Anthony DeCosmo - Fusion

The terrace looked over a shaded park. In that shade lurked several pickup trucks, a pair of cargo containers, and piles of supplies. Trevor saw crates of bullets and artillery shells, fuel drums, stacks of tires, and boxes of canned rations. He knew that some of those items-particularly the tires and fuel-had traveled across the Atlantic from Omar’s Hivvan matter-makers.

The convoy kept driving through the crowded streets. A pungent aroma mixing smoldering fire with filth and petrol vapors lingered over the entire village. It smelled to Trevor like too many people crowded into a small spot with too little sanitation and too few supplies, but a palpable feeling of excitement carried in the air, as if the carnival arrived in town.

They left the village along a road rising up a gentle slope to the north where forest and grassland claimed the scenery again.

Armand spoke to Alexander in what Trevor thought to be French, but the meanings of the words came through so clear to his library-mind that such a trivial thing as language did not matter. “Looks like the damn Italians are here.”

Armand-sitting behind the driver’s wheel in the front left of the car-glanced to a path on the west side of the road. There Trevor saw a line of horse riders, the leader wearing a wool sport snap hat with a bandolier across a peasant’s shirt. He eyed the convoy as they zoomed past as if both envying and disapproving of motored transport.

A chopping sound diverted Trevor and JB’s attention to the right. They swung their heads around and watched a green Eurocopter 135 transport displaying the stylized iron cross of the Bundeswehr fly in.

Alexander gave the helicopter a look and then returned his attention to the papers on his clipboard noting, “And the Germans, too.”

Trevor eyed the helicopter’s flight to the north as it flew parallel to the road they traveled. That road climbed a steep basalt outcropping as it snaked through light woodlands toward an impressive sight that overlooked the town and everything else for miles: the Chateau de Murol.

The castle’s large curtain walls had suffered greatly with age, but still stood although a layer of creeping ivory climbed the gray and brown stone.

It lacked the glitz and shine of a Hollywood scripted castle but Trevor found the gritty realism even more awe-inspiring. The Chateau de Murol stood defiantly for all the world-and all the invaders-to see. Weathered, bruised, but still ready to fight. Like the people of his Empire; like the people of Murol.

The road swept around, pushed through a patch of woods where Trevor spied a Harrier jump jet hidden under green netting, and emerged at a medieval gatehouse and a steep stone stairway. A machine gun behind sandbags covered the approach. Trevor also noticed a man with a sniper rifle at one of the higher windows on the curtain wall as well as a cluster of rectangular box-like structures atop the primary castle tower that he suspected to be anti-air missiles.

“Very impressive,” Trevor complimented.

Armand spoke in French, “What did you think? Did you think we were sitting around with our thumbs up our asses waiting for you Americans to ride in and save the day?”

“I am not an American, and you are no longer French,” Trevor corrected in the land’s native tongue. “Countries do not mean anything anymore.”

Armand snorted in either disgust or amusement.

The cars stopped and the passengers disembarked under the staring eyes of several sentries whose expressions suggested thoughts along the lines of “this is it?”

Alexander said, “Trevor, why don’t you come with me. The rest of your people can relax in the dining tent. I have to believe they’re hungry.”

At that moment Trevor’s stomach groaned and he realized he had eaten only canned rations over the last 36 hours or so. Still, he knew eating would have to wait, at least for him.

“That sounds good.”

“No! I want to go see, Father.”

Trevor placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. The boy looked at his dad through those determined blue eyes of his.

“If it’s okay with you, Alexander, I’d like to have my son come with us. I think he deserves as much.”

Alexander glanced at Armand who shrugged either to say he did not understand what Trevor meant or he did not care. Whatever the case, Alexander nodded to the boy and the group ascended the stairs leaving Hauser and the two sailors in the care of the garrison.

The first stretch of stairs led into the gatehouse. Inside loitered a group of soldiers of various ethnic shades in a collection of helmets, berets, boots, sneakers, BDUs and jeans. Folding tables hosted radios and CCT monitors; a weapons rack offered a collection of rifles and shotguns.

Another set of open-air stone stairs climbed along the curtain wall. Small puddles on the steps spoke of rain earlier.

At the top of the stairs came the entrance to the courtyard above which loomed an ornamental lintel depicting knights in armor as well as a pair of griffins prancing above a coat-of-arms. Jorgie caused the procession to halt as he studied the crude bas-relief with wide eyes of wonderment. His father tugged his arm encouraging him onward.

A few militia men lurked in the courtyard among crates of supplies. A mess of replica shields, swords, and helmets were piled into one corner, certainly remains from the days when the Chateau drew tourists instead of warriors.

They crossed the courtyard and entered a wood-trimmed doorway a little small for the average modern man but perhaps just the right size for the knights of the dark ages. The interior offered cool, musty air as might be found in a cellar. A handful of windows allowed enough sunlight to prove they remained above surface.

Alexander led them underneath a stone arch and into a long rectangular room with a sloped ceiling three stories overhead. Light entered through high windows located on either side.

Two of the best-dressed soldiers in the place stood to either side of that entrance arch. Trevor immediately recognized the insignia of the British Royal Marines: a lion atop a crown, a globe, and banner with the words Per Mare Per Terram.

The soldiers closed ranks and blocked entrance.

Alexander explained, “No weapons.”

Armand, knowing the rule, un-slung his FAMAS, a side arm, a big knife, and a pair of anti-personnel grenades. Trevor came unarmed; Alexander handed over a revolver. The soldiers let them pass.

A long oval table hosted eleven persons in garb ranging from formal dress to military tunics to the clothes of farmers. Yet the way they sat formal and rigid-their icy stares at the newcomer-the confidence in their eyes-Trevor knew they may wear different dress, but all were cut from the same cloth.

Alexander turned to Trevor and told him, “Welcome to Camelot.”

No trumpets. No applause. No cheers.

Stares. Judging eyes. One tapped his thumb on a table top. Another absently stroked her hair.

They waited for Trevor to speak. He turned first to Alexander who remained by his side. Armand moved to one wall and casually leaned with a smirk that suggested he enjoyed the moment of awkwardness.

“English,” Alexander told him. “English is the language we use in groups.”

“Do you know why?” Armand asked but he answered his own question: “Because for years in most of our countries we got to know English as a second language so that we could sell you cars and wine and take money from your annoying tourists every summer.”

It was Jorgie who spoke to the group first, ignoring Armand’s venom.

“Hello!” And he waved with his arm that did not clutch Bunny. “This is a really neat castle you have here. Is it really the Camelot castle from the days of King Arthur?”

Trevor nearly did not recognize his son’s voice, not with all the enthusiasm and ordinary-kid awe in his tone. Such things did not come from JB’s lips. In an instant, Trevor understood that his boy-his nine year old son-had taken the lead in breaking the ice.