Gylain will not let his men fight unless there are equal numbers on every side.”
“He does so now, perhaps, but I remember a time when his morals were not so refined,” the Admiral scowled. “But revenge has come, and not without its allies death and damnation.”
“You speak grimly, friend.”
“And yet I speak truth. Listen! What is that noise?”
“The splashes of many men. This rain has done us that good, at least.”
“It will do us worse, I fear,” and the two suddenly came through the fog to a large body of men.
On one side were Gylain and Montague with their men, on the other Oren Lorenzo and half a dozen rangers.
“At last!” the Admiral’s eyes smoked, “At last we reach the end!”
Chapter 91
Alfonzo was the last to pass through the castle gates, having waited for the last of the fleeing rebels to safely enter. The gates closed and the steel bars were run through its latches. Behind them, a dozen stout poles were dug into the ground and a vertical wall of boards inserted, leaving a four foot gap between the first gate and the second. Dirt and debris from the town had been collected onto the walls above, and the gap was filled until it was thicker than the walls beside it. They were buried within their fortress: none could come in or go out.
The plain extended for a mile in each direction. The castle sat in the center of a wide basin, collecting the surrounding water. De Casanova and his men were arriving, encircling the castle and forming ranks. Yet the rebels had dismantled the town, and there was no shelter to keep them from the falling water or the raining arrows. They could not charge the castle outright, for the water ringed around it like a moat, several feet deep around the walls. The castle, however, was waterproof, so the water did not penetrate inside. The water came in rivers. It collected the debris of the battles around the walls of the castle.
“Alfonzo, you are well?” Milada greeted him in the tunnel that ran through the inner walls.
“I am, if not by the greatest margin. The worst has passed, though, for the storm aides us now as it aided them before. They can easily transport their siege weapons, perhaps, but it is not so easy to shoot catapults from a raft. Nor can they bring in their towers, for the wind would overturn them. Their only weapon, then, is starvation; but with Lionel’s courage it will only be their own.” Pause. “Where has he gone? He joined the fight but not the retreat.”
“I have stood beside the entrance, hailing the returning warriors; he has not passed,” and he writhed in an excited jig as his zeal overflowed his mind to his body.
As they spoke, de Garmia came up to them with a squadron of his fellow deserters.
“De Garmia!” Alfonzo called, “Come here and tell me what you have seen.”
The other came meekly, fully aware of his time in Gylain’s horde. Alfonzo, however, did not seem to remember.
“De Garmia, where is Lionel? Was he not with you?”
“Indeed, he
“And have you seen de Casanova?”
“I have, as they charged, but he disappeared soon after.”
“He went away to duel a man,” a soldier returned, “I saw them as they left the ramparts.”
“Whom did he duel?” and de Garmia drew his tongue as if a sword.
“Lionel.”
De Garmia fell back, as did his face. He wept.
“Fool! De Casanova will devour him, as he would anyone. Even my brother, the famed de Garcia, could not withstand him.”
“Perhaps,” Alfonzo hesitated. “But many have fallen today, on either side; and most were as innocent and courageous as Lionel. If we pay him greater dividends of homage, we can only take it from the plate; and all that fills the tithe box is the blood of martyrs.”
They fell into a reverie, each to his own remorse. It was broken only after a moment, as the Fardy brothers stormed through the tunnel at a pace that belied their oddly-shaped bodies.
“Patience killed the porcupine!” yelled the black brother as he approached.
“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
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
