The young warrior became a very reaper, cutting a wide swath of destruction and havoc through the crumbling ranks of the undead. As the last of them fell before Caledvwlch's fury, I saw Bors standing a little distance away, his shoulders bent, his sword dangling at his side. 'Brother,' I said, 'it looks as though we live to fight again.'

Gereint, exultant in his triumph, came running to where we stood, his face glowing with exertion and pride. 'Did you see?" he cried, almost shaking with jubilation. 'Did you see?'

'That we did, lad,' Bors assured him. 'You swinging that sword and cutting them down as they fled – it is a sight I will never forget.'

'A glorious sight,' I agreed. 'Gereint, my friend, you are a very Bard of Battle.'

'It was never me,' Gereint replied. 'It was the sword.' He raised the blade and regarded it with awe. 'Caledvwlch spoke and I obeyed.'

'If you had not obeyed when you did,' Bors declared, 'I am certain we would all be drawing breath in the Otherworld right now.'

We fell silent then, each to his own thoughts. I closed my eyes and breathed a prayer of thanks that we had survived our ordeal. While I was yet praying, a gurgling sound reached my ears – like that of a cauldron left too long on the hearth. It seemed to be coming from the corpses on the ground. I turned in the direction of the sound and saw that the dead were decomposing – and this with such rapidity that their bodies seemed to crumple inwardly, melting into one another, congealing into a lumpen ooze that bubbled and spurted with escaping fumes.

As we stared at the horrific sight, a stench like that of rotting entrails rose from this swiftly liquefying coagulation. All around the clearing, the corpse heaps were dissolving into a stinking mass as once-firm flesh turned into a sighing, quivering mass. Amidst the muck, I could see long, pale bones protruding – here a slender leg bone, there the twinned lengths of an arm, or the swept curves of a rib cage – and all of them sinking into miry dissolution.

The vapours gurgling from the vile quagmire hung in the air, giving off a faint, noxious glow. The air was so rank with the stink and belch of the putrid slurry, I gagged and wretched, vomiting bile onto the ground. Dragging my sleeve across my lips, I tried to wipe the bad taste from my mouth, to no avail.

'I think I preferred them when they were trying to kill us,' Bors said through clenched teeth.

Retreating into the chapel, we sank down upon the cool stones. I lay there drawing clean air deep into my lungs, grateful for the peaceful sanctuary of this holy place. Exhausted from our ordeal, we rested then, content to simply await whatever should befall us. I slept and awakened some while later much refreshed; the pain in my side had eased a great deal, and I found I could move without difficulty. Leaving the others to their sleep, I got up and went to the chapel door and looked out to find that the vile heaps of putrefaction had vanished.

I roused the others and we went out.

Not a scrap of bone or a shred of clothing was anywhere to be seen; gone, too, was any sign of the battle we had fought: no splintered shafts or broken blades; no dented helms or discarded shields… nothing. The ground was as smooth and untrammelled as we had first found it.

'It is a wonder,' Bors declared. 'Not so much as a footprint remains.'

'The holy ground has done its work,' I replied, and was reminded of the Grail Maiden's challenge: Think you the Great King requires the aid of any mortal to accomplish his will? Is the Lord of Creation powerless to protect his treasures?

No, the High King of Heaven required nothing from us but obedience. It was for us that his gifts were given, his commands likewise. What we did, we did for our own welfare, not his.

We had been commanded to guard the Grail, and it was to secure the boon of blessing that we obeyed. Thus, we stood before the chapel, weapons drawn and ready, waiting, listening. But no sound greater than the wind whispering in the bare treetops met the ear.

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.