Chapter Twenty-Seven

"On the Long Track of Lies"

I am a traveler,
I am riding through time,
I have a ticket to the end of the line.
Lights of the city are passing in blue,
I stare at reflections searching for you.

The battle was all but won. A few groups of knights still skirmished with stubborn farmers but their efforts were half-hearted at best. They knew, they all knew, for the outcome had long since been decided before the fighting had even begun that the serfs' cause was lost and the King's Guard would reign as victors. Perhaps the greedy Marek believed the rag-tag band of farmers could defeat the war-hardened knights but he stood alone in his hopes. Now, with his wrists firmly bound and three young squires standing guard, Marek could but watch from the safety of the King's encampment, as the full measure of his treachery and deceit lay before him upon the gore-stain plain. All of his planning and scheming had culminated in this fight; his refusal to compromise and dreams of great wealth lay shattered before him. Bright fear clawed at his gut and bile rose in his throat as the full measure of his scheming was laid before him. One way or another, he knew he would pay.

Across the field, golden iron beard glimmering in the warming sunshine, the Black Monk surveyed the carnage from the back of his sturdy mount. Shaking his head sadly at the waste he reined Odysseus to a stop and sought to find the leader of the uprising. Grissom spotted the peasant leader atop his own steed towards the rear of his retreating ranks. That same tall proud man who but a few hours ago had taunted the knights now tried in vain to bolster his flagging troops to battle on. Twisting to and fro in the saddle, the serf's champion shouted orders to the phalanx of sturdy men circled around him and implored the rag-tag band of plowmen and shopkeepers to return to the fray. Unable to rally his men, the peasant leader heaved a great sigh and slowly turned his mount to face the King's line. His eyes sought and held on the Black Monk for a long moment, knowing as he breathed in deeply that all was lost save for one final fight. He nodded at his foe and readied his mount.

Nik and Varrick reined in beside Grissom, flanking him, protecting him. The Black Monk watched in silence, absently rubbing the ebony prayer beads fastened to his belt and weighing his options. He could continue on his decided course and easily take the peasant leader in a final charge. He had faith in his abilities, his foe's liabilities, and knew he would emerge victorious. Or, he could back down from his chosen stance and remain the ever-obedient knight, allowing the serf to defeat him in quick battle, knowing full well that Nik and Varrick would avenge his death. The choice was his and his alone and he had known it would come down to this…one final battle. Regardless of his decision, he would have to fight one last time. Acknowledging the nod of the serf with a small one of his own, Grissom lowered his head, firmed his grip on his sword and, with a swift kick of his heels, spurred Odysseus across the open field.

Stopped off at Heartbreak,
It was back down the line.
In the Hotel of Tears, I spent some hard times.
I've seen that life is not what it seems,
On the long track of lies runs the long train of dreams.

The two champions crashed together in the middle of the plain with a resounding metallic clang of sword upon sword. Again and again they slammed together, great horses pawing the turf for purchase while their riders grappled for an opening, some small advantage. The peasant leader was taller and well muscled from long days toiling in the fields and felling trees but Grissom possessed more cunning and experience and his aim was true. The stalwart knight was also a better horseman, learning long ago how to maneuver with just a press of his knees and a nudge of his heels. He and Odysseus weathered many battles together and his trusty steed knew well enough how to nip and bite at the neck of the other stallion while his rider wielded steel. The serf leaned over in a futile attempt to grasp Grissom's sword hand and wrench the weapon from the knight, an ill advised and desperate movement that left him off balance.

A firm gauntled grip to the back of the serf's neck and a forceful downward push was all it took to unseat the peasant champion from his mount. Even as the black-clad warrior hit the ground with a resounding thud, Grissom looped the reins around the pommel and slipped swiftly to the turf. He was upon his foe before the man had fully regained his balance.

Moving, constantly moving. Grissom danced a strange dance with a novice partner, one who did not fully know or understand the steps. Never take a defensive stance but always remain on the offensive…cover and close in. Never try to parry with the blade but rather use the flat so the momentum can unbalance the striker. Seek to displace the adversary's blows with counter-strikes timed in the middle of their action. But the peasant champion knew none of the rules. Time after time he lashed out wildly in an attempt to bash Grissom's sword. His undisciplined, uncontrolled movements were easy for the Black Monk to intercept and stifle. The knight countered the desperate flailing with precision thrusts and savage cuts, landing blow after blow while easily turning aside any feeble offense his foe might offer.

