DEEP WITHIN THE BURROWS

  Rutger rested upon a wide tree branch as his surrounding spies echoed the ongoings of the battle. With every whisper, he devised his orders, muttering to his messenger boys. One would grab a branch and disappear toward the jungle floor, where the drummers sweated under the humid heat, releasing a loud beat that carried across the battlefield. The messenger ran the master’s through the parsing green, in search of the frontline. Parsing through the thick brush, the messenger slowed as the hefty drumming drew further away. A foreign feeling of danger halted him. He looked about the thick brush as the surrounding green began to shake; something disturbing it drew near.

  “Who goes there?” he called, his voice drowned out by the loud drumming.

  As the disturbance grew, a petrified fear fell over the boy as his eyes locked upon two bloodshot pupils staring back at him through the brush. A sickly, pale hand jolted from the overgrowth, grasping him.

  “Help!” he yelled, feeling the grasp of a hand wrap about his ankles, ripping him from his feet. Buried under the thick overgrowth, the blades of Wildmen silenced his cries.

  Upon the high branches, Rutger called for a boy’s ear. “How many messengers have returned?”

  “Recently? None,” he answered.

  “Very well, gather a band of warriors—” Rutger ceased to speak as the drumming came to an abrupt stop. The stirring of cries below drew the attention of the boys above. “They are here,” Rutger said. “Give me my staff. I will lead the defense.” His heart raced with the thought of the many orphans battling below, yet he could not send further sons into an ongoing slaughter in quickened haste. Grasping his staff, he lifted himself and felt the coarse fibers of a long vine between his fingers. “In formation!”

  The Roosters gathered about the branches in number, swords strapped to their sides, and shields upon their backs.

  “Ready!” they cried.

  “After me!” Rutger yelled. Gripping the vine, he fell below the canopy.

  The old warrior felt the warm air embrace him as his body descended; the sounds of crying boys and clashing blades surrounded him.

  “Master!” a drummer boy called, bloodied dagger in hand. “They’re everywhere!” An arm escaped the surrounding brush adjacent to the large tree, reaching for the boy. “Don’t you dare!” he cried, slashing the offending hand. “What are they?!”

  Rutger heard the sound of warrior boys descending from above, following his lead. Rutgers ears painted an image of swaying brush surrounding the large tree he pressed his back against. A guttural growl echoed from his left. Lifting his staff, Rutger heard the beast release a strained grunt, signaling a lifting of something heavy. As the Wildman grunted yet again, the old man held his right foot steady, toes pointed forward. Pulling his left foot back, Rutger heard a swoosh, followed by a loud splash as the assumed weapon of his foe passed by him, presenting the back of the beast to Rutger.

  Lifting his staff, Rutger whacked the spine of the creature, stealing its breath.

  “Master!” a Rooster called, the old mans ears winging with the sound of blade and crying Wildmen. “We think they’re pulling back!”

  Rutger lent his ear to the surroundings jungle rustling with life. “No,” he said. “I am afraid they are only spreading out. We must protect the injured. Go.” He ordered, stepping away from their protective shields. “I will send a message to the front.”

  “Master…” a boy protested.

  “No, go to your brothers. Protect them.” Rutger ordered. Turning his back, he stepped toward the thick overgrowth, his calloused flesh pressing against the moist leaves protruding from all directions, engulfing him beyond sight. “Protect each other!” he called from within the green.

  The many Roosters lifted their swords toward their master.

  “Let’s go!” a drummer boy said. “We have orders!”

  The thunder of muskets roared across the battlefield. Howls of their enemies writhing in pain as bodies formed beyond the shield wall, amassing into a hill, for which their lot shadowed the shield boys below. As they jumped from atop the hill of bodies, landing upon the brave boys’ shields themselves, flailing with blade, club, and claw alike. Swallowing the unfortunate who’d weaken under their tides, forcing the strong back, tightening their wall within the treeline. The green was stomped to sunder, trees scarred and stained with blood. The jungle swayed its mighty wind, howling a deathly cry that swung with the wailing of Wildwomen as that far-off chorus shuddered.

