The Ravenmaster's Revenge- The Return of King Arthur

by Jacob Sannox

  He spun away, raising his hands to guard his face and, lying on his side, he found himself staring at Branok, the warlock sitting on his haunches. The two men maintained eye contact in silence and a tension grew between them, though it was not unpleasant. David did not know Branok, as he had never met him before, and yet he felt he knew him intimately. He felt the same curious tickling pleasure in his spine that he had when his grandfather had taken time out of his day to sit and explain something which mattered only to him, yet was prepared to share with David. It made him feel…what?

  Special, David decided. Significant.

  ‘You are a brimming cup, my friend,’ said Branok, as though confiding a true opinion about a close friend, certain and condescending.

  ‘You are holding back the sea, looking back over your shoulder and pretending you are ashore,’ said Branok, his will taking hold of his chosen man.

  David did not understand, and yet he had to fight back tears as his heart heard some truth behind the words. He nodded.

  ‘You must miss them terribly. Would you like me to release you? Let you return to them?’ asked Branok, reaching out his hand. David took it without thinking.

  ‘Come with me. Let’s empty the cup and calm the ocean. You can be with your family, and I will make use of the shell you leave behind, this soon to be empty vessel.’

  He smiled without humour, a cold smile, and yet there was eagerness behind his words.

  Branok helped David to his feet and led him without a word, back towards the Tower, through the gates which opened before them without question, and up into the White Tower itself to Branok’s chamber.

  Branok closed the door and moved David across the room with a little force from the hand on his shoulder, and much more by intruding into the man’s head.

  Branok cast the circle around his victim, who now sat on the floor sipping at mulled wine from a cardboard cup they had bought from a street vendor on the route.

  Quarters called and athame sheathed, Branok felt an immense energy building within his body. He walked slowly across the circle, feeling as though he was in a large hall, filled with an utterly silent audience who anticipated the precious moment when he began to finally speak. In a sense, it was true.

  Branok sat before David, whose bleary eyes were fixed on some distant point.

  ‘You’ll be with them soon, friend,’ said Branok, not knowing or caring whether it was true or not. His subject was pliable and all too ready to depart, and that was all that mattered to him.

  The Ravenmaster began his incantations, and when a minute or an hour had passed, his stomach cramping and his hands shaking, Branok finally felt as though the rope he was hauling on gave way. It didn’t snap or spring free, but gently eased itself loose. The soul of David Bolton left his body vacant.

  Yet not for long, thought Branok. He knew he must move swiftly now, and though he was near collapse, Branok began to call out for the one he sought, summoning him from beyond that great river none have crossed in life or, if they have, do not remember ever doing so.

  Her task went against Daisy’s instincts. The raven sometimes wondered who she had been in a past life, and what she had been like. She had been summoned from the crowded dead of Marston Moor, those Royalist troops who fell on that fateful day when Branok’s first familiar had died, and so it seemed clear that she had been a soldier, but did that necessitate such a thirst for blood and death? Daisy thought not. She did not recognise the trait in her fellow ravens. Certainly they could be ruthless and single-minded, but Daisy did not detect any joy as they carried out their tasks.

  She leaned back against the lamppost, aligning the metal with her spine where it touched between her shoulder blades. Her pale skin stood out against the loose-fitting black top, cut low to display her cleavage, and against the short skirt that only just disguised her modesty. The white skin of her legs was broken up by the interlacing lace of her stockings until they reached her calf-high stiletto boots. She positioned herself to best display her features, just as she had seen on billboards, and as she had seen women do when they wanted eyes on them.

  A car pulled up alongside her. The car. The driver side window was drawn down by some mechanical contraption within the door, and Daisy could see Sir John Ransome looking out at her cautiously, but admiringly.

  A few words exchanged. A deal proposed. A deal rejected. A few images captured.

  Nathaniel watched the interaction through a long lens camera, snapping away until finally Daisy climbed into the back of the vehicle, and Sir John Ransome drove them away into the night.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘Our officers of cavalry have acquired a trick of galloping at everything. They never consider the situation, never think of manoeuvring before an enemy, and never keep back or provide a reserve.’

