The Ravenmaster's Revenge- The Return of King Arthur

by Jacob Sannox

  London might have been as dark as its smaller counterparts, but its skies were far busier, as the Luftwaffe made their night-time bombing runs which, during the course of the Blitz, practically eradicated the East End of London.

  While Branok slept, unable to intervene to protect the bloodline, a bomb first fell in the grounds of Buckingham Palace on the 8th of September 1940. The following day, another landed, causing some damage to the building itself. Yet it was not until the morning of the 13th of September that a single German bomber managed to drop five bombs on to the palace while the 14th monarch to have reigned since Merlin incapacitated Branok, King George VI, and his queen, Elizabeth, were in residence taking tea. They escaped unscathed, though one man died in the blast.

  The palace would be bombed on many more occasions, and yet the bloodline endured, even as the ravens wandered the Tower of London, unable to intervene.

  The Royal Family remained in London, showing solidarity with their people, who never loved them more than they did by the end of that war. And all while Branok slept.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Tower of London – November 2019

  Arthur fell to his knees as his stomach convulsed. He vomited over David Bolton’s laces as Merlin’s body slumped to the floor beside him. The wizard’s head rolled across the floorboards. Arthur’s stomach voided again, and, too bereft to do anything else, he rolled onto his back and shuffled back towards the door. As Mordred sheathed Excalibur, Arthur swapped the Colt into his right hand and once more levelled it at David Bolton’s chest with a shaking hand.

  ‘The King is dead. Long live the King,’ said Branok. He took up Merlin’s staff and used it as an aid to stand.

  ‘I warned you,’ said Branok, who now looked older than Merlin himself. Arthur kept his eyes on Mordred, unable to fully comprehend in that dreadful moment.

  ‘I told you not to come,’ said Branok, as though he were a child justifying some indiscretion to his parents. ‘I took precautions.’ Still Arthur did not look at him.

  ‘We are wasting time,’ said Mordred.

  ‘Do not move,’ said Branok. ‘He holds a weapon.’

  David Bolton’s eyes had seen many a firearm, on television and in museums, at least, but Mordred frowned and looked at the Colt, unable to see how it could be so.

  Arthur thumbed back the hammer and the chamber rotated.

  ‘Father?’ said Mordred.

  ‘You are an ill-begotten bastard, born of incest,’ said Arthur as he tried to steady his shaking hand. He was far from confident he could make the shot even at such close quarters. And could he even bring himself to pull the trigger?

  Mordred smiled.

  ‘An ancient lie to discredit your sister. Aunt Morgana is long dead, Father, and it does not behove you to speak ill of those who cannot defend themselves.’

  He looked at Branok.

  ‘Unless she is attending, and I am caught unawares?’

  ‘She is not,’ said Branok, who looked as though he had aged fifty years in an evening from the effort of summoning and binding Mordred’s soul to David Bolton’s body.

  Arthur reached up with his left hand and steadied the revolver.

  ‘Why?’ he asked Branok, although he knew full well.

  ‘He defeated you once, and he will again, without a doubt now that Merlin is gone,’ said Branok as he stooped. He took a handful of Merlin’s hair and lifted the head up, cradling it in his arms. He stepped over the wizard’s sprawled legs and made for the door. As he walked between Arthur and Mordred, Branok gestured with his left hand and Arthur, ensnared momentarily, lowered the Colt.

  ‘Good lad, Arthur,’ said Branok as he disappeared into the hall. Mordred stepped in quickly and, curious, pulled the revolver from his father’s trembling hands. He turned it over in his hands and pointed it at Arthur, looping his finger around the trigger.

  ‘You learn fast,’ said Arthur.

  Mordred pulled the trigger.

  The bullet slammed into the stone wall beside Arthur’s head. The recoil took Mordred entirely by surprise, and Arthur dived forward, slamming his shoulder into his son’s legs, squeezing them together. Mordred toppled over backwards onto the stone floor amid Branok’s salt circle, trapping Arthur’s right arm beneath him. Arthur’s face pressed against Excalibur’s hilt for a moment and then he hauled his arm free as Mordred recovered and began to lower the revolver to take aim. Arthur threw himself onto Mordred’s torso, pushing the gun aside. Mordred punched him in the top of the head with staggering force, then bucked to shift his father onto the floor.