  “What happened!” a voice cried, meeting the ears of Andreyas.

  “The drumming…” he muttered to himself, witnessing the carnage slowly press upon their lines. Turning his sight to the wounded, a mound had formed with no couriers returning for them. “They’re behind us,” he continued. “THEY’RE BEHIND US!” He lifted his voice, raising the sword at his side. Hold the line!” he commanded his knights. “Muskets with me!”

  The well-fashioned men stripped to their essentials, musket powder and steel shot allowing them to slither through the jungle with ease, bayonets forward, following the engulfing flame amassing about Andreyas’ lifted blade, a beacon toward his soldiers.

  Andreyas’ eyes shifted left and right, scanning everything that moved. His senses screamed danger, yet he did not know where from. A shadow rushed past his left, ducking behind one of the many trees shrouded with overgrowth. His musketeers froze as he turned, facing the anomaly, when the sound of rustling caught him from his left, then his right.

  “Prepare yourselves; they are all around us!” he ordered. “With me!” His men rushed forth, forming a circle next to their leader with bayonets outward. The jungle moved around them, shifting shadows crouched low, releasing hoots and growls from all directions. “They mean to taunt us,” Andreyas continued. “Show them the might of Doter.” Gripping his blade, Andreyas lifted his voice along with his mighty sword. The flame upon it danced skyward, where the wind met his command, swirling about the flame, creating an ordered cyclone meeting the tip of his lifted sword. “Take my strength!”

  The orange glow illuminated the darkened brush; the wind pressed outward, running from the light. The swirling fire grew, demanding order among the battlefield. The soldiers held steady, eyes forward, witnessing their foes taunting in all direction. Their nightmarish forms stepped forward—not of simple Wildmen, but of four-armed mutants whose elongated, thin limbs reached high above the canopy. The glow of the light shone off their blackened eyes, surrounded by tar escaping sockets. The tallest among them stepped forth, wearing a strange skull of a giant mutated beast with a single socket resting in the center. Dropping its long arms, the creature’s lower jaw dropped, exposing a pitch-black void, ever expanding as a high-pitched roar reverberated from within, coaxing its ilk to join in an unholy chorus.

  Andreyas lifted his voice, meeting their assault. The cyclone shifted, losing balance but for a moment, flicking from the swaying wind before engulfing it. Growing. Expanding. taunting the darkness as the illumination engulfed every crevice in which it hid. A flame sparked, escaping the cyclone and falling upon a brave musketeer, bestowing him a portion of strength from his commander. The rampaging energy forced a mighty yell from him as the bayonet upon his blade lit aflame. The cyclone released a great many sparks, engulfing the musketeers, where they joined their brother in flame and war cry.

  As their voices lifted as one, the musketeers aimed in exact coordination.

  “Fire!” Andreyas shouted. The cyclone above broke into an overflow of sparks, falling like a river of embers over the forest floor, sizzling by the moisture, illuminating as a bright flame before extinguishing into nothing.

  The musketeers released a volley of flame that escaped their rifles as a birthing phoenix, expanding its wings raced through the jungle and smashed into the sickly, inhuman Strangemen, engulfing them in righteous flame. With a mighty shout, the musketeers charged forth, bayonets tearing through the green while the long arms of the Strangemen carried some upward into the canopies, as others reached toward the musketeers. Their foes revealed root-like phalanges that began to grow outward at rapid speed, forming small masses that clung to their fingers, hanging like mace heads. As the steel of bayonet met their long limbs, the beasts brushed their arms, swinging the long mace-like phalanges through the air. Entangling the steel yet meeting the phoenix flame that engulfed their limbs, searing across their flesh.

