Avalon's Last Knight

by Jackson C. Garton

  “I won’t,” I reply. “Don’t you trust me?”

  “Yes, of course. I just know how stubborn you are, how once you set your mind to somethin’, you won’t budge. Look, I know that King Arthur dies in the end.”

  His words shock me, stealing my breath away. I guess I just hadn’t expected Arthur to buy into the reincarnation bit. He must’ve done research—without me—and discovered all of the bad shit. The incest, the betrayal, the bloody end.

  “But I’m too fuckin’ young to die. And so are you. I figure that somethin’ must’ve gone wrong in the past all of those times that Arthur died. If we can just avoid the same mistakes, we can free Tammy and Olivia and escape with our lives. Live happily ever after.”

  “I really don’t want to die.”

  Arthur uses his free hand to pull me close and hug my neck. “I know. So let’s not.”

  The two of us walk into the house and find Mordy examining the front room.

  Surrounding us on all four sides are water-damaged walls complete with peeling floral wallpaper and dark gray stains that look like hands reaching down from the rusted air vents above. A few feet below the ceiling are several large, mounted, taxidermied animal heads—some of the animals I couldn’t identify even if I tried.

  The floor beneath our footfalls crunches with each step we take, and I bend down to get a better look.

  There are thousands of roaches and maggots writhing underneath an inch or so of fresh soil.

  Everything smells of mildew and mold. I’m surprised no one’s mentioned the fetid odor—more specifically my crybaby of a sister.

  Now, I don’t know if this is a case of the house trying to protect itself like Little Henge did or if it’s just the natural state of things—a house forgotten over time—but I’m not afraid or intimidated one bit. The overall ambiance is grim and ghastly, much like the mausoleum where Mordy and I found Galantine, but this is somehow oddly comforting to me.

  In the next room over, we discover a dilapidated stairwell that at one point offered safe passage through four floors of the house. Now missing pieces of wood and railing, somebody would likely break their neck if they attempted the climb.

  “Holy shit, Lance!” Mordy exclaims. “Check this out.”

  Gwen and Morgan appear side by side, their presence a relief.

  “Where were you guys?” I hiss. “We’re supposed to stick together.”

  Gwen places a finger on her lips and motions upward with her index finger. Morgan doesn’t speak, perhaps too spooked by whatever they just found.

  Mordy calls my name again. I tell Gwen and Morgan that I’ll leave with them in a minute, that they shouldn’t go anywhere without us, and go join him.

  Again the walls are plastered with weird dead things where I find Mordy.

  Hanging from hooks are picture frames of various sizes encasing butterflies, moths, arachnids, millipedes and thousand-leggers. There must be over two hundred wooden bindings scattered across the walls.

  “He’s obsessed with death, dude.”

  “Yes,” I say. “But like, in a bad way.”

  Mordy wags his head. “I agree,” he says, his voice low. “He likes killin’ things, and he doesn’t do it out of necessity. I get the feeling that he does it for pleasure, that he likes torturin’ things. Emrys is a fuckin’ sicko, Lance.”

  “We have to stop him. For the sake of everyone in Avalon, not just us. This goes far beyond anything I could have imagined.”

  Mordy groans. “I wish my uncle was able to help us.”

  “Why didn’t he come?”

  I’ve been wondering about his involvement for a while now. His name is Myrddin, a Welsh variation of Merlin, after all. I know that we all have weird names—names associated with dead kings, queens and knights—but his name is different. His parents were from Cuba, not Wales.

  “Tío Myrddin,” Mordy says, “has already fought Emrys once. Long story short, they were younger, and the Merlin cast a spell on my uncle, a spell that forbids him from stepping within so many hundred feet of Emrys.”

  “A fuckin’ magickal EPO.”

  Mordy nods. “Yes, precisely. So it’s left up to us. We have to do what we can to take that fucker down. That’s it. There’s no other alternative.”

  I suddenly feel the dagger in my bag shift by itself as if in agreement with Mordy, and I reach down to grab it. The actual blade is as hot as a curling iron, and I have to carefully withdraw the hilt, avoiding my skin and the bag, because it truly feels as if it would singe the hair on my arm if I touched it.

