by Peter David
“There are no inno—”
“Yes, we’ve been through that,” Arthur interrupts. He smiles ruefully. “Perhaps, in the final analysis, Gilgamesh, heroism isn’t about what we are . . . so much as about what we aren’t. Like the sculptor who looks at the great block of marble and chips away everything that does not look the way the finished product appears in his head. So, too, are heroes. We chip away all that is venal or selfish or self-absorbed in the human condition, like fat sliced off a fine cut of meat. And that which remains . . . is truly choice.”
Gilgamesh laughs loudly at that, because the sentiment expressed is so absurd, so pretentious, so pathetic. Then he is startled to realize that the people are not laughing with him. He finds this most disturbing as he glances at the assembled residents of his island. The people appear to be listening to Arthur. The world as they see it should be filtered through the perceptions of Gilgamesh. If he approves, they approve; if he finds something lacking, so, too, should they. But in this instance . . . that is not happening. They appear to be thinking . . . independently.
A worm of momentary fear slides into his belly, and he quickly pushes it away. “You seem to be under the impression, Pendragon, that this land is similar to your beloved democracy. That endless discussion is required over every decision, no matter how significant or insignificant. Well, let me disabuse you of that belief. What I say is the final word. Certainly you, as a one-time king, should appreciate it.”
“Oh, yes,” replies Arthur. “Once upon a time, I even would have envied you for it. The ability to get Congress to do what I wanted, when I wanted. It has a certain allure to it. But we live in a more complex world now, Gilgamesh.”
“I don’t.”
“You do. You simply have chosen to ignore it.”
And the rage begins to bubble out of him, unchecked but not unexpected. “I will not be lectured by you!”
“Too late,” mutters Merlin, apparently not taken with the direction of the conversation.
He feels control beginning to slip away, and his body trembling, he says, “Only one object on this island can bring true and final death, and I hold it in my hand. The decision is made, Pendragon. The woman remains here, and you will leave. It is the price for her life and all of yours. This is your last chance!”
“No,” replies Arthur very, very quietly, and the sword seems to be humming in the air. “It’s yours.”
CHAPTRE THE TWENTY-THIRD
THE WAY IN which Gilgamesh had looked at Gwen had frightened her. It had been brief, ever so brief, but Gwen had become all too accustomed to men’s gazes upon her. When she was young, single, on her own, men hadn’t given her a second thought. But since she had entered the public eye, she had developed a knack for sensing the way that different men looked at her. It was an instinct, but invariably borne out by comments the men subsequently made (which she usually heard about secondhand from staffers who were always ready to pass along the sentiments expressed about her when she wasn’t around).
So now, when Gilgamesh had been conducting this . . . this peculiar trial that was unlike anything she’d ever encountered . . . he had locked eyes with her briefly, and a knowing smile had appeared on his face. But she’d barely registered the smile, because it was the eyes on which she had focused, the eyes that had so disconcerted her. She felt as if there were some primal force within him that was assessing her, even threatening to devour her. She knew that he wasn’t seeing her as a person, or even a human being. The capricious whims of the “High King” had been struck by this woman, and she sensed immediately where his mind had gone.
To the High King, Gwen—the wife of the man who had been King Arthur—was the closest to a genuine queen that he was going to come upon in this isolated sphere. The notion had obviously caught his fancy, as had she. She was not vain enough to think that Gilgamesh had maneuvered all of them into this situation simply because he desired her. He was far too mercurial a personality for that. He had just noticed her, that was all. Had just arbitrarily decided that he was going to take a fancy to her, and that made his decisions and pronouncements all the easier . . . not that they were difficult to begin with.
And now it had come to this: Arthur and Gilgamesh in a war of words, facing each other down, all because of her. And if Arthur died at Gilgamesh’s hands, which was entirely possible because, God, Gilgamesh was the size of a Sherman tank and Arthur, well, she loved Arthur dearly, and he was a stout-hearted and valiant warrior, but this was ridiculous . . .
“No,” Arthur said, “it’s yours.”
