“Just wishful thinking,” Waylan responded.
“Look! There!” Sir Peredur cried.
Tension knotted their stomachs as a hundred and fifty eyes followed Peredur’s pointing finger, searching the tree line for movement.
The knots in their stomachs unclenched when a deer bounded from the trees.
“Damn animal...” Brian started to mumble, but stopped when another deer appeared, then another, followed by rabbits, and all manner of birds.
“What the...” Waylan said, then the arrows came.
A half-dozen men to their left and right sprouted feathered shafts. One fell from the catwalk into the practice field, an arrow protruding from his face. Volley after volley whizzed from the apple orchard like a swarm of deadly thrushes, followed by the collective cry of men as they poured from underneath the tree canopy. What seemed like a thousand men in black armor and clothing rushed up against the keep walls like oil. These men carried ladders.
“Sound the horn!” Brian called. “Shields! Prepare for scaling!”
No sooner had he said this than the attackers raised ladders against the walls and quickly set to ascending them.
“Archers!” Waylan cried. “Rocks! Spears! Poles!”
The majority of archers were engaged at the front of the keep, but the fifty or so at the Back Door went to work, plucking the strings of their instrument to the tune of death. Defenders placed poles with prongs on them against the ladders and heaved as hard as they could to send them falling back onto the attackers. Spears poked at the enemy who dared to reach the top of the remaining ladders. Other defenders hurled rocks at the climbers. The morning filled with the deafening roar of battle and death cries.
“Edmund!” Brian called down to the Avangarde on the practice field. “Send a messenger! A thousand attackers scaling the wall!”
Edmund turned to a boy next to him, nodded and sent the lad off at a sprint.
Before long, enough attackers reached the top of the walls that true hand-to-hand combat began. For the time being, no Lost Boys gained a foothold for long before being cast back onto their brethren.
As Brian pounded away at one such assailant, he noticed a group of men that charged out of the orchard carrying a sizable log with hand bars fashioned into it. This device and its handlers struggled through the crowd of attackers to the gate.
Brian punched his immediate opponent with his shield and sent him flying backward, then shouted back to the practice field, “Here it comes! Get ready!”
Edmund nodded and motioned to his men-at-arms. Peredur and Waylan took up positions on either side of Brian, shielding him from arrows as he leaned over the wall to mark the progress of the battering ram.
“One!” he shouted to Edmund, who in turn shouted to his men.
“Two!” Brian called again, then held out his hand in Edmund’s direction as he snuck one last peek over the wall.
“Now!” he yelled, gesturing with his outstretched hand for emphasis.
Edmund relayed the command to the groups of men who manned the ropes on either side of the gate doors. The ropes went taught, pulling on the door’s giant iron rings.
The battering ram, which had just been pulled back to gain maximum momentum, now shot forward to strike at empty air as the doors opened. The momentum that had been meant to smash the portal now carried the attackers forward, tumbling them into an open pit dug before the gate.
The defenders cheered as dozens more attackers followed the battering ram crew into the pit.
The battering ram struck bottom and tilted forward with a half-dozen enemy combatants still clinging to it. The log came to rest on the far side of the pit, sticking out at an angle: an impromptu ladder for those in the pit. The Avangarde’s cheers went silent.
“Oh damn!” Edmund shouted, drawing his sword and coming forward to hack at the survivors.
Likewise, Brian cursed. “Close the gate!”
He and the others pelted the enemy with rocks, trying to push them back from the thin strip of earth between the gate and the pit. Edmund’s archers fired into the crowd before the gate, creating enough space for another group of defenders to shut the gate.
“Edmund!” Brian shouted, realizing as many as twenty Lost Boys remained inside the castle walls.
Five or six surrounded Edmund while the rest quickly dispatched his men-at-arms. When the last villager fell, his throat spraying blood, the enemy latched onto the gate, intent on opening it from the inside.
“The gate!” Waylan shouted and jumped from the catwalk onto a group of Lost Boys.
