by Robin Hardy
As Deirdre dismounted, something on the ground caught her eye. “Oh, look,” she said to no one in particular. “Some little girl left her doll behind.”
Stooping, she picked up an eight-inch clay figurine. Colin smiled at her but Roman, talking with Nihl, did not see. So she remounted, holding the doll.
“There’s something about this place I don’t like,” Roman was saying. Then they all jumped at the sound of enraged barking. A large dog bolted from behind a hut and pounced toward Deirdre, its fangs bared in the midst of foam.
She screamed as it leaped. Nihl drew his sword and slashed the dog’s throat in one swift motion.
It fell back and lay quivering. They stared down at the scruffy dog, unsure it was dead. Nihl, irritated at the apparent miss, severed its head with a stroke. Still it quivered.
Kam urged, “Let’s get away from here,” and they all quickly went to their horses without argument.
As they spurred out of the village they immediately met a strong northerly headwind which blasted dirt in their faces and whipped their clothes. The farther they tried to ride, the harder it blew, until they could no longer ride into it. Squinting and sheltering his face, Kam cried, “What’s this? A gale in June?”
“I don’t know!” shouted Roman. He said something else that went unheard, for the horses began slipping down, backing up toward the village. They were forced to turn tail to the wind and let it drive them in retreat to the abandoned village. As soon as they passed the first hut, the wind abruptly died.
They stopped dead still. Hardly breathing, they shifted only their eyes to look around the desolate place. “The dog is gone,” said Nihl.
The sudden angry barking chilled their hearts. Around the corner of the hut came the foaming dog. A thick red line matted the fur in a circle around its neck, and its head lolled as if the spine were broken, but still it charged Deirdre.
“Watch it!” shouted Kam, grabbing for Deirdre. Roman and Nihl threw themselves from their horses at the same time, drawing their swords. While Nihl slashed the dog’s throat a second time, Roman broke its back with a blow. It fell, quivering.
“What is happening?” breathed Colin.
Roman clenched his fists and cried, “Lord Jesus, what is causing this?” Suddenly he stared at Deirdre, clutching the clay doll. “What is that?” he demanded.
“This?” she faltered, as he strode over to her. “It’s just a doll I found.”
“Here?” he asked, taking it.
“Yes—” she startled as he crushed it to powder in one hand.
The dog stopped quivering. Roman brushed off his hands. “Don’t pick up anything from the places we pass through,” he said tersely.
“What was it?” she gasped.
“They are called anakim,” answered Nihl. “Village gods. Spirits confined to an image of wood or clay. They are supposed to be indestructible.”
“Do you know of these things?” Roman asked, climbing back on his horse.
“Only in the form of mountain folklore. Polonti do not concern themselves with such tales,” Nihl said with disdain.
“At least it gives us a clearer idea of what we’re up against here,” Roman said. He reached over to squeeze Deirdre’s shaking hand.
The second time they exited the village, the air was calm. Resolutely, they resumed the trip to Corona.
As they traveled into the day, they met no one else. There had been numerous travelers the day before, while they were within Lystra’s borders. “This road used to be crowded with merchants,” observed Colin.
“Whatever is happening in Corona has apparently put an end to that,” re-marked Roman.
The group came to another dead village, which they passed through without slowing. Beyond it, the road was encased in forest. They plunged without hesitation into its shadows.
Deirdre had never felt at ease in forests, for they hid all manner of unfriendly creatures. One could get lost so easily, too, without being able to see the sky. She remembered a night long ago when she had lost herself in the woods outside the palace at Westford. Just being able to see the night sky through the early spring branches had calmed her. Then Roman had stepped through the trees—
“What is it?” asked Kam, for Roman had drawn up on the reins.
The Surchatain was waiting, listening, while Fidelis danced around. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “I thought I heard something.” He shook his head uneasily and allowed his horse to bound forward again. The ride continued into a denser part of the forest, dark as twilight.
Nihl raised his head with a jerk. “I hear it. It sounds like laughter.”
“No, like weeping,” said Roman, frowning. They unconsciously sped their pace.
