Grail pc-5

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  '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 vapours 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 untrammelled 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.

  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. lam 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 warhelms 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.

  One look in those unblinking eyes and I knew beyond all doubt that they wished us dead, yes, and more than dead: they willed our annihilation; we were to be completely and utterly destroyed and our souls obliterated. Yet they waited, a malign and brooding mass beneath a gruesome yellow sky.

  'Why do they just stand there?' Gereint said, his voice quivering – with cold, I think, not fear.

  'Perhaps their battlechief has not arrived,' Bors suggested. 'Or maybe they await the command to attack.'

  'Come on,' muttered Gereint. 'Let us finish it!'

  'Patience, lad,' said Bors. 'Life is short, and death is long. Use what time you have left to make your peace.'

  'God knows I am more than ready,' replied Gereint evenly. 'Let it begin, I say.'

  'Look there,' I said, directing their attention to a disturbance in the rearward ranks. In a moment, it emerged that the warhost was dividing along a line back to front.

  'They are preparing to attack,' said Bors, flinging his cloak away from his arms in preparation.

  'I think their war leader has arrived,' I said. 'He is taking his place at the forefront of his warhost.'

  The ranks continued parting until a wide way stood clear. I could see several figures moving towards us along the opened course. One of them, taller than the others, appeared to be advancing at the head of the others.

  I watched him stride nearer, and recognized the familiar gait. I had seen it so often, I would have known it far more readily than my own.

  'It is Arthur,' said Bors. 'He is alive.'

  The Pendragon came to the edge of the clearing and stood regarding us silently. His clothes were ripped and torn – as if he had been dragged through the wood by horses. His face was lined with fatigue; he looked haggard and old. His right cheek was discoloured with an ugly bruise, but he held himself erect, head high.

  'Arthur!' I shouted. 'Here! Join us!'

  The king made no reply, but turned and stepped aside; only then did I notice that his hands were bound with chains. Llenlleawg, spear in hand, advanced directly behind Arthur with Morgaws at his side. I could also see Myrddin and Gwenhwyvar, with Rhys and Peredur coming up behind Llenlleawg; their hands were chained also, and they stood with their heads down. Their clothes, too, were ragged and bloodstained, and they wore the look of warriors who knew the battle was lost and their lives were swiftly approaching a bloody, wretched end.

  At a nod from Llenlleawg, Arthur turned once more to address us. He called us by name, and said, 'You have fought well, my friends. But the battle is lost. It is time to surrender.'

  'Is it really the Pendragon?' whispered Gereint uncertainly.

  'Never!' declared Bors. The true Arthur has never so much as breathed a word of surrender, and never will.' Raising a hand to his mouth, Bors shouted, 'Take your words of surrender to hell with you! We are Pendragon's men, sworn before God to guard the Grail. We will not stand down for anyone.'

  The Pendragon, humble and sorrowful, appealed to him, saying, 'Bors, old friend, do as I say. You have pledged loyalty to me, whether in victory or defeat. It is time to end this battle.'

  'In God's name, Arthur,' Bors cried, 'what have they done to you? Join us, lord, and fight them! We will go down together!'

  Ignoring this outburst, the king continued calmly. They have come for Caledvwlch and the Grail. The fighting can stop, but you must do as I say and bring the sword and cup.'

  Bitterness and bleak desperation welled up inside me. I had known defeat before, but never like this. Never! This… this ignoble submission was not worthy of the Pendragon I knew. Myrddin would have moved Heaven and Earth before giving in, and even the least of the Cymbrogi would have fought to the last dying breath rather than be party to such a shameful capitulation.

  I stared across the clearing as across a great divide; my king stood on one side, and I on the other. Could I defy my king and continue the fight? Or must I obey him, even to my shame and degradation?

  See, now: one who has never served a True Lord, nor vowed loyalty through all things to the end of life, cannot know what it is to behold that lord defeated by wicked enemies, humiliated, and disgraced. Those who know nothing of honour cannot comprehend the pain of dishonour. I tell you the truth, it is a pain worse than death, and it does not end.

  Thus, I stood staring at Arthur, his head bowed in defeat, and the tears came to my eyes. I could not stand the sight and I had to turn away.

  'The fighting can end,' the Pendragon repeated, his voice broken and weary. 'Bring the Grail. Give it up.'

