One Knight Only

by Peter David

  “I presume nothing,” said Gilgamesh mildly. “I simply made an observation. Voiced an opinion. Agree with it or not at your discretion.”

  And before Ziusura could reply, Enkidu was standing right in front of him. The great man-creature’s abrupt appearance startled the Aged One. He had not heard him at all. Compared to the stealth with which Enkidu moved, even the greatest of jungle predators sounded like a train wreck in their approaches.

  “We are to have visitors today, Aged One,” Gilgamesh said blithely. He sounded unconcerned. It was difficult for Ziusura to determine whether the lack of concern was genuine or feigned. Without bidding, images of the dream Gilgamesh had described to him all those months ago came roaring back to him. The dreams of Arthur Pendragon (for such did Ziusura know him to be) with his great sword in hand, and that infinity sign, or perhaps the number eight.

  “Eight months,” said Ziusura slowly.

  “Yes.” Gilgamesh was nodding. He was by no means a fool, the High King. The thought had occurred to him as well. “Dream imagery. Infinity? Eight? We do not know. We may never know. But all of that pales in comparison to that which we do know, specifically . . .”

  “That Gilgamesh will triumph,” said Enkidu. As always, he chose his words carefully. He also sounded out of breath, as if the mere pronouncing of words exhausted him.

  “Yes, my brother,” Gilgamesh said with confidence. He placed a hand on Enkidu’s shoulder and looked at him affectionately. “As always.”

  Ziusura glanced around and, making no endeavor to keep the distaste from his voice, asked, “Where is your woman?”

  “She is not my woman.”

  “That much is true,” said the Aged One. “She is not any sort of true woman. Nevertheless, you . . . associate with her. I was curious.”

  “She is attending to other matters,” Gilgamesh said. There was something in his voice that told Ziusura the High King was being less than forthcoming. But there really wasn’t much point in pursuing the matter any further. The High King always liked his little secrets and games, and in the insulated environment of Pus Island, he didn’t have the opportunity to practice them nearly enough.

  So the Aged One simply bobbed his head slightly in acknowledgment. Then he realized that Enkidu was looking at him. It was rare that the creature did so, which normally suited Ziusura just fine. There was something so unnatural about Enkidu that the Aged One always felt better when the walking beast’s attention was elsewhere. Such was obviously not the case now, however, and so Ziusura looked him full in his furry face and said, “Do you have something on your mind, Beast Man?”

  “You will not speak so to him,” Gilgamesh said sternly.

  “And you will not speak so to me,” replied the Aged One. He turned to leave, and then stopped short when Enkidu spoke up in that soft, deep growl that passed as his voice.

  “You know.”

  That was all Enkidu said, but it was enough to fully latch the Aged One’s attention upon him. For a long moment they regarded each other, as if truly seeing each other for the first time. Finally Ziusura replied, “Yes. Yes . . . I do.”

  Gilgamesh looked in puzzlement from one to the other. “What are you referring to? What do you know? What do the both of you know? Do I know it?”

  “You know it, too, yes,” Ziusura told him reassuringly. But then he added, “You simply do not know that you know it.”

  The High King’s forehead creased in a frown, but before he could pursue the conversation further, Enkidu—who had been crouching until that point, like a great lion poised in the high weeds—suddenly came to full attention. His ears were quivering, all his attention focused on one point in the sky. “He comes. I hear him.”

  “I hear nothing,” said Gilgamesh, and seemed a bit annoyed with himself over that. Nor did Ziusura detect anything. He did not, however, doubt Enkidu’s word on that. First, he didn’t think the creature was truly capable of lying, and even if he were, he certainly would never lie to Gilgamesh, to whom he was so dedicated.

  “How can you not?” Enkidu did not sound challenging in the statement, but instead almost disappointed that his friend and liege could be so deaf and blind to the world around him. “The very air currents bend to him.” It was a long sentence for him, and did not come without effort.

