THE RITE OF CHALLENGE

PETER VALENTINE TIMLETT

A dark barge towed by twelve bearded and fierce-eyed knights crept down the west coast of Britain from Caledonia in the far north. Down through the Sound of Jura it came, hugging the coast which knew of ancient Ardifuir, Duntroon, and Druim an Duin, down past Kintyre and across open sea past dour Crammag Head and down past the dreaded Isle of Manx to skirt the coast of Wales. Ever southward it grimly came, past the Isle of Mona which bore within its bosom the whitened bones of slaughtered Druids, round Bardsley Isle and across the fierce-watered bay to South Wales, round Skomer Island, and at last turned east into the wide channel whose southern shore was the wild sea marshes of south-west Britain, and nosed cautiously up the sluggish marsh river that led to Wearyall Hill, the outlying buttress of Avalon near to Glastonbury Tor.

For the most part of that wild journey a woman had stood grimly silent in the prow of the boat, her black hair and cloak blowing about her as the wind sought to drag her into the merciless sea. When the barge finally came to the jetty at Ponter’s Ball she bade the sailor-knights make camp and wait for her return. She then left them and skirted Wearyall Hill until she came to the ancient chalybeate well close to Glastonbury Tor. There, in a cluster of crude stone-built hermit cells, she greeted the twelve who had waited her coming.

“Welcome, Mistress,” said the senior of the twelve priestesses. “You have come more quickly than we had dared hoped.”

The woman nodded. “Fortunately I was able to leave immediately. Is the prisoner still safely held?”

The priestess nodded towards one of the cells. “Naked and bound, but we have neither questioned him further, nor harmed him, but waited your coming.”

“Good.” The woman stared briefly at the sky. “It will be dark soon. Light the fire. We will talk after supper.”

As the priestesses busied themselves with their task the woman walked across to the well. She cast forth her cloak and other garments and stood for a moment staring down at the reflection of her nakedness. Then from her bull’s-hide carrying-bag she drew forth a heavy, all-enveloping, midnight blue ritual robe and drew it about herself. She then took out a garter of red eastern silk, a symbol recognized throughout the land as the insignia of a high priestess of the Elder Faith, and fastened it around her left thigh beneath her robe. This finished she joined her companions at supper. During the meal itself she forbade any serious talk but when they had finished she commanded the fire to be replenished, and the flames leapt high in the evening darkness and illuminated the thirteen faces in an eerie glow.

“Firstly, what news of the black-robes?”

On the far side of the Tor was the tiny Christian church of Glastonbury whose priests wore robes of black. For nearly five centuries an uneasy truce had existed between the newly emerged church of Christ and the ancient Elder Faith, both of whom were determined to hold their place at Glastonbury. The enmity would have been expressed openly long ago had it not been for the fact that of the five centuries four had been lived under Roman occupation when both Christian and Elder Faith alike had to pay lip service to Mithraism and the Roman Imperial Cult. But on the departure of the Romans the enforced truce had been growing more and more uneasy.

The senior priestess spread her hands. “Nothing has changed since your last visit. They go about their business and studiously ignore us. It is as though they seek to convince themselves that we do not even exist.”

“And the prisoner?”

“In a ritual some weeks ago, using the well as a mirror, we saw him coming in this direction. We recognized him as Silvanus from Merlin’s group, and since you asked us to keep watch on the wizard’s activities in this area we watched him closely.”

“And?”

The woman shrugged. “Priests after the Order of Merlin are difficult to read, as you know. We knew that he was coming to see the Christian monks but we could not tell why. His purpose was deliberately hidden within his mind, and guarded. On the grounds that only the valuable is specially guarded we decided to detain him and put him to the question. He arrived two days later and we were able to capture him before he could announce his arrival.”

“So the monks do not know we have him?”

“Correct. Obviously his arrival was not expected.”

“Did you seek outside help to capture him?”

“No, he is no longer young and we are twelve.”

The High Priestess relaxed a trifle and even smiled. “You have done well,” she said softly. “So what is the purpose of his visit?”

The woman hesitated. The others of the twelve stared at the ground and could not meet their Mistress’s eyes. “We do not know,” the senior confessed.

The High Priestess frowned. “You put the question?” she said sharply.

“Repeatedly – for a week – but he remained obdurate, and so we sent for you.”

The Pythoness pursed her lips thoughtfully. There were few indeed who could withstand the ritual question of the Elder Faith. “From whence does he draw his strength to resist?” she said suddenly.

The twelve visibly relaxed. They had feared her anger but were now reassured. “We do not know but we suspect from Merlin himself.”

“Does the wizard know we have him?”

“No, not as far as we can tell.”

The High Priestess was silent, lost in thought. “You have done well,” she said suddenly. “No blame attaches to you. Tend the fire and bring the prisoner here.”

Two of the juniors leapt to feed the fire and stir it into fresh life, and the senior priestess and two others went to fetch the prisoner.

Naked, his hands tied behind him, Silvanus was brought stumbling into the firelight. His grey, almost white, hair was matted and his wrists were dark with dried blood from the chafing of the thongs.

“Unbind him, bring water to bathe him, and give him his cloak,” the Pythoness commanded.

The senior priestess slipped a knife beneath the thongs and cut them, and Silvanus grimaced with pain as the blood began to circulate. The two juniors brought a bowl and washed his face and wrists, and covered his nakedness with his robe. All this while Silvanus kept his eyes lowered and uttered no word.

“My handmaidens were over-zealous in their guardianship,” the High Priestess said, “but we intend you no cruelty. All we need to know, indeed will know, is the purpose of your visit.”

The monk did not reply and still kept his eyes lowered. Ever since his capture he had known that his best chance lay in saying as little as possible, and above all not to look at their eyes. He had not even given a single glance to this new arrival, but there was something in the voice that was familiar.

“You may safely look upon my face, Silvanus,” the voice said. “I will not beguile you. I have other methods of making men talk.”

Curiosity, and the utter confidence in the woman’s voice, made him risk a glance, and as he recognized her his heart sank.

“Yes, you are right,” said the woman, “I am Morgan le Fay, wife to King Uryens of Gore, half-sister to King Arthur, Pythoness in the Order of Theutates, High Priestess of the Elder Faith. Many a time when I was a girl I sat in your teaching circle to learn your philosophies, but it has been many a year since Morgan le Fay graced your meetings.”

“Witch-Queen!” he burst out. “You will learn naught from me. I will die first!”

The woman shrugged. “Having knowledge of the Elder Faith you know perfectly well that one of senior grade such as myself can read the mind of a man as his soul leaves his body at the moment of death. So you can either tell me now and live, or reveal it all as you die. It matters little to me either way.”

Silvanus knew that such a thing was certainly claimed, but he had no way of knowing whether it was true or merely a ploy to frighten the gullible. “I do not believe that you can do any such thing,” he said slowly.

Morgan le Fay smiled a horribly ominous smile. “You now have the opportunity to put the matter to the test,” she said confidently. She rose and gathered her robe about her. “You have the night hours to ponder your dilemma. At dawn you will tell me, one way or the other.” She turned to the senior priestess. “Bind him and guard him. Have all in readiness an hour before dawn,” and she turned and walked away into the darkness towards the hermit cells.

Within minutes the fire had been doused and Silvanus had been returned, bound, to his cell, two priestesses set to guard his door, and all grew quiet, a silence wherein his thoughts raced frantically seeking an avenue of escape from his predicament.

The matter was simple of definition but not so simple of solution. If Morgan le Fay could really do what she claimed then there was no point in throwing his life away. He might just as well tell her voluntarily and live. But could she? He had no fear of death itself, though he was apprehensive about the manner of dying, but neither was he prepared to end this incarnation without good reason.

Time and again during that long night he tried to contact Merlin on the inner, but failed. Presumably he and Arthur were already on their way to Avalon, travelling at night, in which case it was nearly too late for Morgan le Fay to interfere anyway.

The settlement was astir before first light. They came for him a little before dawn and took him to the chalybeate well at the foot of the Tor; the well whose iron-laden waters rose from the oldest rocks and whose flow never altered, summer or winter, flood or drought. On the surface of the water, and indeed below it, floated a misty mass of rare red water-fungus that some said gave rise to the name of Blood Spring, though others said the name sprang from a darker, more gruesome reason.

