The Black Knight:
An Ending
by DarkMark
There are times when even the good know that nothing they do will
make a damned bit of difference.
The Black Knight knew this, spurring his horse towards the fallen
fortifications of Arthur's castle. It was fallen, it was fallen.
He knew of this.
So was Arthur. And the Black Knight had not been by his side.
No, thought the Knight, he had been lured away by an invading force
to the north, Mordred's and Morgan's men, to be sure, but not the
ones which mattered. His Ebony Blade had rung true, and few could
stand before it. Even those equipped with those shields embossed
with Morgan's magic had finally given way.
Then had come the messenger from Cadbury, home of Camelot. He had
been wounded, but could still tell the story. Near the castle,
Mordred and his forces had personally engaged Arthur in combat.
Arthur had fallen.
With a cry of horrible anguish, the Knight had turned his great
white horse homeward, insensible of all else. A few of Mordred's
straggling troops had tried to beset him along the way. He had
annihilated them. He only regretted that he had such little time
to do it in.
If the man's message were true, Mordred still lived. That viper to
defeat whom Merlin had brought Sir Percy of Scandia to Camelot, still
lived. Him and his damnable sorceress wife, Morgan, whom possibly no
one short of Merlin could kill.
Why had he not murdered Mordred long before this? When he had the
opportunity? When Arthur could have been saved?
Because, he told himself, Arthur meant to preserve the integrity of
the Table at all costs. Even when it meant overlooking the evidence
of Mordred's plots and Morgan's dark skills. Even–God forbid that it
happened, but it did!–when a trusted knight, no, the trusted knight,
Lancelot, did what he did with the Queen herself, a thought which
burned like a hot brand thrust into the Knight's brain. As much a
betrayal as David with Bathsheba, and yet, Lancelot had done it.
Had Mordred been behind that, as well?
It did not matter, but he would assume such had been the case. From
that, the Table Round had been fragmented, broken into bits, but
there were still loyalists to the cause. Arthur had built a
Christian Attilan, with the help of wise Merlin, he who had sent for
Sir Percy and made him, secretly, the masked and helmeted Black
Knight. He had given Percy the Ebony Blade, that which was crafted
from meteor and magic, that which could cleave stone and steel. He
had helped Percy assume the persona of a court fop, a dandy and
coward, belying the warrior's skills he had excelled at in his own
town many miles away, that none might suspect he was the Knight.
When he had initially saved Arthur from assassins, the Knight, though
he refused to reveal his identity even to the king, was knighted by
the monarch himself. And, though the king could not directly command
him, his mighty arm and sword were always in the service of Pendragon.
Now, there was no Pendragon.
There it was, the castle, the courtyard. Men still at battle. That
was good. It would give him something to kill.
He prayed that one would be Mordred, another would be Morgan Le Fey,
and the third, if there was a third, would be Lancelot.
Both sides recognized the Knight. The fighting seemed to hesitate,
but just for a moment. He called out to them, in a voice barely
muffled by the dark helmet that hid his entire head. "Any who stand
with Mordred, quit the field, leave my path, or die. Any who stand
with Arthur, in his name, and in the name of the Lord, stand with
me. I would have Mordred's head tonight. If I cannot make him last
until tomorrow."
Several of Mordred's men looked at each other. A few tried to quit
the field, but, facing Arthur's knights, found that a difficult goal
indeed. Others, able to free themselves from battle, turned
themselves and their horses towards the Knight. A squad of five
thundered his way.
"I shall help you, Black Knight," cried one defender of Camelot.
An older veteran held a sword flat-first against his chest. "Stay,"
he ordered. "Battle aplenty here. The Knight will aquit himself
well."
"Of a certainty?" asked the younger, doubting.
The five men raised blade to the Black Knight. Without a word, he
set White Thunder to face them. His black blade moved.
An arm, a head, part of a helmet and what lay beneath it flew.
