“You are hurt, Lord Gwalchavad,” Gereint said, seeing the blood flowing freely down my side.
“I lost my sword,” I told him, my breath coming in ragged gasps as the pain in my side began to bloom like a flame taking hold of dry tinder.
Ignoring my protests, Bors examined the wound and said, “I do not like the look of that one. Does it hurt?”
“Not so much,” I told him.
“It will.”
“Just help me bind it up before they come at us again,” I said.
“Let us wash it at least,” Bors suggested doubtfully. “Here, lad, help me get him to the well. I could do with a drink myself.”
They bore me to the well between them, and sat me down on a rock at the pool’s edge. Gereint dropped his blade to the ground and fell face-first to the water and began drinking noisily.
“I think we must abandon the field,” Bors said, raising the edge of my siarc to splash water on the wound.
“We are pledged to the fight,” I insisted, squeezing my eyes shut against the shock of the cold water on my hot wound.
“I will die before I run from a battle,” Gereint maintained staunchly. He lowered his face to the pool again and cupped water into his mouth in great gulps.
“Did I say we should give up the fight?” growled Bors, tearing a strip from my siarc to bind around my waist. “I only meant that we should retreat into the chapel. The entrance is low and narrow—they will not find it easy to get at us in there.”
I recognized this as the last desperate tactic of a warband forced to the extreme. Once we were inside, there would be no coming out again. But at least we would die on holy ground, protecting the Blessed Cup we were sworn to defend.
Bors tied off the binding, regarded his crude handiwork, and said, “There—that is the best I can do for now.”
“I am certain it will serve,” I told him. With difficulty, I turned and leaned painfully down to drink. I cupped water in my hand and raised it to my mouth, spilling most of it before wetting my tongue.
Gereint, having drunk his fill, was looking across the clearing to where the enemy, much mutilated and ravaged, was yet again re-forming the battle line. “We must fly,” he informed us, “if we are to reach the chapel.”
I took a last gulp, then leaned low over the well to splash water on my face. Bors stepped beside me and reached down a hand. As I made to stand, the dull gleam of a submerged object caught my eye.
In truth, I do not know how I saw it at all: the pale gloaming of a moonlit night lay upon the chapel clearing, and all around us bristled the deeper darkness of the forest. But I saw what I saw—the faintest glimmer of gold in the shape of a cross.
My first thought was that I had found the altarpiece. Of course! It must be the cross which had adorned the chapel’s altar. In the desecration of the altar, the cross had been taken and thrown into the well. And now I had found it, and could restore it to its rightful place.
“See here!” I said, my heart leaping at the thrill of my find. “I give you the missing altarpiece.”
To my companions’ amazement, I reached down into the pool. My fingers closed on cold metal, and grasping the topmost arm of the cross, I drew it slowly out. The expressions of astonishment on their faces were wonderful to see, and caused me to forget for a moment the fiery pain burning in my side. Indeed, I was so enjoying their amazement, I did not myself see the object until I had pulled it from the water.
“A curious altarpiece, that,” observed Bors. Gereint, wide-eyed with the strangeness of it, nodded.
Only then did I look down to see that I held not a cross, but a sword. A mass of vines and weed wrack dangled from the long, tapering blade—the weapon had been wrapped in the stuff to disguise it, I reckoned—still, I would have known the weapon anywhere. How not? I have seen it nearly every day for the past seven years.
“That was well done,” enthused Gereint. “You have got yourself another sword.”
“Not just a sword, son,” I told him, clutching the hilt tightly in both hands. “This is Arthur’s sword.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
“Caldevwlch!”
Gereint knelt quickly beside me and stretched out his hands to receive the sword, which I delivered into his eager grasp. Taking up the weapon, the young warrior proceeded to tear away the slimy tangle and then plunged the sword into the well and washed it clean.
“There,” he said, drawing the weapon from the water. “It is ready to serve the king once more.”
Then, before Bors or I knew what he was about, the young warrior lofted the Pendragon’s battle sword, threw back his head, and shouted, “For God and Arthur!”
