“We will unfasten the chain, but first we must move this boulder,” and Gylain pointed to where the boulder had rolled over onto the chain it held down.
He began to cradle it back and forth, using its added momentum to push it forward. The others joined him, but still it took a moment: a deep hole was dug into the ground for the boulder to rest in and they had to force it out. At last, it rolled clear. But the chain is not all that was freed: in the deep hole beneath the boulder, a mysterious figure growled at them.
“I have you now!” the darkness cried.
“By the blades of the Titans!” and Montague leapt back.
There, stooped in the hole, was Erwin Meredith. He was on his feet in an instant and flew from the hole like his sword from its sheath.
“Step back there, Gylain, or I will strike you down!”
Meredith lifted his sword and dropped it on Gylain with a powerful side stroke. The latter could not riposte, but partially blocked it and partially fell back.
“A worthy adversary,” Gylain laughed, “And one whom I have long desired to meet again. We enjoyed each other in our youth. May old age find us as willing comrades.” Gylain drove forward with a circling thrust at his opponent’s midsection. The monk turned it away with the cross-handle of his sword, then brought the long portion down and pushed Gylain’s blade to the ground.
“Our friendship ended with your treachery, but you are unworthy of my hate if you do not jest. I meet you only with the sword, and where you once felt my affections you will now only feel my wrath!” He thrust at Gylain, but the other batted his sword to the side with his powerful wrist.
“Montague,” Gylain said, “Step back, for this fight is my own. Unfasten the chain, if you must do something, but leave Meredith to me.”
Gylain gave Meredith a sharp stroke. His old enemy parried it. He struck again from the left, and again it was parried. Gylain came forward with a succession of blows. Each was turned aside. The sun, happening to pass through the darkness for an instant, hit on his sword as he did. It flashed three times. At length, Gylain slipped as he came and his right side was left undefended. Meredith jumped to the right and struck at Gylain as he passed. The latter, however, was too quick to be taken so easily. He dropped to his feet, letting the blade pass harmlessly overhead. They both reeled from their exertions and missed a beat to regain their footing.
“Look,” one of the soldiers cried, “The fleet begins the attack!”
There, not two hundred yards from them, the fleet chased the wind toward the rebel lines. But the chain remained. Montague was working hard to unfasten its latch, as it was no longer pinned beneath the boulder. The links were two feet wide: as a barrier to ships it was unbreakable. But its strength was only valid if it was secured to the land. The latch, itself, was composed of several screws and four bolts that kept the final two links together.
As Montague worked, the soldiers above were aroused by the commotion and came to the edge. At first, they marveled at seeing Meredith alive; but their love of him reminded them of their duty. They could not shoot Gylain, as he was too near to Meredith; but Montague and the others were open targets. The arrows began to buzz about their heads and one of the guards fell at once with an arrow through his neck.
The fleet drew nearer to the chain.
“Hold your shields around me,” Montague ordered the guards.
They obeyed. Yet in protecting him, they left themselves vulnerable. One by one they were shot by the rangers in the tree; one by one they began to fall.
The foremost of the fleet reached the chain. It was dashed aside like the waves it rode.
Yet at that moment the chain was unfastened from the boulder. The weight of the chain beyond the fulcrum was a continuous pressure on it, and, when it was released, the chain dashed into the air. It shot over the platform, ripping out its fasteners and tearing away the foundations of the platform. It shook, then completely gave way and tumbled to the ground. The rangers were dead before they hit. Thus, with the pressure released, the chain sank harmlessly into the harbor.
Meanwhile, Gylain and Meredith still fought.
“You will not survive this fight, old friend,” Gylain spoke steadily.
“If I am damned, you are the devil,” and Meredith came at him with a slashing stroke.
Gylain parried, but was forced back: once on the rebound, Meredith kept at him in fury. He struck from the left, then let his sword swing to the right; there he caught its momentum with a small loop and came at Gylain again. As he pushed forward, though, a stone caught his foot and he fell, unable to balance in the midst of his swing. Gylain sprang forward and knocked his sword aside, leaving Meredith pinned on his back and unable to recover himself. Gylain stood over him.
His face was a placid sea, as if there were nothing taking place. His mouth bent upward slightly in his usual half-smile, but it was not evil in the sense of being. Rather, it was pathetic: the smile of a man who is lost to himself and who knows it better than any other, the smile of an atheist who knows God well.
“Slay me, fiend; for I will not yield and you will not prevail.”
“No, Meredith, I will not make you a martyr, to prove your ideas with the sanction of my violence.” Gylain had no emotion. He bashed Meredith upon the head, putting him out. “It would please you far too much.” He turned to Montague, “Come, for where there is Meredith there is William Stuart; and I will prove God a fool!”
Chapter 88
“Fire,” the Admiral cried through the waterfall that came from the sky. “Fire, and do not relent!” The arrows mix with the rain as it poured upon the advancing fleet.
As the foremost ships were separated by the chain, the upper sections were thrown toward the rebels until they ran into the rebel line. Their crew prepared to board the rebel decks as they passed, to save themselves from the raging sea.
“To the railings!” the Admiral called out again, “To the railings and bar their passage – throw them off into the sea! Hold strong, men: this is but the first of a greater wave.”
The rebel ships had their sails turned inward and set against themselves, leaving them motionless. The crew was left to line the rails, repulsing the invaders with their arrows – for they were forest men first and sailors second.
The storm became a tempest, the swell waves, and the waves mountains. The decapitated decks of the enemy ships were lifted by the waves and raised to the height of the rebel ships for an instant. In desperation, the sinking mariners proffered their swords blade-first to the rebels. In turn, the rebels replied with a flock of arrows. A crashing boom sounded as the ships collided, and the rebels pulled their bows, waiting. Then, as the invaders came, they shot the arrows against their chests. Two, sometimes three men were taken down with every shot. The invaders kept on, but the swell subsided and their decks lowered to the sea. But, without a hull, they sunk. They disappeared into the sea, devoured.
“Well done, lads,” the Admiral out blew the storm, “Move the masts now, for they come again and we need not meet them.” He dashed to the wheel, and, as the sails were turned, the ship side-stepped to the left, avoiding another approaching ship. It passed by and sank to Atlantis.
Meanwhile, Barnes had control of the second Marin and prepared it for the battle. The command deck stretched across the central floor, with ends abutting both the inner and outer walls. Each wall was dressed by a ten by twenty foot window, secured by a system of steel bars that kept larger debris from reaching it, while smaller things, such as arrows, could not break the glass. A control desk was stationed before either one, while the lesser furniture was removed to the adjacent captain’s room while the war was on. In the center of the room – between the command decks – was a larger command area, bolted to the floor and equipped with a chart of the harbor, enclosed under a glass panel so that the actual chart could be exchanged.