Thus, we took up the search for the lost Cymbrogi, returning along the trail by which we had come the day before. Whether the sun shone beyond the cover of the forest, I cannot say. All I know is that the light of day did not reach us, and we rode in darkness as complete as that which covers the earth on the stormiest of nights.

Without the sun, however feeble, to mark time's slow passing, it seemed we journeyed an eternity, stopping only to rest and water the horses and to renew the torches, continually alert to the wood around us all the while. We travelled what must have passed for a day in the wider world, slept a little, and continued on, never knowing where one night left off and another began, moving from one march to the next without speaking more than a dozen words to anyone. And all the time the darkness wore on us; a grindstone it was, covered in darkest silk, perhaps, but a stone nonetheless, grinding and grinding us down to dust.

See, now: fear stalked the bold Dragon Flight – fear like the immense shadow beast loosed to rampage through our anxious ranks. Stouthearted men started at the smallest sound, and sained themselves with the cross whenever they thought no one else was looking.

Arthur – alas, even Arthur – who feared no earthly foe, found reason to be afraid – not for himself, mind, but for his queen. Her name was never far from his lips. From time to time he roused himself from his bleak meditations and made an effort to lift the spirits of his warband – he called encouragement to those who appeared to be struggling, and offered conversation to those who seemed most in need of distraction – but his labours went unrewarded.

At times the forest trail seemed to twist around upon itself and, occasionally, another path might be seen to diverge from the main – although there was never any question about which way we should go. The Pendragon led without wavering. Even so, it grew increasingly apparent that we would not gain our destination no matter how long or far we rode.

'Only a little farther,' Arthur argued. 'We must be nearing the end.'

'Arthur,' Myrddin replied gently, 'we should have reached it long since.'

'We go on,' Arthur insisted, and so we did.

So unvarying was the trail, and the darkness so unrelenting and complete – and our fortitude stretched so thin and fine -that the clearing came as a shock to our benighted senses.

Without warning or sign, we simply rode out from the rooflike cover of the trees and onto a wide river mead. Even in the darkness we could tell that it was a clearing of considerable extent. The sound of rushing water could be heard from the other side of the mead, and the damp, chill closeness of the wood gave way to the sudden gusts of a cold winter wind.

As we had ridden some way since our last resting place, the king thought best to make camp, water the horses, and refresh our own water supply. Accordingly, we found a place beside the encircling stream to picket the horses and began dragging dead limbs from the surrounding wood. Glad for this change, such as it was, we fell to with a will and soon had a large campfire burning with the brightness of a beacon on the edge of the clearing.

Far better for us if we had endured the darkness and cold, our accustomed misery. Far better, indeed, if we had never set foot in the Wasteland at all!

For, as the campfire reached its height and we gathered to warm ourselves around it, the flamelight revealed a great oak tree a short distance away. At first we knew nothing of it but that it was a true monarch of the wood, ancient and lordly, supreme ruler in its domain, and that it stood alone in the centre of the clearing, which, bounded by the encircling stream, formed an almost perfect ring around it.

But then, as we drew closer and looked up into those huge gnarled boughs, we glimpsed strange, elongated shapes twisting in the wind. We looked and courage, already rattled from the long, grinding darkness, took flight. With nothing to halt the rout, our beleaguered imaginations fled instantly to the worst.

Ah, but the truth awaiting us in those misshapen boughs was far, far worse than anything we could have imagined.

We looked to where Arthur stood, Myrddin at his side, gazing towards the great oak. The king stooped and took a brand from the fire, drew himself up, and then started for the tree. Taking up brands, we hastened after him, crowding in close to one another so as not to be the hindmost.

Closer, I could see the strange shapes dangling in clusters from the lower limbs like enormous bats. It was not until we stepped almost directly underneath the foremost bough that I realized what it was we were seeing.

Terrible silence crushed hard upon us. I could not breathe. I could not speak. My strength flowed away like water. A fearful drumming filled my ears and boomed in my head. I staggered back and, God help me, I vomited bile over my feet.

Then, forcing myself to a courage I did not possess, I wiped my mouth on my arm and stood, taking my place once more beside my king. Myrddin stood beside him, his hand on the king's shoulder and the other to his eyes, as if to shield them from the sight of that tree's terrible fruit.

Only Arthur, firebrand in his hand, yet stared up into the tree at the naked corpses of his brave Cymbrogi.

'Come away, Bear,' I heard Myrddin mutter. 'There is nothing to be done here.'

Arthur made no reply, but shrugged off Myrddin's hand and gazed full on the grisly display before us. Each of the lower boughs bore the corpses of at least four warriors – bound singly, or in groups of two or three – and there were more hung high in the upper branches, and yet still more beyond these. From what I could see in the shifting light, most of them had died in battle. Many had lost limbs and several had been disembowelled. Every corpse had been shorn of both hands and feet, and these we discovered placed in a ghastly ring around the roots of the tree. Some few must have been alive when they were hung, for I saw bloated blue faces of men I had once known as swordbrothers among the dead: Cai and Cador and Bedwyr.

Brave Cai, his tongue protruding, swollen in his mouth, his scalp hanging loose on his skull… Cador, friend and stalwart companion, his arms bloody stumps and his legs broken and limp, his mouth gaping in a last, silent scream… and Bedwyr, hero and champion, his smashed jaw dangling on his chest, one eye gouged out, the remains of a spear jutting broken from his stomach…

Tears rose in my eyes then, and I had to look away. My God! my spirit cried out in grief and anguish. God, why? Why these?

Myrddin tried again to get the king to leave, and again the Pendragon refused. 'My men are here,' he said, his voice grating in the deathly silence. 'My place is with my men.'

'You can do nothing for them,' Myrddin said, almost harshly.

'I can bury them,' Arthur snapped.

'No, Bear,' Myrddin counselled. 'It is the living you must think of now.' I wondered at this answer, but trusted the Emrys would have a sound reason.

Thrusting a helpless hand towards the tree, Arthur said, 'I cannot leave them like this and still call myself king. Go, if you must, and take the men with you. I will stay.'

The Emrys frowned, glancing at the dread oak.

'Well?' Arthur demanded, forcing the Emrys' choice.

Myrddin hesitated, and a light came up in his eyes. 'There may yet be a way to preserve some small scrap of dignity and courage.' His voice quickened as he spoke. 'Hear me, Proud King. We will not abandon our loyal swordbrothers in death. We will send them on their journey hence with all honour, in sharp defiance of the wickedness that has so cruelly slain them. Are you willing?'

'You know that I am.'

'Then listen to me.' So saying, the Wise Emrys put his hand to the back of Arthur's neck and drew him near.