Chapter 4

It's been a while but i thought I'd have another go at this!

Please R&R and let me know waht you think

Thanks

Cats;)


The compound of Gallia stood on a cliff top overlooking a steep drop into a deep ravine that was treacherous and had so far proved to be impossible to scale. The other side was surrounded by a deep, unexplored forest, dark and impenetrable that rendered it completely invisible from any distance. Had Salem not known exactly where to look he doubted he would have been able to find the compound unaided.

A winding river passed through it, granting it a constant supply of fresh water, within the walls he knew there were acres of green fields religiously kept and maintained by the colony's many farmers. The place had been designed to be completely self sufficient, a little independent world all of its own. And yet to those who, like Renoir or Thompson had grown up in the liberal compound of Clementine which was now little more then ashes, the colony seemed more like a prison then a fortress. As they approached, the dark walls loomed dark and oppressive overhead, encasing them all in a dark shadow that even the brilliant sunrise could not keep at bay. The wrought iron gate cast long spidery shadows that seemed to writhe and twist in the wind. Salem felt a distinct shiver run down his spine, as the sheer scale and grandeur of the place seemed to impress upon all of them. Well almost all…

'Is very big this place,' said Volkov in a decidedly unimpressed voice, swinging a kick at the base of the vast stone structure.

Salem grinned feeling the tension ease a little.

'Yeah, see that's kinda the point isn't it?'

They stood in silence for a few moments, surveying the scene before them.

'Um, do you think we should knock or something?' Garcia had joined Salem a few feat from the gate, and was viewing it with apprehension.

'What do you want to do? It's not like there's a door bell,' Salem frowned slightly.

'Say something Salem, introduce us or something' Renoir joined the two, grinning broadly.

'Why me?' came the indignant reply.

''Cos you're 'sposed to be the leader.'

'Oh yeah,' Salem stepped forward, clearing his throat loudly.

Almost immediately, the ruddy face of a guard with an impressive moustache and a polished helmet appeared at the top of the wall. He regarded Salem and his men with an expression of deep distrust for a moment.

'Who goes there?' his voice carried down to them, loud and pompous. Salem looked around wildly for inspiration. Already Garcia was laughing, he heard him hiss to Renoir.

'Who goes there? Who the fuck talks like that? Its like 1600's England.'

'Like knights of the round table?'

'Welcome to Camelot.'

'I'll be your host Sir Galahad'

Salem cleared his throat again, shaking his head. It's like having kids he mused.

'My name is General Salem Xavrios, we hale from Clementine. Our compound was attacked and destroyed, we're seeking sanctuary. Im looking for Lieutenant Tell, he's an old friend.'

The guards frown deepened to a look of intense concentration.

'Sank-tree…' he repeated, 'loo-ten-ant…'

Salem nodded hopefully; adopting what he hoped was a sincere expression. The red-faced guard nodded once before disappearing behind the wall. The gathered soldiers exchanged mystified looks, and Salem had just opened his mouth to call again when the gate began to creak open slowly.

'Proceed' boomed an unseen voice.

Salem turned to Renoir, who shrugged slightly before entering the compound. As though they had been waiting for a cue, the others turned and followed suit. As in Clementine, the gate opened on to a large courtyard, yet this one was at least ten times the size of the one left behind. Almost immediately, they became aware of being watched, and turned to see the wall they had just passed through was lined with guards clutching long range weapons. The sight did nothing to reassure them.

The sound of hurried footsteps broke the silence. Salem turned to see the guard who he had spoken to approaching, almost running to keep up with a second, much taller man.

'General Tell,' he panted by way of explanation. The second man was tall and slim, almost 6''5, and was dressed impeccably. He carried himself gracefully and stood with a degree elegance and poise that Salem knew neither he nor any of his men could ever achieve. He became immediately aware of how shabby they all must look. Tell's eyes lingered on Renoir's mud-smeared face, Chung's singed eyebrows, and Thompson's bloody lip. He held out an elegant, well manicured hand to Salem, who hastily wiped his sweaty palm on his torn combats before taking it. Tell didn't flinch.

'General Xavrios? Welcome to Gallia, General Daniel Tell at your service.' He spoke with the faintest trace of an accent that Renoir took to be upper-class British.

'General? What idiot thought it was a good idea to make you a General?'

The two Generals regarded each other for a long moment, before Tell's face split into a wide grin.

