'Listen to me!' cried Myrddin, and he began instructing us on how to survive the onslaught we would soon face. We were to link arms, he said, and form an outward-facing ring, an enclosed wall with our bodies. Where men might be too far apart they should hold a spear between them, but under no condition were we to break the chain. 'Though Hell itself break over you, do not let go,' the Emrys said. 'Whatever you may see, whatever you may hear, do not break the circle. Keep the ringwall intact and, though the Devil himself leads the attack, we will not be harmed.'
I reached out to the man next to me – it was Rhys, his face grim in the lurid light. We linked arms, then clasped hands with the warriors on either side and braced ourselves for the assault. The ground began to shake, and I heard a sound like that of giants crashing through the wood, uprooting trees, and casting them aside. The very earth trembled beneath our feet, and the forest all around cracked and groaned with the snapping of branches and the twisting of limbs. What, I wondered, could cause such destruction?
Suddenly the sound stopped and the ground ceased shaking. The roar of the flames behind us seemed to still for a moment and even the wind grew calm. I have seen this before, and know it to be but the false tranquillity of an enemy gathering itself for the onslaught.
'Stand your ground!' shouted Arthur. 'Here they come!'
THIRTY-ONE
We stood gazing into the darkness, the fire at our backs throwing our shadows before us like an all-encircling army of shape-shifting phantoms.
Breathless, we waited.
Across the meadow, the trees began thrashing back and forth as if in the grip of a violent storm, but the air remained still. I heard a low, grinding sound and the trees parted, lying down on either side as if divided by a giant hand.
In the same instant, the burning oak behind us gave another tremendous crack, sending sparks and chunks of flaming wood showering all around. The fire at our backs leapt high, and higher still into the night; our shadows flickered and danced out across the darkened meadow. In the newly opened gap where the forest met the river, a figure appeared – a lone warrior on a horse.
'There!' someone shouted, and from the corner of my eye I saw a movement as the speaker thrust a hand to point out the horseman advancing towards us.
'Do not break the circle!' Myrddin Emrys cried, his voice terrible in the silence. 'As God is life and evil death, hold tight and do not let go!'
The rider came on, slowly. He carried a dark shield with a burnished iron rim; both the shield's rim and the honed tip of an upright spear glimmered in the firelight, and the blade on his thigh gleamed dull red. The warrior was dressed all in black from head to foot, and wore a hooded cloak, so I could not see his face; from the withers and flanks of the horse, long black strips of fine cloth rippled and fluttered as the animal moved, making it seem as if the beast were floating towards us.
The dark rider advanced to within a spear's cast of us, whereupon the Emrys challenged him. 'Halt!' he shouted in his voice of command. The Swift Sure Hand is over us. You can do no evil here. Go back.'
The rider made no reply, but sat regarding us while his mount chafed the ground impatiently.
'Go back to the hell from whence you came,' Myrddin shouted again. 'You cannot harm us.'
By way of reply, the warrior shifted the shield to cover his chest and, with the slightest lifting of the reins, turned the horse and began riding around the ring. He made one circuit, then another and another, slowly gathering pace with each pass. By the sixth or seventh circuit, the horse had reached an easy canter.
Around and around he rode, in a long, slow circle, the hooves of his mount beating the ground in a rhythmic thump like the rising beat of a drum. Around and around – the canter became a trot… the trot became a gallop… the gallop became faster, the beat of the hooves coming quicker.
The strange black strips of cloth hanging from the horse's sides rustled like wings. I could hear the beast's breath coming in snorts and gasps now as the pace began to tell. The warrior's cloak billowed out behind him and the hood slipped from his head, revealing a face I knew well.
'Llenlleawg!'
It was Arthur, crying out in surprise and dismay. He shouted again, hoping, I think, to gain his former champion's attention. Others quickly joined in, and soon everyone was calling Llenlleawg's name. I shouted, too, thinking that we might yet sway him from his course.
