End of the Century

by Chris Roberson

  As the two halves of the door fell apart from one another, clattering to the floor with a deafening din, Temple glanced back at Alice and Stillman.

  “It was him, I'd imagine.”

  There, on the far side of the door, heedless of the myriad alarms he was setting off walking unprotected through the microwave saturation, stood a tall, slender man in a tattered black suit, completely hairless, his flesh the white of a corpse, in his hands a sword that glowed a sickly red, the blade so thin that when turned it disappeared from view.

  It was the Huntsman.

  ARTOR AND HIS CAPTAINS did not waste a moment in discussion but immediately dropped their packs and loosed their swords from their scabbards. The blue light of the skyblade flashed in Artor's fist and in the hands of Lugh and Pryder, while Caius and Bedwyr held their disks before them, their bloodflame lances aimed forward. Gwrol, for his part, had a bloodflame lance in one hand, a spatha of mundane iron in the other.

  Galaad drew his Saeson blade, and raised his disk as a buckler, tightening his grip on the hoop of strange metal at its back.

  The rider was almost upon them now, and though his mouth had been twisted in a snarl since first they'd seen him, only heartbeats before, he'd still not spoken a word. Fast as his unearthly steed carried him, though, the dogs who coursed alongside him were faster still and reached the seven first.

  In Llongborth, there had been but six of the strange white hounds, and Artor and his captains had been sore tested to withstand the bites and swipes of their ruby red claws and teeth. This time, they faced a full dozen of the creatures.

  The first of the hounds plowed into the captains’ left flank, tackling Pryder and Gwrol. In close quarters, the bloodflame lance proved worse than useless, as Gwrol tried to fire a burst of the bloodflame at his attacker and succeeded only in setting the ground at his feet alight. He escaped setting fire to himself, but just barely.

  Pryder, for his part, swatted at his attacker with the flat of his skyblade, which rebounded harmlessly. Then, as the hound prepared to bury its bloodred teeth in his loins, Pryder shifted the blade in his grip and swung back, catching the hound just behind its shoulders with the blade's edge.

  The skyblade passed completely through the hound, hardly slowing, passing unhindered out the other side.

  Had Pryder swung lower, and had the skyblade bit deeper, he'd have sliced the hound clean in half; as it was, the tip of the skyblade reached only midway through the hound's body, so that as Pryder stepped away, the hound seemed to fold in the middle, the wound opening like a massive mouth. The cut was clean, smooth-edged, but as the hound fell to one side the pressures within pressed organs, viscera, and fluids bulging out, spilling over the white grasses underfoot.

  For the first time the seven saw the efficacy of the whisper-thin skyblades. They hadn't the time for awe, though, considering that they now faced a mounted opponent who had a red-tinged skyblade of his own.

  The rider was upon them, driving his great reptilian steed through their ranks, swinging his great red blade at the nearest of them. But Artor, standing his ground, raised his own skyblade to meet the Red King's, and the two swords rebounded off one another with a sudden strange humming. Each capable of cleaving living flesh like an oar through water, when met blade to blade they proved implacable.

  More of the hounds were among them now, snapping and clawing. Lugh lay about him with his skyblade, slicing off a hound's ear with a near miss, then lashing out with his silver arm on the riposte, the pincers clenched like a fist, and clouting the hound a fierce blow to the side of its head.

  Bedwyr, crouched behind his disk, fired off a burst of bloodflame at an oncoming hound, but while the dog was caught afire, its progress was not halted. Like a ball of flame, the burning hound charged into Bedwyr, knocking him from his feet, setting his own garments ablaze.

  The rider dug his heels into the sides of his lizardlike mount and reared its head around to come back for another pass. Artor wrapped both hands around his skyblade's hilt, his spatha scabbarded and forgotten at his side, readying himself.

  One of the hounds rushed Galaad, and while he swatted ineffectually at it with the mundane iron of his Saeson sword, when the jaws of the beast met the strange metal of Galaad's buckler disk it was stymied. Galaad heard the red teeth snap and crack in the hound's mouth, and the creature reared back, roaring in pain.