There was a gasp from the people surrounding them, no doubt at the sheer audacity it took to say such a thing to the being who purported to be two-thirds god and one-third man. Gilgamesh’s eyes, those beacons of barely controlled fury, darkened even more, and suddenly Gwen blurted out, “Arthur . . . go. I’ll stay here.”
Arthur turned, looked at her in bewilderment, as did the others. “What?”
“You go. I’ll be fine.”
“Excellent,” said Merlin briskly. “That all worked out. Right then, off we go . . .”
“She doesn’t mean it, sir!” called out Nellie Porter, ignoring the young wizard who was heading for the door. “She’s just trying to be self-sacrificing for you!”
“Yes, Nellie, I’m quite aware of that,” Arthur said patiently. “Gwen, I’m not leaving you.”
“You’d ignore her wishes, then?” There was challenge in Gilgamesh’s tone. “After all that you’d criticize me for thrusting my desires upon others, you now ignore the stated preferences of your own wife?”
“If I thought for a moment that they were genuine, I would act upon them,” said Arthur. He turned back to Gwen and looked at her with those piercing blue eyes that had first caught her attention at what seemed an eternity ago.
She desperately wanted to lie to him. Gwen even opened her mouth, endeavoring to form the words. But they stubbornly refused to emerge. She didn’t shake her head, but her muteness spoke more eloquently than her words possibly could have.
He nodded, as if an opinion had been affirmed. Then, since his back was to Gilgamesh, he turned his head slightly toward Percival and, in a very low voice, said, “You were the Grail’s master before Gilgamesh. Can you regain control of it?”
Percival indicated no with a very slight shake of his head. “I don’t know that the Grail can have a ‘master.’ But his control over it is far more thorough than ever was mine, thanks to the many years that it has been in his possession.”
“How now, Pendragon?” called Gilgamesh testily. “Your answer.”
Arthur regarded the High King with a mix of contempt and pity and said, “Is this what it comes down to, then? A great man rendered so small that he must use the power of life and death as a club on people in need just to keep them in line? The greatness of Gilgamesh is mythic . . . but is it also myth?”
For a long moment, Gilgamesh was silent. All manner of emotion seemed to be at war in his face. “And what would you have?” he suddenly asked.
It was, to Arthur, a surprisingly passive response, but he did not hesitate. “I would that you gave the people of your realm a choice. Transform this . . . this land back into the Grail. Let each and every creature here drink of the Grail individually, so that they can experience its salutary effects for themselves.”
“There is no guarantee that, in so doing, they would acquire virtually immortal life,” replied Gilgamesh warily.
“In the real world, Gilgamesh—the world from which you have so carefully shielded yourself—no one receives any guarantee of a life span,” Merlin pointed out. He strode forward, walking with that customary swagger that Gwen remembered so well. He cast a glance at her . . . and actually winked, which surprised her. It was as if he were regarding the whole encounter as some sort of great game. The thought did not fill her with a warm feeling.
“Arthur has put forward an excellent idea,” Merlin continued. “You would be giving these people freedom of choice. A
re you averse to that notion? Freedom of choice? Or is that, along with dying, something else that you are afraid of?”
Gwen wasn’t ecstatic with the way he’d phrased that. It sounded entirely too challenging. And it was obvious to her that Gilgamesh had caught the tone and wasn’t any more enthused about it than she was.
“Do you,” he asked with an edge of danger in his voice, “seek to challenge me?”
“We seek to end this peaceably!” countered Arthur.
And Merlin sounded very sad as he said, “But that’s not going to be possible, is it?”
“Merlin! For Uther’s sake—”
“I wasn’t talking to you, Arthur,” said Merlin, still sounding rather melancholy, even weary. “I was talking to you, Gilgamesh. This will not end well, will it? Your insufferable ego won’t permit it. Your need to be loved, to be in control . . . it’s going to overwhelm everything else, won’t it? Every good instinct you ever possessed, every heroic impulse that might have brightened and ennobled your soul . . . none of it matters, does it?”
