Jonathan Dunn - The Forgotten King

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 than 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.