The Grail

PROLOGUE: THE PAST

Thick clouds were gathering over the island, lightning flickering, followed by thunder seconds later, as if the gods were displaying their displeasure over the scene below. A large plain in western England stretched as far as could be seen in all directions. In the center was a shallow lake out of which jutted a long, steep island like an earthen rampart, a magnificent Tor, over five hundred feet high. At the very top, a stone abbey with one tall tower dominated the land and water all about. Next to the abbey, a dozen men in armor were gathered round their leader who lay next to the tower’s east wall.

The king the knights called Arthur was dying, of that there was no doubt among the few surviving men. The wounds were too deep, the loss of blood too great. Despite the king’s weakened state, his right hand still firmly held the pommel of his sword Excalibur. A coating of blood failed to hide the bright sheen of the blade’s finely worked metal and the mystical runes carved on the surface.

Arthur lay on his back, his armor dented and battered. His bright blue eyes looked up toward the dark heavens. He was a large man, a fiercesome warrior, over six and a half feet tall and solidly built. Red hair streaked with gray topped his head. Despite spending most of his life in the field at war, his skin was fair and pale.

Several of the knights were looking to the east, in the direction of Camlann, where they had come from. The day had started with some hope of peace in the civil war splitting Britain. Arthur’s forces and those of Mordred had been drawn up on opposing sides of the plain at Camlann. Under a flag of truce the two leaders had met in the high grass in the middle of the field, out of earshot of their followers. What transpired between the two held the fate of all the other men who waited, sweaty hands on the pommels of their swords and the hafts of their spears.

It appeared to end well as the king and Mordred shook hands. As Arthur turned to return to his troops Mordred struck a dastardly blow with a hidden dagger, wounding the king. Arthur spun about, pulling Excalibur out of its sheath. He slashed down, striking Mordred on the shoulder, cleaving through the armor. The wounded men staggered back as both armies thundered forward into the fray.

Arthur’s knights drew him back from the front lines, as did Mordred’s. Again and again, the armies charged until the field was strewn with the dead and dying.

Few on either side were still alive when they left. War-hardened though they were, none of the knights had ever seen such a blood lust descend on both sides in a battle, not even when they had fought the crazed Scotsmen of the north — and this battle had been between Englishmen, knights who had sworn an oath to a code of conduct. But today no quarter had been given, wounded slain where they lay, unarmored auxiliaries hacked to pieces, suited knights dragged from their horses and pounded to death, blades slammed through visors or under the armpit where they could get through the armor.

At least Arthur had struck Mordred a grievous blow with Excalibur before going down; they had all seen that. They could only hope the boy-bastard was dying or already dead.

None on the Tor knew who had won or if the battle was even over yet. Shortly after the king had been seriously wounded, his inner circle of bodyguards, known as the core of the Round Table, had placed Arthur on a pallet and dragged him away while the battle still raged. No courier had come with word of victory or defeat.

They felt the dark, rolling clouds overhead threatening a vicious storm to be a portent even though Merlin was not there to read the signs. Where the sorcerer had gone in the days before the battle was a mystery, and there were many who now cursed his name. Regardless, they knew the Age of Camelot was done and the darkness of barbarism and ignorance would descend once more on England.

The knights turned in surprise as the thick wooden door in the side of the abbey creaked opened. They had pounded on the door without success when they’d first arrived by boat thirty minutes ago. They’d brought Arthur here because of the legend — that on the isle of Avalon dwelt the Fisher-King and his chosen knights; men who were immortal and who could bestow the healing gift on those they deemed worthy. And would not King Arthur, of all who walked the Earth, be worthy?

But on arrival they had found an apparently deserted island, with the tower locked tight.

In the now open doorway stood a man framed by light from behind. Robed in black, the man’s hands were empty of weapons, his face etched with age, his hair silver. He was breathing hard, as if he had come a long way. Despite his non-threatening appearance, the knights stepped aside as he gestured for them to part, allowing him access to the king — all except the knight closest to Arthur. “Are you the Fisher-King?” Percival asked as the man came close. He was always the boldest in strange situations or when the king was threatened. Percival’s armor was battered and blood seeped out from under his left arm where a dagger had struck just before Arthur sustained his final wound. Percival’s right hand gripped his sword, ready to defend Arthur, to amend for not taking the blow that had downed the king. He was a stout man, not tall but broad of shoulders, with dark hair plastered to his head with sweat. A thin red line ran along one cheek where a blade had struck a glancing blow. The stranger paused. “No, I am not a king.”

