Stephen Lawhead - Grail

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.

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.