Grail

THIRTY-EIGHT

'Caledvwlch!'

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 centre 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 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.