“Merlin!” Arthur sounded to Gwen as if he was utterly mortified.
Merlin didn’t react to him. Instead he walked slowly toward Gilgamesh, and continued, “And the truly tragic thing is, you believe you’re unique. That there are none who understand what you are going through. How little you know. All you have here, Gilgamesh, is a cult of celebrity. You’re no different, really, than any major movie star or fool who measures his own self-worth by how others view him. You’ve become so lost in the need for adulation—or so mired in self-pity—that you forgot what you truly are.”
Arthur blinked at that, and looked at the mage with a raised eyebrow. “Merlin, was that partly directed at me?”
“Partly,” admitted Merlin, sounding a bit sad.
“So you claim,” Gilgamesh said, “that Pendragon and I are much alike.”
Percival spoke up. “No. You’re not.”
“And why do you say that?”
“Because Arthur simply forgot, for a time, what he truly is . . . no offense, Highness. But you, Gilgamesh—after all those months speaking with you, I’m not sure you ever knew who you truly are to begin with. And please—” he raised a hand—“don’t tell me ‘Two-thirds god, one-third man.’ That describes your parts . . . but not the sum of who you are. Look long and deep into yourself, Gilgamesh.”
And Miss Basil made an angry, dismissive noise. She came around and stood between Gilgamesh and the others. Facing the High King, she said, “I cannot believe that you are listening to this nonsense. A miniature wizard, a musty king of a long-lost kingdom, his wife with a bullet in her brain, and a Moor are telling you what to do and who you are. And you’re listening to them?”
“We’re here, too,” Ron spoke up.
“Yes, but you don’t count.”
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Gwen suppressed a laugh as Ron Cordoba bristled at that. Then Nellie put a restraining hand on his arm and muttered, “Ron, for God’s sake, shut up. The last thing you want to do is attract her attention.”
There was wisdom in what she was saying, but very briefly, Gwen made eye contact with her, and then looked away. She still could not get over, or even comprehend, Nellie’s actions. What in the world had happened? What could Nellie possibly have done to leave herself open to such a blackmail threat? It was completely insane. There had to be some sort of explanation for her actions. Unfortunately, now was neither the time nor place. The problem was, she wasn’t sure whether the time or place would ever have the opportunity to present itself.
“You cannot let them persuade you to act against what you know is best for your people,” Miss Basil was saying.
“As if you know what is best for anyone except yourself,” snapped Merlin.
Her head whipped around. “Stay out of this, Merlin.”
“You keep away from him, creature,” Arthur said warningly, and he brought Excalibur up meaningfully.
“Be careful waving that about, you might hurt yourself,” said Miss Basil before refocusing her energies on Gilgamesh. “High King, listen to me . . .”
“So she can steer you off the proper track.”
“No one asked you, Merlin.”
“Then I’m telling you. Gilgamesh, listen to me—”
“Gilgamesh ...”
“High King, this is absurd. You ...”
THE HIGH KING is losing his patience.
Pendragon is babbling at him. The short wizard is babbling at him, and the Moor, and now the Little King, the snake who slithers like a woman, is babbling at him as well. They speak in rapid succession, each trying to convince him to do what they want, each demanding that he look into himself, examine himself, question himself, when the truth is that each of them just wants something for themselves, and no one save Enkidu truly gives a damn about the High King. No one has in centuries. In millennia. No one ever truly has. The High King knows the truth of the world: that everyone simply wants something for themselves, and believes that the High King should hand it to them out of generosity or heroism or some other pretense.
And the Little King keeps raving at him, and now Pendragon is speaking, and the mage is trying to talk over both of them. The High King can almost see the words themselves as physical entities, colliding in the air and blasting apart, letters scattering to the four winds. And there is the one called Gwen, the queen, looking concerned, and thankfully not filling the air with more verbiage. It makes him appreciate her all the more, desire her all the more.
