End of the Century

by Chris Roberson

  Artor came from the stern to stand beside him, smiling at Bedwyr's back. “It's midwinter,” he explained to Galaad in a low voice. “The shortest day and longest night. Bedwyr says the prayer of the Derwydd that the light will not fade, but be born again with the dawn.”

  Galaad nodded. He'd always found it strange that each of the island's faiths observed the occasion, each in its own way. There were still those who celebrated the festival of the unconquered sun, brought to the island by the Romans, just as there were still pagans like Bedwyr who prayed for the reborn light of the winter solstice. Galaad himself observed the birth of the Messias, though the occasion did not hold for him the meaning it did for an Augustinian, since to a Pelagians the whole human race neither died through Adam's sin or death, nor rose again through the resurrection of Christ, but each man worked his own salvation through his words and deeds.

  Galaad shivered in the mounting cold. As frigid as the streets of Caer Llundain had been, out on the open waters of the channel it was even colder. He had his simple wool cloak over his shoulders, and hugged it tight around his chest, for all the good it did him.

  Beside him, Artor seemed hardly to notice the cold at all, though his breath frosted on the wind just as Galaad's did, and frost rimed the corners of his mouth where he'd inadvertently spilled water from a drinking flask onto his beard and not bothered to wipe it dry.

  The curve of the sun at last slipped below the horizon, its final glow still burning a minute arc of the western sky, the rest given over to night.

  “The light fades,” Galaad said, suddenly uncomfortable in the silence and eager to fill it.

  Artor turned and looked at him, an unreadable expression on his face.

  “Yes,” the High King said, his voice sounding far away. “But it has not gone out. Not yet.”

  Then Artor turned away, leaving Galaad alone, Bedwyr lost to his prayers.

  Galaad shivered again, but this time not merely because of the cold.

  When it was full dark, the seven gathered near the mast and had their evening meal. It was rough, simple fare, hard bread and dried meats, but Gwrol had opened a wineskin and was generous in filling everyone's cups, and in short order the men were warmed from within, increasingly heedless of the cold. They fell to talking, aimlessly, drifting off to sleep where they were when the mood struck, drinking and talking more when it didn't. Even out at sea, in the frigid air, the men seemed more relaxed, more at ease than they had in the city, and Galaad realized that these six men must have spent countless late nights like this together during their war on the Saeson. He was an interloper, of sorts, but their leader had welcomed him into their circle, and that seemed good enough for the others. As it was, though, Galaad kept quiet, listening to the stories the men told, somewhat overawed to be in their presence at all, much less privy to so many personal tales.

  And so they passed the long watches of the night, taking turns at the tiller, steering always in the direction of the setting sun, now long gone below the horizon. If any in that long night wondered whether the sun might not be rising in the morning, after all, they kept their peace and said nothing.

  The days on board ship passed slowly, with the coast to their starboard rising and falling, rocky outcrops becoming low gray beach becoming the hay-colored hills of dead grasslands becoming rocky outcrops again, while to their port there was nothing but endless gray waves, as far as the eye could see. The awe that Galaad felt at first finding himself among Artor and his captains had begun to recede, while not vanishing entirely, as he came to know the six warriors somewhat better, privy to their conversations and discontents.

  There was a strange skein of relationships between the six men, difficult to see at first but which gradually became more apparent with the passing days. These men who had fought and bled side by side for so many years were as close as brothers, it seemed, but like family often failed to see eye to eye, and many of the arguments Galaad overheard were clearly merely the latest skirmishes in long-standing disagreements.

  If Caius had a too-easy smile, and seemed overly gregarious no matter the circumstance or cause, Bedwyr seemed an eternal optimist, at least in one significant regard.

  “And I tell you,” Bedwyr said, on their third day at sail, as the sun was westering towards the horizon, “that the day of Rome has ended, and will not come again, but that a new empire might wait for us past tomorrow's horizon.”

  “I'll grant you that we've had little news of the Empire these last years,” Caius said, “and that since the Vandals of Geiseric sacked Rome the prospects for her continuance might seem bleak, but Rome civilized the known world and will not quickly fade from the pages of history.”