Nik, Varrick and the remaining King's Guard herded the limping, defeated plowmen back to the edge of the field while keeping an eye on Grissom. The knights dismounted and shuttled the serfs to the rear while Nik and Varrick hustled to join James, Heather and Sara. Sandre and Berenger left their posts along the edge of the skirmish to stand alongside Sara, their rough bloodstained hands entwining with hers in silent concern and support while they nervously watched the deadly duel unfold before them.

I'm riding the liner, the Lonesome Express,
The end of the line is our only address.
I'm riding the liner all silver and clean,
On the long track of lies runs the long train of dreams.
On the long track of lies runs the long train of dreams.

The black-clad warrior had not yet mastered the moves for cutting through maille but Grissom had and his blade struck repeatedly, slipping past the iron circlets with fatal efficiency. A wicked upward thrust knocked the crude helm from the serf's head and Grissom followed with a fearsome blow about the neck and a brutal slap with the flat of his blade to the side of the reeling peasant's face. The tall man wavered and staggered and finally fell, his sword slipping from nerveless fingers as he landed on his back and lay still.

Grissom paused, giving himself a moment to draw a calming breath before planting the point of his sword in the turf and calmly removing his gauntlets. His movements were unhurried and might even be considered taunting were the Black Monk a man to resort to such petty behavior. The victorious knight stood over the fallen warrior, looking down upon him while almost absent-mindedly toeing the other's sword out of range.

"I am Wolfram," the fallen warrior rasped, extending a hand towards the knight.

The sudden words and gesture from the fallen man startled Grissom. He had thought the man to be unconscious.

"Well met, Wolfram," he replied with a slight nod of his head, his voice muffled and harsh beneath the heavy iron of his helm. He grasped the other man's forearm in greeting, held it for a long moment before stooping to lower the arm gently to rest upon the man's chest. "'Tis a shame our meeting could not have occurred under happier circumstances," he continued while rising once again.

"I have no right to ask," Wolfram rasped, "but also have nothing to lose anymore. Would you allow me the honor to look upon the true face of the champion who bested me?

Grissom paused a moment before slowly reaching up to remove his helm and brush back the chain hood and padded coif from his sweat-drenched hair. He laid the items on the sod beside his gauntlets and sword.

Wolfram sighed. "You are but a man after all. You have been wounded," he said, raising a shaky hand to point to the scar on Grissom's cheek. "I had almost hoped you were a beast; that my son could take some comfort in knowing that a hellhound had bested me and not just another man."

"I am a man like any other, Wolfram," the knight replied in a low voice. "A man full of hopes and dreams and fighting for what he believes to be right."

"And what is it you fight for, Sir Knight?" asked Wolfram, a tinge of bitterness creeping into his labored words. "From what I see and hear you have everything you could possibly want or need. You do not toil daily under the yoke of oppression to fill another man's stomach and pray nightly that God will teach that same man mercy and benevolence so that your wife and child have enough food and warmth to survive one more season."

"True, I want for nothing material for I have gained wealth aplenty through my life's labors," the Black Monk, replied. "Yet I am bound just as you, battling against my nature to fulfill the whims of another." Grissom's eyes grew distant and his voice softened to little more than a husky whisper. "I am fighting for the right to finally lay down my sword and live a life of peace, to remove the shackles of king and court and love the one I would choose as my mate."

Wolfram closed his eyes, mulling over the knight's words before reopening them and giving the champion a slight nod. "We are not so different after all, you and me."

"No, friend, for there are grave consequences for us both."

"I believed all of this to be right, that we were fighting for a better life."

"You no longer believe that," Grissom said in a flat voice, his response a statement rather than a question.

Wolfram shook his head and his hand dropped limply to cover his brow. "I learned early this morn as we were breaking camp that the one we had chosen to speak on our behalf betrayed us all. He could have settled this without bloodshed and we would have gained most of which we asked but he was blinded by greed and a lust for power."

"Then why fight?" Grissom queried, genuinely curious. He wondered why the peasants had made the stand knowing full well their cause was lost before it even began.

"Pride, Milord, simple stubborn pride," came the resigned reply. "It was too late to back down and walk away empty-handed."

