Liberation of Lystra (Annals of Lystra)

by Robin Hardy

  There was no reply. But in moments, he groggily discerned a change, though at first he could not tell what it was. Then he perceived through his closed lids that the sun was not so bright and burning.

  He opened his eyes a crack. The sky was darker, and growing more so by the second. He gazed heavenward. Thick clouds were gathering with incredible speed, growing darker as they merged. He heard the rolling of thunder through the skies. A moment more, and he felt a drop on his forehead; another on his shoulder. Lightning erupted from the black clouds.

  The skies split open to let the torrent fall. Roman’s racked, thirsty body sprang to respond to the downpour. He threw his head back as rain soaked his hair and ran down his bearded face. The delicious refreshment tickled him, bringing him to laughter.

  Then he could cry. Drenched with restoration, he wept out his gratitude.

  Within the palace, it had grown uncommonly dark for midday. Tremelaine stood at a window, wringing his hands as he watched the rain. “I have no choice,” he muttered. “It must be done. It must be done now.”

  He drew a gilt-handled dagger from a jeweled sheath, then paced down the corridor to the rooftop stairs.

  He ascended them at a shaky run on his short legs. A bolt of lightning crashed nearby outside, probably on the roof. The shock flattened him against the stairwell wall, causing him to gasp for breath and clutch his chest. But he clenched the knife in his fist and continued up the stairs.

  When he unlatched the rooftop door it crashed open, almost knocking him back down the stairs. It banged against the wall behind him as he stood on the landing, squinting into the rain.

  The figure on the pole still hung there, but Tremelaine staggered to hear him laughing and singing hoarsely. Roman could not turn enough to see someone at the door, but as it was, he was totally unaware of Tremelaine’s presence.

  Sighting between Roman’s shoulder blades, Tremelaine lifted the dagger with both hands and came toward him. He stopped at Roman’s back, his victim still unknowing. Tremelaine squeezed the blade handle in his dripping hands and brought the knife up over his head.

  Then a white-hot, deafening lightning bolt seared down between the two men, scorching Tremelaine and throwing him backward. That is, he thought it was a lightning bolt until, in falling away, Tremelaine looked up to see a terrible flaming warrior raising a mighty sword to crush him like a bug.

  Tremelaine fell down screaming. Roman wrenched around, but could not see him. Still screaming, Tremelaine crawled back to the door. He fell whimpering down the stairs, then threw himself into the room at the end of the corridor, crying, “You saw it! I could not do it! What can I do with him? What, what, what?”

  Bring him here.

  Tremelaine stopped dead. Then he threw his head back and howled with laughter. “I cannot even approach him and you want me to bring him here! Ha, ha, ha, ha!” He was abruptly silenced as the wind lifted him and shook him fiercely.

  It is in your power to bring him. Bring him to me!

  Tremelaine was set back down and thrust from the room. He landed at a run to race up the stairs and through the door to the roof, where the torrents had slackened to a gentle, caressing rain.

  He retrieved his dagger from where it had fallen and cut the bonds around Roman’s feet as the other watched warily. Then he desperately canvassed for the ladder—unable to locate it, he somehow shinned up the pole to cut Roman’s hands free. Roman fell, rubbing his wrists. But he quickly straightened and eyed Tremelaine with purposefulness.

  “Come!” Tremelaine grabbed Roman’s arm to pull him along. Puzzled, Roman allowed him. Tremelaine dragged him down the stairs and along the corridor to the open door of the little room, where he thrust him inside before slamming and locking the door.

  Chapter 10

  Roman held himself still in the dense darkness of the small room, feeling the intense presence of evil. The sigil of tiles in the floor began to glow like burning embers. Roman stepped away from it, watching it throb brighter and brighter. As it did, the floor beneath him began to tremble, vibrating the walls. He pressed his back to the shivering wooden door.

  Bursting up from the floor came a great gusting wind which lifted him up and battered him against the door. In the midst of the wind roared a savage voice: On your knees, mortal, before God! And the wind flung him to the floor face down.

  From deep within him came the stillness of an imparted thought: My sheep know my voice. Roman raised himself with great effort against the wind. “You are not God, whatever you are.”

