End of the Century (55 page)

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 his 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?”

They had lost sight of the goat-headed monster almost immediately, but it had left a trail that was easy to follow, and so they continued on their course, moving through the Summer Lands.

As they walked, Artor held his skyblade in front of him, turning it this way and that, examining the blade.

“A weapon like this should have a name,” he said to Galaad, who walked at his side. “Sharp enough to slice through that great beast without a jar or jolt. And so thin that, turned
this
way, it appears that there is only empty space before me, but a space still solid and hard enough to fend off the strongest blow.”

“A hard space?” Galaad replied.

“Hardspace?” Artor mused. “That seems as good a name as any, I suppose.” He nodded, thoughtfully, regarding the blue blade. “Hardspace.”

At last, a smooth-sided mound hove into view before them, above which rose a tower of glass. It was just as Galaad has seen in his vision.

The surviving five stood at the water's edge, looking across at the island. To reach it, they would have to cross a spit of land that narrowed to the width of a sword blade before widening out again on the other side. It was difficult to judge distances; visibility had seemed to vary widely as they'd made their final approach, but by their best reckoning the tower stood a mile or more from the spot where they now stood.

Artor laid his hand on the hilt of his skyblade, the newly christened Hardspace, his expression thoughtful. “Was it folly to come this long way, following a vision, leaving our long-cherished friends strewn on the path behind us? Was Caradog right, and we should have stayed in Caer Llundain and minded matters mundane?”

Caius rested a hand on the High King's shoulder. “If truth were to be told, I thought this journey would be just a last romp, a chance for the six of us to stretch our legs, sleep out under the stars, and remember good times past while passing a wineskin from hand to hand. I hardly gave Galaad's story any credit, no offense intended, Galaad, but never expected to see the glass citadel he described.”

“And yet there it is,” Artor said, pointing.

The sides of the tower were completely smooth, a cylinder which tapered slightly as it rose from the base, ending at a perfectly flat top some hundred feet or more from the ground. It could not have been more than a few dozen feet in circumference, though, and Galaad was hard pressed to imagine how much could fit inside; nor how anyone could gain entrance, come to that, since there were no doors or windows in evidence. He supposed that they must be clustered on the far side of the tower, obscured from view, or else too small to see at this distance, but he knew that he'd not be surprised if on close approach no such entrances presented themselves. How they would gain entry, then, was a matter to be solved once this final bridge was crossed.

“I'll allow I may have been wrong about spirits and saints, gods and goddesses,” Lugh said, flexing his silver-pincered hand. “There are monsters beneath the waves, and giants walk the earth.” He scowled. “But whatever gods there are, they're bastards, so far as I'm concerned, the lot of them, and
I'll take what they owe me out of their hides.” He drew his skyblade, glinting blue in the twilight. “And if they don't like it, here's my answer for them right here.”

“Pretty words,” Pryder said, and set his foot on the narrow bridge to the island. “When I've had my revenge on this Red King, perhaps you can write a song about it.”

The others followed after, creeping over the swordblade-thin spit of land, and walked on into the eerie quiet of the island beyond.

As relatively still and silent as the Summer Lands had been throughout the hours and days of their journey, the island was even more so. Where beyond there had been occasional signs of life—the strange birds, the lightning-fast predators, the spiral-horned creatures—here there was none, even the gently rising hills completely bare of grass, tree, or heath. Only close-packed dirt, so hard and dry it could have been fired in an oven.

They went on and finally came to the base of the smooth-sided mound, which rose at a steeper grade than the hill sloping gently up towards it. As Galaad's vision had shown, and Artor's recollections held, it was rounded on one end, pointed on the other, and rose above the surrounding island perhaps some five hundred feet. At the crest of the off-center mound, nearest the rounded side, rose the tower of glass.

There had been nothing but the gently rolling hills of hard-packed earth to hide their approach from the bridge, so Artor had seen little reason for stealth, but now at the very threshold of the tower of glass itself, he was surprised to have encountered no resistance, no picket of guards to halt their advance, no sentry or fence.

“They must not worry about intruders overmuch,” Caius said when they'd completed a cautious circuit of the mound's base, “since there appears to be no way in or out.”

The tall captain was right. Just as it had appeared from a distance, there did not seem to be any visible entrance to the tower, nor any window or arch. The smooth walls of glass were unbroken from base to top.

“I tire of this skulking about,” Lugh said, his “answer” still in his hand. “They're bound to know we're here, since that red bastard scurried ahead with his hounds. They no doubt wait within, preparing their defenses.”

“I agree,” Artor said, tightening his grip on Hardspace's hilt. He set his foot on the mound and began to climb the steep grade. “We'll find a way in, and then we'll find the answers we seek.”