by Robin Hardy
Nihl nodded at the mention of his name, though for once he was not attending exclusively to Roman. For Izana had obtained (with Deirdre’s conniving) a soft, ginger-colored dress, close-fitting and provocatively cut. Nihl’s proud Polonti demeanor cracked slightly as he boosted Izana to her saddle—he did it with the adroitness of someone who had never seen either a horse or a woman before.
After observing them, Roman turned to Deirdre to mutter, “I blame you if I have lost my Commander.”
“Me? Why?” she exclaimed innocently.
“You’re a woman. That’s reason enough,” he answered gruffly, with an incongruous twinkle in his eye.
As the four of them rode toward the front gates with Kam and Colin walking alongside, Titan appeared with a number of people carrying torches. The new Surchatain was dressed in the fine clothes Tremelaine had altered for himself, which matched the brocade and silk Roman still wore (having been unable to find any remains of his uniform).
Titan saluted Roman, saying, “Surchatain Roman, you brought this about”—gesturing to the pile of crosses and contraptions ready to be burned— “so we ask you to do the honor of setting the first flame to it.” He held the butt of a torch out to Roman.
“Gladly.” Roman dismounted, taking the torch. He walked over to the pile and set fire to the dry wood of a cross near the bottom, then tossed the torch up to the top of the heap.
With a roar, the crowd moved in and set their torches to the pile. At once it was engulfed in flames.
Smiling, Roman backed up to the horses, then told Titan, “I’m leaving the Commander’s Second and a Captain here to help you regroup. They have their instructions as to what I expect of them. They are to have the freedom to carry out their orders however they feel necessary, answering only to me. You’d best advise your people to cooperate, for it they don’t, I’ll forget everything I said yesterday and come back with an army.”
“If you do, I’ll be the first to open the gates to you,” promised Titan.
Roman smiled wryly, “I believe you would.” He joined the other three on horseback, and they paused to watch the bonfire a moment before departing. The crowd around it chanted and sang as it blazed. Atop the pile jutted a burning crossbeam, and beneath it was the lid of the iron maiden. Something about the sight caused the brand on Roman’s chest to throb, and the sight blurred in his watering eyes.
Deirdre exulted in the spectacle of the bonfire. Somehow, no matter how awful the pain and the hurt, the Lord made the healing of it that much sweeter. She surveyed the crowd of townspeople, marveling again at how God seemed forever able to multiply good to reach as many as were suffering. It had even reached Graydon. Although he had meant to lead them out of prison to their deaths, if it had not been for his showing the way, they would never have escaped. Perhaps that was one reason he had found mercy.
She lingered on the mystery of this thought, still looking over the crowd. But when Deirdre caught sight of one particular girl, her thoughts lost some elevation. The girl was scrutinizing the Lystrans, especially Roman, who did not see her. Once or twice she turned away as if to leave, but each time she came back, eyes fixed on Roman.
Deirdre could not help feeling relieved when Roman decided it was time to depart and clucked to Fidelis. But in sudden determination the girl ran straight up to him and placed her hand on his thigh.
He startled, reining up Fidelis. While gazing up at him, the girl said some-thing—just a sentence that Deirdre could not hear. Emotion filled his face as he stared down at her. Then, to Deirdre’s absolute chagrin, he reached down and lifted the girl in a fervent embrace. She squeezed his neck, pressing her lips to his cheek. It was inexcusable behavior toward a Surchatain.
Roman lowered the girl back to the ground, and she skipped off into the crowd. He inhaled, closing his eyes a moment before twisting around to those behind him. Deirdre would not look at him. He reached over to take her hand, but she pulled it away.
“Deirdre,” he said softly. When she forced herself to meet his eyes, she was shaken to see tears tracking down his brown face. “It was the girl I freed from the traders. The one I thought was dead.”
“Oh . . . Roman . . .” she murmured, more ashamed of herself than relieved for him. “I’m so glad—”
He grabbed her with one arm and pulled her out of the saddle to kiss her. “After all this time, I’m glad to see you’re still jealous over me!” he grinned.
