King Arthur's Return (working title)

The night was clear and the moon shone brightly overhead, casting dark silhouettes as an oddly deformed shadow among the shadows picked it's way through the tumbledown graveyard of an isolated hamlet. Upon a closer inspection the lithe figure of a young woman was barely discernable amongst the thick folds of her heavy cloak. She was doubled over under the weight of a large hessian sack over her shoulder.
She made her way slowly through the jumbled graves using the light of the moon as best she could until she came to a yew tree on the edge of the grounds. Underneath the widespreading boughs stood a roughly carved stone altar, a relic from an older time. She could dimly hear the burble of a stream hidden in the darkness.
Upon approaching the altar Morgana cast a furtive glance about her surroundings. She didn't think she had attracted any attention with her midnight stroll but one could never be too sure. And if anyone found out before they were ready, they could wake the Knights  and their plans would be in ruins.
But, she thought, that all depends on whether I succeed tonight. Snapping out of her reverie, Morgana opened the sack at her feet. Out tumbled the body of a man, not yet cold, a chalice, half a gallon of blood in a wineskin, and a black beeswax and rosemary candle. She lay the body of the man, a wanderer whom no one would miss, on the altar and poured the blood into the chalice and set it aside. She placed the lit candle at his head and drew a wickedly curved knife that glinted in the moonlight. As she began to chant, her voice resonated with a deep and ancient power:

          Mordred, ego voco thee. Ex tractus inter universitas ego voco thee.
          Quad quibus sententia vadum exsisto reus ut mihi,
          insquequo thy opus est perfectus. Mordred, ego voco thee.
          In somes illae vas ego voco thee.

As Morgana spoke, she slashed the knife across her palm and let a few drops fall into the dead man's open mouth. A sudden gust of icy wind tore through the graveyard, making the boughs above her creak. Morgana turned her head to the side as the candle flame stuttered and died.
Turning back to the body, Morgana was only mildly surprised that the man had risen into a sitting position and was gulping down the blood with great zest.
When he had finished, the colour returning slowly to his pale cheeks, Morgana stared at him, and he at her. He didn't look much like the man who had stolen the throne from Arthur but there was something about the manical glint in his eyes and the stiff way he held himself that bespoke of the familiar. Or maybe that is just the last of the rigor mortis, she mused cynically.
"Mordred, son of Arthur Pendragon?"
"Yes, Lady Morgana. I am at your service," replied the man.
So he has his memories but not his face, she mused, oh well it will have to do.
"Come, we have work to do." And with that Morgana led the man to her horse. Once seated, she nudged her black palfrey into a gentle canter and fled west, away from the rising sun. Neither was aware that a pair of sharp eyes had watched the transpiring events from the roof of a church. With a caw, the black raven ruffled its wings once and flew off to meet the coming dawn.

                                            *************

A few hundred miles away, in a sleepy little hollow near Stormy Point, one hundred and fifty fully armoured knights galloped through a pair of Iron Gates that had appeared in a rocky cliff face.
Led by a man with wild black hair, and all on horses the colour of liquid gold in the rising sun, the knights had been asleep for a hundred years and were just itching for a fight.
They had been woken by the sound of a bell being rung by a black raven. England's hour of need had come, and they were ready to serve.