The combined fleets of Gylain and Lyndon could be seen charging the rebel lines, over two hundred ships in all.
“Gylain has always had a devil’s heart,” Lorenzo said, “But now he has a devil’s cunning. Could any man bring his troops to bear with such deadly, inerrant perfection? Alfonzo, this bodes ill for us!”
“We will see,” was the only answer.
By now, the land contingent of Gylain’s force had passed from the forest to the plain. Behind them, the dark forest and the arrows of their enemy; before them, the open air, albeit stormy. Yet this is not what made their hearts rejoice, for they saw very clearly before them the rebel lines. To the south, the castle was secure and to the north the ramparts stood strong against the landing force. But only a dirt road stretched between them, with unwalled guard posts along the way. And, above all, the ramparts were open in the rear. There was no defense from the east, from the plain. It was as if the rebels had not prepared for their arrival, as if they did not know they were coming. A loud cheer went up from the men, even from the officers. From five thousand, they had now only four. But in the end, it seemed, their troubles had not been in vain: for they caught the rebels unguarded. The soldiers were more worn than the rebels, having marched several days in heavy armor in addition to their narrow escape, but still they came forward – by duty and by drill. They came forward to break a hole for the fleet’s landing.
Alfonzo galloped to the edge of the ramparts nearest the forest and the soldiers, then stopped, his face set against them like a stone wall. His icicle eyes pierced the air. His hands did not even tremble as he raised them to his mouth, for he was beyond a conscience in his role as general. “Fire!” he bellowed, and was silent.
It was not a legion of archers that arose to attack, but a single man, stationed in one of the guard posts. He stood ready, and on the order let loose a single, flaming arrow. It sailed across the horizon of the midnight noon like a miniature sun making its daily route, finally erupting into twilight at the feet of the advancing soldiers. The ground also erupted: in flame. The grass of the plain had been mowed near the forest and the castle, and the dead grass piled in the center of the plain, where it still grew high. A flammable liquid had been poured upon this. It was consumed with fire within the minute.
The soldiers were overcome in their weariness. Some fled back into the forest; but there was no respite to be found in the bosom of the archers. All that was left to them was fire or flight, and they chose the latter. The officers huddled the men together, forcing their way through the fierce flames.
Alfonzo pondered the scene without emotion. Though the others looked away, he did not. For it was his duty and men will do anything in allegiance to that word.
“The rain!” Lorenzo gasped, reaching out his hand to see if it were truly so. But it was, and as he spoke the rain fell harder and faster and the clouds buried the sun.
From the bay, the sounds of an engagement rang out. It was clear that the fleet had begun the attack. But Alfonzo could not turn his attentions to that quarter, as the ground troops were beginning to emerge from the flames. The rain – while not stopping the fire – subdued it and gave the soldiers time to escape. They began to form into ranks again, preparing to charge the rebel lines.
“March out the castle troops,” Alfonzo commanded Lorenzo, who rode off to carry it out. Alfonzo turned and rode down the line, yelling out as he went, “Shift ranks, we must fight the rear!”
The rebels poured out of the tunnels and earthen works, making ranks in front of them. Still, it did not take them long to file out, for there were only a thousand of them. When they had assembled, Alfonzo put himself at their head.
“Men,” he said, “The time has come: not for vainglorious speeches, but for blood.”
With that, he kicked his horse and began the march to the castle. Its gates had opened: a large force was coming to meet them in the center. By this time, the enemy soldiers were assembled: still over three thousand strong. A knight rode at their head, with a plume of feathers sticking from his helmet and an iron broadsword in his hand. The rebel forces converged, turning to the advancing regiment. Each group stopped fifty yards from the other and waited, unwilling to be the first to bathe in bloodshed.
Alfonzo sat firmly on horseback: his stature erect, his face stern. His long hair was back and it made him seem noble. Yet he was still a man of the forest, and his beard – no longer a mere goatee – took root firmly on his face. His eyes did not burn; his heart did not hate. It was not his desire to go to war, but he thought it his duty; and thus, he went.
