“Providence or luck,” cried the Admiral, “But does it matter? I only hope, Osbert, that you have not killed an innocent man in your haste.”
“Have no fear of that. He was one of Gylain’s chief spies – he escaped me only a few days ago in this very area.”
Osbert was still on the ground; he quickly searched the dead man. He lifted a sealed scroll to show the others.
“Let us hope this carries useful intelligence, though we cannot tarry to read it now.”
He mounted the last horse as the others galloped off down the road.
Meanwhile, back in the castle, things looked grim for Milada and the Fardy brothers. With the help of their battering ram, the traitors made quick work of the stone door, as massive as it was.
“What is that noise without?” cried the blond Fardy, hearing the great booms of the ram striking the door.
“They must have a battering ram! We are done for, I fear,” said the black Fardy.
“Do not lose hope, brother. We may die in the end, but will we never be captured alive,” said the brown Fardy.
Milada, unable to handle the danger suddenly thrust upon him, was pacing back and forth in the tight stairway, his limbs dancing.
“We had best get furniture from the rooms above, to barricade the stairway and throw at them when they break through,” the blond Fardy said.
“Good idea, brother, and we can arm ourselves while we do.”
Since there was nothing they could do to keep the door upon its hinges, all of them went up the stairs to the rooms above. The first was a small armory. They each took a suit of leather armor and a sword, then continued upward. Next was Milada’s bedchamber. They moved the heavier furniture down to the beginning of the staircase, that they might hurl it down on the attackers.
At that moment, the door broke open. Hismoni and his followers charged up the stairs.
“Land ho!” cried the Fardy brothers in unison as they pushed a heavy dresser over the edge of the stairs. It charged down Hismoni, even as he charged up. With a shriek, he turned and fled, grabbing at the doorway to pull himself forward. Yet he had no fingers left on that hand. The dresser crashed into him, putting wind into his sails that knocked him across the room.
His companions, however, continued on unwounded. The Fardy brothers shut the door at the top of the steps with little time to spare, locking the attackers out.
The second door was made of wood. In a moment it, too, was forced open. The small armory was merely a foyer, and another flight of stairs reached into Milada’s bedchamber. Once more Hismoni led the charge, for his pride was not diminished in his pain. Neither was his folly. The Fardy brothers were at the top of the steps, and as soon as he came forward, they let loose a bed frame. It tumbled down the steps, rattling with every bounce. This time, though, Hismoni was quicker to react. He turned and fled safely from the steep, narrow staircase.
His companion Selmar was not so lucky. He tripped as he turned, and fell face forward to the ground. Behind him he heard the oncoming charge of the bed frame; he lifted his head instinctively, to see what came at him. Then, with a hollow knock, it struck him straight in the forehead. He died instantly.
“Forward men!” roared Hismoni, “Now is our chance!”
The remaining eight attackers dashed up the stairway with their swords drawn. Yet there was no one above to oppose them. In the bedchamber at the top, the three Fardy brothers stood in a line in front of Milada. The latter stood with a sword in his hand, but it was evident that he was too frightened to make use of it.
“Surrender or die!” Hismoni said.
The brothers were solemn, no longer rowdy or boisterous. With a calm, collected air, the three chorused together, “Die.” And that was all.
The defenders stood their ground in the corner, and the attackers slowly approached, each with his sword drawn and in position to be used.
“There is no hope, brothers,” said Hismoni, his face badly bleeding from his wounds, “Why not surrender – we only seek Milada.”
There was no answer, for the Fardy brothers would not lower themselves to speak with the traitors. Still the attackers advanced, slowly and cautiously. Still the Fardy brothers held their ground, without a trace of fear or worry on their faces. The only thing that held sway there was duty, to Atilta and to freedom.