But looking neither right nor left, the Irish champion urged his mount to charging speed and lowered the spear.
'Stand your ground, men!' shouted Arthur. 'Do not break the circle!'
Even before he finished speaking, I saw the quick flick of the reins and the horse swerved towards the ring of Cymbrogi, driving in towards the ring at a shallow angle to my right. The spear swung over the horse's neck and came level. The Cymbrogi, arms linked, shouted to distract the horse, and braced themselves for the killing blow.
But the attack was merely a feint, and he slanted away well before committing himself to the charge.
'The Swift Sure Hand upholds us!' shouted Myrddin.
The next charge came while the Emrys' words yet hung in the air – another slanting drive, the angle sharper this time. Again the Cymbrogi shouted to distract the horse, and again Llenlleawg broke off the attack – but carrying it closer before turning away.
'Llenlleawg!' the king cried. 'Here I am! Come to me!'
The champion galloped on, his face set, expressionless, his eyes staring and empty as the dead.
The third attack carried him almost headlong into the line. In the leaping firelight, I saw the head of the spear swing towards me as Llenlleawg began his charge. This time he came on a straight course and I knew he meant to break us. 'God help us,' I breathed, tightening my grip on Rhys next to me.
The black's hooves tore the turf as it gathered speed, legs churning, closing swiftly. I could already feel the spearhead slicing into my flesh and my bones breaking as I fell beneath those crushing hooves. I braced myself for the impact.
Llenlleawg charged to within a hairbreadth of the line. I could hear the spear blade sing in the air. But at the moment when the spear should have pierced my chest and carried me off my feet, the blade shifted and the horse blew past me – so close I could feel the heat of the animal as it surged by.
The line held, and the Cymbrogi cheered in their relief.
But when Llenlleawg did not so much as break stride, I knew that the testing was over. The next charge would be in earnest; the man chosen to meet it would die, and the circle would be breached.
Around and around rode Llenlleawg, straight-backed in the saddle, shoulders square, oblivious to the jeers and taunts of his former friends. On the final pass he began his charge. The horse strained forward, hooves pounding the earth. The spear came level as the horse turned onto its course, and I saw who had been chosen. The spear was aimed at Arthur.
'Hold, men!' he cried as the deadly blade swept swiftly nearer. 'Hold the line!'
The Cymbrogi, desperate to help their king, writhed in an agony of helplessness. Obedient unto death – each man willing, longing, to take the Pendragon's place in the line, yet unable to so much as lift a hand or move a step for the sake of that selfsame obedience – the brave Dragon Flight screamed their defiance at the onrushing traitor.
I could not bear to see the cruel spearhead pierce my lord and friend, neither could I look away. So, like all the others, I watched helplessly as the death-stroke hurtled swift to the mark. And, like all the others, I screamed in a futile attempt to draw the spear away from that mark.
Hooves flying, the black and its silent rider swept in.
The line tensed as if to meet the blow for the king. 'Stand firm!' shouted Arthur for the last time.
As Arthur cried out, the hard-charging horse stumbled, its forelegs buckling beneath it. The animal's speed and weight carried it forward, pitching the rider over its neck and onto the ground as the beast's hindquarters sailed up, back legs still kicking.
Llen
lleawg fell headfirst to land sprawling on the ground. The spear struck the earth not two paces from Arthur's feet and buried itself deep, the shaft quivering with the force.
The line held, and we cheered our king's deliverance. Doubtless we would have swooped upon Llenlleawg if Myrddin had not prevented us. 'Peace!' he cried in his voice of command. 'Break not the circle, for the Great King upholds us still!'
Llenlleawg was on his feet again almost instantly. Up he leapt, hand on sword. As he drew the blade, I recognized it at once. How not? I have seen it every day for the past seven years. It was Caledvwlch, the Pendragon's own blade: the last evidence, if any were needed, of Llenlleawg's vile treachery.
The traitor grasped the sword in both hands and raised it over his head as he came.
