Chapter Text
Than those dreadful horsemen cam
And made the bleadyng erth theire game.
Tramplyng were theire roaryng hooues
And that thesis they would proue:
Deythe, hungyr, weore and pestilence,
All bot guests of theire ioieful fest.
Master ██, wise and olde,
Dyde nothing and his breaths turned colde.
Red-stones broke and engines cracket,
Wasted ben those olde-tyme tracks.
Lo, here oure iudgment cometh,
And showeth vs what we haue becomen...
- Chronicle of ██, fragment, undated, written by anonymous author
“Stew, you stupid golem!” Bdubs exclaimed, “I can’t wait for you to freeze.”
The copper golem did not retort nor stop fumbling through his chest with those clumsy metal fingers. It was performing its duty loyally, although poorly, picking up and sorting wood logs for its impatient master. Bdubs found it lying lifeless and completely oxidized when he first settled down, and brought it back to his abode. Afternoon sun shone on the master and his possessions, dragging long shadows from the human, the tiny copper golem, the bulky iron golem, the resting spotted horse, and the flying, smiling ghast.
And those creatures, a bizarre mixture of animate and artificial, were all who kept him accompanied. For sure, Bdubs lies sometimes ruminating with his cows, but cows are nothing more than sources of food and vellum. And falling asleep among these cows, he had some of the most bizarre dreams in his life. One, for example, took him to the other side of the White Cliffs, a paradise of endless feasts and drinking games and handfuls of treasures. Bdubs took it as a divine signal.
He has been constructing a boat for days. He started with using oak logs, but switched to birch half way through. The sail also took him some time - he had no sheep, and had to explore the nearby woods to try his luck. But now, with almost everything prepared, Bdubs only needed to wait for the right kind of wind to send him across. Well, and perhaps to wait for his chests to be sorted out neatly by the copper golem. Either seemed unlikely to happen when he wakes up the next morning, and sun was steadily setting down.
From other people - past friends, companions, lords, Bdubs had heard how they referred to the world beyond the White Cliffs. Albion, they said, was the mysterious island’s name. And they roll the sound of that name on the tip of their tongues with awe, ignorance, and a secret yearning which they may have not recognized themselves. And from their conversation Bdubs knew: Albion. World’s End. Nothing exists beyond that island.
They said: Albion, dwelling of sinned princesses and incubi and their titanic offspring. Albion, where food is abundant and salmons swim elegantly in clear waters. Albion, land of the Fisher King whose wounds never heal. Albion, from which wanderers never return.
Perhaps they all died there.
Luckily, death was the last thing that Bdubs was afraid of. He petted his horse once more, and went in his house to rest for the night. Better sooner than later to tuck in, before zombies and skeletons start creeping around in the dark.
The white sail unfurled when the wind finally came. The air was salty that day. When Bdubs came with everything packed up, Stew was scrambling for hermit crabs on the shore with the gulls. It was oxidizing again, under the erosion of water and the beaks of unfriendly seabirds.
Bdubs’s footsteps drove the winged creatures away before his menacing fists could swing to the skies. There was a red stripe on his arm, meandering like a snake under his skin. He declared loudly and roughly, “you bullies better get away or I’ll roast you for dinner!”
Stew had the shell of a hermit crab in its palms. Parts of its copper skin was severely weathered. The dweller of that humble abode was perhaps already dissolving a gull’s stomach. The mechanical joints of those hands could no longer rotate after that fruitless morning battle. It looked up to its master and held its hands up high.
“That’s useless, Stew. Come on, let’s get going. Today’s the day.”
But Stew was not completely useless, after all - it managed to sort out different wood logs eventually. Perhaps it fits to be a travel companion too.
“We’re sailing to Albion, understand? Al-Bi-On. Albion. Beyond the White Cliffs.”
It had been two days since they safely arrived at Albion.
Everything was uncannily peaceful. Forests, open fields, bogs - they were populated with wild lives, yet untouched by human hands. Such a large island, rich in resources, but uninhabited! Was it simply a great lord’s garden for him to enjoy his hunting activities? (-Poacher! Bdubs, you filthy poacher! -You will be hanged if anyone catches you!) In the middle of some oak woods had Bdubs come across a bee nest. He collected some bee wax carefully without angering the bees, and, oiled Stew’s joints for another pair of helping hands - although a clumsy one. Stew, tripping over rocks and falling behind constantly, magically never lost following its master.