  The heads of the musketeers peered towards the darkened canopy, the sounds of thrashing sent debris downward. A mighty groan escaped the trees before the shadow of a large branch dawned over them, its splintered bark smashing the green, burying musketeers under it. Their cries muffled by the weight of ancient wood, crushing the very breath from them. Witnessing the death of their friends, fellow musketeers took a knee and illuminated the darkened canopy with the righteous flame of musket fire, burning their monstrous foes down, sending them crashing upon their ilk.

  The EverGreen clashed as worms toiled about the air among uprooted soil. The tar-stained roots of freshly grown flora scattered upon the disturbed ground, where bloodied bodies rested, leaving order in disarray and bringing forth the jungle’s unquenched, bloodied thirst. The far-off sounds of howling creatures from unseen territories thrashed beyond sight. that flowing wind challenging the flickering flame of knightly dominance among the battlefield. Among the ruins, the cyclopsed Strangeman unhinged its elongated jaw, releasing four slithering tongues, engulfed in lesions of cavities, where diminutive humanoid hands reached outward, tearing across what green remained among the soiled jungle. Burrowing under the soft dirt.

  Andreyas stood as a beacon among his men, the flame of his blade illuminating the battlefield. The roar of a Strangeman brought his blade rightward, slashing through a reaching, elongated arm, revealing bone and cracked marrow as it released a painful wail in retort, retreating toward the dark.

  “You beasts!” Andreyas cried, chasing it down.

  An arm escaped the overgrowth to his right, receiving a punishing pierce of his blade. The commander raced across the sundered soil, dashing himself over charred bodies and overturned trees, hunting his prey. Through the cries and blood-stained battleground, and across the desolation and smoke, the visage of his would-be adversary lay before him, tired and wheezing. With not a face piercing through Andreyas’ helmet, only the shadow that dawned over his vengeful eyes glared upon the wounded creature. The beast wailed but one more mournful cry, as the White Knight’s blade sang a song of mire, with a price of blood and a seizing of breath. Another corpse gored under the canopy resting among the soils cold embrace, feeding the Evergreen in its death as the Evergreen fed it in life.

  Releasing a cry of victory, the wind swayed about Andreyas as an unknown fervor of personal glory coursed through his veins. Turning to meet yet another foe, from the soft ground under him, an elongated serpentine tongue shot forth, assaulting his right shoulder, sending a harsh reverberation through his armor. Staggered and losing grip of his blade, the flame about his sword flickered and died. As the darkness engulfed the beacon, the many musketeers felt a sense of dread wash upon them. A sense of duty forced their feet to press through the blood-stained jungle, aiding their dear commander.

  As the darkness pressed against the light, repulsing the flame, a ravenous burn ignited through Andreyas. Summoning the will of the phoenix, his eyes shone a bright ember as that elongated tongue slithered about his armored shoulder, those many hands engrafting his right arm and forced the knight downward. A second tongue escaped the soil to his left and writhed about his neck, choking him. The final two tongues burst under him, sinking him into the soil, where a burrow of horrid Wildmen met his feet. Dozens of fingers and teeth tore at his armor, pulling the knight into their embrace.

  “How dare you!” he cried, finding those many hands sank him to his shoulders, where they met the brace of his helmet.

  As the first hand fell upon his visor, Andreyas clenched his enflamed eyes. He surrendered to that burning flame within, summoning the strength of that power greater than he—the mighty visage of a firebird taking root within his mind—as the many hands wriggling about his armor felt a growing heat simmer and burn at their flesh, forcing the horde to relinquish a terrible cry. The first bodies to press upon the knight were the first to light aflame. The many underground dwellers rushed away from the engulfing light that danced upon their kin, sending a fearful retreat about their ranks. All but the serpentine tongues raced away from the now enflamed knight, his armor and flesh alike dancing with the illuminating touch of flame.

  Andreyas grasped about the tongue; his magnificent strength tested to its maximum gave way to the tightening muscle and many diminuitive hands clenching about his flaming armor, searing not.

