Chapter Text
Culverhouse Cross, western edge of Cardiff, Wales
March 21, CY 1, 2012 AD
Neil Perry released his wife's hand and picked up his pace, passing toward the front of the lorry that ground its way along the A-48 road toward the edge of Cardiff. The donkeys that pulled it snorted, tossing their ears nervously.
“Are we there yet?” grumbled Rhys.
“Seven miles,” said Einion quietly, “maybe eight.”
“We'll be there when we're there,” said Neil.
“And then what?” said Rhys.
Neil took a deep breath and held it, calming himself. He liked his friends, but Rhys was really beginning to get on his nerves. “You know what's next,” he said. “We've been discussing it for days. I'm just as tired and irritable as you are. And it isn't going to get any better until we're out in the Bristol Channel, maybe not until we reach Scilly. We're in the middle of a bloody apocalypse, Rhys. Things might not get any better. So would you please just shut it for a while?”
Rhys grumbled to himself, but said no more.
Several fires came into view about a hundred yards ahead. The ambient light from dozens of kerosene torches flooded the intersection of Copthorne Way and lit up the night in a way the dead street-lamps never had. To the north sat a large shopping center; to the south, a smaller one, a hotel, and the ITV Wales studio, all completely dark.
The metal of several vehicles gleamed in the firelight. Unlike almost everywhere else the Perry Caravan had been thus far, the dead autos and lorries had been hauled out of the street. Some of them sat in the gutter, others in the verge. A few were visible in both adjacent parking lots. Some of them, particularly those at the hotel, had probably already been there when Earth had Shifted. A tractor-trailer lorry sat where it had stalled partway into the mall parking lot. The area was eerily quiet. Even after dusk, the place should have been crawling with people.
Instead, the only people in sight were about a dozen soldiers. All wore the standard green uniform of the British Army. Each also carried an L85A2 assault rifle. Two horses stood tethered to a nearby post and a third bore a rider. Several of the men stepped out into the road. One of them walked forward. Gareth recognized the insignia of a Second Lieutenant.
“Good evening to you,” he said cordially, his voice bearing a brisk, military tone.
“Good evening,” replied Gareth.
“Out a little late, aren't we?” said the Lieutenant.
“No,” said Gareth, “not really.”
The Lieutenant raised an eyebrow. “You're out after curfew. That constitutes late.”
“Curfew? This is the first we've heard of that.”
“Right,” said the Lieutenant dubiously. “Well, then, you won't mind accepting an escort.”
“That's alright. We know where we're going.”
“General Order Twenty-four Seven Sixteen. No unauthorized persons are to be out of doors after curfew without authorized escort.”
“Why?”
“I'm sorry, sir. We're on a need-to-know basis.”
“Uh-huh,” said Gareth dubiously. “And I suppose someone thinks families are a threat to the good people of Cardiff?”
The soldier just looked at Gareth and said nothing.
“And just where would you be escorting us?” said Gareth.
“May I see your identification, please?”
Gareth hesitated, then presented the requested document. The Lieutenant held it up so the light could catch it.
“Mountain Ash?” He handed the document back to Gareth. “That's a long way from here...and in the opposite direction.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Yes. General Order Twenty-four Seven Four. All persons are to remain in their homes after curfew.” His eyes narrowed. “So I'm wondering...what are you doing so far from your homes so late at night?” He glanced at the convoy behind Gareth. “And with so many people?” he added.
“It's none of your concern.”
“General Order Twenty-four Seven One. Emergency measures shall be in place until such time as the crisis has abated.”
“Grand Coulee Dam!” said Howl. He stepped up on Gareth's right. “The crisis isn't going to abate! It's permanent!”
“And you would be...?”
“Howl Pendragon, Royal Wizard to His Majesty the King of Ingary.”
“Ingary, eh? Never heard of it.”
“That's not important,” said Gareth. “The point is that he knows more about the situation than anyone here, including you. Please let us by.”
“I'm sorry, sir. I'm afraid I can't do that.”
“None shall pass, eh?” said Howl.
“Just so. In fact, I'm taking you all into custody.”
