Jonathan Dunn - The Forgotten King

Alfonzo galloped to the edge of the ramparts nearest the forest and the soldiers, then stopped, his face set against them like a stone wall. His icicle eyes pierced the air. His hands did not even tremble as he raised them to his mouth, for he was beyond a conscience in his role as general. “Fire!” he bellowed, and was silent.

It was not a legion of archers that arose to attack, but a single man, stationed in one of the guard posts. He stood ready, and on the order let loose a single, flaming arrow. It sailed across the horizon of the midnight noon like a miniature sun making its daily route, finally erupting into twilight at the feet of the advancing soldiers. The ground also erupted: in flame. The grass of the plain had been mowed near the forest and the castle, and the dead grass piled in the center of the plain, where it still grew high. A flammable liquid had been poured upon this. It was consumed with fire within the minute.

The soldiers were overcome in their weariness. Some fled back into the forest; but there was no respite to be found in the bosom of the archers. All that was left to them was fire or flight, and they chose the latter. The officers huddled the men together, forcing their way through the fierce flames.

Alfonzo pondered the scene without emotion. Though the others looked away, he did not. For it was his duty and men will do anything in allegiance to that word.

“The rain!” Lorenzo gasped, reaching out his hand to see if it were truly so. But it was, and as he spoke the rain fell harder and faster and the clouds buried the sun.

From the bay, the sounds of an engagement rang out. It was clear that the fleet had begun the attack. But Alfonzo could not turn his attentions to that quarter, as the ground troops were beginning to emerge from the flames. The rain – while not stopping the fire – subdued it and gave the soldiers time to escape. They began to form into ranks again, preparing to charge the rebel lines.

“March out the castle troops,” Alfonzo commanded Lorenzo, who rode off to carry it out. Alfonzo turned and rode down the line, yelling out as he went, “Shift ranks, we must fight the rear!”

The rebels poured out of the tunnels and earthen works, making ranks in front of them. Still, it did not take them long to file out, for there were only a thousand of them. When they had assembled, Alfonzo put himself at their head.

“Men,” he said, “The time has come: not for vainglorious speeches, but for blood.”

With that, he kicked his horse and began the march to the castle. Its gates had opened: a large force was coming to meet them in the center. By this time, the enemy soldiers were assembled: still over three thousand strong. A knight rode at their head, with a plume of feathers sticking from his helmet and an iron broadsword in his hand. The rebel forces converged, turning to the advancing regiment. Each group stopped fifty yards from the other and waited, unwilling to be the first to bathe in bloodshed.

Alfonzo sat firmly on horseback: his stature erect, his face stern. His long hair was back and it made him seem noble. Yet he was still a man of the forest, and his beard – no longer a mere goatee – took root firmly on his face. His eyes did not burn; his heart did not hate. It was not his desire to go to war, but he thought it his duty; and thus, he went.

Beside him rode Oren Lorenzo, no longer in a monk’s frock but a suit of armor. His hair was as fleeting as his temper, his face as severe as his oaths, his mustache as wide as his convictions. He was a churchman, and thus a man of impatience and strange ideas. But he was also a loyal man, if not to God than to Alfonzo, his old comrade of the forest.

“Woe to us, that it has come to this,” Lorenzo said, “Our land marred by fire and war. Is freedom worth the price of death? Or is liberty so sweet if none are left to eat of it?”

“I cannot say,” Alfonzo said slowly, “But I know that it has been put to us to win it, and so we must. If not for ourselves, for those who trust us to secure it. Would any man choose war? Not I, at least. But it has come. We would be wrong to flee from it.”

“Indeed, but look: our precious land is aflame. Even now the forest is threatened,” and he pointed to the field behind the enemy ranks. The wind had begun gusting over the plain and had blown some of the flames toward the edge of the forest, where it was beginning to take hold.

“It has come to the end,” Alfonzo sighed, “And that which does not burn will be doused forever. Perhaps it is true what was said long ago, though it is mocked by the ways of this dreary land.”

“Many things are said, most of them in foolishness. What of it?”

“Nothing, perhaps; but perhaps everything – I can no longer tell in this land of destiny.” He paused, and, drawing his sword, “Do not return evil for evil, but with goodness. The guilt is upon me, if we are wrong, and I cannot say that I am fearless in its face.”

His own face fell. Its innocence was lost. Alfonzo had climbed the mountain of rebellion; and now, on the precipice, he was condemned. Yet still he cried out, “Charge!”

Chapter 85

With Oren Lorenzo at his side and fifteen hundred rebel soldiers at his heels, Alfonzo led the charge toward the enemy. The latter did not rush to meet them, but took their position and made ranks. Some held spears without swords, others swords without spears, and still others had neither – for in the flames much of their equipage had been thrown aside. They were veteran soldiers, however, and possessed the carriage and control of such.

The two forces met as a wave upon the shore. Alfonzo’s face was drawn, as was his sword, and he held both in readiness to strike down the enemy commander. While the others yelled and flourished their blades to incite their wrath, Alfonzo did neither. He was a man of the forest, and he was the forest. If war is madness, still those who are least mad are most feared; and Alfonzo was armed with both a cold heart and a cold sword. The plumed commander did not shy from Alfonzo’s charge, but he was thrown aside a corpse. For Alfonzo had both the force of his arm and his horse, while the commander had only the latter. Alfonzo looped his blade down at a slant, while the other raised his own to defend. His sword was caught by the momentum and overtaken, dashing against his face; his dead body dashed against the ground.

Meanwhile, Lorenzo drove himself into the mass of soldiers, passing through a hole in their rank in which there were no spears. His heels were used correctly and his mule – a drooling beast with wide nostrils – rushed headlong into the forest of armored men that made up the army. The soldiers, exhausted and ill-equipped, let him pass, and Lorenzo zealously shared his sword with them as he went: first to the right, then leaning over and circling his arm over his head to the left. He did not look up in his fury and after a moment found himself in the center of the enemy, surrounded on all sides by thousands soldiers.

“The devil!” he cried, looking about for his comrades, “I am alone!”

None of the rebel soldiers were mounted, and so could not as easily follow him in his charge; and Alfonzo had pulled back after confronting the commander. He was alone in the midst of enemies. Only his wits were with him.

“Heave ho!” he yelled ferociously, “Flank the forest, men, and gird the trees!”

He shouted nonsense; for while he could think of nothing meaningful to say, neither could he keep silent. So he rode through their ranks, and they parted for the crazy man. They were so worn and their minds so spent that they could not tell he was alone, or that he made no sense. Soon he passed through the army altogether, killing many along the way. Only then did his vigor subside. When he saw what he had done he was doubly afraid. So he continued his charge toward the forest, toward the smoldering fires.