  “Damn you,” he muttered as he felt the metal of his helmet constrict. Suddenly, the squirming tongues seized and flexed, loosening their grip. “What?” he coughed.

  Under the softened soil, where the serpentine things broke ground and slithered from—that cyclops-masked foe fell upon its knees as the blade of Rutger pierced through it. By his side, the many brave orphans heaved heavy breaths as they prepared a charge.

  “Forward!” Rutger lifted his voice, and the ground shook with a mighty quake as the shield-wielding Roosters stormed upon the battlefield, saving the lives of knight and musketeer alike. “There’s little time to rest!” Rutger called, drawing the attention of Andreyas, who lifted himself from the entanglement.

  “’Twas not expecting any,” Andreyas found his blade, his panting breath shaking his tattered armor. “We must retreat.”

  “Who do you believe us to be?” A condescending tone escaped Edwardo; the soot-covered boy stood with a splintered shield. “Roosters do not retreat.”

  “You fools,” Andreyas panted. “We—”

  His voice froze as a wretched screech met their ears. A terrible chorus echoed across the battlefield as all Wildthings joined in, followed by a stampeding race, a full retreat toward their burrows.

  “What is this?” Andreyas asked.

  “It’s Marcy…” Rutger said.

  “That’s her name,” a voice broke through the jungle.

  Turning, they witnessed the armorless, tired figure of Sir Garcia standing with blade in hand, bloodied from battle.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  “Marcy… Hand her over,” Garcia spoke.

  “I am surrounded by fools,” Andreyas took a step forth.

  “I am not alone. Far from it… You would not dare,” Garcia met his step.

  “This is no time,” Rutger said, turning his back, locking eyes with Edwardo. “We must kill the beast, find the women… Prepare for a full charge!”

  “No need,” Garcia stepped past them. “Let me show you the might of magma.”

  Lifting his blade toward the air, his eyes shone red as the sword glowed with an intense heat, melting the metal into a river of flowing red. Drenching the knight as the magma’s intensity grew, flowing in greater proportions than a blades material alone could muster, engulfing him in his entirety until a large searing molten mold was all that remained.

  “What dark thing is this?” Rutger asked, holding Edwardo back with an extended hand.

  The mold cracked in retort; a terrible deep grunt escaped from within as smoldering stone broke, giving way to the visage of a gigantic hand that reached outward, tearing through the mold and revealing a large stone-like giant glowing with magma buried under its searing stone. The creature peered across the smoldering field, turning its head toward the far-off burrows.

  “Speak to me, knight. What monster have you unleashed upon us?!” Rutger cried.

  “This is no beast… This is power... Twisted by The Sons of Magma,” Andreyas replied. “Fear not, lest you are the Wildmen.”

  UNDERGROUND

  The cavern of petrified yellow-hued wood rumbled with the echoes of a thousand Wildmen screaming, clawing, and tearing among one another about the colonnade. Their numbers swarmed the platform on all sides, leaving Marcy and the near-dead Frankfer adjacent to the throne of petrified wood. They hissed and taunted, threatening to rush. Marcy’s eyes glared about in all directions, meeting their hungry eyes with a worried stare. Looking downward, she locked eyes with Frankfer.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, thinking of the boy’s lost future.

  He struggled to give her a light nod, covered in soot and mud.

  The roar of a challenger met her ears. Looking up, she locked eyes with a charging Wildman. Clenching her bare fists, she stepped forward, meeting the challenge.

  “Enough!” she cried. Her swift hands smashed across the creature’s face, silencing it and coaxing a cry of vengeance from all around. “Face me, you… whatever you are…”

  The steps of another Wildman erupted from behind her. Turning, she lifted her assassin’s blade and parried its rudimentary sword. The weapon clanged upon the platform as she reached for its neck, using her less-than-feminine strength to crush the throat of the her adversary, releasing his screeching body among the surrounding masses. As her opponent thumped to the ground, another cry roared behind her, and then another. Hearing the two charging her, Marcy turned and relinquished her remaining blade; the knife flung through the air, ripping through bone armor and sending the charging opponent to the ground. Facing the remaining enemy, she grabbed its wrist as the Wildman flung the bone club clenched within its left fist. Squeezing its wrist with all her might, she forced the creature to drop its weapon.

