Artor held forth the staff, and now Galaad got his first clear look at the bundle at its top. It was a representation of a dragon's head made of hammered bronze over wood, trailing a wind sock of red linen. The head was affixed to the end of the staff, so that when the staff was held aloft, the wind sock hung like the red tail of the dragon.
“This was once the draco standard of the Equites Honoriani Seniores,” Artor explained, proudly. “It was left behind when the Roman army left Britannia to her own defenses and later adopted by Ambrosius as a symbol of the continuity of Roman culture on the island.”
“Artor's own father, Utor, had been the standard bearer in Ambrosius's army when we were just boys,” Geraint put in, “earning the epithet Utor Dragon's Head for the ferocity with which he defended the standard in battle.”
A proud smile curled Artor's lip, while a wistful look came into his eyes. He paused for a moment, some memories playing back before his mind's eye, and then blinked rapidly, returning to the present moment. “Yes,” he said, taking a deep breath and sighing, “but it has been some years since the draco has seen battle, and still more since she needed defending. But whenever my captains and I ride forth now, we carry it proudly, to remember those who have gone before us and to remind us why we struggle.”
Artor handed the staff to Galaad, who accepted it nervously.
“I'm…I'm honored,” Galaad said, unsure of the proper protocol. “But…” He trailed off, and cast an uneasy glance at the animals across the stable, snorting clouds of steam in the chill air.
“I know,” Artor said, gently, his expression softening.
Galaad looked back at the High King, eyes widening. Did he know? There seemed no way that he could know the reasons for Galaad's fear, but then Galaad had once lived in a world free of corpse-white huntsmen and spectral hounds, so who was to say what was impossible?
“You need a saddle,” Artor added with a smile.
All of the breath left Galaad's body, and he stood rigid for a long moment, before assaying a curt nod. “Y-yes,” he said at length. “A…a saddle. Of course.”
“Not to worry,” Geraint said with an avuncular chuckle, patting Galaad on the shoulder. “I've had my people outfit my wife's roan for you. She's an obedient mare and will get you where you want to go.” He paused, and laughed louder. “The horse, that is. Not my wife.”
Artor joined in the laughter, and Galaad managed a weak smile. “Ah,” he said. “Quite right.”
It seemed the question had been decided for him, after all. He would ride out with the captains, and as their standard bearer, no less.
He only hoped he didn't vomit on the Dumnonian queen's horse.
“The hedge of mist now stands a half dozen miles to the north and east,” Geraint explained as their company mounted up and rode out of Llongborth, the sun's glow in the east hidden by thick gray clouds. “On a clear day, you could likely see it from here. Even with the roads and hillsides as iced as they are, we should reach it soon after midday at the latest.”
The captains traveled light but well armored. Each man wore a scale hauberk, except for Bedwyr, who wore one of mail, and Lugh, who complained of the weight and the chill of the metal. All wore helmets of various types and designs, Artor's own set with semiprecious stones, and each man had a shield slung on his back or else hanging from his saddle. The only other supplies they carried were sacks of comestibles and flasks of wine and water hung from their saddles. Their other effects they had left in Geraint's keeping.
In their marital finery, their cloaks flapping in the chill wind, the captains presented an imposing sight. And Geraint, who rode out with them as escort, was likewise caparisoned, his fittings if anything even grander than those worn by Artor, whose own armor had a well-traveled and utilitarian look to it. Only Galaad and Geraint's two pages were unarmored, though one of the pages carried their king's shield and the other his helmet, which was topped by an impressively large plume.
Galaad tugged his cloak more tightly around his shoulders and shivered, though his chattering teeth owed as much to his nerves as to the freezing winds. He held the staff in one hand, its foot supported against his saddle, the dragon's tail flapping in the wind.
“If it's so close,” Artor said, gripping his horse's reins, “then I'd sooner be there than dawdle and talk about it. Let's ride, for pity's sake.” With that, he kicked his heels into his horse's flanks, spurring it into motion, and the horse took off at a gallop.
