The Witch Hunter Chronicles: Hunted
Chapter 15 – Expository Stories from Musty Books

My name is Bors de Ganis, son of Bors the Elder, and I write this tale as I lie in a medical tent near the holy city of Jerusalem, slowly dying from the rotting wound in my side.

Ok, gross.

It was my wish to die in battle, a martyr in the Lord’s service in the Roman wars to free the holy land of the Saracen blasphemers, but, as I have always feared, the Lord has found this poor knight unworthy of such a noble death. Instead, He punishes me for the sins of my youth. It is my desperate hope that in leaving this record, He will absolve me of those sins and allow me, upon my death, to gain entrance into His Holy Kingdom.

“Sorry,” I interrupted, “but what’s a Saracen exactly?”

“It’s meant different things throughout history,” Fran answered, “At the time this document was written, the term referred to Muslim Arabs.” She smiled and continued reading.

It pains me to admit for posterity that the tale for which I am best known, the discovery of the Holy Grail in the castle of the injured Fisher King, and my journey with Sir Galahad and Sir Perceval to return the precious relic to the holy city of Sarras, is so filled with lies, that barely an ounce of truth remains. There was no city of Sarras, nor was there any Fisher King, overseeing a dying realm. Oh, there was a Grail, though I doubt its authenticity as the cup of Christ. I fear it to be nothing more than an unholy artifact, since it was the King’s pagan witch of a sister that discovered its powers and bent the vessel to her ignoble will.

Ok, this is reminding me of the CW formula for their prime-time series. Melodrama and monologues. I mean the first season of Arrow was cool with all the flashbacks, and Ollie did take off his shirt a lot. He’s seriously ripped. Shoot, how much did I miss.

…when my friend Sir Perceval came to court claiming to have seen a vision of the holy vessel. This proclamation set all of Camelot ablaze with excitement. Truly, Jesus’s Cup from the last supper was here in Britton, Perceval explained, and it was our duty as warriors of Christ to quest for it. What a wonderful ruse it was – sending the greatest knights of the Kingdom on a decade’s long wild goose chase while the Saxon wolves nipped at our hind quarters. How many great warriors never returned from their quest? Too many to count, I’m sorry to say. Not that I blame poor Perceval. I fear no man could have resisted the evil magic that afflicted him. Even Sir Galahad, a true flower of chivalry, was no match for the will of Morgan’s despicable coven. And thus began the end of the greatest kingdom ever seen on this Earth.

Do I have to remember all these names?

“I’m sorry, but I’m getting a bit lost,” I said.

“That’s ok dear,” Fran said. “How much do you know about the fall of Camelot?”

“If I were you,” Jordan started, “I’d give the shortest possible explanation. Otherwise in a couple minutes in you’ll be having a conversation with yourself, and Kenz will be staring hazy-eyed at a spot on the wall.”

I glared, but only halfheartedly since he was totally right. It may as well have been a thank you.

“The fall is intertwined with the quest for the Grail,” Fran explained. “The Grail itself is said to be anything from an ancient Celtic cauldron to the chalice of Christ from the last super. All versions make mention of its magical properties such as healing and extending the lifespan of its owner. The official story has Sir Perceval discover the relic in the court of the Fisher King. After attending a feast in his honor and seeing the objects magical properties, he went to sleep in the castle and woke up outdoors with the entire kingdom no longer there. As he stood there in stunned silence, he claimed God gave him a vision or command to mobilize Camelot to quest to recover the relic.”

“Treasure hunting for a magic cup,” I said. “Got it.”

“Close enough,” Fran said smiling. “With Arthur’s knights spread out across Great Britton, he wasn’t able to hold on to power.” She and found her spot in the book and continued.

My personal quest for the Holy Grail had gone on for many years before the fateful day I met Morgan’s Sikh minions. I had traveled the countryside alone, as well as in groups with various other Knights of the Round Table, but by the time this story transpires, Galahad, Perceval and I had come to appreciate each other’s company and were practically inseparable.

Galahad?

While other men may have desired the Cup for fame or glory, my companions and I had only noble and pure intentions. We believed that with the Cup of Christ, Camelot would stand forever.

