The Forgotten King

by Jonathan Dunn

  “If your father were here, he would not allow it,” Lorenzo replied.

  “If my father were here,” she stopped her sentence short, for fear of disrespecting her beloved father. But she continued it to herself, “He would blaspheme and curse the God who made him.”

  Oren Lorenzo gave her a broad smile, his lightning bolt mustache turning upwards with his lips. He had finished her sentence the same way. “There is little hope for us, dear child,” he said with an affectionate smile, “And if death must come, then let it come with honor.”

  “There is little honor in death, when it is done for one’s self,” she answered. “But what do you mean, there is little hope? Does not God provide a way, when there seems to be none?”

  “My child,” he laughed, gently kissing the top of her head, “Your faith could throw mountains into the sea, how much more the tyrants of the land?” With that, he left her and joined the ranks of the armed men.

  Meanwhile, in the front of the ship, the Admiral and Alfonzo were speaking.

  “I hear you have arisen in the need of your countrymen, forsaking your own desires for those of your people,” he placed his leathery hand upon Alfonzo’s shoulder.

  “Yes, father,” Alfonzo humbly answered.

  William’s eyes moistened as he said, “You have done right by Celestine, as I should have done by her mother. Go, take her with you, and escape in the longboat. The shore is near at hand and the enemy will not see you in the waves. Go, escape to peace, for you have long deserved it, but have longer been denied.”

  “I cannot leave my comrades.”

  “No, do not say that, Alfonzo. I have been where you are now and I have made the wrong decisions – all that we now suffer is the result of my selfish zeal. No, you will go. The love of his country brings honor to a man, my son, but the love of his wife brings him happiness. I will not allow you to destroy what has been given to you and to my daughter. May she have the love her mother was never allowed.”

  The Admiral’s stern face would not yield, and Alfonzo – seeing the wisdom that had been bought at such a painful price – bowed low and went below to fetch his wife. She went with him, and within ten minutes they were in the longboat, halfway to an inlet that ran into the forest. It could barely be seen from the distance, even to those eyes that knew its location – for it was ingeniously camouflaged with bushes and branches.

  Meanwhile, Willard and Horatio stood side-by-side near the taffrail.

  “Horatio, it has been a wild journey, this last week. We have gone from wild men to kings. But it is all the same now, for we have reached the end. When a man has a blood brother like you, what else can he aspire to? No kingdom can surpass the greatness of the love of one dear friend, be he man or beast.”

  He embraced the bear, and Horatio plucked him from the deck of the ship, holding him there within the folds of his massive arms.

  “Horatio!” Willard said, “We have to keep up appearances. What would the men think if they saw their king hugging a bear like some rough country boy?”

  Horatio turned and looked at the soldiers, standing tall upon his hind legs and roaring horrifically. The soldiers turned and pretended to study something in the opposite direction. Then, with his odd grin, Horatio set Willard upon the deck once more.

  By this time arrows were streaming over the deck of The King’s Arm , most landing harmlessly in the sails and rigging, washed away into the sea. The battle, however, was just beginning to grow desperate. A few longboats had broken away from the enemy fleet and were now stealthily drawing alongside the rebel ship. Among them, in the lead boat, were Gylain and the Montague brothers.

  “I am a patient man,” the brown Fardy called over the storm, “But this watery chase is running me dry!” He stood alongside his brothers at the foot of the spanker boom – on a platform that stood several feet above the deck in the center of the ship.

  “You are long suffering, my brother, but perhaps I know a way to free your mind from its heavy load.”

  “Speak, then, but do not leave me waiting like some old woman.”

  “Dear brother! Am I the sort of chap to let any man look at my brother and call him impatient? I will have to make you wait now, lest you bring dishonor to yourself and your family.”