Perhaps the fall had hurt Llenlleawg, for even as he raised his arms, his steps faltered and his legs gave way. He crashed onto his knees and then sank onto his side as if he had been struck on the head.
Before anyone could think or move, thunder sounded over the meadow. I saw three more riders racing towards us out of the night. Like Llenlleawg, they were all in black from head to heel, cloaked, and hooded. The strangers rode to where Llenlleawg lay. The foremost sat with spear at the ready, while his two companions dismounted, pulled the stricken Llenlleawg upright, and, in one swift motion, lifted him onto the nearest horse. One of them took the saddle behind the stricken warrior, and the other gathered the dangling reins of Llenlleawg's mount and vaulted into the empty saddle. Without a word, they turned as one and rode away, fleeing back into the darkness to the taunts and cries of derision of the watching warriors.
The Dragon Flight wanted nothing more than to pursue our attackers, and we would have, too, but Myrddin, exhorting us with a bard's power of persuasion, held us in line. Stand firm in the circle of God's protection, he told us. Breaking the sacred ring now could only bring about the destruction we had so far eluded.
Oh, but it chafed me sore to see our enemies getting away, and not so much as a spear cast at their retreat.
The black riders reached the river, melting again into the deep shadows beyond the light of the burning oak. They gained the water – I heard the splash of hooves – and all at once the wood before them burst into flame.
Perhaps sparks from the burning oak, drifting across the clearing, had ignited the dry winter wood. Perhaps it had been smouldering for a time and we, preoccupied with Llenlleawg's attack, had failed to notice it. Then again, perhaps some other had set the wood to blaze. I cannot say. All I know is that even as the fleeing riders gained the water marge and splashed into the stream, a great shimmering curtain of flame arose before them. With a roar like a mighty wind, the flames struck skyward.
In a moment the fire was spreading outward on either side. The enemy warriors rode through the curtain of fire without hesitation, and disappeared on the other side.
Only then did Myrddin give us leave to break the ring. The Pendragon called us to his side and, even while praising our valour, began ordering the pursuit. While the horses were being brought from the picket, he turned to the Emrys and said, 'Myrddin, he had it – Caledvwlch! The treacherous dog raised it against me – my own sword! God in Heaven mark me, that selfsame blade will yet claim that traitor's head.'
The drought-dry wood leapt eagerly to the flame. The trail by which the enemy riders had escaped was now impassable. By the time we were mounted, the flames all but encircled the meadow, leaving only a narrow gap by which we might escape.
The Pendragon raised a final salute to the dead he left behind. Lofting his spear, he cried, 'In the name of the Lord who made me king, I will not rest until the blood debt is paid in full. Death shall be answered with death. Arthur Pendragon makes this vow.'
Myrddin, grim beside him, frowned at this, but said nothing. Many of the Cymbrogi supported the king's vow with their own. Then, turning his horse, Arthur led us away. We rode for the river and the swiftly narrowing gap of unburned wood – not in orderly columns; there was no time. Even so, before we were halfway to the water, the encircling flames closed the gap.
A quick glance behind confirmed what I already knew to be true: the forest was ablaze on every side and we were completely enclosed in a ring of fire. Smoke rolled across the meadow in billows like earthbound clouds. Gusts of heat swept over us in waves like warm currents in a freezing ocean. A sound like continuous thunder filled the night, and we urged our horses to all speed.
Arthur never hesitated, but rode straightaway into the river, where he dismounted, knelt in the water, and drenched himself all over, shouting for us to follow his example. The horses, smoke stinging their nostrils, jittered and shied, agitated at coming so near the flames.
Removing his wet cloak, the king flung it over the head of his horse to shut out sight of the flames. 'Follow me!' he called, pulling the terrified animal after him.
There was nothing for it but to stay close and follow. Flinging my sopping cloak over the head of my mount and mouthing words of encouragement to the frightened animal, I waded through the river, splashing more water over myself as I went. Arthur, having already reached the other side, paused to exhort the men to keep together, then turned and led us into the fire.