The true story of our discovery of the Grail begins on a crisp autumn morning in the year of our Lord 546. After breaking fast on salted mutton and stale bread, we set out north on the King’s Road outside of Manchester. I can no longer remember why we were on this particular road, but it must have been due to the cruel hands of fate, because after only a few hours’ travel, we came across two women stranded in the wilderness. Their white robes were of eastern design, held closed at the middle with red silk sashes, and they stood weeping beside the ruins of a carriage and the bloated bodies of two dead horses and a handful of fighting men. Due to their unnatural, ethereal beauty, we knights initially mistook them for dark-skinned Angels. One was taller than all among us save for but Galahad. The other had such splendid womanly curves-”

Fran stopped and skipped a page, read a bit, then skipped another. “We can probably skip ahead a little. The tall woman’s name is Gliton and the shorter one Gliten. Let’s just say the men were particularly taken with Gliten. For a self-professed chaste man, he goes into,” she sighed and continued, “excruciating detail about the woman’s clothing and measurements.” She scanned a bit and said, “ok here we go,” and began to read again.

Both Ladies claimed to be the daughters of a foreign lord, and Gliton explained that they had traveled from the distant Kingdom of Punjab in order to deliver the very relic for which we quested all these long years to the King of Camelot as a sign of kinship and fealty.”

As you may well know, the Sikh people are the sworn enemies of the Saracens, and these women explained to us that their father had personally retrieved the relic from a Persian stronghold outside of the city of Jerusalem. They claimed their party had been set upon by a group of knights the prior evening, and that their protectors were cut down and the Cup stolen. Gliton explained that she recognized the crest of the lead knight in the attacking party, and knew that his lord’s castle was in the Kingdom of Emain Albach off the west coast of Britton on the Isle of Man.

Neither the Kingdom of Emain Albach, nor the names of its people, the Tuatha Dé Danann, meant anything to me at the time, having myself been born and raised in mainland Gaul. However, had my brothers-in-arms Gareth or Gawain been with me, this revelation likely would have given them pause. You see, this Kingdom does not show up on any normal map and the people not in any history but the ancient Celtic folklore of gods and fairies. Likely, the sisters would not have used the Kingdom’s true name if a Britton-born man rode in our party.

We were two days ride from the western port of Black Pool, but we only had the three horses between us. Any one of us knights would have graciously offered up our mounts to the ladies, however we were outfitted for battle and overburdened with weapons and armor. Since a knight in full plate armor is unable to walk at any semblance of a useful pace for anything save for a short distance, there was no choice but to take turns sharing the saddle with our two female companions.

Fran stopped reading and pursed her lips. “There’s a number of pages where Bors speaks about inappropriate touching while on a horse, inappropriate sleeping accommodations,” she sighed and continued, “well, let’s just say that that Sir Galahad and Lady Gliten were not acting the part of a royal lady and a King’s knight.”

“So, you’re only reading us the boring parts?” Jordan asked in his way that is difficult to tell if he’s being sarcastic or genuine. News flash – it’s always sarcasm.

“The relevant parts, dear,” Fran answered. “What we know that Bors didn’t at the time is that Gliten’s magic is… coercive.”

“I may have the same magic powers,” Jordan interjected.

“He’s not wrong,” I added.

“Oh, I believe you,” Fran said. “I saw how taken with you that the gardener’s young assistant was. I wasn’t aware that Philipe spoke English.”

“We both speak the language of love ma’am,” Jordan replied.

“You might as well continue, Fran,” I said. “He won’t tire of talking about himself.”

“She’s not wrong,” Jordan added.

Fran scanned as she flipped pages. “So, they traveled by horse to Black Pool docks and then chartered a ship. The story picks up after an uneventful voyage.

“It sounds like it was eventful for two of them,” Jordan mumbled.

Fran smiled but ignored the comment and began to read.

When we rose the next morning, we found that the ship had docked sometime in the night, far too early to have reached our intended destination, and that Galahad and the ladies had already disembarked. We could not find the captain or crew either, but we assumed they were spending their coin on sinful women and cheap libations in the local pub as sailors are want to do.

Outside the ship, we found the dock and surrounding town enveloped in a thick blanket of fog that was so wet that our armor creaked and sweated as we walked amongst the ragged collection of ramshackle buildings that seemed thrown together with driftwood and twine. The town was practically deserted, and the few people we did encounter on the street seemed to go out of their way to avoid us.

Eventually, we found a trader in a roadside shop willing to sell us a pair of sturdy mares. He was a queer sort of man; tall and thin as a wisp, with a chin shaved so clean he could have passed for an adolescent boy if not for the flecks of grey in his hair and the crystal blue eyes that seemed deep and ancient as the oceans themselves. At this point, my friend Perceval and I were just happy that the man would take our gold and could point us in the direction of the castle that belonged to the Lord of Emain Albach.

The land we rode through was nothing short of stunning. I swear the native flora were of a different sort than those on the mainland; or of any land I have been to before or since. The native trees looked similar to oaks but were taller and had larger leaves of an almost unnatural green. Likewise, the flowers growing amongst the shrubs the tall grasses were colored from a palate of an imaginative painter rather than from the world of mortal men.

