Gylain kicked the sword away from William and pressed his sword against the Admiral’s chest. William Stuart faced the sea in front of them, and Gylain the stern.
“It is over,” Gylain said quietly. “And I have won.”
“What victory is there, that has no reward?” William answered.
“But there is a reward – the joy of having destroyed you.”
“If there is little joy in life, then how much less is in destroying it?”
“Have you not spent the last fifteen years plotting my demise, even as I plotted yours?”
There was silence for a moment as their eyes mingled, and the memories of what had gone before filled their minds – of the friendship they had shared, and the hate into which it had mutated.
“Did she love you?” William whispered, as if in great pain.
Gylain’s hand trembled as he thought over the question in silence.
“No,” he answered, “She remained faithful to you, even in her hatred. For better or for worse, she was your wife.”
“Then I can die in peace, knowing you will also meet your death before the dawn breaks upon this hellish scene.”
“Your friends will not prevail.”
William nodded his head in the direction of the shore, and Gylain turned to look. There – sailing straight toward them and flying the colors of the king – were the six rebel ships, stolen long ago and hidden in the forest harbor. William kicked Gylain back, jumping forward to recover his sword. For a moment the two men stared at one another, viewing the other as the symbol of his own hatred. Then, with a sigh, Gylain turned to his men in the center of the ship.
“Retreat!” he called, and the men broke their ranks, running to the side of the deck. The rebels let them pass. Gylain turned once more to William. “We will yet be destroyed, both of us, and I will not meet my demise without you.”
“So be it.”
Gylain leapt over the railing and disappeared into the water. When he was gone, the Admiral whispered to himself:
“So be it, Gylain. I will see you dead as well.”
END OF BOOK ONE
Book Two:
Chapter 48
“Silence, there! Do you think it is for pleasure that we take this journey, gentlemen?” Nicholas Montague asked, coming into a small clearing with his measured stride unhindered by the undergrowth. Six men were sitting on a fallen tree and grumbling amongst themselves; as he came into the clearing they stood at attention. They were heavily armed, dressed in the uniform of Gylain’s Elite Guards.
“Have you grown tired already?” Montague continued in a more subdued voice.
“Sir,” trembled a man with a gold band around his chest, the officer under Montague, “Sir, can we not take the roads? We,” he nodded to the others, “Are not as familiar with the wilderness as you seem to be.”
“You are Atiltian, are you not?” The officer nodded his head nervously; Montague continued. “Did you never leave the city walls?”
“No, sir, we were stationed near the Floatings.”
“I see,” Montague said slowly, his thoughts masked. “Thus it is that Gylain’s best, whom he hand-picked to attend me, have never traveled in the forest?”
“We were not trained for it, sir,” the officer ventured.
Montague interrupted him. “I see that: the only remedy is to train you
Nicholas began to march even as he spoke, the soldiers following close behind. They were several days from the Cervennes Mountains, since they did not follow the roads. Yet as they marched, a river could be heard a few yards to their right, though the thick undergrowth kept it from view. Montague strode through it in his armor as if he walked a paved lane and the soldiers had to run to keep pace with him. But before they had gone ten minutes, a man came running up behind them.
“My lord!” he called.
Montague turned to him, his face composed. “What is it, soldier?”
“A message from Vladimir, my lord.”
“Which is?” and Montague fingered his sword.
“McConnell, Leggitt, and de Garcia have escaped.”
“Indeed?” and he grasped his sword. He paused. “Tell me, are you married?”
“I serve Gylain, not the bosom.”
“That is well. For there will be none to mourn you here,” and Montague drew his blade, thrusting it into the unsuspecting soldier.
“That is the price of failure,” he turned to the others. “You would do best to succeed.”
******
A day before this, it was a calm on the Atlantic ocean. The sky was empty and the wind blew fairly from the east; the waves were soft, as was the roll of the sea. Yet it was still strong enough to rock the lone ship that made its way between the horizon and the waters. It was a ship of war: triple-masted with decks standing ten feet above the water line. The sails were rigged in the fashion of the Mediterranean, for the customs of the Romans were still fresh in the minds of all, though the Empire’s power had already been forgotten. The sails were set out as if to dry, and each ballooned forward, kept tight by the sailors manning the ropes. Below the deck, ten long, wooden oars reached out in unison from the ship’s sides, then were pulled back against the water, using its resistance to force the boat forward. Together, the wind and the oars propelled them at ten and a half knots.
The ship itself was two hundred feet long and fifty wide. The figurine of a fierce sea god formed the bowsprit; its eyes were filled with two sapphires that caught the sun and glowed in anger. Nearly a hundred sailors walked the deck or were perched amid the rigging, trying to avoid the gaze of the captain who paced the starboard bow. He was a man of middle age – no more than forty-five – and was strongly built. He muttered to himself as he walked the command deck, each pass taking him but three long steps. His hair was of the deepest black, cut short and combed backward at the temples and forehead, giving him the look of a powerful noble. He wore a doublet, tied at the waist with a dark, leather belt that also held his bare sword, and a black cape streamed behind him, flapping in the breeze. Though he was the captain, he was not dressed as a sea-faring man, but as a man of the forest.
He seemed lost in thought and his rambling could not be understood, for it was but pieces of words and phrases that floated chaotically through his mind. Every few moments his features would compress, as his mind flexed itself into anger. His eyes narrowed and his lips pressed together until they grew pale.
“Alfonzo!” he whispered to his thoughts. “Alfonzo, I will contrast you with death. But one more moment and William would have been my master’s plaything. Yet no matter, for the dogs enjoy the chase, as do the gods.”
After he repeated this several times, the officer of the watch timidly approached him, coughing loudly to draw his attention. But it did not work, and at length the officer took courage and bowed before the captain. “Sir, may I have a word with you.”
The other raised his face from the ground, looking at him blankly for a moment before answering. “Out with it, Vladimir. If it is important, do not delay. If it is not, then begone.”
“Yes, sir. I come to tell you the coast is in view.”
“And we are directly across from Bordeaux?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, then prepare some of the crew to disembark. I will take them with me until we reach the forest, then send them back to you. You will await my return in the harbor.”
“Very well, sir. But are the prisoners to be left with a small guard?”
“Can you not handle petty prisoners, Vladimir? Or is it Patrick that worries you?” Nicholas Montague paused. “De Casanova has requested him, and he is now in Bordeaux. The young rebel will not be with you long. De Garcia
