The Lost Kingdom

by Matthew J. Kirby

  “Now.” Mr. Faries tucked the cloth back in his pocket. “Let’s see what these Frenchmen make of lightning in a bottle.”

  We waited and watched.

  Nothing happened.

  “Sir?”

  “Give him time.”

  Still nothing happened. The French shouted orders back and forth. They seemed to be readying for their first assault.

  Mr. Faries tapped his foot on the wooden planks. “Come on, Ebenezer.”

  And then it happened.

  It had no sound. No flash. But the electrical fire burned. Every Frenchman I could see jolted upright in the exact same moment. I knew how they felt. I knew how it felt to have your whole body slammed from the inside. Men cried out. Some of them fell forward into the water among the corn and other crops. Some of them staggered and fell against the trees.

  Mr. Faries waved the red handkerchief again. “Now, Prince!”

  Madoc raised his sword high. “Dynion o Annwyn! Ymosod!”

  He and his warriors charged forward, hurling battle cries. I tried to follow Andrew with my eyes but lost sight of him in a dense patch of trees.

  The sounds of battle reached us. Clangs, grunts, groans, and cries of pain. It was the sound of the ghost wall reaching up through the centuries. The first gunshot cracked in the distance somewhere. Then another. Madoc’s men fought hand-to-hand, man-to-man in the trees and the fields, with spear and sword and shield, and on that footing, they were the superior force, pushing the French into retreat.

  “The jar didn’t contain enough lightning to kill them,” Mr. Faries whispered. “Only stun them.”

  He was right. The farthest Frenchmen were regrouping in the fields and the trees. They loaded their rifles, those whose powder was still dry. The rest pulled their swords free of their scabbards. I looked nearer to us, at the line of battle. Madoc’s men thought they were winning.

  But they were still outnumbered. And in another moment, the might of Marin’s army would fall upon them.

  I looked upward, helpless. The clouds continued to roll over us.

  “Please,” I whispered. “Just a little bit of sun.”

  The rear guard French forces were drawing closer. They would soon be ready to ambush Madoc’s men, who still fought hard and fierce, pressing their foes back into the trees.

  “Look out!” I shouted. But no one could hear me over the clamor of battle.

  I worried for Andrew down there. I worried for my father and Jane and Mr. Kinnersley. I hadn’t seen Mr. Godfrey for some time. I didn’t know what his assignment had been and hoped he was safe. Perhaps he had gone with the others into the woods.

  Mr. Faries peered through his telescope. His voice was a whisper. “It’s going to be a slaughter.”

  The French behind the battle line had stopped and taken up positions behind the trees, surrounding the open fields. They loaded their rifles. Hundreds of them. Madoc’s forces would be shredded. I had to do something.

  I rushed to the ladder.

  “Billy, where are you going?”

  “I have to warn them!”

  “You won’t make it in time!”

  “I have to try!” I stepped out onto the first rung.

  “Billy, look!” Mr. Faries pointed skyward.

  A gap in the clouds approached us, dragging a patch of sunlight across the ground below. I breathed a thank-you, and leaped back to the ropes.

  “We won’t have long,” Mr. Faries said. “But it has to be enough.”

  I pulled us into range, sighting down the lenses.

  “I’m going to hold the trigger open,” he said. “It will be a continuous beam. You have to keep control of it and be careful of our men. We have to drive the French back before Madoc gets there.”

  “I understand.” I took aim at the trees and visually scanned another burn line, planning the sweep of my shot. “I’m ready.”

  “Wait for the light, lad. Then give the order.”

  I squared my stance.

  And then the sun reached us. Its warmth poured over me.

  “Fire.”

  He pulled the trigger, unleashing my artillery of light. The French were still in the shade. But my burning ray found them. I ignited the first group of trees, scattering the enemy.

  “Hurry, Billy!”

  I pulled the ropes, swinging us left, to the next unit of soldiers, leaving a trail of flame and smoke behind me. They, too, fell away before the power of the sun. I pulled down on the ropes to my side, lifting and dipping the ray at the same time that I rotated the platform, carving a track of fire.

