End of the Century

by Chris Roberson

  Was that why the Huntsman had called off his hounds’ attack and stayed his hand against Pryder? Had those red eyes appraised the captains in some wise, and found them wanting? Or, instead, had they seen in Pryder or the others something it found of value, something that should not be cleaved with its unearthly blade?

  Much of the discussion around the hearth, on their return to the hall, had been centered on the Huntsman's red blade, the shards of Pryder's spatha passed from hand to hand for inspection.

  “I have never seen the like,” Caius intoned, holding the sheered edge of the neutered blade up to his eyes, squinting at it closely. “The cut is entirely clean, completely smooth.” He lowered the blade and looked around the red glow of the hearth at his fellows. “I'd go so far as to say I'd never seen so smooth an edge, ever. The frozen surface of a lake, perhaps? A pane of glass? But even those have bubbles and imperfections, none of which can be discerned here.”

  Pryder shook his head, ruefully. “The blow didn't even jar my hands as the red sword passed through mine. It was as if my blade wasn't even there, and the Huntsman's swing carried only through empty air.”

  “But you parried his earlier blow,” Galaad said, from his position standing behind the circle of chairs. He couldn't help but have noticed that the captains had instinctively arranged their chairs in a near perfect circle around the fire, and wondered whether any of them were conscious of the fact that they had seated themselves in precisely the positions he had seen them adopt around Artor's marble circle in Caer Llundain.

  “That I did.” Pryder nodded, thoughtfully. “And when my blade met his, both felt solid enough. I fair felt the impact in my teeth, so much force did the parry require.”

  “That makes not a bit of sense,” Gwrol said, stone sober despite the number of cups of wine he'd quaffed on their return. He sat on the edge of his seat, tensed, as though he'd not yet calmed from the rush and quickened pulse of their encounter. “Either the swords were solid or they were air, it can't be both.”

  Pryder shrugged, seeming to lack both the energy and the will to spar with his brother.

  “Those hounds,” Bedwyr said, hands gripping the arms of his chair, staring into the red glow of the hearth intently, open faced, as though he saw some secret meaning writ there. “What were those hounds?”

  Lugh, who may have had thoughts of his own about the beasts, snored loudly in his sleep, finally rendered insensible by the prodigious amounts of wine he'd drunk to quell the throbbing pain of his bitten hand. As it stood, the loud snort had an undeniably dismissive quality to it, in keeping with the Gael's spoken responses to Bedwyr's repeated litany of “those hounds, those hounds, what were those hounds” before losing consciousness.

  Artor sat silent at the head of the ring of chairs, at his side Geraint, who had taken around the hearth the place he could not accept at the marble circle in the High King's court. Geraint's wife, Enid, had repaired to their private chambers, nursing their infant son away from the press of sleeping bodies close packed in the hall, enjoying some momentary measure of privacy. Both High King and Dumnonian ruler had kept their own counsel while the captains reviewed the details of the encounter, Geraint wearing a look that made evident his sense of embarrassment and shame at having proved unable to stand beside his erstwhile companions, and Artor thoughtful with an unreadable expression.

  Finally, when the conversation of the captains reached a lull, the High King broke his silence to speak.

  “Whatever the beasts were, whatever manner of man this Huntsman may be, they were real enough. Real enough to bite and tear, real enough to swing a blade.” He paused, thoughtfully tugging at his beard, and then turned his gaze to Galaad. “Had you seen in your visions any creatures such as we encountered tonight, or such men as their master?”

  Galaad shook his head, suppressing a shiver. “No, majesty. Not that I recall.”

  “How could you forget such a thing?” Bedwyr said, lifting his staring eyes to meet Galaad's.

  “No one could,” Artor answered for him. “Still, I can't but think now that they are linked in some way with the White Lady and glass tower of Galaad's visions, though what whole these parts together make is beyond my reasoning.”

  Caius gingerly laid the severed halves of Pryder's sword on the flagstones at his feet. “So you're still for piercing this hedge of mist, I take it?”

  Artor gave a determined nod. “Aye. And for piercing the veil of mysteries surrounding these events.”

  Pryder gave a snort. “Assuming, that is, that these mysteries do not pierce us first.”

