“And we are no different?”
“Answer it yourself.”
“It needs no answer; our acts cannot be refuted. But if I am as Godless as you, those who follow me are not as those who follow you.”
“Fools, the one and the other: fanatics of fantasy. In this game, there can be no winner.”
“And thus no loser.”
“None,” Gylain said.
“And yet, we fight.”
“Has any war been won? I say no, for the players remain and will fight. If we make peace, they will replace us.”
“Ever the fool, Gylain, ever the ambitious. You brought her down. For that alone I fight.”
“She followed, William, and you pushed. But could it have been stopped? It was foretold long ago, and the sword cannot rebuke the hand that wields it.”
“I wield my own sword.”
“Blindly: it has no effect. If we lift them, we cannot say what will be hit. The players have decided, and it will come to pass. In this way it is predestined: I can choose the cause, but the effect is not my own. For the action is earthly and of piece, the result is divine and of player. Look about us, William, and will we lift our swords or drop them? Either way, we die. For Atilta sinks.”
“And so we fight, to add our own face to the demise which is given us. I would rather fight with you than against; but as you say, the fight is not our own.” He drew his sword.
“It is fate’s fight. We are as much spectators as the gods. But know this: if God did not draw my sword against himself, I would draw it on my own. May God decide the victor,” and Gylain drew his sword, lunging at William.
The Admiral did not dodge, but caught Gylain’s blade with his own and forced it upward. Then, with a strong forward swing, he forced his enemy back. Gylain gathered himself and resisted the Admiral’s charge with a leftward parry: circling the other’s blade, diverting it to the left, and thrusting through the resulting opening into his stomach. The Admiral fell back and whipped his sword across his chest, stopping the blow and pushing Gylain back. Before William could regain control of his sword, however, Gylain pushed forward again, giving him a weak blow to the stomach.
“I have you,” Gylain said.
“No, it is a scratch.”
“A test of strength, then; on guard!”
By this time, the water had risen to their waists.
“A test of the will, you mean, for only God can deliver us now,” and William started toward Gylain, his legs held back by the water.
His arms, however, were not impeded and his sword flew at his opponent’s head. Gylain ducked below water and was saved. But before he could resurface, William had recovered himself and stood waiting. Gylain sprang up with his sword parallel above him. The Admiral’s blow struck the blade and bounced upward under the force. Gylain’s blade, however, also bounced: it came down upon his head. It bled but the wound was not mortal.
“Well done, but not well enough to kill an old scar.”
The water was now too high for them to move without the use of their arms. Above water, their swords swam the air with thunder; below, their bodies did not move. The Admiral gave Gylain several quick blows, each aimed at his sword. Gylain parried them, but was unable to dodge. Then, with a final burst of fury, the Admiral knocked Gylain’s sword aside and beneath the water. Gylain was left defenseless. William had but to strike him down. Yet he could not. The water rose above his shoulders and he could not swing.
“A stalemate,” he said.
“Not yet, there is still time.”
“Where? We are alone in the flood.”
“No, for look! A rope ladder has dropped from above.”
The Admiral turned. “So it has, and by the hand of God. He, at least, has not yet tired of the game!”
Meanwhile, Montague had been swarmed by both Lorenzo and Meredith, each taking one of his sides. Montague dodged their first blows by retreating through the flooding ground. The two ecclesiastics followed him in a desperate chase, but he would not slow until they were apart. If one fell behind, Montague would dash back to charge the other. When Montague reached the tree Lorenzo and his men had come down, he left the flooded ground and started up the ladder to the canopy. By the time they reached it, he was a hundred feet above the water.
“He has left us,” Lorenzo panted.
“And we cannot follow him, or he will cut us loose when he reaches the top.”
“So, let us do the same to him!”
As they spoke, they grabbed onto the bottom of the rope ladder and began to rock it back and forth. Each foot of sway below caused three above. As it gained momentum Montague began to lose his way.
“That is enough!” he called down from half way up. “You fight with dishonor.”
“And you? We will not spare you your own vice.”
The rope ladder danced like a climbing snake. Meredith jumped onto the first rung to weigh it down and Lorenzo pushed him faster as he swung by. It was too much for Montague; he could not fight gravity as he did mankind. His fingers trembled, then gave way. His feet were thrown aside and he flew like a leaping squirrel through the branches. But he was not a squirrel. His voice erupted as he dueled the air. Then, it stopped. He was dashed against a tree and floated like a broken leaf to the ground. Dead.
“We have finished him, at last,” Lorenzo breathed.
“And not too soon. Come, we must gain the Treeway and rescue the Admiral.”
They brought the ladder to a stop and began the ascent. It took them several minutes to climb the distance, even going faster than was safe. When they gained the top, they turned their feet to the north, to the upper Treeway; for the lower platforms did not pass near the Admiral. The platforms were smooth and the way was easy; in a moment they reached the ladder: wooden rungs built into the tree.
“Here it is,” Meredith eyed the height with mistrust.
“Hurry, then. We must,” and the two began climbing.
This ladder led for another hundred feet until it came out above the canopy, where the upper Treeway was built. From the height nothing obscured their view over the forest and the plain beyond. Far to the southeast, the castle was bombarded. The water rose above its walls. Though forest ground was higher, the flood would not wait much longer.
“Come,” Meredith said after a moment of rest and once more they set off.
For several minutes they ran the Treeway – more cautious than before – until they heard a distant clash, the sound of swords. Meredith dropped to his stomach and peered over the edge.
“It is them: let down the rope ladder. We will have to let up our enemy to spare our friend.”
The ladder sat beside them, near a break in the rail. Lorenzo pushed it over the edge and it unrolled as it fell. Then, with a distant splash, the bottom hit the surface of the water.
“We can do no more,” and Meredith spread himself out on the platform, absorbing the rain in weariness.
Lorenzo joined him. “This is the end, old friend. Atilta is no more.”
“May the fish enjoy her and the whales find rest among her trees. Once more the fate of perfection is revealed.”
“I wonder what we will see as we go down with the sinking land,” Lorenzo said.
“Paradise, perhaps, but I doubt we will go down at all. Look ahead: the fleet is cheering the king and they rescue those in the castle. If we rise and wave our arms we might be saved.”
As he spoke, William Stuart’s head rose over the platform.
“Meredith, Lorenzo! The rope ladder was well-timed. What of the others?”
“Destroyed.”
“So it always ends,” and he stood beside them as they rested.
Gylain’s head appeared over the platform, followed swiftly by his whole body. When he gained his feet he turned to the Admiral.
“Engage,” and the two resumed their melee.