  “We’re going to lose the light soon!” Mr. Faries said.

  “Where was Marin?” I blasted another group of soldiers.

  Mr. Faries, holding the trigger rope, tried pointing with his wounded arm. “There, by that tall sycamore!”

  I couldn’t see the French captain. But I brought my weapon to bear on that spot, torching the ground all around. And then the opening in the clouds passed over us, and my weapon died. Mr. Faries released the trigger. Below us, two lines of fire now burned; the first we had lit, and now this second one. Smoke billowed into the sky.

  “You did it,” Mr. Faries said.

  The enemy line had broken. Marin’s men now found themselves trapped between the two fires. They were scattering in any direction they could to escape. Moments later, Madoc’s men reached the first blaze, driving the French before them. After that, the enemy fell into a full, chaotic retreat.

  “The day is ours,” Mr. Faries said.

  “Thanks to you and Mr. Kinnersley,” I said.

  “We simply provided the engines of war. Your father devised the whole strategy.”

  I felt pride in my father as he said it, something I hadn’t felt in some time.

  Mr. Faries looked at me, then reached over and tousled my hair. “And let’s not forget our eagle-eyed gunner.”

  I smiled a little. And then I returned my attention to the field of battle. I wanted to make sure everyone was safe. My father, Mr. Kinnersley, Andrew. And I worried about what had happened to Mr. Colden.

  “I’m going to go find Jane,” I said.

  He nodded. “Go. I want to keep my eyes on those fires to make sure they’re not spreading out of control.”

  I crossed the platform to the ladder and descended. On the ground, I turned toward the village and ran, past the hall, until I reached the forest on the far side.

  “Jane!” I called. “Jane!”

  I wandered a few paces into the trees, shouting her name through my cupped hands. A few moments later, I heard her calling back, and then she came into view.

  She ran toward me. “Is it over?”

  “We won! But you have to come with me. Your father is here!”

  “What? Where?”

  I pointed toward the battlefield. “The French had him.”

  “We’ve got to find him.”

  I nodded, and we took off running back through the village. When we reached the light cannon, I called up to Mr. Faries.

  “Have you seen Mr. Colden?”

  He clutched his telescope. “I thought I caught a glimpse of him. That way!”

  We left in the direction he had indicated, and even though I knew there was no longer any danger from the electrical fire, I still hesitated for just a moment before I plunged into the water. It soaked my boots and came up to my knees in the deepest places, making it difficult to be sure of my footing. It slowed our pace as we slogged ahead.

  Though the battle was over, we still heard the sounds of clashing off in the trees: Madoc’s men taking on the stragglers left behind as Marin’s forces retreated. There were bodies in the water, mostly Frenchmen. I didn’t want to look at them, but I had to make sure Mr. Colden wasn’t among them.

  “Father!” Jane called beside me.

  “Mr. Colden!” I shouted.

  We pressed onward, stumbling and supporting each other through the drowned fields and stands of skeleton trees. Both of us fell into the wa
ter more than once and came up soaked to our chins. But we called to Jane’s father every few steps.

  The air became hazy and stung my eyes, while the sharp smell of smoke clawed at my nose and my lungs. “We must be getting close to the first fire,” I said.

  Jane stopped. “First fire?”

  “We burned two lines in the trees.”

  “Was he … ?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She turned away. “Father! Father!”

  “Mr. Colden!”

  The smoke grew thicker, tinged with orange ahead of us, and I started to feel heat on my face. I could hear a distant roar, like a rushing river. We were getting too close to the flames. I took hold of Jane’s arm. “We should turn back!”

  She shook me off.

  But if the fire was moving toward us, we needed to get out of its path. “Jane, it’s too dangerous!”

  “Father!”

  I didn’t know how I was going to be able to pull her away. And then —

  “Jane?” came a faint reply, off to one side.

  We turned toward it. A shadowy figure staggered toward us through the smoke, and as it drew nearer, we saw that it was Mr. Colden. Mr. Faries had pointed us in the right direction.

