The Grail

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

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

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