Above the well-head was built a chamber of great blocks of stone such as were used at Stonehenge, the great stone circle some few miles away. A single block of stone formed three sides of the well-mouth, a stone whose masonry filled with the closest accuracy, true square and perfectly perpendicular. The round well-shaft led down some fifteen feet to a bed of blue lias gravel through which rose the powerful and never-failing spring.

Opening out of the well-shaft just below the surface of the water was a large chamber of finely hewn stone. In one wall of that chamber was a recess in which a man could just stand. To one side was a sluice which enabled the water to be run off so that the inner chamber could be entered. When the sluice was closed the well would rapidly refill so that once more the chamber and its recess would be below the surface. Into the wall of the recess were set four huge iron staples to which a man or a woman might be bound. As Silvanus was brought to the well he could see that the sluice was open and that the well was rapidly emptying.

“As you probably know,” said Morgan le Fay calmly, “at dawn today, Midsummer’s Day, as the sun rounds the shoulder of the Tor a shaft of light shines straight into that inner chamber. Let us hope that it illumines your mind as well as your face so that you may make the right decision.”

“And if my decision does not please you,” said Silvanus drily, “no doubt you will then close the sluice and allow the well to refill with me still bound within it.”

The High Priestess shrugged. “The choice is yours.” She looked at him with some compassion. “You are a good man, Silvanus, one who is sympathetic to the Elder Faith, and I do not wish to see you die. Tell me the purpose of your visit, and live.” He shook his head and said nothing. Morgan le Fay sighed and turned to her senior priestess. “Take him and tie him in the recess.”

The well was now empty and the priestess led their prisoner down the rough-hewn ancient stone steps into the well itself, into the inner chamber, and fastened him by thongs to the iron staples in the recess. This done she looked up at Morgan le Fay for instructions. The High Priestess glanced at the sky. “Don’t be a martyr, Silvanus. Tell me now before it is too late,” but again Silvanus shook his head.

Morgan le Fay reluctantly gave the sign and the senior priestess pulled on the lever that let fall the wedge-shaped piece of stone that blocked the sluice-way, and immediately the water began to rise. Hastily the senior and two junior priestesses scrambled up the stone steps to safety, the hems of their robes already soaking wet from the rapidly rising water. As they scrambled clear the sun’s first ray lanced from behind the Tor and struck into the inner chamber and into the recess and lit up the monk’s face, but the water was already swirling about his knees and rapidly rising higher.

Silvanus had made his decision some time earlier. Merlin must already be well into his dawn ritual at Avalon. By delaying matters until now he had successfully thwarted the Witch-Queen’s plans. It was now time to save himself.

“Very well, Witch-Queen,” he cried out, the water now to his waist. “You win. I will tell you all you wish to know. Release me!”

Morgan le Fay leant over the well-head. “Tell me first, then I will release you,” she said calmly.

“It will be too late.”

“Then die, monk,” she said.

The water was now halfway between his waist and his chest. “All right, all right. I came to inform the Christian monks that Merlin is planning to place the sword Excalibur in the hand of the Christian king, Arthur Pendragon.”

So that was it! She leaned further over. “When?”

“Today – now – at dawn. You are already too late, Witch-Queen. Now I hold you to your vow. Release me.”

For a fleeting moment Morgan le Fay was tempted to let him drown, but she rose and said: “Release him, quickly.”

Three of the junior priestesses plunged into the well and swam into the inner chamber to the recess. By the time they arrived the water was up above his chest and reaching for his chin. Two of them dived beneath the surface to free the thongs that bound his ankles, and the third trod water and supported his head.

“Quickly!” he gasped. “Quickly!” He felt one leg go free but the other remained fast. The swirling water reached above his chin and he strained his head upwards.

“Take a deep breath,” the priestess cried, “and don’t struggle.”

One of the two below the surface came up for air. “We cannot free the other one!” she gasped. “The thongs are too tight.”

In that moment Silvanus took a last despairing breath as the water came up over his mouth and covered his head completely, reaching the roof of the actual recess itself and within a foot of the ceiling of the entire inner chamber.

The second priestess came up for air and handed the knife to the first who now dived below the surface again. The body of the monk was thrashing wildly, making it difficult for her to reach the trapped leg. Several of the thongs were cut but there were still two to go. Suddenly the body gave a final lunge and then was still. Frantically she sawed at the thongs regardless of whether she was cutting through flesh or not, and at last they parted. She gathered her feet to the floor and thrust herself to the surface.

In the meantime the other two priestesses had released his arms but in his last paroxysm he had grasped hold of both of them and they could not release his grip no matter how frantically they struggled. By this time the water had reached so high that as the third priestess shot to the surface she smashed her head a sickening blow against the rock ceiling of the inner chamber, driving the breath from her body. In her dazed state she tried to breathe but took in more water than air, and in those last few seconds the water reached the ceiling. She turned towards the opening of the large chamber and the open surface beyond but the struggling group were in her way, and as she tried to squeeze past she became caught up in their furious thrashing. For a further full half-minute the four danced a macabre dance of death below the surface – and then they danced no more.

At the well-head the others had seen the terrible predicament but had not dared at first to interfere lest they add to the confusion. When the surfacing priestess smashed her head Morgan le Fay snapped her fingers and three more priestesses plunged into the well, but by the time they had dived and reached the inner chamber the group had already become still. But there was still time to save them if they could get them out quickly.

The doomed four were now floating hard up against the rough-hewn ceiling of the inner chamber, and as the rescuers tried to pull them those few precious feet to the open surface their robes caught against spurs of rock and held them fast. Furiously the rescuers struggled to free them, but then had to desist and return for air. Three times they dived and three times they struggled but all to no avail, and Morgan le Fay signalled for them to abandon the attempt lest they too became snagged, and they came dripping out of the well, their robes flattened wetly against their bodies, their hair matted into thick wet ropes.

The well was now full and the water was quiet and peaceful. Fifteen feet below the surface they could see see the bed of blue lias gravel, and in the water and on the surface lazily floated the misty clouds of red water-fungus. The sun’s rays, stronger now, lanced into the inner chamber and lit up with motes of gold the four who now floated serenely, clasped together below the surface of Chalybeate Well.

Merlin deplored the enmity between the old and the new, for to him Christianity was but an extension of the Elder Faith into the new age, both were stretches of the same river of spiritual thought and thus sprang from the same source and were headed in the same direction for the same reason. But each considered the other to be a blasphemy and in such a climate it was impossible for the seed of co-operation to take root.

The great symbol of the Christian Church at Glastonbury was the Cup that Joseph had brought to Britain, the very one that Jesus had used at the last meal with his disciples. Monks then hid it deep within the Tor in a secret chamber guarded by three pure maidens to prevent it being profaned by the Romans or blasphemed by the Elder Faith. This was the Cup of Avalon.

The great symbol of the Elder Faith at Glastonbury was the sword of Excalibur, secreted below the lake in the halls of the Lady of Avalon, the Lady of the Lake, and there it was guarded by the three goddess-queens. This was the Sword of Avalon.

Merlin was neither Christian nor of the Elder Faith, for he was of that company that transcends both and knew that both the Sword and the Cup were archetypal symbols of the same spiritual power and that if they could be used in conjunction with one another then the way could be gloriously opened for the Most Holy Grail of God to descend to earth and remain there permanently for all men to see for all time. But the Elder Faith was dying because it refused to recognize and accept the Cup, and Christianity was already sterile and would last but a short impotent time in the evolution of mankind because it refused to accept and wield the Sword.

“What is Avalon?” said Arthur as he and Merlin rode through the night. “It is a strange place. I have been there several times and each time my dreams are filled with the most curious imagery.”

Merlin patted the horse’s neck as he rode. “It is the holiest earth in Britain. It is many things to many different types of soul. It is that part of your realm where the veil to the inner is thinnest. There has not been a phase in the spiritual story of our race that did not involve Glastonbury and Avalon. Its influence twines like a golden thread throughout the story of these islands. Even the most ancient of the folk-stories, those that are full of deep spiritual significance to those whose hearts are tuned to their key, are linked to the spiritual pulse of Glastonbury.”

“But what of Stonehenge? I thought that was the sacred centre of our race.”

