Last Knight Complete Series

By Austin P. Torney

Last Knight's Almanac celebrates life, love, and adventure in the years following the death of King Arthur., and serves as a backdrop on which I can draw literary portraits of many of man's favorite things, such as nature, astronomy, emotion, poetry, travel, history, fantasy, art, and so on. Arthurian legend is the main thread of the story and is one of my favorite things, so this is important, too. What really happened in the Dark Ages?

And yes, it's true, but only if you wish to believe it, that I unearthed these Chronicles from an iron box that was buried 1400 years ago under the Abbey of Glastonbury.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin P. Torney
• Release date: Jul 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476201511

Austin P. Torney

Austin began writing for real around the age of forty, a respite from working as an Information Engineer in the field of Computer Science, doing programming, an art, as it turned out. He calls himself a humanist, and is one who enjoys the liberal arts, utilizing science, for it pervades every discipline. He is currently retired and lives in the mountains of Poughquag, NY, near the Appalachian Trail. He enjoys tennis, writing, fun, humor, thinking, sleeping, poetry, music, dining, travel, romance, reading, swimming, and life.

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Chapter 1: The Battle

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The Arthurian legends are a wonder of the past and present. They buoy our spirits, unchaining us from many of the restrictions of modern life. The legends call to us across the centuries—a call we cannot ignore. We can know Lancelot, and love him for his sins as well as his valor, as if he were our own companion.

How we cherish the legends! Never, perhaps, will we know them with complete understanding. Many writers have tried, using pens of many mettles. I am faithful only to my own dreams of what happened so long ago. The Arthurian tales handed down through generations have been embellished and embroidered so much that we can never be sure of the truth—and we don’t really need to since the legends now sustain themselves.

Even more liberty is granted to the writer of a sequel. The author need only back up against the past as he holds the future at arm’s length—in his pen. Though many of the adventures and descriptions of my novel are new and original, some are not so new and unexpected. This happens when one must draw upon the legends of the past for continuity; but, like the spring, legends belong to everyone.

Yes, I, too, wept when the dream ended, but there are other dreams, other voices to be heard now. We now have the liberty to extend the legends for every whim.

Yes, we, the readers and writers of the continuing legend, have the grandest of all quests now laid out before us. But, the quest can sustain us and nourish us like food from the Grail—even those of us who seemingly exist in perfect harmony with the local Universe, who might otherwise lie down and die, astounded with too much knowledge, were it not for the adventure of a quest. Yes, the quest’s the thing—the thrill of the quest! Keep the flame alive.

Our Story: Camelot, once a city of marvel, now stands tarnished. The lands are dry with drought. Mordred has taken the throne. Must any more time pass without relief. Are Arthur and his knights up to the job? The battle on Salisbury Plain draws toward its conclusion as Arthur’s small but brilliant army of knights overcome a hundred fold of Saxons.

Arthur has slain a hundred men with Excalibur; Prince Valour has done in seventy-five with the Swinging Sword; Lancelot has reappeared from monastery life and, using ordinary metal, has ended the lives of sixty men; Percevale, Ern, and Gilane each bring a close to the careers of fifty Saxons. Lesser knights also do their chores well. But the price of victory is dear and only Arthur, Percevale, and the immortal enemy, Mordred, remain alive on the field as we join the action.

Mordred raises his lance and Percevale prepares to move against him. No, Percevale, cautions King Arthur, his armor cannot be pierced by metal which has been forged on the earth. It is my destiny to meet him.

And die? questions Percevale.

And die, answers the King. It has been revealed to me in a dream from Merlyn—my life belongs to the future—to legend.

Mordred is confident in his golden armor as he puts his lance through Arthur, wounding him; yet, Arthur raises Excalibur and sends it through Mordred’s invincible armor as if it were butter. You forget, Mordred, that Excalibur was not forged upon the earth and that only I may wield it, for the good of man, that I may stop you only by giving my life too.

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Chapter 2: Birth of the Last Knight

Mordred dies and Arthur lies gravely injured, but alive. Arthur bids Percevale to his side. Now you are the last knight, Percevale. You must see to the kingdom, see that its treasures, including my crown, remain hidden; and see to Guinevere and make her comfortable; and carry on, alone, but with courage.

The hell with that, Arthur! My King, I will join you in death—there is no place for me in the world now—a knight without companions is a man who ceases to exist, for there is then no reason to live.

Percevale, do you remember what I said when you delivered the Grail to me—when I drank from it and it turned crimson and brought spirit back?