I walk through the Pullman
On my way to the bar,
At the end of the train in the desperate car.
In the dark of the tunnel the hiss of the steam
Reminds me I'm riding the long train of dreams.

"What now?" Wolfram asked, squinting against the afternoon sun.

"Your wounds are mortal, my friend, for my aim was true," Grissom replied sadly. "You may yet live a few days, a week at most, but even with the best healers in the kingdom tending you from sunrise to sunset, you'll not survive. I am sorry."

"I know you are right. I can feel my strength pouring out with my blood and the darkness closing in even as we speak."

"Are your wife and child here? Shall I send for them?" Grissom asked softly. He had already noticed a tired looking woman aged beyond her years and sturdy, sandy-haired boy of about eight years toting a wooden sword standing somewhat separate from the rest of the assembled townsfolk and slowly, cautiously, inching ever closer to the plain. He quickly surmised they were Wolfram's family.

The fallen warrior shook his head, wincing against the pain the movement caused. "Nay. I pray you to grant me a warrior's death." Wolfram drew a ragged breath, eyes locked with Grissom's as he silently implored the knight to grant his wish. "I want my son to see me conquered as a hero rather than watch me slip away begging for the pain to end."

Grissom blew out a breath and tilted his face upwards towards the warming sun, praying for guidance. What Wolfram was asking was not all that unusual. Many warriors begged for deliverance rather than linger and suffer in agony. Gil understood that all he had slain upon the field of battle had been dispatched in honorable combat. But what Wolfram was asking, that was different, at least in Grissom's mind. Was what he wanted in keeping with the accepted rules of warfare or did it fall into the realm of murder? Was granting his desire a natural extension of the battle or was he helping the man bring about his own death? And really, was it any different from what he had done for Geoffrey?

In the end Grissom knew there were no answers to his dilemma, just his own judgment of what was right and just, what was moral and what any decent man would do to alleviate the suffering of another.

The Black Monk bent at the waist, grasped Wolfram's hands and helped the wounded man to his feet. After making sure he could stand on his own, Grissom retrieved the serf's sword and placed it in his hands.

Comfort the porter's
Taking good care.
Have no compartment, asleep in the chair.
I dream of a stranger who captures my soul,
I hear the wheels singing through years as we roll.

Atop the hillock, Sara screamed in horror.

The princess had watched the entire duel unfold, battling fear the whole time for she knew not Grissom's intentions. She knew that he fully capable of handily winning that final fight as the black-clad peasant was no match for her war-hardened knight. However, a niggling doubt had tickled the back of her brain. Her husband had been fully resigned to his fate when he embarked on this journey. While she had prayed that their last night together would sway the pendulum in her favor she knew Gil's loyalty and fealty unto her father was deeply embedded. Sara could only hope that his devotion the her and the duty he felt towards her and the two lads he had accepted into his household and his heart would win out over the bonds tying him to his king.

For scant moments, while Grissom stood over his fallen foe, Sara had rejoiced, for she knew that Gil had chosen her over her father regardless of the dire consequences he believed awaited him for his disobedience. She had finally started to relax, the tight coils of tension beginning to unfurl from around her heart when her husband helped the fallen warrior to rise and handed him a sword.

"He is going to kill himself," she shrieked to her father, pulling at his sleeve with both hands to garner his full attention. "He is going to allow the other to run him through!"

"Fear not daughter," James comforted, reaching out to lay a reassuring hand upon her shoulder. The king had observed the interaction between Grissom and Wolfram with keen interest and understood what was about to happen. "Your husband," he continued softly, "is quite safe and is in no way inviting his own death. He is but doing what any noble warrior would do under such circumstances."

"Husband?" Nik sputtered, exchanging an astonished glance with Varrick. "When did this happen?"

Varrick turned his attention away from the field and fully faced Sara with fists planted firmly on his hips. "And why weren't we invited?

"A few months ago," Sara muttered absently, her attention riveted to her spouse. Sparing them a glance she waved a hand in dismissal. "It was a spur of the moment thing that not even father was allowed to attend."

"'Tis true," James rejoined mournfully with a rueful shake of his head when both knights turned their unbelieving faces to him. Sara shot her father a baleful look before returning her anxious eyes to Grissom. James chuckled and continued his tale. "While Heather and I slept blissfully unaware those two conspired with the good Abbot to commence the deed."

