Right on the border of Monastero, where the green orchids grew against the mountains, was a small village town called Perrotta. On its mild green hills lived a simple people, their wooden houses dotting the landscape in random order, as basic as the lives of the people themselves.
One of those houses belonged to Vera Cormoda, a mother of five with a hearty appetite and a thick spoon. Her husband, Fermio, worked the strawberry fields all day, and it was Vera who ran the household. She was a strict disciplinarian, and would not put up with any fooling around on her time, though with three daughters and two sons, her time was often not her own.
It would not have been so tough if it weren’t for the youngest, Eldo. He was a rascally, frustrating boy, and it was him that her hand reached out for most. The boy loved to play games, always running and laughing and teasing the girls. He was lovable in a pestering sort of way.
Today, though, she would have no trouble from him. No. Not on the day that her mother was to come visit. The old woman was like a vulture, and if she saw what Vera let Eldo get away with, she’d make her daughter’s ears bleed from embarrassment, then take her own eyes out of her head, hand them to Vera, and lay herself down to die in perfect misery.
No. Today the boy was going to behave himself, or else.
“Eldo. Eldo!” she called out from her front garden. “I know you hear me Eldo. Get back here and wash yourself up. Right now.”
A giggle was the only answer.
“I see you,” she bluffed. “I’m coming Eldo.”
She made to advance; but not one portly foot had touched upon the ground than did Eldo race from the bushes and out over the hill.
“Eldo!” Vera snapped. “Eldo, get back here! Eldo, I’m warning you.”
Suddenly the boy came flying back over the hill and toward her. Vera’s eyebrows sunk; she was not used to the boy listening so easily.
“Momma! Momma!” he screamed, racing into her arms. “Help me! Help me, Momma! I’m sorry.”
Her hefty hand patted the boy’s head.
“What’s gotten into you, child? I’ve never seen you like this...”
“They’re coming, Momma! Quickly! They’re coming.”
“Who’s coming, boy?”
“The men, Momma! The men!”
Vera stepped out and looked over the hill. Her eyes nearly fell from her head.
“My God!” she cried. “We’re under attack!”
…………………………………………..
“My God!” cried King Peter. “We’re under attack?”
“Yes, Sire,” confirmed the messenger.
“Just as Sir Roth had warned,” the King lamented. “They lied to me. They out and out lied to me!”
…………………………………………..
The market was busy as usual that fine summer’s day. The sun shone down atop the merchants’ tents, pressing ever so humbly upon their wares, as men, women, and children passed by with eyes a flutter; some looking for pots, pans, and silverware, while others simply looked for the purpose of looking. It was Saturday, the playful day: the day when all people, commoners and kings alike, could walk through the avenues of the city with equal enjoyment, while the vendors pushed their respectful wares upon them with shouts of “Buy here! Two for one!,” “Best deal in town!,” and various other labels, lies, and atrocities. One man, clad in nothing save a white toga and sandals, claimed he could see the future and, surely m’dam, if you did not hurry to him quick, your life was in great jeopardy! Another offered fine bowls, straight from the Orient for sure, and worth many more rupiks then he requested, but only for a short time, otherwise you might miss out. “Tablets here!” “Swords!” “Spices! Getchyour spices! Two shoobles, dear. Spices here!” Laborers. Craftsmen. So much to see! There, up ahead, a magician; so fantastic he is, that he can make your money disappear in two minutes’ time. “Chicken! Fine roasted chicken!” “Seafood here! – Ay, hello, m’lady. What can I do for you?”
Rosemarie smiled at the man. He was bearded and ugly, yet pleasant to look at, with soft, endearing eyes.
“Oh, nothing, thank you,” she replied. “I was just looking is all.”
“Surely one of these young gentleman,” said the man, motioning to Robert and Taylor, “would be willing to purchase some fine, fresh seafood for m’lady, now wouldn’t you – Wait! Where are you going? I have clams, you know? Fine, fresh clams! And lobster! Lobster for just three shoobles, my dear!”
“No thank you,” said Taylor, putting up his hand.
“But, sir! Sir!”
They moved forward, Taylor and Robert trailing the tail of Rosemarie’s flowing blue dress. It was a fairly warm day, but for reasons of style and convenience, Robert wore a brown belt and brown vest over his long-sleeved cream shirt. Pants the same color as the vest led down to brown boots. Taylor, on the other hand, wore a somewhat less expensive navy shirt over cream colored pants with black boots and a black belt.
“What of this rug?” said Taylor. “Do you like it, my love?”