“Are you a monk?” Percival persisted, leery of allowing a stranger next to the king.

“You may call me that.”

Percival looked over the man’s cloak, noting the trim on the ends of the sleeves, the chain around his neck. “You dress like Merlin. Are you one of the priests of the old religion, the tree worshippers? A sorcerer of the dark arts?”

The man paused. “My line has been here on Yniswitrin, what you call Avalon, since the dawn of time. But we worship no gods and practice no sorcery.”

“You’re a Druid?” Percival persisted. “It is said the Druids have been on this island forever. That they sing the eternal song here, but we found no one when we arrived.”

“There is no time for questions.” The man knelt down, placing his wrinkled hands over the king’s bloodstained ones.

“Can you heal him?” Percival was now the only one close; the others stood near the edge of the Tor, attention split between what was happening to their king and the water to the east, from which news of victory or the promise of death in defeat would come. They had no doubt that if Mordred’s side won, there would be no mercy.

“The healers — such as they are — will arrive shortly, I believe,” the monk said.

“What healers?” Percival demanded.

“There are things beyond you. You waste precious time. Let me speak to the king in private for a moment — to give him absolution in a way only he will understand.”

“You said you worshipped no god,” Percival argued.

“You brought him here, now let me do what is necessary,” the monk snapped. He raised a hand toward Percival and struggled to control his voice. “I mean him no harm.”

Arthur spoke for the first time. “Leave us, Percival. There is nothing to fear from this man.”

Reluctantly, Percival joined the other knights.

The monk leaned close so that only Arthur could hear his words. “Give me the key.”

Arthur’s eyes turned to the man. They showed none of his pain. “I have heard of you. You are Brynn, are you not?”

The monk nodded.

Arthur continued. “You are the Watcher of this island. It was one of your people who started all this. Merlin.”

Brynn shook his head. “We called him Myrddin. He is a traitor to the oath he swore. He is not of my people any longer. You, of all people, should know well how there can be traitors among a close-knit group. My group has been scattered for many, many years.”

“What do you want?” Arthur asked.

“The key. I will keep it safe.”

“My people will keep the key safe,” Arthur replied, his eyes shifting up to the dark clouds. “Merlin gave it to me to offset the Grail. It was never intended to be used, and it hasn’t been. You don’t even know what it really does.”

“Merlin should never have unearthed the key or the Grail,” Brynn said. “He is one of those that upset the balance in the first place.”

“I tried to do good,” Arthur said. “To rectify what was done. To restore the balance.”

There was a commotion among the knights watching the water, cries of alarm that Brynn and Arthur could hear.

“And what if the others get here first?” Brynn hissed. “A ship bearing Mordred’s insignia has just been sighted offshore approaching quickly. Would you give them Excalibur and what it controls? I promise to keep the key safe inside the Tor. They will never find it. And when your people come at the anointed time, I will give it to them. Remember — we only watch, we do not choose sides.”

“No?”

Brynn placed his hand on Arthur’s forehead. “You will be dead soon.”

“I will not give it to you.”

Brynn’s hand slid down and with two fingers he snatched at Arthur’s left eye before the king could react. Between his fingers dangled a small sliver of blue; a contact lens, incongruous with the armor and other accoutrements. Arthur blinked and his eyes opened wide, revealing a red pupil within a red iris. The pupil was a shade darker than the iris and elongated vertically like a cat’s.

Brynn cocked his head, indicating the knights. “I will show them what you really are. You cannot allow that. What good you have done, what you are so proud of, would be washed away with that truth. You will be remembered as a monster, not a king. Not as the leader of the Round Table, which you worked so hard to establish.”

Arthur closed his eyes, pain finally beginning to show on his face. “What about the Grail?”

“Mordred’s men had it briefly, but they did not know what it was or have time to take it to him. He too lies dying. One of my order was in their camp and recovered the Grail. He will take it far from here. We will return everything to the way it was.”

“Do not lie to me.”

“I swear on my ring—” Brynn held a metal ring in front of the king’s face, a ring with a human eye, etched on the surface “—and on my order and on my son, the next Brynn, the next Watcher of Yniswitrin, that I speak the truth.”

