“What can you mean? Keep nothing from me for fear of my telling it to others, for I am loyal.”
“If I hesitate in speech,” began Alfonzo, “It is only because I am hesitant in thought. But I will tell you what I am thinking: perhaps there is a clan of bears that watches over the royal family. It sounds absurd, I know. I would dismiss it without thought myself, if I had not seen the bear prints, and if – whenever I walked with Willarinus in the forest – I did not catch glimpses of bears in the distance.”
“There is a tale in the house of the King of France, the other branch of the Plantagenets,” said Vahan, “That Atilta is a magical land, the last of the magical lands of earth, like an isolated bubble of myth in the middle of the medieval world. It was said that before mankind had traveled from their origins, the land was filled with dwarves, dragons, fairies, and all such creatures. But as the human population grew, the others declined. When the populations of Egypt and Greece grew too large, the magical creatures moved to the island of Atlantis. Their magic made it prosper and gave it defenses against the encroachments of mankind, the legends say, until at last the avarice and lust of the humans effected them as well, and their land was sunk in the sea under their self-oppressions. The tales say Atilta is the same, that some day it too will sink beneath the sea.”
“Yes, but that is a fairy tale, Vahan,” Alfonzo said, “And such things are not to be believed. We must focus on ending the oppressions on Atilta, without thoughts of the mythological.” He paused and looked anxiously at the forest around them. “Did you hear that?”
Alfonzo unsheathed his sword and leapt to his feet as he spoke, cocking his head to the side as he listened to the sounds of a man running through the forest. At length Casper appeared, with a look of wild fear in his eyes.
“Be alert! There is an ambush at hand!”
Alfonzo looked him over closely, then turned to Vahan and said, “Arm yourself.”
“Be quick about it,” Casper gasped from his running, “For Montague is coming!”
Chapter 15
Mere moments after Casper came out of the forest, fifteen men followed him into the clearing which surrounded the giant oak tree. Jonathan Montague led them, his dark hair combed forward at the temples as before, his gait strict and emotionless. They emerged at a brisk run, and, like a well-trained legion, circled around the three freedom fighters. Montague pulled back to a walk as his men did this, and entered their circle with an air of victory. He waved his hand and they drew their swords, forming a wall of steel around Alfonzo, Vahan, and Casper.
Montague was the first to speak.
“Alfonzo of Melborough,” he laughed deeply, “Who would have thought the King of the Forest would find himself surrounded? Surely, not I. What of you, Casper? Does it strike you as ironic, as unexpected?”
“No, but you will be struck with the irony in my steel blade, if you dare advance another step,” the ranger retorted.
“We will see soon enough whose words are gold, and whose are mere grass, my friend, to be thrown into the fire.” He paused. “Casper, have you switched your allegiance once more? You must know that I do not play with the fickle.”
“My allegiance remains where it ever was.”
“Indeed?”
“Am I not at Alfonzo’s side? Why would I follow you, who offers pain instead of comfort, and power instead of consolation? Let the fools be fools, I say, but I will not join them in it.”
“Ah, Casper, you surprise me. What are the rewards, you ask? To the victor go the spoils.”
“And you would spoil me in your victory,” Casper said. “Do I not remember de Garcia?”
“Very well, if that is how it is,” Montague said. “Yet I will not forget our bargain,” and he took a bag of coins from his pocket and threw it at Casper. It hit him and fell to the ground, and thirty silver coins came out upon the grass.
Alfonzo’s eyes glared with anger for a brief instant, before he could extinguished them.
“Casper!” he wailed, “Casper, you are the traitor!”
Casper turned to him with an open mouth, but he could not speak, for his emotions were overcome with surprise.
“There is forgiveness on earth,” Alfonzo whispered, “Yet earth is not eternal.”
“No!” Casper cried, sinking to his knees and raising his hands toward Alfonzo in supplication.
“Have mercy, Alfonzo, for it was not I. Gladly I would die for you and for the cause; for Atilta and for its people. He speaks lies,” and he gestured to Montague.
