The Forgotten King

by Jonathan Dunn

  “Not the slightest sign, friar,” replied the blond Fardy, “But I will tell you this: we have just passed two men claiming to be monks. One was huge and possessed a powerful arm that defeated the three of us in an arm wrestling match. The other had an agile tongue and a richly ornate sword. They were out of character for monks, especially the man Willard.”

  “Yes, but his eyes were true and his face noble. They were in no hurry and were not hiding anything – if Ivona was with them, we would have seen her. But you can question them yourself, Meredith, for they left the Inn only moments ago. Hurry, and fear not, for I believe they are trusty, and the Innkeeper felt the same. We will hurry on to the castle and speak with Milada. Until then, farewell.”

  With this, the Fardy brothers and Erwin Meredith departed in haste, anxious of the news to be gathered. The brothers became at once solemn and noble of bearing, a transformation that always overtook them when danger showed itself. Swift to anger and swift to duty – such were the Fardy brothers.

  “This news is sorrowful,” said the brown Fardy.

  “Let us hurry,” the black Fardy returned, “My blood grows cold.”

  Five minutes later their quick pace left them alone in the forest, Meredith being a good distance away and, in the forest, as good as gone. They almost ran down the road, without a word between themselves, each absorbed in his own thoughts. Then, they were disturbed: a shrill whistle resonated through the forest.

  “What have I heard, my brothers? Answer, for I am impatient to know.”

  “A whistle,” said the black Fardy, “But not from a bird.”

  As he spoke, a dozen armed men leapt from the trees and surrounded them.

  “Outlaws!” cried the blond Fardy, “If only we had brought our swords.”

  “It would have made little difference,” the leader of the bandits answered them in a calm voice.

  “Montague!” the black Fardy recoiled, “Montague, release us at once, for we are peaceful citizens. Gylain would never arrest us, for we have done no wrong.”

  “We will see,” was the only answer. Montague raised his eyebrows to his men, and they came forward to bind the brothers’ hands.

  “Gag them,” he added, and it was done.

  The leader of the band was the infamous Jonathan Montague, Gylain’s lieutenant. His short, black hair was combed forward at the temples after the fashion of the Romans, his face smoothly shaved. He wore a dark, close fitting tunic with trousers that reached his ankles, and a pair of well-worn boots. The smug smile that stretched itself across his lips gave as good a definition as any to his character – without conscience or remorse.

  He led them feverishly into the forest, unwilling to risk lingering where the rebels frequented. They turned south at a sharp angle, before adjusting it to the westward some time later. When the road was far behind them, a single man came down from his perch in a tree on the other side of the road, where he had been hidden. It was Osbert. He quickly looked over the spot, grabbing a few fallen items before rushing off to the caverns that formed the headquarters of his companions, to inform them of the Fardys misfortune.

  “Gylain is either brave or foolish,” he said to himself as he ran, “I pray it is the latter!”

  Chapter 8

  Once they were safely away from the road, Montague, his men, and the Fardy brothers made their way swiftly and stealthily through the ancient trees. Montague led the way, with his stern, oceanic countenance. The brothers, behind him, were bound by the hands, and their mouths were gagged, albeit loose enough to allow their breathing to keep pace with their feet. It was evident from his demeanor that Montague did not wish to confront Alfonzo’s band, though he was superior in numbers, and they sped on without halting until the noon hour.

  Then, seeing they were far from his enemy’s headquarters, Montague halted and had a light meal set out for lunch. It was of the usual forest cuisine: venison and double-baked bread, with only water to accompany it. Montague was many things, but one thing he was not was a glutton, and neither did he allow his followers to be. Rather, they were always in a state of half-hunger, the best condition for physical performance. They had stopped in the shade of a particularly large oak tree, in the center of a small clearing. The sun came on from directly overhead, so their shade was complete. Once a guard had been set, the Fardy brothers were set loose.