  Sir Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington

  18th of June 1815 – Waterloo, The United Kingdom of the Netherlands

  Around two o’clock in the afternoon, the Emperor Napoleon was winning the Battle of Waterloo.

  Captain Arthur Grimwood, as he had taken to calling himself, waited to the north of a ridge with his company of British troopers as part of the Household Cavalry Brigade. It, along with the Union Cavalry Brigade, made up the Duke of Uxbridge’s 2000 heavy cavalry. They were concealed by the ridge and, consequently, could not see the slaughter to the south, where the sunken main road was heavily contested by the infantry.

  The artillery thundered, and the constant rattle of musket fire rose up and over the gathered soldiers with the smoke that drifted all across the battlefield.

  ‘How long will we wait?’ asked Percival for the fourth time.

  ‘Quiet,’ said Tristan, but he was grinning as he did so.

  ‘Soon enough, I’m sure,’ said Arthur, also grinning. Mounted on a fine dapple grey, he unsheathed his sabre and turned it over, inspecting both sides of the blade. He, like his knights, was dressed in the red coat of the British Army, and he wore a tall black hat.

  The wait was interminable, yet despite their nervous anticipation, there was not a man amongst them who was not excited at the prospect of the coming charge.

  This, thought Arthur, is not so very different from the days of our youth. Less armour and the swords are far daintier, and yet never did I gather such numbers when I was king.

  And then it was on. The Duke of Uxbridge, somewhere at the front, gave the order. The trumpets blared out and a cry went up. The Household Brigade began to pour southwards over the ridge like boulders down a mountainside.

  ‘With me!’ called Arthur. ‘For England!’ and his knights echoed the cry. They spurred their horses and the charge of the British heavy cavalry began.

  The ground shook beneath their horses’ thundering hooves, and Arthur held his sword aloft, his face contorted into a grimace as he concentrated on the task ahead.

  Before them the French cuirassiers were out of formation and vulnerable while they defended the infantry’s flank. Arthur and the British rode through them.

  Arthur hacked to his left and his right, smiting his foes with heavy blows from his sabre across their unprotected faces and throats, stabbing and thrusting, but always charging onwards. The cuirassiers gave way before the onslaught and were routed.

  Now the Household Brigade advanced with all the momentum of their downhill charge straight at the 19th and 54th regiments of Aulard’s brigade, smashing into the lines of the French infantry.

  Arthur and his knights set to slaughtering the French soldiers, and carnage was everywhere about them, men crumpling in ragged messes as the gore ripped and drawn from their flesh by the British swords flicked this way and that, like paint flicked from a brush by a mad artist setting about his canvas. It was a hellish press of man and horse, of steel and flesh.

  The Household Brigade destroyed their foe in a bloody onslaught.

  Commanding officers called to their men, trying to get them under control, but the men’s blood was up and all were frenzied. The
orders went unheard or unheeded, and the British Household Cavalry continued their gallop to the east of the farm, La Haye Sainte.

  Arthur, for his part, made no attempt to rein in his gallant company.

  ‘Onward!’ he urged his men. ‘At them! On!’

  Tristan rode to his left, and Percival to his right as they continued their gallop downhill until finally, their horses blown, shaking and panting, some dying beneath them, the Household Brigade reached the foot of the slope and there found the French infantry formed into squares, bristling with bayonets. They could advance no further.

  Their charge was over, but not the battle.

  Bors, Lamorak and Gaheris were with the Union Brigade as they charged through the British infantry and smashed into Bourgeois’ brigade to begin their slaughter. The infantry destroyed or routed before them, both brigades were recovering from their charge when the French cuirassiers and lancers counter-charged. All descended into chaos. Major-General William Ponsonby, commander of the Union Brigade, was rallying his men when he was captured by a French sergeant, who killed him when his men attempted a rescue. Bors and Lamorak watched in dismay, unable to intervene, as that same sergeant cut down the would-be rescuers. At the loss of their leader, both knights exchanged a glance and rode off to find Arthur, abandoning their own regiment in so doing.