His face was sincere, and Alfonzo was silent for a moment as he looked him over. Montague was indignant with the silence, however, and grew angry.
“William Stuart was a cowardly traitor to all that is good, as are you, Alfonzo.”
Alfonzo looked up from Casper, who remained prostrate before him.
“And what would you know of that which is good, Montague? Your schemes here will not work, for I will not disown those who call me master. They will be punished, if they do wrong, even as you and your master Gylain will be. But only when such wrongs are shown clearly. I will not judge before the matter is known, but rather, I will wait and fate will judge us all.” Alfonzo’s face flushed with passion.
Montague broke ranks with his men, advancing toward the three prisoners.
Vahan was trembling with fear and muttering under his breath, “I am loyal to Atilta, I am not a Frenchman.”
Casper still knelt before Alfonzo, anxious to be exonerated.
“If I am false to you, Alfonzo, it is not by my design. I only followed the orders I was given by you, in the letter.”
“I gave you no letter, Casper,” Alfonzo said slowly.
“You did not give it to me yourself, sir, but you wrote it. I was handed it by—”
But Casper did not finish. Before he could, Montague stepped forward briskly, and raised his sword. With a slow, calculated swing he broke the alliance between Casper’s head and his body. The severed head rolled off to the left and the body fell limp at the feet of Alfonzo.
The latter was overcome with grief and dropped to his knees, hiding his face in his hands in desolation and despair. Then he slowly raised his moistened eyes to Montague’s.
“I surrender,” he whispered, and let his sword fall from his hand onto the ground.
Montague stood silent, marinating in his victory. He raised his sword above his head, and prepared to bring it down upon Alfonzo, to finish off his stalwart enemy. But he stopped himself, with a strange hate gleaming from his eyes, that kind for which it is not enough to merely kill.
“No,” he said, “No, you will not be slain Alfonzo of Melborough. We must first let you soak in your dishonor. We must let you live and watch as your foolish followers are hunted down and slain, one by miserable, wretched one.” He paused, then, turning to his men, he went on, “Bind them. Then we are off to Eden, to the castle dungeon, from which there is no escape.”
He turned his back to Alfonzo and began to walk toward the edge of the clearing.
His men bound Alfonzo and Vahan Lee, kicking the decapitated body of Casper from their path. Montague did not wait for them, but started off in the direction from which he had come: east, toward Eden. The soldiers followed soon after, with the two prisoners between them.
When they were no longer in the clearing, but in the skyless forest once more, Alfonzo let out his grin, smiling from ear to ear in a simplistic way. Vahan turned toward him and opened his mouth in surprise.
“My friend, what is there to smile about at this sad juncture? Can you possibly be relieved that the fight is finally over? Can the end of the war, however horrible the defeat, bring with it rest from worries?”
“No, for the war has just begun, Vahan. Perhaps you do not realize what we have accomplished?”
“No, I do not see what is good in this.”
Alfonzo looked forward at Montague, but he was too far away to hear him, and the soldiers did not seem to care.
“We’ve
cleared the forest of Gylain’s men,” he whispered, “For the safe passage of His Majesty, the King of Atilta, and his loyal protector, Horatio.”
He laughed silently as he spoke, as did Vahan, both grown men giggling to themselves. Yet they could not contain it, and soon they laughed ferociously, without giving any thought to what their captors would think.
Montague turned and gave them an incredulous look.
“What is this?” he cried, “You are defeated, and your followers slain. How can you laugh in this defeat, you fools? The end draws nigh, but not in your companions’ favor.”
“It does draw near, but it is you who has lost, Montague. The days of Gylain the Wicked are numbered short.”
“And how do you know this, Alfonzo?” Montague asked.
“I can hear it in the wind.” This was all Alfonzo would say, and Vahan added nothing more.
With an indignant countenance, his victory confused by his enemy’s rejoicing, Montague turned once more and set off at a double pace.
“To Eden,” he shouted to his men, “To Castle Plantagenet!”
