Jonathan Dunn - The Forgotten King

Montague turned and gave them an incredulous look.

“What is this?” he cried, “You are defeated, and your followers slain. How can you laugh in this defeat, you fools? The end draws nigh, but not in your companions’ favor.”

“It does draw near, but it is you who has lost, Montague. The days of Gylain the Wicked are numbered short.”

“And how do you know this, Alfonzo?” Montague asked.

“I can hear it in the wind.” This was all Alfonzo would say, and Vahan added nothing more.

With an indignant countenance, his victory confused by his enemy’s rejoicing, Montague turned once more and set off at a double pace.

“To Eden,” he shouted to his men, “To Castle Plantagenet!”

Chapter 16

Meanwhile, there was action in another part of the forest, to the north of the camp in which the rebels had spent the night. Willard, the king of Atilta – though he did not know it – and Horatio, heir to a long line of black bears – the kings of the forest and the guardians of the house of Plantagenet – traveled together. The two kings of Atilta, one of man and one of beast, were together as blood brothers, though neither knew their true importance.

The forest was as ancient there as elsewhere, and it was still under the broad canopy that they walked, clothed in a soft, mellow shade and cooled by a slight breeze that wisped around the trunks of the massive trees. In this section of the forest, the trees had vines growing on them thickly, stretching all the way into the upper branches. There was a heavy fog that sweetened the already wholesome air, and nothing could be seen more than ten yards away. Even within that range everything took on a smoky, shrouded appearance, as if the air had just woke up, and its eyes were still too tired to let things show through.

The first leg of their journey was entirely uneventful, until the noon hour. It was only then that the two reached the road, which they took in the eastern direction, toward the city of Eden. Their pace was slack, for they were in no hurry. It was as though they gave adventure a chance to overtake them. And sure enough, within a few minutes, Willard and Horatio – once more disguised as monks – spotted an odd, clerical figure coming toward them from the west.

“Look there, Horatio,” Willard said, “An odd man approaches, and I should count myself amiss if I did not take the chance to speak with him. Let us take our rest in the shade, therefore, and wait for him to reach us. He is going the same way we are.”

The two sat down at the base of a large oak, enjoying the cool shade for a few moments. Soon the man drew near enough to make out his features. He was a little above the average height, very slightly overweight, and had a blazing red mustache that stretched from ear to ear like a lightening bolt attached to his face. It was apparent he was the prior of a church, for his robes were richer than a monk’s, yet simpler than a bishop’s.

“Greetings stranger,” Willard called out as he drew near, “Would you care to make your way with us? The forest is a grim place for the lone ecclesiastic, these days.”

“With pleasure, my fellow churchmen. But let me make my positions known, for there are many of Judas’ companions among us,” the prior answered with a grave, animated countenance. “I am on the side of freedom, against the usurper Gylain, the most wretched and tyrannical ruler since the purloined rib – that is to say, from the creation itself. And if you be of those putrid, pale-hearted churchmen who – for love of money and power – forsake the commands of the Holy Scriptures to follow this Gylain – and who declare that his reign be just – then I have more contempt for you than for the devil himself, and may he take your souls!” He finished his monologue with a flush and a little jump on his heels that, while not lifting him from the ground, elevated him enough to display his zeal for freedom.

“We are faithful to the true king, friend,” Willard began, not realizing the irony in his statement. “But what type of Christian would wish the souls of his enemies to the devil? Does it not say to love your enemies more than yourself?”

“Of course, and I am rightly convicted. Thank you for your rebuke, most learned monk. You have proved yourself true, in my eyes, and in the most telling way possible: not only to our earthly king but to our heavenly one as well. Tell me then, friends, what are you called?” asked the man.

“I am Willard, and this is Horatio. We have only recently come from a long hermitage in the forest, and he has yet to regain a decent knowledge of any language but Latin, yet I will translate his speech.”

“No need, I know Latin well.”

“Yes, but fifteen years make a strange vocabulary, and it is perhaps more gibberish than Latin. What is your name, good sir?”

“I am Oren Lorenzo, prior of the Western March and good friend of Milada of Erlich.” He gave Willard a close look as he said this, to detect any feelings he had in connection with that name. Willard remembered him as a great leader of the forces of freedom, and his face showed it.

“Perhaps you have heard the tragedy that has befallen his house of late?” Oren offered.

“Yes, indeed, that his daughter Ivona is missing. A sad event, I am told.”

“By whom?”

“By Alfonzo of Melborough and the Fardy brothers. I left them not four hours ago.”

The prior’s face lit to a glow upon hearing this, and he said with feeling, “At last, they are on their way. They come to help, I am sure?”

“The Fardy brothers, yes, with several of Alfonzo’s men. But he himself is off on another task.”

“That is good to hear, friend, for I was beginning to lose hope in her being recovered. It is a sad situation, as well as a dangerous one.”

“Your journey, then, is to gather news about her?”

“Yes, as well as a certain Erwin Meredith, a monk under me. He went out to gather information, but has not yet returned. What, may I ask, is the purpose of your journey?”

“I do not know yet, though I hope to discover it before long.”

“What faith in providence! You are a most extraordinary monk, dear Willard.”

“Yes, faith. Or perhaps just acknowledgment that I can do little to control my destiny.”

“Destiny is an odd, phantom word, I always say, so let us leave it behind.”

“Very well.”

With that, the three walked on, looking like innocent, peaceful churchmen – though two of them were far from that, and the third had his own secrets. From noon, when the party met, until eight o’clock they walked through the forest. The great limbs from the trees on either side of the road clasped hands overhead to give them shade, and a gentle wind traveled along the road with them, refreshing them as it went by.

It was at the time of evening when the shadows begin to deepen that they came to a clearing in the forest, stretching from the side of the road to the end of a long meadow. Between were fields of wheat, oats, and hay, the later in its highest, richest shade of gold, so that it twinkled as it wrinkled in the breeze. Ten yards from the road stood a short building, made of roughly hewn boards and whatever bricks could be hauled from the city. It was long and narrow, in the middle, with a larger section at either side.

The forest in this area was rather highly elevated, with the meadow sloping down from the road. Through this landscape the ocean could be seen, shining sweetly beyond the wooden barrier. Beer-froth clouds filled the sky, illuminated underneath by the drowning sun. The rigid forms of the forest trees contrasted this heavenly panorama with their earthly roots, and the result was the natural mixture of the romantic and the mathematical. It was, in a word, paradise.