End of the Century

by Chris Roberson

  It must have taken her longer to stand up and walk out then she thought. As soon as she was outside, the lights behind her turned off, the bartender or publican or whatever locked the door, and Alice was alone on the sidewalk. Where had everyone else gone? Home or somewhere else, she supposed. Just not here.

  Alice started walking up the road. She didn't know where she was going, just that she was moving. Then she heard the sound of fluttering and looked down.

  There, blocking her path, was a large black bird. At first she thought it was a crow, or a grackle. Then she realized. No, it was a raven.

  A raven, and it wasn't alone.

  It wasn't just one raven, blocking Alice's path. There were several. No, a half dozen. More. Seven, altogether.

  There were three on the sidewalk, moving in little hops, two more ruffling their feathers atop the streetlights, and two at the edge of the awning over a nearby shop window. Seven ravens. It was like a scene from that old Hitchcock movie.

  None of the birds made a sound. They just looked at her with their cold, ink black eyes. Dead black eyes like the loveless, joyless eyes of a shark.

  Alice drew the last of her cigarette into her lungs, then dropped the butt to the pavement. She tried to grind it under her heel, missed, but felt the attempt was enough.

  “Leave me alone,” she said, slurring her words. “I don't want any special destiny, you get me?”

  Then she turned around, spinning on her heel, almost but not quite losing her balance, almost but not quite getting dizzy again and throwing up all over her shirt. She kept her fish and fries and alcohol down, though, thank you very much the ghost of Nancy, and took a step away from the ravens.

  “Alice. Wait.” The voice was squeaky and high, but ragged, like someone with laryngitis had just sucked down a balloon's worth of helium and tried out their best monster voice. “Unworld. Waits. Soon.”

  Alice stopped and sighed. Was it one of the creeps from the bar, come back to try his luck again? Maybe the amateur mathematician?

  It was only when she was turning around that Alice realized she hadn't told any of the creeps her name.

  “Alice. Unworld. Waits.”

  Alice narrowed her eyes. There was no one but the birds, on the ground and overhead.

  “Who's there?” Alice asked. She knew already, but couldn't admit it, didn't really want to know.

  One of the ravens hopped forward.

  It opened its black beak.

  “Disk. Memory. Within. Save. Alice. Unworld. Waits. Alice.”

  There was the high squeaky laryngitis-helium voice she'd heard. Coming out of the raven's mouth. Just like she'd known it would.

  “No.” Alice shook her head. “No, no, no.” She put her hands over her ears. “Not for me.”

  If she'd smelled smoke, or seen the flashing light, she'd have thought she was having an episode. But this didn't have the same sense of meaning suffused through everything, the feeling that something important was happening. She was just drunk on a sidewalk in London, being accosted by a flock of ravens. Or was that a murder of ravens? She could never keep that straight.

  “Alice. Memory. Save. Disk. Unworld. Waits.”

  She could still hear the high-pitched, growly-squeaky voice even with her ears covered.

  “I've changed my mind, okay?” Alice said, lowering her hands, pleading with the ravens. “I went up in the Ferris wheel like you said, then nothing happened, and now I just want to go home again. Is that okay? Can't you find someone else?”

  The raven hopped forward another few inches, tilted its head to one side, and studied Alice intently through one ink black eye.

  “Alice. Save.”

  She'd had enough. Alice turned and took to her heels.

  Alice ran as fast as she could, but given how drunk she was, it probably wasn't very fast. She wasn't sure where she was going, didn't even know what she was running from, just that she had to get away.

  She rounded the corner at the end of the street and plowed right into somebody.

  Whoever it was that Alice had run into was surer on their feet than she was, since they were still standing when she rebounded and fell sprawled on the pavement.

  “Hey, watch it!”

  Alice looked up from the pavement, breathless. There was an old man standing over her. Old as in fifty, not one hundred.

  “You okay, love?”

  The guy looked like Michael Caine in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels without the mustache, but talked like Michael Caine in The Italian Job. Naomi had always had a thing for the actor, and Alice must have seen every one of his movies growing up.

