by Robin Hardy
“O great Milcom, feared and worshiped, see this foolish mortal who comes to defy you! This is the man you warned me about, and now I have placed him in your hands!” Tremelaine raised himself to his knees to throw powder up to the clawed fingers in a symbolic gesture. “I call on you to show your terrible power against this mortal!”
Tremelaine rose, arms uplifted. The guards next to Roman backed away from him as if they knew what was coming. “O great Milcom!” Tremelaine shouted, stretching higher, “send fire upon this man!” He jumped aside, startling Roman. The guards covered their faces. And—
Nothing happened. A bit of powder remaining on one censer popped, but that was all. After several silent seconds passed, the guards uncovered their eyes. Tremelaine stared, a look of confusion creeping into his face. Roman flattened one eyebrow. “I don’t think he heard you.”
“Silence!” Tremelaine snapped, but his brow was damp. “O great MILCOM!” he shouted, his nasal voice cracking, “send the FIRE, I say!”
The guards flinched, but all was still, as before. Roman gladly stepped into the role of Elijah, jabbing, “Perhaps he’s asleep. How can you tell with a lump of metal?”
Infuriated, Tremelaine wheeled on him. “You will pay for your insolence! On your knees before Milcom!”
“No,” Roman said with curled lip.
Tremelaine gestured angrily, and the guards put their swords to the back of Roman’s neck. “Kiss the feet of Milcom,” Tremelaine hissed, pointing downward at the blood-splattered, clawed toes, “or I will feed your flesh to him one strip at a time.”
Feeling the sharp blades at his neck, Roman uttered what he believed to be his dying declaration: “The Lord Jesus judge you and your damned idol.”
At once the fire on the censers roared up wildly. The men fell away from it. The flames grew and joined across the body of the idol as if feeding on it, then climbed to singe the ceiling rafters.
The humans were driven further back as the gold of the statue began to glisten, then melt. The dreaded beast began sagging. The wings crumpled. The head toppled. The heat intensified till the four men were pressed against the doors, but their eyes remained locked on the spectacle.
The torso crashed down from the legs into a pool of gold, but the fire was not sated. It burned until a river of molten gold streamed out toward the men.
In a panic the guards shoved open the door and ran out with Tremelaine stumbling on their heels. Roman was the last to exit, watching over his shoulder as the last lump of gold was melted and the flames finally died.
“Stop, stop!” Tremelaine cried shrilly to his fleeing guards. With the greatest reluctance, they did. “Take him—take him—” As badly as the Surchatain was floundering, his guards did not look at all inclined to obey.
But since Roman stood chained and still, Tremelaine quickly regained control. “Take him back upstairs to the Teaching Room. Chain him there.”
The Bloods warily took Roman’s arms. They led him to the Surchatain’s chambers, totally unnerved by the slight smile on his face. Now, when they brought him over the threshold to the torture room, he did not even blink. They chained him to the wall and he smiled. His eyes were full of the vision of the burning god, and the peace of the power of his God consumed his heart like the fire. What meaning did pain and death have now? He was here!
After securing the prisoner, one guard ran from the room, but the other paused, fearfully peering into Roman’s face. Then he, too, backed away and fled.
Deirdre crouched with the townspeople as they hid themselves in the darkness of a cell on the far end of one tunnel. Nihl alone was gone, to procure a uniform for Roman first, then the other men. As they sat waiting, touching each other for reassurance, they heard marching steps and saw glimmers of light.
“They’ve found us! They’re coming—” one woman began to cry out before someone clapped a hand over her mouth. They waited tensely, but the steps quickly faded down another corridor. In a few moments the footfalls resumed, then were heard no more.
Deirdre thought apprehensively, They’ve either added someone, or . . . taken someone away. But they awaited Nihl in perfect stillness.
In a surprisingly short time they heard his faint, cautious steps as he felt his way to their cell. “Nihl?” she whispered.
“Surchataine,” he answered.
“You have one already?”