There was one abandoned village that Bdubs had run into - the only sign of civilization so far, covered up in white silk and dusty webs, crops rotten in abandoned chests, weeds growing wantonly in former fields. In the library lay old books, printed with a different fashion of fonts that were difficult to read. One of the texts appeared to be a chronicle of some sort, written with black licorice extract on fine parchment, rather than paper. Bdubs read a leaf or two and gave up.
It was not long before Bdubs started wondering: Were the giants in the tale still lingering around this blessed, tranquil isle? Where were those harps and goblets and heavenly artifacts in his dreams?
Bdubs then finally made the decision to go deeper from the outskirts - those nameless heroes and mead halls and gold and silver, so vividly reverberating moonlight in his dreams, were yet to be discovered.
There was his camp, set up on the White Cliffs - the worst location to spend the night. Wind was blowing ruthlessly, and if Bdubs was to stay for some more days, he was sure he would develop a serious headache. He packed up his things and decided to drop some saplings onto his boat before exploring more. He knew not the name of the trees, but those trees did not grow on the other side of the ocean.
It was then, at dusk, when he saw something flicker at the top of the White Cliffs, too. Something with a surface so smooth that the light it reflected came sharply like the edge of a knife. For a glimpse, it was almost as if that light was brighter than the sun itself.
Perhaps that was a sign of some buried treasure. It mesmerized, too, Bdubs’s loyal servant, as it walked staggering steps towards that unmistakable destination. Now the sun was descending, second by second, to that horizon. Soon would it sink below the sea, and, the earth, shrouded in terrifying shades, would give birth to some most abominable creatures in the world.
Bdubs still went. He walked in fast paces, leaving the small golem behind. By the time he got close to the object that reflected light, the skies had totally darkened. Under torchlight, however, he was finally able to observe closely that object.
He had never seen a golem, built so meticulously and gorgeously, almost likened to human, in both height and appearance. It was a masterpiece of a proud sculptor, with every hair and wrinkle on its skin carved out as if it was living and breathing. It was coloured, too, in a fashion that Bdubs was not familiar with. Most parts, however, were covered by thick rust and moss, as if abandoned for decades.
There it lay lifelessly, alone, with its eyes closed, back against hard diorites on the White Cliffs. Above its chest was a dent, inserted with a small fine mirror, from which Bdubs perceived, as he bent over, a human holding a torch and the bloodless face of a zombie.
“-Judas priest you must be kidding me!”
The human turned back quickly. An experienced warrior he was, his bodily motions were reflexive rather than commanded by clear thought. He blocked the zombie’s attacks successfully with his iron sword, and devoted himself into the fight.
From the frontiers of darkness they came, one after another, those zombies and skeletons, restless beings that, loathing the sun, languished in shadows after life as creatures undead. An army without a leader, yet resilient though raw force - there was still more to come, and it would not be an easy task to get out of this place now. Soon, Bdubs found himself in a mess.
The monsters in Albion, as Bdubs had already realized in the first two nights, were more difficult to deal with. They were stronger in shape and strength, more occasionally holding weapons or wearing pieces of armour, and often came in groups. Although he stood strong and firmly withholding his place, as the numbers of the nightly beings grew, he began to feel overwhelmed. Just as he was about to switch from active attacking to defensing, he heard a metallic voice.
“Human, clear my rust. And I will defeat your enemies in plain battle.”
“Stew, do something! Scrape him! Go!”
Without hesitation, he threw his axe out immediately and commanded. The copper golem picked up the axe - how fortunate Bdubs felt that moment, as he fixed the golem’s joints so it could use its hands unhindered! It worked quickly to remove rust from major joints of the human-like golem.
The golem stood up. One of his eyes flickered red for a second before returning to black. With strength unimaginable, his hand grabbed a skeleton by its waist and, with a gentle motion, threw it off the cliffs. The other hand, cutting through the cool night air, split the skull of a zombie straight in half.
And as the old saying goes, fate often spares an undoomed man when his courage is good. So must a man do when he thinks to won enduring fame in battle; he will show no concern for his life. As Bdubs gulped in awe at the marvelous power that the golem demonstrated, the golem so spoke:
“Human, tell me your name, and I will swear an oath to you!”
“My name is Bdoubleo, Bdubs,” he responded as he blocked the next attack. His grip on the sword tightened, as he moved his arm swiftly to leave a gash on a zombie’s chest.
“Bdoubleo, I promise I will do no harm to you, and keep you safe when you are in the realm of Albion, this isle overseen by my gold-friend, most cunning and honest lord, master of all sciences and crafts.”
