Along The Watchtower

by Litwack, David

  I paused, breathed in and out, and let my fingertips brush the faces in the photo. "Anderson, he was the gentle one. He preferred to defend himself with magic. Said he had enough violence in the real world. He was a highly efficient soldier who could do what had to be done. But he had an aura about him, like he knew what it all meant.

  "Jonesy was a wiry backwoods kid from a small town. He liked the image of the hunter, the call of the wild. He prided himself on being able to slip like a ghost through the trees and set traps in the paths of his enemies.

  "And of course, the archangel, a priest who preferred to heal. All gone now. And it never should have happened."

  I slumped on the bench and looked away from the river into the eyes of the eagle on my cane.

  Becky began to console me, something about how the war wasn't my fault. I waved her off.

  "Don't stop me now." I could feel the rage rising up from my gut, a fury suppressed too long. "Back then, all units were switching from Humvees to the better armored MRAPs. We were due to get them, next on the list, but some fucker higher up got in the way. Army politics. Somebody owed somebody a favor. I knew we were in bandit country and it was just a matter of time before something bad happened. I knew. I went into the CO's office and screamed at him until he threatened me with insubordination and threw me out. I knew, Becky, but there was nothing I could do."

  My breath was coming in bursts now, and I didn't know if I could go on. But she took my hand and squeezed with her physical therapist strength until I turned back to her.

  "Tell me, Freddie. I'm here for as long as it takes."

  "Our shipment went to another unit and we were left with our Humvees. Would the MRAPs have saved their lives? Maybe. I'll never know. Christ, it was a five-hundred-pound bomb. I knew we were headed for a hot zone that day and had requested a route clearance team but none were available. What more could I have done? We had orders.

  "One minute, our three-Humvee convoy was on patrol on a road in Al Anbar. The next, a thundering boom. A voice crackled over the radio from the second Humvee. Sergeant Billy Wilson, twenty years old.

  "'It's not there, Freddie. I can't see Anderson's truck anymore. It's gone.'

  "What was left of my squad went out to check. The bomb had torn away the guts of the third Humvee. When the smoke began to settle, the only thing I could see was the engine block and the front and rear axles.

  "And then they were all over us. Not just a bomb planted in the road, but a coordinated attack. I pulled my guys back. I wanted so badly to help the others, but I had to save the rest of them. They were running around crying out names, like saying them loud enough might bring them back. But real war isn't a game. No magic, no healing, no Druid resurrection. We had to defend ourselves, to fight or die. I managed to get them inside the Humvees. We engaged the gun turrets and fought back with all we had. I fired my M-9 with one hand while I called in close air support. A Silver Star for that? Big fucking deal. I was trying to save what was left of my men.

  "After the choppers had driven them off, we all wanted to go help our buddies, but the brigade commander ordered us to stand down while the EOD team checked the area for other explosives. Only after that did they let us recover the bodies of our friends. But what we found-"

  Something caught in my throat and I couldn't go on. The silence around us became deafening. The soughing of the wind in the trees merged with the traffic on the VFW Parkway into a dull hum, at the same time too soft and too loud.

  Becky reached for a little backpack she'd brought and pulled out a bottle of Gatorade. I thanked her, took a drink, and felt the cool liquid loosen my throat. I hadn't realized how dry I'd become. She waited, never saying a word. Finally, I was able to continue.

  "When I returned to the base and was alone in my tent, the archangel knocked on my door. The air was thick with heat, the fumes of Baghdad burning. He rolled in like one of the dust storms that kept us inside most of the summer when we weren't on patrol. He hadn't bothered to clean up from the attack. He smelled like an infantryman-of blood and grime, of gun solvent and spent ammo. Sweat channeled down the dust on his face and curled across his skin.

  "He sat next to me, needing to talk. He was a big guy, barely fit into the folding camp chair. He heaved from side to side, his rifle still slung over his shoulder. Four of our friends were dead. He just sat there, head in hands, struggling to find words.

  "'We seen some bad things, Freddie,' he finally managed to say. 'Bad. I mean, I can't describe it.'