  All fear suddenly forgot, heedless of any risk to himself, Galaad shifted his disk aside and dove forward in a clumsy approximation of Lugh's signature lunge, his “answer,” driving the point of his Saeson sword directly into the roaring mouth of the hound. He'd reasoned that, while the creature's hide was seemingly impregnable, the softer lining of its mouth might not be as resilient. And he was not far wrong. The sword bit deep into the hound's open mouth, passing through the already cracked and broken teeth, and pushing into the soft tissue at the roof of the beast's mouth.

  The hound's fiery eyes opened wide, and it thrashed its head to one side. Galaad very nearly lost his sword, managing only at the last to snatch it back from the creature's howling mouth. As he raked his sword away, the edge tugged against the inside of the hound's mouth and parted the flesh with an audible rip. The creature skulked away, its mouth cut into a vicious smile on one side, leaking an unearthly ichor.

  The captains were giving as good as they got, and while they had not yet lost one of their own, the sheer numbers of their attackers were against them.

  The rider thundered past Artor, their skyblades meeting again with a humming clash.

  “Who are you?” Artor demanded to know. “By what right do you attack us?”

  Either the rider did not understand Artor's Britannic speech, or simply did not care to answer, but either way he remained silent, brandishing his red sword and returning for another pass. Galaad could not help but notice that, for all of his apparent strength and obvious ferocity, the rider did not seem a particularly accomplished swordsman. Still, with the steed beneath him and the pack of white hounds at his beck, his technique hardly seemed to matter.

  “Who are you?” Artor repeated, this time in Latin, shouting to be heard over the baying of the hounds.

  A wicked grin curled the mouth hidden behind the full red beard, and the rider shouted in response simply, “The Red.” He waved his sword overhead like a standard. “The Red King.”

  This was the mysterious figure who imprisoned the White Lady, by her testimony. And the one against whom she'd warned them. It was clear to see why.

  The talons of the Red King's reptilian mount thundered on the ground as he rushed back towards them. Their ordered flanks had been broken up, the seven no longer standing as one united front but now divided into individual melees, as the captains struggled with the hounds that harried them. The bloodflame lances were useful against them, but only in measured doses, as use too close to, or against a charging opponent, could be as dangerous to the lance's wielder as to his foe, as Bedwyr had learned. And the skyblades, though easily able to slice through the hound's tough hides, were likewise of dubious value in close quarters, as there was too great a risk of injuring oneself on the whisper-thin edge, the blade hardly caring whether it passed through the flesh of an enemy or of the one who bore it.

  Artor broke to one side as the Red King galloped towards him, swinging with his skyblade at the lizardlike beast that bore him, but managed only to swipe a handful of the whiskerlike tendrils that dangled from the side of the monster's head. Still, the beast opened its mouth with a howl of agony, but rather than discouraging another attack, it seemed only to hearten the beast, and it rushed back at Artor, snapping with its massive teeth at the High King's body just as its rider swung at Artor's head with his skyblade.

  Galaad stood over the still smoldering body of Bedwry, trying to keep the hounds at bay with his Saeson blade. The Demetian had been badly burned and lost large chunks out of his side and leg to the red teeth of the hounds. He whimpered when Galaad first drove the hounds away, bashing the
sides of their head with the face of his buckler disk, but while Galaad poked and prodded at the advancing hounds with the tip of his sword, Bedwry fell alarmingly silent. Galaad hoped that he'd merely lost consciousness, fainting from the no doubt intense pain, but feared that the silence presaged an even more dire state.

  It was difficult to get an exact count, but it appeared that some four or five of the hounds had fallen to the skyblades of Lugh and Pryder, or to the bloodflame shot by Caius and Gwrol. Galaad thought for a moment that they might win the day, then the Red King changed his tactics, and that faint hope faded.

  Gwrol had switched targets, turning his attentions away from the hounds and to their mounted master, and as the Red King exchanged blows with Artor, Gwrol had sighted along his bloodflame lance and let fly with a string of the drop-shaped bursts of bloodflame.