  The guy reached out a hand to help Alice to her feet and she couldn't help but think he looked familiar somehow, beyond the resemblance to her grandmother's favorite actor.

  Alice looked at his proffered hand like it was a dead fish.

  He chuckled. “Don't worry, love, I won't bite. Trust me, you're not my type.”

  The guy pulled Alice to her feet, and she got a better look at him. He looked a little less like Michael Caine than she'd thought. He was wearing a gray suit that had seen better days, his shirt open at the collar with no tie, and over this a ratty-looking trench coat. Blond hair gone to gray, a week's worth of beard on his chin. But his eyes. His eyes, they were the color of the iceberg in the nighttime shots of Titanic, ice-chip blue.

  Ice-chip blue eyes.

  “Still waters,” Alice said, scarcely above a whisper.

  The guy narrowed his eyes and regarded her with surprise and suspicion. “Yeah, my name's Stillman Waters. Who told you that?”

  So that was the eye over the city, and the ravens, and the mirror-still water, and the man with the ice-chip blue eyes. Alice almost had a complete set. Where was the jewel?

  “Look, love,” the man called Stillman Waters said, releasing his hold on her arm. “Much as I'd love to stay and chat, I really don't want to stay and chat, so if you'll excuse me I think I'll be on my way.”

  There was a noise from behind her, and Alice looked to see a raven alighting on a red cast-iron mailbox. In seconds, its six friends flapped into view, settling on lampposts and awnings.

  “Alice,” said the squeaky-growly voice of the raven. “Run.”

  Stillman Waters looked from the raven to Alice. “Friend of yours, is it, love?”

  Then, before introductions could be made, the dogs crashed the party.

  There were five of them, so the ravens outnumbered the dogs by two, but what the dogs lacked in numerical superiority, they more than made up in terrifying hostility.

  They had white coats, except for their ears, which were tipped with swathes of red, and when they curled back their lips Alice could see that their fangs, like their claws, had been dyed red.

  “Bugger!” Stillman Waters spat, and his hand dove into the pocket of his ratty trench coat. When it came out again, there was a weird-looking pistol in his fist.

  Alice opened her mouth to ask what was going on, but never had the chance to speak.

  “Come along,” Stillman said, and grabbed hold of her arm. “We need to go. Now!”

  FINALLY CAME THE HOUR when the land to their starboard fell away. They'd sailed the breadth of the island, and it was time to steer the long ship again to the north. In short order they were sailing back in the direction of the rising sun. The winds were sluggish for a time, requiring the captains to pull on the oars while Artor worked the tiller, but fortune was with them when the winds picked up from the west, driving them steadily towards their destination. Within less than a day more at sail, they came at last to Llongborth, the port of the warships.

  Having traveled so far from Glevum by foot, and then again by sea for days more, Galaad knew that if they continued up the coast to the north and east they would make landfall not far from his home. But knowing that he was so near the lands where he'd spent all his years did little to make this area seem any less unfamiliar. A matter of hours at sail from Glevum, Llongborth was like nothing he'd seen before
.

  The port of the warships was well named. The harbor bristled with the masts of sailing vessels of all varieties, even more than could be seen at anchor in the river Tamesa. Captured Saeson longships like Artor's White Aspect, merchant ships from the Middle Sea, ancient Roman triremes and biremes, scattered dromons and liburnas.

  Artor had explained to Galaad that they would make landfall at Llongborth, replenish their supplies, and head overland to the island of Galaad's vision. The waters approaching this length of the Dumnonian coast were shallow, little more than marshy fen in some areas, and even with as shallow a draw as the White Aspect boasted, there would be too great a risk of running aground.

  Llongborth was the home of Geraint, king of half Dumnonia. Geraint, or more properly Geraint ab Erbin ab Custennin, had fought with Artor at Badon, and later returned to Dumnonia after the death of his father to take the throne rather than taking his place among the captains around Artor's marble circle. However, Geraint ruled only half of Dumnonia, while his cousin Mark ab Meirchion ab Custennin ruled the other half.

