The Forgotten King

“To Hades with your bloody honor,” grumbled the soldier, and he wiped his helmet.

“Do not mock Hades,” a third soldier said, “For you are his spitting image.”

The two laughed at the disgraced.

“Laugh if you will, but I would rather my head were hit by a crude spit, than by a shafted spit upon the archer’s bow.” He snarled and rose to go below.

“Wait, Rebus,” said the first, “You need not go in anger, for I did not mean to spit on you. But as I did, it was better to laugh than to remember the reason for my anger.”

“I would have done the same, but I am in a wretched mood.”

“Then drink to happiness,” Petros answered. “What is your burden?”

“I am payed to murder and oppress my countrymen. Is that not reason enough?”

“But that is duty, and duty needs no reason.”

“None is given,” Rebus laughed. “But if it is our duty, to whom are we beholden?”

“Our commander.”

“But who does he serve, when he orders us to kill?”

“Gylain, the King of Atilta.”

“Still, Petros, who does Gylain serve? Who is it that I serve by proxy? If it is my duty, and it is not wrong because I am commanded; and if it is not wrong for my commander because he himself does not kill, then with whom does the circle commence?”

“It begins with Gylain, and it ends with Gylain,” said a stern voice behind them. The soldiers turned and saw Vladimir, their commander. “Do not question, for that is not your duty. You are to serve your country without doubting, without emotion. Go, relieve the guards at the rowing blocks.”

“Yes, sir!” the three soldiers chorused as they stood and saluted Vladimir. Then they hurried below deck, leaving the commander alone on the stern of the ship.

When they were out of sight, Vladimir sighed to himself. “Duty! Am I truly so deceived? No, but each of us knows whom Gylain serves, and whom we each serve by proxy.” He paused. “Yet I fear Gylain more than him, for at least he does not disobey God.” With that his eyes changed into a soldier’s eyes: a mirror that lets no weakness escape.

Meanwhile, below deck, the three prisoners were preparing their escape.

“When the watch changes, we will slip away,” Patrick said.

“Is that all?” Leggitt laughed.

“They will not expect an attack and we have only to gain the city streets to be free. There is a row boat on the port side, adjacent to the stairs. We can take it to the shore without those above deck seeing us.”

“Your eyes are sharp,” de Garcia said, “For the boat escaped my notice.”

“You are old; I am young.”

“So you see: youth is an unpleasant commodity, for it is gone before its true value is known.”

“Yet life is contrary to young and old alike,” Patrick compressed his mouth.

“At times, perhaps, but there are as many joys as sorrows. Have you never seen a French woman?”

“I have not, but I do not ail because of it.”

“So you think, though you have never seen one. Let us hope God is not so cruel as to let you die before you have tasted the fruits of Eden.” He paused and looked to the ceiling, but kept his rowing rhythm. “I, myself, am too old for those things. For a thing is only a pleasure while it is new, and to an old man there is nothing new under the sun. But twenty years ago, when I was renowned for my swordsmanship,” de Garcia laughed and did not finish.

“Be silent, old fool,” Leggitt joined him. “When did you became a connoisseur of women? When did you last make love to anything but the stray hairs of your beard?”

“Bah!” Patrick scowled and ceased their merriment. “A woman is but a serpent: a faithless merchant who buys from all and sells to none. I will have none of them.”

“Your Hibernian women, perhaps, but not the French.”

“All women,” he stood and charged the front of the room.

The guards had just left to call the next watch and there was no one to stop Patrick at the moment. Leggitt and de Garcia were right behind him; neither stopped to unchain the other prisoners. Instead, they dashed into an armory that was just outside the room, on the hallway that led to the stairs. They each grabbed a halberd and waited within the room, ready to ambush the soldiers, who could not see into the small armory until they were past it.

“Am I no more than a beast, that it is my duty to kill without thought?” one of the soldiers was saying. “But what choice is there?”

“None,” another answered, “For duty is duty: it is to be done.”

“Yet it will bring my death. I can feel it coming, growing stronger even as we walk,” Rebus said.

“Feelings lie, though you will die sometime,” Petros laughed with a soldier’s guffaw.

“You have such bravado now, Petros, but will you when the time comes?”

“Am I a diviner, that I can tell the future? Death is death, I say. Let it come.”

As he spoke, they crossed the threshold of the armory door. Rebus came first, then Petros and a third guard. As his helmet passed by, de Garcia swung his halberd down hard upon him. The knob on the bottom passed through the small hole in the helmet, and Rebus fell silently to the ground. The next instant Leggitt did the same to Petros and Patrick to the third soldier.

“Come,” Patrick was the first out of the room and up the stairs. He turned when he was half way to the top and looked at de Garcia, who still stood at the armory door. “What keeps you?” he asked.

“I was thinking how easily we kill. I have been a man of the sword since my childhood; death is nothing to me. Still, I wonder that I feel nothing whatsoever.”

“You are a man of wisdom,” Leggitt said, “For when death is inevitable, it is best if it is not your own.”

“Inevitable?” de Garcia smiled.

Patrick turned to the stairs once more. “To Hades with fate,” he said when his back was turned. “But at least it was not her .”

“Who is she ?”

“She is no one. Not to me; not any more,” and Patrick leapt up the stairs, this time followed by the two others.

The stairs were beside the wall of the command deck and the port stern, and a bulkhead screened it from the forward sections of the ship. There was, therefore, an open path to the rowboat. Patrick jumped into it, and in a moment they were rowing furiously toward the shore. The soldiers did not see them and it was not until the third watch went down that their escape was discovered.

Before them lay the harbor city of Bordeaux, then in its prime. Unlike Eden, it was not arranged according to any general plan, but had sprung up according to chance. The streets were narrow, and the buildings often only a few feet apart. The architecture was not trite, though it seemed so when compared to that of Eden. The buildings were mostly of brick or rough stone, and the poor houses of wood. The roofs were flat with an open space on top, forming a small porch. The wealth of a man added to the height of his house, and therefore to the position his upper deck took in proportion to the others: the upper, middle, and lower classes.

The streets were crowded with citizens, and even if they had been pursued they could have easily disappeared into the tumult. Patrick led them in the rowboat and onto shore. From the docks they had to pass through a long customs house; it was there that Leggitt took the lead. He passed the soldiers with a confident wave and the young officer on duty did not stop to question him.

“He is well-received, indeed,” Patrick whispered to de Garcia.

“Yes, but do not worry, for we are in France. Gylain has no power here and Leggitt is wise enough to choose where we will seek refuge.” Then, to Leggitt, he continued, “Where will you take us, friend?”

“To the home of an acquaintance. He is a man of power, who can supply us as we need; but he is not powerful enough to know of our situation.”

“He served Gylain with you?” Patrick asked.

“No, for he is Hibernian.”

Patrick’s face clouded over. “Indeed? A man of authority?”

“Somewhat, but all authority is under another. His position would mean little to an English peasant, as you