'The same idiot that thought it was a good idea to let you graduate military school.'

'Fair point.'

'It's been to long brother.'

Salem turned to his men, 'Tell and I grew up together. His parents took me in when I was around nine. He's pretty much the closest thing to family I have.'

'I never knew you felt that way. You make me feel so special.'

Salem rolled his eyes, 'I didn't mean it as a compliment.'

'What other way could you possibly mean it?'

'Family as in that I can't get rid of you?' Salem replied hopefully.

Tell chose to ignore this.

'You must be exhausted,' he addressed the assembled soldiers, 'I can have one of my men show you to the barracks. You are welcome to stay as long as you wish.'

There was a general grateful murmur of ascent and Tell turned back to Salem.

'I would however welcome your company, I feel we have much to discuss.'

'Sure. I really appreciate this.'

'That I highly doubt, but that is neither here nor there. George?'

The ruddy faced guard appeared immediately at the young General's side.

'Show general Xavrios' men to the barracks, and ensure they are comfortable.' The little man nodded before trotting of, gesturing for the weary soldiers to follow him. Salem watched the retreating figures, smiling slightly. Renoir's voice carried back to him as he turned to Garcia.

'I got one! What do you call a doctor in Camelot?'

'What?'

'Sir John! Get it? Sir John… Surgeon!'

'That's actually not bad. Did you just come up with that?'

'Yeah pretty good for a spur of the moment thing.'

Salem turned back to Tell still grinning.

'You wouldn't guess that under an hour ago we were seconds from being Demon food would you?'

'Impressive resilience. So tell me,' began his friend, raising one perfectly shaped eyebrow, 'the demons, how on earth did you get out of that one.'

'As usual nothing escapes you.'

'I make it my business to keep up to date with the fortunes of old acquaintances.'

'So in other words you make it your business to learn all about things that are none of your business?'

'Something like that. The woman and children from your colony arrived a few hours before you, along with some of your men, and your… em… Captain.'

'Captain America?'

'That's the one. Is that his real name? Anyway, they told me you attempted to hold of the demons to give them a chance to escape.'

'I'm quiet the hero.'

'Certainly. So how did you manage it?'

Salem recounted the story in detail while his friend listened, wide eye. For the next few hours the two men reminisced at length about the events of their childhood, their education as soldiers, and the many battles they had endured since they had last parted. By the time they had finished, Salem's voice was hoarse and the sun was high in the sky.


********* ********* ********


Renoir wasn't entirely sure at exactly what point he realised that he was being watched. He opened his eyes in the gloom searching for the unseen presence he was sure he could sense. He raised his head a few inches off the pillow listening intently. The silence was broken only by the sound of Chung's heavy breathing and Volkov's muffled snores. He shook his head slightly, attempting to shake the feeling that was making him so uneasy. He squinted slightly, peering around the small underground room in the Gallia barracks searching for something, anything out of the ordinary. There was nothing. And yet he was sure that someone waited, watching just beyond his range of vision.

Accepting the fact that sleep was now impossible, he reached under his pillow, removing the blade that he had concealed there earlier. In one swift movement he threw back the covers, dropping from the bunk-bed to the floor with a barely audible thud. There at the door, a flash of white hair and pale eyes. The figure disappeared, melting into the shadows. Without thinking Renoir followed, through the door and into the hall. At the end of the corridor he caught another glimpse of the person, a tall willowy man cloaked in grey, walking purposefully towards the main gate. A moment of indecision, 'this is crazy, following a man around a town I don't know' and yet the curiosity overcame him.

The man proceeded to leave the barracks. If he was aware that he was being followed he appeared not to care for he walked with the same deliberate pace, unhurried, never looking over his shoulder. Renoir followed, the blade still clutched in his left hand, staying several paces behind. The man turned off the main road, disappearing between to houses. Renoir was sure he had lost him, and cursed himself silently for being so overcautious. He quickened his pace, almost running to the gap. It led onto a small winding street, lined on both sides by buildings in the distance he could see the cloaked man, turning on to another street. Renoir was running now, with no thought of concealing himself. The man led him deeper into the heart of the town along narrow streets, often disappearing between buildings once leading Renoir underground before returning to the surface. Renoir became aware that it was getting darker. He stopped in his tracks. But when I left it was dawn. He felt a shiver running down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold night air. The man turned into a building a few feet ahead. Renoir approached cautiously. The building was unremarkable, as dilapidated and run down as all the others that surrounded it. Renoir approached the boarded up window's peering between the rotting planks of wood. A flickering light suggested that a fire burned instead. Silently Renoir debated turning back, returning to the barracks and forgetting the bizarre encounter completely. But he'd come this far hadn't he? He took a step forward, placing a cold palm against the wooden frame of the door. Without warning it swung open, revealing the tall man Renoir had been pursuing.