  “But Artor may well accomplish what Rome in her glory never could,” Bedwyr replied, fervently. “Already he has improved relations with the High King of Hibernia and extended his dominion beyond Hadrian's Wall. He may well go on to unite all the various kingdoms of both islands under his banner, and then who can say what may come? Perhaps he may one day find common cause with the Gauls across the channel and in so doing bring them to heel and forge a new empire to eclipse that of the Romans.”

  “Feh.” Lugh spat, his phlegm slapping noisily onto the deck. “Bugger the Romans, Caius, and bugger your talk of empire, Bedwyr. Unity with my cousins in the dynasts of Eriu? Have you forgotten that my grandfathers were brought to Britannia to act as foederati in Demetia, to keep the western shores clear of Eriu raiders? That's generations of blood spilled on water, stone, and sand, which you think to wash away with pretty words of empire and a bright tomorrow. Are you mad or merely simple?”

  Galaad had remained silent, as he had so much of the journey, but a thought occurred to him, and he spoke it before his better judgment stilled his tongue.

  “Artor was victorious over the Saeson,” he said. “Could he not win a similar victory against the Hibernians if the need arose?”

  The three captains looked from Galaad to one another, their reactions mixed. Lugh merely grinned darkly, while Caius's smile seemed to flag. Bedwyr, whose position Galaad championed, opened his mouth as if to speak, but paused.

  “Well,” Bedwyr finally said, tilting his head to one side, shoulder raised to his ear and hand held palm up, a gesture of equivocation. “I grant that it's possible…”

  “No, it isn't,” came the voice of Artor from the tiller.

  The High King motioned for Pryder to take the helm, and then came forward to join the conversation. His brows were knit, and his mouth was drawn into a thin line.

  “What my captains are reluctant to say, at least in company, is that there was no victory.”

  Galaad looked up at the High King, confused. “But…but what of Badon, and…”

  Artor held up a hand, silencing him. “Oh, we may have been victorious on isolated occasions, winning the day at this battle or that. But the war?” He shook his head. “There was no victory there. At best, what we achieved was merely stalemate.”

  Galaad looked from Artor to his captains, who each averted his gaze, finding something of interest to look at in the grain of the wood beneath their feet, or the swell of the gray waves on the horizon, or in the dreary skies overhead.

  “The Saeson were not driven from the land, no matter what the bards might say in song. The enemy remains on the island as part of our accommodation, as everyone well knows.”

  “Yes,” Galaad objected, eagerly, “but they were driven out of the rest of Britannia.”

  Artor sighed, wearily. “True. And there is nothing to say that they will remain forever content behind their new borders. Some day, and perhaps soon, they will seek once more to take the rest of Britannia by force. In which case what we have accomplished is not the end of the war, but merely an interval.”

  He turned and caught the eye of the three captains.

  “And as much as it makes me sick at heart to admit it, you are all correct in one regard or another. Caius is correct that Rome has been, for all of her faults, the ligh
t of civilization for long generations. Bedwyr is right to say that Rome's day is ended. And Lugh speaks the truth when he says that there will never be a unity formed between Britannia and Hibernia, much less with Gaul, at least not in our lifetimes or those of our grandchildren's grandchildren.”

  Artor turned away, looking towards the prow and the sun that dipped towards the western horizon.

  “Between the light of day and the dark of night comes a gray period of transition, the twilight which is neither fully one thing or the other. After the end of one kind of world, but before the beginning of another. I wonder often if that is where we are now, these years, in the twilight. Rome has retreated within its own walls, its empire gone and fled. Here, on the world's edge, we have kept the light of civilization burning and pushed back the Saeson, but how long until that fire burns out at last and the Saeson overrun us all? Through our lifetimes? Through that of our sons? And our son's sons? It seems clear to me that it is not a question of whether, but when.”

  Artor turned back and faced the others, not only Galaad and the three captains, but Pryder and his brother at the tiller as well.

