The Forgotten King

by Jonathan Dunn

  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 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 me
rcy 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.

  “Bon voyage ,” and he sent it screaming toward Alfonzo.

  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.r />
  “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.