sister Guenivere begged an audience with her reborn King despite the frantic dissuasion of God's servants.

Concealing Excalibur beneath her holy robes, Guenivere entered Camelot's gaping maw, weeping at the depravity that had so indelibly stained the kingdom she had once loved and cherished. She stepped into the Great Hall where shadows had devoured the once brilliant light. Dim red pools were cast at her feet by flickering torches, which crackled hungrily as she passed beneath them. The air was insufferably hot and a stifling haze swelled up and penetrated her clothing like a sick breath. As she entered the chamber that housed the Round Table, a droplet of salt sweat splashed heavily onto her forehead. Casting her eyes upward, Guenivere saw that oily perspiration coated every inch of the stonework. The chamber breathed lustily, drawing her deeper inside. A huge fire licked and spat mockingly as she gasped in horror at the clutter of bones and human remains surrounding it. Around the Table sat the architects of this private Hell.

The Knights were strangers to her now. Once noble champions had been replaced by gluttonous beasts clad in stained furs and neglected armour. Blood trickled into their beards as they fed like leeches from the ulcerated veins of servile minions.

At the head of this nightmare sat Arthur. His dead eyes betraying outward calm with a hateful glare which strangled the air from her. Struggling to keep from swooning, she knelt before him and begged that they might speak in private. He smiled painfully and silently ushered her into a chamber used for his lonely feasting.

The door had barely creaked shut behind them when Arthur was at her throat. He surely meant to tear the life from her, to give her an eternity of darkness as punishment for her night of sin. Guenivere had only a second to react and cried out as she clutched Excalibur desperately. Arthur hissed in anguish as she thrust aloft the crucifix hilt of the Holy sword with all her might, forcing him to his knees.

She remained until the sun rose, nervously willing away the insidious scratching of Arthur's servants at the door. Hoping to cleanse her husband's tainted spirit she whispered softly to him through the night. His tortured moans eventually turned to weary whimpers and she held him tenderly until, finally, her strength began to wane.

She left Arthur sleeping in that terrible bloodied feeding chamber with Excalibur clutched tightly in his gnarled hands and fled the castle into daylight. Once outside, her resolve crumbled. She sobbed out loud in revulsion, her heart polluted by so many dark hours spent in the filthy core of the mausoleum she had once called home.

III. Quest

A bloody moon hung low over Camelot that night as Arthur called a meeting of the Undead Knights at the Round Table. A few, led by Sir Gawain, resisted until they realised they would be awoken by the cruel kiss of the morning sun should they not attend. With all the Knights assembled, Arthur spoke convincingly that in their present state they could not survive. The castle's need for blood far surpassed the supply, with human prey being given safe haven in the fortress of the errant Knight, Meliagant, and among the houses of the Holy. Camelot's brood was in great danger due to its inability to face daylight. Arthur told of his visions of the Grail, an artifact that had the power to purify and instil the blood of any that drank from it. The Grail would restore them and they would once again know the lives they had lost when the New Dark Age had prevailed. He urged them to quest for this most Magickal of relics. He would not be absolved until one of them returned bearing the healing chalice.

The Dark Knights quested beyond the oceans. Many strove to resist their bloody thirst, but to no avail. Their hunger prevailed and they became as hunted animals. Fear and repulsion dwelled in the places they encountered. Many perished at the hands of angry villagers wielding sharpened stakes and blazing torches. The seasons came and went until all but two, Perceval and Bedevere, were dust.

As the hamlets and townships became fewer, Perceval knew he was nearing his goal. He could feel oppression all around him in the increasingly desolate landscape, a resonance of power and energy that placed a fearful chill in his dead heart. His every instinct told him to turn and flee, yet he struggled on until finally he saw it.

Ruined battlements jutted into the ashen sky like obscene claws. Black liquid oozed from gaps in the walls. The Grail Castle was leprous and forbidding, its drawbridge as repulsive and intriguing as an open wound. Perceval looked aloft, yet no stars winked encouragement, only huge black clouds hung in the thin air above him. He felt sick to his stomach as he realised his fate was sealed. With much trepidation, Perceval drew his sword and stepped over the creaking drawbridge into the Castle.

A putrid blast of musty air greeted him, causing his knees to buckle and his throat to gag. He felt as if a thousand vile whispers had entered every fibre of his body, seeking residence in the chambers of his heart. He shuddered and spat dust as he fought on through the insane twists of labyrinthine tunnels. Kicking open a decaying door, he fell breathlessly into a vast hall. A creeping terror began to take hold of him, as he became aware of hideous voices in the darkness.

Something slithered on the ceiling above him and a terrible ringing invaded his ears. Clutching his head, he staggered through the dim light that illuminated fragments of lunatic architecture and bizarre sculpture. His ears and eyes began to bleed, as the ringing became an insufferable howl. Crawling over a living carpet of maggots, Perceval grabbed at a plinth before him. Heaving his shuddering body erect, a faint metallic gleam penetrated the red haze of his vision.

Snatching the Grail and enveloping it with shuddering arms, he ran in panic as wailing madness erupted around him. Something scuttled with maniac speed from the shadows, its yellow teeth snapping violently at his heels. Spite bellowed from every stone as if the Castle meant to devour him whole. On he fled, flailing wildly with his sword at dark shapes which threw themselves angrily into his path. The slimy drawbridge looked like the tongue of some great beast as Perceval crossed it. Hugging the Grail desperately, he fell to the ground, the asylum scream of madness still penetrating his skull.

