The Aftermath Read online

  By dawn, Magnahul had a full understanding of the French forces and their strength. Indeed, they only had three hundred thousand troops. But their weakness was that they were strung out over a vast landmass. Each division or garrison had no more than twenty thousand men. The closest was in Marseilles, with only fifteen thousand.

  “That is where Philip is heading,” he thought.

  A band of guards stood outside the chambers to protect Magnahul in case there were French soldiers lurking within the palace, still loyal to Philip. Magnahul summoned one of them. "Convey to Lord Henry that I wish to show him something and escort him here."

  Lord Henry hurried to Magnahul's side and, to his amazement, found the diorama that Magnahul had relied on to piece together a refined version of his plan. Henry agreed.

  Hagan remained in the chamber where Bronia breathed her last. His sole strength – his mind, eluded any attempt to use it for a higher purpose. But the initial shock of his loss had transitioned to guilt. If only he had stopped her when he had the feeling to do so. Somehow he knew that this was not going to end well, yet he had let her go. How he had that feeling, he didn't know. He just knew he had.

  The more the intellectual side of his mind sprung to action, the more the sorrow of loss was displaced. But the anger remained. It fueled his resolve and animated his thoughts. If only he could travel back in time, he would tell her not to enter the palace. But that option was not open to him. The fuel he needed sat buried under the surface of the moon that hid that night.

  He had no choice in the matter. Consequence had come to stay.

  Chapter 7

  Noble Sacrifice

  M essengers mounted fresh stallions from the palace stables. They were powerful steeds. Well trained, fed, and groomed. The messengers rode at breakneck speed and made the coast before dawn. At the prescribed location, a fire was lit. That was the predetermined sign for the ships out at sea to watch for. When they saw that light, one vessel would make its way to the coast. It did as planned and the message from Magnahul was transmitted.

  Both parted company, one on horse, one on ship. The first headed back to his lord, the latter to their home in Anderhal Bay. His orders were to load every soldier, Highlander and Moroccan alike, and transport them to Marseilles by the end of two days.

  With the plans in motion, now Lord Adelstan Magnahul had to let nature take its course. He had nothing to do but wait. The doors to the chamber had been closed and the leader of the most powerful clan in all of the Highlands sat contemplating his thoughts.

  He had spent a lifetime of sacrifice for his people. His leadership and personal austerity had turned tribes to towns, and villagers to citizens. He had not asked for the responsibility, but upon being bestowed with it, had executed its office with great honor and wisdom.

  His loss – the price it extracted from him, was the loss of his wife – the only woman he had ever loved. It was easy to mistake the source of Bronia’s skill and speed. But it was not Adelstan’s contribution that made her such. It was her mother’s, Ava Anstruthers.

  Ava Anstruthers was the youngest daughter of Cailean Anstruthers, lord of the southern Highlanders from Glasgow to Inverness. Clive, her older brother, was the heir to the clan and it was Adelstan's father who calculated that a marriage between his son and the powerful Anstruthers clan would keep the Magnahul heritage safe.

  Meerstrom Magnahul, Adelstan's father, had taught his son patience and resolve. The urge to slay should never overpower the will to live. Death is only righteous when it serves the lives and livelihood of the people. Adelstan had not grown to embrace death like the other Highlanders had. He felt that the act of sacrifice was to propel the living and not to be spent blindly.

  It was the reason he developed the brotherhood of assassins. He never expected little Bronia would one day insist on joining its ranks. The assassins were designed to kill a few so that the battle between the many would be unnecessary.

  He could remember the day that she came to him with the request to join the brotherhood. He was placed in a quandary of executing his duties as a father and the man who reasoned with principle. If it was good for anyone, why was it not good for her? That was the premise of her argument and Adelstan could not argue. He had been brought to face his own demons and had to allow the request or face losing his daughter. He permitted her wish and since that point in time held the fire of fear in the corner of his heart that he so often tried to bury deep within.

  Ava would have never agreed, he thought. In fact, if Ava were alive, he wouldn't have had to decline the request. Bronia would have never even thought to ask. Ava would have raised her well and without the desire to be involved in any part of the battlefront.

  Ava and Adelstan were natural-born tacticians. Together, they planned a new world that placed importance on the harmony between people and the desire to live and prosper. She did not like the prospect of war but understood its role.

  Magnahul sat in the dimly lit chambers of the king who was on the run. He did not realize his actions but he had begun to mourn his daughter. For the first time, he was also mourning his wife and his son.

  Adelstan the Younger was killed by a foreign assassin for reasons that Adelstan had not fully understood. There was the intention to subvert the natural transition of the clan from father to son. Someone had decided that the Magnahul family had gone against the natural order of keeping the wealthy rich and the poor, subjugated.

  A year after Adelstan the Younger was killed to subvert the legacy – a conspiracy that Magnahul never knew, Ava died. Somehow news had gotten out and Ava was assassinated as well. As she slipped into the afterlife, Ava made Adelstan swear that he would protect Bronia.

