End of the Century

by Chris Roberson

  Chuckling, Artor turned and walked further into the strange summer day.

  The Summer Lands, as they had come to call them, had some clear resemblance to the lands on the far side of the hedge, for all the distinct difference in climate. The low fields and gently rolling hills they saw before them followed the same contours as those over which they'd ridden out from Llongborth. Artor had not been in the area for nearly two decades, but said that in the main the landscape conformed to his memories from before.

  But there were more differences than simply the weather.

  Removing their helmets, sword belts, and hauberks, the captains shucked out of their heaviest articles of clothing. Then, dressed only in tunics, breeches, and boots, they armored themselves once more, and used their cloaks to fashion makeshift packs in which to carry their discarded clothes. More appropriately attired for the warmth, they continued on, exploring the lands around them.

  The fields that ran from the hedge were carpeted with a thick-growing vegetation, some sort of fine-leafed and low-growing heath, but of a coloration that none of the seven had ever seen before. These were a bright red, more brilliant than any clover, cinquefoil, or rose, but what was even more striking was that this color suffused the whole plant, leaves and all, and not simply a flowering bloom. Stranger still, perhaps, was the fact that that grass beneath, when glimpsed through breaks in the heath, was found to be of the starkest white, like the color of bleached bone.

  And so they walked on, over fields of white grasses choked by brilliant red heath, beneath a crystal blue sky.

  A short distance from the hedge, they came to a stand of trees no less strange. The trees were slender and towered over the tallest of the captains, but the bark was smooth and unmarked by boll or knot, and instead of the grays and browns to which the captains were accustomed was the flashing brightness of silver. The silver trunks were smooth and cold to the touch, like metalwork, and from the branches high overhead depended some sort of fruit. But these apples were not any natural hue or shade, nor yet the bright metal of the tree from which they grew, but were clear and bright, like ice or glass. Perfectly spherical apples of glass, hanging from the limbs of a silver-branched tree.

  Curious, Lugh drew his sword, and by leaping into the air and swinging the blade overhead, he was able to dislodge one of the apples, which fell to the ground at his feet. He sheathed his sword and picked up the glass sphere, hefting it. It was perfectly transparent and completely smooth, and he was unable to dent it with his fingernail.

  “I'm glad that we brought along victuals,” Gwrol joked, hungrily. “I'd hate to test my teeth biting into one of those.”

  “Speaking of which,” Lugh said, patting his belly and tugging at the ends of his long mustache, “when is our next meal, come to that? I'm famished.” He tucked the glass apple into his belt, absently.

  “It must be near meridian,” Caius said, scanning the blue skies above, “though you wouldn't know it to look.”

  Caius was right. Though the skies overhead were clear and crystal blue, the captains had quickly noted that there was no sun in evidence. No shadows fell around them to indicate the light's source, and it was suggested that perhaps the illumination came at them from all quarters. If the hedge of mist through which they'd traveled extended in a dome around them as they'd been told, in all directions of the compass and overhead as well, then it was possible that the light was emitted in some way by the hedge itself, though how this was accomplished none could say.

  “Whatever the hour, I'm hungry, as well,” Artor said, slinging the shield from his back and dropping it to the ground. “Who has something for their sovereign to eat?”

  Lugh pulled a loaf of stale bread from his pack and took a bite from the hard crust. “What?” he said, crunching noisily. “You didn't bring your own?”

  “Yes,” Pryder said with a sly smile, sitting on the ground and rooting around in his own bundle. “I thought the intent was for each man to carry what he needed. Weren't those always our marching orders, back in days of battle, O Count of Britannia?”

  Gwrol unstoppered a wineskin, and took a generous draught. “Well,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “I expect that you'll just have to be hungry a while longer, most noble majesty.”

  “You could always shimmy up the tree and try for one of the glass apples.” Caius grinned, and jerked a thumb upwards. “Might help keep your thoughts off your appetite, if naught else.”