Chapter 16
Meanwhile, there was action in another part of the forest, to the north of the camp in which the rebels had spent the night. Willard, the king of Atilta – though he did not know it – and Horatio, heir to a long line of black bears – the kings of the forest and the guardians of the house of Plantagenet – traveled together. The two kings of Atilta, one of man and one of beast, were together as blood brothers, though neither knew their true importance.
The forest was as ancient there as elsewhere, and it was still under the broad canopy that they walked, clothed in a soft, mellow shade and cooled by a slight breeze that wisped around the trunks of the massive trees. In this section of the forest, the trees had vines growing on them thickly, stretching all the way into the upper branches. There was a heavy fog that sweetened the already wholesome air, and nothing could be seen more than ten yards away. Even within that range everything took on a smoky, shrouded appearance, as if the air had just woke up, and its eyes were still too tired to let things show through.
The first leg of their journey was entirely uneventful, until the noon hour. It was only then that the two reached the road, which they took in the eastern direction, toward the city of Eden. Their pace was slack, for they were in no hurry. It was as though they gave adventure a chance to overtake them. And sure enough, within a few minutes, Willard and Horatio – once more disguised as monks – spotted an odd, clerical figure coming toward them from the west.
“Look there, Horatio,” Willard said, “An odd man approaches, and I should count myself amiss if I did not take the chance to speak with him. Let us take our rest in the shade, therefore, and wait for him to reach us. He is going the same way we are.”
The two sat down at the base of a large oak, enjoying the cool shade for a few moments. Soon the man drew near enough to make out his features. He was a little above the average height, very slightly overweight, and had a blazing red mustache that stretched from ear to ear like a lightening bolt attached to his face. It was apparent he was the prior of a church, for his robes were richer than a monk’s, yet simpler than a bishop’s.
“Greetings stranger,” Willard called out as he drew near, “Would you care to make your way with us? The forest is a grim place for the lone ecclesiastic, these days.”
“With pleasure, my fellow churchmen. But let me make my positions known, for there are many of Judas’ companions among us,” the prior answered with a grave, animated countenance. “I am on the side of freedom, against the usurper Gylain, the most wretched and tyrannical ruler since the purloined rib – that is to say, from the creation itself. And if you be of those putrid, pale-hearted churchmen who – for love of money and power – forsake the commands of the Holy Scriptures to follow this Gylain – and who declare that his reign be just – then I have more contempt for you than for the devil himself, and may he take your souls!” He finished his monologue with a flush and a little jump on his heels that, while not lifting him from the ground, elevated him enough to display his zeal for freedom.
“We are faithful to the true king, friend,” Willard began, not realizing the irony in his statement. “But what type of Christian would wish the souls of his enemies to the devil? Does it not say to love your enemies more than yourself?”
“Of course, and I am rightly convicted. Thank you for your rebuke, most learned monk. You have proved yourself true, in my eyes, and in the most telling way possible: not only to our earthly king but to our heavenly one as well. Tell me then, friends, what are you called?” asked the man.
“I am Willard, and this is Horatio. We have only recently come from a long hermitage in the forest, and he has yet to regain a decent knowledge of any language but Latin, yet I will translate his speech.”
“No need, I know Latin well.”
“Yes, but fifteen years make a strange vocabulary, and it is perhaps more gibberish than Latin. What is your name, good sir?”
“I am Oren Lorenzo, prior of the Western March and good friend of Milada of Erlich.” He gave Willard a close look as he said this, to detect any feelings he had in connection with that name. Willard remembered him as a great leader of the forces of freedom, and his face showed it.
“Perhaps you have heard the tragedy that has befallen his house of late?” Oren offered.
“Yes, indeed, that his daughter Ivona is missing. A sad event, I am told.”
“By whom?”
“By Alfonzo of Melborough and the Fardy brothers. I left them not four hours ago.”
The prior’s face lit to a glow upon hearing this, and he said with feeling, “At last, they are on their way. They come to help, I am sure?”
“The Fardy brothers, yes, with several of Alfonzo’s men. But he himself is off on another task.”