Merlin nodded. “Cor Gaur, to give it its ancient time, has been the sacred centre of the outward religious life of the people for some four thousand years, but Glastonbury was always its secret heart. One of the secret Green Roads of the soul, the mystic way, leads through the hidden door of Avalon into a land known only to the eye of vision. There is the Avalon of the Cup and the Avalon of the Sword, as I have told you, but this mystic way is known as the Avalon of the Heart. This mystic Avalon lives her hidden life, invisible save to those who have the key to the gates of vision. Glastonbury is a gateway to the unseen. It has been a holy place from time immemorial, and to this day it sends its ancient call into the heart of the race it guards, and still we answer to its inner voice. Since you are the true king, Arthur, then your heart already knows all there is to know of Avalon.”

The trackway wound its ancient way, worn by wandering feet and hooves that sought firm ground. In the east the sky had already begun to lighten as king and priest breasted the last barrier of hills and descended towards the alluvial salt-marshes. Ahead of them the wide flat land stretched out in the early grey light to the sea beyond, hidden in the mist of distance. One side of the plain was guarded by the Polden Hills, and the other by the Mendips. Here and there on the plain itself rose sudden hills called “islands” by the local peasantry, for much of the plain was often below water. As Merlin and Arthur descended the slopes to the lower levels they could see that in the middle of the plain rose the grey pyramidal hill crowned by a tower, the Tor of Glastonbury itself, and beside the Tor rose the dreaming green hill called Chalice Hill, and beyond it, they knew, lay the magical Lake of Avalon.

“The Christian monks have their settlement at the foot of the Tor,” said Merlin, “and Morgan le Fay, your half-sister, leads a cult of the Elder Faith upon the slopes of Chalice Hill, but we will avoid both until we have done what we came to do.”

They descended onto the plain and picked their way along the ancient trackway that wound across the salt-marsh levels, skirting both Tor and Chalice Hill until they came to the reed-banked Lake of Avalon beyond. There they wearily tethered their horses and waited by the water’s edge for the coming of the sun.

“It seems deserted,” said Arthur presently.

Merlin smiled. “The Lady of the Lake knows that we are here, and why. She will come to us.”

Arthur said nothing but his heart was full of doubt. He tethered his horse and sat on the grassy bank, his back propped against a wind-stunted bush. His body shivered in the chill air, and he pulled his cloak more closely around him. There were times when he wished himself back with his foster-father Sir Hector, to be as he used to be, a carefree youth, squire to his foster-brother Sir Kay. As king he had expected to be in command of all around him, but with this priestly magic and ritual he felt as a dry leaf blown by strange winds into strange lands that he did not understand.

He sighed and closed his eyes for a few moments and saw himself as he had been at the castle, working in the kitchen, tending the horses in the great stables, or polishing Kay’s armour. As a boy he had been at everyone’s beck and call from dawn to dusk – aye, and beyond dusk when the great hall rang to the drunken laughter of visiting knights and squires when he had been required to serve mead to the great table – and yet in a strange way he had felt in control of his life and had understood his small world and his place in it. But then had come that fateful journey to London when magic had first invaded his soul. There were times when he bitterly regretted ever having seen that sword in the stone. From that moment his life had become no longer his own.

He opened his eyes, and as the sun rounded the Tor behind them and lit up the surface of the lake he saw to his astonishment that across his lap lay a finely jewelled sword and scabbard of surpassing beauty and craftsmanship. He took the hilt in his hand and immediately he was as one with the sword and felt its strength flowing through him. He looked up. “But what is . . .” he began, but Merlin was already gathering his horse.

“Come,” said the wizard sternly, “we may not delay.”

“But the sword? What . . .”

“That,” said Merlin, springing to saddle with an agility surprising in one no longer young, “is Excalibur. It is given into your keeping for a little while by the Lady of the Lake,” and he swung the horse’s head and cantered away.

Arthur struggled to his feet and girdled the scabbard about his waist. For a moment he paused, gazing at the sword, hefting its balance and scything it around him in a practice swing – and nodded in wonder. As king he had fine swords a-plenty, but nothing like this – a king among swords, fit for a king.

By the time he gathered his horse Merlin was already a good distance away and Arthur galloped after him. “Merlin,” he shouted, “Merlin!” but the wizard paid no heed. Arthur urged his horse to full gallop and came up behind the wizard and pulled to a stop in a flurry of stamping hooves. “MERLIN!” he bellowed with as much authority as the tone of his young voice could muster.

The wizard pulled his horse around and stood waiting, eyeing the youth. For some long moments king and wizard stared at each other, and then Merlin smiled inwardly and came trotting back. “Sometimes,” said Arthur coldly, “you forget who is king here.”

Merlin shook his head. “I forget nothing. What is it you wish of me . . . your majesty?”

Arthur patted Excalibur’s hilt. “Explain.”

Merlin shrugged. “What profit me to explain what you already know?”

“I know nothing,” snapped Arthur. “I closed my eyes for a few moments and when I opened them the sword was there – explain.”

“They were merely your physical eyes, your outer eyes. You must learn, Arthur, to hear with your inner ears and see with your inner eyes, for there are things to hear and see that are not of this plane of existence.”

Arthur sighed irritably. “I have but one pair of eyes and they saw nothing.”

The wizard brought his horse closer to Arthur’s. “If you cannot veil the physical world with your own effort of will then close your outer eyes so that you may see,” and he reached across and drew his hand down the young king’s eyes, closing the lids. “Picture the scene as you saw it, Arthur,” he whispered. “See the lake, see the reeds bend and sway in the dawn wind. Do you see, Arthur, do you see?”

And Arthur strove to see through the mist that veiled the inner. “Yes, yes, I seem to see – the lake, the water rippling.”

“Do you not see the dark barge creeping towards us, towards the shore where we stood?”

“Yes, yes,” whispered Arthur, “I see it,” and for a moment he really did see the barge, dark and sombre, gliding silently towards them.

“Whom do you see in the barge, Arthur?” said Merlin softly. “How many?” He saw the young king’s brow furrow as he strained to see. “Relax, do not strain – let the images rise, do not force them. Relax, Arthur, and tell me what you see.”

“There are two figures in the barge,” and Merlin’s countenance darkened sadly, “no, three, I see three,” and Merlin nodded.

“Describe them,” he said sternly.

“They are dark,” whispered Arthur, “three dark queens.”

“Why do you call them queenly?”

“Because they wear ancient crowns upon their heads.”

Merlin nodded, knowing now that Arthur saw truly. “Aye, ancient crowns they are, older then time, for they are the three goddess-queens who guard Excalibur.” He placed his hands on either side of the king’s head. “Look now beyond the queens, do you not see, there across the water, towards the middle of the lake – do you see? – do you see the arm rising from the water?”

And Arthur stared, and in wonderment saw that an arm clad in white samite had risen above the surface, the hand grasping a finely jewelled sword and scabbard.

“And that is the sword Excalibur,” said Merlin calmly, “and here comes the Lady of the Lake and her sister queens,” and Arthur saw the dark barge come to rest gently on the reedy bank where the mortal men were waiting, and saw three dark queens come ashore.

“Tell me what you see,” whispered Merlin.

“I see . . . I see one of the queens step forward and address you in sombre tones.”

“And what does she say?”

And Arthur, king, sat on his horse, his eyes tight shut, and saw and heard the matters that few dream of. “She says ‘Who is this who crosses the portal of the mysteries of Avalon?’”

“And what do I reply?”

And in his vision Arthur saw Merlin bow low and answer in grave manner. “One who seeks the sword Excalibur in order to be the better equipped to serve God and Man.”

“By what right does that one so seek?”

“By right of being the true Christian king of all Britain.”

“And who shall vouch that his claim is true and just?”

Then Arthur saw the wizard draw himself up and his voice was vibrantly powerful. “I, Merlin, Arch-Mage of all Britain, Priest after the Order of Melchisadek, do so solemnly swear and vouch that his claim is true and just.”

The Lady of the Lake acknowledged Merlin with a slight bow and turned to the fearful king. “Arthur Pendragon,” the vision said, “why do you seek to know the Sword?”

And Arthur tore his eyes open. “No, no!” he cried, and his horse shied and skittered away. “These things are images, dreams, strange scenes that wizards put in the minds of men for their own purpose.”

