by Robin Hardy
The fellow looked up with twinkling eyes. “Because I like you. You’re going to win.”
“How do you know that?” Deirdre pressed, smiling.
“Either you’re crazy or you really have the power to beat ol’ Graydon. And you don’t look too crazy to me,” he judged, squinting.
Roman turned his head to smile wryly at no one in particular. “Thank you, Titan. You’re a real encourager.”
The band of eighteen warriors ate as the morning sun spilled into the kitchen. “This is such a beautiful place,” murmured Deirdre. “It’s a shame that it has been ruled by such awful men.”
“We thought we had a good one in Graydon,” Orvis reflected despondently. “We had been working so hard to make Corona into something decent again, and Graydon promised to lead us that way. Now, it’s hard to tell who is honest and who is not.”
“You can be confident in Roman,” Kam said stoutly.
“We are confident in the Lord,” Roman answered. “Left to myself, I’ve already seen what I can do—nothing.” He shook his head over the months he had spent here in Corona, fruitlessly searching for Deirdre.
“What now?” asked Orvis.
Roman replied, “First, Colin, you and Lew go check those rooftop doors and make sure they are still fast.”
“Surchatain.” They saluted as they left.
While they were gone, the rest sat or stood around the large work table. Roman scratched the stubble of his beard and thought aloud, “What we do now depends on Graydon’s next move. I can only pray the Lord gives us the resources to deal with whatever he throws at us. Unless something is brought to our attention, I see nothing more profitable than waiting.”
Roman paused, assessing Orvis. “It might help to know more about him.”
Deirdre added, “Yes, Vida—how much of what Graydon told us at your house was the truth?”
“Well, some,” she said uncomfortably. “He and Galen did find the book, and did compete to work spells. Then suddenly they were both living at the palace, Graydon sitting on the throne and calling himself Lord Graydon. Galen was supposed to be his administrator, or something, until they concocted that plan of putting Graydon in prison. I wonder why he allowed you to escape the dungeon and take him with you?”
Nihl said, “He had to play the part, at first. He did not know who we were, nor why we were in prison. By the time he discovered that, we were out of the dungeon and he was outnumbered.”
“You remember,” added Kam, “the first thing he did was take us to the wall to show us how to get out. It’s a good thing we didn’t try it, because the Bloods knew all along about that hidden passage. If we had tried to use it, they would have slaughtered us like cattle.”
“When we refused to leave, what could he do? To take us to a place with a red circle would have betrayed the truth about him at once,” continued Nihl. Izana studied him as he spoke. “Then the Surchataine’s idea of coming back to the dungeon trapped him further. He could not reveal himself then, for he had already told us too many lies. It seems he was maneuvered into helping us, though we were ignorant of it at the time.” He paused, leaving open the question of who had manipulated Graydon.
“Do the ones with him now know he ruled from prison?” Roman asked. Nihl looked questioningly at Orvis.
“There is no reason that they should!” answered Orvis. “We would not have known, had you not told us.”
Roman deduced, “Then Graydon is leading the townspeople that remain, and possibly a number of the Bloodclad.” No one argued this.
Kam ventured, “If Graydon can blame you for Galen’s death, then he might incite the people to storm the palace and hang you.”
“If Graydon blames Galen’s death on you, the people are likely to give you Seleca in gratitude,” Orvis snorted.
About this time Colin and Lew returned. “Surchatain, the doors are fast. We listened, but could hear nothing from the other side,” Colin reported.
Roman nodded, staring into space. “I suppose it would be prudent to post a watch at the front entrance of the palace. It’s pointless to prevent Graydon’s coming, but at least we need to know when he does. Kam, you go first. And try to keep out of sight.”
After he had left, Roman resumed, “I assume, then, that Graydon has been practicing sorcery also?”
Orvis said, “Yes. And he was good at it. Now, with Galen dead, he can only be stronger. Are—are you a sorcerer, sir?” he asked timidly.
“In no way,” Roman answered. “I am a Christian.”
