The Forgotten King

by Jonathan Dunn

  “Faith, faith, the churchman’s wraith! I will not have it, when more than my own life is gambled,” he glanced at Lydia.

  “They are not a brutish mob, as you say, according to what I have read. They are the Titans.”

  “The Titans,” Willard repeated, and his blood shivered at the name. And it was the blood of the throne that filled his veins.

  “The sons of Caan, the bastards of Uranos, the ransackers of Hesperides.”

  And Willard trembled.

  “The trident of the seas, the flaming sword of the garden.”

  And Willard’s face became a waterfall.

  “The destroyers of Olympus, the assassins of the Grecian gods.”

  And Willard drew his sword and plunged it into the heavy air about their heads, partially cloud and partially sky. “I will destroy them,” and he rushed toward the the stairway.

  “They draw near!” de Garcia interrupted, “I can feel their flaming breath upon my ears!”

  Willard started down the stairs in a fit of madness, impelled by unknown remembrances of the ancients. But Leggitt stopped him, coming forward and grabbing his arm, forcing him back into the room.

  “Be patient, your majesty,” he entreated. “For this is merely a matter of tactics: we cannot defeat them in combat, though they can defeat us. At the same time, they cannot destroy Atilta, for they have not the power of their ancestors; they cannot destroy Atilta unless we force them to destroy us. Therefore, we must do as Ivona says: yield and do not provoke them.” He paused. “If they were the judges of the past, their role in the realms of man is no more. We need not fear them.”

  “You may not fear them,” de Garcia returned, his head protruding into the stairway, “But I cannot help it, for here they come!”

  Willard looked to Ivona for a brief instant, then, “Disarm yourselves and move to the corners. I will meet them alone and in peace.”

  Because the stair’s opening stood in the center of the wall, those in the corners were hidden by the angle. Willard struck himself to the floor, his golden armor flashing in the morning sun and his regal face unmoving. It was a mountain in itself. He did not have to wait long. The air danced in confusion and the various noises of the approaching Titans converged into a single, overpowering din. One moment the stair was empty, the next a man appeared. He was rotund, covered with venerably white hair and beard, and a cornered nose that came out straight and went back at an angle. He danced joyously with his arms – as if in an ancient tribal ritual – and let his feet fly from the stairs at every step. It was not until he crossed the threshold of the room that he saw Willard. He stopped, looked over his stalwart form, and smiled.

  “You remain with us, friend?” he asked. “Since I see that you do: greetings. I am Zeus Agmannon, king-over-the-mountain.”

  Willard returned, “And I am Willard, King of Atilta.”

  “Truly? And so it is you I have to thank for this.”

  “For what?”

  “Opening the passageway to the stairs. For weeks we have been unable to open it, as if it were bound by a force outside of what can be seen. Yet it opened for you, and now we rejoice!”

  “Why so?”

  “Why so!” the old man laughed, “This is the wine cellar!” He smiled boyishly and raised his hand to guard his lips before continuing, “With a superb view.” He winked at Willard.

  “Where is the wine?” he asked.

  “Under the floor! You no doubt noticed that the stairway’s circumference is greater than the room’s; there is a narrow chamber below, within the stairway’s spiral. The wine is kept there, but we must first come up to get it – lest we take too much!” and he looked out the window at the growing dawn, breathing deeply. He turned back to Willard. “You were with those others, were you not? The tall, dark man with his hair combed backward?”

  “I was.”

  “And you rescued him from our guards?”

  “I did.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “He is a citizen of my kingdom, so I must protect him from foreign elements. It is my duty.”

  “True enough, but where has he gone? His men left us in peace, but he disappeared.”

  “He fled from me – we are enemies at home.”

  “Your duty is strong!” Zeus Agmannon turned his head and caught Ivona with his eyes. He twirled around and ran to her, kneeling at her feet and saying, “Beauty personified! What joy to my eyes. You have a pleasant air, lady. And you!” he turned to Lydia, “You are equally fair. May I ask you to join me for a drink and for breakfast?” He saw their hesitation and laughed, “Only the guards wear goblin helmets: for the outsiders’ sake. We have been given a refuge for our deeds and we mean to keep it, though without violence.”

