“Sausages! Getchya sausages!”
“Pickles! Spicy pickles!”
“Arugula! Getchya arugula!”
My, my, my! – What a day for a celebration! The sun is high, the clouds scarce, and the atmosphere thick as redwood. Herds of people – men, women, and children – commoners and aristocrats – flock gaily into the palace courtyard for the Day of Pig, the greatest day in all of Belsden.
This is the day that the people will put their troubles behind them, forget their problems and relish in their history. They will forego thinking about the Dark Duke and his oppressive ways. They will neglect thoughts of their impoverished state. They will let all this pass unto tomorrow; for today is a day of happiness, joy, and celebration. If you are a farmer, a merchant, or a dignitary, the Day of Pig belongs to you: it is your day, everyone’s day, and certainly a day for king and country.
From her room by the window, in a gown of red satin that she has been made to wear, Rosemarie watches the spectacle with both intrigue and trepidation. Beside her stands the Dark Duke, his hand at her elbow, a servant straightening his crown. Behind him are Rahavi, the giant Kovloz, and three members of his Palace Guard. They stand awaiting his instructions.
“Are you comfortable, my dear?” the Dark Duke asks.
“I’d be more comfortable up on stake,” Rosemarie replies, “so long as you were not up there with me, my sweet.”
The Dark Duke jerks back her elbow, and throws his face into hers.
“That can be arranged!” he barks. “And if you don’t watch your mouth, it will be.”
“I don’t take threats from vulgar men,” Rosemarie retorts.
“Listen here,” says the Dark Duke, tightening his grip. “One more word out of you, and I’ll have Kovloz here eat you as an appetizer.”
Rosemarie glances back at the horrid figure behind her. He has his arms folded, and is smiling for some reason. To her relief, a Guardsman enters and distracts all of their attention. He approaches the Dark Duke and salutes.
“State your business,” the Dark Duke orders.
“Your Highness,” says the sentry, putting his hand down, “Lord Farv reports that a battalion of five thousand men have been added and that the perimeter is secure.”
“Very well,” says the Dark Duke. “On your way.”
Again the Guardsman salutes before exiting.
“That’s an awful lot of soldiers for a plain ole feast,” Rosemarie remarks. “What exactly do you have to fear?” She turns back toward the window with a mute smile.
“Nothing at all, my dear,” says the Dark Duke, reflectively. “Though I am hoping that that Taylor James of yours shows up…With Farv’s 5,000 and Rahavi’s 1,000 added to the 1,000 others, it should be a veritable slaughter.”
Rosemarie turns in anger, but the Dark Duke’s hand catches her by the throat.
“Silence!” he cries. “No more lip!”
He glares and squeezes, marveling at her suffering. A moment later he releases her and she coughs.
“Maybe next time I finish,” he says.
Rosemarie shudders and turns away. If only her heartbeat could give her strength!
……………………………………………
While Rosemarie and the Dark Duke watch from up above, Winkle Pooglie-Wooglie watches from down below.
“What do you see?” Robert asks him.
“Ssssshh!” hisses Winkle, taking the periscope from his eye. “Keep your voice down. The ground here is thin.” He peers back into the scope and shifts it from one side to another. “There looks to be a good fifteen hundred of them out there. Here – see f’yaself…”
He moves out of the way and hands Robert the scope.
“Naaaah. More,” says the other. “Probably closer to two thousand.”
Winkle shakes his head.
“We only number about twelve hundred,” he notes.
Robert lifts his eye from the scope.
“True,” he says. “But we’re brave…right?”
Winkle nods. “Certainly we are. Brave – but not stupid. If Taylor doesn’t show up with an army, then it would be pure suicide to attempt it on our own.”
Robert sighs. He takes another look.
…………………………………………..
At the very same moment, above ground, a large, husky man by the name of Ezra Dunn is making his way through the crowd. We see him now, as his rugged figure approaches another rugged figure in a Guardsman’s suit and stops before him.
“All is set,” Ezra reports.
“Have Pinsel and Quincy planted the sticks?”
“They have.”
“Good,” says Miglene. “Tell the men to be ready for my sign.”
Ezra nods and walks off.
“Now is the time,” John tells himself.
…………………………………………..
“Now is the time,” says Tibbie. “Please, God, let now be the time.”
Life in the Tower is anything but good. Tibbie has been chained to the wall since who knows when – the rats the only company – the moaning of others the only sound. He is desperate. All of them are. Even death must be better than this. Every day he prays that that will be the day when it all comes to an end, when their pain and suffering and anguish will all be relieved, and they will be delivered from this ever-lasting torment. But so far his prayers have gone unanswered.
Outside Tibbie can hear the laughter of others; the toasting, the singing, the feasting on chicken and lamb and soup. He hears the shouts of the children outside mixing with the moans of the children inside. Oh!, what a horror it is to hear the merriment of others, when you and your loved ones are locked helplessly away, secluded from the simple joys of life, yearning to set foot out of the darkness and into the glorious light of the sun! The worst form of happiness is that which you cannot take part in, and in the Tower there is no such thing as happiness – no such thing as light – no such thing as hope.
His head droops.
…………………………………………..
The Dark Duke’s black robe drapes casually from his shoulders. He dusts off his already impeccable attire of fine black threads, then turns to address Rosemarie.
“Are you ready, my dear?” he asks.
“Ready to scream bloody murder,” she retorts.
The Dark Duke smiles at her. “I don’t think that that would be wise,” he says. “For if you do, I just might be forced to accidentally bump you straight off the balcony, and then” – he throws up his thumb, slowly dragging it back down toward the ground – “doooooooooowwwwwn you would go, my dear.”
Rosemarie shudders. The trumpets blare.
“After you, my lady,” says the Dark Duke, ruefully.
With a deep breath she steps out onto the balcony. The Dark Duke follows, stepping forth to the front.
The crowd becomes quiet.
“My people,” begins the Dark Duke, in a loud, bellowing voice, “today, on this glorious day, this Day of Pig, I have for you news of the most wonderful sort. I, your king, Harris of Belsden, have chosen myself a bride.” – ooo’s and aah’s – “She is a woman of the utmost beauty, and she is honored to be able to serve as your Queen.”
“Robert,” says Winkle, “come here a moment. The Dark Duke seems to be making some sort of announcement.”
Robert approaches and takes the periscope from him.
“That’s Rosemarie,” he says.
“Taylor’s love?”
“The very one.”
He watches as the Dark Duke continues:
“And so, my people, I ask that you accept her as you would a precious stone…”
“What’s he saying?” Winkle asks.
“I’m not sure,” Robert says. “He’s just – Wait a minute! He’s taking Rosemarie’s hand in his own, and raising it. He must be making the marriage pronouncement, that worthless wart on a baboon’s behind. Hu! I can see the hatred in Rosemarie’s face. If Taylor were here
he’d be racing up there now. How much longer can we wait?”
“What are you saying?”
Robert pulls himself from the scope.
“In another moment the Dark Duke is going to go inside with her. After that, who knows what he’ll do. Right now the Guards are all distracted.”
