The Forgotten King

by Jonathan Dunn

  Meanwhile, on the other side, Willard and Horatio were charged by three of the bandits. Horatio had no weapon but his paws, which gave the bandits the idea he would be an easy prey. They were dead wrong, of course. The bear dodged to the left as the first thrust his sword toward his chest. Missing his mark, the bandit was pulled forward by the sheer force of his blow and was left open to Horatio’s built-in cleaver, which sent him down to the ground in a hurry. Seeing the fate of his partner, the other bandit who was heading toward Horatio decided against it at the last instant, instead diverting his sword in Vahan’s direction. That worthy gentleman was panic struck at the sight and followed his first impulse, which was to hold his quarterstaff out toward the oncoming bandit in the same manner as the latter’s sword was pointed toward him. The suddenness of the move left the bandit without the time to stop himself, and as the quarterstaff was a good two feet longer than his sword, he hurled himself headlong into it, putting an end to himself, and sending Vahan flying backwards, as he was not prepared for such a collision.

  As he flew back, Vahan bumped into the brown Fardy, who was grappling with a bandit directly behind that loyal Atiltian. They were both pushing as hard as they could against the other, their heads being less than a foot apart in their determination to gain as much leverage as possible. When Vahan hit the brown Fardy, his head flew forward and bashed into the bandit’s, sending him to the ground.

  Willard, at the same time, was contending with Montague in a battle of sword against sword. Both of them were very skilled with that weapon, and it was a spectacular sight to behold. They sparred with one another ferociously, parrying here and thrusting there, and the clang of their weapons could be heard over the din of the rest of the battle. At last, however, Montague caught Willard’s blow with his sword and turned his blade so swiftly as to twist Willard’s. This gave him an instant in which to place the point of his longsword against the other’s neck.

  “Yield or be slain.” Montague’s demand was spoken in a silent battlefield, for all the other fighting had stopped as well. The defenders had bravely stood their ground, but in the end superior numbers took the day. The blond Fardy was disabled in his shoulder and held by one of the bandits. His black brother had turned his back to his assailant to help him, and had been rendered unconscious by a hard blow to the back of his head. The brown Fardy, meanwhile, was left with a dazed feeling after the blow between his head and his opponent’s, although the latter lay dead on the ground. Vahan likewise was disoriented by the collision. Horatio alone had not been bested by his adversary, yet he was no match for the half dozen bandits that remained standing.

  “Yield or be slain,” was once again spoken. Yet this time it did not come from Montague’s lips. Surprised, the chief bandit turned his head in the direction of the voice and saw, to his utmost dismay, that it came from none other than Alfonzo of Melborough, his rival of the forest. One represented the forces of the true king, and the other of the impostor Gylain. “You are surrounded, Jonathan Montague; yield or be slain.”

  “I will do neither.”

  “Defiant to the end, yet the end it is indeed.”

  “Hold your tongue, misguided Alfonzo. You would do better to join Gylain’s forces, for the battle is not as proportioned everywhere as it is here.”

  “You know my answer already, Montague, and it is no, a thousand times over.”

  “Your loss, Alfonzo the tutor, slave to the child of the king. Your time has passed away even as he has.”

  Here Alfonzo came forward a step, before Montague cried out, “Halt, or this monk’s life – and that of all the others gathered here – is forfeit. Give us your word to let us depart in peace and we will let them do the same.”

  Alfonzo was silent, but he soon yielded and answered, “So be it, but let not you nor your men be found within a hundred miles of this place, or it will go badly with you.”

  “As you wish, my master,” Montague mocked, sheathing his sword and motioning for his men to do the same. He walked toward the edge of the forest, his stride as steady as ever, and his hair remaining perfectly combed forward at the temples. His face was flushed, however, as were his eyes. Before disappearing into the vast forest, he turned to taunt his rival one last time.

  “I will not forget this, Alfonzo – until death do us part.” And with that, he was gone.