  “Mayhap,” Artor allowed, nodding sagely, “but there again, on our return to court, perhaps I'll find need for five new stablehands to work the horses.” He gave a wicked smile. “They drop a prodigious amount of dung, horses do.”

  “Here, you thief,” Lugh said, and lobbed his bread loaf at the High King, who caught it handily. “But remember me when next you go handing out state honors. I wouldn't mind a high-flown title of my own, you know.”

  Galaad couldn't help but grin. Even in these strange and trying circumstances, the captains found some comfort in the easy company of their companions, falling back on well-worn jibes and jokes.

  “The sovereign harbors a mighty thirst,” Artor joked, eyeing Gwrol's wineskin hungrily. “Would that anyone had the ability to slake it.”

  “Leave off,” Gwrol said, clutching the skin to his chest, protectively. “High King or no, you'll drink water if you've a thirst, and not a drop of mine.”

  Galaad munched a slice of dried meat from his own pack and took a sip of water from his flask. He glanced up at the glass fruit that glinted in the strange light overhead and reached out a hand to touch the smooth, cool flesh of the tree's trunk. It seemed strange to sit beneath branches on a clear day but not find an inch of shade, but holding his hand palm down before him he found the palm as clearly illuminated as the back of his hand. It was as though the light were a liquid through which they swam, surrounding them on all sides.

  Still, things seemed somehow hazy and indistinct. Though the skies were blue, the light which suffused the Summer Lands was not bright, but had a somewhat diffuse quality, like the grayness of twilight. And the light seemed to limit visibility considerably; looking back the way they had come, Galaad was able to see only blue skies rising above the ground, though he knew that they were only a hundred yards or so from the white of the hedge of mist. It was simply one more mystery about this strange place, one more unanswered question.

  They'd had, as yet, no sign of the island of his visions, but Artor reckoned that it must lie still some miles to the north, though just which direction was northwards was difficult to say. And, considering the strangely diffuse nature of the Summer Lands’ twilight illumination, they could well be almost on top of the island before they could see it. It might prove more difficult to locate their destination than they had assumed, given the distances involved.

  The seven ate beneath the silver-branched trees, speaking in low voices, glancing about them warily. Galaad felt weary, out of sorts. He felt a pressure in his abdomen and decided that he must need to relieve himself. When he stood, though, his head swam as the world seemed to spin around him. He had to lean against the silver tree to maintain his footing, and it took a moment for the dizziness to pass.

  “You all right?” Caius said, reaching out a hand to steady him.

  “I'm just…” Galaad began, blinking, his vision temporarily blurred. “I don't…”

  “Here,” Pryder said, wiping his hands on his breeches, “let me help.” But when he climbed to his feet, he too went into a swoon, and standing too far from the tree to reach it for stability, pitched forward onto the ground, face first.

  “Careful now,” Artor warned, motioning the others to keep their places. Rising up only to his knees, he crabbed over to where Pryder had fallen. He reached out and shook the Gwentian's shoulder. “Pryder?”

  Pryder rolled over on his back, shielding his eyes with the back of his hand. “I'm all right. At least, I think I am. Just came over dizzy of a sudden.”

  Art
or raised his hand to his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “You're not alone, I'm afraid.”

  Gwrol came over to his brother's side and helped him into a sitting position. “Couldn't be the food or drink,” Gwrol said, “as we brought it all with us this morning and had no ill effects when last we had it.” He caught the sidelong glance that Pryder gave him. “Oh, leave it out, will you? I haven't had enough to drink to start stumbling this time, have I?”

  Pryder gave a weak smile.

  “Could be the air,” Lugh ventured, taking a deep breath. “But smells all right to me.”

  “I don't like it,” Bedwyr said, shaking his head fiercely. “Not a bit. Perhaps the land itself has become poison, inimical to man.”

  “Now you're just talking foolishness,” Caius said, carefully standing, using a tree's trunk to assist. He closed his eyes, and swayed back and forth like a reed in a high wind. “It's more likely merely the effect of moving so quickly from cold weather to warm. It will pass.”