The attackers came at last in a sudden onslaught. But the brothers were ready. The blond Fardy clashed swords with Hismoni, parrying his first blow and his second, then knocking his third into the air by twisting his blade. He took the opening that followed and thrust straight into Hismoni’s stomach. The blow was shallow, for Hismoni fell backwards. Yet for the time, he was out of the battle.
At the same time, two of the guards challenged the black Fardy. He was by far the best swordsman of the three Fardys, and at first was able to fend them off. Then, after a long grapple and several parrying exchanges, the leftward attacker gave him a blow far to his left. He held his sword sideways and kept the guard in a grapple. The rightward attacker, however, took the opening that was left on the black Fardy’s right side. He drove his sword into the black Fardy’s shoulder, causing him to stumble backwards. With his last breath of strength, he stabbed the leftward attacker and brought him down. But once more the rightward attacker had an opening, and once more the black Fardy was stabbed in the shoulder.
On the other side, the brown Fardy was also faced with two attackers. The first came at him with his sword over his head, prepared to cut him open from above. But the brown Fardy ducked to the left and stabbed his sword straight through the oncoming man. The other attacker was directly behind his freshly killed companion. He, too, raised his sword above his head to rain it down on the brown Fardy – with the latter’s sword caught in the dead man’s stomach, he thought, he could not defend himself. He was dead wrong. The brown Fardy rushed forward into the dead man’s body and forced his sword through him. Then he charged forward at the second attacker, pushing the sword into his body as well.
A third man had now come up, however, and the brown Fardy could not dislodge his sword to defend himself. There were already too many men skewered upon it to add another. The third man thrust his sword into the lower left side of the brown Fardy’s chest. A muffled clang could be heard as it pierced the leather armor. He fell limply to the ground.
Seeing his two brothers struck down, the blond Fardy let loose the full fury of his patience. His face blazed with fire and his eyes shot forth from his head like demons from hell. He flourished his blade above his head, and with a loud groan disembodied two of the guards, one to the left and one to the right. Then he raised it again – still hot with anger – and smote the man in front of him.
All were motionless on the ground, except Hismoni, one of his men, the blond Fardy and Milada. The latter was too frightened to wield his sword. The blond Fardy left himself open in his latest blow; Hismoni swung his sword hard into his stomach. The blade was turned to the broadside, yet its force knocked him to the ground. Hismoni dashed forward to Lord Milada, in whom rested the rebel’s last hope of victory.
“I will finish what I started in the forest,” Hismoni said as his sword swung through the air.
To the ground on either side lay the brown and black-haired Fardy brothers, dead or unconscious. Milada stood in front of a large window, his limbs convulsing and jerking about as Hismoni’s sword came at him. The blond brother had arisen from the ground, prepared for one last desperate defense.
As Hismoni began to swing, the blond Fardy began to leap.
“Atilta!” he cried out as he flew forward to where Hismoni stood.
As Hismoni’s sword hit Milada, the blond Fardy hit Hismoni. He grabbed tightly ahold of Hismoni, and the momentum of his leap forced the two men through the window. The glass shattered, then fell into the abyss below. The tower was a thousand feet high, with nothing but the stone walkway far below to break the fall.
As Hismoni fell through the window with the blond Fardy, his swor
d went with him. Milada fell to the floor. His wound was deep, yet he was saved. Thurston remained alive, and as the two men fell, he raised his sword to strike Milada and finish him off.
Yet the sound of footsteps came from the stairway.
William Stuart ran into the room at that moment, holding a narrow, flat handled sword.
“Milada,” he cried as he saw what was taking place. “Milada, I have come,” and he flung his sword at Thurston. It flew through the air like an arrow, just as Thurston’s sword began to descend toward Milada’s head. It hit him directly, piercing straight through him. The Admiral threw it so hard that it went completely through Thurston’s stomach. Only a hollow wound remained as it passed through. It continued its flight, until it stabbed into the stone wall beyond, directly below the window. It struck at the joint in the wall, where the stones were cemented together, and it passed straight through the mortar to the other side.