Thrusts were made through steel breastplate and chain mail. Groans
and death rattles were heard, from those who still had breath to make
them.
The entire affair took less than four minutes. The younger knight
gaped at the sight. The veteran spoke to him again.
"Of a certainty," he said.
-K-
The fighting was still thick within the walls of Camelot. The great
splendor and decoration and ceremonial furniture which had cheered
Sir Percy scores, nay, hundreds of times when he looked upon them
were torn, demolished, wrecked. Loyalists battled traitors, and one
was sometimes hard-pressed to know which was which. The fighting was
from room to room.
The Black Knight burst in, and knew that his enemies would reveal
themselves readily enough.
They did. One desperate fellow made for him with a pike, and saw the
thing cut to flinders a second before the Ebony Blade did the same to
himself. The defenders of Arthur took heart, as the mystery man of
Camelot surged forward and cleaved away at those who stood with
Mordred. They cried out, "For Arthur! For the Table Round!", and
put their weary thews to work with renewed vigor.
But none had seen the Knight so grim, so murderous. Beforehand, he
had slain few, as such things are measured. Tonight, he was an
engine of killing, and woe betide the man towards whom he turned in
wrath. Before long, the men of Mordred were fleeing before him in
terror. But Arthur's men blocked their escape, and each of them
faced either the swords and maces of the loyalists or the Blade of
Ebony. Not always did the Knight give them a choice.
Beneath his helm, he was crying.
Crying for Arthur. Crying for Guinnevere. Crying for his wife, Lady
Rosamund, who had finally seen through the pretense of Sir Percy and,
knowing who and what he was, had married him not a season ago.
Crying for Merlin, and Lancelot, and Kay, and Ector, and the Table
Round.
But crying, most bitterly, for himself.
Where in the name of Heaven was Merlin, at such a time as this?
Where were his magical insights, and the scrying which should have
foreseen such an outcome, and prevented it? Or could anything have
prevented it?
Before he could bid his sword arm stop swinging, he knew that there
were no foes left before him.
The Black Knight stood there, amidst the carnage of Camelot, with
those unfallen faithful of Arthur watching him. He made no motion,
other than his breathing. From without came the scattered noises of
war.
Arthur's castle was an abattoir.
After a long, long moment, the Knight spoke three words.
"Where is he?"
None had to ask to whom he referred. One of the knights silently
pointed to an archway. The man in black turned and walked through
it. Down a hall, into a room well known to him and all the knights
of Camelot, both true and false.
The room which held the Table Round.
It was splintered, parts of it knocked away, many of those damnably
stolen for souvenirs. But there was still enough left of it to
support the one who lay upon it.
In state, with his death wound upon him, a torn curtain under him to
hold the blood, lay Arthur Pendragon, late king of all Britain.
The Knight went to his knees before him, burying the point of his
sword in the stone floor. He knelt and wept in great harrowing sobs,
as one would think Peter wept when the cock crowed after his third
denial. As one would weep, perhaps, for a father.
But grief and tears can be treacherous things. Almost as treacherous
as the one who stepped from the shadows. Almost as treacherous as
the black dagger held in his hand, one forged from the very metal
which had borne the Ebony Blade.
Mordred, blood still on his mail, made as little sound as possible as
he moved forward. Even at that, even though the Knight still wept,
he saw that the man heard something. He was beginning to turn.
It was still too late.
Mordred drove the dagger into the Knight's back, twisted it, heard
his cry of pain. Grimly, he smiled.
But others heard, as well.
By the time the Knight had fallen across the body of Arthur, others
were at the door. Three knights, and a white-bearded, pointed-capped
figure who looked upon Mordred with deadly intent, and on the Knight
and Arthur with sorrow.
Mordred dropped the dagger with contempt, and smiled broadly. "And
so, the game is up. I surrender. By the law of the Table Round,
dear Merlin, I submit myself to trial."