THIRTY-TWO
Morgaws has her captives well in hand. Arthur has joined his slattern queen; Rhys, royal bastard, shares his chains; and Merlin, vainglorious bard, now feels how tightly a true sorcerer's charms can bind. Alone among them, Gwenhwyvar might have made a useful friend. She had grit enough and guile, but Charts ruined her – turned her against me, just as she has always turned everyone against me. So Gwenhwyvar will go down like all the rest. The slut queen professes a great love for her Arthur, yet she went willingly from his bed, never once imagining that she is the one who leads him to his ruin. She thinks to save the Grail, and save her hulking husband. In truth, she only hastens his end.
They are so trusting. They actually believed they would be saved, that their god would rescue them. Perhaps they imagined the sky would open up and their miserable Jesu would float down on a cloud to bear them away to high, holy Heaven, where they would be safe forevermore.
Their disappointment, when the awful truth struck them full in the teeth, was too, too wonderful for words. Their expressions of despair will continue to delight me for ages to come. Indeed, I have so enjoyed the pursuit, it is almost a shame to see it end so soon.
But the end swiftly approaches. All that remains is to wring the last tincture of torment, fear, and pain from these, my woeful and wretched adversaries. This is soon accomplished.
Morgaws has asked to use the Grail to help bring about their destruction. A fine idea, that! We could allow them all a Last Supper, a final communion wherein the cup is passed and its contents shared among them. Oh, there are some exquisitely painful poisons where death is delayed, and the victim lingers in agony – sometimes for days.
Watching them twitch and heave in the final extremity while cursing their ineffectual god could prove highly entertaining.
I can already hear the voices of the dying as they scream out the last of their lives in utter despair. True desolation is a thing of rare beauty – the stark horror of the grave when every hope is shattered and swept away – what can match it, what can compare?
But no, I do not want them dead just yet. They have not even begun to suffer the agonies I intend for them. I mean to bring them to despair. I mean to make them curse heaven for giving them life and leaving them to their torment. I mean to harry them, removing their hopes one by one until there is nothing left but the appalling certainty of oblivion – the unendurable silence of the pit… endless… endless… endless.
Chaos reigned. All was thick smoke and fire-shattered darkness. Men shouted as they ran, stoking courage to dare the flames around them. Horses, the sting of smoke in their nostrils, screamed and thrashed, desperate to escape. We clung to the reins and pulled the terrified animals through the thick-tangled brush. The wood cracked and rang with the sound of
the fire and the shouts of men, urging their mounts through the wall of fire.
Dodging burning branches, running, running, headlong and heedless, we fled into the wood beyond the fire's greedy reach. Thus we came through the flames and found ourselves deep in the forest once more, dazed by the devilish assault and the dangers just braved. Like the others, I called out so that we might locate one another by the sounds of our voices, and reform the warband.
But the forest began to exert its malign power over us, for what should have been a simple matter of drawing our scattered forces together soon descended into a nightmare of futility. Once beyond the curtain of fire, all sense of direction vanished. For the life of me, I could not tell where I was, or where I was going.
I heard men calling and hastened towards the sound, only to hear them again, somewhat further off, and often in another direction. Once, I heard two men shouting – they could not have been more than fifty paces away – and they answered when I called. I told them to wait and I would come to them… only to discover that they were not there when I reached the place. I heard them twice again, calling for me, but farther away each time. I did not hear anyone after the last.
Strange, to hear men all around me – some near, some farther off- and not be able to reach them. It was as if the forest itself were drawing us apart, dividing us, keeping us from reaching one another – either that, or some other, more powerful force for which the wood was merely a single expression. Be that as it may, I kept my head, and when I heard the jingle of a horse's tack just ahead, I rushed for the place, crashing through the wood and shouting: Tor God's sake, wait for me!'
'Who is it?' called the nearest of the two as I stumbled through the entangling brush and branches.
I recognized the voice at once. 'Bors!'
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