Deirdre blushed, as a number of people were watching. “My lord—let us be discreet—”
Roman returned her to her saddle, laughing, “You? Discreet?”
“Roman!” she exclaimed, shocked. He laughed again, and Nihl smiled, glancing impulsively at Izana to his left. The look she returned confirmed to him that asking to bring her had been a wise move.
So the homeward-bound party spurred out of the city at an eager clip—Roman on Fidelis, Deirdre on the still-unnamed black gelding, Nihl on his Arabian, and Izana on a Blood’s horse that Nihl had appropriated. The morning was aglow with victory. The recent events, which had seemed impossibly evil while in progress, now appeared to have been planned all along to demonstrate the greatest Power in the universe, ruling with the greatest love.
They traveled rapidly. The horses seemed bent on racing each other abreast down the wide, smooth road. When the party did stop for a rest at midmorning, Deirdre sighed, “Oh, I’m so anxious to see Ariel. I miss him so! I hope everything is well at the palace.”
“Of course it is,” Roman answered. “What could happen in a week?” Inwardly, however, he felt a stirring of concern that they had not met Clatus’ promised watch outside Corona.
They drank from their water bags, and Deirdre squirted a bit into her horse’s mouth. As he lipped it, she patted his nose. “There must be a good name for you somewhere,” she murmured. “Poor ol’ no name. No name. That’s it!” she laughed. “No Name. I like the sound of it.”
Roman smiled briefly at her, then said to Nihl, “I wonder what Bruc will make of what we have done in Corona.”
Nihl thought it over, watching Deirdre and Izana talk. “It will utterly baffle him. And then, if he thinks himself able, he will mobilize his forces in Polontis to attack Corona himself.”
“You think so?” Roman startled.
“It is likely, unless he has weighty reasons not to. ‘Strike while your adversary is down, lest he rise again to kill you,’” Nihl said, quoting a Polonti proverb.
“Then I will have to give him reason not to,” Roman said darkly.
“Would you attack Polontis?” Nihl asked evenly, glancing at him sidewise.
“No, not willingly. I haven’t forgotten that your brother Asgard still serves Bruc.”
“It was his choice to return to Polontis,” shrugged Nihl. “As a soldier, he knows the dangers of war.”
“Can you influence him to maintain peace?” Roman asked.
Nihl considered it a moment. “No,” he said.
“Then what else am I to do to keep their armies from destroying everything between Polontis and Seleca?” Roman asked in frustration.
“I do not know. We should ask ourselves whether you can keep them from attacking each other.”
“Obviously, I can’t,” Roman said in disgust, reaching for the saddle. “Unless . . .” he put his foot in the stirrup and threw a leg over “. . . I annex them both.”
By late afternoon they came upon the plain north of the outpost, and a half hour more brought them within sight of the fortress. Approaching, they heard a trumpet sound a call to arms. “Clatus’ watch has spotted us,” Roman grunted in satisfaction.
But no honor guard came out to meet them, and they were within a hundred yards of the outpost before they were even seen. As they reined up at the gates, a sentry took their horses and saluted, abashed. Another led them inside amid a great rush of preparation. The Surchatain’s party stood around, confounded.
Then Captain Clatus rushed up, exclaiming, “Surchatain! You have the timing of a
hawk!”
“What is happening here?” Roman demanded.
Then Deirdre cried, “Ariel! Gusta!” For they had appeared behind Clatus, Gusta in her nightdress and Ariel tired and dirty. There was confusion for several moments as they all greeted each other with kisses and embraces, all talking at once.
Finally Roman shouted, “Silence! Order!” They all stilled. “Now, Gusta, what are you doing here?”
“Surchatain,” she said tremulously, “there is revolt at the palace. We fled for our lives.”
Deirdre’s knees gave way so that she staggered, holding Ariel. Roman’s face went hard and for a moment he could not speak. “Led by whom?” he then asked in a gravelly voice.
