Liberation of Lystra (Annals of Lystra)

by Robin Hardy

  Roman looked down at his limp arm. “Are my days of strength ended?” he whispered. “Then here am I, God: a useless warrior.”

  When Effie called him to dinner from the other room, he shuffled in and sat at the table like an old man. She bustled happily about, putting out cracked pottery and pouring well water to drink, as the ale had run out.

  Her effervescence certainly did not lighten his load any, for it merely reminded him that she was expecting him to do something for her which he did not know if he could do. Indeed, he did not know what to do for her at all. Take her to the palace? As what? What would she do there? What would Deirdre think of it? And what was to be done about brother Pax?

  Effie cheerfully put a spicy cabbage slaw on the table, and then a roast goose. Roman stared. “Effie—you killed one of your geese!”

  “Of course I did. I can’t have goose every night, but I will when the Surchatain come to visit!” She said it laughing, but in utter faith that he was who he said he was.

  A smile cracked his dour face. She hugged his neck, urging, “Let’s celebrate! You and I!” She insistently pulled him from his chair to make him dance with her.

  “All right, Effie; you win, you win.” He tried to maintain some dignity as they stumbled around the small room in a clumsy waltz, knocking the table, overturning a chair, and almost landing in the fireplace hearth, but he finally succumbed to laughter.

  Watching her, he had to. Without knowing what would happen tomorrow or how he would fulfill his promise to her, she entertained no doubt that somehow he would make everything all right. Her faith in him rebuked him, so that he had to admit, “You’re right to celebrate, Effie. You believe me . . . and I believe Him.” She laughed, too caught up in the fun of the moment to ask what he meant.

  Chapter 28

  When the embers of the fire had burned down to a soft orange glow and Roman had retired to his cot in the lean-to for the night, Effie, still smiling, cleaned up the remains of their celebration. She took extra care to sweep the floor and rinse out the kettle; for some reason, she felt the need to set the hut in order tonight.

  She was just going to the door to bolt it when she heard hoofbeats. She peeked out apprehensively, and saw a rider approach and dismount. Paling, Effie backed into the hut. The rider swaggered in, pushing her aside to flop down at the table and demand, “Here I’ve come home and you don’t even have a pot on the fire! Where’s my dinner, snip?”

  “Pax,” she murmured, her face tightening at his entrance. “I didn’t know you were . . .” she faltered as he slapped the leather pouch, now flat, onto the table by the candle. “Where did you get the horse?” she mumbled, eyes on the pouch. The side with the imprint was down.

  “Oh, that nag?” he said smugly, glancing outside. “I just made a smart deal with a stupid old horse trader up near Dansington.” He went on to describe how he had outwitted the trader into selling it for a pittance. Pax was so pleased with himself over this that he not only forgot about dinner, but neglected to notice Effie surreptitiously turning the pouch over.

  “And then this old fool told me he had to have forty royals for this mule —forty royals! And I told him—I told him . . . what are you staring at?” he demanded uneasily. There was anger building to fury in her eyes. It unsettled him, as it should have, for he had never seen it in her before.

  “Where did you get this pouch?” she asked in a low voice, showing him the lion and the cross on it. His brows knitted and he shrugged nervously.

  “Where did you get this pouch?” she screamed, shaking it in his face.

  “Settle down, girl!” he shouted, grabbing the pouch away.

  “You did it!” she cried. “You were the one! You monster!” She landed a fist so solidly on his chest that it knocked the wind out of him.

  “I’m leaving,” she declared, backing away to disjointedly gather some things. “I’m going to live with Oweda and Mathias. You take care of yourself. I’m leaving.”

  This snapped him instantly out of his daze. “No, you’re not,” he snarled. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “I am!” she said, dropping her armload of shabby belongings. “Murderer!”

  He froze. Then he slowly drew a knife from his belt. “Come here, Effie.”

  In a voice dripping with sarcasm, she replied, “Are you going to kill your own sister now? Well, I don’t think you can. You tried to kill the Surchatain, but you couldn’t!” She looked away from him to a point beyond his right shoulder.