All of them, hammering at the High King, trying to pull him in a dozen directions at once, and he can sense the eyes of all his people upon him, and Enkidu as well, and he has never, ever, felt this disconcerted, this frustrated.
This must end. It has to end now, this instant, and it must be done in a way that all know without a doubt just who is the High King, who is in charge, who is two-thirds god, one-third man. There is no longer time for pensive consideration or bargaining or compromise.
He feels his hold beginning to slip away . . . not only his hold upon his people, but his hold upon himself. Even if they all rise up against him, they still cannot harm him, not really, for he is the High King and greatness unto himself, but still, this must end for the sake of his sanity, for his self-esteem.
“End it now,” screams the voice in his head, “now, put an end to it now, now!”
THE CLANG WAS deafening, the vibrations so mind-numbing that Gwen actually sank to one knee, clutching her hands to her ears. Nellie fell over completely, and Ron nearly collapsed on top of her. Even Arthur and Percival were staggered.
Merlin just stood there, looking put out. Figures, she thought.
There were moans and cries from the assembled populace, who were similarly affected. The origin of the ear-shattering noise was quite evident.
Gilgamesh had taken the sword upon his back and swung it with all the force that his two-thirds divine parentage afforded him. It had struck the tiles beneath his feet and set up the resounding noise that had practically deafened everyone looking on. There was now a large crack in the floor, busted up tile scattered about.
“Enough!” bellowed Gilgamesh. “The Determination has been made! The Destiny is set! Pendragon and his companions will leave now! The woman stays!” His eyes narrowed. “And the sword stays as well. Fitting punishment for daring to trade words with the High King.”
A grim smile played upon Arthur’s lips that Gwen knew only too well. When it came to Gwen’s fate, there were matters of self-determination at issue. But no one was ever going to pry Excalibur from his hands while Arthur lived. She knew that beyond question. And she also had the feeling that Gilgamesh knew that as well.
He said nothing. He didn’t have to. He merely tightened his grip upon his sword and held it at a battle-ready position, and that was all that was required.
And there was Percival at his side, and he had his own sword out. It was not remotely as striking as Excalibur, of course, but it was a fear
some-looking thing . . . a formidable war sword with a gleaming point and razor-sharp edges, effective for both jabbing and slashing. The two bold warriors with their weapons at the ready, facing a rippling, bronzed, godlike man who had his own blade prepared.
Although Gwen appreciated the otherworldly, times-past feel to the moment, she realized she would have liked it even better if Arthur or Percival were wielding something a bit more twenty-first century . . . like a machine gun, or even a bazooka.
Gilgamesh studied them a moment, and Gwen couldn’t tell whether he was anticipating the conflict to come . . . or regretful. Then his features hardened, and whatever doubt there might have been was clearly gone. “Enkidu,” he said stridently, “attend to the Moor. I have no desire to deal with fleas while I am busy disposing of the dog itself.”
There was a smile of triumph on Miss Basil’s face. Next to her, Sandoval was watching with equal pleasure and anticipation, and he glanced briefly at Gwen in a manner that seemed to say, You’re next. Gwen wished she had the ability to wipe those smug expressions off their faces. She had never felt more helpless in her life.
And then . . .
. . . nothing happened.
The fact that Enkidu had not leaped through the air, roaring with fury, claws outstretched or teeth bared or whatever it was he was going to do, did not immediately sink in on Gwen, or anyone there, for that matter. But the widening gap of time between Gilgamesh’s order and Enkidu’s failure to carry it out quickly became very pronounced. Momentarily flummoxed, the High King looked to Enkidu, his right-hand man (or whatever).
The great beast was simply standing there, unmoving. One would have thought him carved from stone, as if he’d gone three rounds with the Basilisk and lost. Only the slight twitching of his ears indicated that he possessed any ability to move.
“ENKIDU,” GILGAMESH SAYS again, not sounding cross so much as puzzled. It does not appear terribly likely that Enkidu has not heard him. Enkidu could hear the feathers falling off a bird from twenty feet high. “Enkidu . . . the Moor . . . attend to the—”