With that he darted away, his cry echoing through the wood. Bors leapt after him to pull him back, but the youth was already beyond reach.
“Gereint!” shouted Bors. The young warrior, flying headlong to meet the undead enemy, did not even break stride.
“Go with him,” I urged. “Help him.”
“For God and Arthur!” came the cry again.
Pressing Gereint’s sword into my hand, Bors said, “I will return as soon as I can.”
He hastened away in a tired, rolling lope to engage the enemy one last time. I sat on the edge of the well, clutching my sword and praying for protection for my friends. “Great of Might,” I said aloud, “we are weary and we are overcome. We have no other help but you, and if you do not deliver us now, we will surely die.”
Having spoken my mind, I made the sign of the cross over my heart and then, using the sword as a staff, pulled myself up onto my feet and stumbled painfully to join my swordbrothers in the fight.
The undead warriors had regrouped and were advancing once more. Bors had almost reached the battle line, but Gereint was yet a dozen paces ahead of him. Loosing a loud battle cry, the impetuous young warrior leapt forward, the great sword a blur of gleaming steel around him as he flung himself headlong into the center of their ranks.
Oh, it was bold. It was brave. It was foolhardy beyond belief, but my heart soared to see him as he charged alone into the fray, brandishing the sword and bellowing his wild war chant.
Behold! Even before Gereint could strike a blow, the enemy’s relentless advance staggered to a halt. Heedless, Gereint raced ahead and the ranks of the undead collapsed before him. He swung Caledvwlch around his head and leapt to the right and left. Everywhere he turned, the enemy fell away.
Back and back they fled, stumbling over one another in their haste to escape. Wonder of wonders, it was as if they could not abide the sight of the sword, much less stand against it!
The mere sight of the Sovereign Sword of Britain made them cry out in alarm and dismay, for whenever Gereint came near, they opened their silent mouths and filled the air with piteous wails. The thin, bloodless sound tore up from their hollow throats in long, biting shrieks that ended in raking sobs and clashing teeth. Their faces, once impassive, now convulsed in the hideous rictus of abject, mindless terror. Though rarely seen elsewhere, it is an expression common enough on the battlefield, and I had seen it more times than I like to remember—on the faces of men who knew themselves bereft of every hope and doomed to swift destruction.
That the sight of Caledvwlch should inspire such horror amazed me so, I stood flat-footed and stared as, all around me, the enemy abandoned their weapons and fled the field in a mad, futile effort to escape. They trampled one another and, falling, clawed their way over their comrades in a blind panic.
But Gereint was not daunted. Leaping and spinning, striking with clean, efficient strokes, he cut them down as they fled before him. With each stroke and every thrust, another enemy fell—and this time they did not rise again, but expired, screaming as they died.
God help me, their shrieking was more appalling than their loathsome silence. It cut me to the quick to hear it, even as I rejoiced in the victory.
The young warrior became a very reaper, cutting a wide swath of destruction and havoc through the crumbling ranks of the
undead. As the last of them fell before Caledvwlch’s fury, I saw Bors standing a little distance away, his shoulders bent, his sword dangling at his side. “Brother,” I said, “it looks as though we live to fight again.”
Gereint, exultant in his triumph, came running to where we stood, his face glowing with exertion and pride. “Did you see?” he cried, almost shaking with jubilation. “Did you see?”
“That we did, lad,” Bors assured him. “You swinging that sword and cutting them down as they fled—it is a sight I will never forget.”
“A glorious sight,” I agreed. “Gereint, my friend, you are a very Bard of Battle.”
“It was never me,” Gereint replied. “It was the sword.” He raised the blade and regarded it with awe. “Caledvwlch spoke and I obeyed.”
“If you had not obeyed when you did,” Bors declared, “I am certain we would all be drawing breath in the Otherworld right now.”