  “What . . . ?” His expression went from malice to confusion to clouded fear. Hesitantly, he turned to look over his shoulder. Roman stood in the doorway of the lean-to, watching Pax with stony eyes.

  Pax wobbled like a drunkard, then gripped his knife. “I got you a good hit. You got to be hurt,” he breathed hoarsely.

  “Try me,” Roman uttered.

  Unwilling to risk a hand-to-hand encounter with a bigger man, Pax lifted the blade to throw it, but Roman pulled his own dagger from his belt. “You had better not miss.”

  “I have friends!” Pax shouted irrationally. “You hurt me and they’ll come after you!”

  “Finish what you started,” Roman baited, taking a step.

  Pax wheeled to make a grab for Effie, but she darted away to hide behind Roman.

  “Fight me, man, not the child!” Roman spat in contempt. Pax, sweating, clutched his knife. Roman continued, “Have you ever heard what the Qarqarians do to someone who collects pay when a job’s left undone? Or are you too cowardly to fight a man whose face is to you?”

  Pax sprang forward and Roman thrust his good shoulder out to meet him. Effie screamed as they made contact. There were movements too rapid to follow, and the glint of a blade between them. They both stopped as if struck, but it was Pax who slumped to the floor.

  Gasping, Effie stood over her brother’s body. Roman whispered, “Effie, I’m sorry.” He drew his bleeding left forearm behind his back.

  “What shall we do? What shall we do?” she moaned, wringing her hands. Roman tried to gather her in to comfort her, but she was not grieving, she was worried. “He does have friends, and they’re meaner than bulldogs!”

  “It seems I’m responsible for you now,” Roman muttered. “I had better get you away from here.”

  “But where can we go?” she asked anxiously.

  “That’s easy. I am going to take you to Oweda and Mathias,” he said, step-ping over Pax.

  “But they’re not in Westford!” she wailed. “They’ve gone to Calle Valley for a fair.”

  “Then we’ll go to Calle Valley and find them there,” he replied, stooping to pick up the leather pouch. He took the few coins that remained in it and dropped the pouch beside Pax’s body. “Have you any more money? Any at all?”

  “Yes.” She scurried to find her little cloth bag and show him the two royals.

  He bounced them in his palm. “That’s still not enough. Have you anything else of value?”

  “What about the horse?”

  “We’ll need him to ride,” he answered, looking out the door of the hut.

  “Well,” she offered, “I have my geese.”

  “Round them up, and we’ll take them to the poulterer tonight,” he instructed. “Perhaps he’ll give us a bed for the night, too.” Effie darted outside as Roman ransacked the hut for supplies. When he came out, he helped her herd the eight geese together. Effie led them away from the hut with a leash on the neck of the biggest gander while Roman led the horse behind them.

  “Which way to the road?” he called quietly.

  “We had better stay off the road tonight,” Effie returned over her shoulder. “That’s the surest place to meet Pax’s friends.”

  “Robbers? On my road?” Roman asked indignantly.

  Effie smiled sardonically. “They forgot to ask your leave.” She took him instead on an obscure path parallel to the road, and within a half hour they came to the livestock section of Westford.

  They coaxed the geese i
nto the dark, smelly streets, past the butcher’s and tanner’s, then stopped at a house flanked by pens of chickens. Roman beat twice on the door, and a dog inside began barking. A voice called, “What? Who’s there?”

  “Surchatain Roman,” he replied, his mouth close to the door.

  “Should you tell him that?” Effie whispered.

  “Sure, and I’m the Almighty,” the voice answered irately. “Go away!”

  “I am the Surchatain!” Roman put more depth in his tone. “Stop your profaning and open the door!”

  There was sudden quiet within, then the door barely opened a crack. A hand stuck out to lift a candle to Roman’s bearded face. “By my mercurial stars, it is the Surchatain! Hey, Elyria, we got the Surchatain out here!” A voice in the background replied something to the effect of that being impossible and he needed to soak his head to clean his ears.