  As the blond Fardy spoke, the black Fardy was hard at work sorting through some barrels and changing their contents. In one barrel was a supply of candlewicks – not yet made into candles – and in the other were small jars of whale oil – widely favored at that time, though extremely explosive in large quantities. He was trying to set fire to the candlewicks, in the hopes of warming himself. The barrels were deep and the contents protected from the rain and wind. They stood a few inches above the spanker boom.

  “Are you proclaiming yourself a more patient man than I? For my own sake, I would not care at all, my brother. But I cannot allow you to lose your reward in heaven, by gaining it here on earth!”

  “Gentleness runs in my veins,” the blond Fardy returned, “But not nearly so much as blood. If I must have one or the other, let it be the latter!” He saw the spanker boom’s sheet – the rope that kept it from spinning around – and dashed to untie it.

  Just as he did, a strong burst of wind came over the troubled waters, catching the spanker sail and throwing the boom in the opposite direction. If it had still been secured, the result would have been no more than a ripple on its surface. But when the wind’s strength was hurled against it with no resistance, the boom swung around its axis with a vengeance. The black Fardy had succeeded in lighting the candlewicks, and was on his knees, looking for a dropped match. The blond Fardy was on the ground, having dove to undo it. The brown Fardy, on the other hand, was on the same side as the wind, and could not be hit. Thus, the boom flew without impediment and crashed into the two barrels: the candlewicks – now burning – and the bottles of whale oil. They flew over the taffrail and fell toward the sea on the other side of the deck.

  But the barrels did not reach the sea. One of the enemy longboats had moored against the ship, preparing to board, and sat between the falling barrels and the sea. In the first instant, the bottles of whale oil fell from the barrel onto the longboat’s floor, shattering as they hit. In the second instant, the burning candlewicks came from the second barrel, landing on the spilled whale oil. In the third instant, the longboat burst into flames, the explosion shooting the broken glass at the boarders. They leapt into the sea in terror and were immediately swallowed.

  “Enemy boats boarding!” chorused the Fardy brothers as they retied the spanker boom.

  Seeing they were discovered, the rest of Gylain’s men boarded at once. There were thirty of them – toward the front of the ship – with Gylain and the Montague brothers at their head.

  “Come about!” the Admiral roared.

  His crew obeyed, and they swung around roughly, almost tipping the ship. But the Admiral’s calculations were exact, and they turned as sharply as they could. The enemy fleet was caught by surprise and had to part in the middle to allow The King’s Arm to pass through. It would have been a massacre, had the fleet fired on them, for they were vulnerable on both sides. But the archers feared their master, Gylain, and would not shoot at him. Thus, The King’s Arm passed safely between them. The fleet was slower in coming about, for they had to avoid hitting each other. The rebels drew ahead, sailing toward the inlet into which Alfonzo and Celestine had disappeared twenty minutes before.

  Gylain parted from his companions and went to fight the Admiral. The Montague brothers also left to seek out Willard. The rest of the soldiers formed a tight circle in the center of the ship, with the main body of the rebels around them. Their fight was bloody and desperate, each man fighting for all that was dear to him – on one side freedom and family, and on the other plunder and rapine.

  Willard saw the Montague brothers coming toward him and took his position upon the stern, waiting calmly. Horatio was at his side. Willard sent him away: “Horatio, my brother, the fa
te that awaits me does not await you as well. Go, and let me die alone.” Horatio obeyed, walking off and hiding behind a group of barrels.

  At that moment, Nicholas and Jonathan Montague appeared. Jonathan had his dark hair cut short and combed forward at the temples, while Nicholas wore it combed backwards. In all other features, they were as closely related.

  “We meet for the second time tonight,” Nicholas said. “But I fear you will not escape me this time.”

  “Would you, then, forsake honor and fight a single sword with two?” Willard asked.

  “We have long ago forsaken honor, fool,” was the answer. “But if you prefer, then let it be,” and Jonathan took the extra sword he wore upon his back and threw it to Willard. The latter caught it between his thumb and forefinger, without cutting himself upon the blade.