Brian and Sir Peredur joined him. They made short work of the mercenaries and ran to the log and stood over it.
“Don’t even think about it!” Brian shouted down to the dirty faces trying to climb out next.
“Edmund, get over here,” he said, though he didn’t dare to look away from the pit, “and watch here while we get back to the wall.”
A moment of silence, and Peredur said, “He’s gone.”
“Wha—” Brian said, and dared to look.
Sir Edmund lay in a bloody pool on the practice field. His one good eye stared sightlessly, a dagger jammed through his other. One of his arms laid a few paces away.
Fury rose in Brian and he braced himself to vent it on the enemy, who was just beginning to swarm over the wall.
#
“What’s happening?” Jon called to Patrick, who raced across the catwalk. He brought with him many Avangarde from the front line.
Sweaty faced and heaving for air, Patrick bent over on his knees. “We think the attack at the front gate is a diversion, what news here?”
“All quiet, except the occasional scout roaming the trees,” Jon answered, jerking a thumb beyond the wall. A steep rocky cliff separated Greensprings from a forest of evergreens.
Just then, a horn blared from the Back Gate.
“The real attack,” Patrick said, then departed at a run.
“We’ll come help then,” Jon said, starting to draw his sword and motioning to his fellow guards.
“No,” Patrick replied, “they want to divide us. Stay here and watch the wall.”
“But nobody is going to climb that,” Jon said, pointing to the cliff with his chin. “I can do more than just stand guard with five men.”
“I know you can,” Patrick yelled over his shoulder, “but we can’t take the chance!”
The front line Avangarde filed past Jon, disappearing behind Greensprings.
Red faced, Jon pounded a gauntleted fist on a stone merlon of the wall.
#
When Patrick arrived with his men he saw Brian, Peredur, and Waylan fighting on the practice field, back-to-back among a mob of Lost Boys. Many more threatened to climb out of the pit on a log. The defenders on the wall were struggling to keep more attackers from swarming up ladders. Corbin arrived just then from the opposite catwalk with a score of Avangarde, evidently finding no attack on the far side of the keep, just as Patrick hadn’t found any at Jon’s position.
“Reinforce the wall!” Patrick called to Corbin, and he and his group jumped to the practice field.
Once on the ground among the enemy, Patrick swung viciously and let months of pent-up rage and frustration explode with each swing. Blood sprayed, taking him full in the face, making his world red. He saw images of a bloody Yvette, and his swings and cries redoubled as he realized the possibility that the next dead woman in his life might be Aimeé.
The battle rage engulfed him, and Aimeé’s face flashed again and again across his mind. He did not stop hacking at a prone body until Waylan seized his arm.
“We’ve turned them!” he cried.
Patrick staggered back, wheezing and blinking blood from his eyes.
Perhaps only ten minutes had passed since his arrival, but it felt like an eternity. The attackers who had managed to penetrate Greensprings’s walls lay dead, leaving the besiegers outside the walls stymied. An enemy horn sounded and the mercenaries pulled away, mel
ting away under the canopy of apple blossoms. A similar horn sounded from the front gate.
The scene calmed and retreat was confirmed. The enemy was streaming en masse back to their camp, pulling their siege tower with them. At last, Patrick took a knee over Sir Edmund and crossed himself.
“I’m sorry, Edmund,” he whispered, clutching his breast. “It was my plan and it failed miserably. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Corbin said, taking a knee beside him and closing Edmund's staring eye with a finger. “Your plan probably saved the gate from being smashed, and we took many prisoners. Ultimately, the responsibility was mine for approving the plan. Like you, I should have anticipated the problem with the battering ram and had insisted the pit be dug deeper.”
Not for the first time Patrick noticed Corbin cutting lines into the leather of his gauntlet with his dagger.
“Why do you do that?” Patrick asked, frowning in puzzlement.
“Every time we lose someone, it’s my fault,” Corbin grumbled. “This is so I don’t forget them. It helps remind me to make wiser decisions next time.”