“But the odds are innumerable,” Winkle insists. “We must wait for Taylor.”
“Taylor may not show in time,” Robert retorts. “He was supposed to be here already. And I know that he would not want this to continue. It is for him that we must do this. If the Dark Duke succeeds in promoting a feeling of patriotism, then certainly we are doomed, for the people will not join with us. If we go now, they may. Otherwise, it will be too late.”
Winkle shakes his head.
“This is not good,” he says. “Where is Taylor?”
Robert peers back into the scope.
“I don’t know. But if he doesn’t get here soon, we’re going to have to go it on our own.” He sighs. “If only there was some sort of sign…”
Centering the scope on Rosemarie, he can see that her face is a ball of anguish. Her eyes are teary and worn, her cheeks red. She is turning her head this way and that, staring down helplessly at the people before her, when suddenly she fixes them on a point to her left. At first Robert takes little notice of this, but when she peers closer, he too directs his sight there.
His heart races.
“Winkle!” he calls. “Come here and take a look at this!”
The old man rushes to his side and takes up the scope.
His jaw drops in astonishment.
“My God…”
“That’s a sign if I ever saw one!” Robert cries. “Prepare the men.”
…………………………………………..
“And so…” continues the Dark Duke, “I present to you, my people, a gift beyond that of any–”
“Watch it! Out of the way!”
“…beyond that of any–”
“Move it!”
Guards rush by with buckets of water below.
“…any gift that you…may…”
“Look out!”
The Dark Duke’s eyes drift for a moment to the ground below, to the Guards, and finally to the place toward which they are running. His eyebrows knit in utter disbelief.
“My arugula…” he gasps.
…………………………………………..
Had Mother Nature struck down with all her vengeance, it could not have been a more astonishing sight. The fields, once great and calm, now burst forth in a horrifying roar of red and yellow, charging together in one magnificent army of fire and smoke. It is a conflagration of epic proportions, spreading over bush, tree, and arugula alike, engulfing all without discrimination. A single wall, hardly four feet high, is all that separates it from the people, and they begin to stir uncontrollably.
“Fire in the field!” someone yells, and a moment later panic quickly becomes hysteria.
“My arugula…”
The Dark Duke turns to Rahavi.
“Quickly!” he says. “Get down there! Put out that fire!”
“But-”
“Do it!” the Dark Duke snaps. “Or I’ll have you thrown into it!”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
The redheaded man takes a deep breath and charges for the stairs. A moment later he is rushing from the gate and into the courtyard.
“You!” he orders a tall, lanky Guardsman. “Don’t just stand there! – Get a bucket! Hurry-up! You too! Move it! Come on, now! You! What’re you just standing there for? Get some water!”
“I’m not thirsty,” the Guard replies.
“What!” says Rahavi, stepping toward him. “What did you say?”
“I said I’m not thirsty,” the Guard repeats.
“Are you being wise with me, soldier?”
“No. I’m the only one being wise,” he says.
“Why, you little…”
Clonk! Down goes Rahavi and up steps Ezra Dunn.
“John…” he says, “…what’a ya doin’?” The phony Guardsman smiles. “Are ya ready?” Ezra asks.
John nods.
“Give the signal.”
From underneath his cloak, Ezra pulls a bow, and a moment later an arrow pops into the air.
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
The Guardsmen racing to the scene of the fire, retreat back in horror, as suddenly there appears from out behind it an army of men, rushing at them with swords, knives, spears, and hatchets. Swinging and cutting! Sticking and smashing! Their screams are of anger, their voices ear-piercing shrills of frustration, as like a thunderous wave they roll over the enemy and into the courtyard, cutting, stabbing, and slashing as they go.
Like white horses of myth they approach. Hundreds of them. Rushing. Stomping. Screaming. Crying out in guttural savagery.
The people, confused and distraught, stand idly in the courtyard, watching the spectacle in fear, anguish, disbelief. Miglene, sensing the moment, scales the gate wall and addresses them:
“People of Belsden!” he cries out. “People of Belsden! The time is now! Join us, and fight the Dark Duke! Join us, and fight for your freedom!”
“Get them!” the Dark Duke cries. “Get them, now!”
The sound of horses and feet! A rumbling, and then, like tides in the morning sun, the two armies crash together, creating a giant ocean of crimson beneath them. Fury into fury! – Anger into bloody anger they go, as the arrows begin to rain down from up above! The swords clash! The people whimper. The fire rushes over the fields!
Children are crying, as mothers race them to safety. Fathers take-up weapons from dead men and join in the fray. Others race from the scene to the comfort of cowardice, hurtling over the wall and fast down the street, fortunate if they are not trampled along the way.
Miglene swings and cuts! He steps, stabs, turns. All around bodies fly: men with eyes and legs and arms taken from them. Children seeking shelter. He spins and slashes, spins and slashes! There is no thought now. Only the rage. It drives him like a fire. Rage and fury! Fury and rage! The field becomes a pool of it: red and dirty and blinding and dead. He can see only what’s in front of him. Only his enemies. He downs one, then another, chopping at head, body, and neck. The more he kills, the more there are, and the more there are, the more he kills. One after another they come – and one after another they fall. The people! The people! Where are the people? They join, but is it enough? Who is this child? Get up, child! Why do you lie? Duck, John! Duck! A Mad Mobsman! Kill him! The swords clash! Step! Turn! The heart! Another victim to his rage.
Fury! Fury in the fire! Fury in the fire of his eye! Can fury be enough, though? Still they come. Slash, John. Cut! Uf! Turn. Clashing, turning, kicking, clashing. He wrings forth his wrath, and down goes another! So many! Too many! We need the People! Uf! We need help! It is now or never!
And then it came…
Hummmmmm,
Hummmmmm,
Hum, Hum, Hummmmmm…
Hummmmmm,
Hummmmmm,
Hum, Hum, Hummmmmm…
If ever Vengeance had a voice, then it is that voice which John hears now: screaming, bloodthirsty, and angry, it breaks forth from the underground, rushing out in bitter fury, its face ugly and terrible. Some normal, some in soldiers’ garb, but most strangely dressed and deformed. They carry swords and spears and rocks and sticks. Some have slings like John has never seen. Some knives and clubs.
The Guardsmen, petrified from their very appearance, become stiff with fear, as Robert of Roth and Winkle Pooglie-Wooglie converge upon their army. It is the oppression of many years that their voices carry – the fury of the decades. The Pooglie-Wooglies, like a ball of anger, have been kept underground, repressed in their hatred, and now it is that hatred that drives them – that thrusts them onto the astonished enemy.
“Destroy them!” shouts the Dark Duke.
But the sight is far too shocking; the
scene too confusing. The Palace Guard stands there, dumbfounded, immobile almost, as the Pooglie-Wooglies slam into them like a river of ire. Even Rahavi’s Mad Mob knows not what to do, and many a brute falls before they recover their senses.
