The Ballad of Penumbria I: A King's Ransom

By Ronald Patterson

Penumbria is a kingdom without a king, a land without hope, where every citizen is a slave to inviolable laws, and the regent, Duke Botewulf Blagden, rules with harsh edicts and unpredictable cruelty.

In the capitol city of Langford, a young serf-turned-thief named Dava, suffering from an iron anklet too small for his growing leg, finally despairs of life and seeks to end his misery in the sterile desert of the Endless Emptiness. But a seeming chance encounter with three strange travelers sets him on a new path. One of the travelers is the Baroness Bronwyn d'Orlynn, a childhood friend and one of the few people he had ever loved. Her companion and protector, a knight errant named Sir Rismon de'Allanor, watches Dava with mistrustful eyes. The leader of the group is an enigmatic peasant known only as Lamion, who Sir Rismon titles 'lord'.

Through tales told on the journey, Dava realizes that Lamion is none other than the missing king of Penumbria, returned from Luminalia across the stormy Mare Discidium. In a magnanimous gesture, Lamion takes Dava as his personal squire, and the wall of nobility and peasantry separating Dava and Bronwyn crumbles.

Lamion proclaims his intent to travel to Kingshold Castle high on the ridgeline of Mount Greyashe, and confront Blagden and claim the throne. Still, Lamion has only a few followers to stand against Duke Blagden's armies. How can he hope to regain his throne with no political power, no weapons, and just a handful of misfits? And more than that, where is the symbol of the king's right to rule? Where is the Crystal Sword?

A KING'S RANSOM is the first volume in THE BALLAD OF PENUMBRIA medieval fantasy series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ronald Patterson
• Release date: Jul 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476321554

Ronald Patterson

I am the dictionary definition of a late-bloomer. I learned how to ride a bike, rollerskate, and swim at nine; had my first girlfriend in the eleventh grade; earned a bachlor's degree at 42; and finally finished 'that book thing' in my fifties. A true child of suburbia, I grew up in the 'Inland Empire" of Southern California, and watched with sadness as the orange groves and vineyards gave way to housing subdivisions. I met my wife, Mary, at California Baptist College, and nothing has been boring ever since. Mary and I have a son, and a daughter who has given us four enormous grandsons. Mary and I serve the Lord Jesus as worship team leaders.

Book preview

"Excellent book! What a wonderful read. I bought it for my son for Christmas, and he can't put it down. We look forward to reading the rest of the series when it comes.

- Jane Smith, on amazon.com

... gives an age-old message a new twist, brought to life through some amazing, believable characters. You can't wait to see what happens next on their journey.

- Brenda Scarborough, on amazon.com

And to think this is the first of a series?! Ok, then, I'm hooked and I'll be anxiously waiting for the sequels.

Joshua Murcray merlynprime, on amazon.com

The Ballad of Penumbria: A King’s Ransom

by Ronald G. Patterson

Copyright 2012 Ronald G. Patterson

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

This series is lovingly dedicated

to my own Lady Bronwyn,

my chocolate-eyed angel Mary,

a humble woman of God

with more facets than the Hope Diamond:

believer, protector, defender, lover, friend.

When I imagine godliness,

it’s your face I see in my heart.

Your faithfulness does you credit,

my sister, my spouse.

I will praise you in the gates of the city,

and give you the reward you have earned.

Table of Contents

Map of Central Penumbria

Introit

Hell Abides

Help Arrives

Hope Arises

Kyrie Eleison

Endnotes

About the Author

Connect with the Author

Other Books by R. G. Patterson

Central Penumbria and Dava’s Quest

Introit

Dawn spilled over the Mare Discidium, the Separating Sea, arriving as a conquering army of light from the east. A vanguard of gulls heralded the sun’s arrival in raucous trumpeting voices. Below the parapets of the bridge, the golden sunbeams gilded the whitecaps with eye-blinding brilliance. The waves of the sea underwent a miraculous transformation, exchanging their somber grey and blue mourning clothes for gaily-colored dancing apparel in light-hearted shades of azure and emerald. The Lord of the Day surmounted the lower peaks of the Dawnsgaard Mountains and strode boldly up the slope of the heavens, crowned with a radiant diadem of purest gold. However, his dominion faced a challenge, for another glorious son appeared, arising this time from the north.