Patrick nodded, looking down at Edmund and the villagers, many of whom he recognized. He didn’t need to cut into his glove to remember this, however, as he felt each groove automatically cut into his heart.
A commotion rose near the pit as Brian snatched a bow from a villager and approached the edge of the hole, fumbling an arrow to the string.
“Brian, wait,” Corbin called, rising and leaving Edmund’s body.
“No way are we letting them live,” Brian snarled, bow shaking in his anger as he pointed an arrow at the men in the pit. They cried out and cowered from the weapon.
“No!” Corbin commanded. “We stick to the original plan.”
“The original plan?” Brian shouted incredulously. “The original plan got Edmund killed!”
Patrick winced at the accusation.
Corbin put his hand on the bow and arrow and pushed them down.
“That’s an order. Besides,” Corbin said, bending over to pick up a large wooden mallet from the ground and handing it to his comrade, “you can administer the next portion of the plan.”
Brian exchanged the bow and arrow for the mallet and smiled wickedly.
#
An hour later, twenty-two Lost Boys limped heavily over the drawbridge of the main gate. They did their best to help one another, which proved difficult to do with two smashed hands and one smashed foot each.
“I don’t like this plan,” Brian grumbled, watching the maimed enemy shuffle towards their camp, “as much as I enjoyed taking the hammer to them. I still don’t see how it helps us.”
“Because those men are now a burden to their comrades,” Corbin explained, “and each has to be cared for, fed, and housed. They cannot so much as sew or whittle. They’ll just take up space, eating food and drinking ale and generally being in the way.”
Brian snorted, “I hope so.”
#
Patrick meandered through the bodies in the great hall transformed into a hospital.
Once a place of joy and festivity, it now became a place of anguish and suffering. Cries of pain replaced laughter. People writhed on cots or the floor, amid the smells of blood, urine, and excrement. Apron-wearing monks, nuns, and maidservants drifted among the wounded like blood-splattered ghosts, tending to their needs.
One of these phantoms ran to Patrick.
“Patrick!” Aimeé called. “Are you well?”
She patted down his blood soaked surcoat, searching for wounds.
“I am well,” Patrick said distantly and cupped Aimeé’s clean, smooth cheeks. “You’re alive,” Patrick breathed, staring at her as if seeing her for the first time. He reached a hand down to her bulging stomach and touched the apron covered in blood. “And this is my baby. No matter what. My baby.”
Aimeé struggled to say something and moisture gathered in her eyes.
“I...” Patrick also struggled so speak, but Mother Superior called Aimeé from across the room with urgency in her voice.
“Aimeé, we need you over here,” she said.
“I have to get back to the wall,” Patrick said, “but I will come here after.”
Aimeé nodded and turned to leave, but before she did, Patrick noticed a small form wandering among the wounded.
“Is that Emilie? This is no place for a child,” he said, concern in his voice.
“She is special,” Aimeé explained, her eyes following the girl as she stopped by suffering individuals to lay a hand on them. Each person she touched calmed. “She heals people—and they love her for it.”
#
Back in the courtyard he regrouped with Corbin and Brian.
“I don’t understand,” Brian said. “There is plenty of daylight. Why aren’t they attacking again?”
“That was only a probing attack,” Corbin explained, “to find what adjustments they need to make on their engines.”
“And to find our weaknesses,” Patrick added.
A wailing sound filled the air, growing in intensity, followed by a wet “thump” as something hit the cobblestones of the courtyard. Another and another hit the ground as they fell from the sky, preceded by a ker-thunk! from beyond the wall. They bounced with flailing and broken limbs. People approached the objects, just to turn away.
The trio of knights approached one.
The body of a Lost Boy lay there, and despite the mangled condition, its hands had obviously already been smashed as was one foot.
“It would appear Philip does not have any weaknesses,” Brian said coldly, “nor does he tolerate them.”