Soldiers and Pooglie-Wooglies, big, little, fat, and short, stamp their way through, cutting, poking, stabbing. Miglene, knowing not who they are, but knowing that they are surely friends, races to the left to take up their flank. Ezra follows, and a moment later they are meeting them halfway, converging on both the Guards and Mad Mob with unmitigated anger.
But the enemy reforms, and now they take up charge. Horses appear from out the palace stables, as lieutenants race forth with cavalry. The Guards press back, as Robert tries desperately to hold the middle. They push forward and back, then forward again, each time treading over wetter and wetter ground.
Rage and fury! Fury and rage!
Robert spins and cuts. He jumps and slashes. Mad Mob giant! Duck the chain! Cut! Miss. Duck! Cut! Got him! Look out! Ah! In the back! Quick! – to your feet! Two Guardsmen. He fences with one, then the other, waving his sword as if he were swatting at flies. Closer they edge, as he twists and spins. A leg, a sword. Duck! Cut, jump! He stabs. Ha! One more to go. Now three. A man, a large one, rushes to his defense. It is Ezra Dunn, but Robert does not know it. The man has a ball and chain, not his own, which he lets fly through the air, crushing into one skull, then another. Robert guards the man’s back, cutting at a Mad Mob brute, who falls quietly to the ground.
Rage and fury! Fury and rage!
It is the rule of mayhem, and a ghastly rule it is! Those that are not dead must be careful not to trip on those that are, as others race from the scene in fear.
Robert can see Winkle to his right. He uses a large pointed battling stick with unseemly agility, knocking into one Guard and then another. He is old, but agile. Numbers do not matter now. It is his people. It is his fight. For freedom. For justice. What else could push a man so? – to stab through the heart of an enemy, then pull-out and stab through the heart of another while the first still wriggles in pain. It is the oppression of hundreds of years, and its time has come.
Pounding is Miglene! His fist smashes, his sword flies! He crushes into one helmet, spins round, and crushes into another! Duck, John! Cut! You murderers! You villains! You who killed my parents and stole away my loved ones! You, whose blood I now have! Through your heart! and off with your leg! Hadda, hadda, hadda! He cuts and slashes. A fist to the head, and he is down. Up again. Swinging. A Guard. Watch the arm! Aah! He is cut! Back at him! All your might. All your wrath! They spin their swords round and round. Another from behind. Duck it! Stab! Kill. Round again! Jump! Pull back. Stab! Miss. Swing! Uf! The neck! Another down.
Less there are. Now less. Robert is slashing. Winkle is poking. They are side by side, thrashing at the enemy. Alas!, the tide has began to turn! The enemy is falling! The blood is gushing! They can feel the vigor. Sense the victory. Miglene rubs the speckled red from his eyes. A sword comes at him, and he takes off the hand that thrusts it. A scream of agony, then the quietude of death as he stabs the eyes. He is burning inside now, his heart like the fire that rages in the distance. Another one down. He turns and spins, turns and spins. One coming. Out at the feet. To the ground! Stab! Dead.
He looks around. Bodies everywhere. His men, though few, still standing. This man, this newcomer, standing too, his body covered with blood. Spinning, turning. None to be seen. John raises his sword.
But no sooner has Miglene done so, than does there come a rumbling from the distance. He lets back down his sword, his eyes wander. Thumpda, thumpda, thumpda! The rumbling grows louder, deafening almost. Hoofs and feet and metal. John feels his heart begin to pound, for he knows that he has made a grave mistake.
Robert of Roth stands stagnant, his sword vibrant with blood. He gazes out over the horizon, his heart fluttering. “Please, God,” he says, “Tell me that that’s Taylor. Tell me he has come to us.” But his eyes are disappointed; for, coming out over the hill, is a vast wave of gray. Steadfastly they advance, screaming, with swords pointed. There are hundreds on horse, thousands on foot, he can tell, and surely they mean for a slaughter.
A man advances amongst them, high up on his horse. He is rugged and fierce, and John knows him immediately as Farv. He has sword raised and is screaming like the rest, calling, “Charge! Charge! Chaaaaarge!”
Sweeping over the hill they come, and toward our helpless friends. Miglene remembers the face, remembers the anguish, and death will not deter him. He raises his sword as well.
“Chaaaaaaarge!” he screams. “Forward! Forward! Forward!” He advances, his face a maniacal mangle, his sword a thunderous plight. “Chaaaaaarge!” Ezra follows. Robert screams. They push forward, hundreds against thousands. Winkle in the middle.
Robert swings and kills! He spins, ducks. Ah! The arm! They’ve gotten my arm! Forward! Cut! Check yourself. Only a flesh wound. Look out! Ha! Stab! Spin. Men from all corners. All over. All over! To the ground! Up again. Clash, clash, stab! Oof! Off the ground! Quick. Stab! Round again. Duck! Cut! Miss. Cut! Oof! The leg! Bleeding. No time. Cut. Slash. Punch. Ha!
Winkle! Winkle he sees! – down on the ground. Winkle is down! Robert rushes for him, but he is struck. From behind. A massive man. Watch the chain. Roll. Turn. Slash. Up. He circles with his sword. Uf! A fist to the chin, and down Robert goes. Up again. Swinging. They are too much. Too many. Down again. A body falls upon him. It is Surham, one of his men. “Surham!” he cries. “Surham!” Another hits down beside him. He rises and cuts, falls and flounders. His body weak, his men dying. His mind a fiery wreck. Up again. Slashing. Hit from behind. His chin smacks to the ground. Quick! Rise! Cut! Fight! Ha!
Two, three, six more come at him. He waves desperately. Desperately! They are converging, pushing. His last breath. He knows all is lost, all is gone, when suddenly there comes a horn.
Miglene is racing for Farv, searching through the bodies. One hit after another. Up and down. Down and up. Rage and fury! Fury and rage! It will be over soon, he knows, but he must find Farv first! He must die with honor. But, no! He cannot! He is clubbed from behind. Hit on the back. He turns, and rises. Jumps to his feet. Wrestling. Grabbing. Butting. Two more coming. Where is Farv? The sound of a horn turns his head.
Robert smiles as only a desperate man can.
They stand there in rank and file, tall upon the hill. They have uniforms of green and yellow, helmets of gray and bronze. Up front is Taylor James, with a Dermish shield before his body, high upon a horse of mud brown, his eyes as sharp as the steel in his hands. Around him are some three thousand. Beside him, two generals and the indefatigable Pommer, riding a horse for the very first time.
He has come.
The Dark Duke shudders.
“Scared yet?” Rosemarie asks.
“Shut it!” he snaps. “Or I’ll be having myself Lady Liver soup for dinner tonight.” He sticks his head out and yells, “Ten thousand gold pieces for the man who – Whoa!” – An arrow comes whizzing by, forcing the Dark Duke to the ground.
“I guess that’s a No,” Rosemarie says.
Taylor raises his sword high into the sky, as if calling down all the powers of all the forces in all the heavens, all in that one grand gesture. The three thousand behind him await his signal. He looks up at the balcony, toward Rosemarie.