“A Blood lingered on the steps after the others had gone. I fear he fell,” Nihl said without remorse.
Deirdre reached out to feel the bundled-up uniform he carried. “Good! Did you see why they came?”
“No,” he said uneasily. “We must get the Surchatain.”
While the others remained in their hiding place, Deirdre and Nihl felt their way down the tunnel till the sconced torches at the intersection gave them enough light to walk more surely. They removed a torch and carried it down Roman’s tunnel.
Nihl lifted the trap door and breathed out an oath. Deirdre closed her eyes. “He’s gone,” she said without looking.
“They took him out from under us. We should have released him right away. Why did they come at just this moment?” he mused bitterly.
Deirdre sagged. “Oh, Roman! What shall we do, Nihl?”
He closed the trap door. “Infiltrate as quickly as possible. We may still save him.”
They took the torch back to the cell. “The Surchatain has been removed,” Nihl announced quietly to the others. “But we will carry out our plan. I will dress in this uniform, and use every opportunity to get more and locate the Surchatain.”
“No good,” one Selecan said gruffly. “They’d spot you in a minute. You’re Polonti, and there are no Polonti living here. Not a single, solitary one.”
Nihl looked down at the uniform in his hands, and Deirdre murmured, “If that’s so, then even Roman wouldn’t pass unnoticed. And by now, I fear too many would recognize him.”
“Then who will wear the first uniform?” another Selecan asked timidly.
“Let me wear it, Commander,” urged Kam.
Nihl handed it to him. As Kam shed his brown Lystran uniform for the red one, he muttered, “Only problem is, how do we recognize each other in these rags? I’m not sure these fellows”—he nodded toward the townspeople—“would know me nor I them as Bloods.” He pulled on the coat and straightened. It was a little tight in the chest, but not unreasonably so.
“Here,” said Deirdre, fingering a medal dangling from the chest pocket of the shortcoat. “This has a bird’s head on the front side. Wear it face down—that will be our signal.” Kam nodded, turning it over.
When Kam was dressed, Nihl said, “I will go with you to see if we can get you out the door into the palace.” They opened the cell door into the tunnel.
“Kam.” Deirdre stopped him. “God go with you—and please find Roman.”
He halted, staring at her, and she did not know why his eyes began to water. But he took her hand and kissed it in a silent pledge, then he and Nihl left with the torch.
They took the stairs and stopped at the barrier of the locked door. “Well,” muttered Kam, “we got in by knocking at the city gates, so let’s just try it here.” While Nihl lay flat a few steps below him, Kam began pounding on the door, shouting, “Hey, man! Hey there!” with a convincing Selecan accent. He continued to pound and call until there was a scratching in the lock and the heavy door creaked open. Two Bloods stood glaring in the doorway.
“What’s the meaning of leaving me down here?” Kam demanded, flicking his eyes to see if anyone else was nearby.
“How’d you get left?” one growled.
“How? Come here and see!” Kam insisted, stepping back. They entered the stairway cautiously. Nihl reached up and yanked the ankle of the first while Kam hit the second from behind. The two Bloods fell from the open-sided stairway before they could even cry out.
Kam stepped over the threshold into the palace, whispering back to Nihl, “There’s you two more uniforms, Commander. I’ll lea
ve the door unlocked until someone notices.” Then with a salute and a pat on the blank face of the medal, he sauntered out.
In the palace at Westford, Basil sat in the library amid documents and maps and ledgers, intently scratching out a letter with his quill pen. Finally he laid the quill aside and carefully blotted the ink. Then he melted wax in a small pool at the bottom of the paper. Removing the golden seal from a chain around his neck, he stamped the letter with the authority of the Surchatain. The Counselor blew the wax cool, then rolled up the parchment and affixed another seal at its edge.
Basil sat back, tapping the scroll in his palm. Then he rose and opened the library door to press the letter into the hand of the courier outside. “See that this is given to the emissary from Qarqar to deliver immediately to his Surchatain.” The courier saluted and trotted away.
