The Forgotten King

by Jonathan Dunn

  Willard laughed at his oddly patriotic companion. “There are worse bandits than Alfonzo. The Fardy brothers left the Inn as I did, but he did not take them, though they had more money than I. Why were you taken, for wealth?”

  “No, for they left me my gold,” and Vahan took a bag of coins from his shirt. “Yet I cannot be mistaken for a foreign agent, nor someone who is not native to this great land,” but Vahan’s loud declamations were belied by his louder foreign accent.

  “We are free now, and Alfonzo’s intentions – whatever they were – no longer concern us,” Willard answered, then fell silent.

  The three enjoyed the scene for a moment, before they were roused by the sound of heavy footsteps passing rapidly through the forest. The air buzzed with the tramping of a dozen men, and the three companions jumped to their feet just as the first of them entered the far end of the clearing. The light was beginning to fade, and in the twilight the newcomer’s faces could only barely be seen. Yet as soon as Willard saw them and they saw Willard, both came to a halt, struck over the head with amazement.

  “The devil!” Willard cried, “How can this be? Rouse yourself, Horatio, for it appears we have a fight on our hands!”

  Chapter 6

  The part of the cavern in which the prisoners were kept was uncouth and roughly equipped. The deeper interior sections, however, were welcoming: lit and heated by fires growing from small indents the rangers had carved into the sides of the natural cavern, with narrow vents channeling the smoke to the air above. Off the main tunnels were smaller caves or rooms, where the individual rangers made their homes. These were provided with couches and tables, so the life of the forest men was to some extent civilized.

  These things were furnished through moral means, not from that which was taken from the travelers whom they captured or robbed. Alfonzo’s bandits differed from the others in this respect: they were supported by the labor of their own hands, not by that which they plundered from others. The caverns were rich with iron ore, and the bandits used this natural resource to create all types of weapons and armor: all other blacksmiths lived in the city under the control of Gylain, and those who opposed his tyranny could not arm themselves, but for Alfonzo’s band. Even their forest fortress was crafted by these means, for as they mined into the vast rock that surrounded them, they enlarged and improved the caverns themselves, cultivating the natural defense and shelter with unnatural means. It was thus that they were strong.

  They were also uncommonly selective as to which travelers they plundered, and most ordinary citizens passed by without feeling their watchful eyes upon them. More often than not, they protected loyal travelers from bands of outlaws sanctioned by Gylain. Milada of Erlich was a leader of the loyal resistance, the rebellion, and the propagation of the news of his travels through the forest only confirmed what Alfonzo had long been unwilling to accept, that there were traitors among his men.

  After he retired from his meeting with Willard, Alfonzo went to his room, the deepest in the caverns, where he sat in reflection for a few moments, stroking his pointed goatee and looking altogether perplexed. There was a knock at the door, but Alfonzo did not seem to hear it. After waiting a moment, the one who had knocked slowly entered the room: a mid-sized man, with well-kept blond hair and thin, contracted lips.

  “Blaine, it is well that you have come, I have many questions that need answered,” Alfonzo looked up, showing that he had indeed heard the man’s entrance.

  “I have just returned from Eden, yet I bring only more questions. Monice told me that you have taken prisoners, yet I was in too much of a hurry to look at them and passed directly through to you. Are the rumors concerning Milada true?”

  “Yes, and one of the prisoners is suspected, on account of Hismoni’s word. But I will not punish him yet, for there is something I do not understand.” Alfonzo was just and would not punish Willard because of rumors or circumstantial evidence. Such was his nature: restrained by his morals from doing any injustice, out of anger or revenge.

  “Perhaps it was not him,” assented Blaine, “But there are rumors.”

  “What rumors?” asked Alfonzo, knowing Blaine too well to be fooled by his talk of rumors and the opinions of others.

  “The men say he is like Willarinus, that he calls himself Willard, and that he carries a royal sword, though clothed as a monk. Is it not possible the boy has survived the forest and the years?” Blaine spoke the last sentence in silence.