  The bloodflame splattered against the rider's red armor, and he howled in pain as the flames licked all about him. But while the fires burned him, they did not consume, his red beard and hair only singeing. Eyes flashing, the Red King spurred his mount into motion and galloped towards Gwrol. The Gwentian fired another burst of bloodfire, this one striking the reptilian mount in the eye, but it was not enough. The Red King bore down, and with a single mighty swipe of his red sword cleaved Gwrol's body in twain.

  Galaad's heart was in his throat, as he watched Gwrol's head and left arm fall to one side, his right arm and legs fall to the other. In the moment that followed, the air was filled with an ear-splitting scream as Pryder saw what had become of his brother.

  With a roar of outraged disbelief, Pryder rushed towards the Red King, swinging his own blue skyblade above his head like a club. Hounds snipped at his heels, but Pryder was mindless of any injury or impediment, his every intention directed at the man who'd just murdered his brother.

  The Red King saw the approaching Gwentian, a bloody thirst for revenge in his eyes, and for the briefest moment something like fear crept across his bone white face. Then, at the last instant, he turned his steed to the side so that Pryder's first blow struck the mount, and not the rider. It meant a delay of only a moment, but it was sufficient. As Pryder's blade sliced effortlessly through the neck and front leg of the mount, the Red King leapt down on the other side, landing on his feet with the bulk of the now fast-dying reptilian beast between him and his assailant. Pryder was forced to inch around the still quivering bulk of the decapitated beast, his blade held before him, and the Red King was ready for him.

  As Galaad had noticed, the Red King was not an accomplished swordsman. But in his rage and grief, Pryder was not thinking clearly and not fencing to the best of his ability. Galaad remembered the Gwentian's advice to master his own emotions, and thought it some bitter irony that Pryder seemed to have forgotten his own lesson in the moment he needed it most.

  As the Red King and Pryder exchanged blows, Artor moved to join his captain, evidently thinking that two blades might prevail where one would find only stalemate, while Galaad and the others contended with the remaining hounds.

  Just when it seemed that, at long last, the odds might have tilted in their favor, everything changed once more. A new monster arrived on the scene, and all hope of victory was lost.

  The newly arrived monster loomed out of the indistinct blue distance, towering over them. Had any shadows fallen in that place, the entire battle could have nestled in the giant's shadow, so massive was he. Shaped somewhat like a man, but with a head more like that of a goat, something like crystal or glass glinted from his forehead, while the rest of his massive body was covered in a shaggy white fur. He was easily as tall as four of the captains stacked end to end, his enormous arms so long that his knuckles dragged the ground.

  It seemed a dead certainty that, with the goat-headed monster on his side, the Red King was sure to prevail against the surviving captains.

  What none of them guessed until the evidence was before them was that the goat-headed monster would instead turn his massive hands against the Red King.

  In the first moments after its appearance, the Red King seemed not to guess the monster's intent, either, but looked at it with something more akin to annoyance than fear. The Red King wore the expression of one who found an already noisome task interrupted and thereby lengthened. He backed away from Pryder and Artor, his own red blade held up defensively before him, and shouted some words in an unknown language at the beast.

  Whatever the intent of his words, they clearly failed to have the desired effect. The towering goat-headed monster lumbered forward, massive hands dragging the ground, clumping with a will towards the Red King.

  The Red King shouted again, angrily, another string of incomprehensible syllables, but on the goat-headed monster came.

  One of the spectral hounds rushed towards the goat-headed monster, red teeth snapping, but the giant simply closed one of his massive fists around the hound and crushed it like a grape.

  The Red King's eyes opened wide, and he uttered something incomprehensible beneath this breath.

  The goat-headed monster dropped the crushed hound, raised its ichor-stained hand high overhead, and then swung it down palm first at the Red King.

  The Red King danced away, just barely escaping the blow but still buffeted by the wind of its passage. He did not waste time deliberating, but took to his heels, running away, calling back over his shoulder to the surviving dogs—“Tekel. Tekel lili.”