Basil remained in the doorway, thinking. With that letter, he had executed the last of Roman’s explicit instructions regarding the emissaries he had seen before leaving. Now, the Counselor would be faced with hearing and responding to the emissaries in the Surchatain’s stead. It was a heavy responsibility he did not particularly desire, nor was he entirely comfortable with Roman’s unhesitating confidence in him. Having seen so much duplicity in his lifetime, he wondered if deep within himself was the capacity for betrayal.
As if pretending he did not know where he was going, the Counselor took to the corridor in a troubled stroll. For the hundredth time he came to the nursery door and looked in. Gusta had just brought Ariel in from a romp with the puppies and was struggling to wash him in the marble washbasin.
At the sound of the door the nursemaid turned to see Basil, then shook her blond braids. She scolded him, “You worry too much, Counselor. I forever see your head at that door.”
“I know, Gusta,” he sighed. “Only—don’t leave him alone, not for an instant, until his parents return.”
“This child is my charge, Counselor,” she said, offended. “You don’t need to remind me to watch him. I would sooner die than neglect him.”
“I know, dear. I know how trustworthy you are,” he assured her. With no more reason to stand in the doorway he backed out, nodding cordially. From there, he went directly downstairs to the rear courtyard where a unit was practicing with the pugil sticks.
He scanned the grounds until he found Olynn, then raised a beckoning hand. The Captain ambled over. “Counselor?”
“Captain Olynn.” Basil put an arm around his shoulders to speak quietly to him. “I wish you to post one of your most reliable men in a constant watch at the nursery door. Not directly in front of the door, mind you—I don’t wish to irritate the nursemaid—but down the corridor a few paces. Also, the nursemaid and child must be continually watched over when out of the nursery—at a distance, of course. Change the men frequently so that she doesn’t see the same man nearby all the time. Begin the watch immediately, and report to me anything out of the ordinary—only to me.”
“Certainly, Counselor,” assented Olynn, eyes widening slightly. “May I ask, has something come to your attention which prompts this measure?”
“Not specifically,” Basil admitted. “But with the Surchatain and my lady both gone, any precaution regarding the child seems prudent.”
“It will be done,” Olynn assured him, then motioned a soldier over to give him the order.
Basil reentered the palace, his mind somewhat eased. Coming toward him in the corridor was Sevter, so he paused genially.
“Counselor,” Sevter bowed in familiar respect, “may I have your approval to order ten new threshing sledges?” He held out a requisition for Basil’s scrutiny.
“If you feel they’re needed,” replied the Counselor, scanning the paper.
“Badly. We have seven now, which barely got us through the harvests last year. They’re rotting and rusting from years of careless storage, and with the fields we’ve planted this year, they won’t hold out through the wheat harvest alone.” As he spoke, he scratched his curly red beard in unconscious earnestness.
Basil nodded, half smiling. “It is ironic that after Surchatain Galapos gave away so much land to the peasants, acquisitions returned to us double the farm land the Surchatain previously owned. But plenty brings its own problems. Can the smith handle such a large order of sledges?”
Sevter confidently replied, “I’ve already spoken with him. He’s prepared to order the iron from Qarqar and hire on extra help to complete the job, upon your approval.”
“Good,” said Basil. “That will work out well. The smith needn’t even order the iron himself. I have just finalized a treaty with Qarqar to supply us iron and copper.”
“And gold,” Sevter added absently, rolling up the paper.
“No,” frowned the Counselor. “Just iron and copper. How is it you thought they were to give us gold?”
Sevter raised his bushy eyebrows, perturbed. “Not gold? Lord Troyce said the emissary had agreed to gold—”
“Not in my presence!” snapped Basil. “Summon Troyce to my chambers at once!”
Basil stalked to his suite and waited, pacing angrily. When Troyce knocked and entered, Basil demanded, “Did you speak with the emissary from Qarqar?”
Troyce glanced down. “Yes, Counselor.”
“And did you demand gold of him to consummate the treaty?”