The sun was high in the sky and the fog had long-since burned off when we crested a rocky butte and saw in the near distance a child’s fairytale come to life. A castle the size of which made Camelot look like a pitiful Legionnaire’s fort lay in the plains below, with apple orchards and rolling green hills stretching out as far as the eye could see. The tips of the castle’s uncountable towers stretched up to the clouds, and hundreds of flags with grand patterns and dyed in colors for which I had no name, hung from the towers and parapets, flapping lazily in the cool breeze. The moat surrounding the structure may has well have been an ocean, and I swear I could make out the shape of some terrible beast swimming in its black waters.

Row after row of men armored in gleaming plate mail stood in formation just past the massive drawbridge. The knights carried shields emblazoned with their personal sigils and wielded either long, barbed spears or wicked swords of various shapes and lengths. Their plumed helmets and grand capes flashed the same designs and colors that I saw flapping amongst the tall towers. At the head of each column was a single champion seated atop a white charger.

A man in black armor, wearing a cape with a checkerboard pattern of purple and gold rode slowly past the deadly collection of men to face-off across the open plain with two solitary figures on a mottled gelding. It didn’t take me long to recognize the pair to be Galahad and Gliten. The contrasts in size made me think of the biblical tale of David and Goliath. The checkerboard knight was well over eight feet tall, and his charger made Galahad’s steed look like it was nothing more than a squire’s malnourished pony.

Gliten dismounted the horse and ripped a piece of fabric from the red sash from her around waste. She bid Galahad to lean in, and when he did, she reached up and tied the sash like a token around his shield arm. After Gliten stepped back a few paces, the knights faced each other and saluted as the squires in bright green garb armed both men with lances that were a good two feet longer than the war lances I was accustomed to. As soon as the knights were armed, they spurred their mounts into action.

The chargers thundered across the open plain towards each other. The knight’s lances met each other’s shields at the same moment, and even at a distance, I could hear the crack of the wooded shafts as they shattering to splinters. The collision unseated both men and sent them crashing to the ground as their horses continued past each other in opposite directions. Both men struggled to their feet, and once up and armed by squires with sword and shield, the knights squared off in melee combat.

Galahad was the finest knight I had ever laid eyes on; quite possibly the finest knight that ever lived. I’d heard from Lancelot himself, long considered the greatest knight of our generation, say that his son bested him in single combat when they had unwittingly faced off against each other years prior. Still, the mountain of a man that my friend faced this day was taller by two heads, and the sword the knight held in one hand was easily the length of a two-handed ceremonial great sword.

The sounds of battle rang out as swords crossed and clashed against armor and shield. Galahad’s martial skill was utter perfection. His was a graceful dance of violence and death, but the enemy knight moved like a man half his size and when his blows landed, they seemed to carry the weight of ten men. I can’t tell you how many times I thought the duel was about to end in the next blow, only to have the bested man recover and narrowly escape. The knights fought until the sun dropped low on the horizon in a duel that was the greatest contest of skill and stamina that this veteran of countless wars ever witnessed.

Both combatants bled from a myriad of wounds by the time the enemy knight’s sword finally smashed through the tatters of Galahad’s shield and then unexpectedly shattered on the token tied around my friend’s arm. The giant stopped and stared at the hilt of his shattered blade, and in that instant, Galahad’s sword flashed up in a deadly arc. At first, I thought my friend had missed the man completely, but then the enemy knight’s head fell free of his massive shoulders and clattered to the ground. Seconds later, the rest of his body followed suit.

It was Gliten who was the first to move. Straight backed, with her head held high like some sort of monarch, she strode towards the site of battle. She passed Galahad without a word of congratulation; instead, making her way to the body of the fallen knight. She bent down and picked up the head with both hands, and though we were too far off to hear a sound, she appeared to laugh into the dead man’s visored face before tossing it aside like common garbage.

Shortly thereafter, a tall, pale woman with a flowing mane of red hair emerged from the castle. Flanking the woman was a group of equally tall and pale men in simple black tunics. The men carried a wooden litter to transport the fallen knight, while the woman held a copper-hued cup in her outstretched arms. The ginger woman stopped in front of Galahad and bowed her head as she presented him the prize.

My friend took the cup, and he in turn passed it straight away to Gliten. The red-headed woman sobbed as the men loaded the massive knight onto the litter and carried him back through the castle gate. The grieving woman followed close behind, and as if on cue, the columns of assembled fighting men turned and began to file slowly back through the gate after her.