  “I would gladly drink with you, but I must beg leave to take only water,” Ivona said in a stately, graceful manner.

  “Granted, granted!” Zeus cried in joy, and he ran about the room with his arms above his head. Then he stopped and knelt to the ground, opening a trap door that was hidden in the floor. “I will only be a moment,” he said, and disappeared beneath the floor. In a minute he was back, with a basket of bottles and cups in one hand and a basket of victuals in the other. “Behold!” he said, “The Holy Graal !”

  The others winked at one another, joining Zeus and the Titans in a circle on the floor, where they partook of their morning repast.

  “I can smell your hurry,” the king-over-the-mountain smiled, “But let me assure you that no one can travel in the forest until the sun rises and it will not pass the canopy for another hour.”

  “Quite so,” Willard said.

  “Ah-ha, a forest man? I love you already!”

  The rest of the hour was spent in resting and feasting, lavishly entertained by their former enemies. Zeus Agmannon, if he was anything, was a gracious host; and their journey was not so vain as they had feared.

  Chapter 72

  For the beauty of contrast, there was never a more wondrous place than the coastal forests of Atilta. On the one side a citadel of nature, a great forest cut like rock against the sky; on the other the cup of the gods, overflowing with the biting ocean waters. On the one side stood trees mighty and majestic, their canopies outstretched in a communal celebration; on the other side water, a plasmid plain reflecting the trees and bringing out their true nature in the distortion. On one side were wooden towers, crisp and real; on the other their phantoms wavered this way and rippled that.

  In this whirlwind of contrast lived a small rowboat, carved from a single log and floating in the shaded waters. It was late afternoon and the air hung lazily over the sea. A man sat in the boat, newly fifty with his hair still colored brown, though the center of his head had long ago gone nude. His nose was short and stout – much as his person – and his eyebrows were weeping willows that shaded his hardwood eyes.

  “Those Fardy brothers!” he said to himself, “Let them confess to me later, and I will give them rosaries enough to test their patience. ‘We will be back,’ they says, ‘And you will not have missed us at all!’ Mortal pride of self, it must be, for I do not miss them more than the Lenten feasts.” He paused and, sighing, “Still, I wish they were here.”

  He sat up and collected his limbs on the bench that occupied the stern of the boat, looking into the trees. There, hidden among the thick foliage, was a platform attached to the highest branches of the canopy. None but the sharpest eyes could have spied it, and those only if they cared to study the scene for several minutes. Atiltian trees were not deciduous and in the winter the platform was as invisible as in the height of summer. A man stood on the edge of the Treeway and waved his arms at Erwin Meredith.

  “Why do you disturb my prayers, Koon?” and he drew himself up as if returning wearily to the land of mere mortals. “Wait, do not answer from there, but come down instead. I need a moment to wipe the blood from my face before I can grant you my attention.” He knelt and splashed water onto his face. In a moment the man reappeared,
but on the ground. He was young, no more than thirty, and had a theological beard. His face was handsome. Though his beard and baldness gave him the airs of a wise old man, his bearing gave him the breeze of youth. He was disarming and unarmed, but for his rapier eyes and his hurricane laugh.

  “What is it now, Koon?”

  “Ships, sir, from the northeast.”

  Meredith lowered himself to conceal his interest. “Of what kind?”

  “Timbers.”

  “Timbers? A chaotic time for a cruise,” and Meredith looked at him closely. “Koon, your beard remains, though I ordered all officers below captain be clean-shaven, for discipline. I favor you, perhaps, but I will still be obeyed.”

  “Sir, it is against my conscience.”

  “How so?”

  “The spiritual ratio, sir!”

  “Good God, are you Gylain now?”

  “Not at all, but I have been studying as you commanded, and have seen that nature represents God in the ratio of its purity to its unblemished natural face. So I, too, must have a natural face. If I were to shave, I would be removing the ratio that connects nature to its creator.”