  Chapter 10

  Alfonzo watched the treacherous Montague until he was of sight, then sent Osbert to follow and see that he did not return. This done, he went forward to where the stalwart defenders were sitting down in exhaustion and pain. He sent two of his followers to drag the bodies of the fallen bandits a little way into the forest, where nature would soon dispose of them.

  “I was tempted to think you were not the king of the forest after all, Alfonzo,” said the blond Fardy, holding his hand to his aching shoulder.

  “I was searching for you, friend. But I had no idea you had been already found,” he turned his eyes to Willard, who met his look as if nothing were amiss. “Your hermitage has made you at ease in the forest, since you found what I was searching for before I even knew you had escaped my prison.”

  “I suppose it has,” was Willard’s only answer.

  “And it has left you a master swordsman as well, has it? Come now, do you take me for a fool, that I will believe this pretense of being a monk?”

  Willard was silent, thinking of an adequate reply, but before he could respond the brown Fardy broke in.

  “Alfonzo!” he said, “Have you taken Willard and Horatio prisoner? You are greatly mistaken in this, my friend, for these are two of the finest fellows ever. They filled their front sides with us this morning, and saved our back sides this evening.”

  “That I see,” Alfonzo returned, “And for that I am grateful. Yet Willard’s suspicious facade shows his falseness, if not in character than in presentation. You have used a move in your fighting that I have only seen used by the royal house of Plantagenet,” he turned to Willard, “And you execute it with the royal family’s own sword! You must reveal yourself to me.”

  “I cannot,” was the only reply.

  “And why is that? Your secret is safe with us, but we must know,” was the firm answer.

  “I cannot tell you because I am nothing more than I appear,” Willard hesitated, “A monk and a hermit. Your suspicions are unfounded.”

  Alfonzo stroked his pointed goatee and held Willard in a penetrating look. The latter yielded to the probing.

  At last, Alfonzo let his eyes wander and whispered to himself, “Can it be true?”

  Aloud, he said, “What of Horatio? Who is he, and what?”

  Willard winked at the bear, who mumbled some inaudible remarks.

  “He speaks only Latin,” Willard said, “But he says that he, too, is but a monk, though his flesh sometimes consumes more than a monk is entitled to.”

  “Indeed?” the blond Fardy laughed, “I would think him an enormous animal, myself, with all that he eats. He is a hairy man, as well, though that never made a beast of anyone. Too much ale will do such things to a man,” and he sighed.

  A faint smile flickered across Alfonzo’s lips, “ Vincitneveritas peric’lum , Horatio?”

  The bear mumbled something else unintelligible, but it did not fool Alfonzo.

  “Perhaps he speaks French, Willard, but that is no Latin.”

  “It does not seem like Latin to the untrained ear, perhaps, but you must remember that he and I have been hermits for many years. His Latin has decayed during that time.”

  “And your Atiltian has not, I see? But you forget: I taught the crown prince Latin, so I would not say my ear is untrained.”

  “In fifteen years, his vocabulary has become a new dialect of Latin, the forest Latin,” and Willard donned an ecclesiastical look.

  “Then you would not mind if I took a closer look at Horatio’s face, that I might be aided by his eyes in understanding his speech?”

  “He is mostly blind, and his eyes show li
ttle emotion. Furthermore, he has taken a vow to conceal his skin from the sun.”

  “He moves deftly for a blind man. Yet, I cannot rightly break his vow.”

  Willard sighed with relief, though almost imperceptibly.

  Alfonzo saw it, however, and continued with a slight smile. “Osbert, Archibald, bring some oak branches to shade Horatio’s skin from the sun.”

  They obeyed and in a moment Horatio’s body was in a thick shade, with the two men holding branches above his head. Every eye in the camp was fixed intently on his head as Alfonzo’s hand slowly reached to pull back the hood. Willard sweated and turned his head. Every inch that the hand drew closer, they heads of the others advanced a foot. In a moment there was a small, tight circle of curious faces around the impostor monk.

