Grail

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Though I did not doubt him, I asked, “Then why did we never suspect her before?”

  “It is the simplest of all enchantments,” he replied, and I waited for him to explain, but he merely said, “We see what we think to see.”

  “And Llenlleawg?”

  “Again, it is not difficult to bewitch the weak and willing,” he replied.

  Something in me bristled at the suggestion that the Irish champion joined in the betrayal voluntarily. “What of Gwenhwyvar? It seems to me the queen was certainly neither weak nor willing.”

  “Who knows what they told her?” Myrddin answered simply. “Morgian is duplicity itself. Her powers of deception are astonishing.”

  “Then you are certain Morgian is involved.”

  “If there was any doubt, finding Pelleas’ brooch removed it.”

  “You are convinced the brooch belonged to Pelleas?”

  “How not?” he said. “I gave it to him.”

  Upon our return to the Tor, Myrddin went his way alone. I took myself off to the parapet, where I held vigil deep into the night, thinking about Llenlleawg’s betrayal, and why everyone seemed so eager to hold him at fault for all that had happened, when clearly, if Morgian was involved, he was no doubt bewitched, and bent to Morgian’s evil purpose. I was still struggling with this when, toward dawn, Myrddin summoned the Dragon Flight to the king’s chamber.

  I hurried to join my swordbrothers—many of whom, myself included, appeared to have spent another sleepless night wrestling with the guilt and shame of their failure. No one spoke as we made our way along the corridor and to the door of Arthur’s chamber. There, waiting in the dimly lit passageway, was Myrddin, carrying his staff, his golden torc gleaming in the torchlight.

  “Good,” he said and, pushing open the heavy door, strode boldly in to confront the Pendragon. He advanced to the foot of the throne, raised the oaken staff, and struck it smartly on the stone floor. Crack! “Rise up, Arthur!” he cried in a loud voice, and struck the floor again.

  “The time has come to rouse yourself from your sleep of despair. Wake, and rise!” He raised the staff and struck the floor again. The crack resounded like a peal of thunder as the Wise Emrys said, “The foe is at the gate, and your queen is taken away. She cries, ‘Where is my deliverer? I cry out in my cruel captivity. Where is my salvation? When will my king arise?’ ”

  Arthur started. The shock of the bard’s words struck him to the core and jolted him from his self-pitying misery. “Gwenhwyvar!”

  Lofting his staff, Myrddin advanced to stand before the throne. The Bard of Britain lifted his voice and kindled the hearts of all who stood mute and dejected in that room.

  “Why do you languish here when the Treasure of Britain is despoiled by the enemy? Why do you cover yourself in gloom while your noble wife is ravaged by her captors? Why do you yet delay while wickedness lays waste your realm?”

  Arthur’s shoulders slumped and his head fell. But Myrddin did not allow despair to reclaim him; he stood before the king, lifting the stricken monarch from the pit with the strength of his words.

  “Stiffen your spine, O King! Take up your spear and shield,” he cried. “Gird yourself for battle, and take your place at the head of the Dragon Flight. The name of the enemy is known: Morgian has returned! The Queen of Air and Darkness is moving against you, and her aim is destruction.”

  A murmur, like a tingle of fear, flitted through the gathered ranks of Cymbrogi. “Morgian…”

  Crack! Myrddin struck the floor with his staff. “Rise up, O Mighty Pendragon! Save your kingdom and your queen. For I tell you the truth: if you sit by and do nothing, you will lose all you hold most dear. And when that is gone, Dread Morgian will take your life as well. Your enemy will not be content until she has destroyed you body and soul.”

  I looked to the king and saw the color flooding back into his ashen features. The Heart of Britain was stirring again.

  “Arise, Arthur! Bind steel to your hip and courage to your soul. The time has come to choose: fight or die; there is no middle ground!”

  I felt within me the familiar rising to the call as Arthur gripped the arms of his chair and heaved himself to his feet. He yet appeared haggard and ill-disposed, but there was a glimmer of purpose in his eyes.