As the procession neared its end, Perceval and I led our mounts down the gentle slope towards our victorious friend. We were ecstatic beyond reason that Galahad had won what we assumed was the true Grail; the item for which the entire kingdom had quested for these past long years. His recent strange and improper actions with the young Lady Gliton were, if not forgiven, at least momentarily forgotten. We greeted Galahad with kind words and congratulations for his victorious showing in the splendid battle. However, when Galahad turned to face us, it wasn’t our old friend that greeted us; instead, it was a wild-eyed monster under the control of a powerful spell.

The look Galahad fixed upon myself and Perceval made my blood run cold. My reputation as a brave knight is well earned, having fought valiantly in countless battles throughout my life. I’ve killed and bled for King and country since I was old enough to heft an iron sword, yet I found for the first time in my life I felt true fear.

Galahad’s armor was cracked and gouged, and his face streaked with blood, likely both his and his opponents. His green eyes were wide and unfocused, and he actually bared his teeth at us like some wild animal. Then Gliton ordered our friend to kill us, and he was suddenly a screaming whirlwind of flesh and steel. It shames me to say, that in a matter of seconds, Galahad had disarmed me of my sword and delivered such a savage blow to the side of Perceval’s head that he crashed to the ground in a lifeless heap. Galahad stood panting over Perceval, and I begged him to spare my dear friend’s life. Galahad wavered momentarily, but with another command from Gliton, he thrust the sword down and buried it almost to the hilt in Perceval’s chest.

It was then, for the first time in all my life, I ran from battle. My horse had wandered up the trail when the fighting started, and I was somehow able, with shaking hands and bowels that felt like water, to mount the beast and set her at a gallop back towards the small port. I rode hard for an hour, never looking back even once. It wasn’t until my mount began to falter that I slowed her to a trot and chanced to look behind me. There was nothing there but wilderness.

Sometime later when I arrived at the port, I found the streets and stalls completely empty. The tall trader we had bought our horses from was nowhere to be seen, and his shop doors stood open, creaking on their rusted hinges. Inside, the shop was dark and lifeless. I retreated to our vessel, with the intention of rousing the crew and leaving this God-forsaken place before Galahad or the witches caught up with me. However, what I found on that ship filled my heart with dread.

The captain and crew were all dead; some from slashed throats or disembowelment, while others, judging by the lack of obvious signs of violence and the foam around their mouths, likely from poison. All were strung up by their necks on the bow of the ship. Beset with panic and acute nausea, I ran to the edge of the deck and emptied the contents of my stomach over the rail. I almost passed out right then and there, but finally my conscious mind returned to me, and with it a healthy instinct for survival.

I knew I couldn’t possibly sail the ship without a crew, but there was the rowboat, and while not an ideal vessel for crossing the channel, it was superior to dying alone in that evil land. I collected what provisions I could, and, with some difficulty, lowered the boat into the water. After I’d climbed down from the deck and into the boat, I rowed as if my life depended on it. After ten minutes of hard labor, I chanced a look back, and saw Gliten standing on the deck of the ship, and though she should have been out of auditory range, I swear I could hear her shrill laughter echoing over the sounds of the sea.

He goes on for many pages about being lost at sea and his rescue by a fisherman, his recuperation, and his travel’s back to Camelot,” Fran said as she flipped through a few pages. “Here’s the part you need to hear.”

In the King’s court, in front of God and men, I told him the story that made me famous; the story I would repeat a thousand times more to any man that would listen. About the Castle of the Fisher King, the discovery of the Holy Grail, our trials and tribulations after returning the relic to the city of Sarras, and finally Galahad’s assumption into heaven and Perceval’s ascension to the throne of the holy city. Why did I spread these lies? I swear at first that I believed my own false story, though as time passed, I began to remember the truth bit-by-bit. I pray that I was under the effects of a spell all those years, but at this point I have no way of knowing.

I fear it was the Grail’s unholy powers that allowed Morgan la Fey and her sisters to grow stronger, and progress from a petty nuisance to a true threat to the Kingdom; and it was my lies that allowed this to happen. It is well known that Morgan’s support of Mordred in the years that followed gave the King’s illegitimate heir the backing of the Saxon chieftains in the civil war that broke the Kingdom. I can only pray that my words can prove to be helpful to brave men at some future date. Then, perhaps, these shameful truths will not have been written in vain.

Signed,

Bors de Ganis, Knight of the Round Table in the year of our Lord 579.

Fran closed the book and asked, “Do you have any more questions for me dear?”

After a moment of silence, I asked, “Was it real?”

“This book was found in the ruins of a Christian cathedral outside of Jerusalem,” Fran answered. “Carbon dating of the cover shows that the binding material came from the correct time. Someone took the time write their truth in this diary. Is everything in it true. I can’t prove it, but I believe it, if that means anything.”

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