And, for a moment, the world stops…
All Robert can see is that lean figure.
And then he hears Taylor call:
“A-taaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaackkk!!!!”
He charges forth, and with him they follow, pressing down with ghastly speed! Guards try to meet them, but hard they fall under the swarm of horses and men. The swords clash, the shields bang, and once again it is Dermer and Belsden!
Miglene quickly recovers himself. He has lost his sword, but a dead man’s will do. He rushes for the enemy, cutting at them from behind as they race to meet the Dermans. One man down, quickly. A
nother in half the time. Ezra comes up beside him, still waving the ball and chain. Still alive.
Robert jolts himself up. He, too, races. Toward Taylor he goes! Toward the center! Tripped by a Mad Mob brute, he recovers. He is fast again. Reinvigorated. His sword cutting through the air. The Mob brute feels his steel slicing into his arm. He wails and punches. Robert shifts and stabs. Ha! Down with him! Suffer thy fury! Quick! To the center!
Over a Guard with his horse goes Taylor. A man with an ax – down. He feels a shake, and his horse has tripped out from under him, two Guardsmen coming his way. He jumps and turns, only to see a Mad Mob brute with sword overhead. Quickly, he stabs, then spins, his sword still in the Mobsman’s chest. He kicks the body off the sword and at the Guards, rushing forth behind it. It gives him the time he needs.
One in the neck. Off with the other’s leg! Another comes and falls. Ha!
Rage and fury! Fury and rage! The battle is on again!
Pommer has abandoned his horse. He clubs a Guard over the head. Another down to an elbow. He can see Robert coming up before him. Swing and strike! Watch the sword! Uf! Into the gut, over the head! He smashes one in the chest. Uf! Into the Guard’s face with an uppercut from his staff. Ha! Take that, you miserable fiend! Uf!
Taylor feels himself knocked from behind! His shield flies from his arm. He turns and cuts, and down goes a Guard. Another knock from behind, though, and down goes Taylor! He lands face first on the ground, turning in just enough time to see a stick charging toward his head. Quickly, he spins. Again it comes! Turn! The Mad Mob brute knocks the sword from his hand. Turn! Stick. Turn! He rolls into a pile of hay, and again the brute is on top of him, lifting the stick high over his head. A moment more, and Taylor’s skull would be crushed, but a sharp kick in the face surprises the brute. Our hero rolls upon the ground. The brute recovers. He charges. Taylor takes up his sword. Turns. The stick in two. He stabs. Uh! Down goes the brute! Up comes Taylor James!
Two Guards rush forth. Two Guards go down. Another approaches, looks, and flees. A coward.
…………………………………………..
By the Tower gate there stand six Guards, unsure of what to do with themselves. Never are they to act without orders. Never. But a great battle rages before them. Surely they will come for the Tower Dungeon, that horrific symbol of tyranny. Surely they are to guard it. But to watch? To watch this scene before them?
Suddenly a figure comes rushing round the corner: a Guardsman, dressed in the usual gray. He approaches, panting.
“What is it?” one of the Guards demands.
“The – The – The King…” says the messenger, struggling for breath, “…The King orders all men…all men to the battlefield.”
The Tower Guards all look at each other.
“But who will watch the Tower?” one asks.
“I will,” the messenger says. “Now, hurry. Quick! There’s no time to lose!”
“Follow me!” one of the Guards declares. He runs off, and the other five proceed in unison.
Collin slips the key off the front hook and opens the Tower gate.
…………………………………………..
Rage and fury! Fury and rage!
Miglene is cutting, whipping, punching. Killing, however necessary. He is in a dream world now. All there is is him and the enemy, that pitiful creature that falls victim to his wrath time and time again. Here comes another now, and down he goes – his body stable, his head rolling. Come! Come! The quicker they come, the quicker they die! Ha!
He turns in a huff. Spins, round and round, looking, looking…He stops. His eyes narrow, coarse and heavy. He steps closer, staring, his mind blocking out all visions but one.
And, as if by some spiritual force, that one senses him as well. He does not see him, he does not hear him; but he can sense him. He knows what is at hand, and turns to meet Miglene eye to eye. The face he sees is even sterner than his own – heavier – the eyes angry and sorrowful. He can hear his heart beating over the screams and cries and clashes, over the men dying, as over the bodies he steps, closer. In a moment, they are face to face, glaring at each other.
“Farv…” John says at last, “…I have a message for you…” The older man does not flinch. He stands still as a statue, his sword ready at his side. “It is from my mother and my father…”
He groans, and with a powerful thrust, lets fly his sword, crashing it down onto Farv’s own. Waves of vibration filter down his arm, as the metals collide. They retract and clash again, this time down by the knees. Up again, by the eyes. Struggling for a moment, strength against strength, will against will. The blades tilt this way and that, leaning toward Farv, then toward John, then back again. Miglene is pressing down hard, close to Farv’s nose, when suddenly the vicious man kicks at his legs, causing Miglene to jolt back in pain. Farv steps and swings. John ducks, cuts, misses. Back and forth they go, clanging and clashing, clashing and clanging, matching each other move for move, skill for skill. It is a battle of wills: passion against preservation, hatred against hatred. They turn and swing, turn and swing, jumping round and round each other in rapid circles.
Farv stabs at Miglene’s stomach. Misses. Miglene cuts back at his head. Another miss. They pause, swords pointed. Staring. Breathing. Farv grips his weapon with both hands. He feigns for John’s side. Miglene slides and cuts!, smashing into Farv’s blade with whatever might his body can muster. The blade vibrates and falls, leaving Farv without arms. But Miglene is off balance. Quickly, Farv bends and reaches for his sword, only to receive a swift kick in the head from Miglene’s foot. He falls back in pain, flat on his back.
Fast, John is on him, his sword pointing at Farv’s eyes. This man, who has caused him such hatred.
Farv lies back in resignation. There is nowhere he can go; nothing he can do. It is time for him to die. His eyes flicker round in desperation. He catches something off in the background, over Miglene’s shoulder. A Mobsman! Wielding a large, sharp ax! – and Miglene does not see him! Keep calm, Farv tells himself. Pretend not to notice. Let him stare wrathfully down at you, while his own death creeps stealthily at his back. He stalls for time:
“Are you going to kill me?” he asks.
Miglene nods.
The Mobsman approaches.
“Is it for your parents?”
Again John nods.
The ax raises.
Farv cringes.
In a breath, John swings round rapid and slashes! His sword cuts through the Mobsman’s side, and halfway into his stomach. For a moment the brute stands frozen, his lips quivering. His face turns white. His mouth opens. Blood pours out. The ax over his head drops slowly out of his hands and onto the ground. He closes his eyes and falls gently to the earth.
Farv, sensing the moment, jolts up and scrambles for his sword. Miglene’s eyes flash. He pulls back his blade and whips it over his head. Farv reaches, grabs the handle, turns, his eyes met by metal. Crack! His head smashes open like a watermelon, cracked through the center. Blood bursts in the air. Miglene lifts and wails, lifts and wails, till finally there is nothing left but a pile of blood and guts and skin. Out of breath, he glares down at what was once a body. His lips curl.
