TWENTY-NINE

The next sound I heard was the sharp slap of leather against the withers of Rhys’ mount as he wheeled the frightened animal and gave it leave to fly — nor was I slow to follow, pausing only long enough to cast a fleeting backward glance. I saw nothing but the shadow-crowded path and darkness beyond. Even so, the shudder of the trees told me that the thing was charging towards us with speed.

I gave my mount its head, and a heartbeat later, I was racing along the forest trail, trying to catch Rhys.

It took us longer to reach our waiting companions than I expected, and I feared we had somehow lost king and Cymbrogi along with all the rest. But then Rhys slowed and I saw, just beyond him, two horses in the track ahead. The Cymbrogi had dismounted to rest the horses while awaiting our return. They called out to us, asking what we had discovered, but we did not stop until we had rejoined Myrddin and Arthur.

Rhys slid from the saddle before his horse had come to a halt. Arthur and Myrddin had risen to their feet, the question already on their faces. ‘We did not find them, lord,’ Rhys was saying as I dismounted.

‘Then what —’ began the king.

Before he could say more, the creature behind us loosed its bone-rattling cry. The forest trembled around us and the horses began rearing and neighing. The waiting warriors leapt to their mounts, stretched for their dangling reins, and retrieved spears from beneath their saddles.

Arthur, sword in hand, ordered the battle line and, an instant later, we were armed and ready to face whatever came our way.

The trail was too narrow for horses to manoeuvre, so Arthur ordered the fight on foot. ‘It will come at us on the trail,’ the king cried, his voice taking on the vigour of command. ‘Let it come! Open a way before it — make a path — two men on each side. Let it come in — then close on it from either side.’

It was a desperate tactic, borrowed from the hunt, most often used when a man finds himself unhorsed during the chase. Arthur established himself at the forefront of the line. Myrddin stood to his right, with Rhys and me to his left. The Cymbrogi led the horses to safety well up the trail, and then quickly filled in behind us in ranks four across.

We stared into the gloom, tree limbs quivering on either side and overhead. I could feel the trembling of the ground as the shudders passed up through the earth and into my feet and legs. A hundred horses pounding hard down the path could not drum the earth so. What could it be?

The unnerving cry thundered again. Closer. The entire forest seemed to ripple like a wave. The unnatural sound sent a cold flash of fear snaking through the ranks.

The drumming thud in the ground grew louder. The Cymbrogi stood gripping their spears in silence, staring hard into the gloom ahead.

The roar sounded again. Closer still: an unearthly howl that pierced to the heart. Cold, sick dread spread through me and the wood seemed to undulate; a black mist gathered before my eyes as the ground shook with the pounding of unseen hooves.

I tightened my grip on my spear and shook my head to clear it, thinking, The thing must be nearly on top of us now... but where is it?

And then I saw, looming out of the murk of shadows, the form of a beast: a great dark mass racing with impossible speed directly towards us. God help us, it was enormous!

Out of the shadows it came. I heard several stifled cries behind me, and others gasped and muttered hasty prayers.

Curiously, the creature had no substance, no solidity. Even as it swept swiftly nearer, I could get no clear notion of its appearance. The thing seemed nothing but shadow and motion. Indeed, I could see the dimly quivering shapes of trees and branches through it.

The ground heaved beneath our feet, and I smelled the rank scent of animal filth. But though we stood steadfast with our spears at the ready, there was nothing substantial to fight.

I received the distinct impression of a massive beast with the sharp spine and high-humped shoulder of a boar, its foul hair long and flowing in matted shreds like the tatters of a rotten cloak. I imagined two huge yellow eyes glaring balefully out from a flattened piglike face, beneath which bulged a massive jaw from which two great, curved brown tusks jutted in upward-sweeping arcs like a pair of barley scythes. Short, powerful, stumplike legs pummelled the earth, driving the creature forward on the cloven hooves of a stag.