“Yes, I did. I came upon information that Qarqar has a large store of gold which they keep in secret. I have even verified its location—in Hornbound, buried in graves at their old cemetery, the Abode. If we cannot march in and take it, I felt it would insure our position over them to at least see they paid us tribute.”
Basil paused to check his temper. “You have grossly overstepped your authority. The Surchatain left word to require of them copper and iron at a fair price. He specifically ordered that they are not bound to pay tribute. It is not your position to speak with emissaries, and if you do so again, I will be forced to censure you.”
Troyce’s smooth face tightened. “The Surchatain did not know about their horde of gold. I myself discovered it only with great effort and risk, when the Surchatain did not see fit to track down their weaknesses.”
“Whether or not he knew about the gold is not our concern. We are to carry out his stated wishes. When he returns, you may give him what information you have, but you will not presume to make such decisions yourself. Do you understand?”
Troyce pursed his lips at Basil’s tone, but bowed. “Yes, Counselor.”
“You are dismissed.”
When Troyce had gone, Basil sank into a cushioned chair. Elbows braced on the table, he rested his forehead on his twined fingers and murmured, “Good God! Help me keep control of this place!”
The remainder of that day Roman hung on the torture room wall, watching the sunlight from the narrow window across the room. After spending those long hours in the pit, he was grateful now to at least see the sky. Unfortunately, the light also enabled him to study in detail every machine around him.
He was frankly amazed at the ingenuity of their design, to elicit the utmost pain without killing. He could not say exactly how some were used—he could only guess. And he knew that, given the opportunity, Tremelaine would use every one of them on him.
At that point he diverted his eyes again, determined not to preoccupy himself with those machines. He was still in the hands of his Protector, who would not allow any evil to overcome him beyond endurance. He must cling to that, to the knowledge of His goodness and power which had been demonstrated to him over and over again—
The door to the corridor began to inch open. Roman watched it intently, feeling his convictions drain away like the sand sucked out by the tide. A Blood tentatively poked his head in the door, and, seeing Roman, startled and smiled. Then immediately he was gone again.
Roman waited, but nothing more happened. It was strange behavior for a member of the Bloodclad. He acted as though he wasn’t supposed to be here at all. . . . Roman leaned back against the wall, thinkin
g. Then he dropped his chin to look at the brand on his chest, red and tender. And suddenly he swelled with gladness to carry it—for I bear on my body the marks of Jesus.
He rested, watching the sunlight gild the spikes of the machine closest to him.
Chapter 8
Kam crouched in a small storage room with Colin and another man, all of them dressed as Bloods. “I found him,” breathed the third man.
He paused to swallow his excitement and catch his breath while Kam demanded, “Where, Lew?”
“Adjoining the Surchatain’s chambers is a torture room he calls the Teaching Room—everyone knows of it. He posts drawings and descriptions of everything in it, so the black crosses will know what’s ahead for them. I thought right off your Surchatain had been taken there—so I looked and there he was, chained to the wall. I’m sure it was him.”
“Has he been tortured?” Colin asked weakly.
“It looked as though he’d been marked on the breast,” answered Lew. “But other than that, he seemed alert and well.”
Kam narrowed his eyes in concentration. “Are the keys to his chains in that room?”
“No,” Lew said, downcast.. “I’ve no idea where they would be.”
The three were a moment in searching thought. “Something must be done,” muttered Kam. “Lew, you said you’ve seen drawings of that torture room?”
“Yes. Detailed drawings of all the machines, with annotations.”
“Then you know how they work?”
“Yes,” Lew answered reluctantly.
“Would you also know how to disable them?” pressed Kam.
Lew’s craggy face became beatific. “Yes! But we need tools.”
Colin took Kam’s arm excitedly. “There’s a tool bin just down the corridor!” To Lew: “What do you need?”
“A hammer, a chisel, a blade, and perhaps a gimlet, for now.”
“I’ll get them.” Colin jumped up. “And meet you back here.”