IV. Ascension

Arthur became ever more distant during the long years which dragged by drearily. The first weeks of the Grail Quest saw him anxiously awaiting triumphant news from his Knights. Greeted by cold silence at the approach of each coming dawn he slipped yet further into melancholy isolation. He barely fed and sat in his chamber in the depths of a profound state of weariness.

Dusk had brought a slow mist to Camelot. Watchmen reported a faint figure on horseback approaching the castle. The tired King was carried outside expecting to welcome one of his own, yet the shape on the horse was that of a sleeping man. His grey form was bent over his quiet steed like the branch of a dead birch tree. As he came to a halt at the foot of the drawbridge the figure extended his long, impossibly thin arms. An eerily musical whisper escaped his white lips and beckoned Arthur across. Defenceless, the King was lulled forth over the moat towards the wraithlike stranger. Crouched atop his mount, he slowly rose to his full height, towering over Arthur. A host of lacerations on the horse's back wept from the repeated feeding of the poor beast's rider. Deliberately sweeping silvery hair from his narrow face he stared at the King with shiny black almond eyes and moaned queasily through the grinning slit of his mouth.

"Greetings Father," he preened, "Know you not your child Mordred?"

Arthur, stupefied, could not answer. This abomination was no offspring of his. He had no son.

"Ah, but you do, my sweet Dadda," chuckled Mordred with a sick smile. Craning down with his face a splinter away from the King's he whined, "My mother, your sister, told me I'm the Future. What say you to that?"

Arthur recoiled in abhorrence from Mordred's freezing breath. A vile cackle echoed after him through the mist as he staggered backwards. Dazed, he struggled to regain control of his clouded senses, every instinct urging him to crush this perversion where it stood. Barely managing to choke down his horror he ordered Mordred to speak with him in the Great Hall. Lunatic laughter came as a reply and he forced his eyes shut at its shrill ridicule. When he opened them, Mordred had gone.

A low hum stirred Arthur and his soldiers from the spell. They could just make out a huge dark shape in the distance. The obsidian mass crawled closer, continuously shifting and distorting from sprawling chaos to solid formation. Its surface appeared as shiny, hard and impenetrable as a beetle's back, the mesmerising movement becoming more frenetic as it drew nearer. The watchers were filled with sickening dread as the hum grew louder, all eyes straining to see what approached.

A thick fog of silence enveloped them suddenly. Then, all at once, the mists broke with a gleeful roar as hundreds of Mordred's creatures descended upon them. Some crawled, some rode, others flew, yet all were filled with the same wicked spite that consumed their Master. With guttural shrieks they tore mercilessly into their prey, their greasy black bodies flecked with blood and strips of flesh. Arthur's men fought frantically to keep the horrors away but most had fallen as the first wave of darkness crashed over them. Bodies exploded at the poisonous touch of the hateful creatures. As the mist turned red with the bloodletting Arthur saw the face of its insane orchestrator. Mordred's gaze met his, the sanguinary smirk igniting Arthur's rage. Suddenly, the King charged, dismounting him with Excalibur's first stroke. Fear and rage invaded Mordred's cool demeanour and he raised his sword, meaning to split his father's head in two. His vision shattered as the cold sting of Arthur's blade violated his heart. Black blood spurted from his back as Excalibur severed his spine. A lilting sigh drifted from his mouth as Mordred slid, broken, to the ground.

Arthur turned, attempting to focus on the battle that raged around him. The carnage escalated as Maleagant's Holy Army joined the fray. His followers fought with religious zeal against Arthur's Undead Knights and Mordred's twisted creatures, staking them with lances and burning them with purifying flames.

It seemed as though death were circling Arthur like a flock of vultures. He sank into the stained earth, defeated, screaming his denial at the menstrual sky.

Perceval ran to his King desperately with Bedevere following close behind. They reached him a moment too late. Arthur's body arched as he pushed himself onto Excalibur's blade. Perceval tearfully held the Grail to the dying King's lips, urging him to drink, to die a man and not the vampiric shadow he had become. Yet Arthur refused him with a benign smile, telling Bedevere to pluck the sword from his ruined flesh.

"Throw Excalibur into the moat," he implored in a cracked whisper, "Cleanse Camelot and heal the Land. Drink of the Grail and restore honour unto my name and to all those who fell into this madness."

The battle, however, had excited Bedevere's thirst. Wielding the mighty sword, the irresistible vision of a future where he ruled the night in Arthur's place began to fester in his demented mind. The Grail could harm as well as heal and he swung at Perceval, seeking to take it from him to complete his power and seal his right to ascension. He saw the chalice's crimson gleam for only a moment as Perceval parried his blow and took Bedevere's head from his shoulders with a single righteous stroke.

Perceval placed the Grail, by which he had long since been healed, next to his peaceful King and placed Excalibur in his scabbard. He mounted and galloped through the calming battle until he reached the scarred monument that was Camelot. Steeling himself with his last vestige of hope, Perceval hurled the sword into the gloomy moat. As it pierced the bloody film of the water a tear betrayed the well of sadness which consumed him. The first weary rays of the sun unveiled his reflection on the moat's still surface. Elated, he saw that the waters were once again clear.

Returning to the battlefield at a slow trot, Perceval started - aghast at the sight of hundreds of pale visages approaching him. Relief soon replaced his shock, as he realised the faces were those of Maleagant's soldiers. They were caked in the ashes of the Undead whose bodies had been burned by the sunrise and scattered by the cleansing breeze of morning.

A blizzard of dust blew across the earth. Arthur and the Grail had vanished.

The End