  Ah, ha ha ha ha! Came rolls of wicked laughter which sought to pierce him through with arrows of terror. Worship or die, mortal!

  “Kill me, then, if you can—you’re nothing but air,” Roman gasped.

  The wind threw him backward to the floor with such force that it knocked the breath from him. When he opened his eyes, he saw hovering over him the very image of the golden idol—only alive and moving, spitting blood. Roman squeezed his eyes shut, choking back a scream.

  You are helpless before me! The voice beat on his very soul.

  “So I am,” Roman admitted in a strained whisper, as he could hardly breathe. “But He said He will never fail me or forsake me, and the Lord Jesus always stands by His excellent word.”

  There was a sudden, profound stillness. Roman felt instant release. Then he heard an unearthly scream such as he had never heard before. Instinctively Roman rolled into a corner and flattened himself to the floor. As he did, the wind roared past him, seeking escape. It blasted the locked door off the hinges and threw it ten feet down the corridor as it rushed out.

  Raising his head, Roman looked out to see Tremelaine lifted up and carried by the wind to a window at the far end of the passage. Screaming, the little man was hurled through the window, crashing through thick leaded glass.

  Roman staggered to his feet and stumbled down the corridor to the window. Far below in the wet courtyard was the Surchatain’s broken body.

  Shouts and a shrill trumpet alarm brought Roman’s head around. He dashed into the Surchatain’s chambers and rifled through the wardrobe, looking for something he could wear. Piled at the bottom were some dress uniforms which had evidently belonged to Tremaine and were awaiting alterations to fit Tremelaine. Roman plowed into these.

  With immeasurable relief at the prospect of being covered again, he yanked on silk trousers edged in gold and black leather fur-trimmed boots. Despite his relief, he shook his head in disgust as he pulled on a fussy brocade shirt with puffy sleeves, for he had always despised finery.

  On his way out, he deliberately avoided the large, bronze-framed looking glass, but something near it caught his eye. Roman reached down to pick up a magnificent gold and leather sheath, and from it drew the finest steel sword he had ever laid eyes on. Its ebony hilt bore the word Azrael.

  “Whoever you served before, Azrael, you will serve me now,” smiled Roman, strapping the sheath on his hip. He hefted the sword, admiring its perfect balance, then grasped the door handle. He paused. “Lord God, you have truly been with me in everything; go before me now.”

  He threw open the door and ran toward the stairway. Two Bloods appeared from the stairs, drawing their weapons as they approached. Roman swung his sword in a scintillating arc, striking their blades and knocking them off balance. They toppled down the stairs and he followed in leaps, jumping the last four steps to the floor.

  Another Blood appeared around the corner and Roman raised Azrael again. But this Blood held up his hands, exclaiming, “Wait! Wait! I’m Lew, one of the townspeople from the dungeon!”

  Roman lowered the sword. “Then let’s go below and get the others.”

  In the confusion of the alarm, most of the soldiers had run to the courtyard. Upon seeing the Surchatain’s body, Captain Tarl had led them up to the rooftop. As the Bloods bolted up the stairway, Roman and Lew ran unobserved to the dungeon.

  The two edged with cautious speed down the dungeon stairs, then Lew grabbed a torch and led Rom
an down the passage. They threw open the door to the cell, and the fugitives within leaped up.

  Deirdre gasped, “Roman!” For his appearance this time was as much a shock as before. He was glittering and gorgeous, the delicate materials aglow against his burned brown skin.

  Before anything else, he took her to him and kissed her while the others gazed in speechless amazement. Roman loosed her a little and directed the group, “Follow me quickly. I’m sure the Bloods have gone up to the roof, where I was bound. We must get weapons and attack while they’re still up there.”

  Nihl, Colin and Lew jumped forward. “We have some swords already,” Colin said. “There are more in a niche off the audience hall.”

  As they began to move out, Roman glanced wryly at Deirdre. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to stay down here with the women.”

  “Not the smallest chance,” she replied sweetly.

  Orvis rose, fastening his vest. “Will you stay here, Vida?” he asked hope-lessly.