Beside him rode Oren Lorenzo, no longer in a monk’s frock but a suit of armor. His hair was as fleeting as his temper, his face as severe as his oaths, his mustache as wide as his convictions. He was a churchman, and thus a man of impatience and strange ideas. But he was also a loyal man, if not to God than to Alfonzo, his old comrade of the forest.
“Woe to us, that it has come to this,” Lorenzo said, “Our land marred by fire and war. Is freedom worth the price of death? Or is liberty so sweet if none are left to eat of it?”
“I cannot say,” Alfonzo said slowly, “But I know that it has been put to us to win it, and so we must. If not for ourselves, for those who trust us to secure it. Would any man choose war? Not I, at least. But it has come. We would be wrong to flee from it.”
“Indeed, but look: our precious land is aflame. Even now the forest is threatened,” and he pointed to the field behind the enemy ranks. The wind had begun gusting over the plain and had blown some of the flames toward the edge of the forest, where it was beginning to take hold.
“It has come to the end,” Alfonzo sighed, “And that which does not burn will be doused forever. Perhaps it is true what was said long ago, though it is mocked by the ways of this dreary land.”
“Many things are said, most of them in foolishness. What of it?”
“Nothing, perhaps; but perhaps everything – I can no longer tell in this land of destiny.” He paused, and, drawing his sword, “Do not return evil for evil, but with goodness. The guilt is upon me, if we are wrong, and I cannot say that I am fearless in its face.”
His own face fell. Its innocence was lost. Alfonzo had climbed the mountain of rebellion; and now, on the precipice, he was condemned. Yet still he cried out, “Charge!”
Chapter 85
With Oren Lorenzo at his side and fifteen hundred rebel soldiers at his heels, Alfonzo led the charge toward the enemy. The latter did not rush to meet them, but took their position and made ranks. Some held spears without swords, others swords without spears, and still others had neither – for in the flames much of their equipage had been thrown aside. They were veteran soldiers, however, and possessed the carriage and control of such.
The two forces met as a wave upon the shore. Alfonzo’s face was drawn, as was his sword, and he held both in readiness to strike down the enemy commander. While the others yelled and flourished their blades to incite their wrath, Alfonzo did neither. He was a man of the forest, and he was the forest. If war is madness, still those who are least mad are most feared; and Alfonzo was armed with both a cold heart and a cold sword. The plumed commander did not shy from Alfonzo’s charge, but he was thrown aside a corpse. For Alfonzo had both the force of his arm and his horse, while the commander had only the latter. Alfonzo looped his blade down at a slant, while the other raised his own to defend. His sword was caught by the momentum and overtaken, dashing against his face; his dead body dashed against the ground.
Meanwhile, Lorenzo drove himself into the mass of soldiers, passing through a hole in their rank in which there were no spears. His heels were used correctly and his mule – a drooling beast with wide nostrils – rushed headlong into the forest of armored men that made up the army. The soldiers, exhausted and ill-equipped, let him pass, and Lorenzo zealously shared his sword with them as he went: first to the right, then leaning over and circling his arm over his head to the left. He did not look up in his fury and after
a moment found himself in the center of the enemy, surrounded on all sides by thousands soldiers.
“The devil!” he cried, looking about for his comrades, “I am alone!”
None of the rebel soldiers were mounted, and so could not as easily follow him in his charge; and Alfonzo had pulled back after confronting the commander. He was alone in the midst of enemies. Only his wits were with him.
“Heave ho!” he yelled ferociously, “Flank the forest, men, and gird the trees!”
He shouted nonsense; for while he could think of nothing meaningful to say, neither could he keep silent. So he rode through their ranks, and they parted for the crazy man. They were so worn and their minds so spent that they could not tell he was alone, or that he made no sense. Soon he passed through the army altogether, killing many along the way. Only then did his vigor subside. When he saw what he had done he was doubly afraid. So he continued his charge toward the forest, toward the smoldering fires.