At that declaration, Bdubs felt his blood boiling and rushing to the top of his head, so much so that his fingertips felt cold. The lord of Albion. This may be the closest in his life he would come to meeting a true legend. Something must have snapped, like those old, unmaintained red-stone wires from generations before, blowing their fuses the second they are powered again.
For a second, he forgot to swing his weapon. An arrow whizzed through the night air, flying towards his forehead. Before he could block that deadly attack with his shield, a metal hand caught that arrow with the thumb and index finger. He gasped in a mixture of fear and excitement as the high-spirit of battle returned to him.
The night lasted long. When dawn finally reached the cliffs again, Bdubs found himself covered with monster blood and his own sweat, some still dripping and some already dried up. He had no intention of doing or questioning anything, and fell right to his feet to a deep sleep. When he woke up, his muscles were still sore, but the large golem gently nudged his shoulder and warned: “I believe it is best for you that we find a safer place, Bdoubleo, before night and the offspring of Cain befall again.”
They moved to a nearby stone cave, and, with the help of both golems, lit it up with torches and sealed the entrance with roughly cut fences. The large golem followed his instructions meticulously and pliantly, keeping true to his own oath.
Bdubs sat down on a moss carpet at the campfire and started peeling off the scales on a salmon - also caught by the large golem freshly from the water - with his pocket knife. When he saw that the fire was stable enough, he pierced the fish on a wood stick and held it over the fire.
It was quiet, but the temperature was at least more pleasant after the campfire was lit. So he asked, as a friendly gesture, but more based on curiosity.
“Who are you? Did your lord build you? Who, if I may ask, is your noble lord? You don’t have to answer, of course, but I am very surprised that there are still intelligent golems like you.”
The golem did not answer, but, after a short period of consideration, inquired in return.
“Who are you? What have you sought in this country, Bdoubleo?”
“I am but a lonely man from Armorica, right across the ocean.” Bdubs then paused to think, for he could not satisfy himself with the answer why he decided to explore Albion. “My dreams have led me to this land.”
“Your dreams.” The golem repeated.
“I have heard tales about Albion. And I have had a dream in which I arrived at this isle and was greeted in a large banquet hall, in which heroes were drinking, feasting, and engaging in fascinating swordplay.”
Bdubs flipped the fish to the other side. The cave was now filled with the smell of roasted salmon. He waited for the golem to finally address himself and his mysterious lord, however, the golem then said: “Who, is this little master that you have as company?”
“You mean Stew? It’s just a random copper golem that I found along the shores. How queer that you asked about it!”
Processing this information, the golem took some more time to generate a response.
“I am sorry that you will not find banquets and heroes here in Albion, Bdoubleo. My lord, burdened with all the sights and sounds that infected his heart - such a bright mind he used to have! - chose to give up his life and let his body decay. Yet I am his legacy and successor, so as Stew. Our most honourable lord is the clock-maker of all copper golems, and we used to be his most modest creations. Alas, but I perceive that the ruthless tide has changed, how, it has taken away the breath of my lord, and now we bare the fame of the finest among his designs.”
Bdubs asked tentatively, “Do you have a name, then?”
“I have not the honour of being named by my lord, as my conscious only developed after his death, and copper golems did not have the most of his attentions. But, if you will, you can call me by the name of my lord, as I believe my body is, among other golems, in the best condition to inherit this title. In short, I have no name, Bdoubleo, and Etho is my lord.”
Bdubs frowned.
“Why would you say that? Why would you say such things? Do you know what you are talking about?”
“Correct my mistakes where you see fit, Bdoubleo. But my words are as honest as my lord.”
That very name, formed by but two simple syllables and convenient to be pronounced by even toddlers, was intrusive to Bdubs’s ears as a spear. The shadows, projected by the campfire on the stone walls, started to shape-shift. Bdubs stood up from his place, putting the half-cooked fish aside. His eyes, always fearless and energetic, now reflects a red, burning flame, detesting, despising, loathing so fast and passionately that a flush climbed up his heated cheeks. He looked down and stared at the golem.
“Do you even know what Etho did to this world?”
“My master was the creator of all automation, fine red-stone contraptions, and advanced technology. He, ultimate peacemaker, pioneer of a new era for humanity, provided you with all the comforts you enjoy today.” The golem spoke triumphant words in a calm, unaffected monotone.
Bdubs took a deep breath, nails digging so hard into his palm that they cut his rough skin. The sharp sound of that name, when he said it, pierced through his tongue like a thorn, that now, a faint taste of rust filled his mouth. “Do you know, then,” he asked, lips shaky, “what happen afterwards?”