  Gilgamesh was about to reply, and suddenly he sensed it, or saw it, as well. It was a speck on the horizon, coming in from the north, but it was moving quickly. Closer it drew, and still closer, and the details were still difficult to discern, but the High King was not waiting. Instead he drew himself up to his full height, and when he spoke it was posed as a question but, really, there was no degree of uncertainty in his voice. “It is he, isn’t it? Percival’s liege lord.” Neither person on either side confirmed it for him. Neither needed to. “Well then,” he continued, “we must arrange a greeting for him in keeping with his status. Come then. Let us attend to it.”

  The Aged One wasn’t paying attention to them as they walked away, Enkidu listening to the plans that Gilgamesh was unfurling. Instead his attention was focused on the rapidly nearing object in the sky.

  He felt some degree of frustration, but such concerns were quickly set aside. The simple fact was that the gods detested stagnation. They sought to shake things up occasionally, just to keep themselves interested, and bewailing one’s lot in life in that regard was not only a waste of time, but was probably the exact sort of sniveling self-pity that caused the gods such amusement. No, it was far better to simply acknowledge the gods’ superiority and make preparations for whatever insanity they might be preparing to inflict.

  Ziusura was most definitely ready. If there was one thing eternal life had taught him, it was to be prepared for anything the gods might try to throw at him. And this object heading straight for the island was most definitely a mighty large object that the gods were lobbing in his direction.

  So Ziusura went to the place where he had made his preparations for just such an eventuality, and checked them over to make certain everything was still just as he’d left it. Finally, satisfying himself that all was well, he returned to the main section where all was being made ready for the arrival of Percival’s liege lord, the noble Arthur Pendragon, late of the Britons.

  FROM HER PLACE in the trees, Miss Basil watches with her unblinking green eyes.

  She is very aware of her function, of what needs to be done. So much so, in fact, that she has not even felt the need to check with Gilgamesh to make certain that her actions are what the High King desires. She knows him all too well.

  Indeed, the truth of that amuses her somewhat. The High King fancies himself a great thinker, a great man of depth and complexity. Two-thirds god, one-third man. But the lesser part of him is so much lesser that it tends to overwhelm the greater, is her opinion. The truth is, there is about as much depth to Gilgamesh as in the average tuna salad. Nevertheless, she does owe him for her very existence, and for that alone if no other reason, she allows the wheels of fate to bring her to this point.

  And she owes Arthur as well. Owes him greatly. And Basiliskos always repays her debts in full ...

  IT WASN’T DIFFICULT for Ziusura to find the location. There was enough racket and hullabaloo that if Ziusura had been deaf, dumb, and blind he still would have been able to make his way to the anticipated arrival point. There he discovered that Gilgamesh and Enkidu had acted very quickly in rounding up many of the inhabitants of Pus Island . . . particularly a significant assortment of the attractive female ones. Scanty outfits and tanned, bare skin were both in copious supply among the greeters who had gathered with a mixture of fear and anticipation.

  Such gorgeous women, such a bounty of youth and beauty. And it had been so long.

  For the first time in quite a while, Ziusura thought about his wife. He did not do it very often, because doing so saddened him beyond his ability to articulate, and why should he subject himself to that? But for just a moment, the look and scent and smile of her came flooding back
to him in such a way that it nearly overwhelmed him, and then Ziusura thrust the recollection away with effort. Now was not the time for such things, although he wasn’t really sure there ever would be a time.

  Closer still drew the flying object, and Gilgamesh was staring at it with perplexity. He was wearing his large crown with the powerful curved horns adorning either side. His bloodred cloak, which he sported on only the most important of occasions, hung draped around his shoulders. His kilt was decorated with the images of lightning bolts, and his sandals were laced up to just under his knees. His sword was sheathed and hanging upon his back, but the Aged One knew of Gilgamesh’s speed, and was aware that the sword could be in his hand in a literal instant.

  “What . . . is that?” asked Gilgamesh slowly, as the flying vehicle that appeared both ungainly and yet graceful cut through the air.

  “It’s an Osprey,” the Aged One promptly replied.

  “That is no bird . . .”

  “A Bell Boeing V-22 Osprey,” Ziusura continued. “It’s a model of VTOL . . . a Vertical Takeoff and Landing vehicle.”

