Jonathan Dunn - The Forgotten King

“If so, we are saved; for I do not possess it in the least,” his blond brother added.

“Defamation, my brother, and libel above,” the brown Fardy began.

Alfonzo interrupted him, “I, at least, have none. Why do you come?”

“To bring word,” the black brother stood at attention, “The catapults have begun the assault.”

“By raft? De Casanova is a hard man, but even I did not expect this. Still, we have scoured the area, leaving nothing for them to shoot.”

“Besiegers often catapult dead beasts into a castle, to spread disease. You say de Casanova is a hard man, but I say he is no man at all!”

Silence and fear, the realization of a depraved enemy.

“Come and look,” and the Fardy brothers led them back through the tunnel.

They passed from the shelter into the warring rain. Still, the castle did not flood, for a series of small drains led the water away to a reservoir beneath the ground and then to the forest beyond. Until the water rose above the outlets, they would not sink. Beside the tunnel’s mouth was a flight of steps, winding backwards to the top of the wall the tunnel ran through.

“May God forgive us,” Alfonzo whispered as the battlefield around the castle came into view, the air thick with the enemy’s projectiles. “May God forgive me !”

As the waters brought debris to the castle, it also brought the bodies of the dead, picking them from their open graves and taking them away. The army of Gylain was assembled around the castle, floating on rafts, flat boats, and the smaller vessels of the fleet; the army of the dead was assembled as well, a morbid barrier between the living warriors.

When de Casanova reached the front after conversing with Lyndon, he was enraged they did not attack.

“The water washes away the catapults,” the general insisted, “We cannot fire.”

“Fool!” de Casanova struck the man with an open fist, “Fool! Have stakes driven into the ground and the rafts secured. We will fire the catapults as they float.”

“But, my lord, there is nothing to fire. The rebels have gleaned the area clean.”

De Casanova drew his eyes from sheaths of madness, watching the parade of corpses that marched in from all sides.

“Dust to dust, ashes to ashes,” he whispered in the general’s ear. “Let the men be used to further the cause for which they have already given their lives!”

And so it was. The castle was bombarded with the corpses of the slain. The soldiers who ran the catapults were against themselves in heart, for even those who defile and destroy living men cannot do the same to the dead. De Casanova lashed them with his tongue and burned them with his branded eyes. One man alone refused, an Atiltian peasant from the forest. De Casanova broke his arm above his head and threw him headfirst into the catapult; he screamed until he hit. The other soldiers continued, and though at first it seemed reviling, it became a joy. They were trained to duty by their officers and to evil by their maker. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes – thus it was with their conscience.

Those soldiers who had come through the forest continued to sleep, in a coma from their exertion. And they were not exempt from being weaponry. Their screams rang out, as they awoke while flying to their deaths. The rebels shrank back in fear, fleeing their posts to the dead. Alfonzo did not stop them, though he himself remained, aware he had led them to the graveyard.

“What will men not do, but that which is right? Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. If freedom is won by the sword, it is lost to the same.”

At that moment, a body struck the stone wall a few feet to his left. It bounced and broke apart and the partially severed head came off and rolled between Alfonzo’s feet. He did not move. He knew it was there, but he could not look. Yet neither could he forget its presence. He set his face to the grindstone and looked down. Thunder struck; it was his heart. He fell back a step. But the head rolled back with him. His eyes broke; his heart rained.

“My God!” he moaned, “Are we even men, or deluded apes who claim your image to be our own? If we are men, then let us be damned. We will have it either way.”

There, decaying on the ground between his feet, was the head of Blaine Griffith. It looked up with open eyes; his last words lingered on its lips.

“Sir,” a young voice broke in from behind, “You are in danger; come below with me.”

Alfonzo did not answer. He could not. He did not want to.

“Sir,” the voice drew nearer, “Are you injured?”

“Only in my soul,” Alfonzo gasped for breath. “Only in my soul, Barnes.”

The young lieutenant came alongside Alfonzo. He saw his brother’s head only when it was too late to stop him. He became himself a corpse. Horror burned his eyes and terror blew a wind within his heart.

At length, “I will have my revenge.”

Alfonzo broke free from his reverie. He grabbed Barnes by the collar and pulled him close. His face was a raging sea, his lips a siren’s reef.

“Revenge?” he trembled. “You seek revenge?”

Alfonzo’s countenance was flooded with passion. He reached down and grabbed Blaine’s head, holding it up to the young man’s face.

“This is the face of revenge,” he wept, “Will you embrace it?”

Silence came heavier than the rain. The dismembered head remained against Barnes Griffith’s face. He was dead, himself.

“This is the face of revenge,” Alfonzo repeated, his voice raised, “Will you have it as your own?”

Silence.

“This is the face of revenge, as well as its reward,” Alfonzo cried aloud, “Will you kiss its cheek?”

Silence and a moment’s beating tide.

“No, I do not want it; forgive me. Let us bury him with honor,” and life returned to Barnes’ face.

They took their departed friend’s body and carried it to the inner castle. A coffin was found by some soldiers and Blaine was laid to rest with a sword on one side and a bow on the other. One of the priests gave a short eulogy, with Alfonzo, Barnes, Milada, and the Fardy brothers in attendance. Then, when it was finished, they turned their backs to the priest and their faces to the battle.

“This has gone too far,” Alfonzo said, “When will it be brought to an end?”

“When it is God’s time,” Milada replied, “It is in his hands we lay this battle; for it is too heavy for our own.” Milada had grown to be his daughter.

As he spoke, however, de Garmia rushed into the room. “I understand respect for the dead, but come quick! For they assault the walls and we will be dead ourselves if we do not stop them!”

Chapter 92

Celestine and Cybele sat in the tower that was once Hismoni’s room, but which – since his treachery – was given over to honored guests. The sisters occupied it, but were themselves occupied with the situation below. The walls were windowed. Through them the whole surrounding plain could be seen: a design requested by the former captain of the guards.

“The rebels will soon be vanquished,” Cybele prophesied as she stood by the window. “My army will overcome.”

Celestine walked to her side, and when she saw the floating graveyard, moaned, “What brutes, what animals! Still, they will not take the walls; even the storm is against them. God will not let us be defeated.”

“Would he not? God has done many such things before, Celestine. Even now, the storm is not against us; rather, it is our ally. For the water rises swiftly and soon the soldiers will only need to float alongside the walls and board them as if they were at sea. The water raises the siege,” she smiled and pointed to de Casanova’s distant figure – in the distance his energy set him apart from the others. He had sent a detachment to the fleet, to dismantle some ships and send their pieces to the front. Yet it was too late for rafts, for the fleet had advanced half a mile into the plain and soon the lesser frigates would be able to reach the castle.