  “Behold!” cried Myrddin Emrys with a flourish of his oaken staff. “The Chief Dragon arises in his strength. Tremble, all who would oppose virtue and right! Flee to your dens in Hell, you citizens of corruption! Let all who practice evil beware: your days are no more. The High King of Britain has set his face against you and the day of your doom is at hand.”

  Arthur drew himself up and gazed upon his Cymbrogi. With a small movement of his hand, he gestured the Emrys to his place beside him. “Cai,” he said quietly, “call the Dragon Flight to arms.”

  Stalwart Cai turned on his heel and shouted aloud to one and all. “Brothers! You have heard your king! Take up your swords and prepare for battle!”

  With one voice the Cymbrogi gave out a mighty shout, and the chamber rang with the sound of their battle cry. Everyone fled the chamber in a chaos of haste to be the first one ready and waiting for the command to ride out.

  “Bedwyr,” the king said, “find me a sword.”

  Bedwyr’s hand fell instantly to the hilt of his own sword. He drew the blade and laid it across his palms, stepped to the throne and offered it to Arthur. “Take mine, Bear. It will serve until we recover Caledvwlch.”

  The king hesitated, but Bedwyr extended his hands insistently, so Arthur took up the sword, stepped from the throne, and walked out of the chamber. We fell into step behind him, resuming our long-accustomed places, battlechiefs to the Pendragon once more.

  Horses were saddled, and wagons loaded with provisions. We raced through our preparations as if to banish the days of misery and gloom. When all was ready, we assembled in the palace yard to await Arthur’s command; it was not long in coming. The king appeared before us, bathed and shaved, his hair scraped back and bound at his neck. Calm, resolute, he wore his red cloak and good mail shirt, and carried Bedwyr’s sword at his side. Two daggers were tucked in his belt, and his shield was on his shoulder. It was a sight I had seen a hundred times if once, and it ever lifted my spirits.

  “Brave Cymbrogi,” he said when the cries of acclamation were quieted, “the battle we join will not be won by strength of arms alone. Therefore, heed the Head of Wisdom and take his words to heart.”

  With this Myrddin Emrys came to stand beside his king. “Hear me, Sons of Prydain,” he said, raising his hands in the ancient way of the bard. “Morgian is as deadly as she is evil. Wherever we are weakest, she will find that place, and that is where she will bring her powers to bear. Therefore, let each man beware. Look to your souls, my brothers, for it is a spiritual battle that we undertake. Though we search for the Grail Cup and seek the release of the queen, know you this: it is nothing less than a quest for the restoration of holiness and the blessing of God’s good favor.

  “I tell you the truth,” he continued solemnly. “Morgian’s powers are great and many of us may die. But though we lose life to her, our souls remain in Christ and forever beyond reach of the Evil One. We will do well to remember that when the day of travail is upon us. Therefore, if any man is unshriven, let him confess now and receive holy absolution for his sins.”

  Indicating a row of brown-robed clerics across the yard, he said, “The bishop and his priests even now stand ready to hear our confessions and offer forgiveness.”

  At this, the good bishop stepped forward. “My friends, brave ones, I would have you ride into battle secure in your salvation. Remember, the incorruptible cannot abide corruption, and in the quest before you, none but the pure of heart can succeed. Come, then, and purify your hearts of all unrighteousness.”

  Any awkwardness in coming forward for shrift was quickly dispelled when Arthur, wholly without thought for his sovereign dignity, stepped before the bishop, knelt at the churchman’s feet, crossed his ar
ms over his chest, and bowed his head reverently. If the High King of Britain could humble himself in this way, no man of lesser rank need feel belittled in the sight of his friends. Indeed, more than one warrior who held himself begrudged made peace with his swordbrother so as to enter God’s presence reconciled.

  It is no disgrace to tell you that I myself, concerned for my soul and the tribulations ahead, knelt on the cold stones of the dusty yard and made my confession, knowing full well it might be my last.

  After the confessions, we received assurances of our forgiveness, and the bishop invited us to share the bread and wine of Christ’s table in a last meal of holy communion. We did eat the bread of the Blessed Jesu’s body and drink the wine of his blood, and then fifty warriors rose as one man to face a relentless, subtle, vicious, and implacable foe.