Merlin came after him and gentled the nervous horse – and king. “It is not so,” he said softly. “You shied away because you suddenly saw that it was so, that what you saw was true. Shhhhh, hush now, close your eyes, Arthur Pendragon, and see again. Look now and see yourself as you answered the Lady of the Lake,” and Merlin closed the king’s eyes.

And Arthur saw the Lady and heard again the question, and saw himself answer her. “I desire to know in order to serve,” he whispered, using ritual words that he had not known he knew.

“Worthily answered, King of all Britain,” said the goddess-queen, “you may safely embark upon the Lake of Avalon, for where the heart is pure and single no evil can enter. Excalibur shall be yours for a time if you vow that it shall be returned from whence it came when you can no longer wield it truly, or no longer wield it at all in earthly life.”

“I do so swear,” said Arthur.

“Then take thou my barge and cross the waters of Avalon and take the most ancient of swords.”

Again Arthur wrenched his eyes open. “It is not true. This way lies madness – madness!”

Merlin gripped him fiercely. “It is the truest experience of your life. Do not deny it – do not deny. Do you not remember how I led you onto the barge and sat you in the prow? And do you not remember how the vessel moved across the water under its own power and drew alongside the mysterious arm?”

“And I drew back in fear,” whispered Arthur. “I remember, I remember. You laid your hand on my shoulder and I took heart and grasped the sword and the scabbard firmly, and immediately the strange and eerie arm, clad in white samite, disappeared below the surface, and the barge returned gently to the shore.”

“And we stepped ashore together, you and I, king and priest,” said Merlin, “but there was no sign of the three dark queens, and when we turned we saw that the barge too had vanished, leaving the lake as still and empty as when we had first arrived. Do you remember, Arthur, do you remember?”

And Arthur Pendragon, King of All Britain, remembered and his heart was uplifted by joy and wonderment.

“But was it real?” said Arthur. “Or was it a dream?”

Merlin grunted sourly as they turned the horses away. “Sometimes I despair of this world.”

Arthur brought his horse alongside as they made their way up the trackway. “Well, was it?”

“Each plane has its own reality,” grunted Merlin. “To the uninitiated it is the physical plane that seems to be the only reality, all else being a dream, imagination, a vision. When he moves upon another plane then the events that occur on that plane are equally real to him. Only when he returns to the physical plane does he begin to doubt and question the reality of his experience.”

“Yes, but . . .”

“No, no ‘buts’,” said Merlin firmly. “Did you not see the dark queens? Did you not hear the Lady of the Lake when she spoke to you? Did you not smell the incense that lingered on the barge? Did you not taste the salt spray that blew in your face as we moved across the water? And did you not feel the touch of that mysterious hand as you took the sword from its grasp?”

“Yes, all these things seemed real at the time.”

“Then they were real. If a watcher had been hidden in the reeds he would have seen us arrive, sit for a few minutes, and then ride away again. He would not have seen the three queens, the barge, or the arm, and certainly he wouldn’t have seen us cross the water.”

“He would have seen the sword,” said Arthur shrewdly.

Merlin nodded. “Yes, he would have seen the sword in your hand as you stood at the water’s edge and perhaps wondered why he had not noticed it before – that is all.” He shook his head warningly. “Try not to reject the reality of this experience, or you will be the poorer for its loss.”

“But I am not a priest or a wizard,” said Arthur. “To me these things are dreams, visions. It is natural that I should question their reality.”

“Very well,” said Merlin sourly, “if you must question the truest experience of your life, then ask yourself this – if it was all unreal, untrue, mere imagination, then where did the sword come from?” and he spurred his horse and cantered on ahead.

As Merlin breasted the rise he saw on a further ridge at the foot of Chalice Hill a figure standing motionless. Although it was too far for recognition the wizard knew that it was Morgan le Fay, looking for him, and that she was the bearer of no good tidings. He waited for Arthur to catch up with him and then said shortly: “I must leave you for a while. Return to Cadbury. I will join you there as soon as I can.”

Arthur looked at the distant figure but asked no questions. He had had enough of the priestly world for one day. “So be it, then,” he said, and with the wondrous sword and scabbard at his waist he rode away.

Merlin waited until he was out of sight and then set his horse towards the distant ridge. When he drew near he reined the horse and leant forward in the saddle. “Greetings, Morgan le Fay,” he said grimly. “Our paths have crossed many times on the inner, but this is the first that we have met on the outer for twenty years, not since a small girl threatened me in the courtyard of Cadbury Castle.”

“Things might have been different, Merlin, had you heeded me then,” she retorted.

“Perhaps. Who can say? But what of now? I fear you have grim news for me, if I read the signs correctly.”

She looked up at him and nodded. “Though not of my choosing, or my intent, nevertheless I am responsible for the death of your priest, Silvanus, and of three of my own priestesses,” and she told him of the tragically ironic accident that had occurred at dawn that very morning.

When she had finished they both remained silent for some time. Presently Merlin said heavily: “You owe a debt to the souls of the dead which you will have to repay in full measure, Morgan le Fay, and your act of murder is also a crime against the life-force itself.”

“Not so. I acknowledge the debt to those who died, but not to the life-force, for their deaths were an accident, not murder, indeed three gave their lives in an attempt to rescue the priest.”

“Yes, to rescue him from the predicament in which you had placed him.”

“His obstinacy was of his own choosing. Tragically he delayed too long. I am the cause of his death but I am not guilty of his murder.”

Merlin shook his head grimly. “You argue a fine point, Morgan le Fay, but it is not for me to lay judgement upon you. You are answerable to the One, as indeed are we all, and you will find that the scales will not fall in your favour. But that judgement will come to you at another time and in another place. In the meantime I have lost a friend and a priest, and you have lost three priestesses, four lives utterly wasted for no good reason, for even if you had known of my purpose there was nothing that you could have done about it.”

“Don’t underestimate my powers, Merlin.”

“I don’t, but neither do I rate them as highly as you do yourself. You are the High Priestess of the Elder Faith and as such you owe allegiance to the Lady of the Lake whose powers are infinitely greater than yours. I can scarce believe that you would have had the temerity to oppose your own goddess in this matter. Since the Lady of Avalon was willing to hand the Sword to Arthur what on earth do you think you could have done to stop it?”

“I only know this, Merlin,” said Morgan le Fay calmly, “that I will do anything and everything in my small power to prevent the Sword remaining in the hands of a Christian king, for to me it is the ultimate blasphemy. We of the Elder Faith have served the One faithfully for thousands of years, but these so-called Christians call us evil and thus blaspheme the Great One. I wish that they could be plunged into the fires of the inner earth and be thus wiped from the face of the earth and all their blasphemy with them.”

“Do you then oppose the Christ?” cried Merlin.

“No. He is of the Star Logoi, a great one from beyond the Veils of Limitless Light. I do not oppose the manifestation of the One, but I do oppose with all my being these so-called Christians who are no true servants of the Christ.”

They both fell silent for some time, and then presently Merlin said quietly and sadly: “For all my perception I can see no resolution to this confrontation. The Cup and the Sword should be as one, for Christianity and the Elder Faith are but two different parts of the same path to the Throne of God. But one will destroy the other and in so doing the destroyer will sow the seeds of its own ultimate destruction. There is opportunity now for the Most Holy Grail of God to descend into earth itself for all men to behold and be uplifted by its glory, but it cannot descend while such confrontation exists.”

Morgan le Fay shook her head. “You are wrong, Merlin. The time has not yet come for such a manifestation, and you blaspheme in attempting to bring it to pass before its allotted time.”

“There is no allotted time. All that is needed is for men’s hearts to cry out for its coming and it will surely come, but for as long as you and those like you oppose its coming then it will not be perceived except by the very few. Your intentions are good, Morgan le Fay, for you do but seek to serve the One, but you are so very wrong in your assessment of these matters.”

The High Priestess gathered her robe more closely about her. “It is not I who is wrong, Merlin, but yourself, but you are too blind to see it.”

Merlin sighed wearily knowing that nothing more could be said, and an hour later he rode away with the body of Silvanus across his saddle, leaving Morgan le Fay to bury her own dead.

A full moon rode high over Chalice Hill. A few wisps of wind-driven cloud scurried across its face. Dark trees rustled their leaves and black bushes crouched in the shadows. The night was foreboding, ominous, the shadows made more menacing by contrast to the silver radiance of the moon.

