“Yes, father,” and she went.
When she was below, he called out to Barnes, who still held his station in the stern, “What is our speed? It can be no less than thirteen knots, but still they push faster.”
“Thirteen and a half, sir. They do fourteen, at least.”
The Admiral said no more but stood in the spray of the breaking waves – some against the side and some against his weather-beaten face. His short hair was not moved by the wind, but his beard was blown into his chest, dancing with the currents of the air. His eyes were lanterns in the night, fueled by hatred and vengeance. It was a vengeance that had long been suppressed – like a fire allowed only to smolder. Yet when the air comes, it bursts into flame. So it was with the Admiral. He was finally in a position to inflict the wound of death upon Gylain; but he could not do so before his wrath played itself out and Gylain trembled before him – aware that his end was near and that it came from the hands of William Stuart.
The Admiral stared into the storm, his face stern and his thoughts concealed. It had been many years ago that he first met Gylain.
William was born to a man who was already dead and a woman who was soon to follow. From youth he was an orphan, left to wander the streets of Eden and beg what he could, steal what he could not. It was several years before he stumbled into the Floatings, for the rest of the city was a maze for the child. He walked between two lofty buildings, and the city abruptly came to an end – all he had ever seen or known simply vanished. In its place stood the Floatings. He was entranced by its charm and its bustle. He looked out upon the harbor – so full of floating structures its surface could not be seen – and he saw the dreams of the hungry nights sitting before him like paradise.
For an hour he did not move, but stared with the delight of discovery. When he finally ventured within the Floatings it was as if he entered a bubble of excitement. Even at its edge, it felt different than the city. It was alive. He crept to the edge of the water and put his foot in, as if assuring himself it really was there and not some dream of his. The keeper of a small shop saw him there and brought his Lipel beside William with two strokes of the oars.
“Child,” the shopkeeper called out to him, “Are you busy?”
“No, sir.”
“Ah, then would you care to earn a penny? I have need of a helping boy.”
“Yes, sir,” and William’s face opened into joy.
The shopkeeper was a man in his forties, with a round face and a nose almost as long as his head. This prodigious nose, however, was straight, and gave him an honest look. He reached out and picked William up, pulling him into the center of the boat. It was a circular boat, with a counter some three feet tall running around edge – covered in fresh fruits – and a thatch roof. There was a small platform in the center, resting on a row of ball-bearings: it turned in whichever direction his feet pushed. A wooden chair occupied its center; a pair of oars came up through the bottom and swiveled with the platform. A pedal at his feet controlled the rudder on the bottom, allowing him to adjust which way the current pushed the shop. In this way, he could dart among the other vessels of the Floatings with the dexterity of a water bug.
“You will be my spotter,” he told William, and he opened a door to the roof. There was a comfortable seat built into it, upon which he set the boy.
“Can you swim?” the man asked him.
“No, sir, though I have always wanted to learn.”
The shopkeeper laughed until his face was red with mirth. “I will teach you when the day is done. Until then, wear this,” and he handed a small floating vest to William.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You are perfectly welcome, my boy. Here is what you must do: look about you for anyone that might be wanting some fruit. When you see them, call into this tube,” and he showed William a speaking tube that connected to the cockpit. “Tell me where and what it is. With a little experience, you will learn what is a good prospect and what is not. Until then, keep your eyes open.” The shopkeeper’s smiling head disappeared into the Lipel. It came up again a moment later, however, handing William a plump orange not two days from the tree. “When you are done with it, holler down to me and I will give you another. Don’t be shy about it. Just be sure to show the joy there is in eating such extraordinarily good fruit.” He winked and pulled his head below. Then away they went, darting around the Floatings like a fish among whales.
The shopkeeper had no children – though his wife dearly wanted one – and from that day they raised William as their own. He worked with his father on the Lipel until he was twelve. Then, with the money he had diligently saved, he bought some sailor’s clothes and became a cabin boy in the Atiltian fleet. By twenty, his courage had made him a lieutenant.
At that time, Atilta was at war with Spain and Egypt. It was the threshold for Atilta: victory meant empire, and defeat enslavement. In the battle for Saxony – Atilta’s only ally in the three kingdoms – the Admiral of the fleet was killed. Chaos threatened, and William took command, issuing orders to the fleet as if the Admiral was still alive. He wisely feared a power struggle between the other captains that would ruin them, and through his genius the battle was won: Atilta became great. In the glory of victory, his means were praised. He became a hero.
In the courts of Saxony, he met the beautiful royal daughter: Casandra. The end of the war filled the air with the fuel for love; their passion sparked it to a blaze. They were married before he left. She left her country for Atilta, forsaking the power and wealth of her family for the power and passion of her lover. Passion is not long fermenting into sweetness, and when they fed it love, it did not fade. William grew in stature among the court of Atilta. His victory over the Spanish was brilliant, but he did not grow dull with authority. He won every battle and made no excuses. At length, he was named Admiral of the entire navy.