  “What unity we have been able to forge is, I fear, a tenuous one. When my hour comes, will my successor be able to maintain those ties, or will they wither and fade?” He paused and shook his head, sadly. “No man can know the future, but I fear that the answer is a sad one.” He took a deep breath, straightening, and looked to starboard, at the coast of Britannia sliding by. “But our concern is today, not tomorrow. Our duty is to survive and to protect those who cannot protect themselves, and let the future worry after its own.”

  It was morning, and Galaad was breaking his fast with a simple meal of dried meats and stale crusts of bread. Pryder and Gwrol sat with him, while Lugh worked the tiller and the others slept.

  Pryder and Gwrol had eaten quickly, each complaining about the portions the other had taken, and then had retrieved their swords from their packs. Now, with whetstones and cloths, they tended to their blades, which flashed in the morning sunlight like lightning.

  “Why do you sharpen your weapons, friends?” Galaad asked around a mouthful of stale bread.

  The brothers exchanged glances and shrugged.

  “Because…” Gwrol began, and then his words trailed off, as though Galaad had just asked him why they felt the need to breathe. “Because…”

  Pryder shook his head at his brother, blowing air through his lips noisily. “Because, because, because,” he parroted. He turned to Galaad. “We sharpen our blades because they needs must be sharp.”

  “Oh.” Galaad nodded, thoughtfully. Then, after a pause, he said, “But why?”

  Pryder sighed. “Why what?”

  “Why must they be sharp?” With a sharp intake of breath, his eyes opened wide. “Do you fear an attack by Saeson?”

  Gwrol chuckled, and Pryder treated him to a friendly, if somewhat patronizing smile.

  “There are more things to fear in this world than the Saeson, my young friend,” Pryder said.

  “Not that we fear the Saeson,” Gwrol added quickly, chest puffed with pride.

  “No, indeed.” Pryder nodded. “Still and all, our potential enemies are many, and not all fight under the same banner.”

  Galaad was confused, as his expression made evident.

  Pryder set his whetstone down on the deck and sighted along his blade. “Tomorrow, if the winds hold, we should reach Llongborth, home of Geraint, king of half Dumnonia.”

  “Or should that be ‘half-king’ of Dumnonia?” Gwrol said, snickering.

  Pryder shot him a sharp glance. “Do you mind stilling that babbling tongue of yours, if only for a moment? The boy and I are trying to have a conversation here.”

  Gwrol pulled a face, but kept silent.

  “In any event,” Pryder went on, “tomorrow we reach Llongborth. Now, Geraint is some distant relation to Artor, as I understand it, and is subject to the crown of the High King. But a study of history will show that client kings have not always shown obeisance to their masters, nor subjects to their kings. A warrior should always be on his guard, especially when abroad in some strange land…”

  “And Dumnonia is stranger than most, if the boy's visions are to be believed, however unlikely,” Gwrol put in.

  Pryder took a deep breath through his nostrils, closing his eyes momentarily. “Will you shut your hole?” Then he opened his eyes and continued speaking to Galaad as though no interruption had occurred. “A warrior's blade should be as ready for combat as the warrior himself, and a blunted sword could mean the difference between life and death.” He held up his sword, a simple spatha with a pattern-welded blade and a bronze pommel. The sword's edge was notched here and there, scars of past battles, but was in otherwise excellent condition. “I don't say that I expect some treachery from our hosts. Or rather, that I always expect the possibility of treachery and gird myself appropriately. If it comes, I will be ready for it.”

  Gwrol ran a whetstone down the edge of his own blade, with the hiss of stone on metal. “And you, boy? Have you no blade of your own?”

  Galaad began to shake his head, then quickly scrambled to his feet. “Just a moment,” he said, and hurried to the place where they'd stored their effects. He rummaged around until he laid hands on his own bundle, then fumbled with the twine bindings until he'd got it opened. He pulled out his antique leaf-bladed sword and returned to where the brothers from Gwent sat.

  “This is my sword,” Galaad said proudly, displaying the sheathed blade. “It belong to my grandfather's grandfather and has been passed from father to son since those days, finally coming into my keeping.”

