The Forgotten King

by Jonathan Dunn

  “Will we begin?” he asked, and began driving it slowly and firmly through the soldier’s armor and into his flesh. The soldier’s face was a nightmare, but Montague only derided his death and sent his sword to the man’s heart. The blade came just within the organ of life and the soldier passed from life like a dreamy, lingering spirit. His body sunk to the floor, laying face up before the door.

  Montague looked at the corpse for a moment, his face playing with some foul thought. Then, with the tip of his sword, he began to peel the skin from the soldier’s face. The other Elite Guards were at first abhorred, but it grew on them like a moral mold that waited in the air for them be infested. One by one each drew his sword and joined Montague in his devilry, mutilating the body of their comrade. They laughed as they did, calling out to him in mockery and their detail was lucid and horrific: some scratched rude claw marks, others hacked downwards to emulate a powerful bite. All at once they stopped and stepped back, seeing that nothing more could be accomplished. The body lay directly beneath the claws of the eagle, its face staring into the eyes of the lion.

  “The only demons within this mountain are those we have brought in with us,” Montague said after a pause, “We are the only evil force here.”

  But as he finished, the dead man’s eyes opened. A gurgling noise came from his throat. His hand began to shake. His lips quivered violently until – at last – a deep moan flied off his tongue, “No!”

  The soldiers fell back, trembling. Even Montague was startled

  “Come,” he said, “Let us go from this place.”

  He stepped forward, straddled the corpse, and pushed hard upon the door. It groaned loudly, then swung back on its hinges and opened the way before them. Beyond was the darkness. Montague could see nothing, but the black took many shapes and filled his mind with strange colors and patterns. It was too devoid of light to be understood. He did not move through it, but stood there as before a wall that could not be passed. His nose pressed against the wall of darkness, and he could feel its cold grip pushing back.

  A moment before, Montague had placed his lantern on the ground, and its covers had unhinged and fallen over the light; the lanterns of the others, meanwhile, were too far behind to pierce the veil before him. Therefore, he reached down and grasped for the lantern’s handle, to light the way. Yet he moved with a slur, his eyes fixed on the darkness before him and his limbs moving slightly of their own accord. A cold, metallic handle struck his fingers and he jumped slightly at its touch, but when his mind came alongside his body, he curled his fingers tightly around it and stood. His arm trembled as it held the lantern before him, on his side of the wall, and for a moment he did not open its shutters. Then – with a surge of passion – his right hand shot upward and grabbed the foremost shudder, yanking it open and sending a single, intense beam of light shattering against the nothing.

  For a brief instant he saw beyond the veil, though the others could see nothing with him standing there. Then Montague screamed and jumped backwards, tripping on the corpse and falling upon its bloodied head as he came down. The lantern fell from his hands and landed on the stone floor with an echoing bang. It bounced once and landed on its side. The light only streamed three feet from the ground: the upper portion of the doorway was left in darkness.

  There – revealed in the lantern’s light – were two thick, scaly, pale red legs. The feet were gnarled and horned, clawed as with swords. Behind, a forked tail wriggled back and forth between the legs as a cobra on the attack.

  Montague could not move, paralyzed with fear; nor did the soldiers breath. The figure hissed a silent laugh, then turned and vanished completely into the darkness. A moment later, Montague reclaimed his feet, his body soaked in the blood of the mutilated soldier. The other soldiers stood behind him, faceless.

  In a weak whisper, “Come, men, we must move on.”

  They did not answer.

  In a louder voice, “Come, men, we cannot rest here.”

  Still, they were silent.

  In a bitter command, “Come, men, we have seen what many men have not. But to fear is to acknowledge God.”

  They remained still and he laughed bitterly, a furious reaction to the fear he had allowed himself to entertain. But he was Nicholas Montague, he remembered, and he did not fear damnation.

  “We came for the blood of God,” he smiled, “But I will not leave without the blood of Satan as well!”