The rising sun’s inquisitive rays illuminated the approach of this challenger and his host, setting fire to the helmets and spearheads of a hundred attendant knights and soldiers. Pennants stood out in the stiff easterly breeze, displaying the charges of noble houses in all the tinctures of heraldry. Above them all on a tall standard floated a white silk flag bearing the royal coat-of-arms: On a shield, a blue field scattered with argent stars; a crimson sword point down with a golden crown encircling the hilts in chief. Two supporters, a lion and a lamb rampant, upheld up the shield with their forelegs.

Below the standard rode the King of Luminalia, mounted on a white stallion with mane and tail plaited with blue and gold ribbons. The king wore a silk surcote as white as his horse, and it shimmered in the sunlight like the iridescent throat of a hummingbird. He wore his hair loose and uncovered as befits royalty. Only a thin circlet of gold around his forehead held his long silver hair out of his eyes. The monarch’s beard mimicked the hue of his golden crown and framed his handsome face between layers of gold.

Morley Feather held himself upright as best he could, although his legs felt robbed of their strength by his thieving emotions. Could it have been only a handful of years ago that he had been a penniless traveling minstrel, dependent on the generosity of poor villagers or arrogant landowners for his daily sustenance? Then came the miraculous events that ignited the flames of rebellion, a fire that would burn hotly for many, long years. He and his fellow conspirators hoped for this day while hiding from the wrath of Duke Blagden, serving their absent king in constant fear of capture, torture and death. Yet here he stood an honored guest at the ceremony that would rejoin the two lands into one realm at last. Despite the years of suffering, the sight of his lord mounted in splendor and leading a peaceful army across the rebuilt Golden Span justified the sacrifices of all the Kingsmen. Every drop of their blood proved its worth to see this day.

While still a hundred yards off, the king’s entourage halted. Silver trumpets lifted and rang out a fanfare, proclaiming the return of justice and truth to Penumbria. When the trumpet’s voices ended in abrupt silence, a lone herald stepped out of the throng and paced to a place halfway between the two parties. Morley struggled not to grin when he recognized the face of the king’s master herald. His majesty’s choice for his new envoy, as always, vibrantly displayed the incredible depth of the king’s mercy and forgiveness. The cut of the herald’s costume looked more dignified than those ostentatious garments he had worn in his previous office. He also bore different charges on his tabard than at their first meeting, and on his face danced a confident smile, something he never carried about in his former life. The herald held no scroll of vellum filled with notes, but Morley knew he would not stammer or stumble over his words. He had been an excellent court herald during the rule of the former regent, although he bore no love for the deposed Duke of Blagden. Now the king’s speaker added the joy of his office to his former abilities, and the mixture would surely inspire him to excellence.

The herald extended his hands and shouted, Rejoice, O Penumbria! Rejoice exceedingly, for your Sovereign has returned to you! Grace and peace will flow like the waters of the Journey, and justice is the foundation of his reign! Rejoice, O Penumbria! Rejoice!

When the herald finished his duty, the responsibility shifted to the near side of the bridge. An old man, grey-headed and stooped with age, stepped slowly forward from the delegation of Penumbria, flanked by a high official and a knight in courtly apparel. The three representatives paced across the widened space on the bridge’s roadbed that had come to be called Cobb’s Cott at some point during the rebuilding. Here the roadway swelled to an oval area twice the bridge’s normal width, a resting place for weary travelers and a spot to view the northern edge of the kingdom where it met the Sea of Separation from sunrise to sunset. At the point where the bridge narrowed back to its normal width, the elder statesman stopped before a barrier stretched from parapet to parapet. The roadblock consisted merely of sheets of parchment glued end to end, a long and complete list of those ennobled followers of the king known as The Summoned. The old man extended both arms over the barricade in a gesture of heart-felt welcome and responded with a voice nearly as loud as the herald’s.