  Jane rushed to him. “Father!”

  “Jane,” he said. They embraced, tightly, and for a long time. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

  Jane was crying. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I left the ship.”

  “Shh, there now.” He stroked her hair. “None of that. It wasn’t your fault.”

  I was still worried about the fire. “I think we should head back to the village.”

  Mr. Colden looked up. “Quite right. Lead the way, Billy.”

  And so I turned away from the smoke and the heat and led us through the trees and fields. Jane and her father came behind me, leaning on each other. I offered to help, but Mr. Colden waved me off. Before long, I could see the tower with the light cannon from the perspective the French would have had. It didn’t look dangerous at all, from here. I could see Mr. Faries, and he seemed to be looking through his telescope. I waved to him, but didn’t know if he could see me.

  Soon we reached the edge of the fields and emerged onto dry land. Jane and her father sat down on the ground.

  Mr. Faries called down from the tower, laughing. “Welcome back, Cadwallader!”

  Mr. Colden waved back. “You’ve outdone Archimedes himself!”

  Then Madoc strode out of the battlefield toward us. He favored one of his legs, but appeared otherwise unharmed. Soot blackened his armor and his face, and blood streaked his sword. Rhys and Myrddin walked beside him. Rhys had a gash on one of his arms, and Myrddin bled from several places, but none of the wounds appeared mortal.

  Madoc gave Rhys an order in Welsh, and he sprinted back toward the battle. Madoc then said something to Myrddin, and the man trotted off in the direction of the village.

  Then the prince saw me.

  “Hah! My dragon!” He came over and draped a heavy, jangling, mailed arm over my back. He kissed his free hand up at the tower. “From up there, you couldn’t see the looks on their faces, could you? It was glorious. A battle befitting the days of old!”

  When we first arrived here, Madoc had wanted nothing but peace. A peace that had lasted for hundreds of years. And here he was now, in his armor, smelling of blood and smoke, a different man.

  “I’ve ordered Rhys to harry those French to the ends of the earth. Offer them no quarter, no rest, until they are wiped out. And Myrddin just went to bring in the others from the forest. Tonight, we celebrate our victory!”

  He had no idea how close his men had come to defeat, that without Mr. Faries and the light cannon, they would have been massacred. “Have you seen my father?” I asked.

  “No. But I owe him and Mr. Kinnersley my thanks. That electrical fire gave my men the chance they needed to break the enemy line.”

  “Billy!” Mr. Faries shouted down from the tower. “I see them!”

  I forgot about Madoc. “Where?”

  “There!” He pointed. Then he craned his neck forward. “Wait. Something is wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think one of them is hurt.”

  I raced off in the direction he had pointed, splashing through fields and trees. Please, not Father. Don’t let it be Father. I entered a newer section of crops, the trees still thick and looking half-alive. And then I heard them.

  “Hold on, Andrew.” That sounded like my father.

  “He’s not going to make it, John.” That was Mr. Kinnersley.

  “Father?” I called.

  “Billy?”

  I followed his voice, and they came into view. My father and Mr. Kinnersley were soaked to the waist, faces and clothes smeared with ash, but they appeared unharmed. Andrew staggered between them, his arms around their necks, bleeding from his shirtless chest.

  “Billy,” my father said. “Help us.”

  I rushed to them and bolstered Andrew, taking Mr. Kinnersley’s place. We stumbled forward, dragging Andrew between us, his head lolling forward.

  I looked across him at my father. “What — ?”

  “Not now, son. Let’s — let’s just get him to the village.”

  Mr. Faries must have watched our progress, because he and Madoc met us with a few Welshmen and conducted us to the main hall. Inside, Myrddin pointed at a table. “Lay him there.” He retrieved a leather roll from a chest in a corner of the room and opened it to reveal his medical tools. Blood poured from the wound as he examined it. The image of Phineas came to my mind, lying there wounded. “He was stabbed,” Myrddin said. “Knife?”

  “Bayonet,” my father said.