  With that, he plunged into the darkness and was gone.

  Chapter 67

  “What the devil has happened to him?” cried de Garcia, his unruly hair thrown back in disgust. “I have heard the legends of the evil of this place, but I did not believe it.”

  “Nor I,” Leggitt answered, “But his companions continued onward.”

  “And so must we,” Patrick added, “So come, time flees and we must pursue.”

  He walked forward, through the open doorway before them, but Willard held him back. “Time does not exist within this place, be it tower, temple, or mountain. The things we will encounter are not governed by mere time.”

  Beyond the doorway, the hall continued forward, though it began to curve along a circular path as it wound up the mountain. The sub-human figures of the mural gave way to ape men, their clothing torn and their surroundings dismal. No windows or doors appeared on either wall, and no outside light came into the tunnel, not even the faint light of the moon. They were arranged in a military pattern, suggested by Leggitt and seconded by de Garcia: Willard – with his plate armor – went first, with Horatio at his side; de Garcia took the center – between Lydia and Ivona – where he could assist whichever side was assailed; and Patrick and Leggitt brought up the rear. Since the walls were unknown, they were to form into a circle should they be ambushed.

  After they had walked another fifteen minutes, they came to an open, cavernous hall – or, at least, a room that seemed open, for they could not see. They stopped along a corner of the room, where part of it turned inward at a sharp angle. They made a temporary camp to rest themselves. The lanterns were spread out three feet in front of them – so they could see anyone who came toward them – and the packs were set around them. Horatio and Patrick stood on watch, though the others were no less vigilant. De Garcia sat beside Leggitt, and Lydia rested alone in the corner. Willard and Ivona were left alone in the center. Their conversation is as follows:

  “You are silent, Ivona.”

  “Should I be loud?” she smiled slightly, “This is not a place to be exuberant.”

  “No, but the last we truly spoke was on the ship. Your beloved father is near death, perhaps, but you are wiser than to think your depressed mood will bring him healing.”

  “Am I? For I have entertained that very thought twice since the sun went home.”

  “Still, you have rejected it. Why are you silent?”

  “Do not pretend ignorance, for it does not suit a king so well as it does a humble man. I fear God will not find me worthy. We have come to retrieve his blood as a healing for my father, and as his daughter it is by my merits that the blessing will be given or withheld. If my desires are pure, my father will be saved; but if they are sinful,” she turned her head and was silent.

  Willard touched her shoulder to comfort her. “If any is worthy, it is you.”

  “You know my action, but not my heart. I have fallen, shown my weakness for the things of man. How can I ask God to give himself to me when I will not give myself in return? I cannot give my heart to any man, since it is not my own to give.”

  “Without love, even faith is meaningless. For love is not a sin but a requirement.”

  “Yet I am called for another purpose, and for me the love of man is sin, because it overpowers the love of God.”

  “And what of he who loves you, is it sin for him as well?”

  Ivona turned her face. “I am set apart, not to be sought after by men.”

  “How can you utter such blasphemies? Does your God rejoice in the suffering you
inflict on yourself? Does he rejoice in the flagellations of body, as well as of spirit? If that is your God, forsake him; for his punishment and his promise are the same. As for me, I have lived apart from men all the days of my life; and apart from men, there is no God.”

  “But still you are here. Have you come only for me, to aid me in my weakness, as you think it?”

  “I have, as well as to pursue Montague and solicit the French.”

  “Then you have not come for God, but for hegemony: in politics and in my heart. And yet you know that though I want to love you, I cannot. I will do only as God wills and he has redeemed me for chastity.”

  “And if you suffer for God, he will heal your father?”

  “You are a fool! I do not suffer forGod, but for you. I choose to follow him because I desire him more than I desire you. You are an arrogant fool, if you think I suffer because I do not chase after you. You are not my God.”

  Willard opened his mouth but was interrupted by Patrick, who whispered, “Look! There are lights shining through the darkness and muffled voices with them,” and he pointed into the darkness.