You said: ‘One never knows how empty is the soul until it is filled.’

And do you remember, Percevale, how you found the Grail?

Yes, I do. At every crossing and fork I took the most impossible path!

"Then you must do so now, Percevale, for your path is most impossible and your heart is empty, and, as such, you know not what you say when you court death to join me.

I have long suspected my destiny—that my life was not my own. Now, finally I travel to that place where my life can be my own. As for you, your life is here. There are still some battles to be won—indeed, you will have your magic, too. I do not have long now.

Arthur continues, Take Excalibur and return it to the gods. Find a pool, one that is clear, calm, and deep, and throw the sword into it.

Percevale leaves but returns without throwing the sword in the lake. What did you see, Percevale, when you threw the sword in?

I saw nothing, my King, but the wind on the water—I could not throw it in! Excalibur cannot be lost!

Do as I command, Percevale. The sword belongs to the gods. One day a king will return, in the earth’s darkest hour, and the sword will rise again. When you come back I will tell you a secret. Go now. I am fading fast.

Percevale takes one last look at the sword from the stone and throws it to the Lady of the Lake. Her arm is clothed in white samite and the sword is soon taken under the water.

Percevale returns and sees Arthur being borne away to the Isle of the Blessed on the ship of the Three Graces. Arthur! he cries; but Arthur rides into the crimson sun—and takes the secret with him.

Chapter 3: The Lonely Road

The last knight has some physical wounds: a slightly broken leg and severely bruised rigs with some bleeding. Percevale takes the grisly inventory of the knightly dead as he heads off the battlefield to find a healing ground. There is no sign of Prince Valour’s sons, Ern and Gilane, he notes as he retrieves the Swinging Sword from Prince Valour’s lifeless body. Next to Valour lies Lancelot, dead.

Their real conquerors were old age, thought Percevale. Both lived fine lives and neither one was cheated of life’s good years. As for Prince Valour’s sons, they may have been consumed by the lake.

Peasants soon swarmed over Lancelot’s body and carried it on a long pilgrimage to where he would be buried next to Galahad, his son.

Percevale retrieves his spent shafts from the enemy bodies. Suddenly the battlefield seems a strange place to be and the last knight takes to the loneliest road of all. Three late-arriving Saxons block his path ahead. He turns to avoid them but they follow him like vultures. Percevale draws his feathered shafts against the bow and the sting falls true to its mark. A deadly dart fells the second one. The power of the Swinging Sword remains and it cracks the chest of the third, for the Saxon’s sword is as dull as his wits.

Percevale takes one last look back, then rides forward and proclaims to all, The King is dead, King Arthur is dead.

Chapter 4: Remembrance

Our Story: History has never recorded the fates of Sir Percevale, the knight who discovered and returned the Grail to Arthur, and Guinevere, once Queen of Britain, after the battle which took place on Salisbury Plain. For, apparently, it was only they who survived that last battle there in which Arthur and his son by incest, Mordred, embraced, at last, after so many years, on each other’s sword. That day, too, Lancelot died in Arthur’s arms, a knight once more by Arthur’s forgiveness: A knight you are today, Lancelot, and much more—for you represent what is good in all men. Yes, Lancelot, Guinevere is well, and all has been long forgiven.

Of course, many others died as well during the great battle—all of those who hadn’t perished earlier during the quest for the Grail. Would that they could have known that it was Percevale’s destiny to find the Grail, and his alone, for he was the purest and truest knight. Now the Land was left with neither knights nor enemies.

Percevale’s next quest, too, was preordained, for only Guinevere survived as a link to his past, and this was the only way that a new quest could begin. He knew it, and he felt it to be so, and, as always before a quest, he repeated these words, Please allow me to be the victor, but if I am not, let me at least be brave and true in the attempt. Guinevere, meanwhile, had left the convent, no longer feeling so much guilt over her adulterous ways, especially after Arthur’s forgiveness—and—she was no longer Queen.

Arthur left no legal heirs—no one reigned. But, the land without a King was now at relative peace, a peace never known to many of those yet alive, even the old people. Leaf and flower had returned to the land, and Percevale had retired to the forest to heal his many wounds. He rested near the very place where he had first met Lancelot and had become his squire so many years ago—when he was just a squirt of a lad. If he only knew then what he knew now! For many years Percevale had viewed the world through Lancelot’s eyes. Perhaps, too, it was his destiny to follow in Lancelot’s life steps, or perhaps it was just Percevale’s dream and ambition to do so—which, would either make it his destiny or consume him alive.