  “Xiuhcoatl, can you help us find the necromancer?”

  The blade, once black, is surging with power, completely engulfing itself and my arm in a bright white light.

  “Lance?” Arthur calls from across the room. “What’s going on? What is that?”

  All five of us come together in silence and marvel at the glowing blade.

  “I’m not sure, but I asked it if it could take us to the Merlin, and this is what it started doing. Let’s see if Excalibur reacts similarly.”

  Arthur removes the enormous weapon from his shoulder, and slowly rotates his arm, seemingly relieved by the steel’s absence, then points the tip of the large sword at the floor. The blade begins to do the same.

  “Galantine,” I say. “Who has her?”

  Gwen steps forward, letting go of Morgan’s hand in the process. “I-I do.”

  Once she unsheathes the razor’s edge and places it against Excalibur, all three weapons blaze in synchronicity. Arthur, Gwen and I regard one another in awe.

  “And that’s it,” Morgan says, speaking for the first time since entering the house. “Where others have failed, you have succeeded.” Our gaze turns on her. “There’s no malice, no envy, no betrayal in your hearts, no room for anything but love. You three are as you should have been from the very beginning.”

  I don’t know about the others, but each word hits me in the stomach like a punch.

  Arthur taps my shoulder, and I wheel my head around, fighting back tears.

  “See.” A smirk appears on his face. “We got this.”

  I hope so. God, I hope so.

  A lantern of sorts, our band of weaponry cuts through the nebulous veil encircling our group, and reveals chaos within the physical gloom—wooden tables hacked to pieces, cushions with stuffing ripped out, strewn about the floor, burns in the carpet, lawn-size bags full of bloody pelts, assorted feathers and bones with tendons still attached. Thankfully Mordy was the one who untied the first bag, saving us—but most of all Gwen—from losing our shit over the animal remains.

  After minutes of sifting through the disarray, Morgan suggests we use magick to find the necromancer’s victims, just in case they are located in different rooms. At first the idea frightens me, because I’m not sure if this will enhance his powers or cause problems for us, but I finally agree to her recommendation, mere seconds before Gwen starts squealing in the next room.

  “What is it?” I hear Arthur ask. “Gwen, you have to calm down. I can’t understand a word of what you’re saying!”

  The kitchen is an even bigger nightmare—with actual moss growing along the walls and a refrigerator that has been turned onto its side—and I find it difficult to believe that it has been used within the last century. A fire must have broken out at some point, too, because half of the cabinets are charred and cracked from smoke damage. Chipped black and white tiles clack beneath our shoes as we make our way toward Gwen. There’s no way Emmett and Olivia have shared an actual life of love or peace here, not together.

  When we find Gwen, she’s gesturing feverishly with Galantine, pointing it at some handbag—her hysteria visible, a culmination of how we’re all feeling, I’m sure. The strap of the large white purse is painted with blood and has been snapped in two.

  “Liv’s! That’s Liv’s purse, Lance! What the fuck?”

  There’s no use in telling my sister to calm down, or to collect her thoughts so that we can discuss this
matter as rational people. Olivia’s bag is covered in blood, and she’s probably being held captive by some lunatic. I’d say Gwen’s reaction is as rational as they come.

  “Morgan,” I say, when she and Mordy appear by my side. “Can you find the Merlin? We don’t have time to fuck with this house, and those stairs out there are useless.”

  Now that Olivia and Tammy have been taken hostage, we have no other choice but to use magick to find them—and the strongest witch here is Morgan. If we’re going to find them before they die—oh, please don’t be dead—we’ll have to use everything we’ve got.

  Black and white witchcraft. Life and death magick. All of it. Every ounce.

  Morgan places her hands behind her neck and fidgets with something for a few seconds, then her arm shoots out suddenly, and hanging from her ring and middle fingers is a tiny skull attached to a leather string.

  “I’m not sure how familiar you are with pendulum magick,” she says softly. “But it has never failed me.”

  “Yeah,” Mordy adds. “She was practically unstoppable at hide-and-seek when we were kids.”