“I’m not sure,” Gusta blurted. “By either Troyce or Basil. They’ve been at odds the entire time you’ve been gone. Finally, last night Troyce took us from the palace because he said Basil was plotting to kill your son and take over the throne. I ran from him in the forest, as I didn’t wholly trust him. But then I heard an alarm from the palace, and—we fled rather than return there. I don’t know who is fighting for you and who is against.”
“How did you get here, Gusta?” Deirdre gasped.
“Well, that is a strange tale. There was this old woman—this widow who lives hidden in the forest—she sheltered us last night, and paid an old farmer to drive us here. We arrived only minutes ago.”
There was a moment of breathlessness, then Roman spat, “Where does it end? Now I have to attack Westford!”
Chapter 17
“How are we going to attack Westford?” exclaimed Captain Clatus. “You yourself have made it impregnable!”
Roman looked coldly outside the gates. “Not against a battering ram.”
At first no one dared speak. Then Nihl said, “Surchatain, you and I and every-one else have been trying to move that machine to Westford for almost three years now, and have not succeeded.”
“We haven’t needed it before now,” he answered, turning on his heel. They all followed him outside to survey the war machine, serenely formidable amid the tall grass and ivy.
“Deirdre,” Roman said abruptly, and she jumped. “You’re looking at this with fresh eyes. How do we get it apart?”
“I have no idea!” she protested.
“Just look over it a moment,” he insisted.
Baffled, she stepped up to the monster, placing a tentative hand on it. Soldiers began gathering around to watch, but Roman waved them back a ways. Still, they observed closely as Deirdre gazed up at the beams and joints, the rusting metal screws and the pointed, metal-covered tip of the ram itself. She felt overwhelmed by this unreasonable demand of Roman’s and the skeptical stances of the soldiers. Lord, I know nothing about this, she pleaded. What do I do?
“What is this?” she asked, moving her fingers to a metal loop protruding from the main support beam.
“It’s a cotter pin,” answered Roman. “It secures the drive rope to the base.”
“Oh.” The rope had long since been removed. The pin was sitting across a six-inch slit in the beam. She tried to twist the pin to align it with the slit, but it would not move.
“The pin must remain stationary,” Roman advised her.
Leaving that, Deirdre ran her hand over the main beam, feeling for a joint, but it all seemed as solid as if it had been hewn from one tree—except for one small piece that slid in and out. When that piece was extended, then two other, larger pieces on the under side could be slid out. She glanced up at Roman and he shrugged, “Their use is not clear to us.” So she left them as they were originally.
She returned to the cotter pin. It looked so much like a key. . . . On impulse, Deirdre slid out the small piece on the beam, then the larger pieces, then turned the cotter pin clockwise. It dropped into the slot with a click.
There followed a rapid series of clicks and snaps, and then the machine sagged with a groan. Nihl reached up and pulled on a crossbeam, which came off in his hands. The disturbance of balance caused several other joints to fall apart. With quick precision, the soldiers had it completely disassembled in minutes.
Deirdre stood off to the side to watch with satisfaction, not to mention relief. Captain Clatus approached her, scratching his head. “Surchataine, I don’t know how you did that, but—well done. I must have pushed and pulled on that cotter a hundred times.”
“I asked the Lord what to do,” she said honestly. “You know I had no knowledge about it myself.” He furrowed his brow and walked away, glancing back once or twice.
Roman came up and squeezed her waist. “Somehow, I knew all along that would happen. I prayed over it countless times, but He would not reveal its secret to me. When you tell the soldiers you had no knowledge about it yourself, they believe you.”
Deirdre nodded. “Actually, you needed to know more about jewelry boxes than battering rams to get it apart.”
“Pardon?” He cocked his head down at her.
“When I asked the Lord about it, a picture of one of my jewelry boxes came to mind. This ram was constructed with the same kind of combination lock as that box,” she said.
His jaw dropped open. “So Tremaine had it locked up like a jewelry box! No wonder none of us could figure it out. We’re all just a bunch of poor soldiers.”