  “In matters of theology, the atheist’s razor is as much to be feared as the pedant’s beard,” Meredith sighed.

  Koon’s rapier eyes gave a quick riposte, “But better a hairy face than a bloody one,” and his hoarse laugh sent the air into a whirlwind.

  Meredith leaned back in his boat and shook his droopy eyebrows. “Very well, then, there can be only one solution.” He paused, “Captain Koon, you will captain my ship – which I, as the commodore, should not command directly.”

  “Thank you, Commodore,” the genius Koon bowed lowly, “Now, the Timbers.”

  “Ready the men for action and beat to quarters; but do not reveal the fleet unless you are seen first.”

  Meredith took to the oars and rowed to shore. There was an impermeable shield of trees along the coast, with no sign of any openings. Yet he rowed toward them without slowing. Then, the instant it seemed he would run against the shore, he passed through the trees and found himself inside a wide channel. It opened on either side, a valley between the mountains, and ran into the forest two hundred yards; then it turned and emptied into a small harbor nestled into the trees. The trees themselves had not been cut down, but the water was raised above their trunks and the ships were moored to their upper branches. The Treeway that led to the harbor jutted out once there, forming docks for the cleverly concealed ships.

  The partisan monk rowed along the channel, flanked on either side by sentinel trees, in which stood unseen rebel look-outs. The Treeway also extended along either side of the channel and was busy with those repairing the ships, a task just then being completed. As Meredith’s boat swung around into the harbor, he came face-to-face with a triple-masted galleon. A wide loch was filled beneath the forest, and in it was the rebel fleet: seven magnificent vessels, made from the best materials and by the best craftsmen in the maritime capital of the world, Atilta. Their backbones were of Atiltian wood, their rigging of its fibers, and their sails of dandelus – a flower with a seed similar to cotton, though many times stronger and lighter. It was found only in the depths of the Atiltian forest. Several days of relentless work had returned the fleet to perfect condition. It now needed only the Admiral’s sailors to complete its crews.

  “Heave away there, old timer!” cried a man from the deck of The King’s Arm. Meredith looked up and saw Captain Koon, shooing him away. “You are headed to friends, perhaps, but to the wrong ones. Turn back at once, for you are rowing in the wrong direction!”

  “Indeed, and you are rowing me wrongly, as well. You called me here a moment ago, so cut to the hunt and slice your rigmarole like so much buttered venison.”

  “Venison, venison, venison – first a meal and then a sun!” cried a wanton sailor.

  “Fool!” Meredith was angry, feigned or not, “It is impolite to keep a man in suspense, even if he is of holy persuasion.”

  “They have returned, sir!” Koon tossed his lips aside and a rolling, unending laugh strolled from his tongue.

  “Who?”

  “The Fardy brothers!” and Koon’s laugh continued.

  Meredith dropped the oars.

  “And with them, their Marins!” and he still laughed in pleasure.

  Meredith crossed himself feverishly, grabbed the oars, and spun the boat around like a Floatings merchant. His arms rampaged, the little boat shot forward, the trees on either side running beside him. In a moment, he reached the end of the channel.

  “Oh, my devil!” he cried, piously refraining from blasphemy, “Oh, my devil – Beelzebub, Baal, and all princes and powers of the air! What the heaven is this?”

  Unsatisfied with merely reaching the shoreline, he pushed the boat forward at a tremendous speed. He was a man of the forest before a man of the water, and began to kick his heels into the floor as if he were riding a horse.

  “Faster, girl, faster!” he cried, and his feet pounded the floor with an unconscious fury.

  He sped like lightning that fearfully flees its own thunder. In another moment he reached the first Timber, behind which a Marin was towed. He passed the first and stopped at the second. As he came against the Marin’s docking platform, his boat was beginning to sink from the holes he had driven into the floor. Water covered the lower portion of the craft. Meredith grabbed his sword and dashed onto the Marin, his eyebrows bobbing around him in pure monastic action. He turned to examine his sinking boat. As he did, the door creaked open behind him. He spun to face it and stretched his arms out to embrace the newcomer, assuming it to be one of his dear friends, the Fardy brothers.

