“William’s blood gives scent to the forest,” fell from Gylain’s lips.
“I smell only death, and it strongly,” Montague returned.
“We near the southern rim of the plain, through which the land force must have passed. And they cannot have done so without a large casualty.”
“So I thought, but it is better to know from your mouth than my head.”
“In this troublesome life, Montague, you offer me what little comfort can be found.” He paused, then, stopping, “Wait! Do you hear those splashes?”
“Yes,” and they turned their heads toward the approaching footsteps.
“Prepare for action,” Jonathan Montague turned to the Elite Guards and drew his own sword.
They formed themselves into a line and prepared to meet whatever force was coming. But as they did, another set of footsteps broke through the heavy air, coming from behind them.
“At last!” Gylain cried as he saw who came, “At last, and for the end!”
Some time before this, on a platform off the southern side of the plain, Oren Lorenzo sat with six rebel rangers. They huddled around a fire contained within a bronze pit that was built into the platform and covered by a canopy of cloth as well as one of leaves. The other rangers had migrated through the Treeway on various missions.
“We’d best be going. The war will not await our arrival, though victory may,” Lorenzo said, but his voice had no conviction.
Still, they answered, “We follow your lead, sir.”
“Very well; and since I am no ranger, I will lead on the ground. We will scout the edge of the forest, to spy any ambush meant for our comrades.”
The canopy dwelling rangers were born into an aviary. To descend their rope ladders they simply grabbed ahold with their gloved hands and slid down. Lorenzo, however, climbed slowly; for five minutes he was alone in the air, battling the swinging rope with a swinging pulse. Below, the waters had come. Its rivers flowed to the castle. The bodies of the dead were carried along, pushed about like fallen leaves.
“I am glad the rebellion comes to an end,” Lorenzo said as they left the battlefield behind, “It will be decided in the present fight – for freedom or against – and perhaps it would be better were we enslaved than slain for freedom. The dead have no freedom.”
“I have lost my father, my brothers, my sons,” a ranger replied. “Years ago I fought for the women and children; but now the women are widows and the children soldiers. If this is liberty, it does not feel such a glorious thing.”
“Liberty!” another ranger, with a missing eye, laughed. “You cannot get liberty by fighting others, for we are first enslaved to pride, whether our own or that of our king. If we must be beaten, let us be beaten; but I will not beat another for the privilege of beating myself.”
“And there we differ, old friend” a third said, “For I would not sin as hard, if the beatings hit my own back, and neither would our king. If he was beaten for my sin, I would court the devil; no one would gladly bear the beatings of another.”
“There is one, that I have heard of,” the priest Lorenzo began gravely. “He takes the beatings of criminals, even as they mock him for it.”
“I would call him a fool, myself,” and they laughed.
“As do others,” Lorenzo smiled, “But who is the greater fooclass="underline" the man who is beaten for another, or the man who insists he be beaten as well as the first? It is given if it is taken.”
“So where is this man to take the beatings of this bloody war? If it is already given, then why do we masquerade as if it has not and fight as if we had to earn our peace with blood?”
“We are given this life as a mirror to the spiritual, a parable to the truth. For, unless he has been poor, a rich man does not know what he has to enjoy; and if a man has never drunk he cannot be thirsty. In the same way, we cannot know God to be good, unless we first know our ourselves to be wicked.”
“I can think of easier ways than murdering my countrymen! As we fought an hour ago, I saw a man I know with my arrow through his throat; and last week I ate dinner at his father’s table. I saw him and at once I understood what I have heard in a thousand stuffy sermons by a thousand pond-scum preachers: we are children of our evil father; but he is God, not the devil. So maybe you are right; but if God made us as you say, he made us to be evil and to do these things. If I cut off my son’s arms that I would be strong by comparison, what would I be? And if I scarred my wife’s face that I would be comely in contrast, what would I become? In the same way, God can go to hell.”
“What was that?” Lorenzo gasped.
“God can go to hell, and the devil with him.”
“Not that, fool. By Beelzebub, I heard footsteps to the left!” and Lorenzo dashed through the fog and water, splashing like a waterfall. What he saw caused his tongue to throw aside his lips and he cried out, “To arms, men! Disregard philosophy and fight, for we have met the devil!”
Some time before this, in the forest adjacent to Thunder Bay, William Stuart strode alone through the flooded forest. He wore a longsword at his side, attached to his belt by two simple metal hooks upon which the handle rested. The blade was bare. A doublet covered his body, tied about the waist with the same belt that held his sword; beneath he wore leather armor. His hands were bare, his face clothed with a rye grass beard.
“Who goes there?” he boomed, “Show yourself at once, or I will assume you hostile and dispose of you accordingly.”
There was silence, and the splashing footsteps that caused his outbreak could not be heard. Then, a voice came through, “William?”
“Meredith! As I thought, you have not abandoned ship! Come, friend, follow me.”
The martial monk passed through the mist. He still wore his frock, not dissimilar to William’s doublet, but that it was brown and coarse. He wore armor beneath as well.
“Meredith, old friend, I hoped to see you. Has Gylain passed through here?”
“Indeed, and bruised my head upon his way,” and the monk rubbed his nude scalp.
“Then come, and let us bite his heel,” and the two ran into the forest.
“Who was with him?” the Admiral asked as they went.
“Jonathan Montague and a dozen men, though four were killed by the rangers.”
“We are outnumbered, then.”
“Yes, but it does not matter with Gylain. Montague, perhaps, would fight us full force and take the day; but Gylain will not let his men fight unless there are equal numbers on every side.”
“He does so now, perhaps, but I remember a time when his morals were not so refined,” the Admiral scowled. “But revenge has come, and not without its allies death and damnation.”
“You speak grimly, friend.”
“And yet I speak truth. Listen! What is that noise?”
“The splashes of many men. This rain has done us that good, at least.”
“It will do us worse, I fear,” and the two suddenly came through the fog to a large body of men.
On one side were Gylain and Montague with their men, on the other Oren Lorenzo and half a dozen rangers.
“At last!” the Admiral’s eyes smoked, “At last we reach the end!”
Chapter 91
Alfonzo was the last to pass through the castle gates, having waited for the last of the fleeing rebels to safely enter. The gates closed and the steel bars were run through its latches. Behind them, a dozen stout poles were dug into the ground and a vertical wall of boards inserted, leaving a four foot gap between the first gate and the second. Dirt and debris from the town had been collected onto the walls above, and the gap was filled until it was thicker than the walls beside it. They were buried within their fortress: none could come in or go out.