  The captains’ laughter was rueful, but it was better than none.

  It was near dawn before Galaad was able to get any sleep, and soon after he'd drifted off to an uneasy slumber, curled uncomfortably on the flagstones of the hall's dusty floor, wrapped in a thin woolen blanket, the rest of the sleepers in the hall rose to begin their day, and he perforce was obliged to rise with them, unable to remain asleep with the mounting hubbub.

  With the arrival of the sun, which gave more light than warmth, the people of Llongborth were again emboldened to venture out of doors and about their daily tasks.

  As Galaad stood uneasily on weary legs, his neck and back aching, he counted himself lucky that Artor had decided that they would abide in Geraint's hall for a short while longer before continuing on to the hedge of mist and the island beyond. The swelling in Galaad's knee had only begun to subside in the days at sail, but now with one buttock covered with a stinging bruise that had already begun to yellow, it seemed as if the pain had only migrated up his body, not lessened. What sleep he had gotten on board the White Aspect had hardly been refreshing, and the few moments of slumber he'd caught on the floor of Geraint's hall had only served to make him more weary, not less. The prospect of a day to warm before the hearthfires, and a night in the warmth to rest, was an appealing one.

  Galaad was trying to work the kinks from his neck when Pryder came to stand beside him. The auburn-haired Gwentian carried in his hands a borrowed sword, another of Saeson manufacture from Geraint's plunder, replacement for his unmanned spatha.

  “That showed considerable fortitude, what you did yesterday,” Pryder said, testing the heft of the sword in his grip. “Foolishness, as well, but fortitude all the same.”

  “What?” Galaad craned his head from side to side, hearing audible pops as the bones of his neck ground together.

  “Standing your ground against the Huntsman.” Pryder sliced through the air with the sword and nodded approvingly.

  Galaad was confused. “But I'd have been cut to ribbons if you hadn't pushed me aside.”

  “Perhaps,” Pryder said with a shrug. “My point is that you didn't quail and flee but remained steadfast.”

  Galaad hung his head, averting his eyes. “If so, it was only because I was immobilized with fear.”

  “There's no shame in feeling fear, boy,” Pryder said with a sly grin. “It's all a matter of what you do with it. Do you let the fear take you over, or do you control it and use it to your advantage?”

  “Use it?” Galaad wore a disbelieving expression.

  “Look, fear is simply your body's way of telling you that you stand in some peril. It is an indicator, nothing more. By mastering your feelings, you can monitor your reactions to situations, use them like a copper miner uses a finch to gauge the quality of his air. If you feel afraid, it may well be because there is something to fear; therefore you should be wary and move with caution. But it should not debilitate or incapacitate you.” Pryder scratched at his beard and gave Galaad an appraising look. “And despite what you say, when that…creature attacked, you stood your ground and held your sword's point high. So perhaps you don't have so far to go in conquering your fears as you might think.”

  Galaad nodded, unconvinced. “Perhaps,” he allowed. “But if I held my sword in battle, it isn't as if I have any notion at all what to do with it.”

  Pryder did an experimental thrust, testing the reach
of the blade on empty air, and then righted himself, glancing at Galaad. “Well, we've got you a proper sword, which is the first step. Perhaps now it's time to teach you how to use it.”

  When Galaad recalled that he'd started the morning expecting a leisurely day of relaxation before a warming fire, he had to suppress a laugh. The day may have been warm, but it was not due to a fire, and had nothing at all to do with leisure.

  Galaad sweated through the rough fabric of his linen tunic, the Saeson sword in his hand feeling like a lead weight. It had been hours now, but seemed like days, since Pryder had cleared a space for them at the rear of the hall, now vacated as the natives had gone about their daily business, and begun training Galaad in the rudiments of the blade.

  The first thing that Galaad learned was that he was holding the sword all wrong. That was fairly easily addressed. Then he was told that his posture and stance was completely incorrect, which proved somewhat more involved to make right. When he was standing correctly, with his arms and legs appropriately positioned and the sword gripped properly in hand, he'd expected the next thing Pryder to teach him would have something to do with a thrust or cut, a parry or block.