Even so, great and mighty Lord long awaited, does all Penumbria rejoice to see her King return. Come now, Majesty, and grace your kingdom with your presence!

The king and his retinue resumed their approach, the herald falling in step beside the king’s horse as they reached his position. They advanced to within a few yards of the parchment barrier and stopped again. The herald bowed to the king and assisted him down from his high-spirited mount. Then the monarch advanced alone. When he spoke, his deep voice carried clearly through the air.

What have you brought me in token of welcome?

The official beside the spokesman carefully placed a large water vessel into the old man’s hands. Hefting the vessel over the parchment wall, the spokesman offered it to the king and intoned with complete humility, My Lord, we your people render to you a draught of water drawn from Natalac, the wellspring of the mighty Journey River. It was borne here along the path of the river over the course of many months in the hands of willing children. Let it be as a symbol that we swear our allegiance to you from birth to death, and from one end of Penumbria to the other, O Lord of All Waters.

The king accepted the vessel with a bow of gratitude. He walked with it to the eastern side of the bridge and stood at the beginning of the list. Morley took a deep breath, moved by the significance of the names on the parchment. Many had suffered horribly, some died brutally for king and country, and all gave much to bring this day to pass. How fitting that a memorial to their sacrifices should dedicate the structure that now opened the way across the stormy sea. Morley had been present at the inscribing of the names on the roll in blood-red ink, and even savored the privilege of penning a few of the names himself.

The king lifted the water vessel above the list and slowly tipped it. In a thin, controlled stream, the water poured over the lip and fell on the barrier, soaking the treated animal skin. The red ink names washed away, and in their place new names appeared in gold, names chosen by the king to honor his servants. Carefully the king proceeded, sidestepping along the list until every memory of bloodshed and pain faded away. As the final bloody name rinsed off, the water vessel released its last drop. The dampened material dried quickly in the breeze as the king passed. The new names, written in liquid gold, glinted in the sunlight as the scroll moved in the wind. The king’s herald went to the eastern end of the barrier, the knight of Penumbria to the west, and together they untied the ribbons that lashed the barrier to the stone parapets. The herald began rolling up the scroll from the beginning, so that when opened, the first names appeared last, and the last first. When the scroll was completely wound up, the herald tied it with a scarlet ribbon and delivered it to the king.

His majesty, King Lamion Aerdwinson, Lord of Waters, reigning Monarch of Luminalia and Penumbria, accepted the scroll with tears in his eyes. Only then did he step forward across the imaginary line the scroll drew on the cobblestones. With one step onto Cobb’s Cott, he finally made landfall in the lower kingdom for the first time as its recognized ruler. And with that single stride, he symbolically spanned the incredible distance between exile and Sovereign Lord.

When the sole of his leather shoe touched the stones, all those present from both lands exploded in joyous shouts of praise.

Scribes recorded no stranger fest in all the long history of the Penumbria. Refreshments came down from the kitchens of Kingshold, where the south end of the bridge ended on the mountainside. The guests purposely ignored precedence in both seating and service. Peasants and serfs received plates of roast game and huge flagons of choice wine from the hands of the highest-ranking lords and ladies in the realm. Even the king took a hand in the serving, but no one thought it peculiar, for that was his way. When all received a generous portion, the festivities continued.

The king sat on his own throne, brought across the bridge from Luminalia and set upon a temporary platform erected for the occasion. Two smaller chairs flanked the king’s throne, and a handsome lord and lady occupied these. None needed to worry about the harsh strength of the sunlight, for a cleverly devised tent covered this entire section of the bridge, making a pavilion that seemed to float in midair, high above the constant chorus of joy provided by the breakers far below.

The trumpeters waited until the king resumed his seat, and then sounded their horns to announce the next event. Despite the seriousness of the occasion, a low murmur of whispered conversation continued, mingling with the muffled thunder of the waves. Everyone knew what the next item on the roster would be, and the anticipation filled the warm air. The herald stepped to the center of the crowd to dignify the next performance.

Your Majesty, Prince and Princess, My Lords and Ladies, and Good Citizens from both sides of the Reunited Kingdom!