  "He cradled his shaven head the way a mother holds a newborn, fighting back tears. A period of silence passed. I don't know how long. But I didn't think I should break it.

  "Finally, he did.

  "'I hated to shoot the dogs,' he said."

  "The dogs?" Becky's words, more breath than sound.

  I looked up at her, almost surprised she was still there.

  "He meant the stray dogs that were gnawing at the dismembered body parts strewn about the road with bits of Humvee and fuel. They had us put on gloves so we could collect as many pieces as possible and wrap them in ponchos.

  "Iraq's full of wild dogs. I don't know whether they're really wild or orphans of war. They were trying to stay alive like the rest of us. We tried to shoo them away, but they weren't afraid of us. When I watched them going after what was left of our buddies, I kind of went nuts. I started yelling: 'Shoot the damned dogs.' When none of them responded, I pulled out my M-9 and started firing. The others joined in, more than we needed to. The archangel was the gentlest of the bunch. A good soldier, but I'd never seen him like that before. We fired until we emptied our clips, then slammed in a backup and fired some more. I couldn't stop it. I couldn't-"

  Becky raised a hand, fingers extended to touch me, but the hand paused mid-flight and withdrew. Her lips parted, but no words emerged. I looked at her and knew she heard and understood. It pained me to be the one to show her the fragility of goodness. But I had to keep going, to finish the story, to confess my sins.

  "The next evening, they had the entire battalion at the memorial. They set up rickety wooden bleachers and plastic chairs. Each soldier walked past the four sets of dog tags dangling from the upended rifles and the four pairs of desert boots representing the men who'd died.

  "I wore my game face and fired my carbine when I was told to in salute to the dead. But a part of me died that day too. Before the attack, I thought I could smell trouble. I'd convinced myself I had a sixth sense that would keep my guys safe. After they were gone, I lost my edge. Sure, I did my job, more than just going through the motions. But I played World of Warcraft every chance I could get. Like I was hoping to meet my buddies again in Azeroth and maybe heal them if I could find the right spell. But you know what? There's no magic in the real world."

  I stopped and looked up. Becky had never taken her eyes off of me.

  "What are you trying to say, Freddie?"

  "I'm trying to say . . . if I'd kept my head screwed on, maybe I could've saved the archangel. Maybe. I'll never know. But one thing's for sure. I let them down, just like my family. And now they're all gone. Forever."

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  A Gesture of Beckoning

  I'd vanquished the first two trials, but success had brought me no peace. My family was gone. Now I knew the heroes had perished as well. Though two trials awaited, I needed time to mourn. For the next few days, the hours passed like prisoners on their way to an execution. With the help of a page, I limped to the watchtower at the appointed times and performed my princely duties. But by the grace of the Goddess, I remembered nothing more of what I'd dreamed.

  Between the rising and setting of the sun, I stayed in bed, nursing my injured leg and searching for answers in the faces painted on the dome above me. Servants brought food and drink, but I ate little. I made no new forays through the castle, unable to parry and thrust with my usual skill, to run away or walk without pain. I even shunned my visits to the royal gardens.

  But most
ly, I wondered. If the encounters with the assassin had thus diminished me, and the remembrance of the heroes had brought me so low, what challenges would the next trials bring?

  To distract myself, I envisioned a nobler dream than what I'd seen through the spinning wheels. I imagined the five heroes as I would have as a child, when the promise of glory filled a young prince's head and goodness pervaded the world. I pictured them as knights riding shoulder to shoulder, mounted on mighty steeds. Each was armored in bronze and bore a shield that gleamed in the sunlight. One shield had an image of a timber wolf, the second a demonslayer in flames. The third had five bands of black enamel, forming a chevron that pointed to the sky. The fourth, a serpent with two heads, put forth from a single trunk and intertwined. And the fifth, a cross of gold with a great sword inlaid upon it. All wore helmets, double-ridged with white horsehair crests that bounced proudly above them as they rode.

  As their leader, I stood before them, holding a staff topped with a bloodstone, spouting encouragement and urging them on into battle.