  Thus we rode out from the Tor, a fighting force equipped for battle against a foe unlike any other we had faced. Upon reaching the trail beyond the abbey, we turned, not east, but south. Myrddin Emrys held it a gesture of futility to attempt raising the days-old trail. “I believe the only traces we would see are those Morgian desired us to see,” he declared. “We have been her playthings from the beginning. Mark me, Arthur, Llyonesse is where battle will take place.”

  Llyonesse…I shuddered inwardly at the word. Dread stole over me, and it took a very great effort of will to hold fear at bay. Courage, Heaven’s Bright Warriors stand ready to aid us; God’s own servants go before us to prepare a way in the Wasteland.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  With every step closer to Llyonesse, apprehension mounted within me. As the short winter day faded to the chill of a damp twilight, I found opportunity to speak to Myrddin. While the Cymbrogi set about making camp, I saw the Emrys laying a fire outside the king’s half-raised tent, and went to him. “Allow me, Emrys,” I said.

  “There is no need,” he replied. “Once of a time, if there was to be warmth at all, it was my chore to provide the fire. I do little enough providing these days.” He glanced up at me quickly, then continued arranging the twigs and breaking up the larger branches. “Sit down, Summerhawk,” he said—no one else save my father called me that—“and tell me what is on your mind.”

  Folding my legs under me, I settled on the ground before the fire-ring. I watched as he deftly snapped the branches and placed them onto the carefully stacked pile. After a few moments, I saw a thin tendril of smoke rising from the tinder—although I never saw him strike steel to flint.

  “You seem certain Morgaws has fled to Llyonesse,” I said, watching the smoke waft slowly upward in the still evening air. “How do you know?” I little doubted the Emrys would have sound reason for his judgment; I merely wished to hear it.

  “I know because Morgian is guiding her, and Llyonesse is the one place in all this worlds-realm where Morgian can move at will,” he replied.

  “She seems to have no difficulty moving anywhere she pleases,” I observed morosely.

  “No,” Myrddin countered. “That is why she needs Morgaws. I believe Morgian no longer commands all the power she once possessed, and now she must use others to further her dark purposes. Morgaws leads us to Llyonesse, where Morgian waits, like a spider spinning her webs, surrounding herself with lies and deceit.”

  “And yet, Llyonesse is where her power was broken,” I pointed out, referring to the time he had last faced the Queen of Air and Darkness.

  “Yes,” he agreed, sitting back on his heels as a yellow flame fluttered to life among the dry twigs. “In Llyonesse Morgian’s power was broken, and I think she has returned to that heaven-forsaken land in order to reclaim it through our defeat.”

  Considering the theft of the Grail and the easy abduction of the queen, I said, “Perhaps she has reclaimed her power already.”

  “Perhaps,” Myrddin allowed, showing neither fear nor surprise at the thought. “Either way, Llyonesse is where we will stand or fall.”

  “Where will we find her?”

  “I believe she will find us,” answered the Wise Emrys. “But I suspect she will draw us to the place where she met her defeat. I know the place, a hill not far from the western coast—there was a Fair Folk settlement on that hill long ago. If she does not attack us on the way, that is where we shall go.”

  “Do you fear her, Myrddin?”

  He watched the fire for a moment before answering. “I fear her greatly, Gwalchavad,” he said quietly. “Abandon any hopes you harbor that we shall escape the full impact of her malice. We will not. Morgian has determined the fight, and chosen the battleground that suits her best. The Queen of Air and Darkness will not spare us the least torment or travail. Our journey will be an ordeal of suffering.”

  “Yet we go to meet her.”

  “We go to meet her,” he replied, “because we have no other choice.”

  Arthur did not join us at the fire that night—his usual custom when we were encamped—but took food in his tent, admitted no one save Rhys, who served him, and emerged only at dawn the next morning when we moved on. We continued as before, riding in a long double rank south and west, slowly leaving behind the friendly hills of the Summer Realm and passing into the arid, drought-blasted barrens of Llyonesse.