  Branok emerged into the night and stood atop the steps up to the White Tower.

  ‘Behold,’ he said, and the knights’ heads snapped round at the sound of his voice. They stared in horror as Branok held up Merlin’s severed head for all to see.

  ‘Get him,’ roared Bors and ‘Take him,’ shouted Tristan as they burst up the steps towards him.

  Branok smiled and held up Merlin’s staff. The two men stood in place and lowered their blades.

  The warlock cast Merlin’s head between them and it bounced down the last few steps, coming to rest at the feet of the remaining knights.

  Branok clicked his fingers, and his familiars took their human forms. They moved silently through the ravens at their feet towards the assembled knights, menacing and relentless.

  ‘Where is Arthur?’ called Kay.

  ‘He lies within,’ said Branok. ‘Will you fight us or save him?’ But he thought from the rage in Tristan’s eyes, the answer might be both and that discretion might be the better part of valour on this occasion. Still holding up the staff, he pushed between the two men and carried on down the steps, holding the knights in place with his will alone. His familiars crowded round the Ravenmaster, circling like snarling, snapping wolves from some forgotten fairy tale.

  Tristan felt as though he was encased in ice, and yet he mustered all his strength and gradually began to feel his muscles moving. He turned on the steps and looked down over Branok’s head.

  ‘You have miscalculated,’ he growled, and the warlock turned to face him, a question written all over his face.

  ‘Here you stand with your familiars gathered all about you, but who guards your precious bloodline now?’ Tristan smiled.

  Branok’s eyes widened at the dawning realisation.

  ‘What have you done?’ he hissed.

  ‘Scallywagging,’ said Tristan, and reaching into his pocket he pulled out a single round of rifle ammunition. He tossed it, and Branok followed its passage through the air.

  ‘No,’ he reassured himself. ‘Arthur would never allow it.’

  ‘Assuming he was told,’ snapped Gareth.

  ‘Culpable deniability,’ said Bors, cracking his knuckles.

  ‘No!’ Branok hissed. He turned and thrust out his hand to the west as though throwing a ball. Four of his familiars exchanged glances, burst into a sprint in that direction and jumped, launching their human forms into the air. No sooner were they off the ground than their bodies shrank into that of ravens, and they flew off in search of the members of the Royal Family.

  ‘You cannot kill them all,’ Branok shouted, desperate.

  Tristan stretched and eased, feeling Branok’s influence subsiding as his attention became divided.

  ‘We can take out enough of them to make the monarchy an irrelevance, public opinion being what it is,’ said Tristan, resting his blade across his shoulder.

  Joseph and Daisy moved to bar the way between the knights and their master.

  ‘Kill them,’ Branok cried, and he ran for the gate.

  Mordred threw Arthur off him, and the former king rolled across the floor, coming to a stop with his back against a table. Something fell to the floor beside him, clanging as it landed.

  Mordred clambered to his feet and began landing kick after kick, directed at Arthur’s head, but smashing into his arms instead, as he raised his arms to shield himself. Arthur cried out as he felt bones snap
and splinter.

  ‘Mordred,’ he spluttered. ‘Mordred, stop!’

  To his relief, Mordred took a step back and stood, out of breath, regarding Arthur as he clambered to his feet.

  ‘Why are you doing Branok’s bidding?’ he asked. ‘What possible good can come of it?’

  ‘An opportunity to take the chance that you once denied me,’ said Mordred. ‘I can inherit your crown. Lead. Rule.’

  ‘Killing me won’t help you! I have not been king since you felled me at Camlann!’

  Mordred frowned.

  ‘You fell?’ he asked.

  Arthur paused for a moment, realising that, of course, his son did not know; Mordred had died before him.

  ‘What do you remember?’ said Arthur.

  Mordred drew Excalibur and pointed it towards Arthur.

