End of the Century (23 page)

Geraint looked away, as if afraid to meet the High King's gaze, but Enid sat upright with a sudden intake of breath, and said, “The Huntsman. It is the
Huntsman
.”

The Dumnonian king looked to his wife, and nodded gravely. “Aye. It is the Huntsman.”

All around them came the susurration of whispers as those gathered in the hall heard the words of their king and queen. Some made the sign of the
cross, while others moved their fingers in ancient pagan sigils meant to ward off unkind spirits. Fear was evident on every face, young and old, man and woman. Fear of this Huntsman.

“You mentioned such earlier,” Artor said. “What kind of man is this hunter to inspire such fear?”

“Not a man at all, some would say,” Enid replied, arms wrapped tight around her infant son.

Geraint nodded. “Or if he were a man, at some point, that hour has passed. Mayhap he was tossed up from the grave, or else from beneath the waves. He is said to have the coloration of corpse flesh, hairless, and with dead-seeming red eyes, and does not speak, but lets the barking of his spectral hounds instead give voice to his wrath.”

“It is said…?” Artor repeated, suspicious. “Have you not seen him yourself, then?”

“Only from a distance,” Geraint answered, with evident gratitude. “But some of our people have been fortunate enough to flee his presence and carry back to us more detailed descriptions than long sightings would allow.” He shook his head, ruefully. “Those that have stood their ground and faced the Huntsman's red sword…” He trailed off, eyes shut.

“What?” Bedwyr asked, mouth hanging open, eyes wide. “What happened?”

Geraint took a deep breath and let out a ragged sigh. “The Huntsman carries a sword whose blade is the red of the hellfire with which it sometimes seems to glow. And when this blade meets flesh or iron or wood…”

He paused, turning his head away, as if he could escape the sight of the memories that sprang before his mind's eye.

“We have found the Huntsman's victims in the following mornings, or rather what is left of them. This red sword of his cuts through anything like a hot knife sliding through warm butter, severing heads from shoulders in a single clean sweep, or hands from arms, or feet from legs. Not hacked and chopped, like a woodsman and his axe, but single strokes, clean through.” He shuddered at the memory.

“You mentioned something about dogs?”

Geraint nodded. “A pack of dogs. They are ever close at his heels, always with their horrible baying.”

“Artor and I know well to fear dogs,” Caius put in. “The Pictii use specially trained war-dogs, which we had to face two springs past, when going north to meet with the kings of the Scotii in Caledonia.” He shivered. “Foul creatures, all teeth and claws, always in motion.”

“No, my friend.” Geraint shook his head, sadly. “These are like no dogs used by the Picts, or raised by any man alive. They are the same corpse-flesh white as their master, with red on the tips of their ears and tails, and fangs and claws the incarnadine hue of fresh spilt blood. And their baying, strange as it may seem, sounds more like the calls of wild birds in flight than any dog you or I might ever have raised from a pup.”

Artor glanced around the hall, which had grown quiet and still while the Dumnonian king had spoken. Anxious dread was etched on each face, and often eyes glanced to the barred doors of the hall, with horrible anticipation.

“And it's in fear of this Huntsman that your people gather here in the hall, I take it?” the High King asked.

“Just so,” Geraint said with a beleaguered sigh.

Artor regarded him, thoughtfully. “It is a difficult story to credit, cousin,” he said at length. “And were I to hear it from any lips but yours, I'd scarcely believe it. But I have known you too long, and can hear the timber of truth in your words.” He paused. “How often is this strange figure seen?”

“Not every night, but often, and then always when the sun is gone and the stars shine overhead. We don't know if he fears the day, but light seems somehow to hold him at bay, as he is never seen in close quarter with a well-fed fire. In these last years, though, he has come more and more often, and always venturing farther afield, so that once he was only seen out in the hills and vales by night, but now he can be found roaming the streets of Llongborth herself.”

Geraint paused and look from the High King to his captains and back again.

“You must not think me a coward, brothers,” Geraint went on, shamefaced, “for sheltering inside stout walls while this monster roams the streets of my city unchallenged. In the early days, as I say, many of my bravest stood against him and his spectral hounds, in my name, and not one was ever seen alive again.” His hands began to shake, and a tremor crept into his voice.

“They stood in my name, and not one of them survived.” He tightened his hand into a fist and pounded it onto the arm of his chair. “What choice did I have?!”

“There now, cousin,” Artor soothed, laying a strong hand on Geraint's shoulder. “From the sound of it, you did what any of us would do in trying circumstances, and there is no shame to be found there.” Artor paused, thoughtfully, and glanced towards the door. “But I have a mind to see this Huntsman and his red sword for myself, if just to quell my own mounting curiosity.”

“As would I,” called Pryder, proudly.

“Oh, blessed Jesus,” Gwrol moaned. “No one asked you, did they?”

Artor ignored the two with good humor, keeping his eyes on Geraint. “With your leave, I'd like to pass the hours of the night out of doors, in the hopes of catching a glimpse of this Huntsman with my own eyes.”

“As will we all,” Bedwyr quickly put in.

“Bugger,” Lugh spat. “And here I was looking forward to a warm bed for the first time in days.”

Geraint looked from Artor to the captains and smiled, his chest swelling. “And I will come along with you, brothers,” he said, brightening. “We can stand together, side by side, and relive our days of battle.”