“That is good to hear, friend, for I was beginning to lose hope in her being recovered. It is a sad situation, as well as a dangerous one.”
“Your journey, then, is to gather news about her?”
“Yes, as well as a certain Erwin Meredith, a monk under me. He went out to gather information, but has not yet returned. What, may I ask, is the purpose of your journey?”
“I do not know yet, though I hope to discover it before long.”
“What faith in providence! You are a most extraordinary monk, dear Willard.”
“Yes, faith. Or perhaps just acknowledgment that I can do little to control my destiny.”
“Destiny is an odd, phantom word, I always say, so let us leave it behind.”
“Very well.”
With that, the three walked on, looking like innocent, peaceful churchmen – though two of them were far from that, and the third had his own secrets. From noon, when the party met, until eight o’clock they walked through the forest. The great limbs from the trees on either side of the road clasped hands overhead to give them shade, and a gentle wind traveled along the road with them, refreshing them as it went by.
It was at the time of evening when the shadows begin to deepen that they came to a clearing in the forest, stretching from the side of the road to the end of a long meadow. Between were fields of wheat, oats, and hay, the later in its highest, richest shade of gold, so that it twinkled as it wrinkled in the breeze. Ten yards from the road stood a short building, made of roughly hewn boards and whatever bricks could be hauled from the city. It was long and narrow, in the middle, with a larger section at either side.
The forest in this area was rather highly elevated, with the meadow sloping down from the road. Through this landscape the ocean could be seen, shining sweetly beyond the wooden barrier. Beer-froth clouds filled the sky, illuminated underneath by the drowning sun. The rigid forms of the forest trees contrasted this heavenly panorama with their earthly roots, and the result was the natural mixture of the romantic and the mathematical. It was, in a word, paradise.
“That is my destination, friend,” said Oren Lorenzo, his fiery musta
che bent upwards by his grin. “It is one of the monasteries in my district, and I would be pleased if you would join us here this evening. This is, perhaps, a beautiful place, but the food trumps it nicely. The abbot hails from Italy, and his pasta and bread are unsurpassed. I can taste it even now.” The prior kissed the ends of his fingers and twirled around, excited by the thought of good food amidst the good scenery.
“They must be preparing quite a feast,” Willard replied, “For look, the smoke pours from the building.”
As he said this the smoke became more and more evident, increasing rapidly until it was suddenly replaced by the flames that caused it, moving swiftly to the outside of the building.
“Good heavens above us!” shouted Lorenzo, “The abbey is on fire!”
He dashed off toward the blaze, not heeding Willard’s request that he remain. It would have been better if he had. For at that moment a half dozen horsemen came around from the back of the building. They were dressed in black, with the insignia of Gylain on their shields. With them came a dozen monks, swarming around their burning monastery like ants around a broken ant hill. Before Willard and Horatio were able to get half way to the burning building, Oren Lorenzo was already there, shouting at the horsemen.
“You wretched vermin! I have never witnessed a more hideous, debauched act in my long life – and who can doubt but that the good lord hasn’t either? What is the meaning of this – of setting fire to the house of God? And of those loyal to the country? By Goliath and the Queen of Sheba, who slew him with the braids of bondage!”
The leading horseman reared his steed. “We are soldiers of Gylain,” he answered harshly, “Under orders to punish this house of heathenism for treason to the crown, for plotting to overthrow the king, and for aiding rebel bandits. We act under the law, so step back!”
“A plundering law is worse than anarchy. This is no lawful deed – this is arson and you will be punished.”
“By whom?” laughed the horsemen.
“By me!” roared the prior, his face becoming as red and as fiery as his mustache. He held his staff in the air and swung it at the speaker, knocking him from his saddle. His eyes flashed and he turned to the next in an attempt to repeat the performance, raising his staff to strike. But just as he hurled it toward the horseman, the leader, stretched out on the ground, kicked Lorenzo’s legs from beneath him. He fell out of balance and tumbled to the earth. In an instant the leader was on his feet once more, quickly binding Lorenzo’s wrists.
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