  “Captured, yes, do not fear the word: I know my faults as well as any man. Willarinus was a strong child, yet he was a child nonetheless. I would jump for joy if it could be so, yet I am wiser than to chase the wind and ask favors of the air.”

  “The men think that perhaps we should look into the matter, that if he is not Willarinus himself he may hold an important clue, since he has the royal sword.”

  “I mean to, Blaine, but my mind is lost at sea. There are other matters to deal with.” He looked away from the fire to get a glance at Blaine, who shared his anxiety in the unstated matter.

  “There are some who say a man’s worst enemy is himself, Alfonzo; and perhaps second are his men. If there is treason we must find it out, for the situation is growing precarious indeed, and I fear the next few weeks will see us either victorious or ruined.”

  “Yes, that is the course,” Alfonzo said, “For these things have long fermented. The end has already been decided, and I fear – through dreams and apprehensions – that it will not turn out as I desire. I see many things, scattered here and there – and yet who knows? Perhaps my worries resurface as I sleep, and I enchant myself once more with thoughts of the future, thoughts which I myself have planted, watered, and harvested.”

  “Perhaps, but let us hear these thoughts, for it would not be in vain.”

  “Perhaps not, but then vanity is never known until it is possessed. I think of Willarinus, and the night he disappeared; I think of William Stuart, and how he was betrayed; I think of de Casanova, and when he will return to haunt us; I think of the legends and the prophecies, of Atlantis and Eden. But most of all, above these other things, I think of Celestine.”

  Blaine hesitated. “I do not envy you your position as the strategist. I think merely of the execution, and am soothed by the thousand little details and questions of action that arise. I can forget the past, and so it does not bother me. But to concentrate on these things? The rumors I have heard, though, are that William will never return, nor de Casanova. As for Celestine, know that she is faithful to you, and that Gylain cannot break her. If men fear those things from jealousy, you need not, and your lot is lessened for it.”

  “Yes, but though I do not fear that others enjoy her love, I would rather that I could possess it myself. I do not forget her face or her voice or her mind, nor the feelings which she evoked within me. But I forget, through the years, the calmness of her features and the patience of her heart. I recall their impression upon me, yet not their origins; their effect, yet not their cause.”

  “She waits, enduring and hoping all things. Eden is strange at present – the rumors say it is as slow and carefree as ever, on the surface, but agitated beneath. The Floatings are filled with those who would overturn Gylain, and we can expect their help. But only if we have occasion to ask for it.”

  “True, dear Blaine,” returned the leader, “When will the Fardy brothers come to us? Did you not speak with them in Eden?”

  “They were away on business: they were to be through these parts a few days ago. I am surprised they were not here before me.”

  “We have seen signs of them, to be sure, but they have not come out to counsel with me, as is their habit. They left the Inn earlier this morning, but we followed our prisoners instead: Osbert watches the road to turn them our way.” Alfonzo paused for a moment, listening to the sounds of footsteps coming down the hall.

  After a moment the door flew open to reveal a panting man, shrouded by a look of apprehension. “Alfonzo, I have news of the Fardy brot
hers!”

  “Go on, Osbert,” for that is who the man was.

  “They are captives of Montague – held, no doubt, for some evil purpose. I followed them along the road until they broke off into the forest, a few miles east of here and heading south.”

  Alfonzo leapt to his feet, “Captives of Montague’s band! They will be destroyed before the sun sets! Has Gylain dared to assassinate the wealthy brothers while they are out of town on business? A cruel move and daring. I pray to God it does not work!”

  “They run for Eden, at least, so they do not mean to dispatch them in the forest, where none can witness the execution.”

  “Then they are sure of themselves. Gylain moves swiftly when the time is at the door.”

  “And so must we.”

  “Yes, and so must we,” Alfonzo said, “Let us be off!”

  With that, he rushed out of the room, followed closely by Blaine and Osbert. When they had reached the main hall of the cavern, which connected each of the tunnels together, Alfonzo stopped.

