Then, without warning, he came to a halt.
“You, there,” he cried to the captain on the ground. “Do you see that hairy man by the catapults?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“His name is de Garcia, once the finest fighter on the earth. He is a very arduous man: even his imprisonment has not subdued him. Take him, with Leggitt, to the galleys. There we will consume their zeal.”
The captain went to fulfill his orders and Gylain crossed the drawbridge. An old man was passing by, herding a group of barrels down the river.
“Is it not late for herding barrels?” he asked sternly.
“I am too poor to take the liberty of an early evening.”
“Very well,” he answered. Then, in a louder voice, he cried, “Is that them?” While everyone turned their heads, he threw the old man several gold pieces. “Onward!” he cried, and galloped to the circle of houses that stood adjacent to the drawbridge. As they reached it, Gylain turned to the troop and gave them their orders.
“Search for the rebels. When you are done, kill those within and burn the houses.”
He was the first to enter the houses, going into the first – from which the rebels had escaped only moments before. The first room through the outside door was a study. A man sat in front of the fireplace, deeply possessed by the book he held. It was a tattered manuscript, evidently as ancient as the forests. Its cover was of a strange, synthetic material, and the words “Temporal Anomaly Box: Number 12. Location: Central Savanna,” were written neatly on its front.
Gylain recognized the book as an Atiltian classic. “A good choice; does not Jehu fascinate you, with the paradox between him and the future? The fate of all is tied to him, yet even he cannot control what happens.”
The man looked up from the book. “Can any man control his fate?”
“No,” and Gylain took a spiked club from one of his soldiers. “No man can control his fate or his actions – we are all but a White Eagle, and the future our only adversary. Can I stop myself?” He paused. “Do not lie to me, for I will not spare you if you do. Where have they gone?”
“My lord, I would never tell.”
“I will kill you if you do not.”
The man’s face remained steady. “I am willing.”
Gylain held the club before him. “Tell and I will let you live,” he said.
“Nothing can pain me more than my conscience.”
Gylain said nothing, but struck the man cross his knees. The knee caps were shattered under its force and the man cried out in pain. Gylain struck him again on his left and right arms, shattering them as well. They could not be moved.
“Fate,” Gylain whispered, “See what it does through us?”
He threw the man onto the floor, his feet hanging into the fire. The flames would slowly creep up his body, until he was consumed. But the man’s face remained set and he did not curse Gylain. To those who will not burn after death, to burn in life is nothing.
Gylain left the room, only stopping on the threshold. Without turning, he said, “You are strong, but foolish, and your death in vain. Your eyes have betrayed your friends, even as they flee in the barrels.” The man on the floor wailed. Gylain seemed callous to his suffering.
“Place the manuscript into my private library,” Gylain said to a soldier as he left. “It should be preserved, for future civilizations.” With that, he left the house.
Montague and Cybele were waiting for him on the road.
“There is no sign of them,” Montague said.
“They were hidden in the barrels,” Gylain returned. “Did you burn the houses?”
“Yes, my lord, except the one you were in.”
“Excellent,” and Gylain drove his heels into his horse, galloping desperately to the Floatings.
They said nothing as they rode, for the sound of the horses against the stone road was as thunder in the air. Fear went before them, hate behind. The two miles between the castle and the Floatings were passed in six minutes, and within eight they had reached the end of a pier. The harbor fleet arrived just as they did.
“Gylain, my lord,” called Jonathan Montague from the helm. “I have found nothing to the north, but have left a squadron behind to keep watch.”
“We were deceived,” Gylain answered.
“By the queen?”
“By the rebels. Have any ships passed you?”
“That bloody fox!” Jonathan Montague cursed. “So that is where I knew his voice – William Stuart!”
“He will be bloody soon enough!”
Gylain dismounted directly into the ship, and the others followed as swiftly as they could. Nicholas Montague and the Queen of Saxony joined him in the flag ship with twenty-five men; the others distributed themselves among the rest of the fleet. The fleet spun about and pulled the sails to their full height, heading toward the ocean.
“They are mine, now. I will follow them unto death,” Gylain said as he strode forward to the bow. He stood there – ten feet from the others – and raised his face to the heavens. The moon came down and cast a physical shadow over his face, though it was already shrouded by a spiritual shadow.
“Do not tempt me any further, oh God of the heavens,” he whispered, “For I am already given to evil, and I will do as I will do.” He clenched his fist and his teeth pierced his lips as he scowled at the moon.
Then a voice came into his mind. “Let no man say he is tempted by God; for God cannotbe tempted with evil, and he himself tempts no man. But each man is tempted when he is drawn away by his own lust. His lust conceives sin, and his sin matures into death.”
Gylain features became placid, his eyes grew quiet. He was as a child who does not understand.
“But, my God,” he said, “Death is all that I desire.”
Chapter 46
“They fly through the waters as if Neptune himself propels them!” Barnes Griffith cried to those in the bow. “They ride the sails of their mizzenmast as if the wind were calm, but their mizzenmast does not fail them!”
“Take the reef from the mainsails,” the Admiral cried, “And tighten the flying jib. But I dare risk no more, for the seas are turbulent.”
As he spoke, The King’s Arm passed from the harbor into the ocean. On one side, the land protected the surface from being ravaged. On the other, the seas rolled about with watery fire.
“All through the day the sea has been heaving,” the first mate said to the Admiral. “And now it has stirred itself to violence.”
“Yes,” he answered, “But we cannot turn back. If we must choose between the wrath of the seas and the wrath of Gylain, I would gladly choose the former.” He stood rigidly as he spoke, his eyes scanning the ship and the sea. He calculated the strength of the wind, the roll of the sea, and the size of the waves against the endurance of the sails and the masts. “What a sea!” he said to himself, “It will be a miracle if we survive this night.” Then, raising his voice, he said, “Celestine, go below deck.”
“Yes, father,” and she went.
When she was below, he called out to Barnes, who still held his station in the stern, “What is our speed? It can be no less than thirteen knots, but still they push faster.”
“Thirteen and a half, sir. They do fourteen, at least.”
The Admiral said no more but stood in the spray of the breaking waves – some against the side and some against his weather-beaten face. His short hair was not moved by the wind, but his beard was blown into his chest, dancing with the currents of the air. His eyes were lanterns in the night, fueled by hatred and vengeance. It was a vengeance that had long been suppressed – like a fire allowed only to smolder. Yet when the air comes, it bursts into flame. So it was with the Admiral. He was finally in a position to inflict the wound of death upon Gylain; but he could not do so before his wrath played itself out and Gylain trembled before him – aware that his end was near and that it came from the hands of William Stuart.