“And he will have none. But would it matter? Look about you, Alfonzo: we will all die.”He looked at the storm and paused. “If there must be murder, let it not be God’s but mine!”
At that moment, the siege weapons struck the ramparts and the earthen walls fell back in disarray. It came again. The water began to pass through. A third time, and the entrance was unsealed.
“Quickly, men,” de Casanova yelled, “Quickly, follow me!” He dashed up the wall – sloped on the inside – and washed over two rebels stationed there. They had no weapons but arrows and raised their arms to surrender. But they only surrendered their souls: de Casanova struck them down with a single side stroke.
Meanwhile, the advancing soldiers propagated themselves throughout the defenses. The melee was general. Alfonzo rode about on his horse, rallying and forming them into a disciplined line. De Casanova saw him from the wall and started after him, but he was halted by a voice behind his shoulder.
“The Chevalier de Braunign, de Casanova; who could have thought I would have such luck?”
De Casanova spun around. “Lionel!”
“Indeed; come, let us finish this like men.”
“Like men? And for what, a woman?”
“What is fighting for, but man’s woe? Come along.”
“Very well,” and he followed Lionel over the rampart to the ground between the fleet and the fortifications. The water grew deeper and the bay crept closer. The space between the two, however, was empty; for all the soldiers were in battle. “Very well, Lionel; but you must know this fight is as meaningless as that which tears your heart. The outcome is decided, and by her.”
“Patrick is my friend, but Lydia my sister; I fight for her honor alone, for he cares less for his own than even I. Here, we are alone: draw,” and Lionel’s blade came from its sheath and shot toward de Casanova. The latter had his ready and parried the blow.
The young man followed with an assault on his adversary’s left side. He struck again and again in rapid succession, advancing a step with each; de Casanova deflected the blows. Then, seeing he could not prevail in this manner, Lionel lunged at the other’s chest. De Casanova slipped as he fell back and the sword struck his arm – a painful wound, but harmless. He fell into the water.
“It is finished,” Lionel stood over him.
“Indeed,” and he kicked Lionel’s feet aside, bringing him to the ground.
They regained their feet at the same time. The duel resumed. Lionel grew in zeal, and with his larger sword brought a rain of fierce down strokes on his enemy’s head. Thunder rang as de Casanova struggled to block them. Lightning flashed on the steel. De Casanova dodged to the left and a blow fell to the ground. Yet Lionel picked it up before the other could return it and de Casanova recoiled under its hurricane force.
“You struggle, old man: weakness haunts your eyes.”
“The eyes of the jaguar are not seen before he strikes,” and he leapt upon Lionel with a sudden flash of vigor. The youth jerked back and slid to the ground, almost covered by the water. De Casanova stood over him, pressing his sword against the other’s chest.
“Now, it is finished,” de Casanova laughed.
Silence covered Lionel, his courage a memory. Then he, himself, was nothing more. De Casanova ran him through. His corpse was buried by the flood. Then, taken up by the water’s strong current, it floated away. As de Casanova watched him disappear, a messenger came from the front.
“The rebels have fallen back,” he said. “We have taken the field.”
Chapter 90
The fleet began to disembark the siege equipment, placing them upon flatboats and rafts to be floated to the castle. The current carried them, as that was where it naturally deposited its cargo. Lyndon watched over the process from his command deck: the water had risen high enough for The Barber to come in close. De Casanova came to bring him a report of the battle.
“It is done,” he said, “We have driven them back to the castle. It cannot be long now.”
“Very good; if this rain continues, we will not have much time.”
“The flood begins. But we are islanders and it has happened before.”
“Have you seen Lionel?” the king asked abruptly, “I thought I saw him passing by.”
“I have.”
“And? He is my son, though sons are the curse of the throne. Most are weak and arrogant, a double fault line that cracks the sanity; and humility to the weak is as arrogance to the strong. But Lionel was neither weak nor arrogant and therein lies his fault. Tell me, what of him? Did he fight with honor?”
“Yes, and with skill.”
“He can be redeemed to his heritage, yet. It is a shame he endangers himself.”
“I doubt there is danger where he has gone.”
The king turned aside his eyes and lowered their curtains. “And where has he gone?”
“That is not for men to know; I killed him.”
“There was no other way?”
“None that would not dishonor him. He fought for the honor of his sister, and he was defeated.”
“Strength over weakness,” Lyndon sighed. “My daughter sells her beauty to a peasant, and her brother his life for her honor. A pitiful thing, is pride in honor; yet without it, what would become of us? Our pride, our honor – it is the ale of the elite, driving us to madness, fueling our mispronounced sin; but without it we would be damned outright.” Pause. “But let us throw philosophy to the wind, de Casanova. How is the siege?”
“The castle is garrisoned with several thousand men; how much supplies we cannot tell. The town is gone, so there is nothing in the area to cover ourselves with. Above all, our supplies will not last a siege. We cannot resupply while the sea rages.”
“Why did they not resupply in Eden? With two hundred ships the room can be found.”
“We would have, to be sure, if Lionel had not seduced our wrath before we could load what had already been set aside.”
“The young fool! Still, I am glad because of it: he had my cunning,” and Lyndon laughed, turning his head upwards until the rain disguised his weeping. He was a man of power, for good or ill.
A man approached the bow, Lyndon’s private deck. He was a scout, sent out by Lyndon.
“I have news, my lord.”
“Speak.”
“A small regiment is encamped to the south, three thousand strong. They seemed alive, but slept so soundly I could not rouse them.”
“Sleeping, through battle and storm? These Atiltians are stout men,” de Casanova laughed. “And you as well; I, at least, would not rouse an enemy host when I was alone.”
“They were not enemies but Gylain’s infantry, those he sent through the forest.”
“Then his men do not have his fire,” de Casanova returned, “For he has not closed his eyes these last four days, nor so much as blinked. If he is undead, they are unalive.”
“Return to them until they wake,” Lyndon interrupted. “We will continue the siege without them and without their leader,” he glanced to the forest. “Gylain has trained his army well enough that they can fight alone. I did not even expect those sleeping soldiers to remain among the living. As for Gylain, it is neither among armies nor rebels that he seeks battle.”
“Nor is it among men; for he fights strength and there is only one stronger than he. Begone,” and de Casanova nodded his head to the scout, who turned and fled the scene.
Meanwhile, Gylain, Montague, and the eight remaining soldiers traveled through the forest at a morbid pace. The canopy stopped the rain but not the water and the ground was the earth’s tear. Where it came down, the water rushed as if it fell off the world. The cloudy air swirled with the sound of falling water. Below, the grass glowed with phosphorous plants, refugees of the angry sea. It was one o’clock and it was midnight, lingering like a jelly fish dream. It was the forest and it was the sea. It was the deluge.