The herald tried to continue, but the thunderous approbation of the crowd at the mention of the reunion of the lands drowned out his best efforts. He turned to the king and shrugged good-naturedly, and the monarch laughed joyously at his predicament. Eventually the rumbling thunder of their applause died away, and the herald cleared his throat to make another attempt.

No moment of import would be complete without a song. By the grace of our Lord, King Lamion, and at the special request of Crown Prince Dava of Penumbria, it is my great privilege to present for your enjoyment The Golden Feathers, singing and playing an original composition, The Ballad of Penumbria!

Nothing in all of his years of experience could have prepared Morley for the reception his family received that day on the bridge. In years past, while still a man unwed, Morley gave performances remembered in hamlet and village, and from town square to manor house in all four Counties of Penumbria. When he played his lute and sang, noble lords gave him bags of coins and pretty girls slipped their perfumed handkerchiefs into the neck slit of his tunic. But all previous praise paled to insignificance compared to the reception he and his family now received under the tent on the bridge. They shouted and clapped and stomped shoes, slippers, and boots on the roadbed so hard that the granite bridge shook with the tumult of their encouragement. It was a proud moment for the minstrel, and a very humbling one.

The Golden Feathers stepped to the center of the tent, standing on the mosaic-decorated road and accepting the crowd’s acclaim. Morley glanced at his wife and children to gauge their reaction to the applause. None of them had ever performed before such a large and distinguished audience before, and he worried about their response. His wife, Glynna, basked in the glory as usual. She flourished under approbation that wilted lesser performers. Twelve-year-old Anne, their first-born daughter and the mirror image of her beautiful mother, looked a little nervous, but bore it with the good grace of a real trouper. Their only son, Hubert, bowed clownishly as only a ten-year-old boy will do, soaking up the attention like a dry sponge. Little Mary, barely five and painfully shy, leaned against her mother’s legs and sucked her thumb.

Morley felt justifiably proud of his family. A more attractive troupe would have been difficult to locate, either here or across the bridge in Luminalia. All of his children inherited their mother’s striking wavy golden hair instead of their father’s lank sandy locks. Morley made up for his lack-luster plumage by wearing a long golden feather in the brim of his hat, a gift from the hand of the king, more precious to him than any possession other than his family. All of them wore matching costumes, variations on a theme. White blouse sleeves protruded from crème-colored sleeveless tunics trimmed at the throat, armholes, and hem with thin braids of golden embroidery. Glynna and her daughters wore ankle-length kirtles under their tunics. Morley and his son boasted the added extravagance of parti-colored hosen: one leg in deep green, the other in diagonal gold and white stripes. Brown leather shoes, belts, and stylish hats completed their attire.

Apprentices brought stools for the performers and set them in a semi-circle, with Morley’s seat in the center where his family could see him for their cues. Other musicians brought out the family’s instruments and distributed them, happy to have any part in the historic performance. Morley received the lute he had carried with him throughout his career. Glynna, seated to his left, took her three-stringed rebec and propped the instrument on her lap in the old style, holding the bow at the ready. At Morley’s right hand his son and older daughter took their customary positions, suddenly both more self-possessed now that their instruments were in hand: a soprano recorder for Anne’s delicate fingers and a drum and mallet in Hubert’s hands. Little Mary perched primly on a small stool slightly in front of her mother, facing her. She clutched a diminutive tambourine in her tiny hand, the doeskin drum head removed so that she would not throw off her brother’s rhythm when she lost the beat, which she invariably did. Their audiences never cared. Little Mary looked so adorable they always forgave her inexperience.

The audience became unnaturally quiet. The sound of the waves below reasserted itself, adding to the otherworldly mood provided by the unusual location. Glynna caught Little Mary’s eye and lifted her bow. The child raised her tambourine in her left hand, the other hand poised to meet it. Glynna waved the bow four times and Little Mary came in on her long practiced cue, hitting the instrument in almost perfect time. The audience melted in their seats, as Morley hoped they would. Hubert joined his little sister after a full measure of beats, adding a staccato series of thumps that built on Little Mary’s cadence. Another measure passed and the whole family jumped in on the downbeat. The moment held the stamp of perfection, approved by God and man.