  They sat across from Montague, silent at first in awe of the efficiency and ruthlessness of their captors. Their eyes blindfolded, the brothers had not been able to see until an hour into the forced march, and their surprise at being caught and secured in so swift a fashion subdued their voices. Yet their blood was gotten up as fast as it had gotten down, and their temperament was as shifting as a northern wind.

  Montague was the first to speak, saying in a polite way, as if his form would forgive his substance, “I trust your journey has thus far been a pleasant one?”

  “If we were horses, and used to a bit in our mouths and a rope around our necks, maybe, but we are not,” the blond Fardy answered. “And neither are you, I believe, but rather one of the horse’s close cousins – the ass!” His blood had gotten up to a complete boil, for his face was flushed and his eyes swam in contempt.

  His brown haired brother added to his harangue. “This is an outrage, and you will be brought to justice, you vagabond. Even the wicked Gylain will join the chorus of death at your trial, for not even he would dare to approve of such a shady adventure as this!”

  “Perhaps this is merely a misunderstanding, and he thought us to be criminals, merely doing his duty as a citizen?” asked the black haired brother.

  “A mistake, perhaps,” the blond brother went on, “I would not doubt such from a half-headed lump of lunacy as our captor here, the infamous Montague.” He ended this outbreak with a questioning look, the least polite way he could think of to inquire the present title of the lead bandit, though he well knew his true position.

  “Captain of the guards – or, in military terms, commander-in-chief – of His Majesty, King Gylain of Atilta’s forces.”

  “Despot, maybe, but never king; and the island itself will sink into the sea the day he is called Gylain of Atilta. May it never be!”

  “Your petty resistances are futile, and of no hope. What type of man would risk his life for a title, for a noble man who was king before and is now powerless?”

  “I would.”

  “Indeed. But your resolve will soon be tested, and that of your brothers with you. For you are to be hung.”

  “And would your wretched master Gylain not suffer us to be arrested in the city, in plain view of the people? You misjudge – and wish us to as well – if you think we will die weakly in disgrace, or that we will confess and be spared. If our petty rebellion was as out of favor with the people as you say, than you would spare no ritual in condemning us in public. But as it is, you are afraid of the populace, and so take us in secret, where none can come to our rescue.” The blond brother gave Montague a steadfast look as he said this, showing his will remained strong.

  Montague answered calmly and with a slight, sardonic grin, “You act as if you were in the right, as if you had morality on your side, but is it so? Does not even the church support Gylain, and do not the scriptures say that authority on earth is given by God?”

  “Yes,” returned the brown Fardy, “And just as David waited for Saul to be deposed in God’s timing, so will we wait, and then, when the time comes, will strike you and your Goliath down with but a single stone! As for the church, you bring it after you by threats and bribes, and not through reason or right. The church has power as the servant of God, but if it rebels against him and is no longer his servant, than what power has it? It is then only a fool, looking to a hope which it does not believe. So it is with you and your tyrant.” As he spoke, the brown Fardy was filled with anger, and he struck Montague in the face.

  The guards behind the brothers quickly grabbed and bound them once more. Montague, however, gave them no more th
an a haughty look, for his self-control kept his anger within him. Yet he was not any weaker nor less angry because of it, and he carried out his duty silently, knowing they would not survive their punishment.

  The restive attitude of the noon hour was broken by the brothers’ outrage. Unable to remain at ease, the party set off once more in the same direction and at the same pace. They were heading southwest, through the deep forest. On they went and on it came, never reaching an end. After one tree, another arose, and behind it a thousand more. Yet the trees were not noticed after a time, instead blurring together in a haze of nature, an atmosphere of foliage rather than the foliage itself. Montague drove them forward, himself in the lead, and his restless feet chasing each other beneath him, pushing each other forward. The Fardy brothers were directly behind him, and then the rest of the bandits. At length, when it was half past six in the evening, Montague stopped and turned to his men.

  “The stream we seek is slightly south of here, I believe, and if we turn we will run into that clearing which we often use for camps. Do you have the same idea of where we are, Horace?” This last part was addressed to his deputy, with whom he often checked his coordinates, for in the depth of the forest it is easy to become lost.

