A Rage in the Heavens (The Paladin Trilogy Book 1)

by James A. Hillebrecht

  He flung the flesh upwards, and the griffin snatched it out of the air, swallowing it with a single gulp. Argus and the other griffin-riders rode their beasts only at night, for their existence was one of the most closely guarded secrets of the Citadel. The Duke was determined that the first sight of his little squadron would be the sudden swoop out of the skies during a battle where the surprise and terror would have the greatest effect.

  Argus reached into the basket and extracted another long, bloody piece, being careful not to turn his back to the griffin.

  “Now that Regnar has decimated the cavalry of the plains,” asked Ursulan, “why do you still feed them horseflesh?”

  The cavalry of the plains states were the best in all the world, a force that Corland would be hard put to match if (and when) its influence extended that far. The griffins had always been intended to counter that force: horses could be driven mad with terror by the attack of a single griffin, let alone a group.

  “This isn’t horseflesh,” answered Argus, flinging the dripping piece to the monster.

  Ursulan blanched and decided to return to the subject at hand.

  “As to the information which the thief has provided…?” prompted the counselor.

  Argus turned to study the line of monsters, his eyes distant.

  “If the thief speaks the truth,” he mused, “then Regnar has sufficient force to break Jalan’s Drift and force a confrontation with the armies of the Southlands.”

  “Our other sources have made it clear that the Northings are only a part of the army he brings,” Ursulan reminded him.

  “Yes,” the Duke said, his eyes narrowing. Then he said slowly, “I want to get a message to Regnar. I want to discuss terms.”

  “Of surrender?” Ursulan asked in shock.

  “Of alliance,” Argus answered. “The armies which lie between Regnar and us are enemies to both.”

  Ursulan’s eyes bulged, but he quickly composed his expression. Still, he found it impossible to say anything for several long seconds. Argus watched him and waited.

  “Is this the wisest course, Your Grace?” Ursulan asked at last. “Should the other princes even suspect the existence of such an alliance…”

  “If the negotiations are discovered, we will claim we were merely using a ploy to uncover Regnar’s intentions,” Argus answered easily.

  “But…but what do we do when the armies of the Southlands are marshaled to meet the invader?”

  “We answer the call, of course.”

  Ursulan’s mouth opened to voice the obvious objection, closed again, and then finally opened to stutter, “But…but if we are with the armies of the Southlands…?”

  “We will take the position assigned to us,” Argus answered with a shrug. “The order of battle is already pre-ordained by tradition: Maganhall and Palmany in the front rank, Warhaven and Norealm on the flanks, with Corland in reserve. From there, we shall wait and watch and be ready to strike the decisive blow.”

  Ursulan could only stare, stunned by the spectacle being sketched out before him.

  “Make no mistake, Counselor,” the Duke assured him. “We shall be on the winning side in this war.” A slow smile. “Whichever that may be.”

  * * * * *

  Alacon Regnar sat in the Great Hall of Nargost Castle upon the very throne from which Lord Elwin had ruled all the realm of Nargosia, and he reveled in the screams and cries which filled the room and the entire fortress. Even here in the Great Hall, three prisoners were being slowly executed, impaled on great metal stakes to twist and shriek their lives away, the blood carefully gathered in pails at the base of the stakes. The death cries combined with the sight of the magnificent tapestries decorating the walls from scenes of past lords to form undeniable evidence of Regnar’s victory. It seemed as if his triumph was over the figures on the walls as well as their descendents.

  Their blood must be husbanded carefully, said the Ohric, the great green scepter which rested in Regnar’s arms. Not a drop must be wasted if you hope to have the Juggernaut reach Jalan’s Drift.

  “The Juggernaut shall have its fuel, never fear,” Regnar assured it. “The blood of nearly four hundred prisoners shall carry the giant many leagues.”

  But there are no more fortresses in its line of march until we reach the Drift, the Ohric reminded him. The bounty of Nargost is precious.

  “Precious indeed. The Juggernaut nearly missed the walls entirely,” growled Regnar in response. “A pretty situation that would have been, the army rushing onward with Nargost Castle and half the army of Nargosia unbowed in our rear.”