  The connections between High King and ruler of half Dumnonia were stronger still than those forged in battle, but were instead bound in blood. Artor's mother was the daughter of Custennin and a sister to Geraint's father Erbin, making Artor and Geraint cousins. And though Artor and Mark were, by extension, cousins as well, if it came to a struggle between the Dumnonian kings for control of the kingdom, it was clear which of the two had Artor's allegiance.

  With sails furled, the longship was maneuvered towards the dock, though it soon became easier to use the oars like a ferryman's punt pole, as they moved into waters too shallow for the larger vessels anchored further out in the harbor. The longship moored to the dock, the oars were shipped and the captains made ready to disembark.

  They had not been able to send word ahead of their arrival, having traveled from Caer Llundain by sea faster than any could make the journey by land in this icy season, and so came to Llongborth unannounced. It did not take long, as the captains unloaded their gear from the longship, for the White Aspect to be recognized, and in short order her master the High King as well, so that by the time their provisions, saddles, tack, and weapons were arranged on the dock, an envoy had been sent from the court of Geraint to greet them.

  “You are welcome to Llongborth, High King and Count of Britannia,” said the page, bowing low. He was a thin man with a misshapen nose that had long ago been broken and healed crooked, but he spoke clear and precise, albeit with a distinct Dumnonian accent. “King Geraint sends you greetings and asks that you join him in his court at your earliest convenience.”

  The page half turned and indicated the large wooden structure that dominated the small clutch of buildings perched at the water's edge. Of recent vintage, constructed of stout wood and mortar, it rose some three dozen feet above the ground, and half again as many wide, and though not as imposing as Artor's palace in Caer Llundain, in context it was a striking sight.

  “Relay my thanks to your king for this kindness,” Artor said, “along with our glad acceptance. We have only to see to the disposition of our things and we will be along presently.”

  “Oh, these?” The page indicated the gear stacked on the deck, around which the five captains and Galaad stood, stretching their legs and arms, grateful once more to be on solid ground. “The king instructs me that our porters shall see to your every need, and if you wish shall transport your things to rooms in his palace, where accommodations are being prepared for you.”

  Galaad noticed that Pryder and Gwrol tensed, no doubt sensing treachery, but reasoned that they must be habitually paranoid, since neither Artor nor any of the other captains exhibited any undue concern.

  “It would be impolite to refuse, I should think,” Artor said.

  “Well, thank bugger for that,” Lugh said in a whisper loud enough for everyone in a hundred feet radius to hear. “I was afraid we'd have to lug that dung around on our backs forever.”

  Artor cast him a quick glance, not entirely without amusement, and then returned his gaze to the page. “So we'll be coming with you, it would appear.”

  “Yes,” the page said, nodding eagerly, as a trio of burly porters approached up the quay, ready to haul their gear after them. “The king waits your coming eagerly.”

  “Then lead on,” Artor said with a smile.

  With the bent-nosed page scurrying in the lead and Artor following close behind, the seven made their way through the narrow streets of Llongborth.

  Galaad couldn't help but feel a moment's concern that they'd left their goods and gear unattended with virtual strangers in an unknown city. Pryder seemed to read Galaad's thoughts in his expression and laid a comradely hand on his shoulder.

  “Don't worry,” he said, patting the sword hilt at his belt. “We've got with us all the luggage we need, if push should come to shove.”

  “Thank you,” Galaad said, feeling not a bit reassured.

  The streets of Llongborth were just hard-packed dirt, not cobbled like those of Caer Llundain, and even after the frigid air on the open waters, the breezes which wafted through chilled to the bone. The buildings were all of wood and mortar, with only a few outfitted with tile roofs, the rest with thatch, and leaned one into another, seeming like old women huddling together to escape the cold. So far did some of the buildings overhang the narrow streets that it seemed at times that the seven were passing through tunnels, not through thoroughfares.