Howl laughed. “You and what army?”
“This one.” The Lieutenant made a gesture and four other men walked briskly toward the convoy, their rifles leveled mainly at Gareth and Howl. “Like I said. You're all under arrest, pending return to your homes.”
“No, we're not.” He took a step forward. “You'll have to shoot us to stop us.”
Gareth turned to Howl. “Ya-Howell? Eh siokhilka?” What are you doing?
“Thusetni miekana.” I'm forcing the issue.
“Os ydych yn mynd i ddweud rhywbeth,” said the Lieutenant in Welsh, “o leiaf yn dweud ei fod yn y Gymraeg.” If you're going to say something, at least say it in Welsh.
“Byddaf yn dweud ei fod ym mha bynnag iaith i'n dewis.” I'll say it in whatever language I choose. “And those toys of yours,” said Howl in English, indicating the rifles, “won't work. Just so you know.” He took another step forward.
“Ya-Howell?” said Gareth. “Sisiulka?” Are you sure?
“Ai,” said Howl. “Nonfosistenuf. Thuprosif miarfim.” Don't worry. I have a magical shield.
“Sifusika.” Of course you do, said Gareth half sarcastically.
“Take one more step,” said the Lieutenant, “and I'll shoot.”
Howl took another step.
The Lieutenant squeezed the trigger. The rifle clicked and a muffled sizzle sounded from within the firing chamber. The Lieutenant frowned, then cleared the chamber, and squeezed the trigger again, with the same anticlimactic results.
“See?” said Howl. “I told you so.”
The Lieutenant motioned to another man, who raised his weapon, pointed it at Howl, and squeezed the trigger. Click-sizzle. “What the hell?”
“They just tried to shoot you, didn't they?” said Gareth.
“They did,” said Howl. “'Tried' being the operative word.” He took another step forward.
“Ya-Howell,” said Gareth. “Qerl sihifru nonmishopa.” I don't think you're helping.
“Tinnish,” neither are they, said Howl. “Lem hin orsh arfad sesam nonmolerfu.” But we can't stand here all night.
“Look,” said Gareth to the Lieutenant, “we can't stand here all night and you can't arrest us. You can try, but I guarantee, it won't end well...for you. Now, this doesn't have to become violent. You have two choices. You can let us pass, and then tell your superiors to get everyone...and by that I mean the populace...off of their collective backsides and to work in the fields. Or you can let us say we told you so...meaning try to stop us, have your arses whipped, and let everyone in Cardiff starve to death.
“The lights may come back on, or they may not. If they do, then everyone can say they've pitched in during a crisis. If they don't...then may God have mercy on your souls. It's your call.”
“Any further attempt to pass will be construed as an act of aggression,” said the Lieutenant. “And an attack on the Queen's soldiers is tantamount to an attack on the Queen Herself.”
“You're a bloody idiot,” said Howl simply.
The Lieutenant flipped his rifle around and drove the butt end straight toward Howl's face. It bounced off of something unseen an inch from his nose with such force that the recoil nearly tore the Lieutenant's arm off. He yelped, dropped the weapon, and staggered backward two paces, clutching at his right shoulder. The other soldiers drew their combat knives and prepared to assail the convoy. The creaking sounds of several bows being drawn drifted though the darkness.
“I think,” said Howl, “that under your own definition, that was an attack on the King of Ingary. What do you think, Gareth?”
“I think you're right.”
One of the men lunged at a woman a couple of yards down the line. A thrumming sound came from somewhere behind Gareth, followed immediately by a whoosh-thunk and an arrow suddenly sprouted from the soldier's upper chest. The man screamed and fell backward, scrabbling frantically at the shaft, blood gurbling from his mouth.
The woman took a step backward and shrieked in alarm.
“Ah, bollocks,” said Gareth.
What happened next seemed to take place all at once.
The eleven remaining soldiers rushed the convoy. Howl twitched his hand and the Lieutenant lurched backward and came down hard on his backside. Howl drew a frying pan out of a pouch at his hip.
