“How are there so many footsteps?” de Garcia whispered. “Does Montague have an entire army behind him? This cannot bode well for us.”
“To the contrary,” Patrick said with a stolid lip, “For if it is an army, it is not his. Whoever they serve, they are as contrary to Montague as to us and therefore must be used to our advantage. Let us hide ourselves.”
“Very well,” Willard said, “But prepare for action nonetheless – we may be enemies of Montague in Atilta, but in France we are countrymen.”
“A noble sentiment,” Patrick said, “But Atilta is more than the men who inhabit it; it was before, and it will be after. Besides, do common hardships erase a wicked past? No, I say, and geography does not make evil into goodness.”
“Leggitt and de Garcia stand here together,” Willard answered. “If they, why not another?”
“Yet Montague is no man,” Leggitt whispered, hardly concealing the feeling with which he spoke, “No man, but a bloody devil!”
“I am no different, for I have more than one man’s blood to my account,” de Garcia paused and looked to Ivona. “And a woman’s as well.”
“Love does away with fear: for fear expects punishment, while love is forgiving,” Ivona said. “My heart is not hardened toward your past transgressions, de Garcia, nor is my mind.”
The old, veteran killer was a child in emotion. “My lady, you know what I have done?”
“I do, since childhood.”
“And yet you do not disdain me? In the catapult, that night we first met, you smiled at me in innocence – and your smile cut me more than the whips of the jailers. Did you know, at that moment, consciously?”
“I did.”
De Garcia moaned and was visibly pained. “I am the devil incarnate.”
“No, and I neither judge nor condemn you. A convict cannot despise his fellow prisoners, can he?”
“But you are neither guilty nor convicted! Your mother’s blood was spilled by these very hands,” and he held his hardened, plate-mail hands before him. He paused to combat his tears, but when they did not retreat, he continued. “And yet you drink my cup, and call yourself guilty? May it never be!” De Garcia wept. “Listen, the footsteps have been replaced with the clashing of swords. If I remain here, I am dead within and to be killed without. Let us deliver Montague from whatever creatures steal the silence.”
Before the others could object, de Garcia charged toward the clamor coming from further within the massive chamber. They followed him, willingly or not, into the melee. It was still too dark to see what was taking place before them, but as they drew near the chamber suddenly burst into light, coming from a multitude of fire-buckets hanging from the lofty ceiling.
In the light, the chamber was suddenly dispossessed of its damning demeanor. The ceiling stood fifty feet from the floor and both were crafted entirely from the mountain’s native stone. Carved murals adorned the walls in the same fashion as the previous hall, but they were proportional to the room’s size and therefore much larger. In its entirety, the chamber was circular; but it was divided into three distinct sections: the first was a semi-circle beside the hallway to the outside, and the last section was its symmetric partner with a tunnel leading to some other portion of the mountain’s chest. The central division was square, however, with a stout pillar in its center that formed a wall, in which stood a double-hung stone door. This central island blocked either party from seeing the other, until they came out at right angles and converged their lines of sight.
“Forward,” de Garcia called back to the others, “We can see our enemy, so let us overcome him.”
Indeed, the mysterious footsteps were no longer shrouded in mystery. Montague and his five men were huddled into a tight circle, surrounded on every side by a horde of terrible creatures, similar in appearance to the one Montague had conversed with. They wielded tridents, using two hands and thrusting them like spears. Amid the tumult the approaching party was not observed until they chose to join the battle.
When that moment came, de Garcia unfurled himself to his full height, drew his sword, flourished it above his head, and bellowed in a deep, throaty voice, “Montague, we have come to rescue you!” Then he cut into the creature nearest him, removing his head with a single, clean stroke. The body fell left, the head right, and the latter split in two – an intricate mask and an ordinary human skull.
“No one desires your rescuing,” Montague called over the din, though his men were clearly being overcome. As they grew tired, their circle collapsed foot by foot.
“And yet we give it,” Willard returned. “Prepare to receive it!” and he thrust his sword into one of the strangely attired men.
Nearly a hundred men fought behind the strange masks, but when de Garcia and his comrades charged they were sent into confusion. They could not see at first how many the newcomers were, nor where they had come from. Above the clash of steel could be heard their shrill cries, articulated in some strange tongue, though their fear was evident in any language. One of them – more prominently built than his fellows – formed them into a tight company and retreated to the chamber wall. Once there, they fled precipitously; but the lights were extinguished at that moment and their destination could not be guessed.
“Nicholas Montague,” Willard said, advancing toward the same with an extended hand and a somber face. “Nicholas, we meet again.”
“So we do. Let it be the last,” and he motioned as if to force a duel upon Willard.
But the latter held his hand before him in the lantern light, “Do not be so quick to seal your doom.” He turned to the Elite Guards, “Depart from here, if you wish. You are Atiltians, and I your king, unless you continue to follow Gylain.” His was the majesty of a king. In the preceding days, he had become king in more than birth and right.
The soldiers bred with silence for a moment. They were trained to resist all pain and toil, to endure all hardships without wavering. Yet they were also trained to be loyal to the king, and, with Willard standing before them in the armor of the Plantagenets, they gave way. First one, then the other remaining three, bowed and said, “We obey.” Then they departed, leaving Montague alone with Willard and his followers.
Montague watched his soldiers’ lanterns as they were eaten by the darkness, listening to their fading footsteps. “So it goes,” he said, deserted in the end by those he forced to follow him. “So it goes,” he mumbled, thinking of something distant. But then – when he had collected himself again – he resumed: “Why do you spare me, your highness? What purpose do you have for me?”
“It is for my sake that your life is spared,” de Garcia stepped forward, “Because it was for another’s sake that my own was redeemed, and hers by yet another. It is the unending chain and even for you the time is at hand.”
“Then you wish to seduce me with forgiveness? Know that I am beyond your seduction, beyond all hope of redemption. If I am to be slain, let it be done.”
“No one is without hope,” Ivona said, “Unless his heart is so hard it will not admit the possibility of such hope.”
“Fool of a woman! Your words are eloquent, you think, but I know them to be fire before the water: easily extinguished by a moment’s thought,” and Montague drew his sword to strike her.
De Garcia intervened. He drew his own sword and rendezvoused with Montague’s blade as it cut the air, blocking it with a resounding clang.
“Do not resist,” de Garcia warned, but Montague turned his wrist in response, rotating his blade to open its pathway to de Garcia’s chest. The great warrior would not have it, though, and turned his sword downwards while pushing its rounded sides against Montague’s hand. Then – without visible exertion – he brought the sharp point to play and placed it to Montague’s throat.
“You are better than I,” the latter said. “Dispose of me, for I am weak and do not deserve life.”
“Yield, and I will not consider it against you.”
“Yet you are not the keeper of accounts!” Montague hit de Garcia over the head with his broad side, causing him to stumble. Once clear of the party, he dove into the darkness with a covered lantern in his hand.
De Garcia started after him. Willard called him back, “He is gone.”
And indeed, he was. Montague did not stop until he reached the tunnel to the outside. Then, assured he was not pursued, he stopped to consider his course.
“Who is there?” he whispered, “I can hear your breathing, your hissing.”
“How easily you forget!” a familiar voice returned.
Montague opened the flaps of the lantern, casting a beam of light upon the creature. It was the same which