  Instead, Pryder had insisted that he stand immobile in that posture for as long as possible. It was essential, Pryder explained, that the appropriate stance become instinctual to Galaad, and the best first step in accomplishing that was to accustom his muscles to the feeling.

  Finally, when it seemed to Galaad as if he couldn't remain in that position for a moment longer, the sword held at the ready, Pryder had shown him how to take a step forward. Galaad joked that he'd been taking steps forward almost since he was a babe-in-arms, and knew well how to perambulate, but Pryder explained that it was important that he knew how to advance and retreat without losing his sure footing, to remain balanced while stepping forward and back, of course keeping otherwise in his ready stance with his sword held at the proper angle.

  And so Galaad stepped forward. Then Pryder demonstrated how to step back, and he did. And forward again, and back, and forward and back, again and again, each time with Pryder pointing out where he had gone wrong and where his movements could be corrected, until Galaad felt for certain that he had worn a groove with his steps in the flagstones.

  The nearest fire blazed some distance off, but though its heat failed to reach across the expanse of the hall, Galaad felt no chill, warmed from within by his constant exertions.

  “Taking as many steps as this,” Galaad said breathlessly, when Pryder at last allowed him a break, “I feel that I ought to have been getting somewhere.”

  Pryder chuckled and slapped Galaad on the back between his shoulder blades in good humor. “Ah, but I think you are making some progress, at that. Your advance and retreat are considerably more assured than they were just a short while ago.”

  Some of the other captains now lounged on chairs by the fireside, some distance off, watching the lesson with expressions of amusement.

  “Perhaps,” Galaad said, unconvinced. “But to speak of progress, I thought when you'd promised to teach me the uses of the sword that I'd learn…well, how to use the sword.” He leaned on his sword, its point on the ground. “So far all I've learned is how to hold the blasted thing.”

  Pryder swept out with a kick, the side of his foot smacking into the flat of Galaad's blade, knocking it to one side, the point sending up sparks as it ground against the hard stones underfoot. Galaad, off balance, stumbled and nearly fell, only barely managing to right himself and remain on his feet.

  “The next thing you should learn is to treat your blade with a little respect,” Pryder said sternly, his eyes narrowed. “One does not lean on his sword like a farmer leaning on his hoe.” He shook his head, disbelieving. “You should cherish your blade, even revere it.”

  The color rose in Galaad's cheek, and he averted his eyes.

  “Still,” Pryder said, his tone soothing, “I can understand your frustration. When I was a child, and first learning the art of the blade, I felt that it would be forever before I acquired any skill of practical use. The old campaigner who taught my brother and me had insisted on a solid grounding in the fundamentals before we ever crossed swords, blunt and wooden or no.” He sighed, seeming to look back on fondness to those days. “And while you've many long hours to go before you're ready for anything but the most basic of fundamentals, perhaps a brief demonstration of a more advanced technique would not be completely out of order.”

  Pryder turned to address the captains lounging some distance away.

  “Lugh?” he called. “A moment of your time, if you please.”

  With a scowl and grumble, the Gael reluctantly pushed off his seat and ambled across the floor to where they stood. “What?” Lugh asked, his voice only somewhat slurred by the heroic amounts of wine he'd already drunk by midday to deaden the still-lingering pain of his bitten hand.

  “I was wondering if you would assist me in demonstrating your signature attack for our young friend here.”

  Lugh cocked an eyebrow, his hand drifting almost unconsciously to the sword hilt ever present on his hip. “What, my ‘answer’? You want me to poke a hole in him, then?”

  Pryder laughed when he saw Galaad's widened eyes and horrified expression.

  “No,” Pryder explained, smiling in his beard, “I think shadow fencing with air should prove sufficient for our purposes.”

  Lugh shrugged. “Have it your way.”

  As the Gael drew his blade, Galaad could see his gratitude at not having been bitten on his sword hand. Then, Lugh took up a position in the empty space before them, standing much as Pryder had been teaching Galaad to do, but with his dominant left foot forward instead and with considerable more ease than Galaad had been able to muster.

  “So, you've got to picture some bugger standing here, right? Making a nuisance of himself.” Lugh held his sword in his left hand with the point towards the ground, his right hand behind him, looking over his left shoulder at some imagined opponent.