Percevale remembered his last days as a knight’s squire, when because Lancelot was late due to his self-inflicted wounds, Percevale almost had to champion the Queen in his stead. Arthur had hastily knighted him that day, since a squire may not champion a Queen (nor may a King). Percevale wondered, Would I have been good enough then? And now?

Percevale had long since learned to take to the greenery to heal his wounds. They were deep, but he would certainly survive, for it was his desire to be healed. He was weak, though, and could barely even move about. For three days the Grail supplied him with food, its last bounty—the bread and wine of the gods; and it did not last long.

So many companions had he lost: Sir Bors, Sir Tristan, Sir Gawain, Sir Uriens, Prince Ern, Prince Gilane, Sir Kay, among many others, some too painful to remember. So hastily were they taken to the Shades! Or to who knows where! Probably to Purgatory. But, this was a time for healing—through the quiet peace of the forest and by the more wondrous memories. That then was the remedy which was to sweep away the thoughts of that horrible battle. Though, could he ever forget? Did he really want to?

Percevale had now long overcome the brashness of his youth, and it was replaced with the confidence of a man well over thirty. He knew now that his wounds would heal in time and that he would hear the voices of new companions, and feel the touch of new loves. And because he knew it, it would come to pass. Sometimes, he thought, one can create his own destiny, although oftentimes one must be carried on the wings of fate as well. However, there was no apparent magic which could carry him through now since Merlyn was either gone or dead, and as Merlyn had said, These are no longer times for gods, but for men. These were lonely thoughts.

Percevale inspected his rabbit trap—good! a catch! Today he would eat meat after many days without. The odor of the feast to come so whetted his appetite that he thought that he might burst the threads of his wounds, and so he slept against a tree, knowing that he would awake on time, or thereabouts. Ah, asleep in the forest, in the place where he was born and had spent his youth. He had, at last, come home.

He dreamt of magic, magic as black as that son of the Devil, Merlyn, could make it. He remembered the time when the whole sea was green fire and white foam with singing mermaids in it—when The knights rode their way from one wave to another by way of the lightening flashes. The old days, of course, were now gone forever, he realized; but, on windy days, one can still see white horses riding the waves as wave-crest surf in the wild raging sea.

Once awake, he eased himself back into the reality of the now steaming summer by eating the rabbit, cooked to a tune. Again, he thought, he was on his own for once. And there really wasn’t any magic which could aid him now. He was back down to earth, to the earth that he loved so dearly, especially in the forest, for this was his home. Where had he been all of these years since his childhood?

Percevale, the poet, thought: I should like to write a poem and a melody that is so vibrant and intimate that everyone would adopt it as if it had sprung like a dream of prophesy from the land’s memory. As if no one had written it but earth itself. And my song, my dream, would travel along the streams, and then lift into the air and pass from bird to wing, to tree to breeze, and then through the sky and back down, to men’s hearts, to their breath, and into song from their lips, because a song, like a dream, belongs to everyone.

Thinking about the song was even more wonderful than writing it, but if ever he did, Guinevere might like to hear of it. Perhaps, she yet lived and they could talk of the past. Ah—all of those years he had loved her from afar, heard stories of her from Lancelot when he was so privileged to squire that Knight of knights. He had never really hoped to think that he could ever truly know her, for to do so would mean that many great tides had swept over the land. And so they had. The last great war on Salisbury Plain had healed the earth with blood, the blood of the Grail. Blood soaked into the earth, deeper and deeper, until it reached the depths of even those earthy souls in hell. And that day, that God-awful day, Arthur died in his arms. Arthur had asked but one last oath of his last knight—an oath that would be easy in some ways, but more difficult in other ways—it was: Look to Guinevere, bring her back alive from her shame—all is forgiven—take care of her so that she might be Queen once more. Percevale swore an oath to do so, but really, it was the truth of an dream!

Chapter 5: Rebirth

Percevale’s only companions in the forest were the birds and the insects. The birds, afraid at first, ate the remains of the bread from the Grail, stale as it was. He threw some of it in the stream to soften it and so some was obtained by the fish as well.

Percevale drifted into song again: Once, I did know, long ago. How did I forget holding you so closely? How I moved; just to have me glance at you and know how you did move me! Ah, but these were memories of so long ago, but crisp and so clear, for Sir Percevale had one talent which escaped most men: he retained his memories; he seldom forgot. It helped that he wrote things down; forgetting was a doom that he would never suffer. How the people and nations of the earth did suffer because they forgot! For a while Percevale’s memories alone would have to sustain him.