  There, barely visible to them, were six dim spots of light.

  “Put out the lanterns,” Willard said, and rushed forward to douse the one nearest him. They were themselves doused in darkness. “The other lights have faded,” Willard said after a moment, “And we have been seen.”

  They armed themselves and prepared to be attacked. In the distance a low growling could be heard, as well as hissing and gnashing of teeth. The rebels drew near together, swords bared and pointed at the darkness that bound them.

  “Ready yourselves,” Willard whispered faintly. “There are footsteps approaching!”

  Chapter 68

  “Onward, cowards!” Nicholas Montague called back through the stone doorway to his men, who were not following him. “He escapes us!”

  To an ordinary man, those words would not have been disappointing. But they were soldiers and, when their initial surprise was thrown away, their impermeable consciences returned. So they drew their swords and ran after Montague. Before them the passage was narrowing as it curved. They went single file. Each stood guard against his own fears, though in the passion of the chase their fear canceled out their cowardice. To live, one must fight; and to fight, one must not fear. So they did not.

  Montague drove them forward at a wicked pace and several minutes later the hall opened into a spacious chamber. In the darkness it was not possible to see its dimensions, but a wind echoed past and the chill of night could be felt. Their lanterns had illuminated the walls, while in the hallway; but in the chamber there was nothing by which to judge distance or direction. After traveling haphazardly for a moment, Montague stopped abruptly.

  “It is foolish to continue in this fashion,” he said. “For now, we will go our separate ways, since we search for separate ends.”

  “As you wish, sir,” the soldiers bowed, though they feared wandering alone amidst the chamber.

  Montague did not answer, but was gone before he heard their reply. To find the Holy Graal, he needed the company of soldiers; but what he sought was far from holy and the only blood it held was perhaps his own. He charged into the darkness without a lantern, his path lit only by his passion to destroy what had caused him to fear.

  “I was weak,” he growled to himself, “But now I will overcome this thing and earn reprieve for my faltering spirit. Blood will cleanse me, whether his or my own!”

  The darkness parted in front of him and in the mysterious light a figure could be seen, standing motionless before him. Its tree-limb legs were gnarled and scaled, identical to those seen before. Yet its body was a man’s, though misshapen and deformed. Its head was giant and plastered with plates of skin, its mouth with fangs, its neck wrapped in serpents. Its chest, open to the air, was gilled and crimped.

  “You have come,” it said, its voice a falling tree, though spoken in the tongues of man.

  The two creatures circled each other for a moment, their eyes fixed and unmoving. The one was human in form, the other was not. Neither were human in heart.

  “Sin is a lonely bedfellow,” Montague paused, “Or should I make hate to you as you have done to so many of my comrades?”

  “Have I, indeed? You flatter me. Still, you have a spirit to be admired, and even I do not know many with your piety. I will rejoice when you are adopted into my hellish harem. There are many who pursue my works, yet none who pursue my person. You prove the exception; so I ask, knowing the answer: why have you come?”

  “Is it wrong for a man to know his father?”

  The creature laughed. “Nothing is wrong, for some; and for others, nothing is right.”

  “But what father – when his son asks for a fish – would give him a snake?” Montague asked.

  “I would give him only an apple from my tree.”

  “Would he be the apple of your eye?”

  “Do I love myself? Then neither can I love you. That is not my way, for I am the contrast,” the creature hissed.

  “I know one who patterns you – weak and foolish, lorded over by feudal fate. You are the rebel of the heavens. But if you do not besiege the tyrant, others will replace you. If you do not overthrow him , Gylain will raise a tower as well as a siege. Contrast! What folly is this?”

  “Folly? It is us!” the thing cried.

  “Speak, wyvern-tongue.”

  “He cannot exist without us, nor would he be righteous if we were not evil.”

  “Then defeat him!” Montague cried in a passion, “Remove the oppression which declares him righteous because of his all-consuming power. You failed before, perhaps, but the mortals will join your side. All creation will arise and overturn the one who corrupts.”

