Sidestory: The Last Knight
In a cramped, two-bedroom townhouse somewhere on the outskirts of Cardiff, Wales, an elderly woman had almost finished putting her groceries away when the last remaining paper bag on the counter rustled.
Mercy Stokes turned to stare at it, wondering briefly if she’d imagined the noise. The thought was almost immediately dismissed as, a moment later, the bag shuffled and shifted noisily once again, something clearly moving around inside. Slowly, carefully, she stepped over and hooked one of the bag’s flimsy handles with a pinkie finger, tugging it open a little further to give her a better view of the inside.
Her stomach dropped slightly as she saw the harbinger within.
The bird had frozen the moment she’d looked at it, like a small child caught in the act of something they knew they shouldn’t be doing. For the most part, it looked like a chubby owl with a parrot-like beak, as though one of its owl-ancestors had fucked a macaw. The thing was sprawled inelegantly inside the bag, its bright, yellow-gold feathers all askew, beak paused halfway through gnawing on a banana it had gripped in its grubby little claws. Its pupils shrank to pinpoints, intelligent, guilty-looking eyes fixed on her.
It had been decades since the last time she’d seen one of the nasty little creatures. Some people, if they saw one of the harbingers, might hazard that—based entirely on their relatively pleasant appearance—Mercy’s opinion of them was perhaps a little harsh. Those people had never had to deal with the horrible buggers shitting all over their curtains and scattering the contents of rubbish bins everywhere just to get to the cigarette butts at the bottom.
Mercy’s eyes narrowed. “Oi! Get out of it! That ain’t for you!”
The bird let out a screech of protest as she lunged at it, trying to snatch its feathery little body. It darted out of the bag, the half-eaten banana dropping to the floor, and flew up to the top of the kitchen cabinets, out of Mercy’s reach. Perched at the edge of the wood, it peered down and trilled smugly at her. The damn thing was laughing.
“Oooh, you’re trying to wind me up,” Mercy growled, fists clenched. “And you’ve succeeded.”
The bird’s smug expression faltered slightly as it watched her retrieve the flash mop she used to wipe down the kitchen lino from its place beside the fridge. Mercy tilted her head to either side, feeling the pressure release as her neck cracked, then rolled her shoulders, the mop’s flimsy plastic handle gripped easily in her hand.
“Down,” she commanded.
Instead of listening, the thing spread its wings and raised itself up threateningly, beak partially open as it glared a challenge back down at her.
The mop flicked up toward it. Mercy could move deceptively quickly for a woman of her advanced age, her other hand going to the base of the handle to guide her weapon as if she were wielding a claymore.
The harbinger immediately panicked and tried to escape, screeching and flailing as it dropped down and half-flew, half-scurried around the kitchen. Mercy swiped at it again, seeking to pin it down. Between the two of them, the paper bag of fruit and the bowl next to it were knocked from the countertop, the orderly row of tins were sent skittering and bouncing away, half of them spilling open, and Mercy’s little mug holder tree went crashing to the floor, sending chipped bits of porcelain skittering across the lino. The bird scrambled, trying to land briefly on the handle of the oven, but the tea towel that was draped over the handle caught on its claws and it ended up dragging the oven door open instead. Changing directions, the thing darted past Mercy’s face, whipping her with the caught bit of material as it escaped the kitchen.
Mercy stepped back, taking a hand off the mop handle briefly to grab at the tea towel. As she yanked it free, the bird lost its grasp on flight and tumbled to the floor. It managed to keep its feet under itself as it landed, immediately hopping forward to try to escape under the dining table.
It didn’t make it. The mop came down sharply—not too hard, but hard enough to swat it to the floor and pin it there, its chubby body and wings flat against the carpet. The rectangular mophead was too awkward to keep the struggling thing in place for long, however, and a moment before the harbinger escaped, Mercy lunged in, dropping painfully to her hands and knees.
