by Peter David
And the deer, and the other creatures, all crumbling away. Arthur saw it all.
And the people of Pus Island saw it as well.
Which was about when Arthur put two and two together. Apparently the people did, too, because they started screaming and clutching at their faces, their bodies, falling upon the rock and calling Gilgamesh’s name and begging and pleading with him to just give them another chance, that they would live up to what he expected them to be and please, oh please . . .
Their skin began to draw taut, their hair started whitening. There was terror in their eyes, and they clutched at themselves as if their bodies were traitors.
There was a horrific roar and for a heartbeat, Arthur thought it was the Basilisk hauling itself from the debris, for the noise did not sound like anything capable of being issued by a human throat. Then rock and rubble were shoved aside, and there stood Gilgamesh, a look of smug determination on his face, and in his hand was the most remarkable sword that Arthur had ever seen. It glittered gold, and obviously it was not solid gold, for that would have been far too soft. It would also have been horrifically heavy, but that didn’t seem as if it was going to stop him.
Furthermore the blade was long and jagged, looking for all the world like a lightning bolt. It throbbed with inner power.
Many times had Arthur heard the phrase, “His terrible swift sword,” and how it “loosed the fateful lightning.” It had always struck him as more than just a poetic turn of phrase. It seemed, in his imaginings, to be based on something.
Now he knew just what it was it was based upon. It was this frightful blade, this weapon that—if Gilgamesh was to be believed—had existed in some shape or other since the dawn of creation. Many forms did it have, apparently, for its magic was so potent that one incarnation was simply incapable of holding it.
“It is the power of life and death,” Gilgamesh said with reverence, as if he were reading Arthur’s mind . . . and for all Arthur Penn knew, he was. “Pure and simple, that is what the Grail power boiled down to. In its shape as the cup, it gives life. In its incarnation as the land, it maintains it. And as the sword . . .” and his voice dropped and was low and frightful, “it takes it.”
He swept the sword through the air once, and the air seemed to back away from it, afraid to come in contact with it.
Percival stepped forward, his sword at the ready. “Highness, let me . . .”
“No,” Arthur said flatly. “It would cut you down in a heartbeat.”
“But . . .” He looked at Arthur with such longing. “It’s the Grail.”
And Arthur knew right then, right there, what Percival intended to do. The Grail had given him life eternal. Now one strike from it could end that life . . . and it was a concept that Percival was not the least opposed to.
“No,” he said again, and this time there was even more to the authority of the command. “If you love me as your liege, if you value your vows to me, you will not do it.”
“Highness . . .” There was urgency to his voice, mounting desperation. “Don’t you see . . . ?”
“Yes. I see. And I am ordering you to live.”
Percival’s eyes glittered with what amounted to momentary hatred, and then, just as quickly, it was gone, and he bowed his head. “I serve at the pleasure of the King,” he intoned, and there was no hint of mockery in his voice, although there was most definitely sadness and some resignation.
Arthur nodded once, accepting the reluctant vow of fealty, and then he looked around. He saw the people of the island stumbling about, confused and frightened and aging. He turned and looked in Gwen’s direction and knew what he would see there. Sure enough, she was upon the ground, limp as a rag doll, and there was agony in the faces of Ron Cordoba and Nellie Porter.
“Look about you, Gilgamesh!” Arthur cried out, trying to suppress the sheer agony in his soul and not succeeding particularly well. “Look at what you have wrought! It’s not too late! Let go that which you have fought so hard to hold onto, for it was never yours to have in the first place.”
THE HIGH KING hears his words, even as the voice of the Grail sings to him. His arms tremble. He feels drunk with power.
He sees Enkidu. He sees his beast brother, standing ten feet away.
“Enkidu,” he says softly, and his voice vibrates, barely recognizable as himself. “To my side.”
Enkidu looks at him with endless pity . . . and then slowly walks toward him. He stands but three feet away, and looks at his beloved Gilgamesh.
“You are my brother. You are my greatest love,” Enkidu says softly. “And I cannot bear to see what you have become . . . and cannot bear to walk away from you.”