This all took place in a single instant. Hismoni and the blond Fardy still were crashing through the window, even as the sword broke through the stone. They were but a single instant too late.
The newcomers stood there, none moving. Milada lay on the ground, mortally wounded; two of the beloved Fardy brothers were close beside him and the third hurtling toward the ground a thousand feet below. The silence was ended by a distant thud – the sound of a body hitting the ground.
“Dear God!” moaned the Admiral, “Is freedom truly worth this? There will be none left to enjoy it.”
Chapter 32
William Stuart dashed forward across the ransacked bedchamber that was littered with the debris of battle. The furniture was broken or gone, the paintings and tapestries torn, and the window broken. First he went to Milada, and with the help of Osbert lifted him onto the desk, using it as a bed. The nobleman’s stomach was badly wounded: though the vital organs were spared, it looked to be beyond the healing skill of man.
“Meredith, bring the doctor,” commanded the Admiral.
“He came when he heard the fighting,” the other answered, pointing to the elderly gentleman approaching the bed.
The doctor had long, white hair, bound behind his head in a thick ponytail, and as full upon his forehead as fifty years before. His face was long and narrow, covered only with a short stubble of white hair. He set his instruments down on the desk beside Milada and set to work at once. The others watched him work, forgetting the other fallen, whom they thought dead.
“All is lost,” moaned the Admiral, “And if not, then all is at least for no purpose.”
“They would have wanted us to keep going, to continue the cause,” Osbert answered.
“I would think they would like to still be alive,” Meredith said. “But may the good Lord take their souls.” The monk made the sign of the cross with his finger and bowed his head reverently.
“They lived and died for freedom; it is for us to follow their example,” was Osbert’s reply.
“I am a patient man,” a voice from behind them faltered, “But I am at the edge of my patience, with this talk. Hismoni and his traitorous comrades attempt to assassinate Milada, and you mourn their deaths with thoughts of their virtue? By the bottom of the ocean, and may you die there!”
Those assembled around the bed quickly turned to see who spoke.
“Good God, you live!” cried Meredith.
“And why not? I have as much right to life as any other.” The brown Fardy stood before them unsteadily, yet fully alive. “Where are my brothers, friends? I cannot see them anywhere.”
“Alas, they are no more.”
“Who is?” asked a voice from the other side. It was the black Fardy. His shoulder was bleeding from its wound, yet otherwise he was well.
“Say, brother,” asked the brown Fardy, “Where is our blond brother?”
“I am afraid he has gone somewhere without you,” and the Admiral pointed to the broken window behind them. It took a moment for the brown Fardy to understand. When understanding came, it struck him like a sword from above, and he lowered his face to the floor. “Things have gone badly here,” said the Admiral, “Though not as badly as I once thought. How did you survive?”
The brown Fardy reached his arm into his outer shirt and pulled out a bag. He emptied it into his hand and held it up for the others to see: it contained thirty gold coins – inscribed with the face and figure of Gylain, as were all of Atilta’s currency. There was a deep dent across the face of the uppermost coins, where they had turned the blade away from his chest. He held them to his eye and said:
“Let Gylain have that which is his own. I no longer care for such things,” and he tossed the coins out the broken window.
Then, from outside, came a muffled voice.
“I am a patient man,” it said, “But when a man is left hanging, so to speak, it is downright rude to throw coins at him!”
“Woe am I!” moaned the black Fardy, “Even in death my brother’s voice haunts me.”
“And I as well,” the brown brother added, “Such is the curse of the Fardy brothers!”
They lowered their heads to weep, embracing each other in sorrow.
“I will give you another curse, if you do not unhook me,” the voice returned. “This is a good view, perhaps, but I would better prefer the rendezvous inside.”
