Ivona looked at Willard strangely; he answered with an ambiguous smile.
Then, from the outskirts of the meadow, a deep trumpet blast was heard. The horsemen turned their heads, only to be greeted by a cloud of arrows.
“Down!” cried Willard, grabbing the shield of a fallen horseman and covering Ivona with it. In a moment they were all sheltered likewise.
Without their leaders, the Elite Guard was not as elite as before. Their weakened ranks broke easily from the assault of the fresh combatants and they were scattered throughout the plain. Thus separated, the forest rangers began to hunt them down, one at a time.
The rebels were clothed in unmatching outfits and had no formal training or official support. Yet they were quick and efficient. The leader of the band swaggered up to the four, who were still on the ground: no longer under the shields, but too exhausted to stand.
“The men say if we were any later, you would not have survived.” He laughed, “Why, if it isn’t good old Jack Clifford!”
“Well, Blaine Griffith, who else would it be?” the old man said. “But do not stand there like a mindless woodsman – bow to your king!”
Chapter 24
“The men tell me things went badly for you, Clifford,” Blaine said as the rangers finished off the remaining soldiers and brought their equipment – which the rebels badly needed – to the center of the meadow.
“Not at all, we were just playing a rousing game of hide and seek – with my head, mind you, but rousing nonetheless. Just like the time old Stevenson had a statue built around himself, so he could surprise his wife when she returned from France,” and Clifford proceeded to spin a long tale, much to the amusement of his listeners. He gave a long pause after finishing his story before concluding, “That is just about how I feel right now, myself.”
Those present who knew Clifford merely shook their heads and laughed at his old antics. His was a peculiar character: when time was pressing, he was a man of action; but when things were carefree, he would begin to blow his wind about, until he ended with a hurricane. He was a rambler, and his long life as a jester had given him enough to ramble about.
Seeing there was at last a break in Clifford’s monologue, one of the rangers came forward.
“Blaine, we have taken care of them. The horses and armor are ready to go.”
“Good job, men,” replied Blaine, “To the Great Goliaths, then.”
“Yes, sir,” was the reply, and within a moment the two dozen woodsman were ready. Some led the horses, piled with equipment, and others obscured their tracks in case they were followed. It was a solemn procession, if a victorious one.
At length, they reached the rebel city, the Great Goliaths. In the Atiltian forest, the trees were massive, often rising several hundred feet from the ground, with diameters of twenty to thirty feet. The rebel city, however, was built within and around what were called the Great Goliaths. The trees and plants there were by far the purest of the island, for it was the center of the forest. Four trees composed the centerpiece of this place, each over a thousand feet tall, and a hundred and fifty in diameter. They were arranged in a square, each corner pointing to one of the cardinal points.
For a square mile surrounding these four trees, the ground was only covered with wild grasses and flowers, and a thick shade from the canopy. Their trunks were hollow, and inside the rebels made their city – in little rooms connected by a spiral stairway made of rope that wound around the outside of each tree. The four main sections of the city were connected by underground tunnels, and, above the ground, by several bridges that crossed between them. These bridges were hollow trunks of Atiltian trees – several hundred feet long – stretched from each tree into the center, where they met. Every hundred feet of altitude these bridges were repeated.
The party arrived at the base of this magnificent city, yet from the ground it could not be seen, for it was only in the upper canopy that it truly blossomed. Rather, it looked like an open plain, except shaded by the four giant trees, and with their massive trunks rising from the floor. In the ground in their center, however, stood a small stump which had once been a tree.
“I see no city,” Ivona said, “Though I have often heard of its wonders.”
“Indeed, because the city is above us,” Blaine said. “The men say you are a man of the forest Willard. Is it true?”
“I am.”
“Then let us put you to the test. How would you say we reach the city above? You must remember that even these horses can find their way to the top.”
“I would expect nothing less,” Willard answered. “But it is obvious: that stump is the entrance.”
“What?” Blaine said, giving Willard a close look. “Perhaps the men are right. But I am not so easily convinced, so tell me how you know it.”
“He knows because he is the king!” the old man Clifford exclaimed, but the others gave him no heed.
“The stairways along the outside of the trees begin only several hundred feet from the ground, and they serve only to connect the city to itself, not to the ground,” Willard said. “We are left to reason that the roadway to the city is built within the trees themselves, for rope ladders would not be practical in this instance. As for the stump, there is a thick moss growing on it, the
Ivona smiled – having heard the same explanation from her father, who had helped plan the city – and Clifford whistled in amazement.
“That is my king and I expected nothing less from him.”
Blaine gave Willard a knowing look, as if understanding that Clifford’s age and recent trouble made him lose his once piercing wit.
“By the devil, you will see,” Clifford exclaimed, “I am right, Blaine Griffith. You will see. Does not Alfonzo have the same opinion of Willard? We both know he does not think such things lightly.”
“Yet you have not spoken to Alfonzo, Clifford. He is far to the west.”
“No, but to the southeast.”
“Where, in Eden? The men have said you are a silly old man, and I am prepared to believe them after this.”
“Yes, in Eden, foolish young boy. He was in the Castle tower when I left him, with Celestine.”
“Then why have you waited this long to tell me?” Blaine tried to show him his mistake.
“You have come to rescue him, have you not? I feel no need to tell you things you already know.”
“Not I,” replied Blaine, “Merely ask the men to find that we are here to prevent an attack, not to make our own.”
“I have come to rescue Oren Lorenzo,” Willard said, “Yet if Alfonzo is there, we will free him while we are in.”
“Oren Lorenzo is captured?” Blaine asked incredulously. “How can that be?”
“It can be because it is,” answered Clifford, “He and Thomas Vahanlee are in the Devil’s Door.”
“Vahan Lee, too?” asked Willard, “Poor fellow.”
“This is an impossible mission,” Blaine said, “And I will not send my men to death on the rambling memories of an insane old man.”
“Insane?” Clifford paused. “Have you not read the letter I gave you, written by Alfonzo himself?”
“You’ve given me no letter.”
Clifford paused again, his face condensed into the act of remembering.
“Perhaps I have forgotten to hand it over, let me check,” and he slipped his hand into a secret pocket on the inside of his shirt.
A small, metallic key fell to the ground, and Clifford bent to pick it up.
“What is this?” he mumbled to himself. “I have never seen it before.”
As he bent down, a letter fell from the same hidden pocket. He snatched it up and handed it to Blaine.
“So you see, I am not so crazy. Am I, your majesty?” and he winked at Willard.
Blaine looked it over carefully for a moment, moving his lips as he read.
“It is Alfonzo’s handwriting,” he said, “And the secret password we use when things might be intercepted is
