Jonathan Dunn - The Forgotten King

“You retreat to the sky,” the Hibernian called through the wind as he gained the upper yard arm. “Yet now that we have reached it, you can retreat only to the ground.”

“I do not mean to retreat until I have avenged my love.”

“Love! You are as much a fool as ever: I did what I did as a favor. You are a warrior and warriors are corrupted by a woman’s fondle. I have fallen to the same trap and only her loss makes me more a man. As for Tarina, her death made you angry, and your anger won the battle.”

“Some battles are better lost.”

“Perhaps you are no more a warrior! To lose is weakness, and that death.”

“Then die, fiend. Look about you, de Casanova. What have you gained?”

“Your hatred, friend of before, and God’s way is as good as my own. You have gained nothing more.”

De Garcia channeled his fury into a side stroke, which the other caught with an angled blade: it skipped off and flew over his head. With his enemy left undefended, de Casanova thrust his blade into his side. The other clutched it with his hand, dropping his sword and falling onto his stomach. He laid on the yard arm and de Casanova stood over him.

“Your weakness is defended. I am proved right. From dust you came, to the bottom of the sea you will go,” and he kicked his foot forward to push de Garcia to his death.

But things did not go as he intended. De Garcia had taken a knife from his sleeve as de Casanova spoke and held it as if he held his wound. When de Casanova’s foot came forward, de Garcia stabbed it through.De Casanova reared back. The knife had severed the nerves in his foot. De Casanova could not hold it against the yard arm, leaving his weight upon his left leg. But that had been wounded by Alfonzo’s arrow and now gave way as well. He tottered and tried to swim through the rain with wild arms. He could not, falling from the yard arm. Four seconds later, his screams were extinguished by a hollow thud. De Garcia leaned slowly over the yard arm and peered through the darkness. De Casanova was dead upon the deck.

“So it comes to an end. Rest in peace, my love,” and de Garcia climbed down to the deck.

Elsewhere, the fight had gone to the French. The Hibernian and Atiltian fleets were caught unaware, with their men deployed or unprepared. Lyndon stood on his command deck, now in the company of the Kings of Atilta and France, as well as Patrick and Leggitt. The others remained aboard the French flagship during the battle and were just boarding the far end of The Barber .

“You are taken,” Willard said, parrying Lyndon’s quick glance to a sword laying on the table. “You are taken; but unless you resist, your life will not be.”

“It is not the taking of my own life that ruins me,” the king mumbled.

Willard ignored him, “We offer these terms of surrender: your family retains Hibernia, in the person of Lydia. Saxony and England are taken from Cybele and given to the rebel leader, Patrick McConnell. And, first, you must remove your fleet from Atilta.”

Lyndon looked about him, “There is little Atilta left to retreat from.”

“Even so, you must withdraw what fleet we will leave you. Those we keep are lost to you.”

“I have lost too much already.”

He stepped toward the railing of the ship.

“Lionel,” he moaned in a whisper. “Lionel, where are you hiding?”

He convulsed slightly, in pain. “My God, is this how you torment me? I hear your voice even now, ‘Have I not given my own son?’ But you are a fool to do it! A fool! What cruel being would sacrifice his own son? Not I – not I! I will save him, wretched Jehovah, I will save him by my own strength,” and Lyndon spun around, deranged and staring into the sky. “He is mine, I say, and you cannot have him!”

He laughed wildly and jumped over the railing, falling fifty feet into the churning seas. He landed feet first and he sank like an anchor, then came sputtering up in confusion. His face was a nightmare, his nightmare a face: Lionel’s. He could not swim, and as his arms beat the waves, he wildly searched for something to hold onto, something to keep himself afloat. Yet all that floated were the corpses of the dead. He sank, yelping, desperate, mad.

“You will not vanquish, child-killer!” he shouted to the sky, and he reached out to the nearest body, grabbing ahold to save himself.

His weight pulled down the dead man’s side, then it rolled over and its face was exposed to the sky. Lyndon bobbed beneath the water, panicking, and grabbed wildly at the body. His slender fingers grabbed its chest. He pulled himself from the water. But the corpse rolled again, face to face with Lyndon as he grabbed its chest. His face was eaten by the pall of death. Silence, and he gasped for air. He struggled, vainly, then began to sink beneath the waves. As he went, a word escaped his lips, “Lionel!” Then it was doused by the water. He was seen no more.

Silence ruled the ship, until broken by Patrick. “Sailors, take Lionel’s body aboard. We will bury it with honors in Hibernia,” and they retrieved it.

“There is more that will be buried than him,” Vahan Lee came to the bridge, “For if we delay any longer, the castle will be lost.”

The others turned to the south, where the castle was almost entirely submerged. Both the inner and outer walls and the first floor of the castle were underwater. A great crowd of people clung to the towers and upper stories and even more floated on makeshift rafts nearby.

“Set course for the castle!” and Captain Koon filled the air with his unsettling laughter. How he came to be aboard, none could tell. But somehow he made himself Admiral of the fleet, and, as he ordered, the others followed.

TheBarber was not foremost in the fleet, for the other ships had surrendered and been taken by the French. With Willard, the King of Atilta, aboard, the sailors cheered as they made way for them to pass through. ‘Hail Willard Plantagenet,’ the men roared, ‘Rightful King of Atilta.’ Willard stood on the bow as they went, his figure that of a king. His limbs were Atiltian trees, girded with the golden armor of a king. His hair had surrendered to civilization and his beard no longer obscured his beautiful face. His countenance was tempered steel, his eyes inured to emotion. He was once a wild man; he was now a king. He was a king by birth, by strength, by merit. Above all, he was a king in the hearts of men.

Ivona stood beside him, but her eyes were not his. She had passed the test of lust and was left to God alone. Horatio took his other side, standing freely as a bear. Patrick stood behind. He was still a youth, but his passion was doused and only desire remained. Beside him, Lydia shared his arm. And she was beautiful.

Vahan Lee and the King of France sat underneath the canvas shelter. The king watched Willard’s homecoming with a leaking eye, but Vahan busied himself with several pieces of paper. He was careful lest anything won by battle be lost by diplomacy and he crafted treaties before the armies had even dispersed.

De Garcia and Leggitt stood uneasy at the victory which they had finally won. De Garcia was bandaged already and his wound found to be harmless. They were men of war. When the war was finished they had little left. Their lives had been consumed in the conflict of the age, the great power struggle of the Dark Ages, and when it was complete, they were men without a country. For they were citizens of war.

The foremost ships reached the castle. In the rising water they could come alongside the highest towers. Everything else had been consumed by the tide. The survivors were taken aboard, almost twenty thousand men. As each ship was filled, it turned to the open sea while another took its place loading the survivors. The Barber was the last to come. By then only the central tower remained aloft. All had been evacuated but the last handful.