  Artor used his sheathed sword as a kind of crutch, slowly working into a standing position. “Perhaps,” he allowed. “Still and all, we should proceed with more caution. We should not assume that anything we encounter is as we expect it will be.”

  The captains nodded their agreement.

  “Then let's continue, then,” Artor said, overcoming his dizziness enough to retrieve his shield from the ground and return it to his back. “We're learning little enough here, and may have a long distance to travel before we're done.”

  Galaad swallowed hard, fighting the waves of nausea which swept through him, and then he and the rest of the seven set out from the silver trees.

  They had so far encountered no living thing in the Summer Lands save the unearthly silver-branched glass-apple trees, but after a time they came upon a herd of strange creatures the likes of which none of them had ever seen.

  There were some dozen of the beasts in all. They seemed an unlikely mixture of badger and lizard, with white fur over their round bellies and fierce-looking talons on the tips of their narrow feet, their protruding snouts ending in a long, spiraling horn. These horned beasts munched contentedly on a pasture of the bright-red heath and paid the seven no mind.

  A short while later, they encountered a flock of birds that stood on tall, thin legs, their snow white feathers sticking out in all directions, which regarded them with cool, emotionless gazes. As the seven drew near, the ungainly birds opened their enormous beaks, emitting ear-piercing shrieks, and then ran away, feathers ruffling, their long legs carrying them in prodigious strides across a hillside and out of sight.

  Later still, they felt stirrings of wind around them where before the air had been completely quieted. As they walked, they caught flashes of movements out of the corners of their eyes, first on one side then the other, one moment ahead of them and then behind. They walked on, and finally caught a glimpse of the source of these sudden breezes and fleeting glimpses. It was some sort of creature with a long neck and strong, powerful legs, though whether it was animal or bird none could say. Having run circles around them so quickly it was scarcely visible, it now stopped some distance off to regard them. Its wide, snapping jaws suggested a predatory nature, but its relatively small size in comparison to a grown man meant that its prey could not be much larger than the strange birds or spiral-horned beasts they had seen. Evidently sizing up the seven as a potential meal, it seemed to find the odds not in its favor, and after a brief interval blurred into motion, disappearing from view.

  If there had remained any doubts that they now walked in decidedly unearthly lands, such had long been dispelled. The seven had managed to become somewhat accustomed to whatever element of the environment had unmanned them beneath the silver trees, but they were still queasy, even slightly disoriented. Fortunately for them, the worst effects of the condition seemed to ebb and flow like waves, such that while any one of them was suffering the worst of it, another was in a better state, and so together they were able to advance across the Summer Lands without overmuch delay.

  They hoped aloud that these difficulties would wane and pass as they spent more time in this climate, but as yet there were no signs of any general improvement. As it was, they counted themselves lucky that none of the fauna they had encountered had yet proved hostile to them.

  Then they reached the shore, and fortune, it seemed, was no longer with them.

  With the limited visibility of the strange twilight, they were nearly upon the shore before they even caught sight of water. The fields of white grass, speckled here and there with red heath, came to an abrupt halt at the waterline, the mirror-smooth waters continuing from there, without any boundary of beach in between.

  The waters themselves, which extended as far as the eye could see, however far that might be, were so dark as to be almost black, but without a single ripple or wave marring their surface. It presented a strange picture, white grasslands behind, black waters ahead, and cloudless blue skies overhead. Nothing moved or stirred, and when the seven came to a halt at the water's edge, they could well have stepped into a tapestry or painting, frozen and immobile.

  “The island is connected to the mainland by a spit,” Artor said, looking left and right along the shoreline. “If the Summer Lands conform to the geography I remember, we should be able to find the island by following the coast to the north.” He pointing to the right, where the shore marched along until it disappeared into the indistinct blue of the twilit distance.

  “And how long will that be?” Lugh asked, leaning over and resting his hands on his knees. His skin had taken on a greenish cast, and he looked queasy. “I'm not sure how much more of this blasted place I can take.”