  But then some dark magic overtook my dream. Angry flames leapt from the gem and consumed the five as I watched.

  A pounding on the bedchamber door interrupted my nightmare. By the light streaming through the window, I could tell it was too early for the watchtower.

  "It's not yet time," I shouted.

  I heard a fumbling at the lock. Whoever was outside had a key. With a grimace, I swung my legs to the floor and struggled to stand. Then I withdrew Kingsbane and prepared to confront the intruder.

  There was a click, and the door flew wide with such force, it slammed into the wall. Sir Gilly strode through, carrying a bundle under one arm. It was wrapped in burlap and shaped like a sword.

  "Seven more days," he said, with an uncharacteristic edge to his voice. "Seven days until the end of all things. The storm over Golgoreth grows. The dark mist creeps across the Barrens and blankets the Twilight Highlands. And yet you lie abed."

  Only after his rage had vented did he take in my appearance. How bad must I have looked? He cocked his head to one side and drew back a step.

  "Do you know who I am?" he said, eyeing the dagger.

  "The advisor." I set Kingsbane down and took a sip of wine from a goblet a servant had left on the nightstand.

  "Your friend," he said, "and not an assassin. And do you know what day it is?"

  "Day twenty-three. Or perhaps twenty-four."

  The corners of his eyes sagged, not a gesture of sympathy but of pity.

  "Have the trials been so hard, Frederick?"

  I attempted to step toward him, but my leg nearly buckled and cast me to the floor. I backed off and grabbed the bedpost for support.

  "Harder than I could have ever imagined," I said through clenched teeth. "Perhaps, despite all your training, I'm inadequate for the task. Something lacking in my character."

  "No!"

  His voice thundered in a way I'd not heard in years, the scolding of a teacher to a young whelp who'd been daydreaming in class.

  "These doubts have been put in your head by the demons," he said. "Think of all those living and gone who have believed in you. And I foremost among them. Believe in yourself, Frederick, and you will prevail."

  "Words from one who has never stared into the abyss."

  He raised the package and waved it in my face. "I've seen more of the abyss than you know. But if you need something other than words, take this. It was given to me by your mother, the queen, before she died. 'Sir Gilbert,' she said, 'he's only a child. And I'm pained that I won't be there to comfort him in the depths of his trials. So grant me this deathbed wish. At the lowest point, when the mists of the dreadlord have sapped his will, give him this gift so he may take strength from me and rise up to defeat the Horde.'"

  I gaped at the package, a glimmer of hope returning. "A weapon?"

  Sir Gilly shook his head and handed me the package. I ripped away the coarse outer cloth to find a second protective layer inside-a flowered shawl, a twin of the one that had been consumed by the demon's flames. I ran the pad of my fingers along its surface, stroking the silk, like feeling my mother's love. Then I peeled the shawl away, praying to the Goddess for a demonslayer.

  Not a demonslayer, but a polished piece of wood, a walking stick for the limp or lame.

  The rage within me grew, and I raised the staff high to hurl it out the window toward the moat below. But as I lifted up the bequest, I noticed an eagle head carved into its crown, with eyes that seemed to be staring at me. And as I watched, I could swear I heard it speak in my mother's voice.

  Your old life is gone, Frederick. Embrace the new as you've embraced the shadows.

  I grasped the staff and with its help, stood on steadier legs. Then I hovered by the open door and thanked the advisor, eager for him to leave. For now at last, I knew where my destiny lay.

  ***

  Leaning on the head of the eagle, I limped past the row of spears with the helmets on top and stood once again amongst the tombs of the heroes. My wish had been granted. I remembered every detail of the dream. Before me were the remains of what had once been brave men who fought in a war without honor or bounds, with powers beyond anything the demons could devise. The crypt seemed to roar with their silence.

  In tribute, I chanted their names.

  Dixon, the druid, Anderson, the mage, Martinez, the paladin and Jones, the hunter. And at their head, Sanchez, the priest and archangel. May the Goddess grant peace to them all.

