Grail

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  When Arthur finished speaking, I added my own voice to the acclaim that welcomed the king’s pronouncement. Oh, we made that blighted wood ring with righteous adulation. And then we hastened to the edge of the wood round about to gather a bounty of dead wood for fuel, and when we had heaped the tinder man-high around the ancient oak, Myrddin caused the remnant of the Dragon Flight to make a wide circle around the tree.

  He then commanded us to walk slowly in a sunwise direction. Led by Arthur, we began; meanwhile, the Emrys stepped to the tinder heap and raised his staff high. Calling in a loud voice, he cried out, “Great Light, whose life is light and power to his creatures, hear your servant!”

  Taking the staff with both hands now, he held the oaken rod above his head and cried, “We who journey in darkness have need of your light. We who are bereft of hope and beset by evil on every side have need of your power. Lord, in our day of travail, hear our cry!

  “Great Light, our kinsmen have been wickedly murdered, and their bodies given over to death.” His voice resounded across the meadow. “You alone, Lord, hold authority over the grave. Even as your voice quickens the spirit in the womb, so you summon the spirits of the departed to your throne. Therefore, we ask you to call our brothers home to your Otherworldly realm, and give them places of honor in your banquet hall.

  “This night great evil gathers close, seeking to destroy us. Yet we will trust in you, Lord, to deliver us. If this cannot be, then we trust you to meet us on the way and guide us to your halls. In token of our trust, we light this pyre to hold the darkness at bay. Let it burn as a beacon to light the homegoing of our swordbrothers and put evil to flight.”

  Holding the oaken rod above his head, he stood for a long moment and then slowly lowered the staff and extended it towards the firewood. There was a flash of blue and a sound like the tearing of a cloak between giant hands. The fire simply appeared, arcing through the air, flowing like shimmering liquid, leaping from branch to branch, and scattering in bright blue tracery through the dry wood. Within moments the flames were cracking hot and bright, licking up through the tinder heap, leaping up and up into the great spreading branches.

  Turning to the Cymbrogi, Myrddin said, “Sing! Make a noise to rouse the Heavenly Host!” With that he led us in a psalm such as the brown clerics chant in the Holy Mass:

  The Lord is my rock!

  The Lord is my fortress, and my deliverer!

  God is my refuge; He is my shield!

  And the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.

  The flames mounted higher, stretching into the branches, caressing the lowermost corpses. Ringed by fire, the massive black trunk began to smolder as the yellow flames stretched higher and ever higher into the tree.

  Still walking, maintaining the circle, we began to sing with the Emrys, chanting the words as he led us.

  I call to the Lord who is worthy to be praised,

  And I am saved from my enemies.

  The cords of death entangled me;

  The torrents of destruction overwhelmed me.

  The cords of the grave coiled around me;

  The snares of death confronted me.

  In my distress, I cried to my God for help.

  From his temple he heard my voice.

  The heat from the flames forced us back, making our circle larger still. The corpses, now alight, began swinging and twisting in the quickening wind created by the flames. The boughs creaked and cracked as the flames tripped from branch to branch, higher and still higher into the sky.

  The earth trembled and quaked,

  And the foundations of the mountains shook;

  They trembled because he was angry.

  There came a long, sighing crack. All at once the mighty tree slumped inwardly upon itself. Riven by fire, the trunk of the oak split, sending sparks spiraling upward on the rising air like thousands of tumbling stars. It seemed to me that these were the spirits of our friends taking flight towards Heaven.

  And he looked down in his anger and said:

  Because their love is set on me, I will deliver them.

  I will deliver them from danger, for they know my name.

  I will be with them in times of trouble;

  I will rescue them from the grave,

  And bring them honor in my courts;

  I will satisfy them with eternal life

  to enjoy their rich salvation.

  I said the words as Myrddin spoke them, and watched the glimmering sparks rising up and up, and I thought, Farewell, Cai, stalwart companion, faithful through all things. Farewell, Bedwyr, loyal brother, steadfast in the fight. Farewell, Cador, brave and true. Farewell, my friends, enter into the Peace of Christ. Farewell…

  My heart rose to my throat and my eyes filled with tears, and the burning oak blurred into a blazing mass of shimmering, shifting light, and I heard a roar like thunder as the gathering wind rushed to feed the towering flames, whipping them to white heat. The light that blazed from the pyre filled the wide meadow now, forcing back the darkness on every side.

  I heard the wail of the wind, and the cold air gusted, swirling around us. My back was cold, my face and hands searing hot from the blaze before me. The scream grew louder and I realized it was not the cry of the wind, but the wild scream of a creature tortured beyond endurance. What is more, the creature was coming swiftly towards us, drawn by the fire.

  Myrddin heard the sound, too, and cried out, “Fear nothing! Greater is he who has heard our prayer than that which assaults heaven with its cry.”

  As it rose above the wind, shivering the wood all around us, I felt the wild, keening sound in my belly and then in the quiver of the earth beneath my feet. I thought at first that it must be the Shadow Beast returning to attack us again, but the trembling mounted steadily and I knew it must be something far, far larger and more deadly.

  “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 tranquility of an enemy gathering itself for the onslaught.

  “Stand your ground!” shouted Arthur. “Here they come!”

  Chapter 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!” s
omeone 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 toward 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.

  Llenlleawg 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 smoldering 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 valor, 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.