And he throws himself upon the upraised sword.
The shock of the impact barely registers upon Gilgamesh as the sword splits Enkidu’s chest. His beast brother convulses once, his head pitches back, and he trembles but does not cry out. Gilgamesh hears a voice screaming Enkidu’s name, realizes that it’s his own voice, and still allows it to continue as Enkidu’s blood pours down over the hilt of the sword, bathing it in red. The sword glows ever brighter, drinking it in, and Gilgamesh yanks it from Enkidu’s chest, tearing the tawny fur, cracking ribs and spilling some of the great heart upon the ground.
The Pendragon is saying something to him. He does not hear it. He stares at the blood upon the sword, the heart on the ground, and then picks up the piece of the heart . . . and eats it. It has been many, many centuries since he has done such a thing. Usually such organs are tough, almost impossible to chew, and must be quickly swallowed. But not Enkidu’s. It is astoundingly soft, almost melting upon his tongue, and great hot tears pour down Gilgamesh’s face as the soul of the one creature in the world he loved more than himself merges with his.
And he hears a second heartbeat in conjunction with his own.
And he sees himself for the first time with true clarity. Sees himself for what he is, and what he could have been.
And then he forgets.
And he attacks.
CHAPTRE THE TWENTY-FIFTH
ARTHUR STOOD FROZEN by the scene, but snapped from his paralysis as Gilgamesh came at him.
The entire moment seemed to be playing out in slow motion, and even though Arthur felt as if he had plenty of time as he brought Excalibur up to a defensive position, a part of him knew that he had reacted faster than he ever had before. A half a second at most, and then the Grail sword slammed into Excalibur.
They felt it . . .
... in Portugal.
And Brazil, and Argentina. Up into Mexico, and higher, and the San Andreas fault shifted, and buildings rocked, and when the second blow came, even more powerful than the first, people ran screaming in Peking as the ground buckled beneath them, and in the Himalayas there were avalanches, and every single animal in the Amazon Rain Forest capable of producing a sound screamed at the top of its throat, while every animal that could not simply froze in its tracks, a good ten percent of them dropping dead right there, and when the swords clashed together a third time, they got seismic readings at a station in the North Pole that they could not explain no matter how many months they studied it, and then came the fourth crash of the blades that existed beyond time, beyond magic, beyond human comprehension, and ten years later astronomers working for SETI, the Search for Extra-Terrestrial Life, monitoring broadcasts in endless hope of making some sort of contact, would practically faint in excitement upon receiving the very first broadcast from a star light-years away, and it would take them another five years to translate the communication which they would eventually decipher as, “What the fuck was that?”
And at the source of the conflict, the effects upon the island around them were no less catastrophic.
The ground, already bereft of the influence of the Grail, began to shatter. People were running, screaming, slamming into one another, looking at one another’s faces in horror as they continued to age, and suddenly that was the least of their problems as the island cracked apar
t beneath their very feet. The ocean around them, which had been calm moments before, suddenly reared up and came smashing through the newly created rents. People were trying to find higher ground, but there was no higher ground because all of it was crumbling, all the buildings, the small mountains, all of it coming apart. Far beneath them tectonic plates shifted and bucked, and again and again the swords came together, unleashing power that was beyond the comprehension of either of the combatants. It was as if the very soul of the earth, dormant and resting for centuries, turned over in its bed and demanded to know what that godawful noise and clanging was, and—once having determined the origin—decided that the best thing to do would be to silence the ruckus once and for all.
Arthur risked a glance in Gwen’s direction. He saw Percival cradling Gwen’s unmoving body in his arms, saw Nellie scream and almost tumble into a newly created crevice and then Ron reached out, grabbed her, prevented her from falling in, and suddenly they were washed away by a tidal blast of water. Arthur cried out Gwen’s name, and then there was Gilgamesh, the sword flashing, and Arthur deflected it, but only just. The ground was crumbling beneath his feet, and he saw a small, rocky shoal and leaped for it, barely making it. The terrain was dissolving faster and faster, and again came Gilgamesh, roaring with incomprehensible fury. He vaulted toward the shoal, and Arthur swung Excalibur, trying to keep Gilgamesh back. It didn’t work. Gilgamesh deflected the thrust and then he and Arthur were both on a piece of land that couldn’t have been more than ten feet across.