The Golden Feathers played once through the melody before returning to the downbeat and beginning anew. As the verse started, Morley began the epic tale that would take most of a full day to sing completely, excluding brief rests for the musicians and breaks for meals. Despite the daunting length of the performance, Morley began in a voice glowing with confidence.

"Amazing wonders do abound,

In this God-blesséd land.

And praise in every voice resounds,

Of bird, of beast, and man.

What cause, what reason for this joy?

What sing these worthies of?

List’ now as I relate

The Ballad of Penumbria!"

Instantly, the crowd fell under the power of the musicians. They leaned forward or backward, eyes staring at the pageantry or closed in contemplation, each as their wont. Morley went on unerringly, measure for measure, line upon line. The composition bore the marks of his very soul; it was his fourth child.

As the performance flowed back into an instrumental section, Morley glanced over at the royal family on their low platform. Crown Prince Dava leaned forward with his forearms braced on the padded arms of his chair, the very image of courteous attention. How different he appeared now than the way he looked when Morley first made his acquaintance. Back then, he had been a dirty-faced, ragged urchin no one on the streets would have given a second glance. The intervening years performed a wondrous alchemy in him, more amazing than transmuting lead into gold. Now the figure before him drew all eyes in awe and respect, a kind and dignified noble in the fullest bloom of manhood. And although the tale performed by the Golden Feathers featured him frequently in the telling, he listened with humble modesty. Morley felt glad indeed that the king had chosen him to assume the throne of Penumbria.

The passage of the measures brought the performance back to the beginning of the second verse, so Morley left his admiring examination of his lord prince and sang the first words exactly on cue. His facile mind focused easily on plucking the eleven-string lute with the plectrum and reciting the first of many thousands of rhyming couplets. Framing the nearly indescribable events in words had proved challenging. Even now, as he sang, a part of his mind thought of new rhymes, of better ways he could have phrased a given line. He knew this work was his best, perhaps the greatest work of his life. Still, how could weak, insensate words do justice to the story of cowardice become courage, of justice conquering cruelty, of darkness, and light, and love…

HELL ABIDES

I

The grey fog lifted slowly, cautiously, and the eerie howling of the wind died down to a low sepulchral moan. The ground at his feet took visible form: dew-drenched grass punctuated by engraved headstones and carved marble monuments. Graven images of angels and saints stared at him from every direction with disapproving, sightless eyes: cold, heartless, unmoved by his plight. Silently the stone sentinels turned on their pedestals, putting their backs to him, their stance both pronouncing judgment and withholding forgiveness. The very grass at his feet wilted at his touch, curling into stringy, brown tendrils, crumbling to dust, and scattering away on the chill breeze. The newly denuded earth hardened and cracked at the mere touch of his polluted soles.

Everything recoiled from his touch: men, children, the grass, the very earth itself. Despised, feared, hated. The world rejected him, heaven would refuse him entry, and he doubted not that even hell would not welcome him.

There wasn’t a single place in all of creation where he felt at home.

The wind sighed one final time, as if in frustration, and spoke to him no more.

The fog parted like a ragged, tattered curtain, and on the dismal stage of the graveyard, the tragic story of his death began to play out to its conclusion. The backdrop for the end of his tale was set with images of three tall towers. Beside him on his right hand, the sheer walls of the Cathedral of Saint Averyl formed a doorless barrier, the darkened windholes high in the grey walls seeming like the empty eye sockets of sun-bleached skulls. The oak-and-iron doors of the barricaded cathedral cut him off from the grace of the church. He could not take his refuge in God, nor even approach him. On his left hand beyond the wrought iron bars of the graveyard, gates stood the clock tower of Town Council Hall. Upon the moonlit face of the clock, the ornate hands could be seen poised just moments from the stroke of midnight. The accusing finger of the clock pointed straight up even as he watched, and the great hour bell began proclaiming the news to the city. Death! it cried in a ringing voice of command, and again, Death! Twelve times the bell sounded the sentence, the inevitable judgment of all humanity for villains such as him.