  Bors' face clenched like a fist, and his refusal was anvil hard. 'Never!' he cried, shaking with rage. Taking Caledvwlch from Gereint, he flourished it, shouting, 'To get the Grail, you will have to pry this blade from my dead hands.'

  It might have been a trick of the light, but I thought I saw the merest shadow of a smile flicker across Arthur's face as he received Bors' reply. Turning towards Morgaws, he made a gesture with his hands – as much as to say, Well, I tried – and Llenlleawg prodded him aside into line with the butt of his spear.

  The Irish champion took hold of Myrddin and dragged him forth. But Morgaws, impatient with Arthur's feeble efforts at persuasion, stepped out from among the enemy warriors. Flame-haired, features ablaze like a torch with hate and triumph and spite all mingled together in her wild expression, she was both terrible and magnificent. The flames of her passion had given her a fearful, feral beauty, like that of a ravening she-wolf leaping to the kill, or lightning striking from a storm-fraught sky. Her smooth white brow fierce, fiery hair streaming from her temples, lips drawn back in a malevolent smile of rage and dominion, she appeared a goddess of destruction – the fearsome Morrighan of the old tales could not have been more appalling in aspect and allure.

  'The cup! Give me the cup!' Morgaws cried in a voice swollen with exultation. Long gone was the maid I had found wandering lost in the wood that day; like everything else about her, the mute innocent was a lie, too.

  I watched Morgaws now, and remembered our first meeting. I had stepped from among the trees and there she was, sitting on the ground, her carefully gathered mushrooms scattered around her. She had tripped and fallen, spilling her harvest. I helped her retrieve them, as I recall. Peredur and Tallaght were with me, and we had simply stumbled upon her, alone and lost… Ah, no, no, it was not that way at all. It was the song – the song led us to her. She had been singing and we heard it and followed, and that was how it began.

  Had I not been so beguiled, I might have stopped long enough to wonder how it was that a maid who could sing yet lacked the power of speech. Alas, I was deceived like all the rest. I hung my head and asked Jesu to forgive my blindness.

  As if in answer to my reproachful thoughts, I heard again the song that I had heard that summer day in the wood. Glancing up, I saw Morgaws standing before me, the so
ng still fresh on her lips. She smiled and I knew at once that I had judged her far too harshly.

  'Do not think ill of me, Brave Gwalchavad,' she said in a voice both soft and low. She stepped closer. 'I am just like you. I, too, have suffered at Morgian's hands.'

  It was true, I thought. Like all the rest of us, she was caught in Wicked Morgian's designs. And like everyone else, she had suffered for it. A pang of genuine regret speared my heart, and I opened my mouth to express my sorrow at her distress.

  But Morgaws prevented me. 'Say nothing,' she whispered, placing her fingertips against my mouth. 'It is over, my love. We can forget the pain and hardship, and begin again. We must make a new start, and we can. You do believe me, Gwalchavad. We can show the others, the doubters. We can show them, you and I.'

  She smiled again and the last particle of doubt melted away in the bright sun of her smile. She looked at me and I saw nothing but love in her eyes. 'Come with me, Gwalchavad. Come away with me, my love. We can be together, you and I. Together always.'

  Oh, I did believe her. And I so wanted the travail to end. In that moment I think I would have done anything she asked. 'Come, bring me the Grail, my love. You do not need to guard it anymore. Bring it to me, and we can begin anew.'

  When I hesitated, she urged me on, saying, 'I want you, my love. Is the cup inside?' She glanced at the chapel expectantly. 'Go get it, Gwalchavad. Bring the cup to me. Hurry! Then we can leave this place forever.'

  I heard Bors raise a protest behind me, but I could not hear what he said. It did not matter. Morgaws, beautiful and yielding, stood before me, and desire was in her eyes. 'Come to me, my love,' she said, extending her hands to embrace me. I looked at those long, lovely arms – so fine and shapely and inviting – and lust leapt like a flame within me. I looked at her rounded hips and breasts and I wanted her. I ached to hold her in my arms and to take her.

  In that instant the watching world disappeared – the enemy host with its rank on rank of baleful-eyed warriors, my friends and comrades, the chapel and surrounding forest – everything vanished in the white heat of my ardour and was instantly forgotten. It was as if a dull, thick fog descended over the world, blotting out everything but Morgaws and my aching need; nothing else existed, nothing else mattered. Only Morgaws and I remained, only we two, a man and a woman. One look at the hunger burning in her eyes, and I knew she wanted me as much as I wanted her.