It was a midnight noon and the sun a lesser moon. The rain came in like the tide. Streams were forming by which it traveled steadily to the lower ground until it finally congregated around the castle – the lowest spot on the plain. Yet along with the light, the rain also drowned the fires; now only scattered pieces remained, flickering like candles through the darkness. Everything on Atilta was ancient and majestic, and as the thundering rain came, all was baptized and converted to darkness. Baptized with water, baptized with fire.
Lorenzo retained both his speed and his fear as he entered Hades. Smoke went up where the rain came down. The air was a cloud. The ground was bare and charred, littered with burnt carrion. They covered the ground like dirt and the mule could not avoid them. Smothered by the scene, Lorenzo was sober: pressed by the fear and the evidence of death.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” he whispered faintly. “That is the curse of God.”
He was silent until he came to the edge of the forest, where he dismounted. The ground was covered by a crop of the dead, sprouting from every crevice or imperfection in the ground, in which they had stumbled in their flight. Some moaned, others were silent. But each was dead or soon to be. He left his mule and wandered around the graveyard in a reverie, broken only by a familiar face.
“Blaine! Osbert! What has been done?” and he wept for the first. For the dead are merely dead, merely dirt; it is only in the contrast between the living and the dead that sadness is known.
“Oren Lorenzo?” a voice called from the lofty canopy.
He slowly lifted his head and returned, “It is I.”
“We will drop a ladder: you must climb up to us, since it is still dangerous below. Will you come?”
“Yes,” he mourned, “I will come.”
With that, a rope ladder dropped down beside him. He hesitated a moment, then removed his cloak and placed it over the bodies of his two comrades. Then he began the long ascent into the canopy, the Treeway that sat blissfully above the battle. The rain did not reach the platforms, for it only came down in waterfalls and those the rebels redirected. As Lorenzo reached the top, the ladder was brought up again.
The battle, meanwhile, had not fled with Oren Lorenzo.
Alfonzo dismounted his horse after dispatching the commander, and sent it away from the battle with a whistle. Then, on foot, he joined his men in the battle.
“Where is Lorenzo?” and he raised his sword to deflect that of an enemy soldier, twisting it to turn it back on the man. The soldier’s blade fell back and his chest was exposed, giving Alfonzo the opening to finish him.
“He rode on, through the army,” the other rebel replied, his words spoken to the rhythm of his sword.
“Has he gone mad?” Pause. “His fate is his own, and God’s.”
The battle waxed and waned within a moment, for Gylain’s soldiers’ had no strength left to fight with. They fell back in a general confusion. Alfonzo pushed his men forward, pressing the enemy into a full retreat. Still, they pushed harder, for their position along Thunder Bay was guarded only by the sea wind.
“We must press on!” Alfonzo called to his officers as they reigned in their men. “We must route them completely, for the fleet has arrived and we must battle them as well. Let us finish off the first to face the second!” He raised his sword and rushed into the violence.
As the Admiral held back the fleet, Alfonzo pushed back the army. Soon the retreating forces found themselves in the smoking graveyard they had so recently fled. It was then that it began. One of the troops gave a shrill scream, the sound of concentrated suffering, and then another. It spread among them and then ended abruptly in silence: they fell to the ground, unable to move themselves from exhaustion. They were alive, perhaps, but there was not enough life left to show itself. Even as they fled and fought they fell to the ground and to sleep. The dead and the living slept together.
“Do we finish them?” asked an officer.
Alfonzo was once more a man, no longer a soldier. “These are brave men, though mistaken; and their bravery is used against them. These are men who have suffered for a man to whom suffering is a pleasure and have been through fire, foe, and fear for the sake of the fatherland. These are men who carry battle in their hearts and will fight until they can no longer animate their bodies. Should we slay them in their weakness? That is not the question, my friends, but this: should we return evil for evil?”
Silence mingled with the rain and smoke.
