upwards until the rain disguised his weeping. He was a man of power, for good or ill.
A man approached the bow, Lyndon’s private deck. He was a scout, sent out by Lyndon.
“I have news, my lord.”
“Speak.”
“A small regiment is encamped to the south, three thousand strong. They seemed alive, but slept so soundly I could not rouse them.”
“Sleeping, through battle and storm? These Atiltians are stout men,” de Casanova laughed. “And you as well; I, at least, would not rouse an enemy host when I was alone.”
“They were not enemies but Gylain’s infantry, those he sent through the forest.”
“Then his men do not have his fire,” de Casanova returned, “For he has not closed his eyes these last four days, nor so much as blinked. If he is undead, they are unalive.”
“Return to them until they wake,” Lyndon interrupted. “We will continue the siege without them and without their leader,” he glanced to the forest. “Gylain has trained his army well enough that they can fight alone. I did not even expect those sleeping soldiers to remain among the living. As for Gylain, it is neither among armies nor rebels that he seeks battle.”
“Nor is it among men; for he fights strength and there is only one stronger than he. Begone,” and de Casanova nodded his head to the scout, who turned and fled the scene.
Meanwhile, Gylain, Montague, and the eight remaining soldiers traveled through the forest at a morbid pace. The canopy stopped the rain but not the water and the ground was the earth’s tear. Where it came down, the water rushed as if it fell off the world. The cloudy air swirled with the sound of falling water. Below, the grass glowed with phosphorous plants, refugees of the angry sea. It was one o’clock and it was midnight, lingering like a jelly fish dream. It was the forest and it was the sea. It was the deluge.
“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 fool: 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