We fell silent then, each to his own thoughts. I closed my eyes and breathed a prayer of thanks that we had survived our ordeal. While I was yet praying, a gurgling sound reached my ears—like that of a cauldron left too long on the hearth. It seemed to be coming from the corpses on the ground. I turned in the direction of the sound and saw that the dead were decomposing—and this with such rapidity that their bodies seemed to crumple inwardly, melting into one another, congealing into a lumpen ooze that bubbled and spurted with escaping fumes.
As we stared at the horrific sight, a stench like that of rotting entrails rose from this swiftly liquefying coagulation. All around the clearing, the corpse heaps were dissolving into a stinking mass as once-firm flesh turned into a sighing, quivering mass. Amidst the muck, I could see long, pale bones protruding—here a slender leg bone, there the twinned lengths of an arm, or the swept curves of a rib cage—and all of them sinking into miry dissolution.
The vapors gurgling from the vile quagmire hung in the air, giving off a faint, noxious glow. The air was so rank with the stink and belch of the putrid slurry, I gagged and wretched, vomiting bile onto the ground. Dragging my sleeve across my lips, I tried to wipe the bad taste from my mouth, to no avail.
“I think I preferred them when they were trying to kill us,” Bors said through clenched teeth.
Retreating into the chapel, we sank down upon the cool stones. I lay there drawing clean air deep into my lungs, grateful for the peaceful sanctuary of this holy place. Exhausted from our ordeal, we rested then, content to simply await whatever should befall us. I slept and awakened some while later much refreshed; the pain in my side had eased a great deal, and I found I could move without difficulty. Leaving the others to their sleep, I got up and went to the chapel door and looked out to find that the vile heaps of putrefaction had vanished.
I roused the others and we went out.
Not a scrap of bone or a shred of clothing was anywhere to be seen; gone, too, was any sign of the battle we had fought: no splintered shafts or broken blades; no dented helms or discarded shields…nothing. The ground was as smooth and untrammeled as we had first found it.
“It is a wonder,” Bors declared. “Not so much as a footprint remains.”
“The holy ground has done its work,” I replied, and was reminded of the Grail Maiden’s challenge: Think you the Great King requires the aid of any mortal to accomplish his will? Is the Lord of Creation powerless to protect his treasures?
No, the High King of Heaven required nothing from us but obedience. It was for us that his gifts were given, his commands likewise. What we did, we did for our own welfare, not his.
We had been commanded to guard the Grail, and it was to secure the boon of blessing that we obeyed. Thus, we stood before the chapel, weapons drawn and ready, waiting, listening. But no sound greater than the wind whispering in the bare treetops met the ear.
I felt the first faint breath of a breeze on my face, and Bors said, “The wind is rising.”
Even as he spoke, I felt a gust of cold air and the thorny hedge wall began to quiver, as the sighing in the treetops became a moan of regret for the storm to come.
We stood before the chapel, listening to the wind gather strength, gusting in the treetops, making the high boughs creak and groan. Far off, I heard the keening howl of a storm wind sweeping towards us, and I could feel the air growing steadily colder. Something was coming that despised all warmth and light, and it advanced on the wings of a storm.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Morgaws is showing signs of weakness. When I have established my reign, I will teach her the true uses of power. She must learn, as I did, how to harden her heart and bend all things to her will. Sympathy, compassion, mercy—what are they, but weakness by other names? The Queen of Air and Darkness is beyond weakness, beyond frailty, beyond all human imperfection. Morgaws will learn this, or Morgaws will die.
She denies she has made any mistakes, and in the same breath informs me that Llenlleawg has failed, the Grail has not been recovered, and three of Arthur’s warriors have mounted a pitiful resistance. It is of no consequence, I tell her, but she insists they have succeeded in finding the chapel and suspects they may have regained the Grail.
All the better, I say; it saves us the trouble of finding it again. The Irish oaf will join his churlish master in the pit, and the opposition will be crushed. But Morgaws complains that the resistance is very strong—powerful enough, at least, to defeat the warriors I conjured for her.
Forget swords and spears—children’s playthings. I taught you better than that, Morgaws. I suckled you on venom and bile, girl—use it!