  Marcy released the beast, grasping its bone club in mid-air. Her ears heard the roars of rushing adversaries behind her. With club in hand, she struck the Wildman before her with a mighty blow, hearing a crack tear through her weapon. A desperate grunt escaped Marcy as she plummeted the club into the nearest Wildman. With a drowning scream, the many charged in all directions. One hurled itself upon her; Marcy bent her knees and threw herself backwards, smashing the creature. Another launched itself forward, landing on top of her. With knees still bent, she catapulted the Wildman into the surrounding crowd from which it came.

  Peering over her head, the sight of a clubbed weapon swinging downward came into view. Marcy rolled toward the throne, hearing the smash of the weapon tear into the platform surface. Lifting herself, she landed a desperate strike upon the beast before it could lift its weapon. Finding the club among the shards of wood upon the platform, she gripped its handle, lifted the blunt skull strapped atop the club, and swung away. In mid-stride her hand met a strong force; a jolting pain coursed through her wrist as the chieftain’s fingers gripped about her wrist.

  Their eyes locked—Marcy glaring with a look of defiance, with the sound of wild things rushed toward her in all direction. She felt their many hands scratch at her flesh, tearing through her leather armor, grasping her limbs, and a terrible burn stabbed at her as they began to pull. The chieftain cackled as the look upon Marcy’s face broke into one of absolute desperation.

  His voice carried across the cavern’s expanse, echoing off the surface and taken to the world above, beyond that darkened ceiling, through that single blot of light piercing the soiled roof. As quick as it was lifted, the chieftain’s voice came to a freeze, echoing a sharp, pain-driven gasp as the lone warrior Frankfer refused the comforting embrace of death, pressing past the grasps of Wildmen and hurling himself upon the back of the chieftain, driving its own fang deep within its neck.

  The surrounding Wildmen released starling wails as if struck by an unseen force, pushing many off the erected colonnade. They froze, peering at their stricken master fall to his knees, and that soot-stained boy clinging upon him. With a final gasp, the chieftain stretched out his barked-skin arm toward that far-off ceiling, reaching outward before smashing into the wooden platform, oozing black bile as Frankfer ripped the fang from its neck, lifting his bloodied weapon in victory.

  “Master!” he cried. “It is done!” The many Wildmen broke from their daze, rushing the boy.

  Marcy locked eyes as all bestial men ignored her presence and buried him under their vengeful ire.

  Expecting the worst, Marcy glared upward. Wondering of the world above, the many faces of welcoming orphans who still stood among the ruin. The possible portrait of the death, fallen younglings scattered about the tainted undergrowth, permeating the world beneath the canopy. That single far-off light the size of a pinpoint vanished as debris once again fell from the sky, striking her cheek. Her ears twitched as, among the drowning sounds of Wildmen tearing at the boy, a harsh reverberation echoed from above, swiftly approaching.

  “What?” Her dried lips parted.

  Marcy’s instincts drove her to press against the charging crowd, and as an unseen object fell toward them. Throwing herself off the platform, she fell upon the chaotic crowd of Wildmen, who grasped upon her as she stumbled over them. Using their drowning bodies as a shield, she tucked herself upon the floor, hands over her head. The burrow rumbled as a large yellow blur tore into the platform, launching all across the cavern and surrounding them in a thick atmosphere of debris. Pulling herself from the floor, Marcy choked on dust as all was shrouded in a blinding cloud.