  A man blessed with tears has the good fortune of washing away his pain when he sheds them. A man who is unable to shed tears, as Magnahul had been all his life, carries his pain deep within. It becomes the force and energy that fuels his actions.

  The banging on the door redirected his thoughts as he invited the visitor. The door opened to reveal a guard with a message that Lord Henry requested his presence in the king's chambers. When Magnahul arrived, Henry was pouring over some papers on the shelves behind. It was an archive of documents that Henry had found the curiosity to inspect.

  He had discovered letters that dated back fifteen years – correspondences between King Philip and Clive Anstruthers. After reading them, he felt that Adelstan should read them as well. It concerned the future of the Isles and the reason of what was unfolding before their eyes.

  In those letters, he began to understand the motivations of the insolent Hickholm Anstruthers. The plan to turn the Isles into a vassal state of the French had been hatched by Philip and Cailean Anstruthers.

  The contents of the stored missives sickened him. Detailed reports of conversation and meetings held by the Redires of the Endecagon, Magnahul's war council, as well as private conversations between Adelstan and Flyster Kendric were all laid bare here. Flyster had been a member of Cailean’s court before he planted himself within the good graces of the Magnahul clan.

  The trade agreements and treaties that had been in place were all just to placate the Magnahuls.

  The threat to the clan was more dire than he had anticipated. "What a fool I have been?" he muttered.

  “Treachery such as this cannot go unpunished, Adelstan," Henry insisted. "The Isles are Scottish, Welsh and English," he added. "It is time we come together and stay together as one."

  Magnahul had thought of this ever since he was a young man. It had been his dream to unite the clans and bring them all under one flag. His only condition was that they were to do it under a flag of peace, not a banner of war. But now he had no choice. The moment had come when death had to be the way to protect life.

  Henry could see the flames in Magnahul's eyes. It lit the forge of resolve and melted the slags of hesitance. What was momentarily stolen from him when his daughter lay lifeless was resurrected by the emergence of truth. Philip had been be
hind his wife, son and daughter's death. There was a limit to noble sacrifice. This was it. It was time to settle all scores and build a nation.

  Chapter 8

  Royal Ransom

  B y dusk of the following day, the Magnahul fleet had arrived at Anderhal Bay. Orders were transmitted to the ground commander and the Moroccans. The ships were stocked and supplied through the night, and by the following morning, they began their voyage to the south of France.

  The once-serene tent city of Anderhal Bay had an eerie aura that hung on it. Heads and bodies separated in the valley, bodies burned and charred on the ridge, or drowned in black oil and tar in the east had transformed the epitome of peace and tranquility into a clarion of death and destruction. It was no longer suitable as a city.

  When the last ship set sail that day, no man alive was left behind. With the rightly timed departure, wind and tide aided in the rapid clip of the vessels. They arrived at a point just beyond the horizon of Marseilles at the right time. Their presence was cloaked by the curvature of the earth. From there, they circled out of visual range and berthed at Toulon where the ships were locked in as before – as a bridge for the men to disembark. By nightfall of the second day, they had circumnavigated the city of Marseilles and laid siege to it.

  One hundred and ten thousand soldiers waited in the countryside for their lord and his entourage to arrive. Magnahul did not disappoint. He was there at the time that he had said he would be and rendezvoused with the commander. Lord Henry had remained at Fountainbleu with the bulk of the soldiers to keep the castle and protect the treasury that was in the cavernous basement. The bulk of King Philip’s wealth was located in those subterranean vaults.

  Magnahul briefed the commander. "There are fifteen thousand troops. Slay all, but leave the king to me."

  That was his only command. As he stood on the ridge with his entourage, he watched as the combined forces of Highlanders and Moroccans swept into the flat land of the coastal city, ripping though it like locusts in a wheat field. There were some allied casualties but not significant. The French suffered total loss as every man that stood in front of a Moroccan met his fate, just as his countrymen had in Anderhal Bay.

  Palais Sud – Palace in the South, where the king met with Kendric and Hickholm, was likely where he now held up. When sufficient men had been sacrificed and while the rest were bidding farewell to their heads, Magnahul began a slow descent into the city. His bannerman carried the flag of the Magnahul clan and it was meant for the man with the spyglass watching from the window of the Keep. Magnahul could not see him but was certain he was there.

  As the Moroccans finished the butchery, Magnahul arrived at the gates of his nemesis. He sat in his saddle as he watched his men tear down the gates and storm the palace. Fighting ensued with screams and slashes competing for an audience. The smell of death displaced the smell of salt in the grand seaside city. As the cacophony of death turned silent, men appeared from the chambers within.

  They had captured King Philip.

  Magnahul strode into the palace grounds on his horse. Man and beast stood large over the once-king of France. Magnahul glared at him. Philip stood erect with his head held high. He had no idea that the man who towered above him in stature and wisdom, would soon relieve him of every last ounce of dignity he thought he had.

  Magnahul vaulted from his horse and landed with an audible sound that seemed to punctuate the moment. He did not stop to greet or to speak. Instead, he walked to the commander of the guards that held the king captive and issued the instructions that were to follow.

