Lost Republic by Paul B. Thompson

sea hundreds of years ago!”
    Jenny said, “A real place?”
    â€œNo. Just a legend.”
    â€œWell, the ‘legend’ has sixty armed men behind him,” Clarke said in a low voice. “So I’m not calling him a liar.”
    â€œRendre pacifiquement! Vous ne serez pas lésés!”
    â€œHe says, surrender peacefully, and we won’t be harmed,” Emile added.
    â€œThey always say that,” Trevedi said. “But what do we do?”
    Bernardi pushed through the crowd and presented himself to the chevalier de Sagesse, who sat haughtily on his horse six feet away. Remembering he didn’t speak French, he waved France forward to translate for him. The footballers and Navy men protested. Bernardi had no right to speak for them.
    France joined the chief steward. Up close, something smelled terrible. It wasn’t the horse, who was a fine, clean animal. It was the noble knight. He smelled like he had never bathed in his life.
    â€œTell him, I want guarantees for these people.” Bernardi rubbed his sweaty hands together. “Tell him, we are unarmed, and are only here because our ship wrecked offshore. Tell him we’re peaceful—”
    France repeated the chief steward’s message. The chevalier’s lip curled in disgust.
    â€œDommage! J’avais hâte d’un bon combat!”
    So saying, he lashed out with his ironclad foot, kicking Bernardi in the chest. The chief sprawled in the sand. When France helped him up, blood was running from his nose.
    Gilligan, Clarke, and the others shouted at the knight’s brutal treatment of Bernardi. In reply he lowered his lance and shouted a command to his troops. The soldiers broke ranks and jogged forward, spears and shields ready.
    This is madness, France thought, holding up the stunned steward. I’m about to be killed by medieval soldiers in the middle of the twenty-first century!
    The heavily armed men found it slow going through the beach sand. They were only halfway to the
Carleton
party when an arrow flicked through the air, striking the chevalier de Sagesse on his breastplate. There was a bright flash, a loud crack, and the smell of ozone. The chevalier dropped his lance, threw up his hands, and fell to the ground. His horse collapsed after him. Astonished, France and Bernardi staggered back to their friends.
    The soldiers stopped short when their commander fell. They shouted among themselves, eyeing the
Carleton
people with fear and anger. Many threw down their spears and drew swords. Screams rose from the passengers. It looked like a massacre in the making.
    More arrows hissed in the air, sprouting in the sand ahead of the furious soldiers. They hesitated, throwing their small round shields up over their heads before coming on. The next volley of arrows arrived. Some found their way past the shields. More bangs and intense flashes, like cameras going off, and several soldiers were left motionless on the sand.
    At last the unseen archers appeared out of the pinewoods. They wore small metal helmets, light metal breastplates, and short kilts instead of the heavy trousers the French-speaking soldiers wore. They dashed out of the trees, aiming and loosing arrows at their foes just a hundred yards away. The soldiers shouted in alarm. They obviously knew who their enemy was. Packing close together, they held their shields high to ward off arrows. Two more knights on horseback trotted up, waving their lances and bellowing orders.
    â€œWhat the hell?” Clarke said for most everyone. “What the hell?”
    Behind the two dozen or so archers came more men—foot soldiers in gray armor and big, pot-shaped helmets with flaring neck guards. They carried large rectangular shields trimmed in brass. Short swords gleamed in their hands.
    â€œWahnsinn!”
Hans Bachmann declared. “Insanity.” The newcomers looked for all the world like Roman legionnaires.
    Unarmed and helpless,