Jonathan Dunn - The Forgotten King

“We draw near the castle. Our best has already been given: if we grow tired and are caught, it will do our friends no good. So let us rejoin our comrades in the Treeway, where a spell of weakness will not mean death. We cannot sustain this fighting any longer.”

Only the strongest and most fortunate of the rangers survived, and these were glad to hear of their reprieve. They turned their fleet feet to the west, charging until they came to the first of the ring of platforms that skirted the plain. The enemy soldiers were not far behind.

“Hurry, friends!” Osbert called up, “Let down the ladders: the enemy approaches quickly. Signal the castle at once.”

“Yes, sir,” a ranger lowered his voice as he lowered the rope ladder. The canopy was several hundred feet above the ground with no branches within a hundred and fifty feet from the ground. Nor was it possible to climb the trees, even with spikes or ropes, for the wood was strong and the height too great. There were only a few places, bordering the mountains on the far northeastern side of Atilta, that could be climbed by assiduous exertion. Once up, the forest could be traversed along the branches and the rebels built their Treeway further and further into the forest, until it reached the Western Marches, where it was invincibly high: no one could enter from below without their assistance. So the ladder was lowered and a flaming arrow shot into the plain: the preconcerted signal that the enemy approached by land.

“I will ascend last,” Osbert said, looking anxiously into the forest. “Hurry, for they will be upon us soon.”

The rangers began the ascent, but only two or three could climb at once, lest the ladder break and they fall to their deaths. As the others climbed, Osbert peered into the forest. “What has come of you, my friend?” he whispered to himself. He seemed upon the edge of despair when, from the far left, he saw a rapidly approaching band of rangers. It took them a moment to come up, but Osbert smiled when they did.

“Griffith!” he cried, “I am glad you are well. What has come of your followers?”

“Alas, it is only me and these five. The battle was fierce and some chose to fight rather than come back alive: an obstinate choice, perhaps, but they will have done more than we.”

“The loss of a brother is grief. Go, the officers ascend last,” Osbert motioned to those newly arriving.

Blaine looked warily into the forest, where the soldiers were spewing from the trees in the distance. “If they approach while the ladder is down, we are lost,” Blaine said. “We should retreat to the castle, as there is not enough time for us to ascend without compromising our companions.”

“We should, old friend; yet after this night of battle, I have not the strength for such a sprint.”

The soldiers grew closer. The vanguard was only a hundred yards away.

“Come,” Blaine said, his voice firm, “If we wait longer we are lost: you first.”

Osbert nodded and jumped onto the rope; Blaine followed after he had gone thirty feet. The two climbed with all their strength; yet of that there was little left, and the foremost soldiers reached the ladder before they were halfway up. The ropes creaked and grew too taunt to be easily climbed; the ladder began to swing uneasily about. At length, Osbert reached the platform and rolled onto its safety. He waited only a moment, then took up his bow and turned over the edge to resume his attack on the invaders. Yet what he saw made him cry out in distress.

“Blaine! You must hurry, for they climb faster.”

Blaine Griffith, tired from the night’s work, was still twenty feet from the platform; beneath him the soldiers were growing closer. Their heavy armor added to their weight and it was too much: the ladder seemed ready to snap. At last, his hand reached over the platform and was grasped by Osbert, who held onto it in fear. Just then, the rope ladder snapped and fell to the ground, which clubbed the soldiers to death as they met it. But they were not the only ones.

“Blaine!” Osbert grasped his hand, but his strength gave way, “Blaine! This cannot be!”

There was no answer: only silence from below; then, far below, a muffled thud. Osbert raised his anguished face to the sky. Both were dark with storm.

“Blaine, my friend, what has happened?” he cried. “This war has taken many lives, but now? Now, it has begun in earnest.”

As he spoke, his voice was defeated by the charge of the legions below. They had begun passing into the plain, their way hotly contested by the rebel arrows. With gravity behind them, the arrows broke through to the soldiers’ vitals; but with fate behind them, the soldiers broke through to the plain.

“Let us die together,” Osbert moaned, “And our blood mingle with our enemies’!”

The soldiers below yelled and shouted and did all the things men do to encourage bravery and abandon; but as they ran, their ranks were abandoned, if not brave. A mound of the dead erected itself in a ring around the Treeway. With every moment it became more difficult for those below to pass. Osbert took his bow and sent his arrows off with the last of his strength. His hands began to quake and his arms to shake, his fingers danced in his exertion. He had pushed his strength to its limit in the night and only his iron will held the morning; but now both his strength and will were defeated. His hands he pushed forward in pain and blood came with his sweat.

Then, he could move no more. He pulled back an arrow and found its prey, but could not release it. Instead, it fell limply to the floor. A faint moan escaped his lips; he was powerless to do more. His mind was imprisoned within his worn body, but the latter could not be forced to continue. A tear fell from his eye like a star from the sky. He drew his sword as if he drew the earth. He held it before him, shaking violently, and surrendered himself to death. He fell forward, pivoting at his knees. His upper body swung over the side and began descending to the ground. He fell, swiftly and without noise. He fell, his face a mountain, his fate a valley. He fell, but his eyes were already lifeless, empty, without form. For even as his body charged the ground three hundred feet below, Osbert was dead.

Chapter 84

Meanwhile, a mile to the east, Alfonzo rode horseback along the rampart that bordered Thunder Bay. The rebel forces were positioned there in strength, prepared to prevent the landing of the enemy fleet. Oren Lorenzo was at his side, on a mule, and each was armed with a sword.

“The signal!” Lorenzo cried, his fiery mustache quivering.

“Yes, the signal,” Alfonzo returned, “Let us hope Blaine and Osbert prove themselves once again.”

“Gylain’s soldiers will have an early taste of eternity, either way,” Lorenzo said soberly, “And may they repent beforehand.”

“May they, indeed! But it is too late for such things now,” Alfonzo shook his head.

As he spoke, a horn sounded from the rebel fleet, straddling the channel into the harbor.

“They call the charge!” Alfonzo cried, “But why? Have they seen the soldiers?” He spurred his horse and galloped down the line until the trees no longer obstructed his view of the harbor. Then, “Can it be? The fleet arrives early! To arms men: the enemy is upon us!”

The combined fleets of Gylain and Lyndon could be seen charging the rebel lines, over two hundred ships in all.

“Gylain has always had a devil’s heart,” Lorenzo said, “But now he has a devil’s cunning. Could any man bring his troops to bear with such deadly, inerrant perfection? Alfonzo, this bodes ill for us!”

“We will see,” was the only answer.

By now, the land contingent of Gylain’s force had passed from the forest to the plain. Behind them, the dark forest and the arrows of their enemy; before them, the open air, albeit stormy. Yet this is not what made their hearts rejoice, for they saw very clearly before them the rebel lines. To the south, the castle was secure and to the north the ramparts stood strong against the landing force. But only a dirt road stretched between them, with unwalled guard posts along the way. And, above all, the ramparts were open in the rear. There was no defense from the east, from the plain. It was as if the rebels had not prepared for their arrival, as if they did not know they were coming. A loud cheer went up from the men, even from the officers. From five thousand, they had now only four. But in the end, it seemed, their troubles had not been in vain: for they caught the rebels unguarded. The soldiers were more worn than the rebels, having marched several days in heavy armor in addition to their narrow escape, but still they came forward – by duty and by drill. They came forward to break a hole for the fleet’s landing.