“Message delivered,” he says.
Wiping the blood from his cheek, he turns back toward the palace.
…………………………………………..
Taylor cuts and ducks. Watch it now! Here it comes again. This one is good, an officer, a ranker. Skilled. Knows how to handle a sword.
He is using the Mendowski maneuver against him. But Taylor knows this, and he counters with Maroni. Back and forth they go, trying one move and then another, their swords clashing like thunder in the night. At one point Taylor has the upper hand, at another point the officer. He is strong – wiry, but powerful. He thrashes round, cutting at Taylor’s head. Taylor trips on a body, recovers. Vibrations. Down his arms. Blood everywhere. Up with it. Down with it. The eyes! Uh! He is pushing. Taylo
r goes back. Back. Step. To the right, to the right! Uf! Uh! Uf! Uh! Try Balachy! A Double-Orko! He has you now! Duck it! Uh! Pressing. He is pressing! Down with his sword! The blade a mere inch from your head!
Suddenly, there is a scream. The officer looks back. Taylor kicks. Uf! Into the groin. Forward. Clash! A gap in the armor! Thrust. Stab! Clash! Forward. Stab! Stab! Stab! Ha! The officer falls. Blood on the blade. Taylor wipes his chin.
But the screaming! Oh!, the screaming!
It is louder now, like a thousand bats fleeing Hades. Taylor sees them, men, women, children – emaciated but forceful still - racing from the Tower, the darkness that clouded them quickly transforming them into vengeance seekers. They pick swords and sticks and axes from the dead, swinging them through the air in maniacal fashion. Their time in the Tower, many years for some, has left them with much a toll to collect, and they are collecting it in blood. They chop and strike and chop again. They throw and stab and slam. Kill! Kill those murderous madmen! Those that murdered! Those that tortured! Those that let my child wither and die! Kill them! Into their heads! Into their guts! It is they now who must suffer! Mercy is but a word. There is no mercy for them who did this. Mercy is only what blood can be sought.
Quickly, gray uniforms fall. The force is too much, the madness too great. They have broken the scale, and the Palace Guard is overwhelmed. Some flee from the scene. Others fall helpless to the ground, as gray turns crimson in the sunlit air. Pandemonium! Pandemonium through the wet, as the prisoners continue to hack, punch, and stab, chasing after those that have fled. Not after all this time. Not after all that they have done to me. No. They die too. They die too!
Taylor stands there, rugged, breathing, his eyes glaring over the battlefield for any enemy that might remain. There are none. He looks toward the balcony.
Empty.
“Taylor!” comes a voice, shattering his thoughts. “Taylor, my boy!”
It is Tibbie. He is bustling toward him with Soothie and Brianna by his side. They are dirty and staggering, but all right. He embraces them, one by one.
“Are you okay?” Brianna asks, taking him in her arms.
“Yes,” Taylor replies. “And you?”
“Still alive,” says Tibbie.
“And the others?”
“Stockwell and his wife are fine. They are being tended to now. But the Dark Duke took Rosemarie.”
“I know,” Taylor replies. “It seems that he has fled with her.”
“Go then,” says Tibbie.
“Taylor!” cries Robert, approaching to his side. “Tibbie! Soothie! Brianna! It is good to see you all still alive!”
“The same,” Taylor rejoins. “But there is no time for that. The Dark Duke has left the balcony.”
“To the palace, then?” Robert asks.
Taylor nods. A moment later, they are off.
…………………………………………..
Herds of men have already begun to surround the palace. They are going at the enormous brass doors with a tree when Taylor and Robert arrive. Some are Pooglie-Wooglies, some Taylor’s old men, but the rest he does not recognize.
“Who are these people?” Taylor asks.
Robert shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “They were here when I got here.”
“Taylor James?”
Taylor turns to see a stern, rugged man approaching to his right. The man extends his hand.
“John Miglene,” he says. “I believe we’re friends.”
The two shake.
“Is it you who leads these men?” Taylor asks him.
“Yes,” John replies, “they’re with me. Good of you to be here as well.”
“Robert of Roth,” says Robert, nodding.
Miglene nods back.
“Glad t’have ya. Especially since ya saved our bloody rear. Now!” – he spreads his arms – “If you can just lend us a hand with this here tree, I’ll be glad t’escort ya into the palace…”
“Where are the archers?” Robert asks, examining the towers.
“We took some out,” says Miglene. “The rest fled. Guess the Dark Duke doesn’t inspire much loyalty.”
The four take position around the tree with the others.
“Ready, Ezra?” says Miglene to the hefty man in front. “Heave!”
Poomp!
“Heeeeave!”
Poomp!
“Heeeeeeeeeaaave!”
Crack! In one swift motion the doors burst open, and the men swarm into the palace like a herd of buffalo. Some random Palace Guardsmen have been left behind, but quickly they fall under the strain of men.
“Upstairs!” Taylor shouts.
The four men: Taylor, Robert, Ezra, and Miglene, race through the main foyer and toward the stairs. Various Guardsmen meet them along the way, and they take turns dispatching of them, their swords stinging into the Guards like metal bees released from a hive. Other Guards simply lay down their weapons.
Up the stairs they run, and to the right, leaving a trail of dead as they go. At last they reach the top, only to find the area deserted!
“To the other side!” Taylor calls.
“Wait!” someone cries.
The men turn to see a Palace Guardsman appear from down the hall. He is dressed like the others, but his face looks tired and worn.
“I can help you,” he says. “I know where they have gone.”
Taylor grabs him by his lapel.
“Tell me!” he says.
“I am a friend!” the man cries. “I swear it. My name is Collin Cumber, and it was I who kept your loved ones fed in the Tower. Rosemarie can attest to it.”
“Where is she?” Taylor demands.
“The Dark Duke…he has taken her.”
“Where?” Robert says.
“Out there,” says Collin, pointing toward the sea. “He has set sail...”
Taylor motions with his head and Robert runs to check out a nearby window.
“It is true,” he says, returning, “I see a ship.”
Taylor lets go of the young Guard.
“How do we get out there?” he asks him.
“There’s a back way,” Collin says. “I will take you if you let me. But we must go now.”
“Fine,” says Taylor. “But one false move and it’s your life.”
“Understood,” the Guardsman replies. “Now follow me. There’s no time to lose.”
The four men race back down the stairs behind Collin, and through the grand dining hall. Men and women, some from the Tower, are raiding the palace, now void of any threat but their own, and the place has fast become a mess of jewels, vases, and glass. Collin leads them through one den and past another. He takes them through the gold room, then the silver, and finally out the back way. There is a moat to be crossed, and a wall to be cleared, but soon they find themselves out by the pier.
They look round desperately.
“There!” cries Robert, pointing out yonder. “Look!”
All turn to see a royal ship, with red and gold sails, filing out toward the ocean. It is a good distance off already, but they can still make out the figures on deck. One is female.