In the hollow at the foot of the hill Morgan le Fay, robed in blue, stood with arms upraised to the night sky. Her eyes were closed and her lips moved soundlessly. For a long time she remained thus, unmoving save for the silent words of prayer, and then she lowered her arms, made a deep obeisance to the moon, and then moved gracefully and soft-footed to the ancient and most holy well that nestled at the foot of the sacred hill.

Another woman rose to meet her, she too robed as a priestess. The High Priestess knelt by the rim of the well and motioned the woman to kneel by her side. Together, silently they gazed into the still waters which reflected the Queen herself and the far-riding stars, but the two priestesses did not see the earthly images for with an ease born of long practice they had adjusted their eyes slightly out of focus, creating as it were a cloudy mirror in which the inner images could rise.

“O Queen of the Night,” murmured the High Priestess, “Daughter of the Lord of All, hearken to me, thy Priestess in Earth. Uncloud my eyes that I may see the foul deeed of thine enemies that I may strike them down in the midst of their blasphemy.”

The cloudy surface moved as though stirred from within. Morgan le Fay bent a little closer, her brow furrowed to a frown at what she saw. The day was clear and bright, the sky a summer blue, the trees and grass that vivid green that comes from bursting life, and there in the image, winding its way between the hills, was an ancient trackway along which a score of men and six great horses struggled with some monstrous object in tow. Two knights directed the labours and by their helms she knew them to be from the court of King Lodegreaunce, long-time friend to King Arthur. The peasants struggled and cursed, and the horses’ flanks steamed with sweat, their eyes rolling and their nostrils flaring. Strapped and roped to the great cart was a massive wooden flat-topped contraption which she could not at first identify, and then when recognition finally dawned the vision faded and vanished.

For a long time the two priestesses remained silent. “What did you see?” said the second woman.

The High Priestess looked at her sharply and then pursed her lips in dissatisfaction. “I would have been happier had you seen it too, then I would have known that it was a true vision.”

“But what was it you saw?”

“Two of King Lodegreaunce’s knights and a score of peasants and six great horses struggling along a trackway with a monstrous great round table.”

“Ah,” said her companion, “I know about that table. I heard the tale from a master craftsman who was but lately at Castle Camylarde. Lodegreaunce commissioned the table as a wedding gift to Arthur. It is similar to one that used to belong to Arthur’s father, Uthr Pendragon, before it was destroyed by fire. The present one, I hear, is based on the same design but far larger.”

“But why round?”

The woman shrugged. “Who knows? The original table was designed by Merlin, I believe, who also suggested this present model to Lodegreaunce.”

Morgan le Fay frowned even more deeply. “If that arch-fiend is involved then there is mischief afoot that bodes no good for the Elder Faith. But why . . .” She broke off sharply as a sudden revelation burst within her mind. “Oh, of course – the Table Round!”

“The what?”

Morgan le Fay snapped her fingers impatiently. “The Round Table of Glory. It was a concept known to the early Druids though there were no rituals based on it. It was considered far too early in human evolution to attempt to manifest such a concept in earth, even by having a physical plane symbol of it.” She rose to her feet suddenly. “The Company of Just Men Made Perfect. It is one of the great inner plane symbols of a time in the far future when mankind will have reached the zenith of its evolution. At each seat at that table is a figure representing the perfected example of each type of human soul, and collectively they represent the totality of God’s concept of humanity. And from the centre of that table springs the living essence of the godhead itself, overflowing a great golden chalice from which all at the Table may drink to thus achieve fusion with the living God – and another name for that Chalice is the Holy Grail. Now I understand the whole of Merlin’s dream, the fool!”

“I don’t understand.”

“It is simple. He is having that great round table installed at Camelot, and at it will sit the very best of Arthur’s knights. Because it is a symbol of the inner Table he hopes that the knights will be inspired to emulate the great archetypal figures who sit at the real Table on the inner. If contact is established between symbol and that which it symbolizes then the power will begin to flow, and if that flow is maintained without corruption it is possible that the Holy Grail itself will be drawn into the earth sphere and will appear in the centre of the Round Table for all the knights to see. The fool, he knows not the power with which he meddles!”

Her companion frowned. “Forgive me, Mistress, but it sounds like a worthy enough ambition to me.”

Morgan le Fay grunted irritably. “You of all people, Netzah, should understand the danger, for you are responsible for the ritual training of all the junior seeresses and priestesses in the Elder Faith. You know better than most that a priestess, or a priest for that matter, makes of herself a vessel to hold the power that she invokes, and if she is untrained or too junior for that particular ritual then the flow of power will shatter the vessel.”

“Ah, yes, sometimes death, though more usually a form of insanity.”

“Yes, insanity, that type of insanity that causes a schism between the soul and the personality. Imagine the power involved in an invocation of the Round Table of Glory and the Holy Grail itself – it would be colossal – and those invoking the power would not be doing so for themselves alone. If I know Merlin he will attempt to use the Knights of the Round Table as being representative of the entire British race, perhaps even of the whole of humanity. He is certainly vain enough for that.”

“And if it fails?”

Morgan le Fay shook her head. “I shudder to think. A form of racial insanity probably, a gigantic abyss between the Group Soul and the Group Mind of the race. Such a failure could herald a dark age that could last for centuries. It might even permanently prevent the Holy Grail from ever being able to manifest in earth. It is too early, far too early. The irresponsible old fool may cause untold damage to the spiritual life of the race.”

“But what can we do?”

“In the long term, sow the seeds of corruption amongst Arthur’s knights to prevent any contact between the symbol and the inner reality. Bring about the death of Arthur, or get rid of Merlin, or both.”

“And in the short term?”

“Destroy that table, for without the symbol the work cannot even begin.”

“How?”

Morgan le Fay mused for a moment. “Are you familiar with the rituals of the Tenth and Fourteenth Keys?”

The woman frowned. “To invoke wrath and violence, yes, but those rituals are rarely used.”

“There is rarely good purpose, but there is now. If we are not too late we must destroy the table before it reaches Camelot.”

“Hold that wheel! Hold the wheel, you dolt!” Sir Agrinore spurred his horse back up the treacherous slope. “Put a stone under it. Quickly, quickly! Oh God, it’s going to run away! Hold the wheel!”

One wheel spinning free, the other momentarily lodged against a stone, the whole contraption, the giant cart and its cumbersome load, lurched sickeningly and threatened to veer off the track and plunge out of control down the side of the hill. Two peasants leapt to the wheel and hung on, and two more grabbed a large stone from the side of the trackway and raced to place it beneath the wheel. The horses reared in panic, their eyes rolling and their nostrils flaring. The man who had been holding the head of the lead horse was lifted clear off his feet and dragged into the mêlée of the panic-stricken animals. Those who were desperately clinging onto the cart felt their feet sliding away from them in the mud. Two of them left the cart and raced to control the horses. One of them scrambled between the animals to rescue his friend. A flailing hoof smashed his head and he disappeared beneath the jumble of thrashing bodies. With the stone in place the cart came to a sudden halt and the horses began to quieten down.

Sir Margryn galloped back up the slope. “What happened?” he shouted.

“Nearly went over the side,” said Agrinore. “It’s safe enough now but I don’t think we should attempt any more today. These fellows are exhausted.”

“We can’t camp on the side of a hill.”

“And we can’t go on either. If we do the whole thing will likely capsize. We might damage the table or lose it altogether, and you know what Lodegreaunce would say about that.”

“God’s curse on this wretched table!”

“Aye,” said Agrinore gloomily, “So it would seem.”

The two knights looked at the sky. Though barely mid-afternoon in early summer the day was already dark and chill. The rain teemed down, the fierce wind driving it almost horizontally into their faces. Margryn threw up his hands in exasperation. “Bright sunshine not two hours ago, and now this. It’s not natural.”

Agrinore shivered and looked about him cautiously. “I saw three ravens this morning. I knew it was an ill day.” He patted his horse’s neck soothingly. “This is Merlin’s table, and anything to do with that hell-spawned wizard bodes no good for the likes of you and I.”

“It’s the wrong shape,” said Margryn. “It’s not natural for a table to be round.” He looked again to the sky. “I say again that God’s curse is on this thing, and on us for being involved with it.”

“What do you suggest?”

“What else,” said Margryn irritably, “except to get this cursed thing to Camelot as quickly as possible and so be rid of it.”

