“
It never reached him. De Casanova was grabbed from behind and pulled back, then thrown to the ground by a powerful arm. His sword came with him. Alfonzo was left unscathed.
“The Fardy brothers,” as he looked up to his attackers.
“For sure; and our patience is thinner than the skin which keeps our blades from your neck.”
The battle elsewhere had not gone the same for the rebels, but neither did the besiegers gain victory. The soldiers were weary. The threat of the increasing storm left them afraid of more than each other.
“Your men grow weary,” de Casanova observed. “You would do well to finish me before my forces take the day.”
“Your forces do no better,” and Alfonzo returned to his feet.
At that moment, de Garmia ran past, driving four soldiers and the Fardy brothers’ attentions before him. De Casanova saw the opening.
“Perhaps,” and he rolled to the left, escaping the blond Fardy’s blade, pushing himself over the parapet with his powerful arms and falling into the water beyond.
“Archers, take him,” Alfonzo cried, and he took his own bow for the same purpose.
But de Casanova was a hard man. He dove beneath the waves and did not resurface until he reached the awaiting fleet, now within twenty yards. Alfonzo measured his aim and shot far to the left of his enemy. The wind forced it to the right: it sank into de Casanova’s leg. But it was too late and he was hauled onto the ship and into safety.
“He has escaped us again,” Alfonzo turned to the Fardy brothers.
“Yes, but patience, my friend,” the brown brother answered, “Patience!”
Alfonzo laughed, “Yes, it has already been written. You rebuke me.”
Only then did Alfonzo look to the ongoing battle. The walls, inner and outer, were filled with fighting men and the dead floated just beyond. Rain came down like hail, and, with the sounds of war added, cacophony ensued. Then, when the melee grew desperate, the water rose above the outer wall and crashed into the castle, bringing the dead on its charging swell.
“All is lost,” the Fardys moaned. “The deluge!”
“Do not repent of your courage yet; for deliverance is near,” and Alfonzo climbed a nearby sentry tower. Standing on its peak, he looked over the murdering men and broke the thunder with his voice.
“Peace!” he cried. The battle stopped to listen. “We fight for many ends, but the end of all is drawing near for us. Whether we fight for freedom or duty, both will be lost to us if we do not save ourselves from the storm. The water comes, and it will wash us away. So let us make peace and save ourselves, that we may murder each other later, in safety. Even de Casanova has fled to the fleet.”
“Yet our fleet insures our safety,” an officer returned, “For when the tide comes, they will gather us up again.”
“Do not expect salvation from your friends,” Alfonzo answered. “Even now they are under attack. The battle does not go well with them.”
“The French?” and the officer dropped his sword, joining Alfonzo atop of the tower. The men, weary, laid down their arms to rest.
After a moment, the officer cried out, “So it is! Yield yourselves, men, for de Casanova has left us and the fleet is under heavy attack by the French. They surround our two hundred ships with an equal number. Some of our ships do not join the fight; the rest are in confusion.”
“It is as I said. Now, let us save ourselves.”
“We cannot, without the fleet. This water comes from the very bowels of the earth and washes over us as over the bottom of the sea. It is more than a flood: Atilta is sinking.”
“We cannot stop it, perhaps, but we can rise with it.”
“You speak in riddles, enemy, but there is little time to play semantics.”
“Forgive me. What I meant is this: we tore down the wooden buildings of the town and left them in the castle. If we work together we can build them into flat boats, to carry us until the fleets have ceased to fight.”
“Let it be done!”
With that, twenty thousand men turned their zeal to salvation and worked like a tidal wave upon the shore. They struck hard and fast. The wooden buildings were transformed into boats and rafts almost instantly. Yet even as they did, fate was against them. For the water continued to rise. And the land continued to sink.
Chapter 93
Meanwhile, as the Atiltian rebels fought the Atiltian and Hibernian armies, the French fleet fought the storm. The waves and wind were set against them. The passage was rough. Still, they came. Below deck, Vahan Lee and the King of France sat alone in the dining room.
“A splendid meal, Vahan,” the king said. He paused before adding, “It is a shame, however, that there will be no dessert tonight.”
“We are at war, your majesty, and such frivolities are to be discarded.”
“Yes, I understand perfectly. But to know is not to cease desiring.”
“Perhaps, but it is the beginning of a desire in the opposite direction. You must realize that this war, though fought on Atilta, decides the fate of France as well. Hibernia rules the three kingdoms and soon we will no longer be able to play England against them. The Moors come up from the south; Spain has already fallen. Alone, we too will fall; but with the Atiltian king returned to his throne, we can drive them back.”
“Yet these things are not affected by a small, trifling dessert.”
“I must disagree, my lord, for the theory is justified only in execution and the execution by its vigor. If you hunger for the desires of the flesh, you will burn to fulfill them; but the glutton has nothing more to gain,”and Vahan winced at his choice of words.
“A glutton, you say?” the king sighed. “So I am, and you are right. If not for your bureaucratic vigor, what would we come to? Come, Vahan, to war!”
With that they returned to the deck to watch the passage of the fleet. There were rooms above, sheltered from the elements, from which the storm could be observed. Meanwhile, in another section of the ship, Captain Khalid entered the armory, where de Garcia practiced his swordplay against a fighting dummy.
“The warrior’s retreat,” Khalid said.
De Garcia turned, saw his former warden and executioner, and smiled. “You ask me? As one warrior to another, you must know it is so.”
“So I do, but a man of your skill cannot have much to learn from a wooden opponent.”
“I learned things from your French soldiers, anyway.”
Khalid’s lipped turned upwards, but he could not be said to have smiled. “I have seen you in action against my men and will excuse your pride – though your future antagonists may not. I am told you were long a prisoner,” and Khalid took a thick rapier, identical to de Garcia’s sword, from the table. The ship swayed, as did the single lantern that lit the room. Still, the two men held their footing as if on land. “I have heard you were for many years a prisoner in the dungeons of Gylain. I am surprised, then, that you retain your strength of arms and of mind.”
De Garcia returned his look. He was, as Khalid said, in the greatest physical shape.
“I fought my chains every waking moment, until I fainted away in exhaustion. As for my mind, I do not know that it has kept so well; it lives only for revenge. You are a fighting man, as you say,” he looked down at the sword which Khalid had taken up. “Will we practice?”
“The ship rolls, it will be unsafe.”
“As is war, but have no fear: I will not let you be harmed.”
Khalid laughed. “Then let us practice.”
The two stood for a moment, their swords crossed. Then, without warning, de Garcia parried Khalid’s sword to the side and lunged at him. The other knocked it aside with a flick of his wrist and advanced with circling thrust, the point of his blade remaining within a coin’s circle. Their swords met seven times before a second passed. Khalid’s feverish charge was controlled by de Garcia’s quick ripostes. Still, he was forced back against the wall. De Garcia laughed and rolled beyond Khalid in a somersault, gaining his rear and sending a blow to his shoulder. It never hit. Khalid hurricaned around and parried the blow, forcing de Garcia’s blade into the air. De Garcia caught its momentum, deftly looped its point, and sent it towards Khalid. But the melee itself was parried by a voice from behind them.
