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.
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.
Chapter 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 Charis 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 re-form 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: “For 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!”
“Gwalchavad?” he wondered. “However did you get there? We heard you ahead of us but a moment ago.”
“Stay where you are,” I insisted, struggling forward and tugging my reluctant mount behind me. A ghostly shifting light from the fire some little distance behind shimmered in the low clouds above and reflected on the surprised faces of Bors and the young warrior called Gereint.
“Finally,” I said, wiping sweat from my face, “I have found someone.”
“We have been hearing Cymbrogi all around us,” Gereint said, “but never can find them. You are the first.”
“Let us hope I am not also the last,” I answered. “Have you seen Arthur?”
“How are we to see anything in this murk and tangle?” Bors growled. “Three of us came through the fire together, and held on to one another.”
“I see but two before me now,” I ventured.
“I know!” Bors cried. “I could not keep even the three of us together, much less find anyone else!” He puffed out his cheeks in exasperation. “No one will stay in one place!”
“Listen,”
said Gereint, “they are getting further away.”
Even as we listened, the sounds around us dwindled. We all shouted and shouted again, but there came no answer, and in a few moments we could hear nothing at all. “Well,” I concluded, breaking the silence after a time, “it seems we are on our own.”
“So it appears,” agreed Bors. “We can either stay here until morning and see if we can raise a trail then, or we can go on and try to find some others.”
“Morning?” I wondered. “You amaze me, Bors. Do you even now believe that this foul night will end? I am thinking it never will.”
Stalwart Bors regarded me placidly. “Then let us rest a little at least, for I grow weary of stumbling through this godforsaken wood in the dark, bashing my shins at every turn.”
Seeing no harm in the suggestion, I agreed, and we settled the horses and sat down to rest before continuing the search. “I did not mind the fire,” Bors said after a time. “At least it was warm. My clothes are still wet.” He yawned, and added, “I am starving.”
“We best not dwell on that,” I said, and suggested that we should try to sleep instead.
“I will take the first watch,” volunteered Gereint.
“Very well,” I agreed. “Rouse me when you get tired and I will take the second watch.”
“Wake us if you hear anything,” Bors instructed through a yawn. In a few moments I heard the gentle burr of a soft snore as Bors drifted off. Though weary to the bone, I could not sleep, so I merely closed my eyes and let my mind wander where it would.
I thought again about my dead swordbrothers, and a pang of grief cut me like a spear thrust in the heart. Great Light, I thought, using Myrddin’s term, gather my fallen comrades in your loving hands and bear them safely to your strong fortress. Give them the welcome cup in your halls of splendor, and make a place for them in the forerank of your Heavenly Host. May they know peace and joy and feasting forever in your company, Lord of All, and grant me the strength to abide my trials until I, too, lay down my sword and take my place among them.
This I prayed, not as the brown-hooded priests pray, but as a cry from my own bruised heart. I felt better for having unburdened myself in this way and, though I still rued the deaths of my swordbrothers, was in some small way comforted by the thought that they would be welcomed and received in Heaven’s bright hall. So I lay back, listening to Bors’ soft snoring.
Here was a wonder: a man who could sleep in the midst of the enemy’s camp, untroubled by fear or the frets of an uneasy heart. Here was a man so secure and peaceful within himself that he could forget his troubles the instant he lay down his head. Like a child, with a child’s trust in the moment—here, surely, was a true soul.
“Gwalchavad,” came a quiet voice in the darkness. “Are you asleep?”
“No, lad,” I answered.
“I have been thinking.”
“So have I, Gereint,” I replied. I heard him shift in the darkness as he moved closer. “Have you thought of a way we might find our lost companions?”
“No,” he said. “I have been thinking that it must have been difficult for the Pendragon—seeing all his men killed like that, and then being attacked by his own champion.”
“I should think that would be difficult, yes,” I agreed. “But Arthur has been in many a difficult place, and he has never been defeated. Think of that.”
“He is the greatest lord I have ever known,” Gereint confessed. There was nothing in his voice but awe and praise—as if the distress of our present adversity, and all that went before it, were nothing at all to him.
“When did you join the Cymbrogi?” I asked the young warrior.
“Cador came to us and said the Pendragon needed help to defeat the Vandali. Tallaght, Peredur, and I answered the summons and joined the warband.”
“Then you are Cador’s kinsmen?”
“That we are,” Gereint confirmed.
“He was a good man, and a splendid battlechief. I was proud to call him my friend. He will be sadly missed.”
“Indeed,” the young warrior replied, “and we will lament his death when we have leisure to do so.” He paused and added sadly, “Tallaght and Peredur also.”