His companions had taught him well, cherished him as a tender bud. Nevermore could he live on the edge of a smile; on the edge of life; on the edge of an adventure! Now he was the last knight, the only knight. Since there were no other knights, the title meant little now, for it was the companionship that made the knights what they were. But, it still meant something to him and perhaps to one other in the world. Where was she? Where was Guinevere?

Days had shone into nights many times now since Percevale had retreated to the woods. Some life now began to shine into this knight, and it was the glimmer of many shining moments past and yet to come. But never, it seemed, could it outshine Camelot, for those moments were, like the gleam of this night’s full Fisher moon, looming and lovely in the knight sky of his memories.

Percevale explored the area surrounding his camp since there was little else to do. He still moved rather slowly, nursing his healing wounds as he walked. He came upon an entrance to a misty cave, went in and, somehow, floated down to the bottom of a very deep chasm, alighting there as if he were a feather. It was very misty and also quite damp down there, and water dripped from the ceiling. What caused the mist?

Could it be that cool air sliding down the sides of the crevices hit waves of heat rising through a stream of bubbling lava and formed a mist over the sluggish flow? Or did someone weave this mist, someone trapped here long ago? Perhaps it was but wishful thinking, a dream, but a lovely one at that.

Percevale seemed to feel the presence of an old magical friend. Through the swirling mist Percevale caught a glimpse of some imps high upon a ledge above rivers of orange stone. Ah, it was only their presence and nothing more—what cruel tricks the imagination doth play! But still he wore the hope-stone of his faith, for one must always have hope. At one time hope was all that Percevale had—Sir Uriens had given it to him as he died when he convinced Percevale to continue the quest for the Grail.

A blast of fresh air cleared the mist near Percevale’s feet. A single broken tombstone appeared. A hand reached out to Percevale’s leg, the hand of Merlyn! My old friend, said Merlyn, "I have little power left—it is barely enough to get me back home, and once I leave I cannot return for many ages. It was your love of life and your mourning that awakened me. You brought me back—but I must go soon; you will not see me again upon the earth.

However, I do bestow on you a minor enchantment to last for a year. Enjoy it. Use it. Now, Percevale, mark my word, for this is my prophesy: one day, far from now, we will subdue the devil together."

Merlyn placed both hands upon Percevale’s shoulders and said, "Greetings, well-met fellow, hail! And farewell—the Dark Ages have ended. Now is the time for the gods to leave you—look for them always in the night sky. I bring my light now to other worlds that are as dark as the night. It is a new time for earth, and there are other kingdoms that I must visit.

Look! See there, the third star in Orion’s belt, that’s it! That’s where Excalibur shall be found, and he who pulls the sword from the scabbard stone—he—shall be king! It’s the stuff of future legends. I’m gone, into the night sky!

And he was gone! He was gone—

How many gods have we lost to the night sky? Now we are losing the half-devils as well! Goodbye Merlyn. You have served us well.

No sooner had Merlyn left than a band of demons leapt from the soil and flew in the direction of his wake, and pursued him as raging devil-hounds, he, their straying child and their prey.

Chapter 6: Rain-Song

And for three weeks it rained, oh how it rained, for grief had made the young season cry. And when it didn’t rain, it was foggy, misty, and gloomy—for the salty tears of the ancient magicians hung heavy in the air. The mist moved out and covered the Land, and the sun shone nowhere on the earth. We all wept when the magical dream ended, and the earth was cold for a time. Yes, it was for Merlyn that the skies cried.

Percevale thought of the old saying that went, Even the blackest night must die under the fiery wheels of Apollo’s golden chariot. And so it probably would after enough tears were shed; but Percevale was desperate, and after a while he cried out a Sun Dance:

Come back, fire in the Sky.

Shine upon us once more.

Just to have me look at you,

Just to feel your warmth raining down,

I would dance the darkness away.

Percevale awoke early during the next morning-song, a glint of sparkling armor in his eyes, for the sun returned. For a few minutes he was nearly blinded to the dawn’s light until his eyes became accustomed to the glare. During this time he thought of his farewell to Merlyn, that half-man, half-devil. Percevale even dared to think that Merlyn had certainly done more good for the earth than God had done. Merlyn served neither the Devil nor God, much to the dismay of each.

Merlyn served only man. Well, how do we know this anyway? It is because the legends tell us so.

Yes, it was time to go, on foot for a while until he could retrieve the horse that he’d let go, although any other