  Not so very far away, just across the valley, Arthur thrust the tip of his sabre into the neck of a soldier then, looking about him, saw that Tristan was fighting alone amid a sea of lancers, cut off from his company and the rest of his brigade. Arthur watched in horror as the French closed about his knight, who fought on, but desperately, against the long lances of the enemy horsemen. Arthur called to his knights, but most were bogged down in their own battle.

  Arthur spurred his horse on towards Tristan, but too many barred his way. He slashed and stabbed, parrying and kicking out to keep his foes at bay, but made slow progress.

  He called out as he saw one of the lancers spear Tristan’s horse. The animal reared, and the last Arthur saw of Tristan was his knight attempting to swing a leg over the saddle so as to jump free before his mount collapsed atop him. The horse and rider fell to the ground, out of Arthur’s view. He fought on all the harder, but again could make little progress forward to come to the aid of his knight.

  Arthur drove his boot into a man’s chest, pushing him so that he tripped and fell onto his back. Arthur looked up and saw Gaheris riding hard through the press of French infantry, not far from Tristan. Arthur called out to him, but his words were lost in the chaos of Waterloo. He saw Gaheris slash down to his left three times and turn the horse into the gap he had created. He closed in on the lancers and stabbed the first through the back. The man threw up his arms and collapsed sideways. His companions turned, and one stabbed out at Gaheris, but his knight reached out and grabbed the lance with his left hand and hauled the man from his saddle.

  But the remaining lancer succeeded where his friend had failed. He drove his lance into Gaheris’s mount. Gaheris leapt down and was lost from sight before the animal even reared.

  ‘No,’ said Arthur under his breath and redoubling his efforts to reach them. ‘No.’

  Finally he drew near and, to his relief, saw Tristan and Gaheris, both bloodied, fighting back-to-back against many enemies. Arthur rode down the soldiers before him and reared his mare so that her hooves struck out at the Frenchman beneath him. Arthur parried a blow from his right and wheeled his horse to close the distance between himself and the attacking lancer. Unable to pull back his weapon to strike again, the lancer fell without a chance to defend himself when Arthur drew back his sabre and cut the man’s throat. The man toppled from the saddle, and Arthur called to his knights.

  Tristan, who was bleeding heavily from his arm and leg, shouted something, but Gaheris propelled him towards the lancer’s horse and, wearily, Tristan climbed into the saddle. Arthur reached down and hauled Gaheris up behind him. He felt his mare shudder with the extra weight, and for an alarming moment he thought she would collapse, but then she steadied. He spurred the horse on and, followed by Tristan, they retreated from the press in the valley to find the remainder of the British cavalry.

  Arthur felt useful, felt vital, felt he could contribute once more. Wherever he rode upon that field, he rallied those around him who faltered. His voice, ever his power, more subtle but no less effective than that of Merlin or Branok, inspired many an act of courage that day, as it had throughout the Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars. The cavalry suffered heavy losses as the battle progressed, officers and troops dying by the thousand, and Uxbridge could field fewer and fewer squadrons as the hours passed. Yet not one of Arthur’s knights fell upon that field, in their element as they fought from the saddle with centuries of experience to hone their instincts and steady their nerve. They went merrily about their slaughter, confident that every dead Frenchman was a Frenchman that could no longer aid Napoleon in his attempt to win the day and, ultimately, invade Britain.

  The remains of the Household Brigade drew together and repelled a combined attack by the French cavalry and infantry, and made themselves visible to the flagging infantry to embolden them when their numbers could not be put to better use. Once more Arthur’s voice stirred the hearts of the troops, though they knew not the identity of this random cavalry captain who called out encouragement and praise. But when they heard his voice, their hearts were stirred and memories of both loved ones and of home filled their minds. They steadied, they held and they fought like warrior kings upon the field of Waterloo until finally the day was won.