  Galaad nodded when Lugh glanced his way, in affirmation.

  “So it's attack and block, attack and block, that sort of dung, right?” Lugh moved the point of his sword in a tiny wave, halfheartedly miming the exchange. “He takes a swing at you, you knock it aside and take a swing at him, on and on.” He sighed, wearily. “That kind of nonsense gets old, let me tell you.”

  Galaad glanced to Pryder, who was standing to one side, his arms folded, a faint smile visible behind his beard.

  “So when you think you've had enough,” Lugh went on, “then you've just got to wait for your moment, and then…”

  Lugh seemed to explode into motion, all at once. He extended his left arm to its full extension, the blade held straight out, point first, while at the same time kicking his left leg forward, his heel barely skimming the floor, and straightening his right leg out, throwing his right arm behind him. The combined effect of these movements was to push his body forward in a single, fluid motion, as powerfully as an arrow leaving a bow.

  The heel of his left foot struck the flagstones, and as his foot rocked forward his leg bent and absorbed his forward momentum, his shoulders, hips, right arm, and left thigh held parallel to the ground.

  “…strike,” Lugh said casually, completing his thought.

  The move had increased the reach of Lugh's thrust remarkably and had allowed him to cover a considerable amount of ground in a lightning-fast strike.

  “What the devil was that?” Galaad's mouth hung open.

  “That,” Pryder said admiringly, “is why they call him ‘Long Hand.’”

  Lugh straightened with a shrug. “It's just something I worked out some years back. I call it my ‘answer.’ But it's a move that's held me in good stead a time or two, I can tell you.”

  Galaad nodded, eyes wide. “I can well imagine.” He tightened his grip on his own sword, playing back the move in his mind. “Please, if you don't mind, sir…?”

  “Yes?” Lugh asked. “What i
s it?”

  “Could you do it again?” Galaad asked, a hungry look in his eyes.

  A watch was posted the second night that the seven were in Llongborth, outside the doors of the hall, vigilant for any sign of the Huntsman or his hounds. But the night passed without any appearance by the spectral visitors, and those within the hall were allowed to slumber uninterrupted.

  Galaad was among them, wedged into a narrow space and bordered on every side by bodies, but while the hall reverberated gently with the rustling and snoring of the many sleepers, Galaad himself was unable to find solace in sleep. He'd had another of his visions during the evening meal, the smell of the hearty stewpot before them replaced by the scent of flowers and the cozy red glow of the hearthfire forgotten in the blinding white flash. The images had been the same as always, as had the emotional content of the message, but for the first time, beneath the sudden and pervasive sense of bliss that he felt, Galaad detected a tiny glimmer of fear, a minor but persistent irritant.

  Whether this fear was his own, or else part of the feelings engendered in him by the vision, Galaad couldn't say. But knowing that there was some connection between the tower of glass, the White Lady imprisoned within, and the haunting figure of the Huntsman gave new meaning to the vision. The White Lady had always called for assistance, for rescue, but until now it had never occurred to Galaad to wonder, rescue from what?

  The Huntsman was part of the equation, that much was certain. Was he the power which held the White Lady prisoner, or instead some agent of that power? And if he were only agent, and not the power in himself, then what did that suggest about the nature of the Huntsman's master?

  When Galaad's vision ended, and his senses returned to him, he found that no one had noticed his momentary fugue, the dining continuing unabated around him. He returned to his meal, though as the scent of flowers faded in his nostrils, he found that the food tasted only of ashes in his mouth.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Blank was awoken from a much needed and protracted slumber by someone ringing his front doorbell. Pulling on a Japanese dressing gown of black silk embroidered with red and gold, making it the most colorful item of clothing in his current wardrobe, Blank left his sleeping chamber, crossed the library, and entered the foyer. Opening the door, he found a telegraph boy at the threshold, in a crisp brown uniform and matching cap, a leather satchel over his shoulder. The slip of paper the boy presented was from Superintendent Melville and in abbreviated words indicated that there had been a discovery in the early morning hours behind the Tivoli Music Hall that Blank was certain to find of interest.