#
“Two hundred?” Teodorico scoffed. “That’s how many men Philip lost in that attack, hmm, yes? Are you serious? At that rate he won’t have any men left.”
“Around two hundred—the number is uncertain,” Victor replied. “He did not bother to retrieve their bodies. However, he does insist it is all a part of his plan.”
“Plan?” Teodorico said, scoffing again. “So far I don’t see a plan. I’m starting to question seriously your judgment in soldiers, hmm?”
“He came—”
“Highly recommended, yes, I know,” Teodorico cut him off, and poured a drink, “but forgive me if I don’t try a plan of my own.”
“As you wish, Your Holiness,” Victor responded, bowing slightly.
Teodorico handed the drink to Lilliana. “You may not be able to hold the cup, hmm? But I wager you can hold the girl and twist her little arm, hmm, yes?”
Lilliana’s eyes turned to slitted cat eyes as she smiled and took a sip.
#
Though the sun had just set, weariness weighed Patrick down and his bed called to him. First, he needed quiet time to reflect. To that end, he entered the church, dipped his fingertips in the basin at the door, crossed himself, and approached the altar. Refugees adoring the cup cleared a path for the Knight of Cups.
As he walked, thoughts raced through his mind.
Do not do this. It is unnatural, the guardians of the cave had told him when he first took the cup.
He rubbed his head as he recalled striking Teodorico, followed by Teodorico promising fire and brimstone.
As he came to the altar, the faces of today’s victims whirled in his mind, bloody and questioning.
He fell to his knees at the communion rail at a spot made for him by kindly villagers before the altar. He did not feel deserving of their generosity. Quite the opposite, for he had done more than just bring a miracle to Greensprings; he had also brought death and destruction.
Besides Edmund, almost fifty villagers died today. Very few of Patrick’s plans had gone well, and people had died for it. This was the burden of a leader. He did not like it, and wished it taken from him. He stared at the cup as he pressed his hands to his lips and prayed. He closed his eyes and for the thousandth time he begged forgiveness and asked that this all go away.
The whisper of a hundred pray
ers from refugees filled the church, lulling his weary soul to a place somewhat resembling calm. An indeterminate amount of time passed and he found himself slumping forward, only to jerk back to wakefulness. A keening noise filled his ears, increasing in intensity. When it had become too loud to ignore, he opened his eyes and drew a breath in shock at the sight before him.
The cup glowed golden, casting a hum along with its radiance. Its light, however, did not shine as brilliantly as the light above it. A light hanging over the cup burned like a white fire radiating from a sphere of darkness like a great eye. Despite its brilliance, it emitted no heat, and the only noise came from the growing hum.
Patrick turned to those around him to share in the magnificence of the sight, but they were still as statues. Even those who had their eyes open did not blink. The flames from the torches and votive candles did not flicker, but froze in mid-dance.
Patrick stood and looked around. Time had frozen.
The humming from the light increased, calling to him.
He stepped through the communion rail gate and approached the altar. His eyes hurt to look at the light, and the hum turned to a high-pitched buzz in his ear. Despite the discomfort, he felt compelled to come forward.
He stood face-to-face with the light, shielding his eyes with one hand. At this distance he saw the circular darkness was in fact a window, and it roughly equaled the size and shape of the host priests used at Mass. Still feeling no heat, Patrick placed his hands on either side of the window and leaned into the wall of fire, placing an eye to the window to look inside.
His vision swam, and then cleared.
A solemn bearded man sat at table with many other bearded men in colorful robes. The man, Jesus, held a round piece of bread aloft. This bread caught Patrick’s eye, drawing him in deeper, acting as another window that revealed to him the same man hanging from a cross. In turn, the body of Jesus in this image acted as another window, drawing Patrick’s eye in further, bringing him back to the scene at the table. Sucked in yet again through the bread-window, the process happened anew in a ceaseless cycle, each one faster than the previous. The rapidly changing images turned to a pulsating light of their own.
Ripples in the Chalice: A Tale of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 2) Page 41