  The Duke of Wellington met Marshall Blucher at La Belle Alliance, the farm from where Napoleon had commanded his forces until he had been forced to retreat.

  Six days later, Napoleon abdicated.

  The threat from France had passed, and when the time came, Arthur and his knights returned to England once more

  Chapter Twenty

  November 2019

  Arthur dreamt he was doing battle with a great green serpent. He was unarmed and landing one ineffectual blow after another. The serpent lunged and wrapped itself around his torso, curling, tightening and squeezing so that Arthur began to choke and cough.

  He awoke sweating and panicked, the sound of the smoke alarm raucous and loud enough to wake the whole house. It took him a moment to register the room was filled with churning grey smog, thick and unpleasant. Arthur thought to open the sash window and then realised that it was through it the window the smog was pouring. He jumped to his feet and pushed it fully up, leaning outside. The world was occluded by drifting banks of smog. Arthur spluttered and hacked as he closed the window.

  ‘Arthur?’ said a ragged voice from his doorway. When Arthur turned he saw Kay standing in a pair of trousers and a vest, hastily thrown on. He clasped a cloth over his nose and mouth.

  ‘Close all the windows and put on all the extractors,’ said Arthur, feeling less than legendary as he stood coughing in his slippers, still half asleep and worrying about snakes.

  ‘This can’t be coincidence,’ said Kay as they ate a large breakfast with the 24-hour news channel on in the background, telling tales of woe that had sprung up overnight. The smog was the least of it; tremors and sudden outbreaks of various illnesses, political scandals come to light, a controversial shooting, rioting and news of not one, but three assassinations of Russian officials that were being attributed to the British government. The newsreader, whom Arthur thought looked somewhat harried, suggested that such a catastrophic turn of events could be the precursor to war, that things had finally gone beyond the mounting sabre-rattling of recent months.

  ‘Could Branok have really influenced so much?’ asked Tristan.

  ‘Last week I would have said that he was no match for Merlin,’ said Arthur, ‘but the blood-stained floorboards have proved me naïve.’

  ‘Anything is possible,’ said Bors. ‘He’s been brooding on this since they offed his last pet project.’

  ‘But stirring
things up with the Russians is new territory,’ said Tristan. ‘That goes way beyond the meddling of a wizard.’

  Arthur laughed as he poured himself a whisky, standing at the kitchen table. His men looked at him, puzzled.

  ‘Were it not for the meddling of a wizard, would we be standing here today? They are more powerful than we imagine. We grow complacent. Merlin has largely been subtle in his practice, but Branok has never shown such restraint. Perhaps now we will find out just how much devastation one practitioner of the dark arts can cause,’ said Arthur. He pulled out a chair and beckoned for the others to join him in sitting around the table. They passed the bottle round, each taking a swig of the whisky, some savouring the taste, and some pretending to do so while stifling a cough.

  Arthur and the knights sat in silence as they drank, brooding on their situation, pondering how best to tackle the task ahead. Eventually though, the alcohol loosened the tension and their tongues. They fell into a lengthy debate which diverged into reminiscences and occasional arguments that generally ended with the majority of the men laughing.

  ‘I’ll ask a hard question,’ said Arthur.

  ‘As is your right,’ proclaimed Tristan, a little louder than usual.

  ‘I have never asked any of you to stand by me, or to while away the centuries in my service. In the beginning I thought loyalty was your duty and my right, but for many years now, I have wondered why you all stay with me in this new world where our role is so diminished. I am no king. You are not knights. Why do you spend your lives in endless service beyond any expectation of man?’ said Arthur, ending by once more lifting his glass to his lips.

  ‘I am still a knight of your court, as I will ever be,’ said Tristan.

  ‘You’re a god-damned scallywag, is what you are!’ said Bors with a wave of his hand. The others chuckled, and Arthur smiled, but Tristan remained grim-faced until the noise died down, and the more empathic among them scrutinised him, trying to gauge his reaction.