“You heard the High King,” Geraint said with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “Ride out!”
The rest of the party, the captains, the king, and his pages, urged their horses to gallop, coursing over the frozen ground after Artor.
Galaad cantered forward, delaying so long that his horse looked back over her shoulder at him, an almost human expression of curiosity in her big wet eye.
“Damn,” Galaad cursed. He felt an emptiness within, a mounting anxiety creeping up his spine. He remembered that spring day, the last time he'd ridden a-gallop. And he remembered everything he'd lost that day. But if he remained behind, he stood to lose even more.
“Go, damn your hide!” Galaad yelled, kicking his heels, and as the horse thudded across the frozen ground, the dragon above his head ate the wind, its tail coursing behind.
Their progress was slow across the icy countryside, and with the sun hidden behind a thick blanket of gray clouds it was difficult to say how much time had passed, but it must have been near midday when the hedge of mist finally came into view. At first Galaad thought that it was simply more clouds obscuring the distance, but as they drew nearer, it became clear that they rode towards a seemingly unbroken wall of white different from the darker shade of the cloud cover overhead.
The party reduced their speed to a trot as they neared the mist, warily. The mist seemed indistinct, its exact edges difficult to discern, and Galaad found that his eyes watered when he stared too long at it.
“There it is, my friends,” Geraint called, pulling on his horse's reins and coming to a halt some hundreds of yards from the mist. The icy ground ran right up to the white wall and then disappeared entirely from view.
The captains exchanged uneasy glances while their horses whickered and brayed, disquieted.
“I would not have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes,” Artor said, reverentially.
“Had I not lived in such close quarters with it these long years,” Geraint answered, “I'd scarcely credit it myself, but the evidence is before you. The hedge of mist is real.”
“And none who have ever ridden through have ever returned?” Gwrol asked, his expression wary.
“None have ever ridden through at all,” Geraint said, and indicated their uneasy steeds. “Beasts seem to have better sense than men in that regard and refuse to enter the mist. But no man who has ever walked through has ever been seen again, no.”
Artor leaned forward, his hands resting on his saddle, and narrowed his eyes. “I'd not thought it could be so…large.”
Geraint nodded, his lips thin. “It now stands some two dozen miles in circumference, by our best estimates. Considering that it began no larger than a few dozen feet across, it has grown to a remarkable extent in such a relatively short time.”
Artor nodded, thoughtfully. “Well, we learn nothing staring at it from a distance.” Then he swung his leg over the saddle and dropped with a thud to the icy ground, the scales of his hauberk clinking. He slung his shield over his back and laid his hand on the hilt of his scabbarded spatha. “If we're to plumb the depths of this mystery, we must go through.”
The captains, with visible reluctance, arranged their weapons about themselves and swung down from their horses, boots crunching on the ice underfoot.
Galaad lingered in the saddle, while the captains transferred their flasks and wineskins and bundles of comestibles to their own backs. That the captains performed these mundane tasks without speaking, as if by rote, suggested to Galaad that they had d
one similar maneuvers countless times in wartime, shifting from horseback to foot with changes in terrain or tactics, and that they might now be seeking solace and support in these familiar activities, taking their troubled thoughts away from the unearthly sight before them.
“Come along, now,” Artor called to Galaad with a wave of his hand. “It's due to you that we've come, after all.”
Galaad took a deep breath and let out a ragged sigh that fogged in the cold air. He set his jaw, willing himself to overcome his fears, and slipped off the saddle and onto the ground. He handed the draco standard to the nearest of the pages.
Artor turned to Geraint. “And you, cousin? Will you come with us into the heart of mystery?” But even as he spoke the words, it was clear that he knew what the answer would be.