Merlin gestured towards him. Two of the knights rushed to pin his
arms, the other drew his sword.
"You forget, Mordred," said Merlin. "The Table Round is no more."
The villain had time to look up in horror as the blade came down.
-K-
The thing the Knight could not quite credit was swimming up from the
darkness to see the face of Merlin before him.
The old man's face loomed in his vision, candlelight behind him. If
this was Death, it left something to be desired. He had been here
before.
"You awaken, Sir Knight," murmured the wizard. "That pleases me."
The Knight started to answer. But the visions of what he had seen of
late came upon him, and he choked back tears with an effort. He felt
the wound in his back, and knew that, whatever Merlin's skills, this
was quite beyond their scope.
He regained control enough to say, "I failed, Merlin. Failed."
The old man in the robe lay hands upon him. "Now was any knight ever
more glorious in victory, my son. But now, say no more."
"Mordred?"
"Dead."
"My lady Rosamund?"
"Safe with Guinnevere. She will accompany her from the Realm. She
will bear your child. Your line will continue."
The Knight was now quite unable to speak. His helmet had been taken
away, and only his mask concealed his face. But it mattered naught.
It was now a time of ending.
"Ask me not of other knights," warned Merlin. "There is one last
thing I must do, Sir Percy. Bear with me, though your pain be great."
At that, Merlin moved away, drew a stick of blue chalk from his
robe's pocket, and began making markings on the floor. He encircled
them both with symbols, the likes of which the Knight did not wish to
interpret. A brazier leaped into flame, without the wizard touching
it. This did not bother him.
At the end of it, Merlin stood, his arms spread wide, and made a
proclamation.
"'Twas decreed that Arthur should die, and Camelot become but a grey
memory. This I knew, yet dared hope in vain to stem the tides of all-
consuming fate. For Merlin, too, is human, and shall soon be gone
forever. But not so the Black Knight."
Sir Percy tried to raise himself up, in curiosity, at those words.
But his strength was not even sufficient for that. And what little
he still had was waning as quickly as the brazier before him seemed
to be.
Merlin came close to him, now. Close enough for him to see the tears
in his eyes.
"The light of yon brazier is extinguished," said Merlin, and so it
was. "Even as your life was untimely snuffed out. But when the
spirit of Modred the Evil once more stalks the land, you shall live
again, through anohter. And now, farewell, most valiant knight of
all. Farewell, Sir Percy of Scandia. Farewell, my son...the Black
Knight."
By the time he said the last words, Merlin knew that his charge was
no more.
He stood, bent over what was left of the Knight, in the guttering
light of candles.
It was a long time before the sound of a scuffing foot caused him to
turn.
"Merlin," said the other in the room.
The sorcerer turned away, back to the Knight on his makeshift bier.
"Merlin, I have come to seek penance," said the intruder.
Merlin still said nothing.
"In the name of Christ, Merlin, is there no mercy? Is there no
mercy, at the end of this, even yet for me?"
The wizard turned upon him, eyes blazing with death. "As much mercy
as there was for Judas, I trow."
Lancelot could not meet his eyes. He turned his own towards the
floor, and wept.
After a term, Merlin finally lay a hand upon his shoulder. "Your
name," he said. "Your name will be known to many lands, many times.
The good and the bad will be known. I will see to that."
The knight of Arthur tried to speak, and gave it up as a wasted
effort.
"But none will know that it is your name," Merlin continued. "For,
from this day forward, you will never use your name. Lancelot died
with Arthur. What will rise in his stead will be something quite
different."
"Merlin...I..."
"Silence!"
Like a stripling youth in training, Lancelot went mute.
"Penance you wish, and penance you shall have," said Merlin. "Your
face. Turn it towards me."
The knight did so. Merlin clasped his hands to both sides of
Lancelot's face. He stared balefully into the kneeling man's eyes.
And after an instant, there was power.