  The hounds who had survived the blows of skyblade, the scorch of bloodflame, and the monster's crushing grip were six in number, and these bounded after the Red King as fast as their short legs would carry them.

  The Red King and his hounds were vanishing in the hazy middle distance as Artor and the others turned to face this new threat. Galaad left Bedwyr's side, coming to stand by Artor, while Pryder knelt down and cradled the severed halves of his brother. Caius and Lugh joined them, their weapons held ready.

  But if the captains had expected another attack such as that which the goat-headed monster had meted out to the Red King and his hounds, they were disappointed. Instead, the monster settled back on its haunches, its knuckles resting on the ground, and leaned its goat head towards them.

  Something glinted in the goat's forehead, and Galaad saw that glass was embedded there, as he'd originally thought. He hadn't time to wonder what light had glinted, with the only illumination the diffuse twilight of the Summer Lands, when a beam shone forth from the glass, striking the ground at their feet.

  And there before them stood the White Phantom.

  “My bidding, this creature does,” the White Phantom said, “servant to the White. Only a short time, I can communicate, before the Red takes note.”

  Galaad, disconcerted by the casual presence of the giant monster, exchanged uneasy glances with Artor and the others.

  “Near, the tower of glass,” she continued. “A short distance, away.”

  “Where away, lady?” Artor asked.

  The White Phantom glanced at the goat-headed monster behind her. “This creature, soon released by the White. But he will guide you a short distance. Follow the direction he goes, and you will find the tower of glass.”

  “Please, dear lady,” Galaad said, stepping forward, overcoming his fear of the monster sufficiently to approach the White Phantom. “Please, I must know who you are, and what purpose you have laid out for me.”

  “No time.” The White Phantom shook her head. “Reach the tower, enter the Unworld, and your questions will be answered. No time.”

  Before Galaad or the others could say another word, the image of the white lady flickered and faded, and the beam of light from the goat head snapped off. With that, the goat-headed creature stood, as docile as a milk cow, and lumbered off.

  “We should follow,” Galaad said, urgently. “He'll lead us to the White Lady!”

  “What about our wounded?” Caius said. “What about Bedwyr?”

  “He's mostly dead,” Lugh said flatly, nudging the smoldering body of the Demetian with hi
s toe. He slid his skyblade into its scabbard and bent for a closer look. “No, completely dead, by the look of him.”

  “What about…?” Caius turned to where Gwrol had fallen. Pryder was just now standing, his front and arms stained red with his brother's lifeblood, his skyblade gripped tightly in his hand.

  “There's no reason to delay here,” Pryder said, all emotion gone from his voice. “If this Red King is master of the tower of glass, then it is there that we'll find him and there that I'll wreak my vengeance on him.”

  Without meeting their gazes, Pryder slid his skyblade into its scabbard, the hilt and the sheath joining once more as a seamless hole, and headed off in the direction the goat-headed monster had gone.

  Lugh was crouched over Bedwyr, placing a copper coin under the dead man's swollen tongue. Then he laid Bedwyr's sword by his side, in close reach of his lifeless hand, the fingers curled and splayed, blackened by the flame. “I don't know what sort of afterlife tree lovers go to,” he said quietly, barely loud enough for Galaad to hear, “but the Romans think you pay a toll, so you've got a coin if you need it. And you've got your iron handy, as well, should push come to shove.” Lugh took a last look at the blackened face of the fallen, eyes burst and sightless. “A good road to you, Bedwyr, you feckless bastard,” he said, straightening. “I hope you get whatever reward you hoped for in life.”

  Lugh set his jaw and strode over to where Artor stood flanked by Caius and Galaad.

  Galaad opened his mouth to speak, but seeing Lugh's dark expression, he kept silent.

  Lugh held his silver arm aloft, mouth drawn into a thin line. “That's a hand and two comrades these bastards owe me,” he snarled. “I mean to collect.”

  With that, he stomped off after Pryder.

  Artor's face took on a grim look. “Who am I to argue with that?”