  The poulterer left Roman standing at the door while he argued with the unseen Elyria that he had seen the Surchatain often at open audience in the mornings and he knew that it was in fact Surchatain Roman standing on his doorstep at this very moment. So Elyria came to the door herself to scrutinize Roman, Effie, the geese, and the horse. “What do you want?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Forgive the intrusion, lady, but I have been put out of pocket by an assassin’s attempt on my life. I have some work to do, and we want to know if you will buy this girl’s geese and put us up for the night,” Roman said politely.

  “We’ll buy the geese,” the woman said, “but if you’re really the Surchatain, why don’t you go home and sleep in your palace?”

  “I will. But first I promised to deliver this girl safely to her guardians, and then I must find the man who paid for my murder. Until then I need to stay out of sight, so please don’t tell anyone you have seen me.”

  “Of course,” she said sarcastically. “There’s the pens. Go put up your animals and make yourself a bed there,” she pointed.

  “In the pens?” Roman asked, embarrassed.

  “Yes, in the pens,” she said firmly. “I’ll send my husband out to pay you for your geese in the morning.” And she closed the door.

  Roman and Effie glumly fenced the geese, tied the horse, and gathered dry hay to make a bed. She kept glancing sideways at him until he pointed a fistful of hay at her and threatened, “If you ask me whether I’m really the Surchatain, I’ll turn you over my knee!” She hastily mumbled that the doubt had never crossed her mind.

  The poulterer sheepishly came out to them with leftovers from dinner. “Beg pardon, Surchatain, it’s all she’ll let me bring you. She doesn’t believe you.”

  “I can understand that. But why doesn’t she believe you?” Roman asked testily.

  “Women. You know how they are,” the poulterer replied vaguely.

  “No, but I’m learning. Tell me, have you seen any Qarqarians in town? They like to wear those long red robes, even in summer.”

  “Yes, they’ve had merchants here, with a good load of ore,” the poulterer confirmed.

  “You mean Lystra is honoring the trade agreement with them?” Roman demanded.

  “And why not? It’s a profitable deal, Surchatain.”

  “I was hoping Nihl would raze Hornbound,” Roman muttered.

  “What’s that?” asked the poulterer, turning his ear.

  “Can you deliver a message for me?” Roman asked suddenly.

  “Readily, Surchatain. Tell me what you want said, and to who.”

  “No,” Roman reconsidered, shoulders drooping. “That won’t work—I tried it once. Do you have paper?”

  “Of course,” the man huffed.

  “Then bring me some, and a quill.”

  The poulterer brought the items, and Roman sat down to write out a few lines. Then he rolled it up and tied it with the lacing from his shirt. Standing, he handed it to the merchant. “Please give this message to Commander Nihl. You can find him any morning on the palace grounds, watching the soldiers drill. Tell him it’s for Surchataine Deirdre. When she sees it, she’ll know it’s from me because she’ll recognize the hand.”

  “Right, Surchatain,” he said, taking the roll.

  “If Nihl is not there, give it to the Second Kam—but no one else. Will you do that?”

  “Sure,” the poulterer said, imagining that there was liable to be a large monetary compensation involved for the delivery of this letter. If not, he intended to ask for one. “Oh—Surchatain—one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m going to pay you for the geese tonight. Regardless of what the missus says, I trust you.” He handed Roman a few silver pieces.

  “Thank you,” Roman replied in a slightly imperial tone.

  “But, could you be out of the pens before sunrise? The problem is, you see—” he laughed in vague embarrassment. “Our customers come early and the missus doesn’t want anyone to see you here.”

  “Yes,” Roman said, shrinking back down to size.

  “Fine. Good night.” Leaving the Surchatain in the hay, the poulterer returned to his house. After undressing, he tucked the little scroll under his clothes and climbed into bed beside his wife.

  The following morning, the poulterer was still snoring when Elyria rose to begin her chores. Shaking out their clothes as she usually did, she discovered the scroll bound with gold cording. Curious, she unrolled it and read, “My love. I am well, but I cannot come home yet. Wait for me. Tell Ariel to wait for me. I long for you, my love, and I will be home soon.”