Power enough to make Lancelot scream at the sensation of it running
through his head, his body, and out into the world-web itself. Power
that made him sense, numbly, that something had been both added to
him and taken away. Power that altered his life-force in a manner of
which he was totally uncertain, but knew it had been done.
"As the Wandering Jew was cursed, so I curse you," said Merlin. "From
this day hence, till the day of Our Lord's Second Coming, you will
walk. Unless one comes with skill and power enow to kill you, you
will walk. You will be charged to find the Bird of Fire, and to be
her guardsman in times of danger, for such will be needed. But you
will never use your former name. Now. Give me your sword."
"My..."
"Your sword."
With barely a hesitation, the knight drew his blade and handed it
over to the mage.
Merlin took it in one hand, regarded it, handled it in a manner the
knight would not have credited him with the strength to do.
Then he turned, and in one terrible, swift movement, smashed the
blade against the stone wall of his chamber and watched it shatter
into a thousand pieces and more.
The knight was horrified.
Merlin turned to him, and hurled away the hilt in contempt. "From
henceforth, your weapon will not be the sword. If you strike with
blade, it will be with an assassin's dagger. The same sort of weapon
which killed the Black Knight. But that will not be your primary
weapon."
"Then...what?"
The magician walked to a cabinet, threw it open, took a thing of wood
and string from it, and threw it across the room. The knight caught
it.
"The bow," he said. He drew a quiver from the cabinet, tossed it in
the same manner. It fell at the knight's feet, scattering arrows
about him. "Gather them up. Place them in the quiver. Place them
and the bow on your back. From this moment forth, you will be known
to those few who know you as—Bowman."
"This, then, is...my penance?"
"Call it what you will. You will not see me again, unless, in the
wake of the Final Judgment, we both be shown more mercy than I can
muster today. What you make of yourself after this is up to you.
Gather up your woods, and begone."
Finishing his task, Bowman rose to his feet again. "I would pay
tribute to the Knight, Merlin."
"You are unworthy."
"I do not dispute that." He waited.
Merlin turned away.
Bowman knelt before the fallen man in ebon. After a great moment, he
said, "That it had been me, instead of my liege. That it had been
me, instead of thee. You will not be forgotten, brother Knight."
"Begone."
Bowman sought something on the floor, found it, took it in hand, and
lay it on the Knight's chest. It was the hilt of his sword. He
turned one last time to Merlin. "Bury this with him. For the sake of
what I was."
"Begone," said Merlin, not turning to see him.
When he finally turned back, there were none but the Knight and
himself in the chamber.
-M-
Several days hence, a walker in raiment of grey approached a small
stone house in one of the realms outlying Camelot. There were guards
outside, but they drew aside when he gave them a sign. He raised his
walking-staff and rapped upon the wooden door.
"Who is without?" said a woman's voice.
"Thy servant, milady," he said.
The door cracked open, and a woman's face was seen in the
opening. "Inside. Quickly."
He entered.
Within the cottage, dressed in plainer habiliment than was their
wont, were two women and two girl servants, the latter barefoot and
gaping at him. One of the women was pregnant, and beginning to show.
The other, even in what disguise she wore, was easily known as the
woman who had been Arthur's beloved, and Lancelot's as well. And,
perhaps, the finish of the Table Round.
Merlin made a slight bow to her, and one to Rosamund out of courtesy.
"I greet you, Merlin," said Guinnevere. "In my sorrow."'
"And in mine, milady, I accept."
"Merlin, of my husband," began Rosamund, hesitantly.
The mage turned to her. "The greatest of the Realm," he said. "He
fought bravely. He fought for his king. He was struck down only in
treachery, and that treachery cost the life of his murderer. Rest
easy, Lady Rosamund. He was the greatest Knight of all."
The lady averted her eyes and shook her head. "I will never rest
easy, Merlin. Not in this life, nor in any other."
Guinnevere touched her arm. "Peace, Rosamund. We grieve together.
But you will go with me, and we both shall raise your son."
