Jonathan Dunn - The Forgotten King

“The eyes of the jaguar are not seen before he strikes,” and he leapt upon Lionel with a sudden flash of vigor. The youth jerked back and slid to the ground, almost covered by the water. De Casanova stood over him, pressing his sword against the other’s chest.

“Now, it is finished,” de Casanova laughed.

Silence covered Lionel, his courage a memory. Then he, himself, was nothing more. De Casanova ran him through. His corpse was buried by the flood. Then, taken up by the water’s strong current, it floated away. As de Casanova watched him disappear, a messenger came from the front.

“The rebels have fallen back,” he said. “We have taken the field.”

Chapter 90

The fleet began to disembark the siege equipment, placing them upon flatboats and rafts to be floated to the castle. The current carried them, as that was where it naturally deposited its cargo. Lyndon watched over the process from his command deck: the water had risen high enough for The Barber to come in close. De Casanova came to bring him a report of the battle.

“It is done,” he said, “We have driven them back to the castle. It cannot be long now.”

“Very good; if this rain continues, we will not have much time.”

“The flood begins. But we are islanders and it has happened before.”

“Have you seen Lionel?” the king asked abruptly, “I thought I saw him passing by.”

“I have.”

“And? He is my son, though sons are the curse of the throne. Most are weak and arrogant, a double fault line that cracks the sanity; and humility to the weak is as arrogance to the strong. But Lionel was neither weak nor arrogant and therein lies his fault. Tell me, what of him? Did he fight with honor?”

“Yes, and with skill.”

“He can be redeemed to his heritage, yet. It is a shame he endangers himself.”

“I doubt there is danger where he has gone.”

The king turned aside his eyes and lowered their curtains. “And where has he gone?”

“That is not for men to know; I killed him.”

“There was no other way?”

“None that would not dishonor him. He fought for the honor of his sister, and he was defeated.”

“Strength over weakness,” Lyndon sighed. “My daughter sells her beauty to a peasant, and her brother his life for her honor. A pitiful thing, is pride in honor; yet without it, what would become of us? Our pride, our honor – it is the ale of the elite, driving us to madness, fueling our mispronounced sin; but without it we would be damned outright.” Pause. “But let us throw philosophy to the wind, de Casanova. How is the siege?”

“The castle is garrisoned with several thousand men; how much supplies we cannot tell. The town is gone, so there is nothing in the area to cover ourselves with. Above all, our supplies will not last a siege. We cannot resupply while the sea rages.”

“Why did they not resupply in Eden? With two hundred ships the room can be found.”

“We would have, to be sure, if Lionel had not seduced our wrath before we could load what had already been set aside.”

“The young fool! Still, I am glad because of it: he had my cunning,” and Lyndon laughed, turning his head upwards until the rain disguised his weeping. He was a man of power, for good or ill.

A man approached the bow, Lyndon’s private deck. He was a scout, sent out by Lyndon.

“I have news, my lord.”

“Speak.”

“A small regiment is encamped to the south, three thousand strong. They seemed alive, but slept so soundly I could not rouse them.”

“Sleeping, through battle and storm? These Atiltians are stout men,” de Casanova laughed. “And you as well; I, at least, would not rouse an enemy host when I was alone.”

“They were not enemies but Gylain’s infantry, those he sent through the forest.”

“Then his men do not have his fire,” de Casanova returned, “For he has not closed his eyes these last four days, nor so much as blinked. If he is undead, they are unalive.”

“Return to them until they wake,” Lyndon interrupted. “We will continue the siege without them and without their leader,” he glanced to the forest. “Gylain has trained his army well enough that they can fight alone. I did not even expect those sleeping soldiers to remain among the living. As for Gylain, it is neither among armies nor rebels that he seeks battle.”

“Nor is it among men; for he fights strength and there is only one stronger than he. Begone,” and de Casanova nodded his head to the scout, who turned and fled the scene.

Meanwhile, Gylain, Montague, and the eight remaining soldiers traveled through the forest at a morbid pace. The canopy stopped the rain but not the water and the ground was the earth’s tear. Where it came down, the water rushed as if it fell off the world. The cloudy air swirled with the sound of falling water. Below, the grass glowed with phosphorous plants, refugees of the angry sea. It was one o’clock and it was midnight, lingering like a jelly fish dream. It was the forest and it was the sea. It was the deluge.

“William’s blood gives scent to the forest,” fell from Gylain’s lips.

“I smell only death, and it strongly,” Montague returned.

“We near the southern rim of the plain, through which the land force must have passed. And they cannot have done so without a large casualty.”

“So I thought, but it is better to know from your mouth than my head.”

“In this troublesome life, Montague, you offer me what little comfort can be found.” He paused, then, stopping, “Wait! Do you hear those splashes?”

“Yes,” and they turned their heads toward the approaching footsteps.

“Prepare for action,” Jonathan Montague turned to the Elite Guards and drew his own sword.

They formed themselves into a line and prepared to meet whatever force was coming. But as they did, another set of footsteps broke through the heavy air, coming from behind them.

“At last!” Gylain cried as he saw who came, “At last, and for the end!”

Some time before this, on a platform off the southern side of the plain, Oren Lorenzo sat with six rebel rangers. They huddled around a fire contained within a bronze pit that was built into the platform and covered by a canopy of cloth as well as one of leaves. The other rangers had migrated through the Treeway on various missions.

“We’d best be going. The war will not await our arrival, though victory may,” Lorenzo said, but his voice had no conviction.

Still, they answered, “We follow your lead, sir.”

“Very well; and since I am no ranger, I will lead on the ground. We will scout the edge of the forest, to spy any ambush meant for our comrades.”

The canopy dwelling rangers were born into an aviary. To descend their rope ladders they simply grabbed ahold with their gloved hands and slid down. Lorenzo, however, climbed slowly; for five minutes he was alone in the air, battling the swinging rope with a swinging pulse. Below, the waters had come. Its rivers flowed to the castle. The bodies of the dead were carried along, pushed about like fallen leaves.

“I am glad the rebellion comes to an end,” Lorenzo said as they left the battlefield behind, “It will be decided in the present fight – for freedom or against – and perhaps it would be better were we enslaved than slain for freedom. The dead have no freedom.”

“I have lost my father, my brothers, my sons,” a ranger replied. “Years ago I fought for the women and children; but now the women are widows and the children soldiers. If this is liberty, it does not feel such a glorious thing.”

“Liberty!” another ranger, with a missing eye, laughed. “You cannot get liberty by fighting others, for we are first enslaved to pride, whether our own or that of our king. If we must be beaten, let us be beaten; but I will not beat another for the privilege of beating myself.”