  When they reached the court of Geraint, they were relieved to find it sturdily built and, more important, well warmed by numerous hearth fires. The air within, though smoky and thick with the scent of unwashed bodies, was warm and inviting, and Galaad luxuriated in the heat. His fingers and toes, warming for the first time in days, sent pinpricks shooting up his arms and legs, unaccustomed to anything but the icy winds of the sea.

  Though the harbor was crowded with ships, the streets through which they'd passed had seemed virtually deserted, and Galaad had heard more than one of the captains wonder aloud where the townspeople could have fled. From the din within the walls of Geraint's rude palace, to say nothing of the sights which met the newcomers’ eyes, it was clear that they had found their answer. The building was longer than it was wide and dominated by a single large room, which ran nearly the entire length of the structure, with smaller rooms divided off by walls on either end. This central room served the Dumnonian king as his court, as the chairs upon the dais at the far end suggested, but in the winter months it evidently served dual purpose as the center of public life. Men, women, and children, of all ages, were gathered together in the smoky room, which pealed with their laughter and rang with their shouts, engaged in all manner of industry and entertainment. Here a cadre of aged widows and mothers sewed and embroidered, here musicians played a merry tune for dancers, here young men tested their mettle and honed their abilities in wrestling matches or fenced with blunt wooden swords. A pair of old campaigners played a game of gwyddbwyll, maneuvering the pegs across the checkered board, princes defending their king against the raiders. In a secluded area along the long wall a group of young men even gauged their strength by hurling iron bars as far as they were able, which seemed to Galaad a somewhat dangerous and foolhardy sport in such close quarters, but none of the Dumnonians seemed to mind the potential danger.

  When Galaad and the others entered the hall, the chairs upon the far dais were unoccupied, but as the heavy doors were closed and latched behind them, a man and woman appeared from the rooms at the hall's far end and mounted the dais steps. The man looked to be about the age of Artor, near forty summers, and though his dark hair was streaked with gray and his beard more white than not, he had an easy smile and only scant lines at the corners of his eyes. The woman at his side, his wife, or so Galaad assumed, carried an infant in her arms, swaddled tightly.

  “Artor, dear cousin!” The man shouted, raising both his arms in greeting. “This is an unexpected pleasure, but no less pleasing for all of
that. You are welcome in my home.”

  The High King grinned broadly and crossed the floor to stand before the dais. “You are most kind, cousin Geraint.”

  Galaad and the other captains trailed behind at a distance, just able to hear the exchange over the general hubbub of the crowded hall.

  “Come here, you,” Geraint said, jumping down from the dais and wrapping his arms around Artor, taking him in a firm embrace. He pounded the High King on the back, vigorously, then pushed away and held him at arm's length.

  Artor laughed. “And I am glad to see that the burdens of rule have not driven all of the joy from you.”

  Geraint glanced at his wife, an expression of lust fleeting across his features, and then with a softer emotion at the babe in her arms. “In fact, the advancing years bring even more joys with them.” He stepped back up onto the dais and put his arm around her.

  Artor looked at the infant, and then back at his cousin. “Is this your progeny then, Geraint?”

  The Dumnonian king nodded, proudly. “Cadwr is still too young to head my royal bodyguard, I'm sorry to report, so he's yet to earn his keep. But as soon as he can swing a blade we'll be quick to put him to work, have no doubt.”

  Artor nodded but seemed to Galaad to be at something of a loss for words. He struggled to find some proper response, before finally saying, “Cadwr. It is a…strong name.”

  Geraint gave his cousin a queer look and shrugged. “I suppose so.” He leered. “And how about you? Have you any family yet, or do you still share your bed only with that sword of yours?” He indicated the silver and gold hilted spatha at Artor's hip.

  “No,” Artor said, perhaps too quickly, shaking his head. “No. I have no family, I'm afraid. No wife or child.”

  Galaad began to realize that Artor was uncomfortable in some regard when discussing families, either his cousin's or his own lack of one. That accounted for his seeming nervousness on the subject of Geraint's son. Artor seemed not quite to know what to say about, or to, a child. And he flustered at the mention of a romantic relationship much like a beardless youth first catching sight of the curve of a woman's back.