"My son," said Rosamund, dully.
"You think that because I bleed for my husband, there is nothing in
me left to bleed for your own? You are wrong, Rosamund. For all the
blood I caused to be shed...yes, I bleed alongside them. And I will
bleed for you."
Then she was hugging Rosamund, as if there were no division between
them at all, and if the lady's tears were visible, at least she made
no sound. Merlin held his peace for a long time.
Finally, he spoke again. "I had to see you one more time," he
said. "I had to wish you well. Before another nightfall, your
journey must begin."
Guinnevere nodded. "It will be hard upon Rosamund. My ladies will
attend her as much as me. We will see her through this birth safely."
"I do not doubt it," said Merlin. "You must watch over each other
from this day forth. I will never see you again."
"Then you are leaving, at last, Merlin?" said Guinnevere.
"I am," he said. "What tasks are left to me remain undone. I must
attend them alone. Alone."
Rosamund spoke. "Could you have seen this, Merlin, if you had wanted
to? Could you have had the power?"
He took a long breath before speaking. "Even if I could, milady, I
am not certain it would have made a difference."
There was a long pause.
"But we have made a difference. All who strove in the service of
Arthur made a difference. We raised a Christian Attilan on this
isle. Its flame is damped, but not, I think, extinguished. Not as
long as the realm lives. Not as long as there are those to carry its
memory. Or those to carry its heirs." He moved forward, and touched
Rosamund on the shoulder. "Not as long as there are such as
yourself, milady. Take care."
"And you, Merlin, for yourself."
"Just so," he said.
He looked back at the two of them, and at the silent servant-girls,
and regarded them in silence for another long moment.
"Farewell," he said, and stepped out the door.
-M-
This, then, was the end of it. Almost.
The end of Arthur, of the Black Knight, of Lancelot, of Mordred, or
the Table Round itself. Something which should have rivalled the
Athens of Pericles, the Rome of Augustus, and which, he told himself,
did so for one brief shining moment.
Would it be forgotten?
He did not know. Despite his many labors, he did not know.
Merlin walked on, in the fallling shadows, far from the habitations
of men. A task lay before him, one which would not do to perform
where others might be endangered. His walking-stick clacked on the
stones he walked by, and he breathed in the country air which seemed
as sweet as the day he gave up his independence to become advisor and
magician to Pendragon.
He had to smile.
Perhaps there would be a memory of Camelot. Perhaps, despite it all,
the Realm would survive, and the seeds that he and Arthur had planted
would sustain the growth of greatness, in future times. Despite his
power, he had only limited abilities to see forward. But what he had
seen was encouraging.
And there were other things which were not.
But he thought once more of Arthur, and he thought again of the Black
Knight, and even once of Lancelot. And, thinking upon them, it
seemed impossible that any of them would ever be forgotten. Not as
long as there was a single Briton left alive to remember them. Of
that, he seemed persuaded.
And perhaps some of them would even remember Merlin, himself.
Enough. The time was drawing near for what must be done. One final
thread remained to be tied. That was why he was here, and why his
adversary would be here, as well.
Perhaps he would meet a fate suitable for knights. That might be a
pleasant thing, indeed, despite it all. He would soon find out.
A voice came to him. "You are here, Merlin. As am I."
She had not been there before, he was certain. But she kept her
appointments, and he could do no less. There were foes knights must
attend to, and those reserved for wizards as well.
As he raised his staff, he smiled, tightly, and thought that this,
finally, might be the end of Camelot. Or perhaps of just that
portion which had fallen to him. It would be the property of others,
afterward. A legacy. One never held onto those too long, but they
continued.
He looked upon Morgan Le Fey, not ten paces distant from him, her
long green dress billowed by the wind, no mercy in her eyes.
"Have at you, you bitch," he said.
Characters in this fict are property of Marvel Comics, Inc. No money
is being made by this story, no infringement is intended.