  “Yes, sir,” came the answer, “Half a mile south.”

  “Very good,” was Montague’s only reply, and they were off at the same grueling pace as before, this time heading due south.

  After ten minutes, they slowed their pace and unbound the Fardy brothers.

  “I hope you are well-rested,” Montague said, “For you will be practicing your camp craft tonight. I hope you have no objections, but someone must do it.”

  “Indeed,” the black Fardy said, raising his head proudly, “Should we send an ass to do a horse’s duty?” and he set off walking before Montague, his brothers at his side.

  The other bandits began to collect sticks from the ground, for use in creating the camp and fire, and Montague was left alone with the prisoners. They walked several yards in front of him.

  The darkness was just beginning to become greater than the light, the wind to turn cool instead of warm, and the birds to sing instead of chirp. The shadows covered the whole ground, and night was coming on fast; soon they drew near to the clearing. Through the twilight they could make out the edge as they drew near, and Montague pushed the Fardy brothers forward.

  “Go on, you should get an early beginning,” he said, and turned around to look after his men. He had no fear of them attempting to run, for the ancient forest was a truly frightening place, when it was not well-known, and the brothers could not have escaped. There was nothing around but the forest itself.

  “We will have him, sometime, my brothers,” the blond Fardy said. “And as they say, patience is a virtue when you cannot do otherwise.”

  “They will not squeeze us dry, without a bit of work first,” the brown Fardy added.

  “Let us hope that work is not done by us,” the black Fardy sighed as they entered the clearing, thinking of the work that stood before them.

  Yet that was not all that stood before them.

  “What is this?” the brown Fardy cried, “It appears we are not alone!”

  “Indeed,” the blond brother answered, “But who can it be?”

  There, sitting behind a row of sturdy pikes driven into the ground, were two monks and a richly dressed gentleman. The one monk was enormous; the other had a golden sword on his belt. Montague was a few paces back and facing the other direction, apparently unaware of their surprise.

  “We are free,” the black brother whispered, and the three dashed toward the camp, in haste to make it before they were noticed.

  As they were running the monks leapt to their feet and the smaller one looked at them closely in the twilight. When he recognized them, he called out, “The Fardy brothers! How do you come to be here?”

  Their faces bent with an urgent gesture to be silent, but it was too late. Montague had heard.

  “Forward, men, they are escaping,” he cried as he dashed forward.

  Willard pulled one of the palisades from the ground, making an opening through which the brothers entered. When they were in, he replaced it.

  “What is the hurry?” he asked, giving each of them a stout stick to defend themselves with, since their demeanors made him think a great enemy was just out of sight.

  “He is coming,” they breathed.

  “Who?”

  “Montague!” they chorused, pointing to the edge of the clearing, where Montague and his men were advancing toward them.

  “Prepare yourselves, then,” Willard said, “For we fight for our lives!”

  As he spoke, Montague began to charge.

  Chapter 9

  The camp that Willard had made was surrounded by the clearing on three sides, and by the stream on the other. Around it they had placed a rude wall of stones and logs, and inside that a series of pickets or palisades – sticks driven into the ground to form a make-shift fortification. It would not hold back an army, yet that was not its purpose. Instead, it provided a first line of defense in case of an attack by either wild beasts or wild men. It was the sort of precaution that Willard always took, greatly to his advantage in this situation.

  Since the camp was made for only three of them, it was rather small, a semi-circle of nine feet in diameter with the straight side against the stream. With the addition of the Fardy brothers, their number was increased to six, enough to man the walls but not enough to challenge the bandits, who were twelve strong.

  At the first sign of the charge, Willard drew his sword and flourished it round and round above his black-haired head, calling out in a defiant manner, “Come forward to your destiny, cowardly vagabonds!”

  To many people it would seem foolish to provoke the anger of those who are hostile in intent and superior in number. Yet Willard was wiser than most, and he knew that if he was able to draw them into an attack before they had prepared themselves – and when they were in the heat of anger – the coolness of the defenders could win the day.