“It’s something howling!” exclaimed Kam.
“No, it’s moaning,” Colin contradicted him excitedly.
Deirdre strained to listen. “I don’t hear anything,” she complained.
The horses lengthened their stride to a run. “It’s coming closer!” Kam warned.
“Wait! Stop!” shouted Roman, and they reined in their panting mounts. “It’s senseless to run until we know what it is!”
They held their breath, listening. “That?” said Deirdre. “Is that it? You silly geese, that’s the wind in the trees!”
Nihl dropped his head and Kam went red in the face. Colin coughed and looked at Roman, who lowered his shoulders with a relieved laugh. “Look at us! Brave warriors, running from the wind!” They had a good laugh at themselves, then continued at an easy canter. It had certainly been the wind, but . . . several of the riders pondered how it had taken on a voice unique to each of them.
By late afternoon, they entered the pasture lands surrounding the city. Here they were somewhat encouraged to see sheep and other signs of life. The market road, which had been dirt for miles, gave way to the smooth, paved thoroughfare leading up to the city gates—a remnant of the days of glory under Tremaine.
On the edge of the thoroughfare, they stopped, looking toward the gates. At an hour when the city should have been bustling, the gates were shut tight. “This is not right,” muttered Colin. “Even the scouts who were here two days ago mentioned traffic going in.”
“Perhaps they are under curfew,” suggested Nihl.
“But we haven’t met anyone coming or going, Commander,” argued Kam.
“Not on this road,” acknowledged Roman. They silently studied the lifeless gates.
“What do we do, Surchatain?” asked Kam. “Ride up and demand entry?”
Roman stared ahead without answering. From her knowledge of him, Deirdre could see he was inwardly inquiring of his High Lord.
“Well—why not?” he decided. “Deirdre, to the inside. Men, hold your swords at the ready. Let’s go.” He tapped Fidelis lightly with his heels, and the horse took the lead prancing. The unruly Andalusian had not balked once on the trip so far, and as a matter of fact, seemed to understand the responsibility placed on him.
They trotted steadily toward the gates. Tensely, they scanned the wall for lookouts. Clop, clop and the gates loomed larger before them. When they were within ten feet, there was a startling creak and the gates opened.
Twenty mounted Bloods filled the city entrance forbiddingly. One, wearing a sash of authority, spurred from the gates to Roman. “State your name and your business,” the Captain of the Bloodclad demanded.
“We are emissaries from Lystra, who wish an audience with your Surchatain. I am Roman,” he answered with composure.
The Captain smiled in amusement and looked them over, especially Deirdre. “Is she a gift for the Surchatain?”
Roman uttered, “She is an emissary also, under my protection.”
“Yes?” the Captain sneered at him. “Well, emissaries may not enter with weapons. You must leave them with us to come into the city.”
Roman slowly handed the hilt of his sword to the Captain, who took it, then gestured at him: “Dismount.” Roman did, and the Captain waved two Bloods forward
while he turned to Nihl, extending his hand in a silent demand for his weapon.
Meanwhile, the two Bloods searched Roman, rifling his clothes and saddlebags, and taking a dagger from his belt. Nihl gave up his sword to the Captain with visible reluctance and likewise submitted to a search. The Bloods removed a knife from Nihl’s belt, another from his boot, and the money pouch from his saddlebag.
While Kam and Colin were being searched, the Captain of the Bloods turned to Deirdre, smiling. “Dismount.”
As she did, Roman said, “She is not armed.”
Ignoring him, the Captain reached out to open her shortcoat. But Roman reached him in one stride to put a prohibitive hand on his chest. “She is not armed. Will you answer for abusing an emissary to the Surchatain?”
The Captain opened his mouth, glaring, but another Blood spoke in his ear. He glanced at Roman and Deirdre, then hissed, “You’ll get an audience, fool, if you’re sure you want it!”
He spun back to his horse as Roman, exhaling, lifted Deirdre onto her saddle. Then the Order of the Bloodclad surrounded the party to escort them in, and the city gates groaned shut behind them.
