paused. “Do we not fight our own country men, even our own kin?”
“Lionel, perhaps; but it was his folly that destroyed him, not your policies.”
“War is many things and to many it is death. But I am a king, and to me a dead man is judged only by what his death has achieved. If I see a hundred bodies, do I care if they are in the known miseries of life or in the unknown miseries of death? But if I see the body of my own son, war becomes something more, something personal.” In anguish, “Lionel! Am I not his murderer?”
De Casanova turned his head one way and the other, physically pained as the French fleet devoured his own ships and drew near to them. As Lyndon finished his speech, they had reached
“Inaction rots my soul!” de Casanova cried as they came on.
“Does it not?” a familiar voice returned, “Then let me heal your innards with my blade!”
“De Garcia!”
“Then you have not forgotten my face.”
They circled, swords drawn, like vipers on the hunt. De Garcia was the first to strike, uncoiling and springing upon de Casanova with a swirling stroke.
“This is for Tarina,” and his sword played with the thunder, flipping de Casanova’s left, then throwing it right. Still, the other kept a firm wrist and de Garcia lunged forward to unset him.
“To fight for the dead is not a talisman of victory,” and de Casanova caught his lunge and forced it to the side. Then, with a laugh, he took the offensive, thrusting at his enemy’s open chest.
But de Garcia was a quick man. He rolled to the left, then – without apparent effort – jumped into the lower shrouds, climbing to the first yard arm. De Casanova followed. The storm sent a strong wind whipping through the rigging, but neither was displaced. De Garcia stood up on the yard arm, navigating its slender width with ease; and when his enemy was beside him, the duel resumed.
“I will not forget the Battle of Amorou,” de Garcia said.
“Nor will I,” and their swords sang as they spoke.
De Garcia delivered a full swing from the left, then another from the right. De Casanova counter attacked with equal strokes. The yard arm swayed beneath their force. When de Garcia came with a third side stroke, de Casanova dodged beneath it and thrust at his opponent, who could only divert it with a swift upward stroke. De Casanova’s sword was forced up, and then – as he threw himself into it – hurtled down toward the Spaniard’s head.
De Garcia stepped back and fell purposefully from the yard arm. As he did, the other’s sword passed harmlessly by. De Garcia grabbed the yard arm as he came down, channeling his momentum to swing himself forward; and though de Casanova leapt to crush his hands, he had let go again before he could. He flew through the air and into the upper shrouds, pulling himself onto the upper yard arm, the uppermost timber on the ship. It was a foot across and held the top of the main sail to the mast. De Casanova was not slow in following.
“You retreat to the sky,” the Hibernian called through the wind as he gained the upper yard arm. “Yet now that we have reached it, you can retreat only to the ground.”
“I do not mean to retreat until I have avenged my love.”
“Love! You are as much a fool as ever: I did what I did as a favor. You are a warrior and warriors are corrupted by a woman’s fondle. I have fallen to the same trap and only her loss makes me more a man. As for Tarina, her death made you angry, and your anger won the battle.”
“Some battles are better lost.”
“Perhaps you are no more a warrior! To lose is weakness, and that death.”
“Then die, fiend. Look about you, de Casanova. What have you gained?”
“Your hatred, friend of before, and God’s way is as good as my own. You have gained nothing more.”
De Garcia channeled his fury into a side stroke, which the other caught with an angled blade: it skipped off and flew over his head. With his enemy left undefended, de Casanova thrust his blade into his side. The other clutched it with his hand, dropping his sword and falling onto his stomach. He laid on the yard arm and de Casanova stood over him.
“Your weakness is defended. I am proved right. From dust you came, to the bottom of the sea you will go,” and he kicked his foot forward to push de Garcia to his death.
But things did not go as he intended. De Garcia had taken a knife from his sleeve as de Casanova spoke and held it as if he held his wound. When de Casanova’s foot came forward, de Garcia stabbed it through.De Casanova reared back. The knife had severed the nerves in his foot. De Casanova could not hold it against the yard arm, leaving his weight upon his left leg. But that had been wounded by Alfonzo’s arrow and now gave way as well. He tottered and tried to swim through the rain with wild arms. He could not, falling from the yard arm. Four seconds later, his screams were extinguished by a hollow thud. De Garcia leaned slowly over the yard arm and peered through the darkness. De Casanova was dead upon the deck.
“So it comes to an end. Rest in peace, my love,” and de Garcia climbed down to the deck.
Elsewhere, the fight had gone to the French. The Hibernian and Atiltian fleets were caught unaware, with their men deployed or unprepared. Lyndon stood on his command deck, now in the company of the Kings of Atilta and France, as well as Patrick and Leggitt. The others remained aboard the French flagship during the battle and were just boarding the far end of
“You are taken,” Willard said, parrying Lyndon’s quick glance to a sword laying on the table. “You are taken; but unless you resist, your life will not be.”
“It is not the taking of my own life that ruins me,” the king mumbled.
Willard ignored him, “We offer these terms of surrender: your family retains Hibernia, in the person of Lydia. Saxony and England are taken from Cybele and given to the rebel leader, Patrick McConnell. And, first, you must remove your fleet from Atilta.”
Lyndon looked about him, “There is little Atilta left to retreat from.”
“Even so, you must withdraw what fleet we will leave you. Those we keep are lost to you.”
“I have lost too much already.”
He stepped toward the railing of the ship.
“Lionel,” he moaned in a whisper. “Lionel, where are you hiding?”
He convulsed slightly, in pain. “My God, is this how you torment me? I hear your voice even now, ‘Have I not given my own son?’ But you are a fool to do it! A fool! What cruel being would sacrifice his own son? Not I – not I! I will save him, wretched Jehovah, I will save him by my own strength,” and Lyndon spun around, deranged and staring into the sky. “He is mine, I say, and you cannot have him!”
He laughed wildly and jumped over the railing, falling fifty feet into the churning seas. He landed feet first and he sank like an anchor, then came sputtering up in confusion. His face was a nightmare, his nightmare a face: Lionel’s. He could not swim, and as his arms beat the waves, he wildly searched for something to hold onto, something to keep himself afloat. Yet all that floated were the corpses of the dead. He sank, yelping, desperate, mad.
“You will not vanquish, child-killer!” he shouted to the sky, and he reached out to the nearest body, grabbing ahold to save himself.
His weight pulled down the dead man’s side, then it rolled over and its face was exposed to the sky. Lyndon bobbed beneath the water, panicking, and grabbed wildly at the body. His slender fingers grabbed its chest. He pulled himself from the water. But the corpse rolled again, face to face with Lyndon as he grabbed its chest. His face was eaten by the pall of death. Silence, and he gasped for air. He struggled, vainly, then began to sink beneath the waves. As he went, a word escaped his lips, “Lionel!” Then it was doused by the water. He was seen no more.
Silence ruled the ship, until broken by Patrick. “Sailors, take Lionel’s body aboard. We will bury it with honors in Hibernia,” and they retrieved it.
“There is more that will be buried than him,” Vahan Lee came to the bridge, “For if we delay any longer, the castle will be lost.”
The others turned to the south, where the castle was almost entirely submerged. Both the inner and outer walls and the first floor of the castle were underwater. A great crowd of people clung to the towers and upper stories and even more floated on makeshift rafts nearby.
“Set course for the castle!” and Captain Koon filled the air with his unsettling laughter. How he came to be