  He entered the palace, followed by its previous occupant, and the guards who now owned the king’s freedom. They moved to the chamber closest to the entrance. Bodies were strewn on the floor like paper blown in the wind.

  The look of disbelief over the turn of events occupied the countenance of the Frenchman. Still, in his royal robes, and without armor, his current state was not the least dignified. Magnahul did not capitalize on that.

  Lord Adelstan Magnahul seated himself at the large table and raised his hand to gesture Philip to sit across from him. He signaled the guard to unshackle him and both men sat in silence. The man who had sinned wore no shame. Only fear.

  “Bring me parchment, ink, and quill," Magnahul commanded.

  While his instruction was carried out, he looked at the man who had orchestrated the death of his family. “You will sign a treaty in your own hand for the surrender of France.”

  The measure of resolve in this king did not amount to a fraction of the guard who lost his life protecting the secret of the tunnels. This king was quick to make a deal and surrender his country.

  “Take my people and the land, but leave me my gold," were the first words that fell out of his mouth.

  “No. You will lose your gold, your armies, your claims, and your titles. You will only keep your life. If you do not sign the treaty, you will be relieved of that as well and you will then have nothing. The choice is yours."

  Philip sat still. His choices were non-existent. “How will you kill me?”

  “Slowly," came the reply. Magnahul had sized up the man that sat opposite him. He was indeed a coward. Greed had robbed him of valor and comfort had robbed him of honor. He stood there a hollow man, made king by the wealth in his vault and the numbers in his armies.

  “If I choose to surrender, I stay alive?"

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. Give me the paper.”

  “Wait." Magnahul paused, then turned to the guards. "Bring me two Frenchmen." The cooks from the kitchen who had surrendered and been spared were brought in. He looked at them and spoke in French. "You shall witness this," he said. Then he turned to Philip. "You may proceed."

  “I, King Philip of Bordeaux hereby...” he wrote out the full surrender witnessed by the men who had cooked him breakfast that morning.

  His surrender was absolute and unequivocal. Upon writing it, he signed it and used the seal on his ring to complete the document.

  Chapter 9

  Truths of Old

  T own criers of French nationality were dispatched into the villages to announce the news. King Philip had abdicated the throne in favor of King Henry. Word was sent to King Henry who at that time sat in Chateau Fountainbleu. It was unexpected.

  Magnahul left his men and fleet in Marseilles, taking a small division with him to Paris. With him, was the prisoner Philip of Bordeaux. They traveled by night to avoid attracting attention and reached the palace by dawn. King Henry awaited their arrival, as did Hagan.

  “The world has changed," Hagan thought. But there was a nagging feeling that he could do more. He just didn't know what.

  Adelstan requested an audience with the king.

  “You don’t have to do that, Adelstan,” King Henry said.

  “But I do, Your Grace. You are now the King of France.”

  Henry knew very well that this was not a matter he could argue. While Henry held the title, Magnahul actually held the honor.

  “He is indeed a man of honor and grace," Henry thought.

  “Why?" Henry asked. "Why do you deny yourself the honor of what you have fought so valiantly for and lost so much over?"

  “Because I am not worthy...for what I am about to do."

  Henry was taken aback. His initial lack of understanding began to clear as he watched the intent behind Magnahul’s eyes. No more words needed to be spoken.

  “We will meet again this evening, Your Highness. I need to put some things in order. We still have much to discuss about the Isles. We have to strike quickly."

  “We shall meet when you are ready, Lord Magnahul."

  Magnahul moved stoically to find Hagan. He needed the council of his Alchemist. Hagan had taken up occupancy in one of the chambers on the lower ground. It overlooked the east garden. The two men spoke. For the first time, the temperature of their conversation was more like kin than strangers. The change comforted Hagan. The two men now shared a common element in their lives.
They both loved a woman that had been slain. Both were mourning the death of something that lay deep within them, but both did it very differently.

  “I want to show you something,” Magnahul said in his usual soft volume. He reached into his pouch and pulled out a wrapped artifact. It was concealed within soft cloth and measured approximately a palm’s length. It was sharp all around and gleamed brightly in the light. Magnahul never knew what it was but had kept it in his tent ever since it was found five years earlier during a meteor shower.

  Hagan couldn't imagine what Magnahul was about to show him and waited as the leader of the clan pulled back the corners, one side at a time, to reveal a shard of Zarcionian Sapphire.

  “How did you get this?" There was a visible change to Hagan's presence. A transformation had occurred from a man who had lost everything to a man who just gained a shard of hope.

  “Five years ago, it came from the moon.”

  “This is exactly what is needed. I have to polish and shape it but that is not too difficult.”

  “Is this enough?" Magnahul asked.

  Hagan paused at the question. He wasn’t sure if the question meant that’s all he had or there was a lot more.

  "How much do you have?”

  “About the size of you.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because the need to change what has happened never presented itself before. It has presented itself now.”

  Hagan knew exactly what he was saying. They needed to alter a small sliver of time to keep Bronia safe. The question was how.