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.
“With your military mind, you cannot see beyond the means.”
“I will be freed and you imprisoned. I will be returned to power.”
“That is not yet the end, for the flood comes quickly upon us. If your armies can conquer the forces of man, they are powerless before the forces of God.”
“As are you, if he exists. But I have not seen him.”
“You cannot force open the door, but only knock.”
“And yield our souls to the almighty footman? I do not care for God. If he does exist, Gylain will destroy him.”
“How can he think such things if he is not mad?”
“If he is not mad? He does not deny madness, nor do I. If he is mad, it is only that he agrees with you, that God is with you. For that is why he battles you and why he overthrew the king. He claimed divine right to rule and Gylain defeated him; the rebellion claims God’s grace for freedom and Gylain will dash it against the rocks. Thus he will defeat God by proxy.”
“It is hard to fight an enemy you will not admit exists.”
“Does it matter? Can anything matter, for what is truth?”
“If you did not know, could you deny it?”
“Foolish woman. But look, my allies attack!”
Below, on the castle walls, the besieging army began its assault. The soldiers rode rafts across the water. Smaller frigates stood in reserve. The rebels countered with a herd of arrows and Alfonzo could be seen rushing to join the fight, coming from the inner castle. De Garmia went before him, the Fardy brothers behind.
“Fight well, my love,” Celestine whispered, “Fight as if it mattered!”
Meanwhile, far below the two sisters, Alfonzo spoke to the guards as he gained the wall.
“They attack?” he asked.
“Yes, on rafts; for the water is nearing the tops of the walls.”
“So it is,” Alfonzo returned. Then, grimacing, “We have little time left, before we have more invaders than mere men. The castle cannot long hold up against this water!”
As he spoke, the first raft drew near the walls. It was four planks tied rudely together with two ropes, all of which had apparently been plundered from the fleet. The water was turbulent and many of the soldiers were lost as they crossed the encroaching sea on their pitiable rafts. Still, they came. The fleet, itself, had advanced within a quarter mile of the castle and would be able to reach it in a few moments if the storm continued. But de Casanova did not wait, fearing he would be forced to show mercy to the rebels, on account of the elements. He rode in the foremost raft, standing tall and defying the defenders with his flourishing blade.
“Archers, bring him low,” Alfonzo ordered.
The rangers drew their strings and sent a volley straight for him. Some flew overhead, some underfoot, but none of them hit. There was no time for a second volley. The raft landed on the wall, several feet below the top. The soldiers raised their spears and jumped onto the wall, pushing back the archers as they came.
“Surrender or be slain,” de Casanova cried as he gained his feet.
“Your mercy is not so desirable, de Casanova.”
“Alfonzo, I did not expect you.”
He leapt from the parapets onto the main wall, landing beside Alfonzo with his sword drawn. The latter held his blade and met his downward blow; they pushed, then fell back when neither yielded. Their swords angled out before them and they circled about before resuming the melee. The blades danced between them, first with Alfonzo’s down stroke, then as de Casanova blocked it and forced his opponent’s sword to the left. Alfonzo dashed forward; de Casanova caught the oncoming sword with a down stroke and forced it to the right. Then he came forward with three desperate lunges, each parried by Alfonzo. He pressed forward, forcing the rebel back, then rained down with a powerful overhead blow. Alfonzo stumbled and de Casanova jumped onto the parapet, then down again behind Alfonzo before the latter could recover himself.
Alfonzo extended his blade and spun around, whipping it toward his opponent, who leaned back to let it pass. Three men were engaged with a group of invaders behind him, however, and he hit one in the back. Alfonzo’s blade buzzed past his chest and de Casanova lunged forward to the opening. Alfonzo threw himself back to evade the blow. While he escaped, he fell to the ground in process. De Casanova advanced and raised his sword to smite him.