  ‘I remember this, slipping between my ribs. Your face fading with the light,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘Killed by my own father.’

  ‘But not before you killed him,’ said Arthur. ‘I died of my wounds, Mordred, when battle was done.’

  Mordred stood in silence, still frowning, candlelight dancing across David Bolton’s face.

  ‘It can’t be true,’ said Mordred. ‘Branok recalled me to overthrow you.’

  ‘We died a millennium ago and more,’ said Arthur, softly.

  Mordred looked towards the door, in the direction Branok had fled.

  ‘The ruling house is of a different bloodline now,’ said Arthur, ‘and Branok would do anything to protect it. That’s why he brought you back, because he knew I would not stand idly by and allow him to attack the people. I have no standing in this land, beyond a silent stewardship which I share with my brethren below,’ said Arthur.

  ‘A deceit? An attempt to regain Excalibur?’ said Mordred, unsheathing Excalibur once more. Arthur saw his arm shake. David Bolton’s muscles were unaccustomed to such weight.

  ‘Keep it,’ said Arthur. ‘It is but a sword, in a world where swords are the stuff of stories.’

  He stepped forward. Mordred drew Excalibur back.

  Arthur nodded towards the Colt.

  ‘Look at what you have in your other hand. Look how I am dressed. Go up to the heights of this tower and look out upon the world you now inhabit. You will see I am telling the truth, son,’ said Arthur. He beckoned towards the door.

  ‘Any enmity between us can be put to rest in this new age,’ Arthur concluded.

  Mordred raised the revolver and pointed it at Arthur’s chest.

  Gareth brought his broadsword down vertically at Joseph’s head, but the familiar was too fast and stepped aside. The weapon smashed into the ground, and the knight staggered forward with it. Joseph stepped up and drove his knee into Gareth’s flank, cracking ribs. Gareth cried out and darted aside, stooping against the pain as he raised his sword once more, carving a divot from the lawn.

  Tristan charged towards Branok, silent and deadly, he raised his sword above his head and when he was but a few yards away, he hurled it to the warlock’s right. It narrowly missed Daisy, who ducked and kicked out, swiping Kay’s legs from under him. She reached up as she did so and caught Tristan’s sword.

  Branok followed the path of the sword and was, momentarily, filled with relief as he saw Daisy stand and hack down with Tristan’s sword, severing Kay’s thigh. His scream echoed around the Tower.

  Branok’s world became a blur as something hit him with great force. Tristan had dived forward and driven his left forearm into Branok’s throat. The knight and warlock flew backwards, with Tristan landing atop him. The knight fumbled in his coat, and Branok protested as Tristan pulled out a commando knife. The warlock reached out with his free hand and grabbed Tristan by the forehead, channelling all his strength through his fingertips. Tristan’s eyes, normally a chestnut brown, drained of their colour until they were fully white. His tongue lolled from his mouth and a trail of saliva drooled out.

  Bors kicked Branok’s hand away, and Tristan slumped off to the side, shaking his head as he came back to the world.

  The warlock grabbed Bors’s foot and thrust it upwards so that he was off balance. Daisy burst into view and aimed wild swings with Tristan’s sword at Bors’s chest. He fell back, but the tip cut a gash across his chest.

  Branok clambered to his feet, and when he turned he saw Joseph snatch up Kay’s sword and, standing side by side with Daisy, his familiars unleashed a fury upon the knights, unconstrained by a normal human body’s limitations. It took all the men had just to fend off the blows, slipping in Kay’s blood as he writhed on the ground beside them. A furious exchange of blows ensued, and Branok took the opportunity to once again run for the gate.

  But Tristan was back on his feet, and now he called out to the warlock, levelling a Glock at the warlock’s back.

  Branok waved his hand, and a chasm shot forward, splitting the earth before Branok’s feet and lancing forward between Tristan’s legs towards the White Tower, throwing the knight off balance.

  The split in the west wall of the White Tower widened, and the ground shook. Branok looked up as the stone began to crumble away.

  And then he saw a lone figure standing atop the stairs.