As they rode toward the palace, Roman glanced around the streets. Some odd changes had taken place since he was last here. The only people who were out of doors had Bloods accompanying them. A Blood stood at the doorway of almost every shop and house. For the most part, the buildings themselves were neatly maintained, but something about their facades nagged at Roman until he put his finger on the difference.
Each shopfront carried one of two symbols—a black cross or a red circle. Most by far had the red circles. Those that had the black crosses had something of a shabby look about them: broken facings, damaged signs—the marks of vandalism.
The escorted group turned up the impressive thoroughfare to the palace and Deirdre let out a low moan. On her first visit here years ago, this street had been lined with mulberry and maple trees. But now, in place of the trees, stood large wooden crosses, on which hung citizens of the city—some dying, some already dead. Nailed above their heads were the same black crosses that were on the shopfronts.
Deirdre bowed her head, tears streaming down her face, as they powerlessly passed by the suffering and dying. Roman and Nihl had faces of flint; Kam was crimson and Colin pale.
They drew up to the magnificent gates and the Captain motioned them off their horses. As the mounts were led away, Fidelis balked, rearing. One of the Bloods yanked angrily on his bridle and Roman ordered, “Fidelis! Go.” The animal allowed himself to be led away, working his sore mouth.
The Bloods herded the party up the steps to the great doors, which were opened to them. Apprehension rolled over Deirdre as they entered the audience hall. It was all there, all the same—the stunning mosaic covering the expanse of floor, the shifting angles of the paneled walls, the golden chandeliers above with hundreds of candles. As they approached the throne, she noted that, although it and the carved lions which supported it were gilded, the jewels were gone.
“Wait here.” The Captain jammed at finger toward the floor before striding out. The party certainly did not attempt to run away, but quietly waited, evaluating their surroundings. Roman and Deirdre looked at each other, and, for some reason, her heart constricted violently.
Chapter 5
For three quarters of an hour, Roman’s group stood in the audience hall awaiting the Surchatain of Seleca. The only movement they made was to shift as their legs grew stiff. Nor did they talk to one another, with so many unfriendly ears nearby. The stares of the Selecan soldiers discomforted Deirdre, but she made her back iron to them and kept her face toward the vacant throne.
Footsteps from a side entrance drew their eyes. An honor guard of Bloods stalked in and stood aside. A man in a swirling golden robe entered through their lines, ignoring their salutes, and seated himself upon the throne.
At first Deirdre did not really see him, her attention being diverted by the robe. It was indeed patterned after Tremaine’s, which now hung at the outpost’s gates, but was somehow less brilliant. Then she saw that it was not pure woven gold, but gold strands interwoven with bright yellow ones to make a facsimile of the original using a fraction of the gold.
Roman bowed and his companions did the same. As the man spoke, Deirdre’s head came up with a start: “Who are you and what do you want?”
It was not such an unreasonable question, but Deirdre had to grimace awfully to keep from laughing. There before her on that mighty throne was a chubby little imp of a man with a pouting face and a nasal, whiny voice. From the start of their trip Deirdre had unconsciously held the imposing image of Tremaine as the man they would meet here, so that the contrasting reality of this man’s appearance was almost too much of a shock.
Before Roman could respond to his question, the Captain of the Bloods stepped arrogantly in front of him and bowed to the man on the throne. “Most High Lord Tremelaine, this is Homan, an emissary from the Surchatain of Lystra.” Roman did not correct the garbling of his name.
“Lystra?” Tremelaine curled his lip. “What does he want? Speak up, man! Are you dumb?”
Roman inclined his head. “Surchatain Tremelaine, the Surchatain of Lystra wishes to learn what your intentions are in mobilizing your army.”
Tremelaine grinned. “Ooh, he’s scared.”
“He wishes you to know that to attack Lystra or her allies is not wise.”
Tremelaine chewed on his thumbnail, studying Roman with a malicious glint in his eyes. “He must not value you much to send you to me with that message.”
“I came of my own desire to serve my High Lord,” Roman answered.