Nihl walked over to report, “The men are dressing out in full battle gear—all but five lookouts, who will stay here. I have a unit hitching up the ram to teams of horses. We will be ready to move at your word.”
Deirdre sighed, “I suppose you’re going to insist I stay here.”
“No,” replied Roman. “You, Ariel and Gusta must come with us. Since we’re taking almost all the soldiers, I dare not leave you here unprotected.”
Gusta, standing nearby with Ariel, bowed her head obediently, but looked profoundly weary at the idea of turning around and making another seven-hour ride back to Westford. Ariel’s head was bobbing like a newborn pup’s. Deirdre murmured, “I wish we still had Tremaine’s fine carriage here.”
“We do have a carriage,” Roman answered, lifting his face. “Not that one, but a good one we use to transport emissaries.” He sent a man to harness it up.
“By the way, Clatus, what became of the watch you were going to post outside Corona?” Roman casually asked the Captain at his side.
“We had two men hidden in the forest by the thoroughfare day and night,” Clatus quickly explained, “but day before yesterday they hied themselves back here to report soldiers storming from Corona. We fortified for an attack, but got the Chatain and then you instead.”
“No sign of the Bloodclad? Any of them?” asked Roman.
“No, Surchatain, not a one. They must have been charging elsewhere.”
Roman mulled this over, wondering if that many soldiers had turned renegade at once or if they had simply quit and gone home. The number he had seen return to Corona was nothing like the number that must have fled.
While the Lystran soldiers gathered into formation to travel, Deirdre, Gusta, Ariel, and Izana climbed into the cushioned carriage, where Ariel immediately dropped off to sleep. A soldier assigned by Roman sat in front to drive.
As twilight fell, the front gates opened again and Roman led out the outpost thousand, Nihl at his side. The carriage started out behind them, but dropped back in the ranks as the mounted men passed them. At the extreme rear, specially harnessed horses pulled the pieces of war machine on wheels.
They rode at an attack pace—just as hard as the horses could endure. As rudely as the carriage bumped and jolted, Ariel never woke. Even Gusta dozed off for weariness, so Deirdre and Izana comforted themselves by comparing intimate notes on the two men who led the ranks.
Their pace did not slacken as nighttime darkened the landscape around them, for Roman drove them in determined fury. Deirdre could only surmise what was going through his mind as they covered the miles toward treachery at home. She herself felt strangely detached, laying her head back on the cushions with one hand on her precious sl
eeping child. As long as Ariel was safe in her care, let the turmoil come to a head. God was in command.
Halfway to Westford, the vanguard spotted by the pale moonlight a lone horseman pounding full speed toward them. Roman called a halt. The rider spurred up to them, recklessly reining his frothing mount around. “Surchatain Roman!” he gasped, winded.
“Captain Reuel! What is the situation at Westford?”
“Surchatain—” Reuel swallowed “—the Chatain has disappeared, and—”
“He is here, with us,” Roman interrupted.
“He is? Thank God!” Reuel said. Then he paled like a dead man. “Oh, no. Oh, my soul,” he moaned.
“Speak up, Reuel!” Roman demanded in agitation.
“Surchatain, the Counselor is to be hanged for the murder of the Chatain.”
Roman gaped at him. “On whose order?” he sputtered.
“On the witness of Lord Troyce.”
“Gusta—?” Roman wrenched in the saddle to look for her. Word was passed through the ranks until the driver of the carriage brought it up. Deirdre blinked as the soldier reached over to tap the dozing nursemaid. She sat up, startled.
“Gusta,” demanded Roman, “say again what happened at the palace.”
She passed a hand over her face, trying to wake up. “Lord Troyce woke us and took us from the palace into the woods.”
“Did Basil threaten you?” Roman asked.
“No, not directly, sir. Troyce said the Counselor was plotting to kill your son. But, now that I think on it, Basil was the one always posting guards over him,” she admitted.
“A snake has been at work,” Nihl observed.
Roman brought his attention back to Reuel. “Who sent you?”