by Robin Hardy
Table of Contents
The History
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
PART TWO
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
PART THREE
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Glossary
Books by Robin Hardy
LIBERATION OF LYSTRA
Book Three of the Annals of Lystra
Robin Hardy
Westford Press
Liberation of Lystra: Book Three of the Annals of Lystra (first published as High Lord of Lystra)
Christian fantasy/series
Kindle edition
ISBN-10: 1-934776-12-2
ISBN-13: 978-1-934776-12-4
Copyright © 1986, 1994, 2006, 2011 Robin Hardy. All rights reserved.
Portions of this book may be reproduced according to the fair use doctrine as stated in § 107 of the U.S. Copyright Law; otherwise, please contact the publisher for written permission.
Westford Press
P.O. Box 1017
Royse City TX 75189
[email protected]
Cover image of Castle Muidenslot, Holland © 2001-2006 www.arttoday.com
Unless otherwise identified, all Scripture quotations are taken from the HOLY BIBLE: NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION® (NIV®). Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.
To Ruth
whose love in Christ
spans the great chasm to comfort me
To Glenn
How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord,
Is laid for your faith in his excellent Word!
What more can he say than to you he hath said,
To you who for refuge to Jesus have fled?
“Fear not, I am with thee; O be not dismayed,
For I am thy God, and will still give thee aid;
I’ll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand,
Upheld by my righteous, omnipotent hand.
“When through fiery trials thy pathway shall lie,
My grace, all-sufficient, shall be thy supply;
The flame shall not hurt thee; I only design
Thy dross to consume, and thy gold to refine.
“The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose
I will not, I will not desert to his foes;
That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake,
I’ll never, no, never, no, never forsake!”
John Rippon’s Selection of Hymns, 1787
The History
(from the Annals of Lystra)
. . . The events surrounding the end of the reign of Surchatain Karel of Lystra, being duly and truthfully chronicled in the aforementioned Book,1 may be summarized as follows, to wit: Karel, having discerned his daughter’s life to be in Peril, appointed a soldier from the standing army, a follower of the Way, to be guardian of the Chataine Deirdre, she at that time being ten years of age. The soldier, being Roman of Westford, was then twenty-two.
Albeit that his coat of arms has since been shown to bear the Bend Sinister,2 Roman had gained respect for his Abilities and Leadership. He performed ably in difficult circumstances as the Chataine’s guardian until her eighteenth year, when she frustrated her father’s intentions by choosing Roman as her Husband. In his wrath the Surchatain sentenced the soldier to die, but Roman escaped the gallows to marry Deirdre and join Commander Galapos at Outpost One.
In the face of a Dreaded Invasion by Surchatain Tremaine of Seleca, Galapos joined forces with Deirdre’s uncle, Surchatain Corneus of Seir. But as the Price of that Alliance, Corneus demanded that Deirdre be given to his son Jason. Roman unwillingly sent his bride to Jason in Ooster, but Corneus betrayed Galapos in Vile Treachery and aligned himself with Tremaine. At Ooster, Deirdre discovered herself to be with child by Roman.
The armies of Tremaine and Corneus surrounded the outpost to slay the defenders of Lystra, and Roman prayed in desperation to his God. It followed that, by the Power of God, the enemy were weakened by Pestilence and thereby destroyed. At Ooster, Jason learned of the battle’s outcome and killed himself, having first told Deirdre that Roman and Galapos were dead. Deirdre despaired, but was supernaturally defended until Roman and Galapos, the victors, found her at Ooster. Then did she learn that Karel was dead and that Galapos, the new Surchatain, was her Natural Father.
After which followed these events,3 to wit: Deirdre, soon to give birth to her first Child, unwisely allowed herself to be lured from her Husband’s protection by her former nursemaid, the old woman having fallen under the Power of the witch Varela. After being delivered of a son, the Chataine was sold as a slave to Surchataine Sheva, who ruled Goerge from her fortress palace built on the Cliffs of Diamond’s Head. There did Deirdre finally learn how to work and how to pray, being taught by a kindred slave called Old Josef. In the mean time did Roman, unknowing what had befallen his Wife, spend three months in fruitless search in the City of Corona, now fallen into decay. Then did he return to Westford, broken and dismayed.
Yet at this time did Galapos the Surchatain discover his Daughter in the palace of Sheva and did forfeit his Life for her Freedom. Impelled by his Sacrifice of Love, she then freed all the slaves of Sheva, among them being the Polonti huntsman called Nihl. It followed that Nihl returned with her to Westford to do Service under the new Surchatain, Roman; and with them came also the Palace Administrator, Troyce; the Overseer, Sevter; and a host of former slaves who wished to serve.
Here begins the Continuation of the Story, it being the third Summer since their return. . . .