This, as I say, was merely an impression, an image that burned itself into my mind. There was no actual creature, nothing corporeal at all — just a dark-gathered mist of churning shadow and motion.

Some of the warriors let slip their weapons, and one or two dropped to their knees.

‘Courage!’ shouted Arthur, his voice a steady rock amidst the rising flood of fear. ‘Stand firm!’

The vile thing drove down on us with the speed of a falling mountain, shaking the ground with every flying step. I gripped my spear and hunkered down, ready to let fly should anything tangible present itself.

The beast came on. The monster loosed its earsplitting scream. The chill air shivered to the sound of a thousand slavering hounds and the belling of a hundred stags at bay.

The cry carried the shadowshape into our midst.

‘Hold!’ called Arthur. ‘Hold, men... stand your ground.’

Beneath my feet, the ground rumbled hollow like a drum. , ‘Stand firm...’ Arthur called, straining to be heard above the sound of the onrushing beast. ‘Stand...’

My stomach tightened in anticipation of the terrible impact. The air shuddered and I had the explicit sensation of a great hairy flank heaving past me — like a rippling black wall of muscle.

Spear poised, I drew back my arm and prepared to strike.

The warrior opposite me let fly — too soon! The spear sailed over my head; I ducked under it and in the same instant heard a short, sharp cry as the creature whirled in mid-flight and struck.

I saw merely a sudden surge, a quickening of the darkness, and the monster thundered past.

I leapt to the stricken warrior’s aid, and a stink like that of rotting meat struck me like the blow of a fist. The gorge rose in my throat and I gagged on the stench. I put a hand over my nose and mouth to keep from vomiting. The Cymbrogi round about groaned, coughed, and spat, and the wounded man writhed on the ground.

His side had been laid open from chest to hip, and blood gushed dark and hot from the wound. ‘Help me!’ he screamed. ‘Help me!’

‘Tallaght?’ I said. In the dim light, his features twisted with pain, I did not recognize him at first. ‘Lie still, brother. Help is coming.

‘Myrddin!’ I shouted. ‘Over here! Hurry!’

Tallaght clutched my hand; his grip was slippery with blood, but he clung to me as if to life itself. ‘I am sorry, lord,’ he said, his voice already growing weaker. ‘I did not mean to disgrace...’

‘Shh,’ I said gently. ‘It does not matter. Just rest easy.’

‘Tell Arthur I am sorry...’ he whispered, and fell to coughing and could not catch his breath. He died, choking on his blood before Myrddin could reach him. ‘Go with God, my friend,’ I said, and lay his hand upon his chest.

Just as swiftly as it had come, the apparition vanished. The ground continued to drum and tremble for a time, but the creature was gone. Myrddin appeared at my side and bent over the fallen warrior. ‘It is Tallaght,’ I said as the Emrys stretched his hand towards the young man’s face. ‘He is dead.’

Some of the warriors nearby repeated this pronouncement, and it was passed along the ranks. A moment later, there came a cry from farther up the trail. ‘Stop him!’ one of the warriors shouted. ‘Someone stop him!’

Glancing up, I saw a mounted warrior burst forth from among the horses. Rhys shouted for the man to stop at once, and several others tried to head off the hqrse, but the rider was too quick and the horse had already reached its stride. He gained the trail at a gallop, and disappeared into the shadows.

Arthur quickly ordered men to go after him, but Myrddin counselled against it. ‘It is too late now,’ he said. ‘Let him go.’

‘We can catch him still,’ the king protested.

‘We have just lost one warrior to the beast,’ the Emrys informed Arthur. ‘How many more will you risk?’

Arthur frowned, but accepted his counsellor’s advice. ‘Did you see who it was?’

‘No.’ Myrddin shook his head slowly.

‘I saw him,’ I told them. ‘It was Peredur. No doubt he has gone to avenge his kinsman’s death.’

‘The young fool,’ Arthur muttered.

