“I will finish what I started in the forest,” Hismoni said as his sword swung through the air.
To the ground on either side lay the brown and black-haired Fardy brothers, dead or unconscious. Milada stood in front of a large window, his limbs convulsing and jerking about as Hismoni’s sword came at him. The blond brother had arisen from the ground, prepared for one last desperate defense.
As Hismoni began to swing, the blond Fardy began to leap.
“Atilta!” he cried out as he flew forward to where Hismoni stood.
As Hismoni’s sword hit Milada, the blond Fardy hit Hismoni. He grabbed tightly ahold of Hismoni, and the momentum of his leap forced the two men through the window. The glass shattered, then fell into the abyss below. The tower was a thousand feet high, with nothing but the stone walkway far below to break the fall.
As Hismoni fell through the window with the blond Fardy, his sword went with him. Milada fell to the floor. His wound was deep, yet he was saved. Thurston remained alive, and as the two men fell, he raised his sword to strike Milada and finish him off.
Yet the sound of footsteps came from the stairway.
William Stuart ran into the room at that moment, holding a narrow, flat handled sword.
“Milada,” he cried as he saw what was taking place. “Milada, I have come,” and he flung his sword at Thurston. It flew through the air like an arrow, just as Thurston’s sword began to descend toward Milada’s head. It hit him directly, piercing straight through him. The Admiral threw it so hard that it went completely through Thurston’s stomach. Only a hollow wound remained as it passed through. It continued its flight, until it stabbed into the stone wall beyond, directly below the window. It struck at the joint in the wall, where the stones were cemented together, and it passed straight through the mortar to the other side.
This all took place in a single instant. Hismoni and the blond Fardy still were crashing through the window, even as the sword broke through the stone. They were but a single instant too late.
The newcomers stood there, none moving. Milada lay on the ground, mortally wounded; two of the beloved Fardy brothers were close beside him and the third hurtling toward the ground a thousand feet below. The silence was ended by a distant thud – the sound of a body hitting the ground.
“Dear God!” moaned the Admiral, “Is freedom truly worth this? There will be none left to enjoy it.”
Chapter 32
William Stuart dashed forward across the ransacked bedchamber that was littered with the debris of battle. The furniture was broken or gone, the paintings and tapestries torn, and the window broken. First he went to Milada, and with the help of Osbert lifted him onto the desk, using it as a bed. The nobleman’s stomach was badly wounded: though the vital organs were spared, it looked to be beyond the healing skill of man.
“Meredith, bring the doctor,” commanded the Admiral.
“He came when he heard the fighting,” the other answered, pointing to the elderly gentleman approaching the bed.
The doctor had long, white hair, bound behind his head in a thick ponytail, and as full upon his forehead as fifty years before. His face was long and narrow, covered only with a short stubble of white hair. He set his instruments down on the desk beside Milada and set to work at once. The others watched him work, forgetting the other fallen, whom they thought dead.
“All is lost,” moaned the Admiral, “And if not, then all is at least for no purpose.”
“They would have wanted us to keep going, to continue the cause,” Osbert answered.
“I would think they would like to still be alive,” Meredith said. “But may the good Lord take their souls.” The monk made the sign of the cross with his finger and bowed his head reverently.
“They lived and died for freedom; it is for us to follow their example,” was Osbert’s reply.
“I am a patient man,” a voice from behind them faltered, “But I am at the edge of my patience, with this talk. Hismoni and his traitorous comrades attempt to assassinate Milada, and you mourn their deaths with thoughts of their virtue? By the bottom of the ocean, and may you die there!”
Those assembled around the bed quickly turned to see who spoke.
“Good God, you live!” cried Meredith.
“And why not? I have as much right to life as any other.” The brown Fardy stood before them unsteadily, yet fully alive. “Where are my brothers, friends? I cannot see them anywhere.”
“Alas, they are no more.”
“Who is?” asked a voice from the other side. It was the black Fardy. His shoulder was bleeding from its wound, yet otherwise he was well.
“Say, brother,” asked the brown Fardy, “Where is our blond brother?”
“I am afraid he has gone somewhere without you,” and the Admiral pointed to the broken window behind them. It took a moment for the brown Fardy to understand. When understanding came, it struck him like a sword from above, and he lowered his face to the floor. “Things have gone badly here,” said the Admiral, “Though not as badly as I once thought. How did you survive?”
The brown Fardy reached his arm into his outer shirt and pulled out a bag. He emptied it into his hand and held it up for the others to see: it contained thirty gold coins – inscribed with the face and figure of Gylain, as were all of Atilta’s currency. There was a deep dent across the face of the uppermost coins, where they had turned the blade away from his chest. He held them to his eye and said:
“Let Gylain have that which is his own. I no longer care for such things,” and he tossed the coins out the broken window.
Then, from outside, came a muffled voice.
“I am a patient man,” it said, “But when a man is left hanging, so to speak, it is downright rude to throw coins at him!”
“Woe am I!” moaned the black Fardy, “Even in death my brother’s voice haunts me.”
“And I as well,” the brown brother added, “Such is the curse of the Fardy brothers!”
They lowered their heads to weep, embracing each other in sorrow.
“I will give you another curse, if you do not unhook me,” the voice returned. “This is a good view, perhaps, but I would better prefer the rendezvous inside.”
The two Fardy brothers ran over to the window and looked out through the hole. The blond Fardy was directly below them, hanging by the leather jerkin he wore. The Admiral’s sword was sticking through the mortar between two of the stones, coming out three inches from the wall and forming a sturdy hook. The neck of his leather armor had bunched up as he passed through the window and the excess leather was caught on the hook, securing the blond Fardy to the wall. Thus, while Hismoni fell to his death, the blond Fardy survived. The terror of his brush with death had painted him over with silence. But the Fardy brothers could not be subdued for long.
He was quickly pulled into the room and reunited with his brothers. As many oaths as tears and hugs passed between the three. At length, the blond Fardy spoke:
“He who lives by the sword dies by the sword, but the same cannot be said of money, brother, for your greed has spared your life. You have cast the coins aside, however, and we cannot rightly keep them as our own. Therefore, when we recover them from the ground below, we will buy a round of ale for the whole village.”
“You mean to say,” the black-haired Fardy interrupted, “That we will buy a round of ale for the whole village, including the guests of the castle,” and he winked at the brown brother.
“You are wiser and of better sense than I, brother,” was the response.
“I will not hear it,” he began to say, but the outburst was prevented by the Admiral, who turned from Milada’s bedside to face them.
“Let me see your wound,” he said to the black Fardy. “You are a very lucky family,” he mumbled. The Admiral was skilled in the way of healing. He quickly cleaned and bound the wound: somewhat deep, but not a threat to his health. That done, he turned to the doctor and said, “Is he well enough to move? The smell of death fills this room.”
“Yes, his wound is now dressed, though we must be careful. Where will we take him?”
“To Ivona’s room,” Meredith said, “It is down these stairs and up the next. I will lead the way.”
They moved Milada onto a sturdy panel and slowly carried him to Ivona’s bedchamber. It was clean and fresh, and still smelled of the beauty who had once lived there. The change from the smell of death to that of life gave Milada strength: he soon came to his senses.
“William? I must be dead, or else how are you here?”
“You are still among the living, Milada. I have returned at last, as has the tide of hope.”