1. Published as Chataine’s Guardian.
2. That is, he was of illegitimate birth.
3. Chronicled in Stone of Help.
PART ONE
CORONA
Chapter 1
Deirdre, Surchataine of Lystra, opened her eyes just enough to see scattered rays of golden light leaping from behind the velvet draperies. These early June mornings were so splendid. Smiling, she stretched and her forearm brushed the bare, muscled shoulder of her husband Roman.
She shifted to watch him sleep, admiring his brown, sinewy form. In lightly smoothing the thick black hair away from his face, she uncovered the old bludgeon scar on his forehead and several grey hairs. Then she grinned. Responding to an irrepressible urge, she draped her arm over his back and bit his nearest shoulder.
He roused with a start and gathered her beneath him to kiss her in retaliation. They were locked this way when a sly little giggle was heard. Roman raised his head to see two intensely blue eyes under a forelock of thick reddish-brown hair peeping over the edge of the bed.
“Rascal!” Roman exclaimed, leaning over to lift the giggling two-year-old onto Deirdre’s stomach. “You climbed down from your bed again! How shall we contain you, little adventurer?”
Deirdre laughed, “He’s his father’s son!
Still, I’m glad we moved him into the adjoining room. I like having him near us.”
Roman lay back and smiled, watching his fair-haired wife cuddle and tickle the squealing child while the feather ticking shifted gently beneath them. “Deirdre,” he mused, “how did you choose the name Ariel? I don’t know that I have ever heard it before.”
She held the child still and confessed, “You’ll think it strange.”
“Tell me.”
“I had a dream . . . I saw a beautiful young man riding into battle, wearing your crest. . . . Someone said, ‘His name is Ariel.’ I decided that would be our son’s name.”
Roman watched her silently, and she grew self-conscious as she bounced the child on her leg. Then he leaned over and said, “Take him to the nursemaid for a while.” Which she did.
Later in the morning, Roman trotted down the great curving stairway of the palace at Westford with the slender, grey-haired Counselor trailing him, striving to keep his balance on the stairs while thumbing through a sheaf of parchments. “Surchatain, the emissaries this morning are from the provinces of Qarqar, Calle Valley—and Polontis.”
Surchatain Roman almost stopped in midstride at the mention of his mother’s homeland. “Polontis? What is their request?”
The Counselor shuffled his papers, searching. “I am not certain. Only for an audience with you.”
“They’ll have that,” Roman promised as he walked into the audience hall. A waiting crowd of spectators went to their knees in deference as he passed them. He nodded to Commander Nihl standing to the left of the bronze throne, then sat. Like Galapos before him, Roman eschewed the purple robes of a monarch, choosing to wear his plain brown soldier’s uniform even on the throne.
He glanced at the empty air to his right and sighed. Obviously, his lectures to Deirdre on why she should sit at audience with him had not had any effect. Yet, knowing her temperament, he would not force her. That would only make her all the more impervious to learning how to rule.
To the first-time observer in the audience, Roman and Nihl might have appeared to be brothers, being so similar in aspect. They shared the common Polonti features of straight black hair, brown skin, and large frames. Yet Nihl was pure Polonti, markedly more reserved and taut than his half-blooded kinsman. Or perhaps it was because Roman was older and never a citizen of his mother’s country that he did not hold quite so rigidly to their native manners.
The Surchatain said, “I will hear first the emissary from Polontis.”
A grave-faced Polonti nudged his way up from the edge of the crowd and bowed low to Roman. “Surchatain, it is gracious of you to hear me first, as I am the least of these here. I am Coran, who brings greetings from Bruc, ruler of Polontis. Lord Bruc wishes to establish first that he holds no ill will for the number of Polonti warriors who have left his service to join yours.”
“Then why have my messengers to him never been acknowledged?” Roman asked testily.
“An unfortunate misunderstanding, Surchatain, as my lord’s former counselor gave him unwise advice concerning them,” explained Coran. Roman leaned his head on his hand and looked at him. “He feared you wished to draw more men away,” continued Coran, gaining speed, “and as our resources are already so depleted, a further loss would leave us indefensible.”
“Against me?” Roman asked pointedly, then turned to whisper to Nihl, “Is this man really Polonti? He talks more like a Selecan statesman.”
Nihl cocked his head. “Bruc sends his emissaries to the south to be educated before employing them—never to Seleca, though.”
Roman turned his attention back to the messenger. “What does Bruc want?”
“To advise you of an impending crisis, Surchatain. Lord Bruc’s spies have discovered evidence of an army growing in Corona—a large, savage army who have bound themselves with an oath never to rest until they have accomplished dead Tremaine’s goal of conquering the Continent. They are sure to attack you when they feel they’ve gained might enough,” the emissary warned.
Roman shifted on the throne. “I know the situation in Corona. They have a few hundred men gathered under a crazy demagogue who thinks he is Tremaine reincarnated. I won’t waste my time or my men on him. He could not take an outpost from me, much less Westford.” Nihl nodded in concord with this assessment.
