volcanic activity an eon prior that left its mark in the form of mountains and plateaus rippling across the landscape like frozen, angry waves. Clumps of thin forests blanketed many of the slopes but sharp cliff faces and stone peaks held their share of the high ground as well, making for a diverse and dramatic collection of terrain.

Murol might have once been a sleepy tourist village, but on that day it buzzed with life.

As they approached an intersection on the edge of town, Trevor glanced to his right and saw a collection of tents complete with tin pots cooking over camp fires, drying laundry hanging from rope strung between metal poles, and a parked water buffalo where a line waited with jugs in hand.

Among the tents loitered people wearing a variety of clothing ranging from well-worn coveralls to bright- colored sun dresses. Men and women, old and young, white, black, and brown. Some carried side arms, some carried buckets or shovels, one middle aged woman struggled with a pile of stacked books and her hurrying gait made Trevor think of a school teacher late for class.

To his left he saw an old farmhouse and barn from the outside of which hung a white sheet with a big red cross stenciled upon it. An old-style Peugeot ambulance sat outside the main entrance. A large dumpster around the side appeared full of bloody linens and old furniture. A man and a woman-both dressed in dirty white-stood near that dumpster smoking some kind of cigarettes.

Trevor glanced at a street sign and saw that they crossed over Rue Pierre Celeirol as they followed Rue de Jassaguet. The open fields and view of the imposing mountains disappeared, replaced by quaint shops, homes, and hostels along a tight street that wormed its way through the village.

The convoy slowed to weave around a series of vendor carts selling less-than-fresh fruit and questionable meats to a boisterous crowd. Trevor made eye contact with a chubby, older woman who reflected his stare with tired but resolute eyes. He saw dirt caked beneath her fingertips and a strawberry scar on her cheek.

The Sherpas continued on. Trevor noticed that no one else traveled by car, but he did see an old man pulling a donkey laden with sacks along a side street as well as several people riding bicycles.

Jorgie tugged at his father’s sleeve. When he held his dad’s attention, the boy pointed to a three-story building with a blue awning announcing it as the Hotel le Parc.

The hotel had turned in its ‘visitors welcome’ matt in exchange for status as an army barracks. An anti- aircraft gun sat atop the roof, the tennis courts now served as parking spaces for an AMX armored Infantry Fighting Vehicle with a 20mm cannon as well another Sherpa with an anti-tank gun mounted on its roof.

Several soldiers congregated on the terrace in a variety of camouflage outfits including what Trevor recognized-through his bank of genetic memories-to be the old pattern Swiss Leibermuster. Other emblems on shoulders and chests suggested fighters from Denmark, Spain, and the Netherlands.

The terrace looked over a shaded park. In that shade lurked several pickup trucks, a pair of cargo containers, and piles of supplies. Trevor saw crates of bullets and artillery shells, fuel drums, stacks of tires, and boxes of canned rations. He knew that some of those items-particularly the tires and fuel-had traveled across the Atlantic from Omar’s Hivvan matter-makers.

The convoy kept driving through the crowded streets. A pungent aroma mixing smoldering fire with filth and petrol vapors lingered over the entire village. It smelled to Trevor like too many people crowded into a small spot with too little sanitation and too few supplies, but a palpable feeling of excitement carried in the air, as if the carnival arrived in town.

They left the village along a road rising up a gentle slope to the north where forest and grassland claimed the scenery again.

Armand spoke to Alexander in what Trevor thought to be French, but the meanings of the words came through so clear to his library-mind that such a trivial thing as language did not matter. “Looks like the damn Italians are here.”

Armand-sitting behind the driver’s wheel in the front left of the car-glanced to a path on the west side of the road. There Trevor saw a line of horse riders, the leader wearing a wool sport snap hat with a bandolier across a peasant’s shirt. He eyed the convoy as they zoomed past as if both envying and disapproving of motored transport.

A chopping sound diverted Trevor and JB’s attention to the right. They swung their heads around and watched a green Eurocopter 135 transport displaying the stylized iron cross of the Bundeswehr fly in.

Alexander gave the helicopter a look and then returned his attention to the papers on his clipboard noting, “And the Germans, too.”

Trevor eyed the helicopter’s flight to the north as it flew parallel to the road they traveled. That road climbed a steep basalt outcropping as it snaked through light woodlands toward an impressive sight that overlooked the town and everything else for miles: the Chateau de Murol.

The castle’s large curtain walls had suffered greatly with age, but still stood although a layer of creeping ivory climbed the gray and brown stone.

It lacked the glitz and shine of a Hollywood scripted castle but Trevor found the gritty realism even more awe-inspiring. The Chateau de Murol stood defiantly for all the world-and all the invaders-to see. Weathered, bruised, but still ready to fight. Like the people of his Empire; like the people of Murol.

The road swept around, pushed through a patch of woods where Trevor spied a Harrier jump jet hidden under green netting, and emerged at a medieval gatehouse and a steep stone stairway. A machine gun behind sandbags covered the approach. Trevor also noticed a man with a sniper rifle at one of the higher windows on the curtain wall as well as a cluster of rectangular box-like structures atop the primary castle tower that he suspected to be anti-air missiles.

“Very impressive,” Trevor complimented.

Armand spoke in French, “What did you think? Did you think we were sitting around with our thumbs up our asses waiting for you Americans to ride in and save the day?”

“I am not an American, and you are no longer French,” Trevor corrected in the land’s native tongue. “Countries do not mean anything anymore.”

Armand snorted in either disgust or amusement.

The cars stopped and the passengers disembarked under the staring eyes of several sentries whose expressions suggested thoughts along the lines of “this is it?”

Alexander said, “Trevor, why don’t you come with me. The rest of your people can relax in the dining tent. I have to believe they’re hungry.”

At that moment Trevor’s stomach groaned and he realized he had eaten only canned rations over the last 36 hours or so. Still, he knew eating would have to wait, at least for him.

“That sounds good.”

“No! I want to go see, Father.”

Trevor placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. The boy looked at his dad through those determined blue eyes of his.

“If it’s okay with you, Alexander, I’d like to have my son come with us. I think he deserves as much.”

Alexander glanced at Armand who shrugged either to say he did not understand what Trevor meant or he did not care. Whatever the case, Alexander nodded to the boy and the group ascended the stairs leaving Hauser and the two sailors in the care of the garrison.

The first stretch of stairs led into the gatehouse. Inside loitered a group of soldiers of various ethnic shades in a collection of helmets, berets, boots, sneakers, BDUs and jeans. Folding tables hosted radios and CCT monitors; a weapons rack offered a collection of rifles and shotguns.

Another set of open-air stone stairs climbed along the curtain wall. Small puddles on the steps spoke of rain earlier.

At the top of the stairs came the entrance to the courtyard above which loomed an ornamental lintel depicting knights in armor as well as a pair of griffins prancing above a coat-of-arms. Jorgie caused the procession to halt as he studied the crude bas-relief with wide eyes of wonderment. His father tugged his arm encouraging him onward.

A few militia men lurked in the courtyard among crates of supplies. A mess of replica shields, swords, and helmets were piled into one corner, certainly remains from the days when the Chateau drew tourists instead of warriors.

They crossed the courtyard and entered a wood-trimmed doorway a little small for the average modern man but perhaps just the right size for the knights of the dark ages. The interior offered cool, musty air as might be

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