“We need a ship!” Taylor yells.
They search the ocean with their eyes.
Nothing.
“Damnet!” Miglene screams.
There is quiet. Thought. And then a sound. Low at first, soft, then louder, and louder yet…
Hummmmmm,
Hummmmmm,
Hum, Hum, Hummmmmm…
Hummmmmm,
Hummmmmm,
Hum, Hum, Hummmmmm…
Robert smiles.
Hummmmmm,
Hummmmmm,
Hum, Hum, Hummmmmm…
From around the palace, the nose of an enormous ship appears. With each successive “hum” it grows closer, till finally the entire thing has stopped clear before them. And standing prominently atop that great ship, is the great figure of Pommer.
“Why, Taylor,” he cries. “There
you are!”
“Lower the ladder!” Taylor yells.
Pommer nods, and a moment later the ladder is lowered.
The five men, Collin included, climb up as fast as possible, and an instant later they are at the bow.
“Make due east,” Taylor orders. “Follow that ship!”
“Due east!” Pommer screams. “Follow the ship!”
The call echoes off of every tongue and slowly the ship begins make its way, with the help of a few Monasterians seeing to the sails.
“Where did you get this?” Robert asks.
Pommer shrugs. “The Dark Duke’s men were trying to sink it,” he says. “But we sank them first. The sharks did the rest.” He smiles. “First time we’ve seen a sailboat outside of a book. We did pretty good, though, no?”
“Damnet!” Taylor yells, pounding his fist upon the ledge. His eyes focus on the ship before them. “We must go faster, Pommer! Rosemarie’s on that ship with the Dark Duke!”
“Faster!” Pommer shouts. “Faster men! Taylor’s love is on that ship!”
Ropes fly quickly above, as the men immediately respond. Another sail is raised, as excess cargo is thrown overboard. They pick up some speed, but still they are being outdistanced. The Dark Duke’s ship is lighter and faster, and flies like a kite through the wind. If they don’t catch up soon, surely it will evade them.
“We must go faster,” Taylor demands, gazing out still. “Pommer! They’re getting away!”
“We’re trying, Taylor,” replies the fat man. “But this is the fastest that this ship will go!”
Taylor grips hard the wooden ledge. His eyes search desperately for something – anything – to speed them along. But there is nothing. The ship is too large and heavy. Its cannon weigh it down, especially the giant one toward the front, and what good does that do now?
Unless…
Taylor spins round. He takes measure with his eyes. It would never work, he knows. It could be the death of him. He turns back toward the Dark Duke’s ship. Rosemarie. Drifting. Helpless.
He looks to Pommer, his face an iceberg.
“Ready the cannon,” he orders.
“The cannon?” Robert says. “Taylor, those things are dangerous; they tend to explode. Plus, we can’t hit them from here. We’d be lucky to land a ball within a hundred feet…”
“That’s fine,” says Taylor, “because we’re not sending a ball…We’re sending me.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” he says, turning to meet his friend’s eye. “I’m going over.” He looks around. “I’ll need something to put under my feet.” He reaches for a nearby Pooglie-Wooglie’s small, round wooden shield. “I need to borrow this.”
“You’re crazy,” Miglene says. “You’ll never make it.”
“I guess that’s a chance I’ll have to take. I can’t allow him to escape to the open sea.”
“You could die before even leaving the cannon,” Ezra argues.
“I know,” Taylor replies. “But if I lose her I’ll die worse yet.”
Robert folds his arms over his chest.
“Then I’ll go with you,” he says.
“No,” says Taylor. “You stay here and steer the ship. You’re one of the few people here that’s ever even seen one before today. I’ll slow the Dark Duke. You get this thing within range and cut it off. I’ll see you there.” He turns back to Pommer: “Get that cannon ready.”
…………………………………………..
On the outside Rosemarie is calm, cool, serene; on the inside, she is shaking like a leaf. There is no move to make; no way to escape. The Dark Duke holds her firm in his grasp, pinching the blood from her arm. His very voice disturbs her, and she knows that her death would mean little to him. All that she can do is wait and pray, and truly her prayers seem worthless.
“Your love is falling behind,” the Dark Duke remarks, staring outward. “It seems that he is too late to save you, my dear. What a shame.”
“He will reach us,” Rosemarie states confidently.
“The sharks, my dear,” says the Dark Duke, dragging her closer, “may be the only ones to reach you on this day. I would be wary if I were you. Ordinary sharks are one thing…but the Black Hearts that scour these waters feast on human blood. Trifle with me, and I’ll make you into their lunch.”
“Are they your allies?” Rosemarie asks. “Or do they too feign from your hideousness?”
“A ha ha ha! Very funny, my dear.” He snaps his fingers, and suddenly Kovloz steps forward and props Rosemarie over his shoulder.
“Lock her up,” the Dark Duke orders.
“Let go of me!” shouts Rosemarie, punching at the giant as he drags her off with ease. He brings her to a door at the end of the ship, opens it, and throws her in. The inside is dark and quickly she races forward, only to find that the door has been locked and bolted from the outside.
“Let me out of here!” she cries.
But her cries are met by silence. The giant returns, dusting off his hands and smiling.
“That should fix her,” remarks the Dark Duke. “She would be perfect but for the mouth.”
Boom!
They stagger. The Dark Duke grabs hold of Kovloz.
“What in the world? Are they firing?” He gazes out. “They could never reach us from –” his mouth drops open into an O. “…What…in…the…” he mutters. “Could it be?”
The body smacks into the ocean some fifty feet beside them.
“Archers!” the Dark Duke calls. “To the side! Quickly! Prepare to fire!”
…………………………………………..
Crash! goes Taylor’s body, the seawater rushing to his face. He plunges a good thirty feet down, forcing dozens of fish to dart fearfully out of the way as he sinks toward the bottom. A trout knocks into him, then dives into the abyss, leaving behind a trail of white water. Schools of fish swim round him, and his eyes come to focus on a large barracuda a few feet off, who looks at him curiously. Taylor shakes his head, and clouds of black dust tint the water.
He can just make out the bottom of the ship through the dark blue, drifting around him. He feels for his sword. Feels for it. It is lost! It must have dropped when he hit the water!
Quickly, he looks around for it, his head shooting from side to side. Hurry, Taylor! he tells himself. The ship is drifting fast away. Aha! In the moss below. He dives. Fish! Hundreds of them! Duck down!
Whew! A little too close.
He turns and stops. His pupils grow.
What a sight!
It is great and white and fierce. Never would Taylor have thought that a fish could grow so large; but this is a fish of a different kind: it is a Black Heart shark, with tremendous sharp teeth and a long, hideous snout. The monstrous jaw is opening, the tiny black eye gleaming in its head.
It fears nothing, Taylor knows. So large, so strong, so fierce – here it is king, and I only a pawn.
Fwoosh!
