Jonathan Dunn - The Forgotten King

His companions, however, continued on unwounded. The Fardy brothers shut the door at the top of the steps with little time to spare, locking the attackers out.

The second door was made of wood. In a moment it, too, was forced open. The small armory was merely a foyer, and another flight of stairs reached into Milada’s bedchamber. Once more Hismoni led the charge, for his pride was not diminished in his pain. Neither was his folly. The Fardy brothers were at the top of the steps, and as soon as he came forward, they let loose a bed frame. It tumbled down the steps, rattling with every bounce. This time, though, Hismoni was quicker to react. He turned and fled safely from the steep, narrow staircase.

His companion Selmar was not so lucky. He tripped as he turned, and fell face forward to the ground. Behind him he heard the oncoming charge of the bed frame; he lifted his head instinctively, to see what came at him. Then, with a hollow knock, it struck him straight in the forehead. He died instantly.

“Forward men!” roared Hismoni, “Now is our chance!”

The remaining eight attackers dashed up the stairway with their swords drawn. Yet there was no one above to oppose them. In the bedchamber at the top, the three Fardy brothers stood in a line in front of Milada. The latter stood with a sword in his hand, but it was evident that he was too frightened to make use of it.

“Surrender or die!” Hismoni said.

The brothers were solemn, no longer rowdy or boisterous. With a calm, collected air, the three chorused together, “Die.” And that was all.

The defenders stood their ground in the corner, and the attackers slowly approached, each with his sword drawn and in position to be used.

“There is no hope, brothers,” said Hismoni, his face badly bleeding from his wounds, “Why not surrender – we only seek Milada.”

There was no answer, for the Fardy brothers would not lower themselves to speak with the traitors. Still the attackers advanced, slowly and cautiously. Still the Fardy brothers held their ground, without a trace of fear or worry on their faces. The only thing that held sway there was duty, to Atilta and to freedom.

The attackers came at last in a sudden onslaught. But the brothers were ready. The blond Fardy clashed swords with Hismoni, parrying his first blow and his second, then knocking his third into the air by twisting his blade. He took the opening that followed and thrust straight into Hismoni’s stomach. The blow was shallow, for Hismoni fell backwards. Yet for the time, he was out of the battle.

At the same time, two of the guards challenged the black Fardy. He was by far the best swordsman of the three Fardys, and at first was able to fend them off. Then, after a long grapple and several parrying exchanges, the leftward attacker gave him a blow far to his left. He held his sword sideways and kept the guard in a grapple. The rightward attacker, however, took the opening that was left on the black Fardy’s right side. He drove his sword into the black Fardy’s shoulder, causing him to stumble backwards. With his last breath of strength, he stabbed the leftward attacker and brought him down. But once more the rightward attacker had an opening, and once more the black Fardy was stabbed in the shoulder.

On the other side, the brown Fardy was also faced with two attackers. The first came at him with his sword over his head, prepared to cut him open from above. But the brown Fardy ducked to the left and stabbed his sword straight through the oncoming man. The other attacker was directly behind his freshly killed companion. He, too, raised his sword above his head to rain it down on the brown Fardy – with the latter’s sword caught in the dead man’s stomach, he thought, he could not defend himself. He was dead wrong. The brown Fardy rushed forward into the dead man’s body and forced his sword through him. Then he charged forward at the second attacker, pushing the sword into his body as well.

A third man had now come up, however, and the brown Fardy could not dislodge his sword to defend himself. There were already too many men skewered upon it to add another. The third man thrust his sword into the lower left side of the brown Fardy’s chest. A muffled clang could be heard as it pierced the leather armor. He fell limply to the ground.

Seeing his two brothers struck down, the blond Fardy let loose the full fury of his patience. His face blazed with fire and his eyes shot forth from his head like demons from hell. He flourished his blade above his head, and with a loud groan disembodied two of the guards, one to the left and one to the right. Then he raised it again – still hot with anger – and smote the man in front of him.

All were motionless on the ground, except Hismoni, one of his men, the blond Fardy and Milada. The latter was too frightened to wield his sword. The blond Fardy left himself open in his latest blow; Hismoni swung his sword hard into his stomach. The blade was turned to the broadside, yet its force knocked him to the ground. Hismoni dashed forward to Lord Milada, in whom rested the rebel’s last hope of victory.

“I will finish what I started in the forest,” Hismoni said as his sword swung through the air.

To the ground on either side lay the brown and black-haired Fardy brothers, dead or unconscious. Milada stood in front of a large window, his limbs convulsing and jerking about as Hismoni’s sword came at him. The blond brother had arisen from the ground, prepared for one last desperate defense.

As Hismoni began to swing, the blond Fardy began to leap.

“Atilta!” he cried out as he flew forward to where Hismoni stood.

As Hismoni’s sword hit Milada, the blond Fardy hit Hismoni. He grabbed tightly ahold of Hismoni, and the momentum of his leap forced the two men through the window. The glass shattered, then fell into the abyss below. The tower was a thousand feet high, with nothing but the stone walkway far below to break the fall.

As Hismoni fell through the window with the blond Fardy, his sword went with him. Milada fell to the floor. His wound was deep, yet he was saved. Thurston remained alive, and as the two men fell, he raised his sword to strike Milada and finish him off.

Yet the sound of footsteps came from the stairway.

William Stuart ran into the room at that moment, holding a narrow, flat handled sword.

“Milada,” he cried as he saw what was taking place. “Milada, I have come,” and he flung his sword at Thurston. It flew through the air like an arrow, just as Thurston’s sword began to descend toward Milada’s head. It hit him directly, piercing straight through him. The Admiral threw it so hard that it went completely through Thurston’s stomach. Only a hollow wound remained as it passed through. It continued its flight, until it stabbed into the stone wall beyond, directly below the window. It struck at the joint in the wall, where the stones were cemented together, and it passed straight through the mortar to the other side.

This all took place in a single instant. Hismoni and the blond Fardy still were crashing through the window, even as the sword broke through the stone. They were but a single instant too late.

The newcomers stood there, none moving. Milada lay on the ground, mortally wounded; two of the beloved Fardy brothers were close beside him and the third hurtling toward the ground a thousand feet below. The silence was ended by a distant thud – the sound of a body hitting the ground.

“Dear God!” moaned the Admiral, “Is freedom truly worth this? There will be none left to enjoy it.”

Chapter 32

William Stuart dashed forward across the ransacked bedchamber that was littered with the debris of battle. The furniture was broken or gone, the paintings and tapestries torn, and the window broken. First he went to Milada, and with the help of Osbert lifted him onto the desk, using it as a bed. The nobleman’s stomach was badly wounded: though the vital organs were spared, it looked to be beyond the healing skill of man.