It was a patterned piece with purple and yellow engravings to which he referred, about as appealing as a chimpanzee floor mat.
“Taylor,” replied Rosemarie with a laugh, “I love you. But taste in furnishings, I’m afraid, is not one of your stronger points.”
“Look out, there! Hay-ho! Out of the way!”
Taylor pulled Rosemarie behind him and peered out into the street. Two wagons were making their way down the avenue, with three dozen or more fully-clad soldiers prodding them along. The people dodged this way and that as the entourage pushed on through, taking little or no note of the surroundings. One of the men, a tall, lean fellow by the name of Morrison, was well known to Taylor, and had served under him during the Sarbury affair.
“Morrison!” Taylor called, taking hold of him by the shoulder. “What is the cause of all this, may I ask?”
“Colonel Taylor,” said the man, addressing his former commander with a bow. “Colonel Roth. I’m sorry; I didn’t recognize you in your common clothes.”
“What is going on?” Taylor demanded.
“The Dark Duke,” the young soldier replied. “He has attacked.”
“Attacked?” Taylor cried. “Attacked Monastero?”
“Yes, sir.”
Taylor and Robert looked at each other.
“King Peter is calling every last able-bodied man to the border,” Morrison reported. “Our very lives are at stake. These wagons carry part of what little weaponry we have to defend ourselves, and we must transport them to the border as quickly as possible. Each man is being asked to bring whatever weapons he can spare. The situation is dire.”
“Go!” said Taylor, patting Morrison hard on the back. “Go, and make haste!”
The soldier obliged, taking off after the others.
Taylor turned back to Robert.
“We must hurry to the palace.”
…………………………………………..
“Sire!” cried Bumboldi. “Sire, wake up!”
Sir Roth jolted from his chair with a start.
“What is it, Bumboldi?”
“The castle!” returned the faithful, old sentry. “It’s being attacked!”
…………………………………………..
Rosemarie felt herself being pushed into a carriage and thrust away. Her hair bounded over her face as the driver, well-paid, made haste to her humble home. Her instructions were clear: inform the others and make preparations to leave the country; for it might very well be necessary. But what of her love?
…………………………………………..
“When did it happen?” Robert asked.
“They surprised us this morning,” said King Peter, “by the town of Perrotta.” He paused for a moment in reflection. “You were right, Taylor. I can’t deny it. You were absolutely right. I should’ve known never to trust that Rahavi.”
“No time for that now,” said Taylor James. “Have you called o
ut the spares – the Sarburians?”
“Yes, yes,” said the King, confounded to no end, “I’ve called out everybody. Any man that can lift a sword. They’re being asked to report to the palace immediately.”
“Good,” Taylor replied. “Then Robert and I will be here to greet them.”
“And what of my father?” Robert asked.
“I have sent a messenger for him, too,” the King said. “I need him now.”
…………………………………………..
Sir Roth stood atop his small castle with a sword that he had not held for over twenty-five years grasped firmly in his hand. Forty men, that is all, brave though they were, had joined him on the castle’s perch, each of them with both sword and bow. They were a meager match for the more than five-hundred that surrounded them, but they were prepared to fight. The flag, Roth’s traditional yellow and green, flew nobly behind them, a bold and defiant symbol, while clouds moved in and draped the castle in robes of gray and white.
“Surrender!” cried out a voice from below.
Sir Roth looked down at the army before him, armed to the teeth with horse and catapult. His heart beat, his eyes wandered, his head shook. Only one man could have done this.
“Men,” he declared, “we are vastly out-armed and outnumbered. To fight would probably be little more than certain death. Death with honor, but death still. If we should surrender, you may live, you may not. I cannot be certain. But, either way, your homeland would be no more. Any man who wishes to leave may do so under a white flag, and possibly save his own hide. I will not protest.”
He looked around from one end to the other. No one moved.
“Very well then,” he said. “Prepare to fire.”
…………………………………………..
Taylor sat stoically upon Courage; Robert calmly behind him on a chestnut steed he had named Justice. Each had procured a sword and a round metal shield for himself. About three hundred men stood before them, rugged, worried, and confused. Some held swords, some bows, others were still awaiting weapons. Some wore the blue of the Monasterian army, some no uniform at all. They were evenly split: Sarburians and Monasterians. They had been rounded up and sent to the palace square with little or no knowledge of what it was they were needed for, though they knew from the feelings in their stomachs that trouble lie ahead.