  “Indeed not, my lord,” she answered, glancing at Deirdre. “For I do believe I’m a better fighter than you.”

  Roman grinned slightly and glanced around. “Where is Kam?”

  “He has infiltrated the Ninth Division,” answered Nihl. “We must watch for him.”

  Nodding, Roman redirected stern eyes toward the townspeople, particularly the seven men who stood against the cell wall. “Come quickly. We must catch them on the roof.”

  The others looked at Graydon, who said, “We are not fighting with you.”

  As Roman turned to scrutinize him, Deirdre burst out, “Graydon! Why not!”

  “We do not recognize his authority over us,” Graydon answered, crossing his arms.

  Deirdre opened her mouth but Roman put a restraining hand on her arm. He began, “Tremelaine is dead—”

  “I know,” interrupted Graydon.

  “Then stay here if you wish,” Roman said coolly. “But when I am through above, I will come back down and kill you. Because if you don’t fight with me, I must assume you are against me. In this battle, there is no neutral party.”

  He turned up the tunnel with long strides, Nihl and Colin flanking him. Lew did not hesitate to follow him. Deirdre watched Orvis and Vida glance at each other, then hurry after the deposer of Tremelaine.

  Colin voiced what several might have been thinking: “Surchatain, how shall we seven fight against the whole Bloodclad?”

  “Eight, with Kam,” Roman replied. “And ten thousand times ten thousand with the Lord.” Colin nodded unsteadily, but Deirdre was fired with anticipation of great happenings.

  Out in the corridor they found the niche Colin had mentioned, and everyone took a weapon. Deirdre selected a half-sized blade she could handle, though not with great skill. Vida took up a slender saber to test it knowledgeably. Deirdre looked on in admiration, feeling a sudden desire to tell Vida how well she could handle a bow.

  Then Roman led them swiftly up the stairs. They flew down the corridor to the rooftop stairway. They had ascended halfway up when the door above opened and the Bloods, having found the roof empty, began descending. Nihl drew up alongside Roman so that the two of them blocked the stairway completely.

  Seeing them, the Bloods charged with their long, heavy blades. But in the confines of the stairway, no more than two abreast could fight. The two Bloods who led the attack got in each other’s way trying to strike, whereas Nihl parried while Roman lunged, and the two Bloods went down. The second two, disadvantaged by having to maneuver over their stricken comrades, fell also.

  One Blood above attempted to throw his sword like a javelin at Roman, but Nihl knocked it clattering against the wall; disarmed, the Blood fell back. After a few more minutes of frantic battling and useless maneuvering, Captain Tarl called a retreat back up to the rainy rooftop.

  Nihl began to charge up after them, but Roman grabbed his arm. “Wait! It’s better for us here—” He twisted to those below. “Does anyone know if there is another way down from the roof?”

  He was answered by dumb silence. Then Deirdre exclaimed, “I know how to find out!” She gave her dagger to Vida and raced down the stairs.

  She ran nonstop to the kitchen on the first floor, then stopped for just a moment to catch her breath. When she entered the kitchen, she saw all the servants gathered at the windows, looking out into the courtyard and talking excitedly: “Who could they be going after?” “The escaped prisoners, surely—” “But who was on the roof?—”

  Deirdre had come intending to draw Izana aside and pump her for the needed information, but now she got a better idea. At that instant Izana turned from the window and saw her. The maid frowned, pointing at Deirdre, “You’re a stranger here. Who are you? Do you know what has happened?”

  Deirdre said, “I am Surchataine Deirdre of Lystra. My husband Roman, the Surchatain, has deposed Tremelaine and now asks your aid. Is there anyone here who wishes to fight with him against the Bloodclad?”

  The kitchen servants, four men and six women, stood gaping at Deirdre. Then one little old man, the head cook, raised his fist with a shrill battle cry: “AAIEE! To the fight!” He lunged forward, the others behind him.

  They would have bolted pell-mell past Deirdre had she not seized him, crying, “Wait! Roman needs to know how many ways there are up to the roof.”

  “Two,” said the old man. “Only two.” He had sharp eyes and short, spiky white hair. His face looked like tanned leather laid across high cheekbones. His jaw jutted out with determination—no stranger to conflict, he.