Arrows and bolts flickered out of the darkness. The approaching soldiers checked their advance. One dropped to the ground with an arrow in the throat, blood gurgling out of his mouth. Two others gripped at their arms as arrows found their marks. Another screamed as a bolt shot through his leg, blood spurting from a severed femoral artery.
Something unseen whistled from out of the darkness, followed by a smacking sound, and a soldier lurched backward. He grunted, then recovered. A metal-on-metal sound immediately preceeded another whistle. A neat hole appeared between the soldier's eyes. His head rocked backward and he collapsed.
A soldier rushed another man, who met him with a blade similar in length to a Roman gladius, but slightly curved. The man shed the soldier's knife and in the same move severed his hand. The soldier screamed and staggered backward, coddling his bleeding stub.
Another soldier threw his knife and it stuck in the swordsman's upper arm. The man dropped his blade and screamed. Something else whistled out of the darkness and the knife-thrower fountained blood from his neck and collapsed.
Another soldier performed a complicated martial arts maneuver meant to get inside his opponent's defenses. A woman answered with a counter-move that ended with the soldier's severed brachial artery.
A focused distortion rippled out from somewhere near the lorry and two more soldiers grunted as they were thrown to the ground.
The Lieutentant picked himself up and lunged toward Howl. Howl thrust his pan forward and the Lieutenant abruptly stopped. He expanded sideways. A wet ripping sound was followed by a slight fan of blood out both of his sides. He fell backward and hit the ground with a splut.
The fight was over almost as quickly as it had begun. The mounted soldier was missing.
Two of Gareth's people rushed to the side of the road and vomited into the gutter.
“Oh, my God!” said someone.
“And I fear this is only the beginning,” said Gareth.
Howl stepped toward the middle of the intersection, pointed his frying pan at the ground and unleashed a sustained stream of magic through it.
“What are you doing now?” said Gareth.
“Leaving a message,” said Howl. After a few minutes, he stopped and placed the pan back into its pouch. In the asphalt, Howl had scrawled a message in Welsh:
Mae'r byd wedi Newid.
Rwy'n teimlo ei fod yn y dŵr.
Rwy'n teimlo ei fod yn y ddaear.
Rwy'n arogli yn yr awyr.
Mae llawer, unwaith yn cael ei golli, am ddim yn awr yn byw sy'n cofio ei.
Mae'n fyd-eang. Mae'n barhaol. Beth fyddwn yn rhai a wnaethant yma dim ond gwaethygu. Rydych yn gwybod hyn yn wir. Nawr ddod oddi ar eich asesu a gwneud rhywbeth. Anwybyddwch hyn yn eich peril. Rydych wedi cael eich rhybuddio.
In English, it meant:
The world has Changed.
I feel it in the water.
I feel it in the earth.
I smell it in the air.
Much that once was is lost, for none now live who remember it.
It is global. It is permanent. What we have wrought here will only worsen. You know this to be true. Now get off your arses and do something. Ignore this at your peril. You have been warned.
For good measure, Howl signed and dated the message.
“A bit dramatic, innit?” said Gareth.
“So was this,” said Howl gesturing at the mess. “Besides, you know how...me...I can be.”
Gareth snorted. “My wife would say your drama has drama.”
“Gareth, you wound me.”
“Nonsense.”
“And that rider who got off who knows where is sure to return with reinforcements. And if they're all mounted, I don't expect it'll take them long to catch us.”
Gareth groaned. “We can at least halfway clean up our mess.” He winced, then grabbed the arms of the nearest body, dragged it to the side of the street, laid the arms across the chest, and closed the man's eyes. A few others followed his example.
When the roadway had been cleared, the convoy ground onward, people making a concerted effort to avoid stepping in any of the several pools of blood or the smears made by the dragged bodies. Lorry wheels went where they went, however, and left tire-shaped blood tracks a few dozen yards down the road. Gareth ignored the usual traffic-control laws, leading everyone the “wrong way” through the roundabout and onto Port Road. They ignored the small pond adjacent to the Copthorne Hotel. They still had plenty of water and there was now a threat of military pursuit hanging over their heads motivating them to make the final miles to Penarth as quickly as possible.