  “Osbert,” he said, “Assemble the men and prepare to be off, leaving only two guarding the prisoners. Blaine, I know your zeal, but I must ask you to rejoin the forces in Eden: Gylain cannot be left unwatched when we know his anger is about. It may work to our advantage that they press ahead hastily, but still, I would rather have a trusted man watching the city than his sword tracking the Fardy brothers. Make haste, therefore, and remember Jack Clifford, the Jester; for if the Fardy brothers have been taken, he may have been discovered. Here we must part. Farewell.”

  As the two men dashed off to follow his orders, Alfonzo entered the prisoner’s chamber, followed by the men who had begun assembling at the cavern’s entrance. He calmly told the prisoners that urgent business required his departure, and took their leave. When he regained the main tunnel, Osbert had returned.

  “Are there no more than twelve rangers left to us?”

  “No, sir,” Osbert answered, “The rest were sent to Eden and to patrol the forest to the north and west. These are all we have, unless we take the blacksmiths.”

  “No, this is enough,” was the answer.

  With that, Alfonzo put himself at the head of the dozen rangers and left the cave at a brisk pace, unable to disguise his anxiety. But then, just outside the entrance to the caverns, he paused once more and turned to Osbert, who walked beside him.

  “The Treeway goes faster,” he said, “But can we use it? Montague is about.”

  “We should take the ground,” Osbert replied, “That is my judgment.”

  “Very well,” and, turning to the west, Alfonzo ran into the forest, eager to overtake his longtime enemy, the terrible Jonathan Montague.

  “The final battle for Atilta begins,” as the rangers sprinted through the forest, “The die has been cast: all that is left is to turn the table.”

  “And let it be on them,” Osbert answered.

  “I fear it will fall upon us all, and ere the end has come, many things will have been sacrificed for the freedom of our people that we, at this moment, would not be willing to sacrifice. That is the nature of a revolution, Osbert, and remember my words when the final days have come. But for now, we must work to stay afloat until the land will sink, one way or the other. Forward, then, and let us overtake Montague before the Fardy brothers are lost to us forever!”

  With that, he quickened his pace, and said no more.

  Chapter 7

  “Shear my shanks and call me crazy, my brothers,” said the blond Fardy, “But it is my belief that the monk we have just left is no human at all. Perhaps he is a god or an animal, but he is no human. Write down my words, for I will claim them later!”

  The morning sun filtered down through the lofty canopy that extended itself above them, casting shadows that showed it to be no later than nine o’clock in the morning. Behind them, half hidden by a curve in the road, was the Inn where they had spent the night, and before them stretched a desolate pass through the deep forest country. The air was warm and pleasant, slightly moist, and their stomachs filled.

  “Yes, brother, he was hardly a man, for I happened to grasp his hand from underneath the thick robes that shrouded him, and it was as hairy as my head.” The brown Fardy raised his hand to his scalp and rubbed it vigorously to prove his point.

  “Perhaps he wore gloves made from fur, brothers,” the black Fardy said. “Besides, if he were an animal he would not speak Latin.”

  The other two assented hesitantly, sorrowful at the loss of so many witty remarks. Still, their minds – as fleeting as their tempers – were quick to light upon a new subject for their bombasts.

  “I know you are slow to anger and swift to love, my brothers,” began the blond Fardy once more, “And I have seen your patience hold through many troublesome situations, though strained to the utmost. I believe I can justly declare that though many fallen mortals suffer from an angry disposition, we are not among them.”

  “I see your point, brother,” answered the brown Fardy, “As our old mum said: ‘The road to health is temperance and wealth.’”

  “What the devil! Why are you always interrupting me?” exclaimed the blond Fardy, giving his brown haired relative a firm smack on the head. The latter responded with an equally firm slap on his brother’s right cheek.

  “As the good book says, ‘Whoever slaps you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also!’” With that the brown Fardy slapped his brother again on the other cheek. “I will even prove my pious character by adding another smack, you wretched villain. I will go the extra mile, as the bad book says.”