  “There was never a more steadfast citizen of Atilta than myself,” Vahan began in a trembling voice, “But it is my opinion that we would be better advised to parlay than to fight, for our lives are surely forfeit in the one case and not in the other.”

  “Yes, but it is in the case of surrender that they are forfeit. Man the wall in silence, then, and leave the planning to us,” roared back the blond Fardy, full of animation at the thought of bloodshed.

  Willard turned and answered Vahan’s concerns in a gentler and less contemptuous manner.

  “We do not doubt your loyalty, Vahan Lee,” he said, “Only your judgment, or should I say knowledge, of the character of bandits. To surrender is to admit weakness, and that is the most despised short-coming in the forest, not to be treated lightly or with compassion.”

  “Yet Alfonzo of Melborough was kind to us, and we were treated as free men. Only the ropes held us prisoner, and even those were loosely tied.”

  Here it was the brown Fardy’s turn to roar at the timid Vahan.

  “Alfonzo of Melborough is no bandit!” he cried, “But an upright and virtuous man. Those bandits are led by Montague, and though I and my brothers are three of the most patient and long-suffering folks to be found, the outrages committed against us by that infamous lowlife are enough to boil my blood and cook my virtuous side like a cony in a cook’s pot. Read my words, you loyal Atiltian of a Frencher – for such is your accent – if we fall into his hands it will be more than a cony that’s cooked!”

  Willard laughed amid the danger, “Yes, and if I remember rightly your patience was tried just as harshly by my silent brother Horatio, the monk. But come now, they charge from the front, and look, there,” he pointed across the stream, “A few creep around to the back. You, brown and black Fardys, keep them occupied, even if you have to cook their goose.”

  “Cook their goose and cut ‘em loose!” cried the brown Fardy, brandishing his
quarterstaff – as the stout sticks were called in those days when used as weapons – and spinning it round his head to display his zeal. It was, however, too zealous for the blond Fardy, to whom he gave a good whack on the head on the second swirl, having misjudged the distance.

  “Patience is a virtue,” he said, “But so is vengeance, and if I must choose, I choose the latter!” With that he returned his brother’s blow two-fold, with a down stroke to the shoulders and a thrust to the ribs.

  “Perhaps patience is the more dominant virtue, though,” said the black Fardy.

  “I agree with you there, brother of mine,” bellowed the brown Fardy, “Yet I will give no one a chance to call me more virtuous than my brother, so I must choose vengeance myself.”

  He gave his brother another full swing with his quarterstaff, but the blond Fardy ducked and it passed right over his head with a swoosh. It was not a vain swing, however, for just at that moment the two bandits whom Willard had warned of reached the camp walls, unseen in the commotion. They stooped as they came, and were just standing up to attack. But the brown Fardy’s quarterstaff made sure they did no such thing, and as their heads rose above the pickets it swung by and smashed the one on the right, driving his head into his partner’s, and knocking them both down cold.

  “The Lord has rewarded my virtue!” exclaimed the brown-haired brother.

  Willard was about to say something, but before he could the rest of the bandits reached the walls, and he had to focus his attention in their direction. There were eight in the front, two having gone to the back, and two to the left. The pickets only reached chest-high, leaving the defenders to grapple with the bandits over top of it, their quarterstaffs against the others’ swords.

  Two of the attackers raised their swords above their heads and drove them down hard on the blond Fardy, but he grasped both ends of his quarterstaff and blocked them both, pushing forward with great strength until his opponents were tired. He then slid his left hand down the length of his staff and swung it fiercely at the midsection of the first bandit. Upon receiving the blow, the latter fell to the ground, but his companion took the opening that the blond Fardy left and drove his sword at his right shoulder with a strong down stroke. The blond Fardy was able to position his staff so as to block the blow, but his grip was not firm and the sword pushed it sharply into him, knocking him back and giving his shoulder a resounding blow. It was not as bad, however, as it would have been if he had not partially blocked it. Seeing his brother in danger’s way, the black Fardy gave his opponent a quick thrust to the face and diverted his attention to his brother’s rival, giving him a full blow to the back.