  As soon as he wielded both swords, they were upon him. The Montague brothers fought in unison, first with a downward blow. Willard parried them both, and they struck again from the sides, each coming in at Willard. That is, they would have come into him, had not Willard leapt forward – spinning in the air and landing behind their backs. He could not bring his sword down on them before they turned, so he pushed his shoulder into Jonathan and forced him into the cruel waves below. Nicholas, however, would not allow his brother to be destroyed. He gave Willard a fierce blow and knocked him backwards. Then, with the time he gained, threw several barrels to his brother. Jonathan set himself upon these and floated with the waves, until he was rescued by the fleet.

  “You grow stronger with fatigue,” Nicholas said as they circled about one another.

  “And you weaker,” Willard returned with a scornful laugh, meant to inflame his adversary’s anger and push him to recklessness.

  Montague, however, was already inflamed and fully reckless. He rushed toward Willard with fire in his eyes and lightning in his hands, pushing him back against the mizzenmast with a series of scissor strikes. Willard could not retreat, so he stood his ground and parried the blows. Yet with each successive blow, the king became weaker and weaker. He had done too much without resting, and after his final outburst against Jonathan he had no strength left to withstand the heated attacks of Nicholas. At length, his sword fell from his hand, and he was left leaning against the mizzenmast, with Montague’s sword pushing against his chest.

  “We come to the end,” Nicholas said, his bosom heaving. “But I will not prolong it, for fear you will yet escape me. Farewell, my king,” he laughed, and he raised his sword above his head to strike Willard down.

  Yet at that very moment a prodigious roar sounded behind him. It made the sea look calm in contrast, and the lightning as but a chance ray of the sun. Montague felt two massive claws grip him. Then he was picked up and thrown headlong into the sea.

  “Horatio,” Willard said slowly, as if in weakness, “You are a bear among men.”

  Willard rose to his feet and walked to the taffrail, looking out upon the water. There, struggling to keep himself above the surface, was Nicholas Montague. He saw Willard looking at him, yet he would not beg for mercy. He would rather die than humble himself. Willard hesitated for a moment, then took a barrel from the ground and threw it to him. Nicholas swam to it, calling out to Willard.

  “Why do you spare my life? I would not have done the same to you.”

  “There is a way that seems right to a man,” Willard called back, “But in the end it leads to death,” and he turned away from the sea.

  Ivona stood behind him. She smiled, and her face became more beautiful. She was innocent in her joy. Advancing to Willard, she embraced him, and he held her close to his heart. Yet neither of them spoke. For there was nothing to be said.

  Unfortunately for the rebels, all had not gone as well for them elsewhere. The enemy soldiers, circled closely together, were able to withstand their advances. It was a contest that could not be decided by anything but the passage of time. Both sides were formed to repel attacks and neither would risk a charge. So it became a stalemate, a test of patience and of wills.

  Yet things went worse with the Admiral as he battled Gylain at the bow. Their swords flew like hail and flashed like lightening. Gylain came on first, lunging forward with a desperate thrust. William knocked it to the left and came forward with a side-swing that Gylain ducked, and it passed over his head. Before William contained his swing, Gylain lunged forward again. William dodged to the left, but lost his balance slightly, giving his enemy time to recover. Gylain advanced again with a series of blows, but the Admiral caught himself and parried them, returning the last with his own. This blow Gylain deflected, and made a thrust at the other’s chest. But William was too quick, and he knocked Gylain’s sword away from its intended path, instead bringing his own down toward his enemy’s head. Now it was Gylain’s turn to dodge, and he pivoted on his left foot – rolling to the Admiral’s back – where he let his sword fall upon him. It did not hit, though, for William had rolled to the right and now faced Gylain, who was recovering his sword from his false blow.

  “I will have you, old man,” Gylain said as they struggled.

  “Only in death,” was the answer.

  Their swords clashed once more in a flurry of strikes and counterstrikes.

  “I will have my revenge for Casandra,” the Admiral said.

  “Then you must seek her grave and not mine, for she acted of her own will.”