  The creature turned its head and showed its teeth in desperation. “Would you know? Can a mortal have knowledge of the immortal, or the finite of the infinite? Proportion and contrast! Without darkness, light cannot be known; without black, white cannot be understood. If you would destroy him, you must first remove the contrast through which he presents himself. You cannot destroy the good but by destroying the evil that defines it.”

  “To hell with contrast; to hell with you, suckling!”

  “Yes!” the creature hissed in despair, “That is our fate! But have you come to speak, or to die, mortal.”

  “Neither.”

  “By damnation’s ghost!”

  Montague bared his sword and lunged at the creature, but it disappeared into the darkness, vanishing into nothing.

  “We will meet again,” Montague whispered, “And I will not regret the day I die.”

  With that, he returned to the soldiers he had left behind. They remained together, unwilling to part in the desolate, earthen Hades. Instead, they sat in a circle, facing outwards with their lanterns in one hand and their swords in the other. Montague had been gone for an hour.

  “I am back,” he said as he come up to them, “What have you seen, that you are so terrified?”

  “We have seen nothing, but a multitude of footsteps passed around us for several minutes, then suddenly stopped and silence fell down once more. We ventured out to look and found gnarled footsteps in the dust of the floor, covering our own. What is more, we found a stone tablet lying on the floor – there are esoteric figures upon it, though we cannot read them,” and the soldier handed him a smooth, rectangular stone.

  On one side there were hieroglyphic letters – not symbols, but actual letters written in complicated picture forms. For a moment, Montague was silent and his face knotted. He was a student of ancient languages and this was a script older than all others, from which the lesser alphabets had descended. So, combining the aspects of several scripts, he was able to read the tablet. He read aloud:

  In the name of Uranos, by whom the trident of the nations will be sunk to the nether lands of Hades. The Pillars of Heracles has been sunk, and with it the gods of men. The Garden of Hesperides has been sunk, and with it the
men of gods. Soon, the third and final remnant of the ancient world will be destroyed. Just as Eden was overrun by evil and sank, so will it be. Just as Atlantis was conquered by the Titans and sank, so will it become. The trident of the nations will pierce Hades.

  Montague looked up from the tablet with a light in his eyes: the light of revelation.

  “We must return at once!” he said, “For Gylain must hear of this. Perhaps his forebodings were not as unjustified as I feared. The three lands of paradise, corrupted and destroyed! He must know,” and Montague trembled.

  “Look, my lord, over there!” a soldier cut his thoughts in two, “There are lights, as if lanterns.”

  Montague smiled. “Put out the lanterns!” and they were plunged into darkness. “We have been seen,” he said after a moment, “For the other lanterns have faded as well. Arm yourselves, for they come!”

  But he did not finish, for his voice was overrun by the sound of approaching footsteps.

  Chapter 69

  “How are there so many footsteps?” de Garcia whispered. “Does Montague have an entire army behind him? This cannot bode well for us.”

  “To the contrary,” Patrick said with a stolid lip, “For if it is an army, it is not his. Whoever they serve, they are as contrary to Montague as to us and therefore must be used to our advantage. Let us hide ourselves.”

  “Very well,” Willard said, “But prepare for action nonetheless – we may be enemies of Montague in Atilta, but in France we are countrymen.”

  “A noble sentiment,” Patrick said, “But Atilta is more than the men who inhabit it; it was before, and it will be after. Besides, do common hardships erase a wicked past? No, I say, and geography does not make evil into goodness.”

  “Leggitt and de Garcia stand here together,” Willard answered. “If they, why not another?”

  “Yet Montague is no man,” Leggitt whispered, hardly concealing the feeling with which he spoke, “No man, but a bloody devil!”

  “I am no different, for I have more than one man’s blood to my account,” de Garcia paused and looked to Ivona. “And a woman’s as well.”