  Mordred ran down the steps, Excalibur in hand. He dashed past the melee of knights and familiars, ignoring Tristan who had been cast down and was clambering out of the narrow chasm which had opened up beneath him.

  ‘Is it done?’ cried Branok above the sound of splitting stone and rumbling earth, thunder booming overhead.

  Mordred nodded.

  ‘It soon will be,’ he said and nodded back in the direction he had come.

  Arthur stepped out from the White Tower. Branok’s mouth fell open in a moment of sheer confusion, in which he could not comprehend any circumstances in which Arthur and Mordred would allow one another to live, or in which Mordred might put aside his desire to be the king. Though Branok was a man who prized the handing down of nobility through blood above all else, he had forgotten the same might be true for this father and son.

  He realised too late that he had made a mistake. As he did so, Excalibur’s point burst through his chest and quivered in front of him. Mordred hauled the blade sideways, and Branok’s insides were sliced through as he was tossed aside, his body thrown down upon the ground.

  The warlock lay prone, and as blood trickled from his mouth, and he struggled to speak, he thrust out a finger towards Arthur, exerting what was left of his power, to no avail.

  Mordred’s spirit, bound to David Bolton’s body through Branok’s will in an unholy alliance, departed as the warlock died. David Bolton’s corpse fell upon the lawn.

  The battle ended in an instant as the familiars shrieked and imploded.

  Arthur dashed down the steps as fast as his wounds allowed as the White Tower began to crumble and shake. The windows shattered and timbers gave way. The stones fell to rubble, laying the Tower’s foundations bare, sending up a great cloud of dust.

  A thousand ravens took to the skies as the White Tower fell.

  But what of England?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  February - 2020

  ‘Well, he got what he wanted in the end,’ said Tristan, folding his newspaper and throwing it down on the dining room table. It landed before Arthur with its headline clearly visible.

  LONG LIVE THE QUEEN – UNITED KINGDOM BACKS ITS MONARCHY.

  He nodded and lifted his mug of coffee to his lips, savouring the scent of it before drinking as he looked around the table at his surviving people, save for Agravain in prison and Bedivere, away on business.

  ‘Aye, for now,’ said Bors, ‘but with the sickness, the rioting, the tremors and other mischief dying down, it won’t be long before they start railing about the waste of public money and demanding the palaces are turned into libraries or housing for the homeless.’

  Arthur set down his mug, seeing Bors shift as though ready to stand and be about his day.

  ‘Wait a moment,’ said Arthur. ‘It’s
time to have the conversation we have all been avoiding.’

  Bors settled in his seat once more. All of their expectant faces turned towards him.

  Arthur thought of his fallen knights as he looked around the table, of Gaheris, Lamorak and Galahad, who fell at the Somme, of Geraint, who fell while the Great Fire of London raged and of Percival, the last to fall. And he thought of Merlin.

  ‘I made you a promise,’ said Arthur.

  They said nothing, and so Arthur continued.

  ‘Once, when we were but children, you heeded my words and followed me into battle, and I became king. Your king, king of a little land, still struggling to make its way in the world after the Romans left, dealing with the Norsemen and the Saxons. I was king for the blink of an eye, and then we rested and slept, duty done for a time.’

  Tristan sat back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.

  ‘We were ripped from our rest and put back in that little land, finding it a changed place, beyond both our understanding and our reach, yet we have done what we could, and, in some small way, the prophecy was fulfilled.’

  He looked around the table, making eye contact with each of his knights.

  ‘But at what cost to our company? The silence in this room is a sound in itself, and none add to it more than do those who once sat upon the empty chairs,’ he said, his words soft and sad and sorrowful. He raised his mug in a toast.

  ‘To absent friends,’ he said. The others reached for their own drinks and joined him in the toast, and Arthur knew that each of them felt the loss of a different companion the keenest.

  ‘The time of service is over,’ he said, and the words were stark to his own ears, ragged, a tattered banner flapping in the wind.

  ‘I will not throw away a lifetime of duty,’ said Tristan. ‘My oath holds.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Bors.

  ‘We are a brotherhood,’ said Gareth, and Dagonet nodded.