At that moment one of the peasants came up to them, a huge fellow naked to the waist, by trade a stone-mason. His skin glistened with water and his eyes glowed redly with a sullen anger. “Aidan, the ostler, is dead,” he growled briefly. “Head cracked open like an egg. Hywell’s leg is broken.”

The two knights looked at each other. “And there’s the proof,” said Margryn grimly. “One death already. How many more to come?”

Agrinore looked up the hill. “We’ll camp under that overhanging bluff. That’ll shelter us from the worst of the rain.” He turned to the stone-mason. “When the horses are tethered and fed you can bury the fellow.”

“There’s no priest to say the words,” said the man sullenly.

“Priest? What d’you want a priest for, he’s only an ostler. Just dig a hole and drop him in. Don’t waste my time with stupid questions.” He turned back to Margryn. “Did you hear that? A priest he wants, as if he was a knight. By God he’ll be asking for a tomb next.”

It took them an hour to unhitch the six great draft-horses and get them up the slope to shelter, and to prepare such evening meal as they could in the rain-sodden conditions. After the meal the peasant buried the dead ostler on the hill-side and marked the place with a pile of stones.

“Do you see that?” said Agrinore. “A cairn no less. Lodegreaunce has been too easy with these dolts.”

The huge stone-mason, Glyndwr by name, came up to the two knights. “We have set Hywell’s leg as best we can,” he growled, “but we are no healers.”

Agrinore shrugged. “He will have to take his chance. He can travel on the cart.”

“It will kill him,” the man said simply. “It is still five days to Camelot, even if we make good time. As well as the broken bone the leg is split open from knee to crotch. If we do not get him to a healer the rotting disease will set in and he will die.”

“I can’t help that. It was his own fault. He was careless.”

“He was trying to rescue his friend.”

“That makes him a fool as well as careless.”

“There is a village near here, and the cell of a hermit healer. If we leave at first light six of us could get him there in a litter by noon and be back here by mid-afternoon.”

“And waste a day? Certainly not. He can take his chance on the cart.”

“But he will die.”

Agrinore sprang to his feet. “Great God in heaven, must I stand and argue with a peasant dolt like you! He will take his chance on the cart, I say, or stay here and rot, and if I hear one more word of argument you will taste my sword. Now get about your business and don’t bother me again.”

Glyndwr’s eyes glowed redly but he turned and strode back to his companions. Agrinore slumped back to the ground and leant back against a rock. “All this and insolent peasants too.”

Margryn looked at his friend closely. “You are nervous. I have never heard you speak like that before, particularly to one like Glyndwr. He’s the finest stone-mason for three days’ march in any direction. I always thought you liked him.”

“As a stone-mason, yes, but a few words of praise have obviously gone to his head if he thinks he can argue with his betters.”

“Hywell is a friend of his. We have been a week on this journey already, and another week to go. One more day will not matter and it might give a chance for the weather to clear.”

“What weather? Did you not say yourself that this was God’s curse? Make up your mind what you believe – bad weather or a curse.”

“Aye, God’s curse, and likely to grow heavier if we leave a man to die.”

Agrinore sprang to his feet again. “By all the demons in hell,” he shouted, his face suddenly flushed to a blotched and ugly red, “are you going to argue as well!” He glared down at his friend. “The table is going to Camelot without a moment’s delay despite every insolent peasant and stupid knight in Christendom, and if you wish to say otherwise then say it with your sword!”

For a brief second Margryn’s face was a portrait of astonishment, but then the expression changed to a sudden and uncontrollable laughter. “I have tolerated your peevishness enough for one day,” he roared, struggling to his feet and pulling at his sword.

Agrinore raised his own sword high above his head in a two-handed grip, and before Margryn was even properly on his feet he swung the blade down with all his strength and split his companion’s head from crown to neck as easily as slicing an apple in half. For one half-second of horrible suspense the mutilated body remained on its feet and then crashed heavily down amongst the rocks.

The peasants sat huddled round their fire. For a long time Agrinore remained unmoving, and then he turned and saw the men staring at him. “And the same goes for anyone else who wishes to argue,” he growled, and sheathing his sword he stamped angrily away to the far end of the rock shelf.

At first the men were silent, heads down, not looking at one another. Presently one of them stirred the fire to new life. “Sir Margryn was right,” he said shortly. “There’s an evil curse on this work.”

One of the men, older than the others, pulled his sodden tunic more closely around his body and spread his hands to the fire. “I have known Agrinore and Margryn since they were infants together. I was a body servant to Agrinore’s father. Never have I heard them speak even an angry word to each other until today.”

“It was a cowardly blow,” said one of the others.

Suddenly Glyndwr held up his hand for silence, his head cocked to one side. His sharp ear had caught a sound from further down the hill, and as he rose to his feet they saw a rider coming up the slope towards them.

“It’s Merlin,” one of them whispered.

“It’s his doing,” whispered another angrily. “Wherever there is evil, there is Merlin.”

The Arch-Mage reined his horse and slid from the saddle. He stared at the sky, the rain beating on his face and beard, knowing that elsewhere not half a mile thence in any direction the sun still shone in a bright summer’s evening. He looked back down the trackway to where the cart and its contents lay drunkenly askew, and at the muddy hoofmarks where the great horses had been brought up the slope to shelter.

He then walked a few paces and stared down at the mutilated body of Sir Margryn, then moved along the rock shelf to where Sir Agrinore lay. The sword was by its owner’s side and Merlin saw the blood on its blade. The knight made no move nor any sound. The wizard gently grasped the shoulder and turned him over, and from behind him a dozen voices gasped their surprise. Sir Agrinore was quite dead. There was no mark of a wound, but the face was mottled to so dark a colour as to be almost black. The eyes were wide open and staring, the expression frozen into a glaze of terror, the mouth horribly agape.

Merlin sighed and closed the dead knight’s eyes. He then retraced his steps back along the rock shelf, noting the mound and cairn of stones where Aidan the ostler had been buried, and then knelt by the injured Hywell and examined the broken and split leg.

Finally he walked over to the group by the fire. “All this,” he said grimly, “has been the work of sorcery. Don’t blame Sir Agrinore for he was its victim, but now there will be no further incident.” He pointed to the injured man. “Your friend must be taken to a healer, and soon.”

Glyndwr stepped forward. “I tried to tell Sir Agrinore that there is a hermit healer near here. Six of us could have him there by noon tomorrow and be back here by mid-afternoon.”

“Good, then I leave that to you, Glyndwr. We will wait your return, and then we must continue the journey, but this time I will travel with you. That table must reach Camelot. More than you can appreciate rests upon its doing so.”

For the next hour they busied themselves digging a double grave for Agrinore and Margryn. “They were friends together in life,” said Merlin, “and so shall it be in death.” Then all save Merlin rolled out their skins of fur and under a rapidly darkening sky fell thankfully to sleep.

Merlin retired to the other end of the natural shelf and sat down with his back to the rock wall. He shut his eyes and slipped from his body and rose high above the scene. For half a mile around, centred on the human encampment, was a great black writhing cloud of evil-looking vapour. The disgusting cloud trailed off to a thin black line that disappeared into the distance to the southwest. He rose a little higher and moved to each cardinal point in turn, drawing a line of force. He then, as it were, drew the ends together and set up a vibration that soon broke up the foul vapour into smaller and smaller pockets of miasma until only the thin black line was left.

Then, grimly, he faced the south-west and projected his image into the distance to the point where the vapour had originated, and there, below him, in the great stone circle, was the source of their trouble. Cor Gaur, Stonehenge: the circle had borne many a name in its four-thousand-year history, but ever it had been the great sacred centre of the Elder Faith. Ignored to their detriment by the Christian monks, feared by them if the truth were known, it was the very centre of the great web of force that radiated throughout the land. Other stone circles there were, smaller circles, hundreds of them, who knows but perhaps a thousand spread throughout the petty kingdoms that would be Arthur’s realm, all part of the great web of the earth-force that found its upwelling source at Cor Gaur. And there below him, at the centre of the web, spinning her magic, was Morgan le Fay and her twelve witch-maidens, grouped around the Hele stone, chanting one of the Elder rites.