One of the knights cried out from the Tor’s tower, warning that the ship bearing Mordred’s colors was about to land.

Arthur’s voice was low, as if he were speaking to himself. “That is all I sought by coming to England. To reinstate order, and maybe help your people a little.”

“Then let me finish it,” Brynn argued. “Let me restore the truce, Artad’s Shadow.”

The king started at the mention of his true identity. “You must keep that secret. I have worked very hard for a very long time to keep that secret from men.”

“I will if you give me the key. There is not much time. I must get back inside the Tor to keep Mordred’s men from getting the key.” Arthur’s hand released its grip. “Take it.”

Brynn placed Excalibur under his robe, tight against his body. As he prepared to stand, Arthur grabbed his arm. “Keep your word, Watcher. You know I will be back.”

Brynn nodded. “I know that. It is written that your war will come again, not like this, but covering the entire planet. And when that happens, I know you will return.”

A weary smile crossed Arthur’s lips. “It is a war beyond the planet, Watcher. Beyond the planet in ways you could not conceive of. Your people still know so little. Even on Atlantis your ancestors knew nothing of reality, of the universe. Merlin was foolish to try to take the Grail. Its time has not come yet.”

“We know enough,” Brynn said. He stood and quickly walked through the doorway. It swung shut behind him with a solid thud.

Percival approached the king. “Sire, the enemy approaches. We must move you.”

Arthur shook his head, his eyes closed tightly. “No. I will stay here. All of you go. Spread the story of what we tried to do. Tell of the good, of the code of honor. Leave me here. I will be gone shortly.”

The protests were immediate, Percival foremost among them. “Sire, we will fight Mordred’s traitors to the death. Our lives for yours.”

“No. It is my last command. You will obey it as you have obeyed all my other commands.”

Only then did Percival notice the sword was gone. “Excalibur! Where is it?”

“The monk has it.” Arthur’s voice was very low now. “He will keep it safe until it is needed again. I will return. I promise you that. Go now! Escape while you can and tell the world of the good deeds we did.”

One by one, the surviving knights bid their king farewell and slipped into the storm, disappearing over the western side of the hill until only Percival remained. He came to the king, kneeling next to him. “Sire.”

Arthur didn’t open his eyes., “Percival, you must leave also. You have been my most faithful knight, but I release you from your service.”

“I swore an oath,” Percival said, “never to abandon you. I will not now, my Lord.”

“You must. It will do you no good to stay. You cannot be here when they come for me.”

“I will fight Mordred’s men.”

“I do not speak of those slaves who blindly obey with no free will.”

Percival frowned. “Who comes for you, then?”

Arthur reached up and grabbed his knight’s arm. “There is something you can do, Percival. Something I want you to do. A quest.”

Percival placed his hand over the blood-spattered one of his king. “Yes, Lord?”

“Search for the Grail.”

“The Grail is but a legend—” Percival began, but Arthur cut him off.

“The Grail is real. It is—” the king seemed to be searching for the right words. “It is the source of all knowledge. To one who knows its secret, it brings immortality. It is beyond anything you have experienced, what any man has experienced.”

A glimmer of hope came alive in the despair that had shadowed Percival’s eyes since removing Arthur from the field of battle. “Where is this Grail, my Lord? Where should I search?”

“That you must discover on your own. It is spoken of in many lands and has traveled far — here and there — over the years. But trust me, it does exist. It will be well guarded. And if you find it—” Arthur paused.

“Yes, my Lord?”

“If you find it, you must not touch it. You must guard it as you have guarded me. Will you do that for me?”

“I do not want to abandon you, my Lord.”

“You will not be abandoning me. I go to a better place. Do as I have ordered.”

Slowly and reluctantly, Percival stood, bent over, his hand still in the king’s. “I will begin the quest you have commanded me to pursue.”

Arthur tightened his grip. “My knight, there is something you must remember in your quest.”

“Yes, Lord?”

“You can trust no one. Deception has always swirled about the Grail. Be careful.” He released Percival. “Go now! I order you to go!”

Percival leaned farther over and lightly kissed his king’s forehead, then stood and departed.

Arthur was alone on the top of the Tor. Only then did he open his eyes once more. He could hear yells from the eastern slope — Mordred’s mercenaries and mental slaves climbed the steep hillside, but his eyes remained focused at the sky above, waiting.