'You took your time, getting here.'

Renoir looked over his shoulder, but the street was deserted. He looked back at the man. He was older then Renoir would have guessed, with long white hair that seemed to fan out behind him and kind a kind, heavily lined face. He reminded Renoir of his grandfather, albeit with longer hair. He smiled at Renoir's look of confusion his hazel eyes twinkling.

'Who are you?' Renoir managed eventually.

'I have many names,' replied the man, turning his back to Renoir and retreating further into the house, beckoning to Renoir to follow him. Renoir didn't move.

'That's very enigmatic of you,' he said, and the old man turned back to face him sighing.

'They call me Gabriel, I am the bookkeeper.'

'See was that so difficult?' Renoir was starting to feel irritated slightly. Who did this man think he was? The bookkeeper merely smiled.

'And you my friend are Renoir.'

'How do you know that?' Renoir felt his jaw dropping, something very strange was happening.

'Your wearing a name tag,' the old man was pointing at Renoir's chest where his last name was written on his military uniform. Renoir grinned relaxing slightly. He was being ridiculous.

'You were watching me though.'

'Yes,' Gabriel conceded.

'Why?'

'I needed to be sure of something?'

'Of what?' Renoir frowned.

'That you were the one I was searching for.'

'O.k. enough with the mystical mysterious bullshit. What the hell is going on here?'

'I've brought you here to give you something.'

'You didn't bring me here, I followed you.'

The man held his palms up in a gesture of surrender.

'I forget myself, won't you permit an old man to indulge himself?'

Renoir shrugged saying nothing and Gabriel continued.

'I feel that this will help you find what you are looking for.'

'You're deluded. I'm not looking for anything.'

'Not yet perhaps, but in time this will help you find the one you seek.'

'Great. Eh thanks...'

By the stage Renoir was convinced that the man was insane and that he was better off placating him after all he didn't want to upset a crazy person. Something in Gabriel's expression made Renoir think the old man knew exactly what he was thinking.

'I'm afraid there is much you do not understand and I apologise that I am not at liberty to explain it,' said Gabriel.

'Don't worry about it,' said Renoir, suddenly eager to leave and return to the barracks.

'So I will leave you with this,' the old man placed a withered hand inside his cloak and withdrew a leather bound book that looked even older then he did. He held it out to Renoir, whose curiosity once again got the better of him. He accepted the book.

'What is this?' he asked hesitantly.

'A book.'

'Thank you Captain Obvious, What do you want me to do with it?'

'Read it.'

Gabriel held up a hand to silence Renoir's predictable rebuke.

'Understand it, do what you will with it, but most of all remember it.'

'What do you mean remember it?'

'So many questions so little time.'

'Why do people always say that? We got loads of time. It's not like you got anywhere you need to be.'

'On the contrary, there are many places I must be, but only one place you must be. We will meet again soon Leonardo.'

'Uh great I'll look forward to it.'

'In the meantime…'

'I got it, read the book.'

'And remember?'

'Sure.' Renoir looked down at the faded blue leather cover, and traced the ornate gold lettering with one finger.

Soldiers of Armageddon;

The diaries of V.L.S.

'Who's VLS?' asked Renoir looking up. But Gabriel was gone. Quickly he ran to the door of the building, looking up and down the street but it was deserted. Crazy old man he thought smiling to himself, but he kept the book, tucking it in his pocket. For some reason, a reason he could not quiet explain even to himself he had already resolved to keep the encounter with the old man, and indeed the book itself, a secret. He set off in silence, tracing his steps carefully making his way back to the barracks. He was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't notice the darkened sky. It was as though no time at all had passed since he had left perusing Gabriel. Something was bothering him, something Gabriel had said. It wasn't until he reached the barrack gates that he realised what it was.

'He knew my full name,' he spoke aloud, stopping in his tracks. No one knew his full name he had always been Leon. For the second tome in a very short period of time, Leon Renoir had the feeling that he was being watched.