His image drifted lower, and lower still, until it came to hover at the eastern portal. The thin line of black vapour still writhed upwards from the centre of the Hele stone, but Merlin snuffed it out at its source, and as he did so the chanting stopped and all was still.

Morgan le Fay remained still, every sense both inner and outer alert, seeking the intruder. The priestesses also neither moved nor spoke, their eyes on her – waiting. Never in her lifetime had any outsider ever broken into any ritual of hers, though occasionally a few had tried in the early years of her stewardship. She moved to the East and faced outwards, and then, pointing her long taloned finger at shoulder height in front of her, arm rigidly straight, she drew the five-pointed pentacle and uttered the ritual phrase of sealing in a vibrantly powerful voice – and then, with arms and finger still extended, she moved deosil round the Hele stone to each of the cardinal points in turn, South, West, and finally the Northern portal, effectively sealing the area. Then, returning to the centre, to the Hele stone, she intoned: “The Seals are in place. The Officers and members will keep vigil until the High Priestess returns.” She then spread herself full length up the stone and with an ease born of long practice she slipped from her body and rose on the inner.

Grim-faced, Merlin waited her coming, and when she stood before him, cold-eyed yet regal and powerful, he said sternly: “You are a stubborn woman, Morgan le Fay, with a closed mind. Two more have died because of your plots and I say that enough is enough.”

She smiled thinly, her expression as grim as his. “If we continue as we are then many more will die before this struggle is over, but the root cause of it lies with you, Merlin, not I.”

He sighed heavily. “I wish you no ill whatsoever, indeed it is my fervent wish that you abandon your opposition and join us in the quest of the Holy Grail.”

“That I will never do for the reasons I have already stated. I will continue to oppose you with every breath in my body and with every power at my disposal, for I believe with all my heart and mind that what you are doing constitutes the most colossal blunder in the whole history of human endeavour. You will fail of your ambition, Merlin, and your failure is likely to plunge humanity into a Dark Age that will cause an abyss between God and Man so vast that it may never be bridged again.”

“If that were true,” said Merlin, “then I would be the most damned human soul of all time.”

“And there at last you speak the truth,” she retorted. “But I, too, say enough is enough. Let there be an ending to our struggle. I challenge you, Merlin, by that most ancient of rituals – The Rite of Challenge. Do you accept?”

Merlin was taken aback. It was an ancient rite of the Elder Faith known only in legend. He looked across at the defiant figure before him. “That Challenge has not been issued for untold centuries,” he said slowly. “Legend has it that it was only ever issued when it was believed that the High Priestess had succumbed to being a pawn of the dark forces. It was always issued by the priestess next in order of seniority. It was a challenge as to who should control the Elder Faith – the loser would withdraw from office – or die.”

“How appropriate to our present situation,” she said coldly.

“The terms?”

She leaned forward. “If I win – and I will win, Merlin – then you will abandon your plans to manifest the Grail in Earth, you will return Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake, and you will withdraw all support from Arthur and let him find his own level.”

“And if you lose?” said the Arch-Mage softly.

She shrugged. “I will not lose, but for the record let it be known that if you triumph then I will withdraw all opposition to your plans and allow the Elder Faith to gradually sink into oblivion to henceforth be known only in the race-memory.”

Merlin nodded to himself. It was a tempting offer. His work so far had involved the coarse and vulgar path of blood and battles, but soon now, when the Round Table was established with the Knights of Honour in their places, then would begin the Quest of the Grail and matters would march with a more delicate balance. It would be of immense value to have nullified the opposition of the Elder Faith; indeed, without Morgan le Fay it might even be possible to bring Christianity and the Elder Faith together into a synthesis – the old and the new together – the Cup and Sword as one. Oh, what mystical magic could then be woven.

“I accept,” he said simply.

Morgan le Fay could scarce believe it, but quickly she said: “As challenger I have the right to choose the place of the testing.”

Merlin nodded. “So be it – choose.”

She smiled her dark smile and said softly: “Then I choose the dark caverns beyond and below the realm of the Dweller on the Threshold.” She threw up her arms in triumph. “There you will find me, Merlin – if you dare!” and she became as a mist, a wraith, a cloud of smoke that streamed downwards, downwards to the utter depths of existence.

Merlin hovered for a few minutes, and then gathering himself together he turned and created in his imagination the scene that he would need. On his left the bare rock of the mountain slopes gave way to patches of thin tough grass and wild flowers, and on his right the precipitous cliff gradually levelled out as he came down into a great plain. The beaten track ran on before him across the plain and ahead he could see the great Tauarch and beside it the moon and sickle symbol of Saturn, the Great One of the Night of Time – and there, just before the arch, set to one side of the path, was the Well.

On the well-head itself, wedged into the great stones, was an iron bowl and a skin of freshly drawn water. Merlin took the cup and raised it to his lips. The water was fresh and pure and tasted as nectar. Then he mounted the well and made his way down inside. The great slabs of stone that formed the stairway spiralled steeply downwards. There was no guard-rail, only the stygian emptiness of the central void of the well. The walls were dank and dripped moisture. Soon it was too dark to see the steps and he could only continue by sliding his foot forward to find the next stair. But below him he began to see a dim yellow light and he knew that he had passed the first of the tests. Emboldened now he stepped with more confidence, downwards, ever downwards, until he came to a tunnel opening to his left – and there, set high on the wall, was an ancient carved cresset containing a lighted flambeau. He took it and held it high, and by its light he could see below him the tunnel that led off to his left down to the cavern of the Dweller.

All was as it should be. He had trodden this ritual path many, many times and knew that the Witch-Queen would try no tricks this side of the abyss. Stepping firmly he descended and turned into the tunnel. The walls were dank and dripped moisture, and his footfall echoed eerily.

The tunnel twisted and turned its serpentine path, but ever downwards, sometimes broad and high-ceilinged, and sometimes narrow, barely the width of a man so that he had to turn and shuffle sideways, the rock ceiling pressing down upon him. Then, at last, the tunnel opened out into a vast cavern a hundred feet wide, or more, split by a gigantic chasm left to right, and from the abyss there came the far-off sounds of rumbling and groaning as though the rock itself was in such pain.

Across the abyss there stretched a rock bridge to the far side, and there in the centre of the bridge was a swirling, writhing cloud of dark grey vapour waiting to take form, the Dweller on the Threshold, the symbol of the atavistic levels far below even the subconscious; levels of consciousness that were formed and used long aeons ago in the dawn of human evolution.

Formless now – waiting – it needed but one pace upon the rocky span to give the vapour form and life, to cause it to shape itself into a symbol, often a dread symbol, to reflect the state of the subconscious of the one who would cross, the embodiment of all good and all evil committed through all the incarnations of that soul to date.

Dread deeds, evil deeds, lie in the past of all who take the human form, and for those who refuse to accept the truth of their own history the shape that stands athwart the bridge becomes the living essence of all that they fear, the embodiment of terror, the horror of their own inner self – and for them the Dweller is a dread figure to be feared; for them there is no path across the bridge.

Merlin had long since accepted and absorbed the Dweller, and for him the swirling shape was usually of a young boy at the threshold, an eager apprentice, a bold youth at the gate of learning, or some similar symbol – but now, as he advanced upon the bridge the swirling grey most rose up high above him, and in its depth there formed two eyes of red, baleful and terrible, and above those eyes there gradually formed a hideous face, hooknosed, pocked and scarred, the skin riven by open sores that wept a foul-smelling ooze.

The Arch-Mage stepped onto the rock-bridge and then stood grimly, feet apart, his staff in his left hand, planted firmly, his right arm extended, finger pointing commandingly at the foul apparition before him. “Get thee gone,” he cried, “back to whatever foul lair whelped thee. Thou hast no authority to be at this place, nor power to wreak thy will.”

The figure swirled, the grey mist grew dark, and the red eyes glinted evilly. “I am thy Dweller,” it hissed. “If thou wouldst secure thy safety thou shouldst pay me homage.”

Merlin shook his head. “Thou art no Dweller, and in claiming thus thou dost blaspheme. Get thee gone, I say,” and firmly he advanced, pace by pace, his staff thrust before him as a sword.

The miasmatic creature from the abyss, given hideous life by Morgan le Fay, rose high above him, its jaws agape, its fangs dripping a foul and corrosive ooze that hissed and babbled as it fell to the rocky floor. A great screeching roar filled the air and the creature gathered itself and flung itself upon the tiny figure below.