  Alfonzo pulled the hood back with a quick jerk, revealing Horatio’s hairy head. His snout was half open with his tongue sticking out, and his eyes had a curious glaze on them. Nothing was said, though every mouth was opened and every eye strained itself to see the trick. But there was none: Horatio was fully a bear.

  “Yet another piece of trickery on your part, Willard,” he said. “Have you said anything we can believe?”

  “I never said Horatio was a monk, I merely communicated his own words. And as for his Latin, it sounded good enough to me,” Willard grinned.

  Alfonzo was reassured by his easy attitude, and it calmed his suspicions.

  “Very well,” he said. “I do not accuse you of lying for malicious reasons, for if we had known that Horatio was a bear, it would have alarmed us, had we not already known his easy temperament. But it proves that you have indeed been lying, and that you are no monk. Listen, we know of a prince who appeared during the attack on Lord Milada. Hismoni tells me he was the attacker, though I have yet to speak with Milada himself. A few days later, you appear from nowhere. You fight like a prince, you speak like a prince, and you wield a prince’s sword. Who are you Willard? Know before you answer that I will not judge you for the attack, before all is known. You have shown yourself to be fair, with Vahan, with the Fardy brothers, and with me. Therefore, you are innocent. But you must tell me now who you are.”

  Willard paused. “I cannot tell you,” he hesitated, “Because I do not know myself who I rightly am.”

  Alfonzo looked at him closely. “Fifteen years ago,” he muttered, “And five at the time.”

  He sighed quietly and said aloud, “Very well, Willard. If you do not know, then we cannot ask you to tell. I know you tell the truth this time, for it must take a firm, native forester to befriend a fierce black bear such as Horatio.”

  “He is not so fierce, nor was it so hard. I had merely to be sweet to him,” Willard chuckled.

  “What do you mean?” Alfonzo asked, “Perhaps it is my turn to exhort you not to speak in riddles.”

  “I paid for his friendship with a pot of honey, worth more than my own life under the forest law.”

  “That is no law, for law is justice,” Alfonzo answered, “And if there is no justice in the law, then it cannot be called a law, only a set of injustices. How can a pot of honey, short-lived and useless when it is gone, be worth more than a man?”

  “There are some who would describe mankind itself that way,” Willard retorted, “Short-lived, and useless when they are gone. But forest law is more just than human law, in this, for while a pot of honey is worth more than a man’s life, it is because of its practical value. In human law, however, it seems a crown of gold outweighs the lives of thousands, though it has no purpose outside the desire to possess it.”

  Willard turned from Alfonzo in disgust and tended to Horatio. The leader of the rebels did the same, though his face did not clarify with whom he was disgusted. After several moments, the Fardy brothers approached Willard and Horatio, who were conversing in signs. The blond Fardy began the conversation with this speech:

  “You have a noble disdain for objects of desire made from precious metals, Willard the fair and noble. I take it as a matter of course that you will show that disdain equally, and refuse to accept the suit of armor you have won from us? Surely, you would not think of falling yourself into the same trap of material lust that has ensnared so many of your more civilized brothers?”

  The brown Fardy added greedily, “Yes, and was not the arm wrestle illegitimate, since we were unknowingly wrestling a bear? Now, my brothers and I are patient and long-suffering, as you well know, but I wonder how long we can stand strong under such injustices?”

  “Perhaps,” interjected the black Fardy, “Perhaps that injustice was countered by the injustice of our method in the arm wrestle. For we each used more than one arm, which is against the rules of chivalry.”

  The blond Fardy was about to pick up the thread once more when Willard stopped him with his authoritative voice. “I will keep the receipt, and I fully plan to redeem it, if I ever find myself in Eden. I have no certain plans, however, and my arrival there is uncertain at best. If, after three years, I have not redeemed the armor, it is yours once more. Those are your odds.”