“It is cold, husband,” Enid said gently, laying her hand over Geraint's.

“Ah, it was colder still in those days, am I right?” He clapped a hand on Artor's back, comradely. “But we weathered it well enough, as I recall.”

“That we did,” Artor agreed.

“And what of you, man of Powys,” Geraint called to Galaad. “Will you stand with us through the cold watches of the night, watchful for the coming of the corpse-fleshed Huntsman and his damned hounds?”

Galaad swallowed and raised his hands in a shrug. “Yes?” he said feebly.

“Splendid!” Geraint leapt to his feet, as though filled with a new vitality. “Then we're agreed.”

He jumped down from the dais and strode across the hall.

“Open the door! Tonight these brothers of battle will face the monster!”

In the end, Geraint remained outdoors with Artor and the captains only as long as the sun remained in the sky. As night fell, and the last light of the sun faded in the west, Geraint had a sudden change of heart.

“My apologies, brothers,” the Dumnonian king said, his gaze darting nervously back and forth, his hand in a death grip on his sword's hilt. “But I find I've not the stomach for this after all.” He looked to Artor, his expression commingling fear and regret. “I've seen the bugger myself, after all, if only from a distance. And perhaps my days of battle are too far behind me, for all of that. But I…I just can't…”

Artor nodded. “It's all right, cousin. Go inside to your wife and child and leave us fools to our foolish errand.”

Geraint nodded, eagerly, and then pounded on the barred door of the hall.

“Open up!” he called out, his voice ragged. “Let me in, damn your eyes!”

The door opened, the Dumnonian king hustled inside, and then the door was shut and barred again, leaving the seven outside alone.

“Well, Artor,” Bedwyr said, appraisingly, “I think that he's put on a bit of weight, don't you?”

At Galaad's side hung his new sword, its hilt cold under his hand. At Artor's request, Geraint had found the blade for him to replace the antique that the captains insisted he could not wear in good conscience. It was of Saeson manufacture, captured during the late war, with some indecipherable runic inscriptions on the crossbar and pommel. If these runes were meant to curry good favor from the Saeson's pagan gods, they clearly had not served the sword's previous owner well, so Galaad put little stock in their efficacy.

Still, Galaad could not help but feel a little bolstered by the sturdy weight of the iron at his hip, which made him feel less out of place amongst the captains, at least in some small measure. And bolstering he needed, indeed, considering the frozen lump of dread that sat in the pit of his stomach, seeping cold fear in his veins like ice. He had been deeply disquieted by Geraint's story of an inhuman Huntsman and his spectral hounds and
in no eager hurry to see them for himself. But when Geraint had invited him along on Artor's little expedition, Galaad had been afraid to refuse for fear of losing what little respect he might yet have garnered with the High King and his men.

And now the Dumnonian king himself had retreated indoors, leaving Galaad shivering in the icy cold outside. If only Geraint had discovered his lack of courage earlier, he might have spared them both the trouble, but as it was Galaad had no option but to remain where he was, however reluctantly. He considered the thought that one of the captains might decide to retreat inside, in which case he would easily find grounds to accompany them. But considering the shaking heads and scornful looks that had been exchanged by the captains when Geraint had left them, Galaad knew that any retreat on his part alone would likely be met with even greater reprobation.

It was clear that many of the captains doubted the truth of Geraint's story altogether, come to that. And Galaad couldn't blame them. Having seen what he had in his visions, though, Galaad had come to believe that there was more to the world than that which immediately met the eye and was willing to give the Dumnonian king the benefit of the doubt. But if Geraint's story were true, what did it suggest about a connection between this strange mist hedge and the tower of glass Galaad saw in his vision? If Artor continued with his stated plans and the company continued on to the island, what would they find if they tried to pass beyond that misty veil?

Galaad could scarcely say. If the Dumnonian king's story were true, though, he had much more pressing concerns to consider. Specifically, that he was outside freezing by inches, losing all feeling in his fingers and toes, in the almost certain knowledge that he might soon be faced by a sword-wielding nightmare come to life.

They had lit a fire on first stepping out of doors, which had served to keep the cold from seeping too far into their bones. But when after some hours the Huntsman failed to appear, Artor had insisted that the fire be doused, saying that the strange figure might be kept at bay by the flame's light and heat, as Geraint's story suggested. With considerable grumbling, Pryder and Gwrol had scattered the burning logs and kicked dirt on the embers. As the fire died, the cold returned, with a vengeance.

When another hour had passed, though, the captains drowsing on their feet, the Huntsman had still failed to make an appearance, and so Artor suggested that he might be put off by the slight warmth radiating from the thick walls of the hall, or the light which peeked through chinks in the mortar between plank and log. With that in mind, Artor ventured that they might best be served by walking abroad themselves, out into the dark and unlit areas of Llongborth, left all but deserted as the denizens retreated within the comforting walls of Geraint's hall earlier in the day.

So it was with palpable reluctance that the seven walked away from the hall, their boots crunching on the icy ground underfoot, the steam of their breath only barely visible in the faint light of the moon. They carried no torch or tinder, but moved through the monochrome chiaroscuro of the darkened streets tentatively, hands on sword hilts, voices stilled. Even those that gave no credit to Geraint's tale found themselves disquieted by the silence of the dark streets, or so it seemed to Galaad.