  “Rubbish!” she snorted, tossing it into the fire. But she kept the cording.

  At that moment Deirdre’s retinue was preparing to depart while Kam was dispatching soldiers to patrol the roads. Meanwhile, Commander Nihl had ridden out to search along the north market road again. He was concentrating on the sides of the road, looking, looking, to the great irritation of those passing by. The chance that any sign remained of an incident that took place five days ago was slim, but—still, he was looking with greater knowledge of what had transpired.

  Past the treacherous bend of the road where it entered the forest, Nihl drew up his horse and dismounted. He was staring at crushed undergrowth, stained with something dark brown. “How did I miss this?” he whispered. Kneeling, he tore off a withered leaf and sniffed it. His face settling in grave excitement, he stood to lead the horse into the forest, eyes on the ground.

  The path of flattened undergrowth led, faintly but directly, to a little footpath. Here, the days-old trail faded under subsequent prints left by men and beasts. So Nihl went one way down the path until he spotted a hut sitting off to the side.

  He left his horse standing back a ways to poke his head into the hut. A man and woman lay sleeping on a straw bed on the floor. A dog near them raised its head and growled.

  Nihl quietly withdrew. Leading his horse, he continued down the footpath until it took him to the outskirts of the city. Then he backtracked the other way. After bypassing the first hut, he came to one which had been partially destroyed by fire. Nihl dismounted uneasily to look in this one, as it had a haunted air about it. Looking down through a burned-out hole in the side of the hut, he paused at the sight of a skeleton.

  Almost without blinking, Nihl left that hut to continue up the path. But the dead man’s bones had rattled him. Could everyone else be right, and he be wrong? Were those bones an omen of what he would find if he did find Roman?

  He came across another hut, this one boasting a small garden. After listening at the door, he pushed it ajar. He stepped in to regard the body on the floor. Noting the door opposite him, he warily drew his sword and silently crossed the room to look there. But all that was beyond the door was a small, rumpled cot, stained with dark spots that looked like blood. Nihl picked up the discarded blanket in tentative thought.

  On his way out, he stopped to look at the body a little closer. Then he quickly bent to pick up the leather pouch with the Surchatain’s insignia.

  “He was here,” he said aloud. “He was
here and left—then he must be back at the palace by now—” Still gripping the pouch, Nihl leapt on his horse and galloped down the path.

  When he arrived at the palace, he saw Kam, Olynn, and the Counselor Basil standing together in the front courtyard. “Is he here?” Nihl shouted. Olynn blinked and Kam looked at the ground.

  “Where have you been, Commander?” Basil asked.

  In his excitement, Nihl did not notice Basil’s strained tone. “Counselor, I have found Roman’s pouch in the hut where he was staying—he was there, but has left.”

  The Counselor hardly glanced at the pouch. “If that is indeed his, then what you have found is what the assassin discarded.” Nihl began an argument but the Counselor continued, “Then you were not dispatching soldiers as I ordered?”

  Nihl grew still. “I delegated that to my Second, Counselor.”

  “But I ordered you to do it!” said Basil. “Because you have disobeyed my order, you are relieved of your post as Commander and dismissed from the palace. Gather your things and be gone within an hour!”

  Basil turned his back but Nihl took a step toward him. “With all respect, Counselor, is this an order from the Surchataine?”

  Basil’s head jerked back over his shoulder, his pale blue eyes sparking. “That is my order, and if you attempt to approach the Surchataine, I will have you put in prison. Take your leave, before I have you thrown out!” Basil stalked from the courtyard.

  Kam and Olynn stood with Nihl while he absorbed the shock of his dismissal. “Commander—” Kam began hesitantly.

  “I am no longer Commander,” Nihl said calmly. “Who is?”

  “Ah, the Counselor appointed me,” Kam answered. Nihl did not comment. “If you remember what happened when Troyce tried to usurp power and all, I think you’ll understand why the Counselor is so touchy about insubordination,” Kam went on rapidly. “But once you find the Surchatain, I’m sure—”