  “Very well, if you insist on burdening yourself with worthless material possessions,” the blond Fardy pretended to wail, “Possessions which have already cost the lives of many men. But who am I to interfere with your business? I can only recall what the good book says: where your treasure is, there your heart will be also,” and he cast a sorrowful glance around at the others.

  “Yes, but it is not my treasure. Besides, the armor could be of much use to me in some future danger.”

  “Perhaps you do not understand, Willard,” the brown Fardy said, “But the armor is the coat of mail worn by the royal house of Plantagenet, crafted many generations ago and used by them ever since. After the rebellion, many men lost their lives trying to secure it, and we were only able to do so by purchasing the rights to Gylain’s debts, forcing him to default and give us the security, which was the coat of arms. What I would like to know, Master Willard, is how you came to possess the royal sword?”

  “I only remember having it since I have memory. Or rather, since I have firm memory, for there are faint, dreamy thoughts of long ago, though I pay them no heed. Do not ask me how I came to have it, or how I came to live in the forest, for that I cannot answer. Let it simply suffice to say that I was in the forest, and that I had the sword. As to why I happen to be who I am, I can only think that there is some purpose for me to serve that I do not yet understand.”

  Willard hesitated, then went on faintly, “I feel as though I have something to do, a very important something; something that I do not wish to do, but that I have no choice in; something that I wish was over that I might do what it is that I wish to do, without being under the tyranny of fate.”

  “Perhaps it is only yourself which forces you to these thoughts,” said the black Fardy. “Perhaps it is your thoughts that lead you to your fate, and not fate that begets your thoughts? Can the future be stronger than the past?”

  “Neither defeats the other,” Willard answered, “Instead they crash together about us, and from the ensuing chaos comes that veritable time which we call the present. The past and the future fight for the right to oppress us, yet only we can decide the victor. That is our curse.”

  With that, the two groups split. Night was now fully upon them, and, setting a guard, they went to sleep in their various places around the camp. Alfonzo was the first to wake, though the dawn was yet far away, and he took the watch from Osbert who had come in late from his trek.

  “How are the tidings?” Alfonzo asked him.

  “They have gone to the southwest, maybe to Eden,” was the answer.

  “Were you seen?”

  “I think not, though you can never be sure with Montague’s guile.”

  “That is certainly so. You have done well, Osbert, and I count myself blessed to have such a faithful follower in these times of unrest.”

  “Not hardly as blessed as I to have a wise and just leader.”

  “Tell me,” the le
ader said in a low whisper, glancing around him to the rest of the party, “What news do you have of the spy?”

  Osbert sighed silently, reluctant to condemn his fellow rangers on circumstantial evidence and word of mouth. “I thought I saw Casper when I followed Montague, after he had taken the Fardy brothers. There was a shrouded figure walking with them, showing them the way, but he dashed off before I could be sure. Then, when I returned to the caverns, I saw that his boots had been newly muddied. I asked him, and he said he had been asleep. There are other explanations – but I can only tell you what I know.” Osbert dropped his head, ashamed for his friend Casper.

  “Do not be afraid Osbert, many have fallen away before, and more will yet leave us. Traveling the great forest, protecting loyal travelers from the thugs of Gylain, taking from the oppressors and returning to the oppressed – it is not an easy life. Every moment is filled with danger, and there are some who cannot handle it. Even de Garcia, the great warrior of my youth, fell into the snares of Gylain. Be strong, therefore, and persevere.”

  “Yes, Alfonzo, my only fear is that I put false charges on an innocent name.”

  “I will keep Casper with me, under close watch. You have only done your duty. Come, what else is there?”

  “I found a note from Blaine at the message post, in the sixth quadrant of the Treeway.”

  “Let us see it.”

  Osbert handed Alfonzo a carefully folded piece of paper, and the latter opened and read it to himself.