Coran, thwarted in his first move, looked down at the purple runner. He responded humbly, “No, Surchatain, he cannot take Lystra. But he has set his eyes on Polontis as his first conquest, and we are not so secure.”
“That is Bruc’s problem,” answered Roman, watching him.
“If we fall, he becomes that much stronger!” the messenger spilled out desperately. “Would you rather deal with him when he has a few men and delusions, or when he comes marching to you with the rest of the Continent in his hand?”
“He cannot conquer the Continent,” Roman reiterated quietly.
Coran bit his lip as if choking back pride. “Perhaps not. But he could take Polontis. Help us, Surchatain. I beg you to help us.”
Roman sat silently evaluating him and his request. The hall was so quiet he could hear Coran’s tense breathing. “I will consider it,” Roman finally said. Coran bowed in relief at having brought his case this far.
“Kam,” Roman gestured, “take Lord Bruc’s emissary to a guest suite and see that he is made comfortable until I have an answer for him.”
“Surchatain.” The stocky, black-bearded Second in Command saluted Roman and glanced at the messenger.
Coran paused in astonishment at this unusually gracious treatment of an emissary, then caught himself in time to turn and follow the Second. On his way out, he heard the Surchatain say, “Now I will hear the emissary from Qarqar.”
Coran departed the hall behind Kam, who turned down a side corridor leading to the interior of the palace. Coran walked slowly to look at the paintings, tapestries, and finely wrought ornamental weapons that crowded each other the length of the walls. “Your Surchatain spends much for things that entertain the eye,” he observed carefully.
The Second glanced at the masterpieces of workmanship. “He bought none of them,” he answered. “They came as gifts from other provinces, or from his acquisition of what was formerly Seir and Goerge.”
“Ah,” Coran responded. They turned down another corridor, this one lined with long slender windows that opened out into the rear courtyard. Passing them, Coran glimpsed a unit of soldiers drilling on the grounds.
He slowly came to a stop as he watched them. The Second in Command, who was under the Commander and above the Captains, paused to look over the unit himself. They were practicing the art of fighting when disadvantaged by a loss of arms. Captain Colin’s shouted instructions could be heard even from the corridor windows. Colin, son of the former Surchatain of Seir, was only two years older than his cousin Deirdre. After the death of his father, he had brought with him the wealth of his province to serve Roman.
The Polonti emissary leaned against the window facing to see more. He caught sight of a row of weapons stalls filled to capacity and the gear of the soldiers piled on the ground near the walkway. “Are all your men outfitted so?”
Kam straightened to a perfect vertical and said, “There is complete mail available to outfit each man. Offensively, they are trained with the bow, broad-sword, spear, and mace, as well as hand-to-hand and on horseback, of course; then they may choose which weapons and method of fighting suit them best. After that, they are placed in service according to how their skills may best be used.”
“How many men do you have, to be able to place them at their preference?” Coran asked in disbelief.
Kam smiled. “You know I can’t tell you that. But I will tell you we have more than Tremaine did at the height of his power.”
“How does he do it?” exclaimed Coran. “How does your Surchatain lure all the ablest men to his service?”
“He’ll take anyone,” Kam answered slowly. “He takes anyone willing and trains him to perfection.
And he forgives mistakes.”
Deirdre stood over a work table in the kitchen, rolling out dough fine and thin. A simple servant’s apron covered her richly embroidered dress of sapphire blue. Two young kitchen maids stood at her sides, watching. “The thinner you roll it, the finer and lighter it will be,” Deirdre murmured, “. . . there.” She paused to wipe her hands on her apron and brush a tangled blond lock from her face. “Merry? Is the filling ready?”
“Yes, my lady, very nearly—” the hefty kitchen mistress hurried up, stirring a large crock of blackberry compote. “It must be mixed a minute longer,” she mumbled apologetically.
“There is no hurry,” Deirdre said. “They haven’t even finished their meal yet, and those men would wait through the afternoon for pastry!”
“True, my lady,” Merry said, pausing to let another cook add flour to the compote. This cook, a man, smiled to himself as he glanced toward the Surchataine in her apron. He had been a servant here in the palace for a long time, since before Deirdre had married. He had known her when she would rather have died than set foot in the kitchen, and here she was, showing these girls how to make proper pastry. It amazed him. But she had been different ever since returning from Diamond’s Head. He had heard she’d been a slave there—a kitchen maid. Well, whatever did it, now she acted as if these servants were people just like herself.
The Surchataine turned to place a hand on his arm and say, “Brock, please see if Wesley has come back from market yet. I’m dying for a taste of the new fruit wines.”
“You’ll have it if I have to ride to market myself, my lady,” Brock replied, already on his way out.
At the table in a small hall off the kitchen, Roman leaned back to empty his goblet, then set it down, inhaling deeply. Nihl, on his right, and Basil, on his left, looked up at him, silently inquiring. “I don’t know what to do about Bruc’s request,” Roman said, casting a glance toward Nihl.