  Gwrol and Pryder exchanged glances, suppressing smiles.

  “Do you mind?” Pryder said, sheathing his own blade and reaching out to Galaad. “Might I have a look?”

  Galaad nodded, and handed the sword over.

  “Well, now.” Pryder accepted the sword, glancing at Gwrol, his eye twinkling. “Your grandfather's grandfather, you say?”

  Pryder examined the sheath, the leather aged and greasy.

  “Buried with him, was it?” Gwrol said, grinning.

  “Oh, no,” Galaad answered quickly, shaking his head, before he realized the Gwentian was jesting with him. “No,” he added, his tone firm, his lips thin, “it was not.”

  “It is a…well-traveled sheath,” Pryder observed. Then, with considerable effort, he tugged the blade free and held it aloft.

  Seen so soon after the flashing brightness of Pryder's spatha, Galaad's sword seemed in even poorer repair than ever. The leaf blade was black with rust and pitted with age, the leather wrapping on the hilt frayed and loose.

  “Oh, no, no, no,” Pryder said, shaking his head sadly, his expression like that of someone witnessing an unfortunate accident or an untimely death. “That's…that's just…”

  “That's criminal, is what that is,” Gwrol said.

  “Yes.” Pryder nodded in rare agreement with his brother. “This isn't a sword, boy. This is a relic.”

  “Perhaps it should better have been buried with your grandsire after all, eh?” Gwrol reached out and, heedless of any danger, ran his finger down the length of the blade's edge. He held up his fingertip, unscathed. “It's as blunt as a baby's ass.”

  “That's ‘smooth as a baby's ass,’ imbecile,” Pryder said, scornfully. “But my brother is right,” he said to Galaad, and held the sword out to him. “No disrespect to your honored dead, but this thing is useless. Worse than useless, come to that, and you'd be better served swinging a stout length of wood than this crumbling antique.” Galaad took the sword by the hilt, and Pryder reached out and flicked a large flake of rust from the blade with his thumbnail. “The best use that this thing would be in a fight would be to serve as a distraction, since no opponent could bring themselves to accept the possibility that you were seriously wielding it in earnest and would likely double with laughter at the thought.”

  “This is a real blade,” Gwrol said,
presenting his own sword to Galaad, hilt first.

  Galaad laid his leaf blade on the deck beside him and gingerly accepted Gwrol's spatha, fittingly a twin to Pryder's.

  “Feel the weight of it,” Gwrol went on.

  Galaad hefted the blade, which was so perfectly balanced that its apparent weight in his grip was only a fraction of what it actually weighed. He reached out a finger to touch the flat of the blade and found it surprisingly warm in the chill air, realizing only after a minute that it still bore the heat of the whetstone's friction.

  “The blade should be an extension of your arm,” Pryder put in. He looked with scorn at the rusted leaf blade on the deck. “Not stand out from your hand like an overgrown scab waiting to be picked.”

  Galaad's cheeks flushed red with anger and shame, and his fingers were white-knuckled around the spatha's haft.

  “All joking aside, boy,” Gwrol said, “you should bury that thing with honors, and get yourself a proper sword.”

  Gwrol reached out, and Galaad returned the spatha to his keeping. Giving the blade a final careful wiping with his cloth, Gwrol resheathed the blade and laid it across his lap.

  “Don't worry,” Pryder said, smiling encouragingly. “When we reach Llongborth, we'll procure you a blade of your own.”

  Galaad gamely tried to smile, fighting the lingering sense of humiliation. “But what if the Dumnonians prove treacherous, as you'd thought?”

  “Well, then,” Gwrol said, grinning. “In that case, swords will be even easier to come by, as they'll be lying at our feet once we send their bearers off to meet God.”

  Galaad found himself plagued by visions only once in the course of their journey, the scent of flowers filling his nostrils, the gloom of the night replaced by a flash of light, and then the world fell away from him and before his eyes was the White Lady and the tower of glass. Again he felt the thoughts embed themselves in his mind, the call for assistance, the plea for rescue. And washing over him, the inexorable, inexplicable sense of bliss and comfort.