  Many thin men rose about the cavern, coughing alongside her, yet among the mist a deep groaning escaped. From the destroyed platform, a shadowed giant darkened the cavern. Marcy’s ears heard the sound of running savages, dozens went flailing by, stricken with a mask of terror upon them. Looking upward, the ground rumbled as a rock monster coursing with magma erupted from the midst, launching itself toward Marcy, landing but feet in front of her, parting the dust.

  Within its grasp, her eyes widened at the sight of Frankfer, his flesh torn asunder. The strange creature’s stone form shifted as its very head split, revealing the haunting face of Garcia glaring at her with a look of discontent.

  “You are coming with me,” he said.

  Marcy smiled. “You bastard… You better save that boy.”

  “Consider it done,” Garcia replied.

  Marcy’s body gave way, surrendering to her capture. She fell forward, feeling the grasp of warm stone catch her. Then the world went silent.

  Marcy’s ears perked as the whispering sounds of a bird’s far-off call pulled her from a dream. Opening her eyes, she found herself within the warm embrace of that Roosters’ cabin from days past—a place, once seen as a prison, now felt as a home. Her sore body beckoned her to rest, yet the warmth of the rays coaxed her forward. Marcy lifted herself, releasing a grunt of pain as her feet touched the ground. She glared upon the window’s reflection, seeing herself covered with many bandages wrapping her many wounds. The creak of the door drew her attention; turning, Mary’s eyes caught a familiar face peeking through.

  “Cole,” she smiled.

  His chubby cheeks flexed as he met her eyes. “You’re awake. It’s been three days.”

  She nodded. “It feels like it.” The door parted further, revealing a tired Rutger standing next to Fernando, wearing a wooden brace. “You wouldn’t have a spare meal for a lady?” she asked.

  Rutger nodded. “There’s always room for one more.”

  Marcy stepped forth, patting the young Cole on the head. “You know I can’t stay.”

  “Who says?” Fernando asked. “I thought you were going to train us?”

  “That was the plan,” she said. “I can only assume who’s outside.”

  “You’d assume correctly,” Rutger replied. “Rest. We will bring you what you need.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m sick of that feeling, knowing they are waiting. It’s just… it’s bad enough, Master. Let me face them.”

  Rutger remained silent, making way for Marcy. Before her sat a single bowl of steaming porridge.

  “Cole always made sure we had something for you,” Fernando said. “He never left your side, and Frankfer—”

  “How is he?” Marcy turned.

  “He’s… not well, but alive,” Rutger said.

  “May I see him before they take me?” she asked.

  Rutger nodded. “Of course.”

  Marcy sat, enjoying a warm meal. Its extravagant simplicity soothed her, filling her belly with a gesture of kindness. As she sipped away, a light smile remained upon her face, eyes locking with the many souls about the table: William resting his injured arm against his sword, Lucas left with many scratches that accented his natural bravado, Edwardo who ate two bowls before Marcy could finish, Marcus resting against Fernando’s good shoulder, the Tom brothers each pinching at each other, and Anders completely asleep in the corner of the room. The group shared a silent moment until the inevitable knocked upon the door.

  Marcy rose to her feet, feeling the aura of a knight waiting for her. All surrounded the assassin as her hand grasped the wooden handle and allowed the light of the encampment to enter the cabin. Her eyes met Garcia, who stood with his signature stoic yet annoyed glare upon his face.

  “Nice to see you join the land of the living,” he jested.

  “I am not ready,” she said.

  “It’s been three days. I am beyond ready… We have a medical wagon prepared for you,” he said.

  “I won’t need it,” she replied.

  “How brave,” he said in a dead tone. “Very well, we will prepare the usual prisoners quarters.”

  Pressing past him, she felt a sting ring through her shoulder, yet she did not show it. As Marcy walked past the large, now-dead bonfire, the many boys stood; those working stopped, and all eyes lay upon her. Marcy gestured toward Rutger, who, although blind, followed.

  “What has become of the Wildmen?” she asked as they walked toward the medical tent.