  “Under the influence of your wicked heart.”

  “No, but under the influence of another.”

  “Speak not against my love!” and William leapt forward with a tremendous blow to Gylain. The latter caught it with his blade, and – catching the Admiral’s on its side – twisted his own, knocking his opponent’s to the ground. Gylain kicked the sword away from William and pressed his sword against the Admiral’s chest. William Stuart faced the sea in front of them, and Gylain the stern.

  “It is over,” Gylain said quietly. “And I have won.”

  “What victory is there, that has no reward?” William answered.

  “But there is a reward – the joy of having destroyed you.”

  “If there is little joy in life, then how much less is in destroying it?”

  “Have you not spent the last fifteen years plotting my demise, even as I plotted yours?”

  There was silence for a moment as their eyes mingled, and the memories of what had gone before filled their minds – of the friendship they had shared, and the hate into which it had mutated.

  “Did she love you?” William whispered, as if in great pain.

  Gylain’s hand trembled as he thought over the question in silence.

  “No,” he answered, “She remained faithful to you, even in her hatred. For better or for worse, she was your wife.”

  “Then I can die in peace, knowing you will also meet your death before the dawn breaks upon this hellish scene.”

  “Your friends will not prevail.”

  William nodded his head in the direction of the shore, and Gylain turned to look. There – sailing straight toward them and flying the colors of the king – were the six rebel ships, stolen long ago and hidden in the forest harbor. William kicked Gylain back, jumping forward to recover his sword. For a moment the two men stared at one another, viewing the other as the symbol of his own hatred. Then, with a sigh, Gylain turned to his men in the center of the ship.

  “Retreat!” he called, and the men broke their ranks, running to the side of the deck. The rebels let them pass. Gylain turned once more to William. “We will yet be destroyed, both of us, and I will not meet my demise without you.”

  “So be it.”

  Gylain leapt over the railing and disappeared into the water. When he was gone, the Admiral whispered to himself:

  “So be it, Gylain. I will see you dead as well.”

  END OF BOOK ONE

  Book Two:

  Chapter 48

  “Silence, there! Do you think it is for pleasure that we take this journey, gentlemen?” Nicholas Montague
asked, coming into a small clearing with his measured stride unhindered by the undergrowth. Six men were sitting on a fallen tree and grumbling amongst themselves; as he came into the clearing they stood at attention. They were heavily armed, dressed in the uniform of Gylain’s Elite Guards.

  “Have you grown tired already?” Montague continued in a more subdued voice.

  “Sir,” trembled a man with a gold band around his chest, the officer under Montague, “Sir, can we not take the roads? We,” he nodded to the others, “Are not as familiar with the wilderness as you seem to be.”

  “You are Atiltian, are you not?” The officer nodded his head nervously; Montague continued. “Did you never leave the city walls?”

  “No, sir, we were stationed near the Floatings.”

  “I see,” Montague said slowly, his thoughts masked. “Thus it is that Gylain’s best, whom he hand-picked to attend me, have never traveled in the forest?”

  “We were not trained for it, sir,” the officer ventured.

  Montague interrupted him. “I see that: the only remedy is to train you now .” The officer winced slightly, which Nicholas saw, though he looked into the forest beside them as he spoke. “Prepare yourselves, men!” he cried of a sudden. “We will march until the dawn comes; then we will march until the night comes; then we will march until one of you falters, and only then will we stop, as I beat him to death.”

  Nicholas began to march even as he spoke, the soldiers following close behind. They were several days from the Cervennes Mountains, since they did not follow the roads. Yet as they marched, a river could be heard a few yards to their right, though the thick undergrowth kept it from view. Montague strode through it in his armor as if he walked a paved lane and the soldiers had to run to keep pace with him. But before they had gone ten minutes, a man came running up behind them.

  “My lord!” he called.

  Montague turned to him, his face composed. “What is it, soldier?”

  “A message from Vladimir, my lord.”