After a brief struggle, the two of them paused—the harbinger had twisted its head around and managed to close its beak on Mercy’s hand, the sharp tip pressing dangerously against the meat between her thumb and forefinger. It wasn’t an actual bite—not yet—just a warning nip that could easily become more with the slightest application of pressure. The bird stared at her wide-eyed, as if it were daring her to try her luck.
Mercy leaned in slightly and lowered her voice. “If you bite me, so help me God, I will wring your bloody neck.”
Several tense seconds passed.
Slowly, hesitantly, the harbinger opened its beak and moved it away from Mercy’s hand. She huffed. “Are you going to behave?”
A sudden flurry of beating wings behind Mercy made her look away from her captive, twisting her head to see if another of the damned things had somehow gotten in and was loose in the house. The treacherous little beast, of course, took full advantage. Mercy swore under her breath and reflexively jerked her hand away from the thing as it nipped her thumb—not hard enough to actually break the skin, but still enough to give her a bit of a surprise.
The lapse was enough for the bird to wriggle free and spring into the air again. Mercy tried to grab it again as it flew past her, but she was a fraction of a second too slow, her hands closing on empty air as the harbinger dove toward the mirror hanging on the wall next to the kitchen.
Instead of crashing into the mirror, it flew through, disappearing into the other side as the surface rippled briefly. Mercy turned, sitting on her rump in the middle of the floor for a moment, and sighed. Squeezing her eyes shut, she took a deep breath. She didn’t want to look. She knew it was a bad idea. But she also knew it wasn’t something she could ignore—the harbingers would just keep harassing her until she gave in.
Reluctantly, she hauled herself back to her feet, her knees clicking uncomfortably, and crossed the space to stand in front of the mirror.
As expected, instead of seeing her own dark, wrinkled face staring back at her, the mirror held a vision of a space beyond—like a window into another reality, looking into the sun-dappled ruin of an ancient chapel she knew all too well. Avalon always looked like something out of a dream or piece of art, the colours too vivid, the outlines just a little unsteady. And dominating that space beyond the mirror, staring back out at her placidly from in front of the decrepit stone steps, stood the Knight.
He appeared as a giant, clad in body-concealing plate armour of mossy green stone, its surface knotted and whorled with organic circular designs. His hands were clasped loosely in front of him, a long-handled poleaxe leaning cradled in the crook of one elbow. The figure’s face—if he even had one at all—was hidden behind a horned great helm, stylised with a long-snouted, dragon-like visage combining all of the worst traits of a horse and a catfish. Three pairs of glowing green orbs peered at her through small holes in the helm.
Long chains draped his body, thick and heavy-looking but also seemingly small and fragile, somehow, against his massive frame. All along his arms and shoulders—everywhere they could find purchase—was settled a flock of harbingers, the yellow-gold birds placidly fluffing their feathers and watching her with the same avid interest as their lord.
“Bugger off,” Mercy told him.
Slowly, deliberately, the Green Knight cocked his head to the side, but said nothing.
“No.”
“…”
“Absolutely not,” she hissed, glowering back at him. “I am retired. If you think I’ve just been waiting around for you to come tell me to hop back to it, well, you’ve got another think coming, Jolly Green cuntbag.”
“…” There was an ominous edge to the Knight’s non-response.
Excalibur? Excalibur had resurfaced?
“And if you can sense it…” Mercy trailed off reluctantly.
“…”
“Bollocks.”
“…”
“Look.” Mercy took a breath, trying to sound reasonable. “There are Avengers and other dumbass heroes swanning about these days. You want someone to save the world? That’s their job. Go and pester them. Leave me out of it.”
“…”
“Yeah, yeah, the spirit of Merlin still dwells within me or whatever. I don’t care. He can stay quiescent, thank you very much.”
“…”
“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
“…”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake… can you just give me a straight fucking answer for once in your miserable primordial existence?”
…HELP. PLEASE.