There are other ways, I tell her…other ways. The end is decreed. It will be. I grow tired of waiting. I am ready to ascend to my rightful throne. Finish it!
“We should make a fire,” Bors said, trying to fend off the sensation of menace flowing out of the forest on the cold wind.
No one replied, however, and we slipped back into an anxious, dread-filled vigil. The wind, fretful and restless, whined in the treetops and tore at the hedge wall.
Foreboding swirled in the dead leaves at our feet, and the long grass hissed and rippled like snakes across the clearing. Long, frosty fingers of despair sought me; I could feel them reaching, reaching, stretching out from the bleak heart of the forest to poison my spirit with their malignant touch. How long must we endure? I wondered. Will this torment never end? I would die right gladly—if only to be free of this ceaseless travail. Yes, death…death would be a welcome release.
The barrenness of the thought brought me to myself once more. It was not my wish, but that of the enemy seeking to unnerve me. I glanced at Gereint beside me and saw that his eyes were closed.
“Take heart, brother,” I told him. “There is no solace in death. We can endure this, and we will.”
He opened his eyes and looked at me. “How did you know what I was thinking?”
“Because I have been thinking the same thing myself,” I replied. “But listen, we are warriors of the Summer Realm and Guardians of the Grail. I drank from the Cup of Christ; I tasted the wine of his blood on my tongue, and I was healed—we all were. And though the Devil himself and all the demons of Hell assail us, I say we shall stand. But whether we stand or fall, our souls rest in the hollow of the Swift Sure Hand, and no power on earth can snatch us from his grasp.”
Bors, grim-faced, said nothing, but tightened his grip on the weapon in his hand, and gazed steadfastly into the onrushing night. The darkness surged and roiled around us like a tempest-torn sea. Clouds blacker than that of the surrounding wood streamed around the chapel clearing: rivers of darkness flowing, rising on a flood tide of foreboding, bleak and dire.
Soon it seemed as if the entire forest was in motion. The thorny hedge tossed this way and that, as if gripped by monstrous hands intent on tearing it out. Gaps began appearing in the surrounding wall as the thicket gave way before the enemy’s approach.
Meanwhile, the cold wind clawed at us. Shivering, freezing, huddled against one another, we stood our ground,
awaiting the enemy’s appearance.
They arrived all at once.
The wood seemed to convulse and the enemy warhost simply stepped out from the forest to the edge of the clearing—line on line and rank upon rank of dark warriors encircled the chapel. I tried to see the end of them, but their numbers stretched back into the forest and were lost to the darkness whence they came.
At the foe’s abrupt appearance, the fretful wind stilled, lapsing suddenly into an eerie, menace-fraught calm. A sickly yellow radiance like that of a foul, false sunrise dawned over the chapel clearing. The bruised light gave off a putrid glow which made everything seem filthy and lurid.
In this ghastly dawn, the thronging multitude gathered, moving among the trees like a noiseless flood; the war-helms rising above the rims of their round shields looked like a great swath of rocky shore, or a beach of rounded stones stretching as far as the eye could see; the upright spear shafts in tight clusters of ten and twenty were like narrow plumes of sea grass rising ridge upon ridge.
There were so many!
“God save us,” breathed Bors. Gereint made the sign of the cross over himself, and swallowed hard, but said nothing.
“Why do they wait?” I wondered aloud.
They stood in silence, but for the slight rustle of their clothing where they brushed against one another, or the hollow clink of shield rims gently touching. Line on line, and rank on rank, they stood, silent as the fog on the night-dark sea. I studied the nearest faces—more the dread, for they were cold countenances each and every one: long-featured with flat noses and mouths which were little more than bloodless slits in their pale, waxy-fleshed faces. The eyes staring back at me were large and black—indeed, the black filled the eye so that no white showed at all—like the eyes of beasts; and though the expressions remained impassive, the eyes gazing at us across the grassy clearing were baleful and malevolent. I could almost feel the coldhearted hatred burning across the short span between us like flames of a frozen fire.