A metallic, golden orb three feet in diameter darted out of the clouds and came to an abrupt halt, hovering ten feet above Arthur. It stayed there for a few seconds, then without a sound, sped to the east. There were flashes of light in that direction, screams of surprise and terror, then silence from the rebel warriors. Arthur was now the only one alive on the Tor.

The orb came back and hovered directly overhead. Arthur looked past it, waiting, holding on to life. Finally, a silver disk, thirty feet wide, flat on the bottom, the upper side sloping to a rounded top, floated silently out of the clouds.

The disk touched down on the Tor’s summit next to the abbey. A hatch on the top opened and two tall figures climbed out. They made their way down the sloping side. The shape inside their one-piece white suits indicated they were female, yet their eyes were not human, but the same red Brynn had revealed in Arthur’s.

They walked to where the king lay, one standing on either side. They pulled back their hoods, revealing fiery red hair cut tight against their skulls. Their skin was pale, ice-white, unblemished.

“Where is the key?” one asked in a low-pitched voice.

“A Watcher took it,” Arthur said. “I gave it to him. We must hide it to restore the truce.”

“Are you sure, Artad’s Shadow?” one of the women asked. “We can search for it. The Watchers cannot be trusted. Merlin was one of their order.”

“I am sure,” Arthur cut her off. “It is the way I want it to be. Merlin, no matter what evil he stirred up, was trying to do a good thing. Have you heard of the Grail’s fate?”

“Mordred’s mercenaries had it, but they didn’t know what it was. A Watcher in the area took it. We can take the Grail from him.”

“No.”

The two creatures exchanged glances.

“The truce must be restored,” Arthur continued. “It is not time yet.” Arthur slumped back, satisfied that at least that part of what Brynn had told him was true. He knew he could not tell them of the quest he had given Percival. It was the only thing he could think of to get his favorite knight off the Tor. If Percival had been here when the others arrived, he would have suffered the same fate as Mordred’s men. Arthur knew his knight would never track down the Grail, but it gave the man a purpose and he had found that such a quest worked well with men like that.

“And Aspasia’s Shadow?” Arthur asked.

“Mordred too dies in this life, but Guides are there to pass Aspasia’s spirit on.”

A spasm of pain passed through Arthur’s body. “Let’s be done with it then. I am very tired. Remember, I am only a shadow also.”

The two women looked at each other once more, red eyes meeting, then the first nodded and spoke. “The spirit of Artad must move on.”

“The spirit of Artad must pass on,” the second said.

Arthur nodded. “My spirit must pass on.”

The second woman knelt beside him, a short black blade in her hand. It easily sliced through the dented armor on Arthur’s chest with one smooth stroke, revealing a padded shirt underneath. With a deft flick of the knife, the cloth parted, revealing his chest. Lying on the flesh was a gold medallion shaped like two arms extended upward in worship with no body. She cut through the thin chain holding the medallion and held it up for the other woman — and Arthur — to see.

“We take your spirit, the spirit of Artad,” she said to Arthur.

The king nodded weakly. “The spirit of Artad passes.” His head bowed down on his chest, his lips moved, but no sound emerged.

“Are you ready to finish the shell that sustained this life?” she asked. Arthur closed his eyes. “I am ready.”

“Is there anything since the last time you merged with the ka that you need to tell us?”

Arthur shook his head, knowing that remaining silent when his spirit passed on would leave no memory of Percival’s quest, which would guard the knight for the rest of his life. It was his last thought.

The black blade slammed down into his exposed chest, piercing his heart. The body spasmed once, then was still. The woman stood and placed the blade back in its sheath.

The first woman extended a gloved hand, fist clenched, over the body. The fingers moved, as if crushing something held in it. She spread her fingers and small black droplets the size of grains of sand fell onto the king, hitting flesh, armor, and cloth. Where it fell on the latter two, they moved swiftly across the surface until they reached flesh. Where they touched skin, they consumed, boring through and devouring flesh, bone, muscle, everything organic. Within ten seconds nothing was left of the king but his armor and clothes.

With the ceremony complete, the two women swiftly retraced their steps to the craft they had arrived on. It lifted and swiftly accelerated away, disappearing into the storm clouds.

The heavens finally let loose with rain, announcing its arrival with a cacophonous barrage of thunder, lightning playing across the top of the Tor. A large bolt struck the high tower of the Abbey, shattering stone and mortar, spraying debris over the remains of the king.