Arthur saw the first of the bodies. Islanders, crushed, floating past, and they were still aging even though they were already dead, and Gilgamesh didn’t care. Arthur didn’t want to see if Gwen or Percival or the others were floating past. Nothing seemed to matter. It had all gone wrong: terribly, hideously wrong, and there still was Gilgamesh, swinging the sword, and Arthur barely managed to keep it from cleaving him in half.
“You’ve learned nothing in this! Nothing!” shouted Arthur, soaked to the skin, his hair hanging in his face.
“I’ve learned to hate you,” Gilgamesh shot back. “For now, that will suffice.”
“We could have been friends!”
Gilgamesh shook his head vigorously, and was about to say something else when the water suddenly vomited up a scaly engine of destruction.
The Basilisk that had once been Arnim Sandoval roared up out of the water, his jaws extended, his eyes hot with hatred, and Arthur, who had been watching Gilgamesh, was caught unaware as the Basilisk came in from his blind side. One of the coils slammed into Arthur, and the King of the Britons went down onto his back, the air knocked out of him.
“At last!” howled Sandoval, and his head speared toward Arthur.
THE HIGH KING is filled with fury. After all that he has gone through, all that he has endured, this ... this creature ... seeks to interfere?
Intolerable. Utterly intolerable.
Such as this monster is not worthy of snatching the High King’s victory from him.
“GET AWAY FROM him!” shouted Gilgamesh, even as he swung the sword in a vicious arc that would have easily killed the Basilisk in one stroke, had the Basilisk been there when it came into contact.
But the Basilisk was not there, for he was young and quick and still feeling the full strength of his new form flooding through him. He dodged the killing stroke with no effort, and there was plenty of him to go around as he brought his back coils down upon Arthur’s wrist, immobilizing his sword arm. Arthur grunted in frustration as the Basilisk kept the mighty Excalibur pinned, and turned his attention upon Gilgamesh.
“You slew she who bore me. Who gave me new life, new purpose,” said the Basilisk. The waves were coming up higher, pounding upon the shoal, but the Basilisk took no notice of them. “You must be made to pay for that.”
And he locked eyes with Gilgamesh, and the full power of his gaze swelled up within him, and drove itself into Gilgamesh.
AND THE HEART and soul of his beast brother rises up against the insidious power of the young Basilisk and protects him to some degree, but the fears are still there just the same, the fears that the Basilisk’s terrible abilities are able to bring to the surface like no other, and for just an instant, every single thing that the Pendragon has said to him makes perfect and complete sense.
And that is the single greatest horror that the High King can ever know.
GILGAMESH CRIED OUT even as he fought down the terror and swung the sword. And again the Basilisk avoided its arc, and he brought his head around and sunk his fangs deep into Gilgamesh’s wrist, freezing it for just a second. But a second was all the Basilisk required, and he twisted the powerful muscles of his body and the Grail sword was suddenly out of his hand, flying through the air. But the twist had pulled the coils off position, and Arthur yanked his hand free and Excalibur with it.
“Wart! Grab it!”
It was Merlin’s voice that shouted through the air and above the roar of the waves, and Arthur looked and saw but didn’t quite believe it.
A boat was rolling toward them through the water. It was the size of several yachts, made entirely of wood, with a great sail atop it, blasted forward by the winds that had come up from nowhere, unleashed as part of the elemental forces that the blades had aroused. At the helm, gripping a steering wheel and guiding the vessel toward them, was Ziusura, and Merlin was at the prow . . .