  “We do not know fully,” he confessed. “The aura about the jungle, there is a lightness within its midst, a lightness not felt in many years of my life.”

  “That sounds like a good sign,” she said.

  “Let us hope,” he replied.

  “I do not like hope…” she said. “Could you survive another all-out war as such?”

  “I do not think it will come to that,” a voice stole their attention. The strong Andreyas’ shadow engulfed them as he approached. “I will plead to my princess to bring forth the appropriate aid to quash this menace.”

  “Will she listen?” Marcy asked.

  “She will to me,” Andreyas answered.

  Marcy bowed her head. “Thank you, Commander.”

  He returned the gesture. “Of course, dear lady.”

  She smiled at him. “Sir Knight.” Turning away, she continued with Rutger.

  “I hope his promise is worthy,” she said.

  “I presume so. He carried himself well,” Rutger replied. The two finally arrived before the medical tent.

  “I shall wait here,” Rutger announced, stepping back from the entrance.

  She entered the shadow of the tent, where many young warriors lay wounded. Among their number, Klawn stepped forward.

  “I believe he may be awaiting you,” Klawn said. “He cannot speak, but the boy can hear you…”

  She followed his lead toward a veiled bed resting under a thin white sheet. She parted the veil, witnessing the many bloodied rags covering him entirely.

  “Frankfer?” she asked, seeing him shift in his bed at the sound of her voice. “We did it… You did it.”

  He gave her a light nod.

  “I… I won’t be here for long,” she confessed. “The knights—they came for something, and I believe a part of that something was me. I’m sorry I won’t be here to see you get better, but you proved yourself a warrior, more than that. I would have been proud to call you my student.” She locked eyes with the boy. “Maybe one day I just may get the chance.”

  She remained silent; the two glared at one another with righteous conviction, a bond of survival corded between them. When the time came, she stroked the side of his cheek, kissing the boy about the scalp, never turning away but stepping back. Exiting the tent, she glared upward toward the cleared canopy, where the warm rays met her soft flesh. Closing her eyes, she basked in it, her mind lost to the surrounding sounds of life beyond the clearing: the remnants of soft chirps among the branches, the swaying of monkeys taunting about the trees, and the far-off sound of a wild crow.

  “You ready?” The impassive voice of Garcia encroached before her.

  “Does it matter?” she said.

  “It should!” A voice turned Garcia’s head; the young William stepped forth. “What if you would have to get through me first?” He spoke, blade in hand.

  “What are you doing, boy?” Garcia said.

  “William, don’t,” Marcy protested.

  “Don’t what? You’re a Rooster now, remember?” His eyes shot toward that far-off obstacle course and the branches of ancient wisdom for which she crossed.

  “And when did you become a Rooster?” The voice of Lucas erupted, standing with a spear in hand.

  “I got one good arm left.” Looking to his right, Lucas witnessed Marcus standing with a single glove about his fist. “I’m sure a knight would have no issue striking against the innocent,” he mocked, joining his brothers.

  “Roosters!” Marcy demanded their attention. “He could kill you all.”

  From all sides, the youthful faces of orphans peered forth, eyes tired yet prepared.

  “Knights!” Garcia called. From about the encampment, the clanking of armor signaled many red-armored knights joining at his side, each donning the stone face of a tested warrior. “We wish not to harm you, but she is an outlaw, and any who protect her are outlaws.”

  Rutger stepped forth. “Does this law of yours grant you permission to slay my children? Are they outlaw enough for your blade?”

  “This has gone too far,” Andreyas entered the fray.