As the foul mist fell on him Merlin could feel the hot stench of its breath, but he stood firm. The creature, he knew, was from a lower plane, dredged up by the Witch-Queen, and it had no reality upon this plane unless his own fear gave it form. With the foul vapour swirling all about him, Merlin’s words rang with power throughout the cavern: “Get thee gone, I say. Thou hast no dominion here!” and the creature’s roar rose to a screech, its hideous features dissolving, the vapour shrinking, falling away until it was all quite gone.

The Arch-Mage took a further pace upon the bridge, and there was the true Dweller in the shape of an eager boy, a youth, and Merlin bowed in acknowledgement and passed in safety across the abyss. But his heart was grim, troubled even. Never had he known anyone, Mage or Pythoness, that could supplant the Dweller with a form of their own summoning. Morgan le Fay was a mistress of her art, a more powerful priestess than any he had hitherto encountered.

The tunnel through the solid rock led to the left and sloped downwards, ever downwards to the lower levels, twisting and turning so that Merlin lost all sense of direction. Here there were cressets every few yards, and finally, by the light of their flambeaux, Merlin saw that the tunnel ended by an iron-studded oaken door. There were no signs or sygils upon the door, no runes or symbols of any kind – and the door stood ajar.

Merlin stood for a moment upon its threshold, and then resolutely stepped within, and found himself in a bleak and windswept forest. Winter gripped the land. The snow lay deep and flurries of it blew in his face – and then with a shock he realized that he was loping swiftly through the trees, a wolf, running with others in a pack hunt. Only when he tried to veer away did he realize that he was not the wolf, merely within it, his consciousness sharing the body but unable to affect its actions. He could feel the mind of the wolf, primitive, instinct-driven, but he could neither contact nor influence it. Helplessly he stared from its eyes and saw that there ahead of them the great elk that they had driven through the forest had now run into deep snow and had turned at bay, exhausted – and the pack fell on the great animal and began tearing it to pieces, Merlin’s wolf no less than the others.

He could feel his own mind slipping, fading, of his own node of awareness becoming that of the wolf’s. He resisted it, summoning all his power, for he knew that if he became that wolf there was the danger that he would not be able to return and would run as a wolf for the rest of his incarnation and all his plans for the Holy Grail would come to naught. How Morgan le Fay had brought this about he did not know, and as he fought to stay as Merlin within the wolf he was grimly appalled that obviously there was much about the Elder Faith rituals that he did not know – and for a fleeting moment the thought that he might lose the challenge sped through his mind.

Tearing the flesh of the great elk in a frenzy of feeding, lips drooling saliva, there issued from his throat a savage bestial snarl as he fought for space on the carcass with others of the pack.

Finally, the frenzy abating, many of the wolf-pack, including his own, withdrew and sat nearby licking their front paws and grooming themselves. The snowstorm blew across the desolate landscape, rippling the fur along their backs, but the wolves were full-fed now and if necessary could run for a week before the next meal.

Now that the frenzy was over his own wolf had become aware that something was wrong. It could not reason, could not grasp concepts beyond its own instincts, it knew only that something was wrong, that it was impaired in some way, damaged, and it began to run round in circles, snapping and snarling, trying to bite itself.

The other wolves gathered swiftly around, and one big male edged forward, snarling, cautious, and then suddenly dropped into a menacing crouch. His own wolf, realizing its danger but not knowing why, turned and ran from the clearing as swiftly as only a wolf can run. There was no baying behind them, for a wolf does not waste breath on a hunt, just a soft swishing sound as the entire pack gave silent chase through the trees. His own wolf had perhaps ten yards’ start, but it was not enough, and when it streamed into another clearing it spun round, its back to a huge tree, snarling hideously, ready to do battle, but the pack did not wait for the ritual encircling but just fell on it, this thing that looked like one of theirs but wasn’t – and as his consciousness burst clear Merlin knew now what it felt like to be torn to pieces, to have a predator tearing your flesh, its snout burrowing into your still living entrails.

There then came a fleeting moment when Merlin felt that he had triumphed and that Morgan le Fay had lost, for he had retained his own awareness throughout – but the scene shimmered, melted, changed . . .

. . . the shaman danced in the centre of the circle of swaying bodies, arms whirling, feet stamping, his jackal head-dress swaying. The drums were pounding, the flames of the fire leaping high into the night sky. The whole village was there, the tribal elders, the goatherds, the hunters, even the women were allowed to watch, for this was the dance of the jackal, and everyone swayed to the rhythm, hypnotized, transported. Faster and faster the drums beat, changing their rhythm to an incessant pounding, and the shaman whirled faster and faster, his head thrown back, his eyes glazed, and from his throat there rose the spine-tingling high-pitched screams of a jackal in rut. Again and again he screamed, whirling his body in a frenzied ecstasy, and then fell to the ground inert as a log.

Merlin was within the body of a young girl, a nubile girl, her body swaying, stamping, her mouth agape, her breasts glistening with sweat, her loins on fire. What little primitive intelligence she had was set aside in the frenzy of the dance. Merlin could feel the passion sweeping her, the desire, and despite himself he began to share her excitement, for desire is of both mind and body.

Then from beyond the firelight he came leaping towards her, the one the girl wanted. He grabbed her hand and together they leaped over the heads of the swaying watchers into the clearing, feet stamping, head swaying, her loins thrust forward, wanting him, demanding him. Then the leaping figure before them was no longer a man but a jackal, and the girl turned, her fur glistening, her haunches ready for him, her jaws dripping the rutting saliva – and Merlin’s mind within the girl-jackal was ablaze with lust, desiring, wanting no less than she. A lifetime of celibacy, of suppression, was exacting its price, and Merlin felt himself slipping, wanting to abandon all control, eager to experience all that he had denied himself – but some part of him, that part of him trained during life after life as an initiate of the mysteries, that part strained to hold him back, fighting the power of the rut that would engulf him – and as the man-jackal leaped upon them the consciousness that was Merlin burst from the girl’s body, and he found himself full-length on the cave floor back across the rock-bridge, scrabbling at the stone, gasping and crying, his body afire.

Gradually, through the tremors that racked him, he became aware of a pair of sandalled feet in front of him and the hem of a robe, and looking up he saw Morgan le Fay standing over him. “Well, well,” she sneered, “the Arch-Mage of all Britain, trembling like a lust-sick boy!” He scrambled to his feet, unable for the moment to speak at all. “By the Lady,” she cried, “I do believe that if I were to cast aside my robe you would leap upon me here and now. There is your Grail, Merlin, the Grail before which all men worship.”

“Do not blaspheme!” he cried. “You failed of the Challenge for I did not submit, I did not merge with your foul creations.”

She paused for a moment. “Yes,” she said slowly, “I did not win, but then neither did I lose. Acknowledge, Merlin, as an initiate of the truth, acknowledge that you did not win either.”

He remembered, and in remembering he knew that he had won the first encounter with the wolf, but with the second he felt the fire of passion that had swept through him, the desire he could still feel even now, and knew that he had not won.

He sighed. “I acknowledge,” he admitted.

She moved away along the tunnel to the Well. “You should be grateful, Merlin, for I have shown you your weakness.” She turned back for a moment. “The time will come when Arthur must stand alone, as all men must when they face the truth of themselves, and at that time the mantle of Arch-Mage of All Britain will be withdrawn from you by those on the inner.” She smiled. “Then, Merlin, wizard, then will come one who will renew the fires you just have experienced, and they will be your death,” and she turned and vanished into the tunnel opening.

Merlin remained for a moment, and on the rock-bridge his Dweller reappeared and smiled at him compassionately, and Merlin sighed and turned away. Wearily he retraced his steps from the Well and closed the ritual and returned to his body.

It was dark now. The rain had stopped and the sky was rapidly clearing of cloud. Merlin gathered his own skins of fur and wrapped them around him. The Table at least would get to Camelot and the Knights of Honour would be established. As to the rest . . . For a moment he stared towards the eastern sky. That was a prophecy if ever he had heard one. Was that his fate? Would it be lust that would cause his death?

He sighed and settled himself down to sleep. Let come what may. He would deal with matters as they arose – that’s all any man or wizard could do.

But that girl. The way she . . . forget it, sleep, Merlin, you old goat, sleep.