by Frazer Lee
The Knights were strangers to her now. Once noble champions had been replaced by gluttonous beasts clad in stained furs and neglected armor. 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 realized 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 instill 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 realized 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 fiber 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. Defenseless, 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 mesmerizing 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 demeanor 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 realized 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.
Ill Met By Moonlight
I begin with caution this disturbing tale, as it is not my intention to cause distress and tension in the male reader towards the opposite, fairer, sex. Unfortunately a greater effect may result within the psyche of the female reader as my tale can only serve to illustrate that the idea of the monstrous feminine is much, much closer than one expects.
It began with the moon. I remember it distinctly. I remember thinking it looked like a perfect slice of lemon floating in a glass of cold gin and tonic. This half moon transfixed me on that chilly night, much more than the entertainers who danced and cart-wheeled their way through the cobblestones of Covent Garden. I stood rooted to the spot, gazing up at that moon, thinking if only earthbound sights had such power and beauty. Chasing memories of loves both lost and never attained from my cobwebbed memory I instead focused on the moon. Truly the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
Until her voice. A voice like diamonds, from over my shoulder.
“She’s looking back at you, you know.”
Frozen, I was, and not from the cold. This voice was a sister to the moon that so held me. Undoubtedly American in accent, with the ponderous articulation of the West Coast and a tingling quality from some hidden tone or pitch that only certain night creatures could, probably, hear.
Turning slowly around, God and His angels put a face to that voice for me, and in an instant I was utterly powerless. I remember every detail of her. Every curl, curve, shape and scent. The visual information of her being penetrated and wrapped itself around my brain. Within my entire field of vision was her face, like a projection on a silver screen. When I blinked, I could see the afterimage of that half moon. I was hypnotized. Her eyes were sharp green and blue. She had long black eyelashes, and a noble poise to her bone structure. The gentle slope of her nose and cheekbones accentuated her lips, which seemed to me as shiny red velvet as they parted cleverly in a smile to reveal teeth of pure white. She licked her lips with a quick movement of her tongue and took a step toward me, curtseying.
“I am Christine Nimbo. From Washington. I’m sorry, but I too have a fondness for the moon and such. I hope you don’t mind my breaking your concentration like this, mister…”
“Shaw. William Shaw. And I feel compelled to thank you for breaking my concentration. I believe it can be dangerous to look on such beauty for prolonged periods without the aid of a stiff drink.”
My forwardness shocked me. But as anyone who has fallen in love in the blink of an eye will know, the human character is infinitely adaptable in any given emotional situation. That did not however prevent her reply from shocking me even more. Glancing around the piazza, this delectable Christine turned a mischievous eye back to me and said, “Where can we get a good stiff drink then,
Mister William Shaw? As I too have been gazing at that blessed moon for too damn long.”
Within two hours, over several glasses of very good port, I had learned all about Christine Nimbo from Washington. Her father had been ringmaster off a well-known traveling circus until falling in love with a local girl in Seattle who came to see the show every single night. Christine’s father decided to marry right away and tears were shed when his comrades learned he would not be accompanying them to their next port of call. The wedding reception was a spectacle with clowns, horses, elephants and trapeze artists all celebrating their master’s wedding in true carnival fashion. A feast was held in the Big Top.
Life became quiet when the circus left town, and Christine’s father took the post of teacher of Mathematics and English at the local schoolhouse. His wife soon became pregnant with Christine and they added an extra room to their small house in preparation for the arrival of their firstborn.
Their existence was idyllic for a while, that is, until the young father’s wanderlust returned to him. The magnetic pull of the traveling circus teased his very blood and in his heart of hearts, he dearly wished to be back amongst his brethren, learning new dialects and landmarks. The map of his mind had formed boundaries when he arrived in Seattle. His agony was great as he watched his beloved wife and daughter grow colder towards him as he spent less time at home and more at the alehouse, or walking alone in the woods.
Soon after Christine’s first birthday, the ringmaster fled his happy home in search of that which called to him.
His wife, aided by the light of the full moon, searched for him in desperation amidst the trees and over the tracks and plains until the sun came up. She returned defeated, her clothes tattered and torn, the next morning and weeks passed before the locals could get a word out of her. Christine’s mother had many admirers, but she never took another lover and stubbornly raised her daughter alone in near poverty. Fortune struck when Christine’s mother was offered a post in the local schoolhouse as her knowledge of history and her good memory made her a suitable understudy
for the ailing history teacher Mr. Vetch. Christine was therefore very well provided for and began to display the same keen, inquisitive mind as her mother and some of her father’s curiosity.
It was with reluctance and pride therefore, that Christine’s mother allowed her to travel to Europe to study and work in the multitude of fantastic cities she encountered. This decision was scandalous in the community at that time, yet to mother and daughter there was no question that Christine was capable of looking after herself. It was one year prior to her arrival in London that Christine was happily studying Spanish and making a handsome living selling flowers and coral to tourists in the bays of the Basque country. Christine received a telegram from the principal of the schoolhouse in Seattle telling her that her mother had died in a fire. The schoolhouse had burned down. Nothing remained of it, or her mother. Christine attended the memorial service and left Seattle quickly, as she found it hostile and changed.
Her old school friends had become closeted and they sickened her with their aprons and backyards and cries of “Settle down!” No, Christine still had the ache of the traveler in her belly and set off once again for Europe, this time arriving in Paris. She took time to lick her wounds and enjoyed all that marvelous city had to offer, spending hours in galleries and reading in the cafes of the Rue Saint Germain.