There was another young man who also grew quickly into power, however. Gylain was born into the highest level of wealth and power, as the Duke of the Lion’s Mane. With beauty and nobility, little worth is needed for advancement, and Gylain possessed both. Yet he was also a brilliant, spirited man. He burned in the service of the king, just as he later burned to overthrow him. He was named General of the entire army at the same time William became Admiral.
They first met in a council of war, called to discuss the Viking invasions to the north. William came with a powerful stride, as did Gylain, and from the first they felt an affection for each other. While other men were weak and prostrate before the King, Gylain and William were equal. Yet Gylain envied him in one thing: the love of William’s wife was still passionate, for they were not together enough for it to grow cool.
The council lasted through the night. The next day they parted: William for the seas, and Gylain for the land. William went to confront the Viking fleet and destroy the threat before it could land. On his journey, however, Gylain first met Casandra, and was charmed by her surpassing beauty. He was accustomed to satisfying his desires and struggled with his lust for her. Yet it grew within him – by divine dictate, as he said – until it consumed his conscience. He flamed within and it manifested itself in his sword.
Casandra’slove, meanwhile, had evolved into bitterness. In her loneliness, she cursed William. She desired him, but he was not to be had. She gave herself to him, but he was not there to receive her. Hate is but the after taste of love. And she hated William.
On the northern coasts, William was wrecked against the shore. Whatever men survived joined Gylain’s army. Yet the army had also been beaten back and was reduced to a hundred men – a hundred hard and desperate men, left to defend their country. The Vikings were almost two thousand strong.
The beaches of northern Atilta were flat and sandy, stretching inland for half a mile. There, however, they came against a mountain range whose precipices could not be passed. On either side the beach stretched for a hundred miles, and could not be left but through a single, narrow pass: the Pass of the Forest. It le
d directly into the heart of the forest that covered the rest of the island. The pass itself was ten feet across, with cliffs rising thousands of feet on either side. The sun could only penetrate to the bottom for two minutes at high noon. At any other angle, the cliffs would not let it come down and the pass below was dark.
Gylain and William embraced at the foot of the cliffs, their backs in the darkness and their faces in the light. Yet Gylain had given himself to lust. He did not combat it because he did not desire to. Though he could have done anything, he did not want to do it.
“The curse of God!” Gylain whispered to himself as he embraced William. “I cannot do otherwise than what I desire, and it is God who shapes those desires. I am damned, now. But I do not care – I will have what I will have.”
Gylain fell back into the darkness to hide his scowling face.
“Come,” he said, “We will take them in the pass.”
They hid in the center of the pass and waited in the darkness. They could hear the heavy breathing of the approaching Vikings, but stalked backwards – remaining always in front of them. The Vikings did not know they were near.
Then, in a flash of brilliance, the sun came over the cliffs far above and shone into the pass. The light was as great as the darkness had been. The Atiltians attacked, spreading themselves over the narrow pass and charging down the surprised Vikings, who turned and ran to the beaches. Yet Gylain chased after them, and his heart boiled within him. He used the power of his lust to fight the Vikings. No one could not withstand it.
“Destroy me now, God,” he muttered as his sword flew forward on its own accord. “Destroy me now, or else I will destroy you. I will have Casandra!”
The Vikings were routed and banished forever to their icy homes. The Atiltian army and navy returned to Eden amidst a great celebration. The empire was saved, as was western civilization, for good or ill. William was dispatched to rebuild the navy, and Gylain paraded through the streets as a hero.
Casandra’s passion, meanwhile, was fully converted to a passion of hatred. She met Gylain in the secret of the night and they plotted to overthrow the king. Casandra hated the man who took her husband and Gylain the man who had power over him. But Gylain was discovered and placed in the city jail. The jailers, however, were Gylain’s followers. They released him and he escaped to Casandra’s chamber.
Fate played their side in the matter, for Casandra’s father died, and she became queen of Saxony. The king did not suspect her, but held a banquet in her honor. Gylain came disguised as her handmaiden, sitting opposite the king and queen. Then, in the middle of the feast, he sprang forward and slew the king, while one of his men did the same to the queen. The castle guards sprang upon them, but Gylain had positioned his own men around him. It was a desperate struggle. Alfonzo of Melborough escaped with the prince, but the rest of the castle was taken. Casandra hated William so much that she imprisoned her own daughter, hoping to bring pain to her husband.
William, however, did not know what had happened and returned to the city. He was arrested by the new king’s army as he left the safety of his fleet and taken to the top room of Castle Plantagenet. The guards secured him to a post – his arms apart and his back open to the air – then left, as Casandra and Gylain came in.
“What is this, my love?” William asked, concealing his emotions. “What is this cruel joke?”
“I do not jest, William. I loved you long ago, but I have since grown to despise you.”
William looked to his friend Gylain for comfort, but there was none to be had in him. He had been overtaken by his lust and was no longer a man, but a beast. His lusts were fulfilled yet he was not satisfied. So he looked deeper into evil, where there is no satisfaction to be had.
“This is the end, friend,” and he walked behind William, out of his view.
Casandra stood in front of William. She grabbed a whip from the table beside her. She slashed him across the face. He did not wince at the physical pain, but could not hold himself through the spiritual.
“Why have you forsaken me?” he said through his tears.
