The voice came from a young man wearing a BMW shirt and leather pants similar to Armand’s. He stood at the open driver’s door of a small sedan idling at the curb.
“That’s it,” Armand pushed away from the table. “You had better come with me now. I am guessing that Camelot has reached a decision on your request.”
Trevor stood as well, then JB. Hauser-not understanding the words-lagged behind as he struggled with the last drops of stew.
“And what do you want them to decide?” Trevor asked.
“I want them to do what I have always wanted them to do. I want to fight.”
For the third straight day Trevor returned to the Chateau de Murol. This time, however, he would learn if the previous two days’ worth of persuasion would pay dividends. The Europeans-the collection of enclaves calling themselves Camelot-would have acted more readily last year, before The Order and The Duass hit them with a pre-emptive strike. Everything rested on whether or not he, and JB to some extent, adequately conveyed the notion that they either fought now or would find themselves voted into oblivion by the Gods. The same fate as the Feranites.
While Hauser stayed behind in the guard shack, Trevor and JB climbed the stone steps with Armand, up and into the courtyard where they nearly collided with the mass of men and women exiting the door to the meeting chamber. Lady Cai was there, too.
Armand hurried to her. The two conversed in French. Trevor caught a few words that sounded like ‘convinced’, ‘instinct,’ and ‘good luck.’ Then Cai pressed her hands against Armand’s chest and gave him a kiss. Armand grasped her hips and pulled her close as if wanting to be enveloped by her essence.
Jorgie watched, fascinated by the display of such intense affection.
Of course, it would amaze him, Trevor considered. He never saw that type of affection between me and his mother.
When their embrace ended, Armand led Trevor and JB into the meeting room. Cai made eye contact with Jorgie before they moved out of sight and smiled sweetly at the boy.
Inside they found the meeting room deserted save for Alexander who worked his way around the empty table gathering papers that, no doubt, had served as part of his presentation to Camelot.
Armand remained near the entranceway. Trevor and Jorgie walked to the table and approached Alexander.
“I was married three times,” Alexander volunteered as he collected the discarded papers. Trevor sensed tension lingering in the room.
“Three times? I expect they were all lucky women.”
“Yes, yes they were. After each divorce, that is. My second wife nagged me nearly to death. Do you know what she nagged me most about? She told me that I thought about things too much. She said I needed to be more spontaneous and not so, oh, what would be the word? Pragmatic, maybe. Something like that. She threw around a lot of words that she did not fully understand.”
Trevor, still with a light tone in his voice, asked, “So why would such a smart man marry a woman like that?”
Alexander paused with the stack of papers cradled in one arm and said, “Why she was beautiful, of course.”
“Of course,” Trevor nodded.
“Anyway,” Alexander returned to gathering papers. “The point is that sometimes I wonder if she was not right. Maybe I am thinking about this too much. Ask Armand over there. He will tell you that sometimes you have to trust your gut. Maybe I should listen to him more.”
“You think breaking out now is a bad idea?” Trevor guessed.
“No. Well, yes. But I am in favor of it. I think I am wondering too much about what you have told us. Other worlds-the different races-parallel Earths-evolved super-beings and all of that. It can really set a mind to thinking. That is, if you can sort out the confusion.”
“I understand. Believe me.”
“I suppose you do,” Alexander finished gathering the papers and carefully slipped them into a small briefcase. “Point is, the group has voted to do as you request. I believe some chose so because they feel a sense of obligation for the material aid you sent to us over the years. Others are simply tired of hiding in these little villages. Many just want to fight because they would rather die on their feet. But they all know the stakes. First we have to get past the checkpoints the Duass have established to pen us in and break apart our lines of communication. Then an entire army from The Order waits.”
“I understand.”
“Trevor, the group trusted me to serve as the spokesperson and as a leader, of sorts. Over the years I have sacrificed many people so that others could live. I have made many hard decisions that will haunt me until I die. I sit in the responsibility seat. I did not ask for it, but as my third wife once told me, you get what you deserve. I believed her because I soon came to realize that she was punishment for something I must have done in a previous life. On the other hand, I do not know if my position here is a blessing or a curse. I suspect the latter.”
“Alexander, I-“
The Englishman held a hand up and Trevor stopped speaking.
“I want you to tell me, again, face-to-face that you are confident this will work. Convince me, one more time.”
Alexander waited. Trevor returned his gaze and told the truth.
“I don’t know that this will work, Alexander. I only know that if we do nothing then all of your people, and mine, will die. Or worse. We’re running out of time and any hope of victory has now shifted from my Empire to your Camelot.”
Silence. Alexander remained fixed on Trevor’s eyes, until JB tugged at his sleeve.
“My father is telling the truth, Mr. Alexander.”
Alexander closed his eyes, considered, and then opened them again. He first nodded to Trevor, then walked toward Armand.
“Prepare the cavalry.”
Trevor thought of Stonewall McAllister and his gallant horsemen galloping through a cloud of smoke to rescue him, Nina, and Danny Washburn when the Duass had trapped them in a bank building a few miles from the estate during that first year.
Trevor mumbled, “We have cavalry where I come from, too.”
Alexander glanced at Trevor then to Armand. The two Europeans shared a silent communication. Nearly a laugh.
Armand faced Trevor.
“Not like this you don’t.”
Armand’s war horses roared to life filling the garage with a chorus of mechanical screams and the smell of sizzling oil and smoky exhaust. Among the drab gray walls and naked fluorescent lights of the gritty pen, skins of red, black, yellow, and blue glistened.
The steeds wore badges: Kawasaki, BMW, Yamaha, and Triumph.
Riders wore racing gear complete with body armor branded Fox, Thor, Fly and more. They hurried in the call to arms with stops first at the armory at the rear of the chamber and then to their bikes. They grabbed machine pistols of varying types including Micro Uzis, Tuma MTEs, and Czech-built Scorpions. Everyone grabbed handfuls of grenades, a few satchel charges, and some larger packets that appeared to be homemade explosives. A few toted short-range mortar tubes with ammo crates strapped to the rear or sides of their bikes.
Most road singles; a few doubles. Most men, several women; some of the riders young and eager slapping high-fives and punching one another’s arms; others older and cautious checking safety straps and body armor.
Fifty bikes readied for war in the garage. A dozen of them-mainly touring style motorcycles-displayed modified windshields made from some kind of heavy plastic that seemed more to Trevor like a shield. Those riders wore the thickest body armor and carried large metal cylinder-like devices that enveloped one entire hand in a type of grip.
Trevor walked into the noise of the garage following Alexander and Armand with JB who plugged his ears with his fingers.