‘He is God’s concern now,’ Myrddin said. ‘Put him from your thoughts, and instead think how to find your missing warriors.’

Night was hard upon us, and rather than risk losing the rest of the warband in the dark, Arthur decided to make camp and wait until morning. We buried Tallaght’s body where he had fallen, and Myrddin spoke a prayer over the grave. I would have liked to do more for the boy, but that is the way of it sometimes. The Pendragon ordered the remaining Cymbrogi to gather fuel for a fire. What with the dense wood all around us, the men had a great heap of dead timber piled up, and in less time than it takes to tell, the first snakes of flame were slithering up the tangle of old branches.

Once the horses were settled, we gathered to warm ourselves and, in crowding close, to console one another. The fellowship of loyal men is not to be slighted; it is a thing of great solace and is therefore sacred. Accordingly, the Pendragon, in ordering the fire, meant not only to warm us, but to help us to restore our confidence, which had been badly shaken. No one could have imagined that it would turn out as it did.

Comforted by the fire, the men began to talk, and some wondered aloud what manner of creature it was that they had driven off; others voiced surprise that they should have chased it away at all. Speculation proved futile and as one suggestion after another foundered, everyone turned to Myrddin, who was squatting on his haunches at the edge of the fire, arms crossed over knees, staring bleakly into the flames.

‘Here, now, Myrddin,’ called Arthur genially. ‘Have you ever heard tell of such a beast?’

At first it seemed Myrddin had not heard the king’s question.

He made no move, but continued staring into the red heart of the fire.

‘What say you, bard?’ the king said, his voice loud in the sudden quiet of the wood.

The Cymbrogi watched in silent expectation as the Emrys, without taking his eyes from the flames, slowly drew the hood of his cloak over his head and rose. He stood for a moment as if entranced by the flames, then stooped and reached into the fire. Several of the Cymbrogi cried out instinctively at the act, but Myrddin calmly withdrew a fistful of hot ashes. Despite the heat, he held the embers in his hand, blew on them, and then gazed upon the coals.

We watched in astonished silence as he held the burning embers in his hand, his face illumined in the ruddy glow. Suddenly he cast the coals back into the flames. He stood for a moment clutching his hand — whether from pain or the shock of what he had seen, I cannot say — then, as if in a trance, he raised his hand and licked the palm with his tongue.

No one moved or said a word as the Bard of Britain took up his staff and raised it over his head. Slowly, he turned to face us. My heart clenched in my chest, for his face was as rigid and pale as death.

The eyes gazing out from beneath the hood were no longer those of a man, but of a preying hawk, farseeing, keen, and golden. Stretching forth his hand, he held his palm level to the ground and, opening his mouth, began to speak. Or perhaps it was some other speaking through him, for the voice seemed to come from the Otherworld.

‘Hear, Men of Britain, Valiant Ones,’ he said in the strange, hollow voice, ‘the Head of Wisdom speaks. Heed and take warning. The Black Beast sent among you this day was but a foretaste of the power arrayed against you. The battle is joined, and every man who would achieve the quest must face many ordeals. Be not dismayed, neither be afraid, but face the trials to follow with all forbearance, for the Swift Sure Hand upholds you, and the Holy Grail awaits those who endure to the end.’

Having delivered himself of this decree, he lowered his staff and sat down again. Almost at once, he began to shake and tremble all over. Thinking to aid him, the warrior nearest reached out and took hold of the Emrys to steady him. Instantly, the man yelped and fell back as if he had been struck by a thunderbolt.

Others reached to help the man. ‘Let him be,’ advised Arthur sternly. ‘It will pass.’

The stricken warrior quickly recovered, and the Cymbrogi set themselves the task of settling the horses for the night before lying down to rest. Though I tried to sleep, the weird events of this fraught day conspired to overthrow my best resolve and I found myself thinking about Morgian instead, and wondering when the next attack would come, and what form it would take.