And next to him was Percival. And Nellie and Ron . . . and Gwen, still in Percival’s arms, for a knight would never, ever let the queen slip from his keeping while there was still breath within him. Her head was slumped back, but there was the slightest rising of her chest even though death was coming for her. Arthur could practically see the dark horseman galloping toward her, his scythe poised . . .
The sword! The Grail!
“Gwen!” screamed Arthur, and the sword tumbled toward the water.
And the Basilisk had Gilgamesh. For Gilgamesh was still stunned by the loss of the sword, and by whatever he had seen in the Basilisk’s eyes. The terrible creature had its coils around him now, and Arthur stood frozen.
The sword hit the water, but the hilt snagged on an upraised piece of rock. It sat there, tantalizingly, mockingly. If it slid off the rock, it was going to sink in a heartbeat to a watery grave hundreds of feet below. It would never be found, and even if it was, it would be far, far too late for Gwen, who Arthur could see even at this distance was ghastly white.
And there was Gilgamesh, the first of the legends, a being who had trod centuries and inspired civilization, in the grip of a creature that was evil and venomous and wasn’t worthy, just as Gilgamesh had said, not worthy of taking the life of such a man. Presuming, of course, that he could, and Arthur very much suspected that it was possible. Gilgamesh, who—however suspect the motives—had just saved Arthur from a quick death at the hands of the Basilisk, and was now about to die in exchange.
I’ll do both! Do both! Quickly, move quickly, you can accomplish both aims, just hurry, Arthur, damn you, hurry!
Arthur screamed out a cry of challenge and rage, and charged. He had never moved faster in his life.
It was not fast enough.
THE HIGH KING, slayer of gods and the animals of gods, sees his end in the awful eyes of this beast, his head held immobile by the mighty hands, a blast of foul air from its mouth billowing into his face, his eyes stinging from the stench of poison. Something within him is cracking under the press of the coils, and then it breaks, and it may well be that he is bleeding within. He coughs up blood, and there is pressure behind his eyes, and suddenly the gleaming sword of Excalibur is there. It cleaves through the Basilisk’s right arm, and the creature lets out a screech as the arm falls to the ground. It whirls, facing the new threat, and the Pendragon’s blade is a blur.
And the High King sees it all. He sees the ship, sees the body of Pendragon’s mate, sees the Grail sword about to sink, for it all happens in an instant, and sees that Pendragon could have allowed him to die, just die at the
hands of the creature, while striving to snag the Grail sword. But his instinct, one king for another, has caught him up, and Excalibur is a whirl of death, like a bladed tornado, and the Basilisk does not know where to look first. In a heartbeat it no longer matters, for Arthur’s blade slices home and the creature’s skull is cleaved straight down the middle, falling to either side as blood spurts upward in a geyser.
And the ground crumbles beneath them.
ARTHUR BARELY HAD time to register that the Basilisk was in its death throes when he suddenly found himself treading water. His grip on Excalibur was still firm, but then he saw a quick glitter of gold and the Grail sword was gone. His soul cried out in agony, and even though he knew there was no chance, Arthur dove under the water, kicking desperately toward it. But it was falling away too fast, too fast, and Arthur swam as hard as he could, losing track of how far down he’d gone, of how much time had passed, and the sword was descending even faster, into the murk and mire, and then it was gone from sight. Even the inner incandescence of the sword was insufficient to serve as any sort of guiding illumination.
His lungs were burning, and for a moment Arthur considered simply opening his mouth and letting the water fill him. And then he saw Gwen in his mind’s eye, asked himself if it was what she would want, and without hesitation kicked upward toward what he thought was the surface.
But it was too far to go, much too far, and he felt the pounding growing in his chest. He knew beyond any question he was not going to make it, there was simply no way, and he thought, I’m sorry, Gwen, I tried, just as his head broke the water. He gasped reflexively and the ocean water poured into his lungs. He coughed violently, and that brought in even more water, and then he started to sink again.
That was when arms came around him on either side, pulling him to the surface once more. He looked around in confusion and was dumbfounded to see Ron Cordoba bobbing up and down in the water with him, holding him securely under the arms.