“Well, now that I have you here, what shall I do with you?” Tremelaine fretted happily. “Berk,” he turned to the Captain, “what shall I do with them?”
“Flay them on the rack and send their skins back to Lystra,” Berk answered.
“Oh yes! That would be fun!” Tremelaine chortled. Deirdre broke into a cold sweat. “Oh no,” he pouted, reconsidering. “Then he would attack and we’re not ready for him yet. No, no, no. What shall I do?” In nervous excitement, he sprang from the throne and began to pace.
“I must think!” he cried. “Put them in prison while I think.” He stopped before Roman, who looked down on him by eight inches. “Put him in the pit.”
Roman and his companions were taken out of the hall, down a long corridor to a heavy wooden door. Deirdre, beside Nihl, saw his eyes shifting continually to take in every detail of this route. Berk unlocked the door and one of the Bloods pulled it open to reveal the first few steps of a long, dark, damp stairway leading down to the dungeon. Roman was pushed to descend it, followed by a guard with a torch. The other prisoners went after, a guard treading heavily behind each.
One side of the stairway was fully open as it descended into something of a cave, the wall on their right being wet and slimy. Deirdre heard the echoes of dripping water. She felt her way slowly, wondering how Roman could walk blindly down into utter darkness, for the guard’s torch behind him did not illumine the steps in front of him.
They went down and down, sixty steps or more. Then she felt Roman pause and the guard shove him ahead. They had reached the bottom. Here, the prisoners were pushed against the mossy wall while chains were brought and fastened on their wrists and ankles. In the dancing torchlight, Deirdre could see four tunnels intersecting twenty feet from the stairway and leading diverse ways.
More guards came down the steps. Four took Colin and Kam down one tunnel and four took Roman and Nihl down another. But only one Blood was deemed necessary to take Deirdre toward a third tunnel.
The guard who took her stopped close to the intersection, just beyond sight of the steps. He unbolted a black wooden door which had a small window covered with rusty iron slats. As he opened it, he paused to grab Deirdre by the neck and kiss her. She gagged at his breath. “I’ll come for you later,” he whispered gruffly, then locked her in the rocky cell.
After
the guards had shoved Nihl into a cell, they took Roman farther down the same tunnel. The dirt floor gave way to mud, which sucked at their boots as they went. The ceiling dropped lower, until Roman and some of the guards had to stoop to go on. The farther they went, the harder it was to breathe in the dead air.
Finally they came to the end of the tunnel—a blank rock wall. One of the Bloods reached down and pulled up a creaking trap door, revealing a black hole less than four feet across. He shoved a rope into Roman’s manacled hands, uttering, “Hold this, if you can.”
Without warning another Blood struck Roman in the back and he toppled into the hole, grasping the rope. It slipped a bit, burning his hands, but he managed to hold on and get his feet below him as they lowered him about twenty feet into a pit the size of a well. When he hit the mud bottom, the rope was jerked up from his hands. Then what little light there was vanished as they dropped the trap door with an echoing crash.
Roman leaned tentatively against the oozing wall, listening to his own breathing. He stretched his hands out before him and felt the opposite wall. Gingerly, he extracted his shackled feet from the mud bottom and braced them against the wall. He leaned his head back, waiting for quietness of spirit. Then he said, “Lord God, this is my battle. Please get them out of here.”
Deirdre crouched in her cell, holding her breath. In the darkness, she intently listened to the scurrying scratches of a rat on the dirt floor. When she felt a furtive nibble on her boot, she stomped with inspired force and winced to feel a small body crunch beneath her foot. She kicked the rat up against the other wall and sat again, holding her knees.
In moments she heard the distant creak of the dungeon door. Another moment later she saw snatches of torchlight through the iron slats. Footsteps approached, then stopped at her door, and the bolt scraped back. When the door swung open, she blinked in the torchlight. The guard had returned as promised.
He set the torch in a sconce outside, then reached down and pulled her to her feet. She brought up her chains and smacked him in the face with them. He slapped her in retaliation, swearing.