The man who spoke to them sat atop a fine, chestnut stallion and was tall with dark hair and powerful eyes. The Sarburians recognized him as the same man who had addressed them when last they had engaged the Dark Duke. Since then they had settled in Monastero, built new homes, started families. But they were fighting men, given a fighting chance in a country that had given them salvage against the Dark Duke, whose atrocities they had witnessed firsthand. They were thankful, in debt, and thoroughly frightened. What could this man before them say to change that?
His eyes seemed to touch every man in the crowd, bouncing from one to the next without wavering. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and clear. The face was comforting, the expression one of pride and solemnity: this was a man of dignity.
“Fellow Monasterians,” he called out, “time is short, so my words will be as well…
“The Dark Duke has attacked us from the west, beginning in the tiny town of Perrotta, where we were caught thoroughly unprepared. I will not lie to you…the situation is at best grim. Sarburian brothers: each of you owe a debt of gratitude to king and country; for, were it not for Monastero, each of you would already be under the reign of the Dark Duke and his band of tyrants, or dead. Now we are all Monasterians, and I ask that you join us in defending this small, but proud country from such tyranny. You have already sworn allegiance to do so, and now the time has come; but if you cannot find it in you, then leave now with body still intact - but run, because otherwise the Dark Duke will surely find you.”
Not a single foot ruffled the ground.
“Good,” said Taylor, nodding to Robert. “Then let us procure some weapons and make way to the border.”
He patted Courage’s hide and began to trot off, but stopped midway and spun round again to the men.
“One more thing,” he said. “…Remember: you are the last line of defense. All of Monastero is counting on you.”
…………………………………………..
Nome Flag cared little for Taylor James’s speech and cared even less for Taylor James. He didn’t believe in pride or country or any of it, nor did he feel indebted. He didn’t even care about Monastero or Sarbury or the Dark Duke or any of it. All he cared about was food and fighting, and that fighting meant food. That was the only reason he had ever joined the Sarburian army, and the only reason he was there now. Soldiering was the only career he had ever known, and since having to flee (reluctantly) from the Dark Duke’s men, he had yearned for it.
Fighting. Getting in there. The thrill of the kill. Another man’s blood on his hands; the smell of fear and loathing and flesh all mixed into one glorious moment. It didn’t matter the cause or the side he was on: he didn’t care. So long as he was in it and could let loose his natural abilities on man after fearful man, he was content.
The army paid him, fed him in fact!, to kill – to murder – to slaughter. It gave him a place to go, to live, to prosper in his madness. And where else was he to go? He had no family, no home. The battlefield and the bottle: his only two friends. But the bottle cost money, the battlefield paid.
When he was young he used to love to pick on the other, smaller children. Everyone, it seemed was small to him; growing into a man, he towered well over most men at six-foot-five and was massive as a bull. If he wanted something, he simply took it. If anyone objected, he wouldn’t think twice about clobbering them with his enormous fist, an act which he enjoyed and performed to no end.
But the Judge Man, as Nome called him, had come to ask Nome to leave, and it was unfortunate, he felt, that he could not club that man over the head just as he had done the others. That man angered Nome, made him mad as all hell, in fact – But it was of no use, and plus, what did Nome really care? To hell with that blasted town – he would leave it and go to another. But where? He knew nothing of skills or trade, only fighting, brutish fighting. A few more drinks and a few more towns, though, led his empty-pocketed body into the Sarburian army, and there Nome had found his new home.
There he could fight without having to worry about consequences. He could raise a ruckus in the town or the local pub, even, and not get in any trouble at all. On the battlefield, those who fought and those who killed were praised and honored, given medals and pay raises. It was his ideal home, and he loved it.
But the Dark Duke had ruined all that. The Duke had sent him and the others fleeing into that blasted Montastiro or Monastero or whatever the heck it was, and ruined his whole livelihood. He had wanted to stay and fight, but No said the others, No said the commander. They fled and Nome Flag had no choice. For a while it seemed he might see fighting again when he lined up with that Jimmy Tyler or whatever his name was, but No – nothing. And all he had had to do since was drink and have bar fights and go bouncing from town to town again. So when he heard that there was more fighting, when they tracked him down by that decrepit pub inside of that wasteful town of Narburg, he joined up without a moment’s hesitation.
And now Nome Flag was marching off with the rest. Around him he estimated there to be about a hundred and twenty-five men (mainly because he couldn’t count). Some of them he had known back in his days in Sarbury, but most of them were strangers to him, as they were to each other.
Two men rode upfront on horseback. One was that Tyler Jones, who he didn’t take a particular liking to for some reason; the other was Robert offfffff – ah, Somethun – Robert of Somethunorutha.