  Gilgamesh turned and stared at the Aged One with amazement bordering on reverence. “You know of such things?”

  “Of course. Why don’t you?”

  “That is not the point. How can you know of it? Do the gods visit dreams upon you? Do you study augeries? Do you upon occasion wander the earth seeking knowledge that you can—”

  “I have an Internet connection, you great lummox. How else?”

  Gilgamesh and Enkidu exchanged looks of surprise. “A what?”

  The Aged One blew air impatiently out between his lips. “Gilgamesh, reside in as primitive a style as it suits you to. Be a living monument to a time long past. Some of us, however, prefer to exist in the current century rather than one millennia agone. I know I do. Oh, your green-eyed girl-friend does as well. I found her website. Very twisted material, that one.”

  Gilgamesh’s response was drowned out by the roar of the rotors as the Osprey had drawn right overhead. The residents of Pus Island were falling back. Some of the men and women were clutching at their exotic scraps of clothing to prevent them from blowing away. Others were just standing there with smiles, not caring what sort of disarray their ensembles were left in from the wind kicked up by the rotors.

  As the VTOL lowered, even the hardiest of the Pus Island residents stepped back, shielding their eyes so as not to let any of the flying dust land in them. Nearby trees were bent backward by the power of the blades. The vehicle hovered a moment more, as if trying to decide whether landing was really such a good idea, and then the air vessel touched down. This simple act brought a smattering of applause from the onlookers, which amused Ziusura.

  There were two rotors upon the Osprey, one on either wing, both of them now shutting off. The Aged One could see that the ends of the wings swiveled, capable of having the propellers facing forward like an airplane for long-distance flight or—as was the case now—shifted into an upright position at a ninety-degree angle to the wings, making the Osprey evocative of a helicopter.

  “Amazing,” Gilgamesh said. The truth was, the Aged One was impressed as well, but he wasn’t about to admit to it.

  Long after the noise of the engines had ceased, the blades were still whirring. Now all was silent upon Pus Island, and the Aged One suddenly remembered that the Osprey was equipped with such goodies as multi-barrel rotary machine guns. If Arthur Pendragon had come in looking for war, he could just start opening fire on everyone who was standing around the Osprey, hoping to litter the landing pad with corpses. He would, of course, get something of a surprise should he go that route, but there would be a good deal of blood and screaming and noise, and it did not sound to Ziusura remotely like a fun time.

  Happily, such was not the case. Instead, after some moments, the large cargo door on the side unlatched with a noise that sounded like a cannon shot. Then it slid open and standing in the doorway was a large black man whom the Aged One recognized instantly.

  So, too, did Gilgamesh. He waved and hailed him as if greeting an old friend and ally. “Well met, Percival!” he called out. “You raised quite a ruckus the last time you walked our humble shores and then escaped them.”

  “No thanks to you,” said Percival evenly. He had braced himself within the door, hands holding on to either side of the frame.

  “No thanks to me,” Gilgamesh acknowledged without the slightest indication of shame. “But I do not resent you your . . . antics. Nor does Enkidu. Do you, my warrior brother?”

  Enkidu shook his head briefly, but he never took his gaze from Percival. It was hard for Ziusura to get a real feeling just how Enkidu felt about Percival’s having eluded him during their chase through the forest. Enkidu prided his hunting skills above all else, and his having failed to capture Percival very likely rankled him, no matter what sort of cheery face Gilgamesh was trying to put upon it.

  The Aged One watched in silence as the passengers of the Osprey stepped off. Percival hopped down, then turned and helped a young woman off the vehicle, swinging her lightly to the ground. She let out a surprised little gasp of air. A man quickly followed, taller and a bit more careworn than the woman. Both of them seemed very mundane, and were of little interest to Ziusura. The woman looked around in perplexity, and then cried out involuntarily when her gaze fell upon Enkidu. Reflexively she grabbed the man by the arm, clutching it tightly. He saw where she was looking, and his face went slack as if all the blood had evaporated from it in one great rush, but at least he managed to contain himself and not cry out. Whether Enkidu had noticed either of their reactions was difficult for the Aged One to say. He simply stood there with his feline inscrutability. Such a contrast he was from Gilgamesh: The High King restrained his passions with effort, while Enkidu had to struggle inwardly just to display even the mildest of reactions.