  “But we can't go back the way we came,” Bedwyr said, wringing his hands. “What if we can't find a way out at all?”

  Artor was about to answer when a flash of movement caught Galaad's eye. He started, looking out over the black waters, no longer mirror smooth, but now rippling.

  “Look!” Galaad said, pointing.

  The others turned and saw something large cresting the water some few dozen feet from the shore.

  “What is it?” Pryder said, narrowing his eyes, hand on his sword hilt.

  “I don't know,” Artor answered, warily.

  The thing grew larger, rising up higher over the waterline and moving in closer to the shore, while behind it another shape, just as large, crested the wavering water.

  “Whatever it is, there are now two of them.” Artor drew his spatha with one hand and slung his shield onto his other arm.

  The others drew their own weapons, settling their helmets on their heads and shields on their arms, instinctively stepping away from the water's edge. Galaad, for his part, drew his own Saeson blade, conscious of the fact that he'd come equipped with no other arms or armor.

  The nearest of the creatures had now almost reached the water's edge and loomed above the water, standing some dozen feet tall. And “creature” was the only name to call it, conforming as it did to nothing else in the seven's collective experience. It stood on two legs like a man, with what appeared to be a massive vertical mouth in its chest, lined with bloated lips, with a single massive arm that sprouted from the top of its trunk, in the place of a head, with three elbowlike joints and a massive handlike appendage.

  The one-armed creature was just stepping onto the shore as it stopped and turned back. At first Galaad thought the one-armed creature might be retreating already but instead saw that the seven had fallen into the unblinking gaze of four massive eyes that lined the middle of the creature's back.

  Galaad, already in the grip of the disease that had plagued them since the silver-branched trees, felt unsettled in the searing four-eyed gaze of the one-armed creature, but not so much that he failed to notice the arrival of the other creature. This one seemed almost like a massive slug, as tall as the one-armed creature but lacking any visible appendage or limb. Its body seemed to be covered in smooth, unbroken bone that bent and turned as the
creature moved without cracking or breaking. Without limb to grasp or claw, it nevertheless presented a clear danger with its mouth, filled with three rows of sharp teeth and stretching from one side of its head to the other, above which was a single enormous eye in which three pupils contracted hungrily at the sight of the seven.

  As the bone-slug turned its three-pupiled gaze upon the seven, the one-armed creature issued a roar of challenge from its chest-mouth and then thundered towards the seven on its massive legs.

  Galaad cried out in alarm as the one-armed creature bore down on them but stood his ground, raising his sword high. The one-armed creature batted Galaad aside, knocking him to the ground, and reached for Caius. The fair-haired captain managed to scramble away as the one-armed creature snapped at him, but found that he'd lost his shield to its snapping chest-mouth.

  At the same instant the bone-slug advanced, and not willing to wait for the creature to make its move, Artor charged forward, a battle cry in his throat. Its three rows of teeth gnashing loudly, and the bone-slug swung its massive head from one side to the other, bashing Artor aside, crumpling his shield and knocking his spatha from his hands.

  With Galaad on the ground a short distance away, and Caius still scrambling backwards, the one-armed creature reached for Gwrol, wrapping its massive hand around him in rib-crushing embrace and lifting him bodily off the ground. With shouts of alarm, Bedwyr and Pryder rushed to Gwrol's defense, hacking at the creature's arm with their swords. And though their swords only rebounded off its tough hide, failing to draw blood, the one-armed creature howled in pain and annoyance, bloated lips twisted wide and wicked teeth snapping side to side, still holding fast to Gwrol. The captains continued their assault on its arm, and at length the creature released its hold on Gwrol, who collapsed to the ground, struggling to catch his breath.

  Pressing the advantage, Pryder rushed ahead, swinging his sword like a woodsman's ax at the one-armed creature, but it merely opened its mighty hand and then closed it over his sword, tugging it away from his grip. While Pryder stood for a moment, empty-handed, the creature reared back its enormous arm and threw his sword away end-over-end into the water behind it.