“No, we will not slay them,” Alfonzo continued, relieved and reassured by the return of his heart, “We will comfort them. Percival, take a hundred men and find those who still live. Take them to the shelter of the forest and see that they are cared for, then return to the battle. Clarence, take a hundred men with you and gather supplies for the wounded, that they may nourish themselves; then, return to the battle.” Alfonzo turned and whistled for his horse. It came sprinting across the plain. He mounted as it arrived.
As he began to ride away, Percival called out to him. “Sir, have we not spent ourselves to destroy these men, and they us? And by giving them mercy, do we not defile those who have fallen for freedom and peace?”
“What is our purpose?” Alfonzo returned. “If it is freedom and peace, as you say, how can we hope to gain our own by stealing that of another? For while they stood between us and liberty, they were our enemies; and while they bore arms to prevent our success, they were our foes. But now, in defeat, they have reverted to men, and we must treat them as such.” He paused. “Look about you: what have we gained and what have we lost? If we fight for freedom and war for peace, we have already been defeated.”
He turned his horse and galloped to the front. Yet as he arrived a shrill horn cut the air and pierced the thundering rain: the horn of the Admiral. The rebel fleet had fallen.
Chapter 86
“No, friends, the Marins are yours and under your command,” the Admiral told the Fardy brothers. “I am a man of ship and sea.”
“But we are three and the ships two,” the blond Fardy answered. “We are patient – no one would deny that – but it is too much for us to be separated in the cold water and the hot battle. So, if not you, then another must command the second Marin. We will sail and fight together.”
“Together and inseparable,” the brown Fardy added, “Like the sea, the ship, and the barnacles beneath!”
“The barnacles beneath? That is too much, my brown haired brother, for I fear that you demean yourself to be a barnacle. So I must stand and protect your honor and insist that I be considered the nefarious hanger-on.”
“It will not be so! By God above, I am the barnacle beneath!”
“So be it,” the Admiral interrupted, afraid lest the brothers grow boisterous. “Barnes, you will command the Marin.”
“Yes, sir,” the young man said, dutiful more than pleased.
“Meredith,” the Admiral called to the monk, who was sitting atop the mast, examining the horizon for the expected fleets: friend and foe. “Meredith, what is it that I see at
twelve mark one hundred and twelve degrees?”
“Let me look a moment, sir,” came back. A minute passed, then it was followed by, “The devil’s doorway, and Satan’s stair! Beelzebub’s back from who-knows-where!”
“Hold your tongue and tell us what it is about,” the Admiral rebuked.
A wine-skin scalp appeared over the sail. “What is it about? It is about the largest fleet I have ever seen.”
“Indeed?” and the Admiral leapt to the rail, holding himself up by the yard arms to gain a clearer view. “What fleet and what size?”
“As for size: over two hundreds ships,” answered the monk. “As for who: some fly the colors of Gylain, others of the Three Kingdoms. Yet the leading ship flies our own colors, those of the Atilta. In all, I can make nothing of it.”
The Admiral grabbed ahold of the yard arms and began climbing the ropes to the mast, reaching the top in a short time. Erwin Meredith was perched on the cross-trees. The Admiral stood beside him, taking the telescope and examining the approaching vessels.
“The enemy approaches with over two hundred ships of war. But the foremost ship is fleeing the others, and though it is of Hibernian build it flies our colors.” He paused. “Who is in it, I cannot tell by sight, though I may by mind. But this I know: if we do not draw the chain, they will perish on the threshold of safety. Yet if we remove the chain the fleet will outflank us and we will lose the wind gage. Still, it must be done.”
“But can we know that it is not a trick, a hoax to lower our defenses?” Meredith asked.
“Yes, for I know who it is.”
“Then, by dollar and denarius, do not force us into impatience!” chorused the Fardy brothers.
“It is Lionel and de Garmia, whom you left behind on account of business. This was the score of which they had to make accounts.”
“Then let the chain be raised,” said Meredith, “I, myself, will lead the effort. But how will we do it, Admiral? We have no more than an hour.”
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