'I lost my sword,' I told him, my breath coming in ragged gasps as the pain in my side began to bloom like a flame taking hold of dry tinder.

Ignoring my protests, Bors examined the wound and said, 'I do not like the look of that one. Does it hurt?'

'Not so much,' I told him.

'It will.'

'Just help me bind it up before they come at us again,' I said.

'Let us wash it at least,' Bors suggested doubtfully. 'Here, lad, help me get him to the well. I could do with a drink myself.'

They bore me to the well between them, and sat me down on a rock at the pool's edge. Gereint dropped his blade to the ground and fell face-first to the water and began drinking noisily.

'I think we must abandon the field,' Bors said, raising the edge of my siarc to splash water on the wound.

'We are pledged to the fight,' I insisted, squeezing my eyes shut against the shock of the cold water on my hot wound.

'I will die before I run from a battle,' Gereint maintained staunchly. He lowered his face to the pool again and cupped water into his mouth in great gulps.

'Did I say we should give up the fight?' growled Bors, tearing a strip from my siarc to bind around my waist. 'I only meant that we should retreat into the chapel. The entrance is low and narrow – they will not find it easy to get at us in there.'

I recognized this as the last desperate tactic of a warband forced to the extreme. Once we were inside, there would be no coming out again. But at least we would die on holy ground, protecting the Blessed Cup we were sworn to defend.

Bors tied off the binding, regarded his crude handiwork, and said, 'There – that is the best I can do for now.'

'I am certain it will serve,' I told him. With difficulty, I turned and leaned painfully down to drink. I cupped water in my hand and raised it to my mouth, spilling most of it before wetting my tongue.

Gereint, having drunk his fill, was looking across the clearing to where the enemy, much mutilated and ravaged, was yet again re-forming the battle line. 'We must fly,' he informed us, 'if we are to reach the chapel.'

I took a last gulp, then leaned low over the well to splash water on my face. Bors stepped beside me and reached down a hand. As I made to stand, the dull gleam of a submerged object caught my eye.

In truth, I do not know how I saw it at all: the pale gloaming of a moonlit night lay upon the chapel clearing, and all around us bristled the deeper darkness of the forest. But I saw what I saw – the faintest glimmer of gold in the shape of a cross.

My first thought was that I had found the altarpiece. Of course! It must be the cross which had adorned the chapel's altar. In the desecration of the altar, the cross had been taken and thrown into the well. And now I had found it, and could restore it to its rightful place.

'See here!' I said, my heart leaping at the thrill of my find. 'I give you the missing altarpiece.'

To my companions' amazement, I reached down into the pool. My fingers closed on cold metal, and grasping the topmost arm of the cross, I drew it slowly out. The expressions of astonishment on their faces were wonderful to see, and caused me to forget for a moment the fiery pain burning in my side. Indeed, I was so enjoying their amazement, I did not myself see the object until I had pulled it from the water.

'A curious altarpiece, that,' observed Bors. Gereint, wide-eyed with the strangeness of it, nodded.

Only then did I look down to see that I held not a cross, but a sword. A mass of vines and weed wrack dangled from the long, tapering blade – the weapon had been wrapped in the stuff to disguise it, I reckoned – still, I would have known the weapon anywhere. How not? I have seen it nearly every day for the past seven years.

'That was well done,' enthused Gereint. 'You have got yourself another sword.'

'Not just a sword, son,' I told him, clutching the hilt tightly in both hands. 'This is Arthur's sword.'

'Caledvwlch!'

Gereint knelt quickly beside me and stretched out his hands to receive the sword, which I delivered into his eager grasp. Taking up the weapon, the young warrior proceeded to tear away the slimy tangle and then plunged the sword into the well and washed it clean.

'There,' he said, drawing the weapon from the water. 'It is ready to serve the king once more.'

Then, before Bors or I knew what he was about, the young warrior lofted the Pendragon's battle sword, threw back his head, and shouted, 'For God and Arthur!'

With that he darted away, his cry echoing through the wood. Bors leapt after him to pull him back, but the youth was already beyond reach.

'Gereint!' shouted Bors. The young warrior, flying headlong to meet the undead enemy, did not even break stride.

'Go with him,' I urged. 'Help him.'

'For God and Arthur!' came the cry again.

Pressing Gereint's sword into my hand, Bors said, 'I will return as soon as I can.'

He hastened away in a tired, rolling lope to engage the enemy one last time. I sat on the edge of the well, clutching my sword and praying for protection for my friends. 'Great of Might,' I said aloud, 'we are weary and we are overcome. We have no other help but you, and if you do not deliver us now, we will surely die.'

Having spoken my mind, I made the sign of the cross over my heart and then, using the sword as a staff, pulled myself up onto my feet and stumbled painfully to join my swordbrothers in the fight.

The undead warriors had regrouped and were advancing once more. Bors had almost reached the battle line, but Gereint was yet a dozen paces ahead of him. Loosing a loud battle cry, the impetuous young warrior leapt forward, the great sword a blur of gleaming steel around him as he flung himself headlong into the centre of their ranks.

Oh, it was bold. It was brave. It was foolhardy beyond belief, but my heart soared to see him as he charged alone into the fray, brandishing the sword and bellowing his wild war chant.

Behold! Even before Gereint could strike a blow, the enemy's relentless advance staggered to a halt. Heedless, Gereint raced ahead and the ranks of the undead collapsed before him. He swung Caledvwlch around his head and leapt to the right and left. Everywhere he turned, the enemy fell away.

Back and back they fled, stumbling over one another in their haste to escape. Wonder of wonders, it was as if they could not abide the sight of the sword, much less stand against it!

The mere sight of the Sovereign Sword of Britain made them cry out in alarm and dismay, for whenever Gereint came near, they opened their silent mouths and filled the air with piteous wails. The thin, bloodless sound tore up from their hollow throats in long, biting shrieks that ended in raking sobs and clashing teeth. Their faces, once impassive, now convulsed in the hideous rictus of abject, mindless terror. Though rarely seen elsewhere, it is an expression common enough on the battlefield, and I had seen it more times than I like to remember – on the faces of men who knew themselves bereft of every hope and doomed to swift destruction.

That the sight of Caledvwlch should inspire such horror amazed me so, I stood flat-footed and stared as, all around me, the enemy abandoned their weapons and fled the field in a mad, futile effort to escape. They trampled one another and, falling, clawed their way over their comrades in a blind panic.

But Gereint was not daunted. Leaping and spinning, striking with clean, efficient strokes, he cut them down as they fled before him. With each stroke and every thrust, another enemy fell – and this time they did not rise again, but expired, screaming as they died.

God help me, their shrieking was more appalling than their loathsome silence. It cut me to the quick to hear it, even as I rejoiced in the victory.