approaches from the north.” He pointed his finger at an approaching portly monk with a long, droopy black mustache that came to his chin, and a pair of plump lips. The Fardy brothers composed themselves, putting on their much proclaimed – and little shown – calm business-like appearance.
“Hello there, fellow travelers: a fine morning, is it not?” hailed the approaching monk as he drew near to them. “I am Erwin Meredith, a friar from the castle of Milada of Erlich.”
“And we are the Fardy brothers,” they chorused, pretending not the recognize him. “I am the blond Fardy, and these are brown and black – my patient, long suffering brothers.” The speaker bowed low to show his humility. “Do you bring news from Lord Milada, about a certain meeting that may have taken place between the nobles?” He asked it as though it were a polite trifling.
The monk played ignorant to the true meaning of the question and answered, “He had recently returned when I left, yet it is not my purpose to bring news. I am on a less joyous mission.”
The brown Fardy put aside his jocularity and blinked his moonshine eyes at the monk, “If we can be of service to you or Milada, only let us know and it will be done.”
The monk looked about them, searching for any spies. Then, after a moment, he said, “Very well, I will make my mission known to you. Ivona has disappeared from the castle, and there is no sign of her anywhere. The night it happened was defined by a fierce storm – the kind that have been more common of late – and we fear Gylain used it as a cover to kidnap her.”
The Fardy brothers were greatly surprised, for they had come to know her well on their trips to the nobleman’s estate. Yet they also knew of her firm determination, and of her aspirations.
“Perhaps she only went to fulfill her vow to the church,” suggested the black Fardy.
“By Beelzebub!” he cried, “Ivona would never run away from her beloved father. Have you seen or heard nothing of her?”
“Not the slightest sign, friar,” replied the blond Fardy, “But I will tell you this: we have just passed two men claiming to be monks. One was huge and possessed a powerful arm that defeated the three of us in an arm wrestling match. The other had an agile tongue and a richly ornate sword. They were out of character for monks, especially the man Willard.”
“Yes, but his eyes were true and his face noble. They were in no hurry and were not hiding anything – if Ivona was with them, we would have seen her. But you can question them yourself, Meredith, for they left the Inn only moments ago. Hurry, and fear not, for I believe they are trusty, and the Innkeeper felt the same. We will hurry on to the castle and speak with Milada. Until then, farewell.”
With this, the Fardy brothers and Erwin Meredith departed in haste, anxious of the news to be gathered. The brothers became at once solemn and noble of bearing, a transformation that always overtook them when danger showed itself. Swift to anger and swift to duty – such were the Fardy brothers.
“This news is sorrowful,” said the brown Fardy.
“Let us hurry,” the black Fardy returned, “My blood grows cold.”
Five minutes later their quick pace left them alone in the forest, Meredith being a good distance away and, in the forest, as good as gone. They almost ran down the road, without a word between themselves, each absorbed in his own thoughts. Then, they were disturbed: a shrill whistle resonated through the forest.
“What have I heard, my brothers? Answer, for I am impatient to know.”
“A whistle,” said the black Fardy, “But not from a bird.”
As he spoke, a dozen armed men leapt from the trees and surrounded them.
“Outlaws!” cried the blond Fardy, “If only we had brought our swords.”
“It would have made little difference,” the leader of the bandits answered them in a calm voice.
“Montague!” the black Fardy recoiled, “Montague, release us at once, for we are peaceful citizens. Gylain would never arrest us, for we have done no wrong.”
“We will see,” was the only answer. Montague raised his eyebrows to his men, and they came forward to bind the brothers’ hands.
“Gag them,” he added, and it was done.
The leader of the band was the infamous Jonathan Montague, Gylain’s lieutenant. His short, black hair was combed forward at the temples after the fashion of the Romans, his face smoothly shaved. He wore a dark, close fitting tunic with trousers that reached his ankles, and a pair of well-worn boots. The smug smile that stretched itself across his lips gave as good a definition as any to his character – without conscience or remorse.
He led them feverishly into the forest, unwilling to risk lingering where the rebels frequented. They turned south at a sharp angle, before adjusting it to the westward some time later. When the road was far behind them, a single man came down from his perch in a tree on the other side of the road, where he had been hidden. It was Osbert. He quickly looked over the spot, grabbing a few fallen items before rushing off to the caverns that formed the headquarters of his companions, to inform them of the Fardys misfortune.
“Gylain is either brave or foolish,” he said to himself as he ran, “I pray it is the latter!”
Chapter 8
Once they were safely away from the road, Montague, his men, and the Fardy brothers made their way swiftly and stealthily through the ancient trees. Montague led the way, with his stern, oceanic countenance. The brothers, behind him, were bound by the hands, and their mouths were gagged, albeit loose enough to allow their breathing to keep pace with their feet. It was evident from his demeanor that Montague did not wish to confront Alfonzo’s band, though he was superior in numbers, and they sped on without halting until the noon hour.
Then, seeing they were far from his enemy’s headquarters, Montague halted and had a light meal set out for lunch. It was of the usual forest cuisine: venison and double-baked bread, with only water to accompany it. Montague was many things, but one thing he was not was a glutton, and neither did he allow his followers to be. Rather, they were always in a state of half-hunger, the best condition for physical performance. They had stopped in the shade of a particularly large oak tree, in the center of a small clearing. The sun came on from directly overhead, so their shade was complete. Once a guard had been set, the Fardy brothers were set loose.
They sat across from Montague, silent at first in awe of the efficiency and ruthlessness of their captors. Their eyes blindfolded, the brothers had not been able to see until an hour into the forced march, and their surprise at being caught and secured in so swift a fashion subdued their voices. Yet their blood was gotten up as fast as it had gotten down, and their temperament was as shifting as a northern wind.
Montague was the first to speak, saying in a polite way, as if his form would forgive his substance, “I trust your journey has thus far been a pleasant one?”
“If we were horses, and used to a bit in our mouths and a rope around our necks, maybe, but we are not,” the blond Fardy answered. “And neither are you, I believe, but rather one of the horse’s close cousins – the ass!” His blood had gotten up to a complete boil, for his face was flushed and his eyes swam in contempt.
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