The voice echoed in Mercy’s mind like the sound of a rotting, moss-covered log being dragged across sharp stones, and she physically flinched, her eyes going wide as she stared at the Knight in shock.
Talking with the Green Knight had always been an exercise in frustration—he’d convey feelings and sensations directly into your head, communicating with concepts and implications not quite on the edge of hearing. It was always enough that you understood the gist of what he wanted to convey, but in the literal hundred years since he’d first come to her, he’d never once made any effort to actually speak aloud in the King’s English, even if Mercy had always been sure that he could if he wanted to.
She went quiet for what felt like a long time. Eventually, she let out a heavy sigh. “Bollocks,” she said again. It wasn’t in her to just stand by and do nothing, not when people might get hurt because of it, and the Green Knight damn well knew it. But still… an idea occurred to her. “Garrett’s still up and kicking, last I checked. I’ll go talk to him. But that’s it, mind! Then I’m out.”
“…”
“Yes, the Ebony Blade.”
“…”
Mercy grunted irritably at the Green Knight’s look of disgust, somehow conveyed even through his expressionless helmet. “Look, I know. You hate that thing. But beggars can’t be fucking choosers, alright?”
“…”
“I said no. You want someone to pick that sword up again proper? You find someone new. I’m a hunnred and twenty-one years old. I’m too old for this nonsense.”
“…”
“Fine.”
“…”
“Fine!”
“…”
“Fine!”
Mercy turned away from the mirror, pointedly ignoring the Green Knight, and stomped her way upstairs to change clothes. Fifteen minutes later, she stomped just as angrily back downstairs, grumbling to herself in frustration.
She paused next to the front door to retrieve an ancient, weathered brown handbag from where it was hanging on the coatrack, then stared resentful, angry daggers at the umbrella holder that was tucked away unobtrusively in the corner. A single umbrella sat inside the small metal stand—green, with white polka dots—but it was the thing hidden away behind the umbrella that was the object of her ire.
After a moment, she sighed, letting her shoulders sag. Reaching behind the umbrella, she took hold of the hilt of the sword and pulled it out.
The pale blade of Clarent, the Sword of Peace, was as pure and unmarred as the day she first picked it up. There was weight to the blade, and something inside of her instinctively tried to reach out to it. Mercy stomped down on the feeling, ruthless and hard, and the power retreated, chastened.
“Lookin’ like Mary bloody Poppins,” Mercy grumbled to herself as she stuffed the sword into the handbag, which swallowed the sword easily, as though it were actually much deeper than it appeared to be—which it, of course, was.
Just in case, she told herself as she opened the front door and headed outside. It was just in case. She wasn’t going to use the sword.
The last Knight of Pendragon was not coming out of retirement. Absolutely not. And that was that.
--
Excalibur. The Sword of Kings. Whosoever is able to unlock the true power of this legendary blade is said to become utterly indomitable in battle.
In 1914, while the world tore itself apart in the Great War, Mercy Stokes reluctantly took up the mantle of a Knight of Pendragon to battle the Bane, nightmarish entities that sought to feed on the lifeforce of the planet itself by burrowing into the dreamlike realm of Avalon. A century later, the Bane is stirring again, drawn from the dark by the lure of the Sword and the bottomless greed of Omni Corp, a Roxxon subsidiary more interested in profit margins than planetary preservation.
Mercy saved the world once. She didn't want the job then, and at 121 years old, she certainly doesn’t want it now. But with Nathan Garrett unable to take up the Ebony Blade again without it killing him, her last hope is his estranged nephew: Dane Whitman, a young man currently much more concerned with his new job at the Natural History Museum than the blood-soaked legacy of his family tree.
But as the corporate and the primordial collide, Mercy and Dane discover an inconvenient truth: Avalon is not some adjacent reality or strange pocket dimension, but the inner realm of a dreaming Celestial, its fate inextricably tangled with that of Earth.
And what may happen to the dream, should the dreamer stir?