He marched along.
The fight would come.
…………………………………………..
Taylor refused to let his feelings show in his eyes. Unlike Nome Flag, he had much
to live for, and he knew they were knocking on Death’s door. A terrible sound greeted them at that door. It was cannon blast. Apparently, the Dark Duke did not share Sir Adams’s reservations about the new weapon.
The closeness of men’s screams also told them that the battlefield must have progressed well past Perrotta. Rabbits, deer, squirrels, and birds rushed down the wooded path and past them, fleeing from the bloody scene which they were soon to encounter.
“Be wary,” Robert warned. “If they’ve taken the flank, they may have men surrounding this path.”
His words meshed with the woods and the cannon inside Taylor’s head, a boundless parade of courage, cowardice, glory, and love. Nothing made sense, as nothing ever does in war. It was a blur: the land, the noise, the bloody scene that they now came upon: men, with swords dangling, lying helpless upon the ground, their lives slowly oozing out of them as more men ran past, only to meet the same fate; cannons firing balls of death, crashing into hills and bodies and heads and tearing warriors great and small limb from limb; leaders lowered from their ranks, being stabbed and beaten just like the rest, while the sun, so bright and pleasant before, now lent light to the darkest of the dark. This is the scene onto which they came, more horrible than a madman’s imagination at the best of its worst; more frightful than any nightmare could ever be, but with no waking to accompany it.
The flank had not yet been broken, but it was quickly disintegrating. Taylor ordered his men to its guard, charging, “Do not give up the left!” as he himself dropped from Courage and unsheathed his sword. “Archers first! Archers to the front!” he called, and a moment later, a strand of arrow fire flew forth from the weakened flank. The Dark Duke’s men retreated back a moment in surprise, but were soon advancing once again under the protection of their return fire.
Taylor ordered another volley, and again they retreated, but he knew that the high land would only protect them for so long. Peering out over the battlefield, he could see the Palace Guard beginning to take control on the right, overrunning Sir Adams’ men in slaughterous fashion. Worse yet, it seemed that the Monasterians were in complete disarray, and, upon further inspection, Taylor was able to pick out the body of Sir Adams, dead upon the ground amongst his men.
“Robert!” he yelled. “Can you do without me?”
“Where are you going?”
“To the center!”
Quickly, Taylor jumped up upon Courage, re-sheathed his sword, and, in as daring a gallop as one could ever imagine, raced for the middle of the battlefield, his shield before his head. Still, a man on horseback was an easy target, and longbow arrows jumped at him like ghosts, some missing by mere inches as they fell at Courage’s tail.
“Who’s in charge here?” Taylor demanded of a lieutenant, pulling up.
“Nobody, sir!”
“Well, now you are! Pull your men back and have them hold the hill.”
“It’s too late,” the man cried. “They’ve lost all form.”
“Do as I say! If you lose the hill, retreat into the woods and I’ll meet you there.”
“Yes, sir.”
An arrow whizzed by Taylor’s head as he turned and made back for the flank. Two more came just as quickly, one hitting his shield as he pressed Courage to full gallop. The Dark Duke’s Palace Guardsmen were beginning to charge the hill, and Taylor found three of them blocking his path. Without slowing, he rushed forward, pulling his sword from its sheath and swinging it round in the air. He knocked one with Courage’s hoof, whipped round on another with his sword, and caught the third with a kick to the chin. He made haste back to his lines.
By now the flank had been forced back a good twenty yards, and quickly they were losing ground. Taylor rushed to meet Robert by the far side.
“It doesn’t look good,” Robert reported. “They’ve pushed their cannon up on that ridge there and their line has advanced. I don’t know how much longer we can hold them.”
“Give me your scope,” Taylor requested, holding forth his hand.
Robert pulled the scope from his side and handed it to him. Peering out, Taylor could see the center reorganizing, pulling back to hold the hill, but losing men in the process. The Palace Guard shifted to their right, overpowering the flank and pressing to the center.
Taylor handed the scope back to Robert.
“We have to push forward and make toward the center. Try to engage them there while watching our sides. It’s our only chance.”
“What if they flank us?”
“Then we retreat. But if we lose the center, we’ll be forced to retreat anyhow.”
“In that case we should go to the woods. The Guardsmen don’t know the woods and would hesitate to follow us there.”
Taylor nodded.
“True, but that won’t prevent them from firing into it or setting the entire forest ablaze.” He took a deep breath. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” Turning to his men, he screamed, “Prepare to move! Follow my lead!”