“Yes, I had intended…” Geraint glanced to the arms his pages bore, his voice trailing off. He shook his head, sadly, and struggled to meet the High King's gaze. “I'm sorry, but…I cannot. I…I am needed with my people in Llongborth. I am…” He trailed off, his gaze lowering to the ground, shamefaced.
“Do not worry yourself, cousin,” Artor said gently. “I understand. Had I a wife and son at home, I might feel differently, too.”
Geraint looked back to Artor, his expression brightening fractionally. He nodded, seeming to find some peace with his decision. “I will return with your horses to Llongborth,” he went on, in a louder voice, his tone firm. “But we'll leave one of our people stationed here against your return, for as long as we are able.” He pointed to one of his pages, whose shoulders slumped as he realized that he would not be returning to the comforting warmth of the hall any time soon. “You,” Geraint said, “will remain here.” The other page could not completely hide the relieved smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “And you,” Geraint continued, pointing to the other page, “will return with me, to ride back out by nightfall to spell your fellow in his watch.”
Now both pages exchanged dispirited glances, but if they had any complaints did not give them voice.
The seven gathered in a ragged line, standing between the horses and the hedge of mist in the near distance. A cold wind blew from behind them, stinging cheeks and bare hands, and Galaad hugged his arms to his chest, shivering beneath his cloak.
“Well,” Lugh said to Artor, “you wanted adventure and to have your pulse quicken once more before you died.”
Artor glanced back his way.
“So, has it quickened yet? Because I'll tell you, my own blood is damn near frozen.”
Artor gave him a tight smile. “I've not felt as alive in some time, my old friend. In some long time.”
Lugh blew air through his lips, dismissively, but after a brief moment a smile crept across his own face. “Aye,” he said. “Well, it beats haggling with traders for scraps of food, I'll give you that.”
“Or listening to endless petitioners,” Caius put in.
Artor nodded. “That it does.”
“Are we going to go or not?” Gwrol said, fidgeting. “I can feel my manhood freezing off in this cold, just standing here.”
“It's a small loss,” Pryder replied, “and it isn't as if you had any use for it, after all.”
“You fellows don't think we'll see those hounds again once we're within, do you?” Bedwyr asked, his voice quavering.
“Come on, you lot,” Artor said, striding forward. “If this is to be our end, let us face it with heads high and eyes wide open, shall we?”
The captains left off their squabbles and comments and, hands on their sword hilts, followed after.
Galaad was the last to advance. He glanced back at Geraint and the pages, who already were busy putting the horses on a line to lead back to the city. He couldn't help but envy them, but at the same time, he felt the fires of his curiosity burning higher within, knowing that he could be so close to the answers he had so long sought.
He turned back towards the hedge and hurried to catch up to Artor and the others.
The party reached the hedge in a matter of moments and paused just before entering the hedge of mist. Seen from this close, it seemed more an absence of anything visible than a tangible thing in itself, more a wall of nothingness than any sort of fog. Behind was the world they knew, and before them was simply…nothing.
Artor glanced around at the others, a faint smile on his face, and without another word strode forward and into the mist. He disappeared immediately from view, even the sounds of his feet crunching the icy ground fading entirely.
The captains exchanged glances and shrugs, and then singly and in pairs followed behind.
Galaad was the last to go, as always. He paused a long moment, gathering his resolve. He set his jaw, tightened his hands into fists at his sides, and holding his breath, walked forward into the mist.
For a brief moment, it felt to Galaad as though he was nowhere. He saw only white, heard nothing, felt nothing. His stomach roiled, and he felt an intense sensation of vertigo, feeling almost as though he were falling from some great height and gaining speed, but also as if he were frozen in place. He thought for a brief instant that he was experiencing another of his visions, but he had felt none of the other indicators and the overall sensation was markedly different.
Then the moment passed and he completed the step he'd begun in walking into the mist, his leading foot striking the ground.
A wave of heat hit him, like an oven door just being opened, and he squinted in the sudden strange light that greeted his eyes. He stumbled forward, feeling queasy and unwell.