  And then Arthur emerged.

  Even if Ziusura had never set eyes upon an image of the former president of the United States before, he would have known this man for what he was. He stood straight and tall in the door. Whereas the men who had just emerged were perspiring in the heat, their shirts already sticking to their chests, Arthur was the picture of mental and physical cool. He was dressed simply in a dark suit, a rust-colored shirt open at the neck, and his suit jacket draped casually over one arm. He radiated confidence and charisma.

  Until that moment, the residents of Pus Island who had come to serve as greeters had seemed almost amused by the whole thing. It was in some ways a grand joke to them. But with the appearance of Pendragon, the very air seemed to change, to crackle with an energy that had not been there before. The people shifted in their place, glanced at one another, silently affirming whether each of them was getting the same impression from this new arrival.

  Gilgamesh remained blasé. Without taking his eyes from Pendragon, he said in a voice just low enough to be heard by Enkidu and the Aged One, “This is a warrior king? He does not seem particularly impressive, this one.”

  Ziusura couldn’t quite believe what he had just heard the High King say. He stared at Gilgamesh, managing to keep his astonishment from his expression. Gilgamesh actually appeared bored, even disappointed by Arthur’s appearance. How can he not see? How can he not realize? It was almost enough to cause the Aged One to doubt himself. Almost. But not quite. It’s true. He doesn’t realize. How very tragic.

  “Ah, well,” Gilgamesh murmured, “even if he is not as I pictured him, he is still a king and therefore entitled to certain courtesies.” At which point Gilgamesh raised his voice and began to chant. The song had an eerie quality to it, and the words were of a language that had not been widely spoken since a time when the gods themselves were young. Arthur had stepped down from the vehicle and now he merely stood, listening very attentively to the chant. Ziusura was struck by the intensity that Arthur displayed, taking in every syllable as if he understood when, obviously, he could not possibly have done so.

  The song went on for seve
ral minutes. It was the only sound that could be heard on the island. Even the waves of the ocean, normally heard lapping on the distant shores, seemed to silence themselves, and the caws of birds and sounds of other animals upon the island ceased as well. It was as if the entire world had halted to attend to the chanting of the High King.

  Finally Gilgamesh ended his song, the last notes still hovering in the air, and Arthur bowed deeply. Gilgamesh did not return the gesture, but instead simply inclined his head in acknowledgment.

  “In greeting for me, I take it?” Arthur inquired.

  “Just so,” replied Gilgamesh. “You are Arthur Pendragon?”

  “Nee Pendragon, ‘Penn’ of late. ‘Sir’ is always preferable, but between us two,” he said, his voice both light and yet with an undercurrent of subtle expectation for respect, “I would think ‘Arthur’ would suffice. And you, I take it, are Gilgamesh?”

  “Just so,” he said again. He squared his shoulders and seemed to add another five inches in height. Arthur angled his head slightly to keep his eyes upon the High King’s, but if the additional build of the High King at all disconcerted Arthur, he gave no indication of such. “And you,” continued Gilgamesh, “have come to my island uninvited. But not, I daresay, unheralded.” He nodded in Percival’s direction.

  “You know my name,” Arthur observed, “and yet I was led to understand that my man, Percival, was not forthcoming with that information.”

  “Indeed he was not. Did you doubt his word?”

  “Never. I was simply curious as to how you knew.”

  “I am a king, Pendragon. I have my sources.” And he smiled enigmatically.

  “Very well.” Folding his arms across his chest, Arthur said evenly, nodding toward the beast-man to one side, “And this would be Enkidu, I take it? Yes, of course it would. And . . . you?” He looked blankly at Ziusura.

  “This is the Aged One,” Gilgamesh said. “Also known as Ziusura, and also Ut-Napisti.”