Orvis did not appear particularly relieved, but that seemed to exhaust the questions for the time being. They settled back somewhat uneasily to wait.
In the same dark room he had been in the night before, Graydon paced edgily near a small cauldron on the table. Even in daylight, the room looked no brighter than it had at midnight. There seemed to be a haze occluding what little light filtered in through the boarded-up window. Yet there was no fire in the room to account for the haze.
Graydon paused over the cauldron and glanced at the door. He was apparently waiting for something vital. He sat in the chair to rest, but then sprang up as if prodded by a hot iron and began to pace again.
At last he wheeled expectantly toward the door, and within seconds heard rapid footfalls. Berk entered. “I brought all that you ordered, Lord Graydon—”
Graydon jerked the canvas satchel from his hand and poured out the contents, some alive, on the table. “Now get me fire quickly,” Graydon ordered.
Berk glanced around, confused. “But there is no hearth—”
“Just a torch, man!” Graydon shouted as he began dismembering something wriggling over the pot. He stopped, placing a hand over his eyes as if to prompt his memory. “I must get that book,” he mumbled to himself.
Berk privately gave him a murderous look as he left the room, but returned with the torch. “Why the haste?” he muttered, not liking all these weird orders.
“He is not—doing what I had anticipated. He is becoming . . . dangerous. He must be stopped at any cost,” Graydon murmured disjointedly as he concentrated on what he was doing.
Berk grinned, “What’re you going to do to him?”
“I can’t touch him!” Graydon whispered, abruptly staring up at the wall. “Why? What is blocking me? I must go deal with him myself.” He returned to assembling the ingredients in the cauldron.
“How?” Berk asked curiously.
“Stop questioning me! Go arm your men at once.”
Berk stepped out with a wary glance over his shoulder and saw Graydon passing the torch over the pot. The Captain shut the door. In the corridor he paused, sniffing, and turned to see heavy red smoke curling out from under the door. He ran.
In the palace kitchen, the group sat waiting for the unknown to dictate their actions. The servants entertained themselves in the meanwhile with a crude gambling game of shells and nuts, but the Lystrans were on guard, clustered around Roman. Izana wandered from the group of servants to sit near Nihl, and smiled at him. Titan, too, divided his attention between the game, the door, and Roman.
Suddenly they all heard the faint echoes of an explosion. They jumped, looking around, then upward. “That came from above,” said Colin. “Do you suppose—?”
But then Kam appeared breathless at the kitchen doorway. “Surchatain—Graydon approaches with the Bloods behind him!”
“Arm yourselves quickly,” Roman instructed, standing. As Deirdre stood, he turned to her. “Deirdre, I command you and the other women to hide yourselves in the nearest storeroom.”
She opened her mouth from habit, then slowly shut it. She, Vida, Izana, and the other five women slipped out of the kitchen and plopped down in a small storeroom.
That left ten men against Graydon and his Bloods, however many there were. Roman unsheathed Azrael and said aloud, “Lord God, please go before us and fight for us.” Then they left the kitchen and strode to the audience hall at the front of the palace.
As they e
ntered the hall, Nihl gestured sharply to his left. The Bloods under Captain Tarl who had been trapped on the roof were descending the stairs in a fury. Kam took a step back to look through a corridor window and saw more Bloods pouring from the east tower.
Then through the main door of the audience hall came Graydon, with Captain Berk and the remainder of the Bloodclad behind him. Roman’s group stopped in the hall, facing Graydon. The sorcerer held up a restraining hand to Captain Tarl and the men coming from the stairs. The Bloods from the east tower entered the hall behind Roman and halted there. Roman’s men were completely surrounded.
Chapter 12
Graydon glanced around the hall full of Bloods to make sure Roman knew he was surrounded. Then he told Roman, “It was not wise of you to come here. Yes, you defeated Galen, but he had become weak and eccentric. I gave your companions the chance to escape alive, and they would have, but for you. You should never have come.”
“I had no choice but to come,” answered Roman. “I came under orders.”