  “Perhaps it meant to refrain from taking any revenge, rather than doling it doubly,” suggested the black Fardy, causing his brother to lower his hand in mid-air. “What was it that you were saying, my blond relative?”

  “As I was saying, before being interrupted by my patient and long suffering brother,” the other went on as if no altercation had taken place, “My brothers are very calm men of business, and it is a misfortune that—”

  Here the brown Fardy interjected in cold sobriety, “I protest, brother, for if anyone is a patient, forbearing soul it is yourself, and I will not allow myself to be counted above you in that, or any other, regard.”

  A flush rose in the blond brother’s face, and he roared, “You are by far my superior in terms of gentleness and self-control, and to prove that it is so, I will do this,” and he gave the brown Fardy a furious blow to the face, causing him to reel under its force and almost fall to the ground. “I challenge you to show, after that display, that you are any less subdued than myself.”

  “I will not yield, but must defend your honor by raising you another level. Do not think that I enjoy this, yet it must be done to preserve your good name.” With that the brown Fardy gave the blond Fardy such a blow that the latter was thrown backwards.

  The violence promised to soon get out of hand and into the fist, for neither would yield that he was quicker to patience and slower to anger than his brother. Luckily, the black Fardy offered a way of escape.

  “Perhaps you are both possessed of such an amount of patience and gentleness that there can be no rivalry. For if two cups overflow, it is certain that neither contains more than the other.”

  The two assented to this opinion and became genial once more, as if nothing violent had passed between them.

  “I was saying it was a pity that we lost the suit of armor, because of its value, both in gold and as the royal armor of the house of Plantagenet. Yet it is lost, and to a monk. It should be worn only by the king.”

  “His sword would have been a fitting addition to it, if we had won, and I can only fault myself for being too risky in thinking of such a venture,” the brown Fardy replied.

  “If anyone was risky it was I, and I will hear nothing else,” was the answer.

  The brown haired brother opened his mouth to refute that remark, and another storm cloud looked as if it were about to burst. The situation was eased, however, by the voi
ce of the black Fardy.

  “Perhaps it was our destiny to commit that risky act, my brothers,” he said, “But look, a lone monk approaches from the north.” He pointed his finger at an approaching portly monk with a long, droopy black mustache that came to his chin, and a pair of plump lips. The Fardy brothers composed themselves, putting on their much proclaimed – and little shown – calm business-like appearance.

  “Hello there, fellow travelers: a fine morning, is it not?” hailed the approaching monk as he drew near to them. “I am Erwin Meredith, a friar from the castle of Milada of Erlich.”

  “And we are the Fardy brothers,” they chorused, pretending not the recognize him. “I am the blond Fardy, and these are brown and black – my patient, long suffering brothers.” The speaker bowed low to show his humility. “Do you bring news from Lord Milada, about a certain meeting that may have taken place between the nobles?” He asked it as though it were a polite trifling.

  The monk played ignorant to the true meaning of the question and answered, “He had recently returned when I left, yet it is not my purpose to bring news. I am on a less joyous mission.”

  The brown Fardy put aside his jocularity and blinked his moonshine eyes at the monk, “If we can be of service to you or Milada, only let us know and it will be done.”

  The monk looked about them, searching for any spies. Then, after a moment, he said, “Very well, I will make my mission known to you. Ivona has disappeared from the castle, and there is no sign of her anywhere. The night it happened was defined by a fierce storm – the kind that have been more common of late – and we fear Gylain used it as a cover to kidnap her.”

  The Fardy brothers were greatly surprised, for they had come to know her well on their trips to the nobleman’s estate. Yet they also knew of her firm determination, and of her aspirations.

  “Perhaps she only went to fulfill her vow to the church,” suggested the black Fardy.

  “By Beelzebub!” he cried, “Ivona would never run away from her beloved father. Have you seen or heard nothing of her?”