  None of this can be good for Gwen.

  A plant that wilts at the mere mention of cold weather, she is a relatively delicate flower, whose petals come off at even the slightest of breezes. Besides, her talent is healing others, not inflicting damage or harm on them.

  I remove Galantine from her iron grip and tuck the scabbard under my armpit. “Gwen, you have to listen to me,” I say. “We won’t be able to do anything if we don’t look for her, and we can’t look for her with you like this. You have every right to be terrified and overwhelmed, but we need you with us in case Tammy or Olivia needs to be healed. We both know I can’t take care of a plant, let alone nurse someone back to health. You’re the only white witch here.”

  Her blue eyes bounce from Arthur to Mordy to Morgan and land on me. She knows I’m right—that I won’t be able to do shit with someone who’s got a broken arm or even an earache.

  “We don’t leave here until we find both of them,” she says. “Do you hear me? Emrys Caerwyn is a monster. A creature of the night.”

  “You heard her, guys. Morgan, lead the way.”

  Pendulum magick is fairly simple, in that it requires only two things to complete a spell—an object on a string and a relatively steady hand. Morgan seemingly has both.

  When she stills the skull with force, we all gasp and hold our breath, waiting to see if the tiny animal head will respond to her request for assistance.

  “Is there anyone here in the house who wishes to speak with me? To any one of us?” she asks and waits for an answer. When nothing—or no one—responds, she asks again, “Is there anyone in this room who wishes to speak to me? Dead or alive?”

  Seconds later, the pendulum swings back and forth like it’s caught in a windstorm. Morgan takes a step away from the group and asks the same question again. This time the pendulum nearly ejects itself out of her grasp, and she has to jog to keep up with it. The four of us trail after Morgan, and struggle with matching her pace, the speed of it remarkable given the obstacles in our way.

  The other two rooms we investigate are just as disorganized as the first few. With enormous china cabinets overturned and broken dishware everywhere, it’s a wonder none of us have injured ourselves just by roaming the house with such scattered lighting. I hope Gwen is taking extra care, because she’s wearing a pair of braided sandals. We should probably do better at sticking together from here on out.

  When we come to the doorway that descends into complete darkness, I know with certainty that our journey is about to come to an end. Whatever trials we’ve faced, whatever ailments, they have prepared us for this moment. There’s nothing any of us could have done. The fates spoke it, and so it shall be.

  I grab Morgan by the arm before she can take a blind step into the unknown. “Wait,” I say.

  To my surprise she listens, and regards me for a split second. I can’t help but laugh.

  “How long have you been calling the shots down here?” I ask. “Did Morgan freely step aside, or did you bully her into this?”

  Morgana places a finger on my nose and taps it three times. “You,” she replies, “have always been a troublemaker. Always getting into trouble over that man.” She motions to Arthur. “If you think this is bad, then you have forgotten the time Kilgharrah gave birth. When Arthur had to pierce the egg with Excalibur because the dragon had not emerged when it should have, and the damn eggshell was stronger than diamonds. She singed every golden hair on that body. Nasty business, that.”

  I’m amazed by how friendly she is toward me—toward Arthur—and wonder if this is Morgan’s influence, or if Morgana has always been at war with her feelings toward him. Toward her brother.

  Arthur arrives just in time to hear the bit about Kilgharrah. “Jesus Christ, I sure hope I don’t have to fight a dragon.”

  “Dude, now’s not the time to be jokin’ about that stuff,” I chide. “We are going into this shit with minimal details. There’s no telling what the hell is lurking down there. In the fuckin’ basement of all places.”

  “Who’s joking?” Arthur forms an X with Excalibur and Galantine in front of his chest. “I just want to find Tammy and Gwen’s boss, and get the hell outta here.”

  After Mordy and Gwen catch up to the rest of us, we exchange hugs with one another, and promise that we won’t place ourselves in danger—alone—unless it is absolutely necessary. That it’s perfectly fine to run if the opportunity presents itself during hypothetical—and almost certain—carnage.