  The Pendragon, with Myrddin at his right hand, led the way, and I, who had already traversed this perilous path, rode with Rhys just behind them so as to be close to hand if needed. Bors rode behind me, followed by long ranks of warriors stretching back and back, fifty strong. Bedwyr, Cai, and Cador were given command of the rearward forces and took their places far down the line.

  The sun, never bright, passed low over the southern hills before sinking once more. The dreary day dwindled away to a long, lingering dusk. Mist gathered thick on the trail and dull clouds lowered above. The voices of the men grew quieter by degrees until we moved in a netherworld between two skies, a world devoid of color, light, and any sound—save the steady clop, clop, clop of the horses’ hooves, hollow and slow on the bare, hard ground.

  As the last fleeting glimmer of light faded in the west, we glimpsed a rise of fog on the trail ahead. The closer we came, the more dense it grew, billowing higher and higher until it resembled nothing so much as a massive wall towering over us.

  Unwilling to enter the fog blindly, Arthur halted the columns a few hundred paces away so that he might observe for a time. “Strange that it does not move,” Myrddin said to Arthur. Though he spoke low, his voice carried on the unnaturally still air. “I advise caution.”

  “The day is going and we are losing the light,” the king pointed out. “We might make camp here and hope the weather clears tomorrow.”

  “There is no wood for a fire,” Bedwyr put in.

  “Then we will do without,” Arthur said, making up his mind. “It makes a cold night for us, but that is better than risking our necks on a trail we cannot see.”

  At a nod from the king, Rhys raised the hunting horn and signaled the Cymbrogi to dismount. We made camp and spent a chill, damp night on the trail. Dawnlight the next morning revealed that the bank of fog had not shifted or dissipated. Indeed, it now appeared more solid and imposing than before: a vast, gently seething eminence, beyond which neither eye nor ear could penetrate. The wall of mist lay across our path as if marking out the line of battle—as if an enemy had thrown up a defensive rampart and carved upon it the words, “cross over if you dare.”

  We crossed, of course. Having no better choice—there was no riding around it, and waiting was pointless—we formed tight columns and marched forward, breasted the wall, and passed into the mist. I could make out Rhys beside me, but Arthur and Myrddin ahead and those behind were hazy, half-formed figures floating at the perimeter of sight, and beyond that I could see nothing.

  As the fog closed like a tight woolen glove around us, I spared a fleeting thought for the phantom legion. Was this how Legio XXII Augustus met its uncanny fate? Had they, like us, marched into the mist, and into the realm of the undead, never to return?

  The mist, so cl
ose and thick, stole away every sound, even the hollow plod of the horses’ hooves and the dull jingle of the tack. The world seemed still and cold and silent, as if offering us a foretaste of death. I ignored the damp chill and gazed staunchly into the quiet, unchanging void, and was surprised when, after a time, I began to hear an odd, rhythmic drumming. Looking around, I could not locate the source of the disturbing sound—until I realized it was the very blood pulsing in my ears with every beat of my heart.

  In addition to banishing sight and sound, the fog was heavy and wet. Within moments of entering the mist, I felt the chill weight settle on my shoulders and the cold trickle of water along my spine. Water beaded on my face and mustache, and ran down my head and neck. I gathered my sodden cloak around me, lowered my head, and rode on, thinking, I have been cold before. And I have ridden in mist many times, and will again. It is winter, after all, and mist and fog are to be expected. This is just poor weather, nothing more.

  We journeyed an eternity, or so it seemed. With neither light nor shadow to mark the passing day, time dwindled and stretched, and then stood still. Once, my horse stumbled over a rock and I came awake with a cry. Glancing quickly around, I found everything as it was before: dense, cloying fog pressing in on every side. Nothing had changed; nevertheless, I felt vexed at having slept, for, try as I might, I could not remember falling asleep.

  “Gwalchavad?” said Rhys, his voice close.

  I could make out my companion as a disembodied head peering anxiously back at me as if through a depth of clouded water—the face of a drowned man, bloodless and cold, and pale as a fish. All at once it came into my mind to warn Arthur…

  “The river!” I shouted, surprising even myself with the sudden outcry. “Arthur! Stop! There is a river ahead!”