  “I see how seriously monks regard their orders, here in Atilta,” a foggy, feminine voice said, “That they throw open their arms at the first sign of a woman.”

  “My devil, my devil! Oh, my bloody devil!” Meredith cried, and he fell back until he teetered on the edge of the deck.

  There – standing before him with a lion’s face – was Cybele, the queen of Saxony.

  “Treachery!” he cried, looking in horror at the fair lady, whom he knew was not so fair within. Her hair made the clouds gray, and her gray eyes made the misty dawn a desert.

  “Treachery!” he cried, and took a step backwards, forgetting that he already stood on the very precipice of the waters. He stumbled and fell into his boat, which was sinking steadily beneath the waters. Meredith grabbed the oars and began rowing away from the Marin, imbued with the same vigor he had while approaching it. But within ten feet he found himself floating on the oars, as the boat deserted to Neptune.

  “You may have me!” he cried with great determination, “But though you take my life, you cannot take my secrets!”

  “A bottle of Atiltian Scotch will do that easily enough,” a jolly voice called out. “But come, old friend, you are getting wet!”

  Meredith turned and saw the blond Fardy exiting the same passage as Cybele. Behind him were his two brothers.

  “You know us to be patient,” the brown brother called out, “But still, I am eager to know why you should swim, when there is so much to be done?”

  “Indeed,” the blond Fardy added, “And though I do not mean to sink your ship, we must hurry. As for swimming, you can do it within the walls of our Marin.”

  “We must be patient, brothers,” the black Fardy said, squinting his crooked nose and opening wide his oyster eyes as if to display absolute seriousness. “We may be men of action, but Meredith has served well enough to do whatever floats his boat.”

  “He is a great man, without a doubt,” the brown brother added in the tone of a eulogy. “For even when our cause seemed dark and without hope, he never abandoned ship.”

  “Shut up or shove off, there!” Meredith cried, half angry and three-quarters joyful. He paddled with his arms a moment; then, when he reached the Marin’s dock, the Fardy brothers pulled him up. By this time, the current and the Timber had taken them closer to the hid
den harbor.

  “What is this?” Meredith asked as he looked over the queen.

  “A prisoner of war,” the blond Fardy boasted.

  “Ah! But?” Meredith did not finish, though the others knew his meaning.

  “She is here,” the queen said silently, all breath and no voice.

  “Ah! But?” they knew what he meant this time, as well.

  “She came to me and I imprisoned her, as the strong must do to the weak. Then I was made weak by these – men. I am no fool; still, I will not be tamed.”

  “No one blamed, no one tamed.”

  “Spare me! My ears have cavorted with your impious tongue long enough,” and yet she smiled vaguely. If her heart was corrupted by power, she no longer had any. Yet there are worse things for a person than mere authority.

  “Your tone betrays the good which you cannot cover,” Celestine said, coming onto the deck. “Or you do not even wish to cover it?” She placed her hand on her sister’s shoulder.

  Silence, then, “You were not lax in preparing a greeting, Meredith,” the blond Fardy said, pointing to the channel, where the fleet was coming onto the ocean single file.

  “I did not order it,” Meredith said, “And there is barely enough men to sail them. Captain Koon is a presumptuous man.”

  “Yet the sea is calm: men are not so necessary.”

  “Perhaps, but I will still rebuke Koon for moving without my orders. A true navy would not be run in such a manner.”

  “Is it a false navy?” Celestine asked. “And is not a true man worth a dozen veteran sailors?”

  “You rebuke me!” Meredith said. “But look, we will see their purposes soon enough, for they come at a speed which this wind would not seem to sanction. I misjudged their seamanship.”

  They stood in silence, waiting as the grand vessels drew near. The figures on the deck were obscured by the sun and sails and could not be identified. The foremost ship – The King’s Arm – purposely sped past the Timber, then came about in a tight circle and stopped directly alongside the deck.