gate to the docks, where several other ships were loading men and cargo. The gates of the complex were left open for the moving of cargo and in the courtyard – though it could not be seen from the river – was a gallows, a raised platform for the purpose of hanging.
Khalid disembarked his men. With a rock-hard countenance he took Willard by the arm as he led them to be hung. “The end has come, Montague. Do you have any confessions to bring your soul to peace?”
“Only this,” answered Willard, “That I am not Montague.”
“Stubborn and stout-hearted before the end. But that is well, for I would have thought less of you, if you groveled after all the tales which have been told of your motionless heart.”
“Does a dead man care for a living man’s opinion?”
“While he lives, he does; and you are yet alive.”
“Still, I am a king, and kings cannot care for the opinions of men; for they forge them with their fiery eyes and shape them with their outstretched arms. But, for conscience’s sake, know that I do not hold you in contempt; for you do your duty and nothing more. The soldier cannot be swayed by the personal, and you are a soldier.” To Willard, a man of the forest, this was the highest degree of praise. “Vahan is a strange man and doubtless forgot to include in his orders that you spare the king you were sent to save. I did not think of it, myself,” and Willard laughed for a moment. “No, he is not to blame: he is too good a friend for that.”
“I am not so foolish, though I still admire your persistence, Montague. A lesser man would have growled and sworn long ago, throwing the jest aside. But to do so, I tell you that if there were indeed a King of Atilta, Vahan would be as dear to him as you say.”
As the captain spoke they reached the gates of the tunnel. Khalid bellowed through the stone corridor to those beyond, “Prepare the gallows!” A crowd began to stir, as the soldiers came out to greet their comrades and witness the execution. Willard looked about him for some sign of Ivona, but she could not be spied.
“It is not until the end,” he moaned, “That the beginning is even known! Woe to me, in life and love.”
Khalid turned his head in the darkness and did not answer. If even his foot was human, he did not let it know; but as for his heart, it was a species of the order
“Have you any final words, Montague.”
“Not yet,” Willard said.
“What?” But the captain could say no more, for at that moment a massive, hairy arm swiped his head to the side with such force that he fell over unconscious. Before his body hit the platform, Willard had taken his sword from his belt and held it out before him. Behind them, another soldier led de Garcia. Willard turned before the soldier could react and struck him down. De Garcia reclaimed his sword from the soldier – who had taken it as his own – and held it before him, his prayer and salvation.
“My faith is renewed!” and he held the long, cylindrical blade in his hands while flourishing it in the air: a skillful move with bound hands.
The other soldiers, however, saw what was up and pushed the other prisoners back into the circle of soldiers that had formed around the gallows. They drew their weapons and formed ranks, leaving the rebellious prisoners no where to flee. Thus, Willard, Horatio, and de Garcia stood by themselves on the high platform, their wrists still bound. They stood in an outward circle and looked over the legions. It was clear they could not escape.
“We cannot win,” de Garcia said.
“Yet we can keep from losing,” and Willard flicked his sword at a soldier who thought to approach them. He fell back, and Willard went on, “Can you see the road that stretches off into the distance?” Willard nodded his head to the southwest, toward Bordeaux. From the height of the gallows they could see over the surrounding fortress at one point, and thus the road beyond. A solitary carriage raced along, shooting dust behind it.“Vahan comes to our rescue. We need only delay a few moments.”
Just then, Khalid came to his senses at Willard’s feet.
“A desperate attempt,” he said.
“Give us half an hour to prepare ourselves for death,” de Garcia said in a French heavily influenced by his native Spanish. “We will yield if you give us but one half hour.”
“I have orders; duty renders me unable.” De Garcia whipped his sword down and smote the captain with the blunt sides. He fell unconscious once more.
“Deliver our comrades to us and we will deliver the captain to you,” Willard called to the soldiers, his voice a symbol of authority.
Rather than answer, the soldiers charged the platform. It was a terrible onslaught. The stairs were narrow and allowed only one man to cross at a time; yet the sides were too steep to be climbed while anyone stood on top to stop the advance. A whole horde of soldiers surrounded them, but only one at a time could attack. The first struck at Willard’s head with a downward blow; Willard dodged to the left and the blade passed innocently beside him. By this time a second soldier had come up and lashed his weapon sideways at Willard’s chest. With his wrists bound, the latter could not parry it correctly, so he diverted it by holding his sword before him at a gentle angle. When the two swords met, Willard’s tree-limb arms did not give way and the soldier’s sword was forced away like water down a hill. The first soldier, meanwhile, was still recovering from his missed strike. Willard lunged forward at him, running him through the center and throwing him from the platform. But by this move he left the circle, and thus the protection which de Garcia and Horatio had of his back. A third soldier came just at this instant and thought to dispatch the foreign king for good. Yet the second soldier’s blade still hung in the air and it came to a stop against the new soldier’s head, piercing his forehead and dropping him to the ground. These things happened in the same second of time.
In the same instant, de Garcia was fencing three French soldiers who had scaled the far side of the gallows. His sword flew in every direction as it parried and returned each blow with his fluid agility. His wrists were bound, yet as always he found a way to use it for his advantage: with his right hand he held the sword and with his left he held his right wrist, supporting its weight and freeing his other wrist for swordplay. The soldiers swung with their arms, thus making their strokes stronger and slower. But de Garcia whipped his blade and it sang as it rebuked each of the stronger strokes. He could deal three parries by the time the first soldier had regained his balance to strike again. It did not last, however, for as the soldiers grew tired, others took their places. De Garcia, however, had no reserve.
“It is time we ended this,” he called to Willard over the clash of steel. “For if we go down fighting, we are dead; but if we surrender, they will have to hang us.”
“How so?”
“The rules of war. If we yield, they cannot kill us by sword but by execution. This Khalid is a hard man when it comes to duty – like many men I have met as a warrior – so let us play him in our hand.”
“The laws of men are strange. But we are among men and the carriage will arrive any moment. We have delayed long enough.”
With that, the two dropped their swords and gestured for parley, while Horatio lowered his paws to the same effect. Khalid was beginning to regain himself a second time. When he saw them yield he called to his men, “Do not attack them! They have surrendered.”
He stood – unsteadily for a moment – and faced Willard. The platform was empty but for a few soldiers. The other captives were once more brought to the front.
“Well done, Montague,” Khalid said, “But to no avail: you are still caught.”
“We will see. The future brings hope and every delay brings it closer.”
“I see. Then we will have no more delays, if you expect a rescue of some sort. Men, place the nooses,” and he led Willard to the furthest noose, looped it around his neck, and left him standing on the trap door. As he did this, the soldiers did the same to the other six comrades.
Horatio was placed next to Willard, still wearing his monk’s frock. The noose had been placed around his neck outside the hood and the soldiers did not know he was not human. In their minds, perhaps, no monk was fully human, so they did not trouble their consciences over his portly figure. Horatio silently allowed them to do what they would, for he followed Willard and Willard allowed it. After a week of feigning humanity Horatio was beginning to feel human. As he stood there, he had a very human thought, “What of the forest creatures? Who will they