“Was I not forsaken first?”
Gylain began to scourge William’s back with a glass-tipped whip. His flesh was flayed away piece by bloody piece. Yet William did not feel the pain of this, for his spirit had died within him. His eyes grew emotionless; his face as the face of the dead. He said nothing but stared at Casandra with the innocence of a child. He did not perceive what happened to him. He did not understand.
When the evil was complete they left William alone in the upper room of the tower. Casandra saw the wrong she had done and fled to Saxony with her youngest daughter, Cybele. She could not return to William, yet that ancient love within her rejected Gylain. So she faded away to the land of her youth and was no more. Gylain, however, hardened his heart against sorrow and numbed his conscience with ever greater evils.
William, meanwhile, was rescued by Erwin Meredith. The newly formed rebellion took him to the Western Marches, where William was returned to health in Milada’s castle. The forest could not be crossed by an army and the navy had been destroyed and deserted. But Gylain pushed to rebuild it and, when it was ready, sent it after them. The Battle of Thunder Bay followed: William was captured, but the fledging navy was taken by the rebellion.
William Stuart was taken into exile by Nicholas Montague, traveling the world on a ship of torture. But then, in a daring action, the Admiral took over the ship, with the help of his fellow prisoner Barnes Griffith. They turned course to Atilta. On the way the winds beset them, wrecking them on the African coast. Without tools, it took years to rebuild the ship. But William led them on, his eyes always smoldering for revenge. At last, he had returned to take it.
“Admiral!” a voice cried through the noise of the storm, “Admiral!”
The old man’s eyes opened, as if awoken from a deep slumber.
“What is it, Barnes?” he asked with an air of sorrow.
“Sir, Gylain’s fleet has begun besieging us. Their arrows barely miss our stern: we will soon be in range.”
“It is time,” the Admiral sighed deeply with a distracted countenance. “It is time that I fought Gylain to the death.”
“And your daughter, Cybele?” Barnes asked with an air of worry.
The old man laid his weather-beaten hand upon the young man’s shoulder, with a look in his eyes that showed his weather-beaten heart. Their ship tore through the water, and the waves beat fiercely against the bow, crashing down on those aboard the ship. The swell kept The King’s Arm from seeing their pursuers at times, though they were only fifty yards apart. A steady crash filled the air as the waves collided with themselves and the floodgates of heaven were swept aside by the rain.
For a moment, the eyes of the youth and the old man met and broke like stubborn waves upon each other’s faces. At last, the Admiral spoke in a quiet, heartless voice:
“My daughter,” he said slowly, “Has already chosen her side.”
Chapter 47
“Archers, take your positions,” Gylain roared above the noise of the storm. “Show no mercy, have no fear – the deluge and the end are near!”
There was a wild scramble on the deck as the archers tried to gain a sturdy foothold. The waves crashed down, spraying them with the cold, salty water until they were frozen. Yet there was a fire within them that no physical pain could extinguish.
Gylain still stood at the bow of the ship, staring forward into the ever gathering gloom of the night. The moon shone above the clouds, but its light did not break through to the sea below. The waves grew stronger. By now they were rising above the sides of the deck. A constant roar filled the air – the wind and thunder partaking in a terrifying duet. It was as if Hades himself had taken control of the seas, and as if his only desire was to destroy those two men who fought with fiercer wrath than even he knew.
“Your time draws nigh, William,” Gylain said to himself, “But I fear that mine will not be long in following. Oh w
retched fate that was given me – to destroy that which I love most!” and he fell silent, his face fixed like stone against the whipping winds that stung him. “The deluge,” he murmured.
At length, Jonathan Montague approached him and said, “My lord, we are within range for the archers to begin.”
Gylain stood silent for a moment, staring into the chaotic sea as if he did not hear him. But at length, he turned to face Montague. With a tender face, Gylain asked him, “Jonathan, have you ever hated?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And have you ever loved?”
“Yes, my lord, dearly.”
“And which came first?”
“They came together, at the same instant.”
“So it was with me,” Gylain whispered, turning his head once more into the storm and hardening his face and his heart. “So it was with me.”
At that moment Gylain’s countenance was overshadowed by evil, as if he no longer cared for what was good.
“Fire!” he cried, and nothing more. But it seemed to linger upon the face of the waters for a moment. It was loud enough for all the fleet to hear it. Even The King’s Arm it.
The seven ships were now within a dozen yards of each other, a dangerous distance in a storm. Yet for their closeness, the waves and the roll of the sea kept them from having a clear shot at each other. The rebels were formed into lines upon the deck of The King’s Arm : twenty armored soldiers lining the stern rails, with archers kneeling behind them, only standing to shoot. Ivona had taken her place among the archers while Oren Lorenzo had gone below to arm himself. When the prior returned, he rushed over to her.
“Ivona! This is no place for a woman.”
She turned her comely face toward him, and her beauty was radiant. Her hair was wet and tangled her pale face contrasted by a smear of blood upon it.
“Neither is it a place for a priest of the church,” she answered solemnly. “But when death knocks, no one can refuse it entrance.”
The Forgotten King Page 27