  They were my brothers in arms. Instead of leading them into ruin, I should have been there to shield them, to parry their death stroke, and failing that, to die with them. I stood helpless, my weight a useless burden upon the earth, and my eyes began to fill.

  But then a white-hot anger stoked my mind, and I shook off the mood. I couldn't afford the luxury of tears.

  "Why?" I shouted, my voice echoing through the vaulted arches and dispersing in their shadows. And when neither spirit nor demon appeared, I cried out again, this time loudly enough to overwhelm the pounding in my ears. "What more must I do? What new trials must I face before Azeroth can be saved?"

  As if in answer, the wall behind the caskets began to shimmer and take on an indigo hue. I braced, expecting the return of the voidwalker. But instead, the foot soldier in blue reappeared, his arm raised as before in a gesture of beckoning.

  At first, I was puzzled, but then I understood. He was the guide to the third trial and was beckoning me to follow.

  I came closer and reached out to touch the rough stone. As my fingers slid along the surface, they took on the color of the soldier's uniform. I drew back my hand, pulled out my sword, and tapped on the wall, making the chamber echo with the clatter of metal on stone. And then I realized it.

  My mother's gift, the staff with the eagle.

  I reached out and touched the noble bird's beak to the wall. The blue soldier rippled and emerged, still an apparition but with his features now distinct. Silver hair spilled from the edges of his cap, framing a face etched with a lifetime of kindness.

  He stepped aside and waved for me to pass. But when I turned back, the wall was as solid as ever. I gaped at it, then at the soldier. When he continued to gesture, I raised the eagle head high and inched forward.

  The wall remained the same, as sturdy as Stormwind keep, but my body became translucent like that of the soldier, and I passed through like a wraith, undeterred by the physical world.

  On the far side, I was struck by a blast of cold air that prickled my lungs when I breathed in, and emerged as a cloud when I exhaled. Ahead, a single casket floated on vapors, its head tilted upward toward me. White particles skittered about like snow on the floor around it. And inside, a boy with his face covered in fog.

  I edged closer, hardly able to see, my eyes tearing from the stench and the cold. The blue soldier urged me on.

  When we reached the casket, he waved and the fog coalesced into a shroud. I peered in. A vision came into my mind, a boy with a
n innocent smile.

  "May I see his face?" I said to the soldier in blue.

  He reached down and peeled back the shroud. I peered in, but the face stayed hidden in cloud.

  I glanced up to the arches made aery by mist and down to where the vapors still swirled. Nothing in the chamber seemed real. I'd found the third trial, but what did it mean? More riddles to befuddle the dauphin.

  The dauphin. A rank rendered hollow in a mere seven days. If I solved the trials by then, I'd cast off the honorific and be anointed king. And if not, this baseless world would grind to a halt. All I held dear would burn to ash and be scattered by the blast of a scalding wind.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Styrofoam Snow

  "Do you have any family, Freddie?"

  Jimmie stared at me and I stared back, struggling not to grimace as I shook my head. The surgery to replace the fragment of his skull had gone well. The hockey helmet was gone, and enough hair had grown back to cover his scalp. He'd gained a few pounds too, and was looking better every day, downright handsome for a young soldier who'd been through so much.

  "My mom and dad live in Iowa," he said. "They don't have much money, but they visit when they can. And they email me every day."

  "And the girl?" Like Jimmie, I'd forgotten her name.

  "Evie," he said. "I wrote it down and read it out loud fifty times a day, like Dr. B. told me to do. Reprogramming the pathways, he called it. And now I can remember. She sent me this T-shirt."

  He pinched the fabric at his shoulders and pulled it taut. It bore a picture of a young man who resembled Jimmie. More flesh on the face, more hair on the head, but the deep blue eyes were the same. Beneath the picture were the words "Living well is the best revenge."

  "Have you seen her again?"

  "Uh-huh. She still cries a little but not as much. We're getting reacquainted. She says I'm less nervous now than I was on our first date. I have to take her word for it. She tells me stories, like listening about somebody else. Mostly I just like being with her."