"But we were there," Berenger broke in with a sly grin, nudging Nik with his elbow. "Both Sandre and I witnessed the whole thing."

Sandre gave an enthusiastic nod and puffed out his slight chest with pride. "I was even given the honor of holding the rings," he boasted.

Sara could stand it no longer. While the squires and knights quarreled and her father and Heather chuckled at the good natured quibbling she gathered the hem of her gown in both hands and took off running across the field.

I'm riding the liner, the Lonesome Express,
The end of the line is our only address.
I'm riding the liner all silver and clean,
On the long track of lies runs the long train of dreams.
On the long track of lies runs the long train of dreams.

Summoning his last reserve of flagging strength to remain standing, Wolfram gripped his heavy sword with both hands and shakily raised the battered blade before him to point straight at the Black Monk. Grissom crossed himself, bowed his head and muttered a soft prayer meant only for his and Wolfram's ears.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.1

The Black Monk remained motionless at the end of his prayer, allowing the words to wash over him and adding a silent prayer for courage and strength to complete this last devastating deed. With no warning and a sudden flurry of movement, Grissom grasped the hilt of his sword in both hands, freed it from the earth and swung a mighty arc, neatly beheading Wolfram in one powerful swing. Wolfram's body sank to the earth beneath a great geyser of blood and Gil fell to his knees beside the crumpled body of his brave foe, his eyes wet with tears, his maille stained with gore.

The lad Grissom rightfully identified as Wolfram's son had broken into a run when the knight pulled his sword form the turf and reached him as Grissom sank to his knees beside Wolfram's broken corpse. The child launched himself at the knight, battering against his maille with his wooden toy sword while screaming out his misery. Gil made no move to halt the lad or defend himself against the blows. He simply knelt, with head bowed and mumbled a weary prayer.

Sara reached the heartbreaking scene at the same moment as his mother and made to pull the boy free. Grissom stopped her actions with a sharp shake of his head. "Let him grieve, Sara," he pleaded in a husky voice. "If it helps him to take his anger out on me then so be it."

The princess gave her husband a sad nod and turned to face the shabbily dressed woman who had just joined them. Wiping her eyes on the faded cuff of her worn dress as she dips into a respectful curtsey, the woman cleared her throat and began to speak.

"I knew no good would come of this and bade him not to fight," she whispered in a voice tight with tears. "Wolfram was not a man of war. He was a gentle man and believed in using words to settle differences, not steel." She sighed then, standing a little taller, her voice gaining strength as she sought to make Sara understand. "He just wanted so much more for Gipp than a life bound to another behind a plow and was made to believe this," she sniffed, waving her hand feebly at the dead and dying still staining the sod, "was the only way."

Not knowing how to respond, Sara squeezed the older woman's hand in silent sympathy and turned her gaze towards her husband.

The lad had ceased to batter Grissom with his wooden sword and knelt beside his father's corpse, shoulders heaving as he cried out in despair. The fierce knight tentatively reached out and pulled the grieving child closer, enfolding him within strong arms. The boy resisted and tried to break free but Gil was relentless and the youngster at last gave in to sob out his misery on Grissom's broad shoulder.

"You have chosen well, Princess," Lilla commented softly motioning to the matching rings while watching Grissom comfort her grieving son. "He is a man of principle, like my Wolfram. He will be a fine mate and a good father to your children."

Sara shared a tremulous smile before the older woman stepped away to gently take her son's hand. After long moments she was able to coax her son away from the knight and stand on his own.

"What is his name?" Gil asked.

"He is called Gipp, Milord, and I am Lilla." Despite the tragic circumstances, Lilla smiled softly at Grissom's startled glance.

"Yes, Milord, Wolfram named him after you for he has always said you are the most noble and honorable of men." Lilla sniffled and bowed her head, speaking quietly and earnestly. "I do not blame you and I thank you for having the courage to do what needed to be done. I know he asked you to do what you did for he would have viewed such an end as a noble death. I'm sure he knew he was dying and desired such an end for Gipp's sake." She raised her head to look Grissom in the eye. "I just wish it hadn't come to this, that he had not been forced to make the request and you had not been forced to grant it."

