Only Melville's two rangers were active in the front lines, happily serving as snipers to wipe out enemy gun crews and key leaders. Technically this was disobeying his orders, but the rangers' unique status as elite, attached, ground troops made this acceptable in his mind. Also, although it was dangerous on the battlements, Melville couldn't bring himself to stay away, and the Stolsh and Sylvan admirals were often there beside him.

As the battle unfolded it became increasingly clear that they would be defeated. The defenders' only real option was to hurt the hateful enemy as much as possible and then evacuate, and only well-trained sailors could do that. Militia couldn't fight through the blockading armada. And soldiers couldn't evacuate beloved family members. But first they would make the enemy pay, and pay, and pay.

But the forts still stood . . . Their breath

Swept the foemen like a blade,

Though ten thousand men were paid

To the hungry purse of Death,

Though the field was wet with blood,

Still the bold defences stood,

Stood!

Then one night at moonrise the Guldur king came to look upon that which he had wrought. He was a huge cur upon a white horse, dressed in a red-trimmed gray uniform. Surrounded by an elite cavalry regiment, he came down to the river's edge. All along the line the Stolsh cannons paused as the mortal personification of their foe looked across the river and gazed up at the bluffs. Arrogantly, without a flag of truce, he surveyed the battlefield.

And the King came out with his bodyguard

at the day's departing gleama"

And the moon rode up behind the smoke

and showed the King his dream.

For a moment the grim battle ceased, and only the constant, tragic cry of the wounded echoed down the slope. A writhing sea of maimed and wounded, crawling over the dead, envying the dead, cried out to their king.

Three hundred thousand men, but not enough

To break this township on a winding stream;

More yet must fall, and more, ere the red stuff

That built a nation's manhood may redeem

The Master's hopes and realize his dream.

Beside the Guldur king, riding as an equal, was a figure wearing a hooded black robe. Who could have dreamed that such a target would appear? Melville cursed and wished that his rangers were here, but they were contributing to the battle as snipers now; which was a daylight activity, and they were back at the ship getting some well deserved rest. The two BARs with expert gunners would have cut the enemy force to ribbons, but the precious BARs and their few thousand rounds of ammunition weren't here. They were being held back out of danger, for a key, future battle. Melville cursed himself. Who could have imagined that an opportunity like this would arise!

He yearned to give the order to strike down that distant figure, but only Broadax and Ulrich and his squad of marine bodyguards were with him. He grabbed a rifle from a nearby Stolsh soldier and took aim. Westminster or Valandil might have made it, but it was virtually an impossible shot for him, or for his marines. Nevertheless, he would try. He would do his best.

"On my command, open fire on the enemy leader!" he called out to his marines, and they eagerly leaned or knelt against the walls to take careful aim.

"No! Don't!" shouted the Sylvan admiral beside him. "We do not wage war on leaders."

Ulrich and Broadax gave synchronized snarls and drew their weapons, turning their backs to their captain, facing the surrounding Stolsh and Sylvan leaders and staff officers. The squad of Westerness marines never wavered as they waited patiently for their captain's order to fire.

"Haven't you figured it out yet?" asked Melville. "War as you know it is over. Now you battle evil itself. Before you is an enemy who is no respecter of kings. They murdered our captain under a flag of truce, and they'll do the same to you. Here is an enemy who will intentionally, remorselessly butcher men, women and children, and then make the survivors envy the dead. You can no longer play by the old rules. Strike! Strike with every gun and pray that you slay your foe!"

The Sylvan admiral and the Stolsh commander exchanged glances. "He is riight," said the ancient commander, sadly. "The oold ways aare goone." With a deep, booming voice he continued fiercely, "Ie willl diee with this cityy, and befoore Ie diee Ie willl killl everyy Guulduur Ie caan! Aalll caannoon, aalll rifles, aat myy commaand, yoou willl fire aat the enemyy commaander!"

Many of the cannon had already been shifted to bear on this new target, the rest shifted eagerly, swiftly. The riflemen waited impatiently. The word rippled down the ramparts. Finally, as the moon rose and the enemy force began to pull back, the old general gave his order, in a deep booming voice, "FIIRE!!" Such a command would have echoed like a gunshot across the wide river valley, but in this case his "echo" was a vast array of cannons and muskets roaring out defiance and hate.

Melville and his bodyguards joined in the fusillade firing at the distant target. The Guldur bodyguards around the king staggered and fell. His mysterious, hooded comrade turned his horse and raced away. The king himself had his horse shot out from under him. He scrambled over the mounds of Guldur dead. He was a little gray louse upon a great, vast corpse. Then he disappeared into the darkness as a cloud came across the moon.

One barrow, borne of women, lifts them high,

Built up of many a thousand tragic dead.

Nursed on their mothers' bosoms, now they liea"

A Golgotha, all shattered, torn and sped,

A mountain for those royal feet to tread.

Chapter the 13th.

Rear Guard:

Not the Be-medalled Commander

Not of the princes and prelates with periwigged charioteers

Riding triumphantly laureled to lap the fat of the years,

Rather the scorneda"the rejecteda"the men hemmed in with spears;

"A Consecration"

John Masefield