  Andrew moaned and mumbled.

  My father stepped closer to him. “Mr. Kinnersley and I, we were trying to make it back to the tower.” He glanced at me. “Andrew found us. Apparently he’d been searching for us, and afterward we made our way together. But then we encountered a group of French soldiers. Andrew fought them. Bravely. He saved our lives.”

  “The wound is very deep.” Myrddin turned to Madoc. “I can do nothing for this.”

  Jane covered her mouth.

  My father noticed Mr. Colden standing next to her. “Cadwallader? It’s good to see you, old friend.”

  “You, too, John.”

  Madoc unbuckled his sword and set it down. He pushed my father aside. “Let me speak with Andrew.” He bent down close and laid his hand on Andrew’s brow. “Lad, open your eyes.” His voice was tender. “Can you hear me? Andrew?”

  Andrew’s eyelids fluttered. “Wha —” His face contorted in pain. “I —”

  “You must listen to me,” Madoc said. “And then you must answer me. Do you want to drink from the chalice?”

  The chalice? I looked across the room at the candlelit table. The chalice was there, but the bottle that had stood next to it was gone.

  “What is this?” my father asked. “This is your medicine?”

  Madoc ignored him. “You must agree to it, Andrew. I need you to nod your head. Quickly, now. Before it’s too late.”

  “Too late for what?” Mr. Kinnersley asked.

  Andrew swallowed and jerked his head forward, attempting to nod.

  “That’s enough, Andrew.” Madoc looked up at Myrddin. “Go. Get it.”

  Myrddin turned in the direction of the side table and jolted to a halt. “It’s gone.”

  “What?” Madoc stood upright. He ran to the table and, after a brief search, faced my father. His face showed more rage and hate than he had directed even at the French emissary. “What have you done?”

  “Pardon me?” my father asked.

  Madoc flew at him from across the room, grabbed him by the throat, and slammed him up against a wall. “What have you done?”

  Jane let out a surprised scream.

  My father choked, “I — I don’t …”

  “Stop it!” I leaped at Madoc and wrenched at his arm, bu
t I couldn’t break his hold on my father. “Let him go!”

  “My prince!” Myrddin shouted. “I do not think it was one of them!”

  Madoc cocked his head. He released his hold on my father’s neck. “Then who?”

  Myrddin folded his hands in front of his chest. “Who is missing?” He returned to tending Andrew’s wound.

  I surveyed those gathered with us. “Where is Mr. Godfrey?”

  My father rubbed his neck. “What is —” He coughed. “What is it you accuse him of?”

  Madoc stared at him for a long time before answering. “He stole the Water of Life.”

  “The what?” Mr. Kinnersley asked.

  I remembered a conversation between Mr. Godfrey and Phineas as we had left Philadelphia. They had spoken of the Fountain of Youth, its waters that grant immortality. Could it be?

  Mr. Colden chortled, then stopped. “You don’t mean …”

  Something had never felt quite right about this place. The ageless quality they all shared. The odd customs they adhered to. Madoc’s ancient armor. The absence of children.

  Demons.

  “Impossible.” My father stepped closer to Madoc. He looked him over with the familiar scrutiny I’d seen him direct at his plants countless times. “You’re not —” He took a step back, as though to find a better angle. “You can’t be —” And gradually, I saw the scrutiny give way to awe and admiration. “You’re him?”

  “I am Madoc ap Owain Gwynedd,” the prince said. “Five hundred and eighty-three years ago, I sailed from my country to this land.”

  “The Fountain of Youth?” my father said. “But … where?”

  “We do not know.” Madoc gathered up the bottom of his chain mail shirt and stripped it off. It fell to the ground with a heavy metallic rattle. “Everything I told you about our history was true. After the fortress at Gwynedd fell, we fled, and along the way we stopped to take rest in a small dale near a spring. We drank, we filled our skins, and we moved on. By the time we realized what had happened to us, we couldn’t find that place again, and we had but one skin remaining with some of the water left in it.”

  “And the chalice?” my father asked.