  “Come show him quickly.” Deirdre led them at a run to the rooftop stairs.

  “Roman!” she panted, reaching Vida at the rear of the group.

  He looked down in mild alarm. “Deirdre—who is with you?”

  “The kitchen servants. They want to join you!”

  “Long live Surchatain Roman!” cried the old cook, raising his fist again.

  “Thank you,” Roman said, peering down. “But is there another passage up to the roof?”

  “Yes sir!”

  Roman came down the stairs, instructing, “Nihl, come with me. Colin, you and Lew block this doorway.” Then to the cook: “Show me quickly.”

  “The only other way up is on the far side of the palace,” rasped the old cook. “We have to go through the courtyard to the east tower. It’s a straight run on the roof, though.”

  “Quickly, then,” urged Roman. The feisty fellow whisked them to the door leading to the open courtyard, where they paused. “They didn’t all go to the roof, did they?” Roman muttered, scanning the grounds.

  “No sir!” said the cook. “Several divisions rode out in a big rush. Went south, I heard.”

  Roman and Nihl glanced warily at each other, but Nihl reasoned, “The out-post is well defended.”

  In the slackening rain, they traversed the yard to the east tower. “This way,” pointed the cook. They followed him down a short corridor to a tightly winding iron staircase.

  As they climbed to the top, they heard banging sounds echoing down. Rounding the last bend of the stairs, they saw one Blood lying motionless on the landing while another was striving to hold the rooftop door shut against the pounding of those behind it.

  At the sound of their footfalls, the Blood jerked his head around and grinned. “Surchatain—good to see you—didn’t know how long I could hold them back.”

  “Kam, you are an excellent fellow,” muttered Roman. The cook brought an iron bar from a corner and slid it in place against the door.

  Kam exhaled, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Think they’ll be able to hack through it?” he asked, looking over the iron-banded hardwood door.

  “No sir, not this one,” assured the cook, patting it proudly. “Not for a long, long time.”

  Kam arched a brow at him. “Who are you, sir?”

  “I am Titan,” he answered, drawing up his entire five feet, daring anyone to find irony in the name.

  “We already owe much to this
man’s courage,” said Roman. Titan took on a positive swagger. “I’m thinking,” Roman added as they walked away from the commotion behind the barred door, “that it may spare us fighting to simply lock the Bloods up on the roof. Nihl, you and Kam go back to that first stairway. See if you can bar that door also.”

  “Where do we meet you, Surchatain?” asked Kam. “The dungeon?”

  “Not yet. I’ll give those below time to change their minds,” replied Roman. Kam hesitated, not knowing what he was talking about, but Roman was already on to something else: “For now . . . Titan, can you find us something to eat?”

  “Can I!” he declared. “The best roast beef you ever tasted, with thick brown gravy, and fresh-baked white bread—”

  “Just—show me,” Roman interrupted, putting one hand on Titan’s shoulder and the other on his own empty stomach.

  “We’ll meet you in the kitchen, then,” said Kam.

  “Yes. Once you secure that door, bring the others there to eat and plan our next move,” Roman said. Nihl and Kam saluted as they sprinted away.

  Titan took Roman back to the deserted kitchen and emptied a roasting rack from the fireplace onto a worktable. Roman stood over him as he began slicing thin strips of tender pink meat. While Roman got his fill of beef, Titan brought out bread and wine. Eyeing him, Roman asked, “How long have you been here, Titan?”

  “I served Tremaine eight years, and every Surchatain after him,” he answered.

  “Who besides Tremelaine?” asked Roman. “Rollet?”

  “No, sir. Tremaine’s son Rollet never ruled as Surchatain. He just led a worthless band of renegades.”

  “Then who ruled before Tremelaine?” Roman asked, breaking open the cork on the bottle of wine.

  “Lord Graydon,” replied Titan.

  “Graydon?” Roman repeated, pausing. The name rang familiar. “Was he in prison?”

  “Aye.” Titan held up a cup for Roman to pour the wine.

  “How long did he reign before Tremelaine deposed him?”