  “He’s right,” Marcy said. “Roosters… stand down.” The many Roosters held steady. “Roosters… You have done your duty to the wood, to the jungle, for justice… and true order,” she continued. “Do not bring the hand of the Doternite Empire against us; all you have fought for would be in vain.” Her words lingered, a silent ominous aura swaying in the wind. “Knights, do your duty. Orphans, serve your forest. But know this, I may be but a runaway rogue. I have crossed the mighty ocean, I have rested in many lands, and I have walked upon all soil. There are no more knightly men than these orphan boys.” Her eyes scanned the many armored-clad knights before her. “You have a code you were born under; they have a code pressed upon them not from birth, but from loss of love, blood, from the tyrannical hands of evil. And still they strive for order. In a place of lawlessness, they strike against it.” She took a step toward Garcia, presenting her hands to be bound under arrest. “Carry their stories across the lands for which you travel, for they stay the course of honorable sons, whom have given me the opportunity to be knighted as a Rooster, where I belong.”

  The many orphans of Rutger witnessed her tied to the back of a steed, walked along, bound as prisoner. Those many knights of white and red took their leave; each passing her, the honorable Knights of the Rose bowed their heads, as the red-armored knights of magma continued without notice. The many Roosters found themselves walking along the road beside the horse-mounted knights, glaring at their figures as they went.

  “Are you sure your princess would send aid?” Rutger asked Andreyas, who lifted himself upon his neighing steed.

  “If she does not, I will return myself, alone or with many. I give you my word, dear friend,” Andreyas said. His words were taken to heart.

  As Marcy felt the pulling of her rope, Andreyas rode close. “We will have to travel through the merchant road; the Knights of the Rose hold dominion across that land. Our princess will see you tried before you cross toward the territory of magma.”

  “What will that do for me?” she asked.

  “Hopefully set you free,” he said, “but first, you must see trial.”

  She nodded, her eyes glaring downward toward the ground. Then a shadow of a boy came into view. Turning her head, she looked about the road, seeing the many familiar faces of those orphaned Roosters releasing a silent chant through their very being, standing as far as the road stretched, following in concord behind them as they passed.

  A harsh wind began to blow; with every step, its building pressure slowed their speed.

  “It knows!” Rutger’s voice called. “You will return to us. You are Rooster, and this land calls for a new song!”

  The wind blew a whistle as it coursed past their ears, an echo slithering as a beat past them. The many orphans began to pat their clothes as the wind’s rhythmic flow was caught by them. The voices of the boys lifted in humming rhythm.

  Fernando The First lifted a stick as if a sword, feeling lost lyrics gifted by the wood. “Roosterrrrrrss!!!!!!” he shouted. “Roosters rise with a will of steel, in the northern winds, we make our deal. Children of fate, in the battle we stand, against the raiders, the rogues, the bandits’ hand.”

  Andreyas’ head turned, witnessing the boy.

  “Orphaned boys answering destiny’s call,” he continued, “trained by Rutger, his wisdom stands tall. Blind but mighty, the old warrior’s gaze guides us orphans through the winding maze.”

  “Underneath the rays of enchanting might, Rutger’s wisdom guides us through the light,” the voices of boys chorused across the road as one, startling the brave knightly steeds as their sudden eruption into song met the strange, energetic contortions and dances they taunted themselves about the road in celebratory spirit. “Roosters gather, and roosters crow, from a child’s loss, our ranks shall grow.”

  Boys ran toward the encampment, setting the bonfire ablaze and removing their instruments. The pounding of drums and strumming of strings met Marcy, bringing a smile to her face.

  “What is this place?” Andreyas asked.

  “Home.” Marcy muttered, that smile growing.

  “We roosters rise with a call of steel, In the northern winds, we make our deal.” Fernando’s voice was lifted by the gust, meeting the ears of all creatures across the surrounding green. “Children of fate, in the battle we stand, Against the raiders, the rogues, the bandits’ hand.” The words escaped the many orphans, and to her surprise, Marcy felt her lips part, muttering the lyrics as if a long-forgotten song. “Through the forests and the bye and bye, We roosters charge beneath our rooster’s cry.” Marcy joined in the band of singing boys as they all sang as one. “Orphan hearts beat, swords raised to the sky, A warrior’s courage in no short supply. Knighted Roosters—where we belong.”