  “Our first and foremost priority is self-preservation. Don’t let the Merlin separate us. We stick together. Gwen?” I turn to my sister and she steps in front of Mordy. I take her hand. “Arthur will hang on to Galantine and Excalibur,” I say. “What I want you to do is to stay out of the fighting, focus all of your power on healing us and whatever else might be in this house, okay? All right, everyone. Let’s be swift about it.”

  It’s not much of a pep talk, but it will have to do. We’re racing against the clock.

  The basement air is stale and musty. I can feel the moisture filling my lungs as soon as my foot hits the third step. Arthur is leading the way with Excalibur and Galantine because they’re still lit up like glow sticks at a Pride parade. We can barely see, and the stairwell is creaky, so unless the Merlin has suffered significant hearing loss in the last two weeks, the bright lights and noise will alert him to our presence.

  Arthur is halfway down the rickety stairs when he stops and holds out the swords. “What the fuck is that?” he asks. “Oh sweet Jesus!”

  At the foot of the stairs is a figure, a mass of rumpled white fabric and golden-brown hair.

  By the way Gwen pushes past Arthur and me, I can only assume that we’ve found Olivia.

  “Oh my God,” Gwen cries. “What did he do to you? Can you speak?”

  Olivia’s face is shrouded in bruises and blood. Her eyes are swollen shut from inflammation, and when she tries to speak, Gwen has to place her ear right next to Olivia’s mouth.

  “Do you think you could walk?” she asks Olivia, untying the rope knotted around her wrists and feet. “Lance, she’s not gonna make it if we don’t get her out of this house. I’m not sure what he did to her, but she said something about draining power. Though she may have said something else. I’m kinda guessin’ here.”

  “You stay here with her.” I reach into my bag and pull out several cloth bags full of oaken ash. “Sprinkle this around you, and wait for us to return with Tammy. Don’t do anything stupid, Gwen. Stay here.”

  Even if Gwen had wanted to move Olivia, she couldn’t have. Olivia might not be as tall as Gwen, but she’s heavier, and Gwen isn’t exactly the body-building type. Even dragging her up a flight of stairs is out of the question.

  A man did unspeakable things to this woman, and he needs to pay for them—we’re here to see that he does.

  Morgana doesn’t wait for the rest of u
s to catch up before she proceeds forward—an unyielding, determined juggernaut of fury on two legs.

  The basement is largely unfinished, a mostly concrete enclosure with three rooms—one to our left, one to our right, and one at the very end, the only room with a door. The humidity gets worse as we move deeper into the damp structure, making it harder to breathe. There’s a thick layer of dew clinging to everything in sight. There are rolled-up pieces of carpet everywhere, harboring germs, bacteria and God knows what else, as well as multiple heaps of firewood covered in brown fungus. In the middle of the hallway is a water drain, with several streams of dried paint flowing into it.

  Mordy and I walk side by side while Arthur illuminates the path ahead. We carefully avoid the stacks of cinder blocks in the way, and try to keep from stepping on the back of his heels, but I’m so anxious I feel like I could pass out at any moment.

  “So,” Arthur says. “Is it just me, or does everyone think it smells like the inside of a belly button down here? Because fuck!”

  “That’s the stench of decay you smell,” Morgana replies. “The Merlin is at the end of his rope. When I first arrived, I could tell that his powers were fluctuating, waxing and waning with each new moon. But now that he’s abducting women, I am certain—without the shadow of a doubt—that he is planning his next reincarnation. His next cycle.”

  The cycle I must break.

  “Is it the Merlin that smells like this, or is it the house?” Arthur asks, a foot behind Morgana. “Does he actually live here?”

  Pipes knock overhead and we turn our faces upward. Water drips from the exposed metal tubing and gets in my eye. I rub my eye eagerly, determined to rid myself of anything having to do with this goddamn house.

  Mordy scoffs. “Live here? That fucker probably lives in a coffin underground somewhere.”

  “Mordred,” Morgana says, turning to face her brother. “I would like for you to put belladonna in both Arthur’s and Lance’s eyes. It doesn’t sting for very long, just a minute or so, but the drops will be necessary for you two to see the Merlin’s true form. There’s no other way.”