It rushes for him, and quickly Taylor jolts from its path. In an instant, though, it is back, and Taylor is forced to dive under its mighty thrust. It is large, but fast. If only I can get to my sword, Taylor thinks. Faster now! Faster! It is right behind! He dives and propels, the monstrous creature’s jaws snapping shut just behind him. Down he goes, toward the abyss, then up again, the jaws right at him. He can almost feel its teeth on his heels, when suddenly he turns and kicks. It stops the Black Heart momentarily, but he quickly recovers and comes up behind him. Taylor greets it with a punch to its stomach. For a moment, it is stunned, and Taylor rushes to the surface.
Air! I need air!
He breaks through, gasping. Recovering.
Arrows!
Whizzing! And again he dives under.
The shark! The jaw! Angry! He darts and kicks. Hits the nose. The terrible creature turns on him and bites. Snap! Dive, Taylor! Make for the sword! Faster now! Snap! Faster!
But his legs are too slow! The gray and white monster to
o fast! It is on him. At his heels! Turn! Snap! Turn! Snap! Up, Taylor! Up! The jaws widen. The teeth appear. Quickly, now! Snap! Turn! It bumps him. He punches. The jaws come at him. He takes them in his hands. The Black Heart struggles and twists, as Taylor wrestles closed the jaw.
Round and round they go! – Strength against strength. The massive fish throws its body this way and that, this way and that, trying ferociously to shake Taylor’s grasp. Its tail snaps backwards and forwards. Its body twirls in the water. Taylor’s head swirls, trapped in an undersea tornado.
He can feel the mighty jaws opening, though he forces them shut with all his might. The shark is winning, he knows. Another moment and it will all be over. The ship is circling. The water is spinning. He can feel the great muscles grinding into him, as slowly a tooth appears. Close it! Clamp it! Must make it to the surface…
He twists and kicks, the Black Heart struggling. The fin thumping. His arms tiring. Kick up! Kick up! The jaw is widening. The arrows setting. The air approaching. The teeth! The air! The sky! They break through! He turns!
Thwump, thwump, thwump! Thwump, thwump, thwump!
The giant shark quivers. Flaps. The jaw eases, as six distinct lines of crimson begin to flow slowly over the body.
The struggle is over.
Taylor pushes it off and dives back under. To the sword, and quickly!
Got it!
Now get to that ship!
…………………………………………..
“Did you get him?” the Dark Duke shouts. “Is he hit?”
“I dunno,” one of the arrowmen says. “He was wrestling with a shark. It was too hard to tell.”
The Dark Duke looks out over the edge. Off in the distance, he can see a dark puddle of water shuffling slowly away. All is quiet, save for the sound of the tide smacking gently up against the ship.
“Well, then,” he says at last. “I suppose that that’s the last of him.”
“Aa-aaah!”
In a start, the Dark Duke turns. He steps back and clasps his hands over his heart, as his eyes nearly pop from his head. – For there, atop the edge of the ship, stands the tall, lean figure of Taylor James, his sword crashing down onto an unsuspecting Guardsman. Agony and hell. He jumps down and cuts into another, his eyes a murderous rage.
“Get him!” cries the Dark Duke, a hint of fear in his voice, as he realizes the terror which he himself has so often inspired.
Two Guardsmen and a Mobsman with a mallet rush forth, and Taylor greets them in turn, clashing swords with one, then another, waving his blade round rapid. He knocks the sword clear out of one of the Guardsman’s hands, stabs into him, then spins and nabs the Mobsman just before he can strike. The other Guard swings and misses, as Taylor ducks and cuts, striking him hard in the leg. A moment later, he too is dead.
Two more rush forth, but Taylor is ready. With a swift kick he sends one over the rim of the ship, while the other falls with a fatal blow to the neck. He steps toward the Dark Duke, but three more appear, and again he is engaged. With a terrible growl, he waves his blade through the air, banging down on one sword and then another. Hunga, hunga, hunga! He is fighting rampant now. Raging. One man goes down by the legs. Another rushes forward only to meet Taylor’s fist. The third drops just as quickly.
Six arrows, whizzing at him. Taylor dives for cover! - to his right, behind a large treasure chest. He rolls over to see a Guard coming at him, sword pointed. “Aaar!” screams the Guard, and quickly Taylor sticks his foot up to catch him. The Guard falls into it, and curls over, as Taylor slashes at his head. He kicks the body back and watches two arrows get lodged in its side.
Footsteps.
He looks to his left, where a dead Guardsman lay. Pulls the body toward him. More footsteps. Up! Quickly he jumps, using the body as coverage, and rushes forward. Six arrows he hears: Thwump, thwump, thwump! Thwump, thwump, thwump! Into the archers he thrusts the body. Three overboard. A fourth slashed down. Fear and quickness. Two more ready their bows, hustling back, fast, fingers shaking. Taylor races for them, cutting the very arm from one before he stabs him dead. The last is ready, fires. The arrow sent whizzing. But the ghastly figure before him cuts it straight from the air! The Guard stares in awe as that same figure calmly steps toward him. Sneer. Stab. Pull. The body drops.
Where is the Dark Duke?
Up the stairs to the steering wheel he goes.
Two Guards greet him at the top.
A mistake.
His sword slashes round like Fury at his worst, and within an instant there are two more dead bodies. One slumps onto the wheel.
Turn, turn, turn. Turn, turn, turn.
A footstep.
Look out!
A quick jerk as a sword comes crashing down beside him. It cracks through the wheel and back out again, swift as lightning.
The man wielding it is a monster: his arms long and bulky; his head round and shiny. He sneers his tremendous lips in bleak satisfaction, for he can feel a kill coming, and his eyes gloss over. He looks almost childish, like a giant child in a candy store, or a dog about to get a bone. It is a fearsome look, because it is a look of utter simplicity, and Taylor knows that he thinks nothing more of killing a human being than he does of killing a fly.
They stand staring, sword to sword, man to monster. Kovloz continues to smile his hideous smile, with blackness and gums, as the two begin to pace round and round each other. Slowly they circle, each one waiting for the other to make the first move. They stop and start and stop again, patient, like the calm before a storm. From the tip of his sword to the tips of his toes, Taylor can feel the fever rushing over him. It sends the message from every nerve to every muscle, that now is the time to be on guard, to stand on end, to concentrate and make mighty. Taylor’s eyes harden. His hands tighten in their grip. The giant spits at the floor. He nods his head dopily. For a moment, all is silent, save for the thump, thump, thumping of the tide against Taylor’s heart.
And then silence.
The giant grimaces.
Taylor steadies himself.
With a ferocious grunt, Kovloz sends his sword whizzing through the air at Taylor’s head. Quickly our hero ducks and pokes, only to be greeted by the giant’s tremendous foot to his stomach. He flies backward, crashing hard into two barrels.
Again the giant is at him, his sword raised high in the air. He swings. Taylor turns. The barrel smashes into a thousand pieces. The sword up. Taylor jumps. Cuts. But the giant is ready for him. The two blades clash like thunder and lightning, and Taylor is forced down by the pain in his arms. Up he goes. Then back down again. Then back up again, clashing and clinging. He turns, clashes, whirls back.