My forgetfulness shamed me. In truth, the deaths of my own friends and swordbrothers had driven poor Tallaght’s demise completely from my thoughts. We fell silent, each to his own bitter memories, and I recalled the time Peredur, Tallaght, and I had gone to inform the people of Rheged of their lord’s rebellion and the resulting forfeiture of their lands. It was on that errand that we had found Morgaws. Would that I had never laid eyes on Morgaws! And now Tallaght was dead, along with so many other good men, and probably Peredur, too.
Silent was the wood, and dark, as I say—dark as the night when the moon has gone to rest and the sun not yet risen. The air did not move and there was no sound. The darkness and unnatural quiet put me in a mournful mood, and I began to think about my dead swordbrothers: Bedwyr, and Cai, and Cador, and all the rest—dead and gone. I ached for the loss of them. The darkness seemed to gather me into itself and cover me over. I would have given myself to my black grief, but something in me resisted—a hard knot of stubborn wariness that refused to yield itself to either sadness or acceptance.
So long as we remained in the realm of the enemy, I would not indulge my grief. In duty to my king, I must strive through all things for the enemy’s defeat. Thus, I determined to remain alert to any danger lest I, too, fall victim to the evil which had stolen the lives of my friends. When battle is done, I told myself, I will deliver myself to grief. One day soon I would mourn. Soon, but not now, not yet.
The thought gave me some consolation, and I took what solace I could. Arriving on the heels of my determination, however, came that sound which, once heard, can never be forgotten: the strange, tortured bellow of the loathly Shadow Beast. The eerie baying cry seemed to come from ahead of us, though still some distance away. Bors came awake with a start. “Did you hear?”
“The creature,” Gereint said in a raw whisper. “It must be the same one that attacked us before.”
“Same or different, I will kill the vile thing if it comes near me again,” blustered Bors. “God is my witness: that monster will not escape this time.”
The bellow sounded again, farther off this time, and in a slightly different direction. It was moving swiftly away.
“You may not get the chance, brother,” I told Bors. “The creature is going away from us.”
Bors grunted his disdain, and we roused ourselves and resumed the search of our lost companions. We set off on foot, leading the horses. Lest we become separated from one another, we held tight to all our bridle straps; Bors led the way, and Gereint followed, and I came last—wandering a hostile wood in the dark of a never-ending night. Less a search, I considered, than an exercise in forlorn hope.
In the silence that pressed in around us once more, I heard Myrddin’s words: In the quest before us, none but the pure of heart can succeed.
The thought had scarcely formed when I felt a thin quivery shudder pass up through the soles of my feet and into my legs. I froze in mid-step. The reins in my hand pulled taut as Gereint, just ahead, continued walking. I drew breath to speak, but even as I called for the others to halt, the sound of my voice was lost in the weird screeching bellow of the baleful beast.
The monstrous creature was closing swiftly. I could feel the drumming of the earth in my very bowels. Bors and Gereint stopped on the path ahead. In the gloom I saw Bors turn; his mouth opened.
“Fly!”
In the same instant, there came a crashing sound as the trees directly before us snapped like twigs and burst asunder. The monster was upon us.
Chapter Thirty-three
My terrified mount reared, snapping the bridal strap that bound it to the others, and all three animals plunged into the wood. Branches and tree limbs scattered and fell around me. I glimpsed a massive black shape like a molten hillside charging towards me and knew the monster h
ad found us again.
I threw myself into the dense brush and scrambled for my life. Branches tore at my face and hands. I heard Bors shouting, but could not make out the words. Crawling like a frenzied snake, I dragged myself through the tangled undergrowth.
I glimpsed a hole in the brush no wider than a badger sett and dove headlong for it. But even as I squirmed to pull myself inside, I felt a heavy weight seize upon my legs and I was yanked off the ground. In the same moment, the most foul stink assaulted me: a putrid stench of decaying flesh, together with vomitus and excrement.
Choking, retching, I gasped for breath. Tears filled my eyes and streamed down my face. The beast secured its hold on me and began jerking its hideous head back and forth, shaking me hard to break my bones one against the other before swallowing me whole.
Kicking and clawing, I twisted my body this way and that, trying to scratch out one of the creature’s eyes. In my frenzy, my hand struck against a slick-furred neck below the massive jaw; I clenched the odious fur in my hand and hung on, screaming and screaming for help.
The pain grew unbearable. I screamed and screamed again, beating at the heavy flesh with my fists. Pain rolled over me in waves as darkness—terrible, mind-numbing darkness—gathered around me. I could feel the life slowly being crushed from me, and I knew I was breathing my last.
“God in heaven!” I cried in agony. “Help me!”
No prayer was ever more heartfelt than that one, and the words were no sooner out of my mouth than Gereint appeared.
He seemed to hang in the air above me, as if floating, or hovering. I realized then that he had somehow contrived to scale the beast’s back. Plunging his knife to the hilt to secure his handhold, he began hacking at the creature with his sword.
Grail: Book Five of the Pendragon Cycle Page 31