The two Fardy brothers ran over to the window and looked out through the hole. The blond Fardy was directly below them, hanging by the leather jerkin he wore. The Admiral’s sword was sticking through the mortar between two of the stones, coming out three inches from the wall and forming a sturdy hook. The neck of his leather armor had bunched up as he passed through the window and the excess leather was caught on the hook, securing the blond Fardy to the wall. Thus, while Hismoni fell to his death, the blond Fardy survived. The terror of his brush with death had painted him over with silence. But the Fardy brothers could not be subdued for long.
He was quickly pulled into the room and reunited with his brothers. As many oaths as tears and hugs passed between the three. At length, the blond Fardy spoke:
“He who lives by the sword dies by the sword, but the same cannot be said of money, brother, for your greed has spared your life. You have cast the coins aside, however, and we cannot rightly keep them as our own. Therefore, when we recover them from the ground below, we will buy a round of ale for the whole village.”
“You mean to say,” the black-haired Fardy interrupted, “That we will buy a round of ale for the whole village, including the guests of the castle,” and he winked at the brown brother.
“You are wiser and of better sense than I, brother,” was the response.
“I will not hear it,” he began to say, but the outburst was prevented by the Admiral, who turned from Milada’s bedside to face them.
“Let me see your wound,” he said to the black Fardy. “You are a very lucky family,” he mumbled. The Admiral was skilled in the way of healing. He quickly cleaned and bound the wound: somewhat deep, but not a threat to his health. That done, he turned to the doctor and said, “Is he well enough to move? The smell of death fills this room.”
“Yes, his wound is now dressed, though we must be careful. Where will we take him?”
“To Ivona’s room,” Meredith said, “It is down these stairs and up the next. I will lead the way.”
They moved Milada onto a sturdy panel and slowly carried him to Ivona’s bedchamber. It was clean and fresh, and still smelled of the beauty who had once lived there. The change from the smell of death to that of life gave Milada strength: he soon came to his senses.
“William? I must be dead, or else how are you here?”
“You are still among the living, Milada. I have returned at last, as has the tide of hope.”
“A glimmer of hope, perhaps, but in the darkness any light is bright. Ivona is gone, old friend, and I am worried for her safety.”
“She is safe with Willard: in the rebel city by now.”
“Who is this Willard? Has my daughter run of
f with some strange man? Now I begin to understand her refusal to marry the prince who saved my life.”
“No, my lord,” the brown Fardy said, “For Willard is the prince who saved your life.”
“And not only that,” his black brother added, “But he is no mere prince, but a king.”
“And not only that,” his blond brother added, “But he is the King of Atilta.”
“My daughter and the true king! This is better for my advancement than I had expected.”
“They are merely companions,” hesitated the Admiral, “On the quest of freeing Lorenzo from the dungeons; not companions on the quest of love.”
“She ran away because she did not want to marry him,” said Meredith, “But there is certainly no shame in serving the Lord.”
“No, but there is waste and stupidity. Lorenzo said it is her fate to marry the prince – or rather, the king – whether or not she felt love at first. If she avoids the arranged marriage now, she will yet marry him for her own desire. I am no fool, gentlemen, but I wager this will indeed take place.”
Milada grew excited as he spoke of these things. It was not wholly from his self-love, nor from his love of Ivona. Rather, it was a mixture of the two, with the hope that their ends were the same. But this excitement was in his mind and not his body. He was wounded beyond the cure of medicine, and even as he finished speaking his face grew pale. He leaned his head back and fell into a deep sleep. Seeing this, the doctor and the others left the room to hold a counsel while some of the women of the castle entered to nurse their beloved nobleman.
They went to the second floor of the castle, and gathered in a circle on the far side of the room. At first there was silence as they watched the activity outside. The townsmen had risen up when the alarm was heard, and a heavy guard was put up all around the castle. None of the remaining guards were traitors, but even so, enough guards were stationed that if one had treason on his mind, he could not have acted upon it. The villagers loved Milada and hated his enemies; in this dwelt his strength – domestic security: also Gylain’s only weakness.
The Forgotten King Page 18