Galaad managed to keep from pitching forward onto his face, his arms out to either side for balance. Straightening uneasily, he glanced around, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the odd quality of the light. The skies overhead were a clear, crystal blue, and the field which spread out before him was covered in some sort of strangely colored heath. Where an instant before he'd been in the depths of a frigid winter, now he found himself in warmest summer.
More worrying, though, he found that he was completely alone.
Galaad felt a momentarily thrill of panic and a sense of dissociation to find himself alone in these strange summer lands. Then he heard footfalls behind him, and a series of startled gasps, and turned to find the captains behind him, staggering through the hedge of mist. An instant later, Artor followed, his faint smile fading, replaced by an expression of confusion.
“But…” Artor began, looking from the captains before him to the indistinct wall of white through which he'd walked. “I just…”
“Where have you been?” Galaad asked, reaching out a hand towards the nearest of the captains, almost afraid to touch them, as though they might come apart if he did.
The captains alternated between looking around them at their strange new surroundings and glancing at one another in confusion over the unexpected order of their arrival.
Artor narrowed his eyes. “I just walked through the hedge, leaving you all behind me, and now I find that you preceded me through the mist. How is that possible?”
Lugh shrugged. “Perhaps we took a short cut,” he said, unconvincingly.
“No.” Caius shook his head. “It took no longer than the time needed to take a single step.”
“And yet Galaad, the last to come, preceded us all,” Pryder said, glancing towards Galaad with suspicion.
“On my honor,” Galaad said, hastily, “I watched you all vanish into the mist, but when I followed I briefly found myself alone on this side.”
“It was just…white,” Bedwyr said, looking back at the mist, reaching out a tentative hand, though stopping far short of touching it. “And silence. It was simply…”
“Nothing,” Gwrol finished for him. “It was as though we passed through nothing.”
Some of the others nodded.
“I don't like this,” Bedwyr said with mounting panic. “Perhaps we should return at some other time.”
Bedwyr took a step back towards the hedge, as though to return.
“W
ait!” Artor said, holding up his hand.
As it happened, he needn't have bothered. Bedwyr reached the mist in another step, but instead of passing through, he was stopped short, as though he had walked into a solid stone wall. He rebounded back, unharmed but distressed.
“I…” Bedwyr reached out his hand again, this time close enough to touch, but rather than disappearing into the white fog, it was met with resistance. “It is solid!” He looked to the others, his eyes wide. “It could be made of stone, or iron!”
The other captains exchanged curious looks, except for Lugh, who simply marched up to the hedge, clenched his hand into a fist, and pounded on it like one knocking on a door.
“Aye,” he said, turning back. “It's solid enough, all right. Won't be going back that way.”
Artor nodded, thoughtfully. “Perhaps that is why none of Geraint's people have ever returned. Perhaps this is a passage that can only be traveled in one direction.”
“So how will we return?” Bedwyr's eyes were wide. “How will we escape?”
Artor stepped close and laid a hand on Bedwyr's shoulder. “There may yet be other avenues,” he said, his tone soothing. “Or else it may be possible to traverse the hedge at some other hour, or in some other spot.”
Bedwyr nodded eagerly, though his expression made plain that his anxieties were far from dispelled.
“But what of our strange order of arrival?” Pryder asked. “What does it mean that the last of us to leave was the first to arrive, and the first the last?”
“I don't know.” Artor's voice was grave, his brow furrowed. “It seems our mysteries multiply in number, the questions outpacing the answers.” He took a few steps away from the hedge, surveying the terrain before them.
“Ach, but it's hot,” Lugh said, shouldering out of his cloak.
The others nodded, shifting uneasily in their armor and cold-weather clothing.
“Well,” Artor said with a wry smile. “At least now you have one fewer thing about which to complain.”
“Perhaps,” Lugh said with a grin. He mopped at his brow with his bandaged hand. “Except that now I'm sweating.”
End of the Century Page 28