The men barely had time to register the thought when, jolting up and away, Taylor began to press forward against the enemy, his sword swinging rampantly in the air as if slicing a thousand tiny flies.
Robert followed swiftly on Justice, crying, “Aaarrrrrhhhh!” - the nobleman charging like an utter savage.
Quick to react, astonished under such a demonstration of bravado, the men bolted to follow their leaders with cries of murderous passion. Screaming, racing, swinging. The Guardsmen receded back, faltering and falling falling falling to many a Monasterian sword. Robert cut and slashed, cut and slashed! on his way to the center, rampaging against these demons with a lightning-fast sword.
An arrow struck Justice and he bucked. Robert was tossed, but unhurt. He picked himself up and charged into action once more, blocking blows with his shield as he swatted at arms and legs. His face became covered with blood, and for a moment he lost sight of Taylor, a few paces ahead. But when he rubbed the crimson from his eye, he could just make out our hero’s tall, strong figure bludgeoning the head of a Guardsman with the butt of his sword.
“Forward!” yelled Taylor. “Forward!”
He pressed Courage forth, but the fine stallion was felled by the blow of a Guardsman’s sword. Taylor flew to the ground, rolled, and quickly brought himself upright. He engaged the Guardsman, though at a definite disadvantage without armor. He blocked two blows with his shield, then took him out by the legs.
Two more approached! Taylor flung the shield into the face of the first, sending him to the ground with blood spewing out of his nose. The other he quickly de-sworded with one of Sir Roth’s maneuvers, then dispatched of him with a blow to the neck.
Nome Flag, bloody and brutish as ever, thrust his sword into one Guardsman, then lost it to another. Quickly he pulled out his favorite weapon, the ball and chain, from behind his back, and a moment later his attacker was very sorry, crushed over the head with the ease of one swatting an ant. A Monasterian appeared behind him and he hit him too in error, but it didn’t matter. He followed the battle, and the battle was to the center!
Gaining, slowly, but gaining! Gaining through red on brown and the wind pressing pressing pressing them on.
A foothold they had gained, but the Guardsmen were fast reorganizing. A regiment of horse was pushing forward against them, as the Guard commanders let loose their reserves. Water, red water, it seemed, splashing up against one another. Advancing gray shirts! Robert could make out many more than blue ones. He struck down one Guardsman, another appeared right behind. More, coming over! They had reached the center, but horses and swords in growing numbers were quickly drawing them back.
“Hold the hill!” Taylor cried, appearing at the top. “Hold the hill!”
Guardsmen moving in on his right, on his left, in front! Picking a bow and quiver from the ground, he let loose as many arrows as his nimble fingers could fire in what short time they had. Quick, quick, quick! A Guardsman, not ten feet from him, struck in the leg! Another! Another! But there
were too many!
Robert drew up by his side. “Taylor!” he cried. “Look!”
A jutting finger led Taylor’s eyes off to the right, where a fresh band of Guard horsemen, no less than three hundred in number, was preparing to charge. For a moment Taylor stood staring, and then - Crack! – a cannonball whizzed by his head and crashed into the rock behind. They were closer now – much closer. His eyes fluttered across the battlefield, nervously surveying the diminishing blue shirts. He closed them, painfully, for what seemed an eternity, then opened them slowly with a deep deep breath.
“Retreat!” he called. “Retreat, retreat, retreat!” Tapping Robert upon the arm, he took off in the direction of the woods.
Robert followed quickly behind, echoing, “Retreat! Retreat, men!” And it was not a moment too soon; for had they waited any longer, retreat would have been impossible.
The men, long sensing the helplessness, followed what was left of their leaders into the thick green woods, leaving the Guardsmen to take the hill at will. Some Guardsmen tried to follow, but it was folly to do so: for the woods belonged to Monasterians, and they alone knew the paths; what Guardsmen did follow found only arrows and death to greet them. The rest stopped outside the forest to await new orders.
…………………………………………..
Up past the valley, a good mile or more from the scene, the Dark Duke sat atop his steed of midnight with the impassive Farv by his side.
“Why are they not following?” the Dark Duke asked his accomplice. “Why are they stopping?”
“It’s the woods, Sire,” Farv replied. “It’s too dense, and they know not the way. It matters not, though. We’ve broken the barrier and we can surround the woods anyhow. They can’t stay in there forever. If we have to, we’ll burn down the forest.”
The Dark Duke rubbed at his chin.
“Very well,” he said at last. “They won’t get very far without their king anyhow, I suppose.”
Chapter 21
A Brave Deed