“And now you will die,” Graydon said, which seemed likely to some of those with Roman.
“Not until I have accomplished what I was sent to do,” Roman maintained.
His naiveté amused Graydon. “Should I throw up my hands and let you kill me, then?” he asked.
“I don’t want to kill you,” Roman said. “But you must renounce the dark powers you serve and be done with them.”
Graydon’s face twitched slightly. “I do not serve them. They serve me.”
“You’re quite mistaken. That’s what your brother Galen thought, also. And they killed him when he was of no more use to them,” Roman told him.
“This talk is worthless, Lord Graydon!” Berk exploded. “Kill him now!”
Roman did not take his gaze from Graydon. “The dark powers use anyone who allows them to. And they destroy everyone they use.”
Graydon’s breathing began to deepen. “You don’t know their strength. They don’t let go so easily.”
“The power of the Lord Jesus is greater. How do you think I survived all that Tremelaine tried to do to me?” Roman asked.
Graydon’s eyes widened as he stared at Roman, daring to consider that what he said was actually possible. There must be another force interfering with the dark powers, else this Lystran would be dead many times over by now. At this moment the unprecedented thought occurred to Graydon that he had the choice to say no.
Then from above came a rumbling. Those in the audience hall felt the mosaic floor beneath them shivering. To the last man, they looked up the stone stairs in mounting fear or wonder.
Faces drained white to see rolling down the stairs a thick red fog. Neither vapor nor liquid, it oozed down the steps, trailing a fine red mist.
Suddenly it condensed tightly and shot like a projectile toward Graydon. The men around him saw it and dodged. But it closed around Graydon’s head and then seemed to disappear. Graydon’s look changed to fury and he pointed to Roman, commanding, “Kill them!” The Bloods charged Roman’s band.
The ten backed up in a circle as they were assaulted on all sides. While the Bloods closed in on them, slashing with their broadswords, Graydon stood aside and watched. The small band had to fight desperately just to parry the strikes of so many blades. Roman knocked one Blood’s sword into the Blood next to him, and Nihl used the disruption to finish him, but another Blood took his place.
The circle grew tighter, as some of those who were unskilled fighters fell back. A servant dropped his sword in despair, falling down, and Roman felt the rush of air from a swinging blade behind him.
But then there seemed to be a distraction on the outer edge of the Bloods. A number began slipping and falling. As they caught hold of each other, more were pulled down. Then one cried out, “The mist! The red mist is coming back!”
In a blind panic, Bloods began shouting and stumbling for the doors. They were falling down, jumping up, falling again, lunging out. In a few minutes the hall was cleared of Graydon’s soldiers. He stood alone, blinking blankly, as though he had just awakened. “Surchatain! Seize him!” gasped Nihl.
Roman took hold of Graydon’s coat and raised his sword. But as he gazed at the helpless sorcerer, he slowly lowered his weapon and released him. Graydon ran from the hall.
Titan muttered, “Well, I’ll be a horsetail. Look at that.” He was staring down at a vast scattering of dried beans all over the floor. Peeking around the corner were Deirdre and the other women, holding empty gunnysacks.
“They’re gone!” she shrieked jubilantly, skirting the beans to run up to Roman and embrace him.
He received her, shaking his head. “Now how did you think of that?”
She laughed, “It was Vida’s idea!”
“Surchatain,” Nihl said stonily, “why . . . why did you let him go?”
Sighing, Roman carefully wiped his fine sword. “Why kill the slave when your quibble is with his master? Of himself, Graydon’s no threat to us. Somehow, he must be convinced to willingly renounce the dark powers.”
Nihl looked disturbed, not agreeing at all, but put away his sword. Izana impulsively stepped toward him. He looked at her, turned away, but then turned to look at her again. She came up closer and said something to him.
Meanwhile, Roman walked over to the stairway, raising his eyes to something lying in wait at the top. “There is one thing I see that we must do right now.” He glanced back at the group. “Kam, you and Colin take the others back to the kitchen and wait for us. Nihl, you and Deirdre come with me. We’re going to shut one door of entry those powers have here.”