Grissom nodded and soundlessly handed Gipp his father's sword, urging him to take it when the lad faltered. After looking to his mother for guidance, Gipp wiped his eyes and nose with the sleeve of his tunic before gingerly accepting the steel and holding it proudly before him. Gil watched the boy for a long moment before averting his glance to address Lilla. "If you wish," he began in a quiet, halting voice, "and my King willing, you both may come to me when the leaves begin to change and I will see to your comfort and Gipp's education. 'Tis not much and will not bring back your husband but it is all I have to offer."

Lilla pursed her lips in contemplation before giving a firm nod of her head. "Aye, Milord. We will be there."

I have faith you will find me
Or I will find you.
In the lights of the station of all that is true
I search for a stranger with eyes who are kind.
I'll hold you forever at the end of the line.

As they watched the somber twosome walk silently back across the plain to rejoin the gathered townsfolk, Sara reached out a hand to stroke fierce knight's damp hair from his furrowed brow and smooth the tears from his grizzled cheeks. "'Twas a good thing you did for Lilla and Gipp, Gris," she murmured. "They do not deserve the hardships that will now befall them."

Grissom raised his gaze to the shaggy hillock where he could make out the form of King James watching him intently. "None of these poor souls deserve the hardships yet to come. Wolfram was as much a dancer to the tunes of others as I have been all these years," he replied softly. "I mourn his death," he said, looking up at Sara, "for he was a good and noble man, one I would have been proud to name as friend had circumstances permitted." Gil gave her hand a squeeze as he climbed slowly to his feet. "I pray that I will be around to make good on that promise to Lilla. There is still one more battle to be fought and I know not the outcome for your father's wrath is fierce."

"Speaking of fathers," Sara began in a halting voice, "Lilla said you will make a fine one." Grissom cocked an eyebrow at her words, silently encouraging her to continue. "She noticed our rings and figured out the rest on her own. You know, the natural progression of things…marriage, children, all of those good things," she finished with a casual shrug of her shoulders.

"Well," he replied, clearing his throat that had grown tight with choked emotion. "Yes, I shall do my best to be a good father should I be blessed to live long enough to see such a wondrous day."

Grasping both of his hands, the Princess gazed into the clear blue eyes of her war-worn knight. "That day is going to arrive sooner than you might think," she declared, allowing a small smirk to grace her lips as his brow knitted in confusion. "My month has been overlong, about three months overlong truth be told. I am certain that I am with child."

Had the conversation not been so serious, Sara would have laughed aloud at Gil's continued bewilderment. She watched in fascination as various emotions skittered across his face. Amusement slowly gave way to anxiety at his continued silence until she was compelled to whisper, "Are you disappointed?"

Like the sun emerging from behind a cloud, a slight grin appeared and blossomed into the largest smile Sara had ever seen on her beloved Gil's face. His eyes crinkled and his teeth shone brightly against his graying mustache and beard. Reaching out he grasped Sara securely about the waist and twirled her about, his happiness and excitement shining through his actions. Sara laughed and snuggled into his chest when he stopped spinning and placed her back down on the ground

"How could I ever be disappointed, Lemman?" he nuzzled against her brow. "I am married to the woman I have always loved and now I am getting the family that has flitted through my dreams for as long as I can remember."

The couple shared a peaceful moment, not caring where they were or who was watching. For them, in that one blissful twinkling of time, nothing else mattered. When the two separated, Grissom kept one hand firmly entwined with hers while stooping to retrieve his sword.

"I am proud of you, you know." Off his curious glance she squeezed his hand and continued. "You finally fought for yourself and not just for my father. You battled for what mattered to you."

"I've too long lived for someone else and now 'tis time to follow my own path, our path."

"Come, Leof-mon," he sighed while pressing a soft kiss to her lips. "It is time. I must face my King and answer for my disobedience. Just know," the knight said, pulling her tightly against his side, "that whatever comes, whatever punishment he chooses to exact, it was worth it. You are worth everything and more."

I'm riding the liner, the Lonesome Express,
The end of the line is our only address.
I'm riding the liner all silver and clean
On the long track of lies runs the long train of dreams.

I'm riding the liner all silver and clean,
On the long track of lies runs the long train of dreams.
On the long track of lies runs the long train of dreams.

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John Stewart. "Long Train of Dreams," Rocket Roy in the Real World Plus, by John Stewart, Neon Dreams, 1999.

1 Psalm 23 (KJV)