Soon it seemed as if the entire forest was in motion. The thorny hedge tossed this way and that, as if gripped by monstrous hands intent on tearing it out. Gaps began appearing in the surrounding wall as the thicket gave way before the enemy's approach.

Meanwhile, the cold wind clawed at us. Shivering, freezing, huddled against one another, we stood our ground, awaiting the enemy's appearance.

They arrived all at once.

The wood seemed to convulse and the enemy warhost simply stepped out from the forest to the edge of the clearing -line on line and rank upon rank of dark warriors encircled the chapel. I tried to see the end of them, but their numbers stretched back into the forest and were lost to the darkness whence they came.

At the foe's abrupt appearance, the fretful wind stilled, lapsing suddenly into an eerie, menace-fraught calm. A sickly yellow radiance like that of a foul, false sunrise dawned over the chapel clearing. The bruised light gave off a putrid glow which made everything seem filthy and lurid.

In this ghastly dawn, the thronging multitude gathered, moving among the trees like a noiseless flood; the warhelms rising above the rims of their round shields looked like a great swath of rocky shore, or a beach of rounded stones stretching as far as the eye could see; the upright spear shafts in tight clusters of ten and twenty were like narrow plumes of sea grass rising ridge upon ridge.

There were so many!

'God save us,' breathed Bors. Gereint made the sign of the cross over himself, and swallowed hard, but said nothing.

'Why do they wait?' I wondered aloud.

They stood in silence, but for the slight rustle of their clothing where they brushed against one another, or the hollow clink of shield rims gently touching. Line on line, and rank on rank, they stood, silent as the fog on the night-dark sea. I studied the nearest faces – more the dread, for they were cold countenances each and every one: long-featured with flat noses and mouths which were little more than bloodless slits in their pale, waxy-fleshed faces. The eyes staring back at me were large and black – indeed, the black filled the eye so that no white showed at all – like the eyes of beasts; and though the expressions remained impassive, the eyes gazing at us across the grassy clearing were baleful and malevolent. I could almost feel the coldhearted hatred burning across the short span between us like flames of a frozen fire.

One look in those unblinking eyes and I knew beyond all doubt that they wished us dead, yes, and more than dead: they willed our annihilation; we were to be completely and utterly destroyed and our souls obliterated. Yet they waited, a malign and brooding mass beneath a gruesome yellow sky.

'Why do they just stand there?' Gereint said, his voice quivering – with cold, I think, not fear.

'Perhaps their battlechief has not arrived,' Bors suggested. 'Or maybe they await the command to attack.'

'Come on,' muttered Gereint. 'Let us finish it!'

'Patience, lad,' said Bors. 'Life is short, and death is long. Use what time you have left to make your peace.'

'God knows I am more than ready,' replied Gereint evenly. 'Let it begin, I say.'

'Look there,' I said, directing their attention to a disturbance in the rearward ranks. In a moment, it emerged that the warhost was dividing along a line back to front.

'They are preparing to attack,' said Bors, flinging his cloak away from his arms in preparation.

'I think their war leader has arrived,' I said. 'He is taking his place at the forefront of his warhost.'

The ranks continued parting until a wide way stood clear. I could see several figures moving towards us along the opened course. One of them, taller than the others, appeared to be advancing at the head of the others.

I watched him stride nearer, and recognized the familiar gait. I had seen it so often, I would have known it far more readily than my own.

'It is Arthur,' said Bors. 'He is alive.'

The Pendragon came to the edge of the clearing and stood regarding us silently. His clothes were ripped and torn – as if he had been dragged through the wood by horses. His face was lined with fatigue; he looked haggard and old. His right cheek was discoloured with an ugly bruise, but he held himself erect, head high.

'Arthur!' I shouted. 'Here! Join us!'

The king made no reply, but turned and stepped aside; only then did I notice that his hands were bound with chains. Llenlleawg, spear in hand, advanced directly behind Arthur with Morgaws at his side. I could also see Myrddin and Gwenhwyvar, with Rhys and Peredur coming up behind Llenlleawg; their hands were chained also, and they stood with their heads down. Their clothes, too, were ragged and bloodstained, and they wore the look of warriors who knew the battle was lost and their lives were swiftly approaching a bloody, wretched end.

At a nod from Llenlleawg, Arthur turned once more to address us. He called us by name, and said, 'You have fought well, my friends. But the battle is lost. It is time to surrender.'

'Is it really the Pendragon?' whispered Gereint uncertainly.

'Never!' declared Bors. The true Arthur has never so much as breathed a word of surrender, and never will.' Raising a hand to his mouth, Bors shouted, 'Take your words of surrender to hell with you! We are Pendragon's men, sworn before God to guard the Grail. We will not stand down for anyone.'

The Pendragon, humble and sorrowful, appealed to him, saying, 'Bors, old friend, do as I say. You have pledged loyalty to me, whether in victory or defeat. It is time to end this battle.'

'In God's name, Arthur,' Bors cried, 'what have they done to you? Join us, lord, and fight them! We will go down together!'

Ignoring this outburst, the king continued calmly. They have come for Caledvwlch and the Grail. The fighting can stop, but you must do as I say and bring the sword and cup.'

Bitterness and bleak desperation welled up inside me. I had known defeat before, but never like this. Never! This… this ignoble submission was not worthy of the Pendragon I knew. Myrddin would have moved Heaven and Earth before giving in, and even the least of the Cymbrogi would have fought to the last dying breath rather than be party to such a shameful capitulation.

I stared across the clearing as across a great divide; my king stood on one side, and I on the other. Could I defy my king and continue the fight? Or must I obey him, even to my shame and degradation?

See, now: one who has never served a True Lord, nor vowed loyalty through all things to the end of life, cannot know what it is to behold that lord defeated by wicked enemies, humiliated, and disgraced. Those who know nothing of honour cannot comprehend the pain of dishonour. I tell you the truth, it is a pain worse than death, and it does not end.

Thus, I stood staring at Arthur, his head bowed in defeat, and the tears came to my eyes. I could not stand the sight and I had to turn away.

'The fighting can end,' the Pendragon repeated, his voice broken and weary. 'Bring the Grail. Give it up.'

Bors' face clenched like a fist, and his refusal was anvil hard. 'Never!' he cried, shaking with rage. Taking Caledvwlch from Gereint, he flourished it, shouting, 'To get the Grail, you will have to pry this blade from my dead hands.'

It might have been a trick of the light, but I thought I saw the merest shadow of a smile flicker across Arthur's face as he received Bors' reply. Turning towards Morgaws, he made a gesture with his hands – as much as to say, Well, I tried – and Llenlleawg prodded him aside into line with the butt of his spear.

The Irish champion took hold of Myrddin and dragged him forth. But Morgaws, impatient with Arthur's feeble efforts at persuasion, stepped out from among the enemy warriors. Flame-haired, features ablaze like a torch with hate and triumph and spite all mingled together in her wild expression, she was both terrible and magnificent. The flames of her passion had given her a fearful, feral beauty, like that of a ravening she-wolf leaping to the kill, or lightning striking from a storm-fraught sky. Her smooth white brow fierce, fiery hair streaming from her temples, lips drawn back in a malevolent smile of rage and dominion, she appeared a goddess of destruction – the fearsome Morrighan of the old tales could not have been more appalling in aspect and allure.