As Roman led them up the stairs, Deirdre asked, “Roman, what door?”
“There is a room which Tremelaine evidently used to summon the dark powers. I believe that’s where the red mist came from. Somehow, we must render that room useless,” he said, leading Nihl and Deirdre off the stairs and down the corridor. They passed the wrecked door still lying in the corridor.
Three feet from the black entrance to the sorcerer’s room, they stopped and peered within. “What is it that we should do, Surchatain?” whispered Nihl.
Roman did not immediately answer, for he was reliving the awful experience of being in this room. A great reluctance came over him. Oh, forget it. There’s nothing in there now. I have too much else to worry about—
He shook his head emphatically. “We must go in, and—” You had better not. Remember what happened last time? “—and destroy the pattern on the floor, made of tiles—” That thing will come up at you again! And what about Deirdre?
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Lord Jesus, surround us with your protection.” He turned to Deirdre. “Do you still have your knife?”
“Yes,” she said, wondering.
Roman told them both, “There is a design set in the floor. We must obliterate it by prying up the tiles. As we do, you may see or hear some frightening things. Just—ignore them, and keep your attention on what you are doing. The Lord is our shield.”
They entered the room and knelt, feeling in the dimness for the clay tiles. Nihl found the first and dug it up with his blade. At once there was a ripple in the air, and they all heard a hollow, mocking voice call out, “Drud! Filthy drud! No woman would have you! You’ll always be a slave!” Nihl set his jaw and popped up another tile.
Deirdre nervously touched a tile and yelped, putting her fingers to her mouth. “It burned me!”
“It can’t hurt you. Dig it out,” Roman said sternly. Obediently, she wedged her blade under it and pried it up. Then she gasped as the image of her beloved nursemaid, Nanna, now three years dead, appeared in the room. Weeping, Nanna put her hand to a terrible bleeding gash in her midriff and pleaded, “Darling, don’t! You’re hurting me so!” Gulping, Deirdre lowered her head and forcefully pried up another tile. Nihl attended nothing but the floor.
Roman had located tiles at the far edge of the sigil and was destroying them with ruthless efficiency. The floor began to shake a
nd a gust of air blew up. It sat Deirdre back on her heels, but Roman noticed it had not near its earlier potency. “Stop it!” he ordered. The air stilled.
Encouraged, they continued to dig up tiles. Then a faint, wavering image appeared before them. Roman looked up before he could think about it.
It was the image of the little girl he had freed while searching the slave markets, the one he had thought at first to be Deirdre. She held out pleading hands to him and begged, “Please let me stay. Don’t kill me again.”
“Kill you—again?” he murmured.
“Ignore it!” said Nihl.
“Do you know what happened to me after you released me? Some renegades found me. Do you know what they did to me?” As she began to describe how horribly they had abused her, Roman’s blade dropped from his limp fingers.
“Roman, don’t listen to it!” Deirdre urged, shaking him, but his face was fixed in horror to think that he had been responsible for her suffering. Not knowing what else to do, Deirdre and Nihl tore up tiles as fast as they could while Roman sat weakly and unwillingly listening to the pitiful tale.
The image grew fainter; the voice distant. Finally, as Deirdre and Nihl found and broke up the last tiles, the vision vanished with a sigh and all was still.
They took hold of Roman’s arms and pulled him from the room, benumbed and pale. “Roman, you know that was not really the girl. You know that was one of the dark powers trying to dismay you!” Deirdre exclaimed, holding him.
“Yes, Roman,” Nihl added with quiet intensity.
Roman stirred and blinked. “But—but what if that really happened to her?”
“They’re lying, Roman! They would say anything to discourage you!” Deirdre argued.
“I still don’t know what happened to her.”
“Whatever happened to her is not your doing—” she began, but he turned on her passionately.
“Yes, it is!” he exploded. “I released her, but I would not ward her!”
“She wouldn’t let you!” Deirdre shouted back. “You must not torment your-self over what happened three years ago!”