“Please educate me on this subject. My database does not contain details about it.”
“His red-stone automation lines deteriorated and broke down from agriculture. Widespread famines affected this earth, followed by devastating diseases, ongoing conflicts, and never-ending chaos! We have lost our progress and knowledge, and returned to most primitive stages once again. And this broken world he left us with had taken away the lives of so many great- wonderful- now lost spirits!”
The eyes of the large golem flickered. Stew, perhaps not programmed to have the capability to understand complex conversations, was walking circles endlessly around the burning fire. He stood up, as well, to pick Stew up in his arms and set it down farther away from the radius of the sparks. And then he came back to sit down at his place. He answered, at the end, “I am sorry that this has happened to humanity, Bdoubleo.”
“He only caused deaths and destruction! Tens of billions of deaths! He is the most hateful criminal that has ever existed.”
He did not know he could speak that loud. The shout pushed all the air out of Bdubs’s lungs. Panting heavily, he felt a hazy dizziness climbing up to his head.
“Please inform me on the time the first famine took place and the current time.”
Now, Bdubs had truly begun to regret his decision to start talking with the intelligent golem. He would very much prefer not to revisit those stories, told by family and neighbours with nothing but horror.
“It was in... 1086,” he had his brows knitted together. “We are currently in year 1152. I am perhaps privileged to be born after all the disasters, but the earth I know of is just a spreading wasteland, with wounds that forever bleed.”
“Data updated. Thank you for your cooperation. I have but one more question for you, Bdoubleo.”
Etho’s final servant looked up at Bdubs. Gently he asked, not in the previously employed metallic voice, but another that sounded much more like human. Too human, almost, as if he had suddenly came to an epiphany, how, he had seemingly ceased to remain a proxy of his dead master, but a thinking, intelligent creature. And with that voice he said:
“Who are you, and what, really, have you sought in this country?”
A long silence persisted. Bdubs, astonished by the sudden switch in voice and tone, stood there in shock. The cave was filled with the footsteps of the small copper golem, the cackling of burning logs, and the unpleasant smell of coal and half-cooked fish.
“I will now rephrase my question for clarity. Albion, this isle, miserable progenitor of futile figs, this graveyard my lord Etho fancied for himself - beyond which nothing else exists - is not an ordinary destination for any traveler. Why are you wandering at the World’s End, alone? What are your intentions?”
Bdubs took a deep breath, “I have been living across the ocean for a while, in Armorica-”
“Why there? It is still far from populated regions, with no fertile earth nor pleasant weather.”
“Can’t a man just live in Armorica?”
“A fisher or whaler can, for the blessing of the current and the abundance of fish; but you, Bdoubleo, you are a fighter. I have seen how you fight, with such resistance and bravery. Your hands were trained, not to hold a fish-net, a plough nor a scythe, but the finest of swords and axes.”
The golem sounded genuine. A sense of helplessness, a strong loathe, began slowly shadowing over Bdubs’s heart. His stomach, now but ruminating bitter bile, felt all of a sudden heavy. And he seated himself again unto that moss carpet, and hovered the stick of half-roasted salmon over the fire, and stopped looking at the large golem. Perhaps eating something could preventing from throwing up. Perhaps it could not.
“I grew up and thrived in Hwizac, my motherland. But when the people have grown and increased, and the land became heavily burdened, our lords cast away people who had no share in land. I must seek for myself a place to settle, far away from my people.”
“Like I stated, from my observation, Bdubs, you are, if not a lord or prince yourself, a great thane among all fighters. It seems unlikely that they would consider your leave.”
“It’s just-” Bdubs, choked up on his own words, replied with a hidden anger in his voice, “Overpopulation, okay? There’s nothing more to it! Stop asking.”
He focused on roasting the fish instead. With frustration, he came close to burning one side of it. The large golem remained quiet for the rest of the cooking, sitting there like a lifeless boulder, that atrocious Etho’s last remaining vocal servant, until Bdubs finished the last bite of food.
“Bdoubleo, you know, my lord takes pride in his database. Your words are but diplomatic rhetoric that is employed many a time, as how Hengist of the Saxons has spoken to Vortigern of the Bretons, Rollo of the Normans to Charles of the Franks, and-”
“Shut up, you stupid golem! Oh, you, you think you are so smart, and you know everything?”
The lack of oxygen caused his head to start hurting. Bdubs knew that he was not far away from fainting if he would keep yelling in this manner.
“I am a murderer, an exile! Now, are you satisfied?”