Jump! Swing! Cut! Clash!
The giant is too much for him. Too strong.
He ducks. Cuts.
A fist to the chest, and he is back on the ground.
Up again. Swing!
Grunt.
Swing! Block. Duck. Cut!
Uf! – His sword flies through the air.
Duck! Tumble! Grab! Got it!
Up again.
Oof! Down again. The giant foot slams into him.
Kovloz laughs:
“A ha ha ha ha ha!”
Taylor looks up in despair.
The giant lifts his sword.
Taylor smiles. The giant’s eyebrows knit. He turns, dumbfounded.
Fwp! Fwp! Fwp, fwp, fwp!
Five arrows cut sharply through the air and slam into the enormous chest. For a moment, the giant stands stunned, his head turned upward toward the heavens. Slowly his arms drop down, the sword slipping gently out of his hands. He pivots back to Taylor, his eyes an empty jar, and drops dead as a doornail upon the ship floor.
Pommer waves his staff.
“Taylor!” he yells across the water. “It’s good t’see ya still alive!”
Taylor nods at the great ship before him.
A shriek rents the air. It is Rosemarie!
“Tayloooooor!” she cries.
“Heeeeeeeeeeeeelp meeeeeeeeeeeee!”
The Dark Duke is loading her onto a rowboat with a dagger to her back, pushing her along, helpless.
Taylor’s heart stretches. Quickly he is up and at them.
“Hold it!” the Dark Duke calls, poking the dagger hard into Rosemarie’s spine. “Another move and it’s her death. Understand?”
Taylor stops. A mere fifteen feet from them.
The Dark Duke smirks.
“Step back,” he says. Taylor stands stagnant. The Dark Duke presses down on the dagger, causing Rosemarie to let out a high-pitched “Oh” in response. “I said step back!” he shouts. “And toss your sword overboard.”
Thoughts. The ocean swirling.
Taylor back-peddles. He tosses the sword, and slowly it sinks into the ocean. Rosemarie turns to him, desperate, as the Dark Duke pushes her down into the boat.
“Let’s go,” he says, sitting down before her. He takes the rope and begins to lower them down into the ocean, his eyes pasted on Taylor.
The ship disappears below the rim.
Taylor steps to the edge and watches as they hit the water.
“Row,” the Dark Duke orders.
Rosemarie takes up the oars and begins to push the boat slowly out to sea, the Dark Duke’s knife pointed at her breast, his eyes darting from Taylor, to the boat, to Pommer, to the water, and back again, wary of any sudden movement.
“Faster!” he yells. “Go faster!”
He glances up again at Taylor, who stands staring, still as a castle.
“Move it!” he screams.
A shadow approaches, and the Dark Duke looks back over his shoulder at the great ship beside him. Robert appears at its rim.
The Dark Duke slaps Rosemarie hard across the face.
“I said move it!” he cries, her face becoming a dark red blotch. “Faster, you wench!”
His eyes dart back over to the ship. Then to a shark swimming nearby. Then Taylor. Then the water. Then–
He looks back toward Taylor.
His jaw drops.
Where?…Where did he go?
He looks left, right, round again. He is gone!
The Dark Duke’s heart beats like a jackrabbit.
He peeks out his head.
Vanished!
He stiffens. In his head is noise; in the air, silence.
The ocean a mass of deadly quiet.
“Hurrah!”
Suddenly the water parts with a tremendous scream, as if Poseidon himself was bursting from his chamber. It is a force more powerful than any shark or beast: it is the force of love, and it has crashed down upon the Dark Duke with a mighty blow.
Kick!
The dagger flies from the Dark Duke’s hand and into the water. His head snaps back hard into the boat’s rim, sending his crown into the abyss. Soon Taylor’s fist is upon him.
“This…” he says, “…is for my father.” Crack! “For my mother…” Crack! “And…for Rosemarie…” His fist comes down harder than ever, taking out three teeth and cracking the Dark Duke’s nose like an eggshell.
Pounding and pounding and pounding!
The Dark Duke’s face becomes a bloody pulp. His nose broken, his cheeks swollen, his lips puffy and purple. Only his beady little eyes survive. They stare up at the force before them in a dead panic, like a squirrel that’s been cornered. They close in resignation, as he gasps for breath.
Taylor looks to Rosemarie.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“Yes, I’m – Taylor, look out!”
Somehow, without notice, the Dark Duke has managed to pull yet another small dagger from his boot. Taylor jumps back, but not before the blade manages to slash him across the chest, ripping into his shirt and sending his body reeling in pain! He falls with his hand to his front, the boat nearly tipping from his weight. His neck smashes hard into the side, his hair dipping over into the salty water.
Quickly, the Dark Duke is on him, cuffing his hand around Taylor’s neck and lifting the blade high into the air.
“Taylor!” Rosemarie screams.
She throws her frail body at the Dark Duke, grabbing him round the arm.
“Can you get him?” Robert yells.
“No,” says Pommer. “We don’t have a clear shot.”
Slowly the blade inches toward Taylor’s face. He is straining every muscle in his body, but gravity is against him. Another moment and his eyes will be but a memory.
A fin nudges his head.
Rosemarie pulls and tugs. She grabs onto the Dark Duke’s chin and forehead, but with no effect. She presses her hands over the Dark Duke’s eyes, only to receive a sharp rap that sends her spiraling to the floor.
Taylor’s head jerks to the side. He can see his fallen angel lying helpless. He turns back to the Dark Duke, his eyes fuming. His body pressing. His hand moving. He pushes back the blade. Further. Further now! The Dark Duke pressing, pressing down hard, but to no avail, for soon the blade is an arm’s length from Taylor’s head. The Dark Duke looks at it, as if the dagger itself has betrayed him, and fear returns to his eyes.
Up like a rocket comes Taylor’s head, smashing into the Dark Duke’s forehead and sending a wave of pain straight to his brain. The Dark Duke stands and falters. He is dizzy with hurt. He grabs onto the boat rim, his body a mere feather in the wind.
Taylor rises, calm and stern. His eyes glare down at his nemesis with all the rage and fury of a lifetime.
“And this,” he says, “Is for the people…”
Crack! – Taylor’s foot comes crashing into the Dark Duke’s chest. The Dark Duke staggers. His body falters back. It pauses like that, for eternity it seems, his head pointed upward at the sky. Then the head, the body, and all of the evil that has come with it, slowly tips over and falls gently into the open sea. Two fins converge upon it, and a pool of crimson rises quickly to the surface.
It is over.
“Taylor!” Rosemarie exclaims, jumping up and throwing her arms around his neck.
The two embrace.
“Hey, Taylor! Taylor!”
He looks up. It is Pommer. Beside him is Robert and Miglene.
“Is everything all right?”
Taylor nods.
Pommer smiles. “Then why don’t ya give that there girl a kiss already?” he says.
The two laugh, as Taylor takes Rosemarie by the lips. They embrace in eternal passion, for ever and ever and ever…
Chapter 43
The Beginning