On the horizon between these two forbidding strongholds of sacristy and society, he saw the imposing silhouette of Kingshold Castle high on the summit of Mount Greyashe. The battlements of the fortress stuck up like sharp, broken teeth on an old jawbone, dark stains against the deeper blackness of the night. Just like the two other symbols of his world, the castle stood sealed off from approach, unattainable. Here in a single glance, he beheld the three acceptable paths of life: nobility, peasantry, and clergy. Each denied him entrance.

Last act, final scene. A young man’s untimely death.

A terrifying noise began; low at first, but increasing as each moment passed. It waxed like the pounding rumble of approaching horsemen, increased as the gathering groan of stones falling in avalanche, swelled with the sound of waves, first murmuring, then rumbling, and finally roaring their thunderous shout. Voices, angry murderous voices were coming. From every direction, the rising tumult heralded the gathering mob. The high stone walls of the graveyard hedged him in. They entrapped him as effectively as a coney in a hunter’s snare.

The iron gates of the cemetery flew open, slamming back with a ringing clash against the stone walls. Soldiers and citizens poured through the breach, each waving a weapon or tool menacingly over his head. But his terror at the sight of so many angry men paled to insignificance when the crowds parted to make way for the lone, strident figure of the regent.

Lord Botewulf, Duke of Blagden!

In his unnerved panic, his loins went slack. He added humiliation to horror by wetting his own breeches.

Never once in his miserable life had he seen the regent, but everyone in the kingdom knew the man by his evil reputation. A robe of scarlet satin, belted and trimmed with black leather and sable fur, hung like a corpse’s shroud on the tall, lean frame of the kingdom’s overlord. Upon the breast of the robe lay the charge of a wyvern regardant, embroidered in deepest midnight black. No sword hung from his belt, his personal bodyguard of knights making such a weighty burden unnecessary. Since he ruled in the king’s stead, he wore a fur-trimmed hat in place of a crown, a stricture commonly known to gall the ambitious prince. Not that he needed a reason to fan the flames of his ire. Reports of the regent’s temper and cruelty could hardly be a fiction; the tales were too many and too precise in the telling.

The narrowed slits of the regent’s eyes swept about the scene until their gaze fastened upon him. Those wicked eyes locked upon his with an intensity that brooked no escape. Blagden’s blood-red scar of a mouth curved slowly upward on his pale face in imitation of a tightly strung bow. The regent raised his right arm in his victim’s direction, the arm an instrument of judgment, the single pointing finger a sentence of death.

‘Run!’ screamed his chilled heart, ‘Run! Run!’

He backed away from the advancing angel of death, but tripped and fell instantly to the ground, held fast to the spot by his ankle. Peering desperately at his leg, he discovered the source of his captivity: an iron band encircled his ankle, joined by a short, heavy chain to a great ring fastened to a block of granite buried in the earth. He grabbed the chain and yanked at it with the violent strength of madness, but he only succeeded in tearing the flesh around his ankle, which bled heavily on his dirty, bare foot.

The ground quaked suddenly and with a coughing exhalation of dust, the granite block began to descend slowly into the earth, dragging him helplessly by the leg. He clutched vainly at the grass about him, but it came up in clumps and followed him into the dark hole in the earth. The platform of stone dropped into the ground until the sky was just a rectangle of dim light above him. When it stopped moving, he realized that this new enclosure was not a prison or trap. The four walls of earth formed a grave, and his was the only body in it. But he lived! The living did not belong in graves unless they dug them for another.

Another possibility remained, but his mind refused to think on it.

Silence.

The stillness of death.

The light in his newly dug grave became dimmer. Looking up, he saw black silhouettes of people ringing the rectangular opening above him, intent, watching, and waiting. He could discern the features of only one face among them, lit as it was with the sickly green pallor of the recently dead.

The evil face of Regent Blagden, the Black Wyvern, grinned at him like a fleshless skull.

Blagden raised a dirt-filled fist over his head and smirked, Breathe your last, boy!

Then he threw the dirt on him and laughed pitilessly.

The