“They come,” de Garcia interrupted, running to them from the mouth of the stairs, where he had been standing in silence. “The footsteps have returned, my lord, and in greater numbers!”
As they became silent, the floor began to shake and the air to spin with the sounds of war. From the echoing stairway poured an onslaught of rumbling footsteps, followed by terrible screams and cries in an unknown tongue.
De Garcia alone voiced their thoughts. “They come, and there is no escape!”
Chapter 71
“Our fruitless quest damns us,” Patrick moaned, the horde growing nearer on the stairs even as he spoke.
“Nothing is without purpose,” Ivona said quietly, and she forgot herself in the dawn beyond the veranda.
“Theology is one thing, but escaping is quite another,” Patrick returned.
“Have you no ideas,” purred the blue-eyed Lydia, and her voice was a tiger in the savanna.
“My mind has become a hermit, my love. De Garcia, veteran warrior, what say you?”
“There is no escape,” and he looked over the side to the ground far below, hidden by the mists.
The stairs shook under the force of the coming horde. Drums were beaten, wails of agony resounded, and a droning, bumble-bee chanting floated up to the heavenly veranda. The stairway had no door, but opened directly into the room. The sound of their approach was the masked men’s only vanguard.
“We cannot escape,” Ivona said faintly, still staring into the dawn, “Yet there is no need.”
“Speak your mind, Ivona,” Willard said.
Ivona turned away from the rising sun, “We have no reason to fight them. No one has been wronged, and forgiveness’ mandate is not violence. Let us lay down our arms and meet them as friends.”
“I cannot let the destiny of my followers rest on the benevolence of a brutish mob,” Patrick cried. “How can we know what they will do?” and he ran to the door and peered into the darkness, struck across the face by the approaching chaos.
“How can one know anything, but through faith?” Ivona asked him. “You must have faith that either they will fight or forgive, so you cannot abdicate on grounds of reason. We cannot know, so let us have faith in what is good.”
“Faith, faith, the churchman’s wraith! I will not have it, when more than my own life is gambled,” he glanced at Lydia.
“They are not a brutish mob, as you say, according to what I have read. They are the Titans.”
“The Titans,” Willard repeated, and his blood shivered at the name. And it was the blood of the throne that filled his veins.
“The sons of Caan, the bastards of Uranos, the ransackers of Hesperides.”
And Willard trembled.
“The trident of the seas, the flaming sword of the garden.”
And Willard’s face became a waterfall.
“The destroyers of Olympus, the assassins of the Grecian gods.”
And Willard drew his sword and plunged it into the heavy air about their heads, partially cloud and partially sky. “I will destroy them,” and he rushed toward the the stairway.
“They draw near!” de Garcia interrupted, “I can feel their flaming breath upon my ears!”
Willard started down the stairs in a fit of madness, impelled by unknown remembrances of the ancients. But Leggitt stopped him, coming forward and grabbing his arm, forcing him back into the room.
“Be patient, your majesty,” he entreated. “For this is merely a matter of tactics: we cannot defeat them in combat, though they can defeat us. At the same time, they cannot destroy Atilta, for they have not the power of their ancestors; they cannot destroy Atilta unless we force them to destroy us. Therefore, we must do as Ivona says: yield and do not provoke them.” He paused. “If they were the judges of the past, their role in the realms of man is no more. We need not fear them.”
“You may not fear them,” de Garcia returned, his head protruding into the stairway, “But I cannot help it, for here they come!”
Willard looked to Ivona for a brief instant, then, “Disarm yourselves and move to the corners. I will meet them alone and in peace.”
Because the stair’s opening stood in the center of the wall, those in the corners were hidden by the angle. Willard struck himself to the floor, his golden armor flashing in the morning sun and his regal face unmoving. It was a mountain in itself. He did not have to wait long. The air danced in confusion and the various noises of the approaching Titans converged into a single, overpowering din. One moment the stair was empty, the next a man appeared. He was rotund, covered with venerably white hair and beard, and a cornered nose that came out straight and went back at an angle. He danced joyously with his arms – as if in an ancient tribal ritual – and let his feet fly from the stairs at every step. It was not until he crossed the threshold of the room that he saw Willard. He stopped, looked over his stalwart form, and smiled.
“You remain with us, friend?” he asked. “Since I see that you do: greetings. I am Zeus Agmannon, king-over- the-mountain.”
Willard returned, “And I am Willard, King of Atilta.”
“Truly? And so it is you I have to thank for this.”
“For what?”
“Opening the passageway to the stairs. For weeks we have been unable to open it, as if it were bound by a force outside of what can be seen. Yet it opened for you, and now we rejoice!”
“Why so?”
“Why so!” the old man laughed, “This is the wine cellar!” He smiled boyishly and raised his hand to guard his lips before continuing, “With a superb view.” He winked at Willard.
“Where is the wine?” he asked.
“Under the floor! You no doubt noticed that the stairway’s circumference is greater than the room’s; there is a narrow chamber below, within the stairway’s spiral. The wine is kept there, but we must first come up to get it – lest we take too much!” and he looked out the window at the growing dawn, breathing deeply. He turned back to Willard. “You were with those others, were you not? The tall, dark man with his hair combed backward?”
“I was.”
“And you rescued him from our guards?”
“I did.”
“For what purpose?”
“He is a citizen of my kingdom, so I must protect him from foreign elements. It is my duty.”
“True enough, but where has he gone? His men left us in peace, but he disappeared.”
“He fled from me – we are enemies at home.”
“Your duty is strong!” Zeus Agmannon turned his head and caught Ivona with his eyes. He twirled around and ran to her, kneeling at her feet and saying, “Beauty personified! What joy to my eyes. You have a pleasant air, lady. And you!” he turned to Lydia, “You are equally fair. May I ask you to join me for a drink and for breakfast?” He saw their hesitation and laughed, “Only the guards wear goblin helmets: for the outsiders’ sake. We have been given a refuge for our deeds and we mean to keep it, though without violence.”
“I would gladly drink with you, but I must beg leave to take only water,” Ivona said in a stately, graceful manner.
“Granted, granted!” Zeus cried in joy, and he ran about the room with his arms above his head. Then he stopped and knelt to the ground, opening a trap door that was hidden in the floor. “I will only be a moment,” he said, and disappeared beneath the floor. In a minute he was back, with a basket of bottles and cups in one hand and a basket of victuals in the other. “Behold!” he said, “The
The others winked at one another, joining Zeus and the Titans in a circle on the floor, where they partook of their morning repast.
“I can smell your hurry,” the king-over-the-mountain smiled, “But let me assure you that no one can travel in the forest until the sun rises and it will not pass the canopy for another hour.”
“Quite so,” Willard said.
“Ah-ha, a forest man? I love you already!”
The rest of the hour was spent in resting and feasting, lavishly entertained by their former enemies. Zeus