  It proves that we are gaining control of the Juggernaut, the Ohric replied without inflection. Our power grows.

  “Yes,” said Regnar softly.

  The Juggernaut had been marching steadily forward exactly as it had all the way from the Earth’s Teeth, but its path would have taken it just past the walls of Nargost. It had required a burst of power from the Ohric to knock the black titan a few steps to the side, barely enough to make it come against one of the citadel’s great corner turrets. The Juggernaut had pounded its way through exactly as it had done to the walls of Carthix Castle and two lesser forts which had stood in their way, but that had not totally breached Nargost. The central keep had been untouched, and even after the army had stormed and taken the broken outer walls, a considerable force had remained untouched inside.

  It had required Regnar himself to approach the great inner gates to unleash the green lightning of the Ohric for the first time, the bolts striking stone, wood and metal randomly until the huge doors collapsed and the slaughter had begun.

  It was fortunate that the citadel fell with such little damage, the green orb continued calmly. You now have a major fortress to help defend your rear.

  “True,” Regnar answered. “A stronghold for supplies, treasure, and hostages. And its fall echoes throughout all the Plains of Alencia, bringing despair to all our foes.”

  Regnar took a great breath, filling his lungs with the rich air of victory. He was slowly feeling his power beginning to dominate the Ohric, the great scepter growing more compliant with every passing day. How many years had it been (or was it only weeks?) that he had wrestled with it, learning to use its vast power? He gloried in the memory of how he had conjured it from the black depths, straining his art to the very limits and beyond, and the ecstasy he had felt when it had shimmered into view before him. The Ohric. It was said to be the personal scepter of one of the devil-lords of the Nether Regions, the monster allowing his treasure to be conjured by a specially chosen mortal in order to unleash havoc upon the earth. And he, Regnar, was the Chosen One, the Viceroy of all the Forces of Darkness, and his powers had leaped beyond his maddest dreams from the moment he had touched the scepter.

  First had come the subjugation and combining of the tribes of the Northlands, gathering them all beneath his lone hand, a task that had once seemed far beyond any one man. Now, it seemed but child’s play. For the Ohric had whispered to him of greater glories and vaster empires, of all the Plains of Alencia cringing before his throne, and he had listened. It had then led him on that terrible quest for the hidden vault beneath the mountains where the scepter promised he would find the means to increase his power a hundred-fold.

  And the Ohric had spoken true.

  For there, among the rack and ruin of a time before men, he had found the silent black form of the Juggernaut standing alone, as if waiting with endless patience for his arrival. The Ohric had told him what must be done, the deluge of human blood which had soaked the thing from head to feet, the dreadful verses which had to be spoken, the terrible rites which made mere necromancy seem innocent by compare. Then had come that tremendous moment when the red eyes had opened, and the thrill of triumph as it took those first steps, knowing that once it had begun to move, nothing in the world could stop it.

  With such power in his hands, he had forced the crossing of the Earth’s Teeth, and the creatures of the mountains had bowed to hi
m and swelled his ranks. All the Plains of Alencia had been laid open before him, and the dream had expanded to Jalan’s Drift and beyond, touching now on the richest territories in all the continent of Arcadia. Nothing was beyond his reach, nothing able to resist his power.

  There are still long miles yet to go, the Ohric warned, reading his thought. The Juggernaut will remain in this form only as long as there is blood to feed it. When that supply fails, it will wrap itself into its cocoon, and the metamorphosis will begin.

  Regnar frowned, for once already the massive Juggernaut had stopped abruptly and begun to wrap its huge arms about itself, beginning to form the cocoon of darkness in which it would pass into its next stage of power. It had taken all the magics of Regnar and the Ohric combined to delay the onset of that change, and as the scepter said, there were many more leagues of empty prairie before they came against Jalan’s Drift.

  “Flame and curse these endless plains,” he growled. “There are far too few of these human sheep, and they flee like rabbits at the first rumor of our approach.”

  The attack upon the High Pass of the Highlanders shall bring prisoners to feed the titan on its long trip southward, the Ohric continued. Even if that supply of blood should be insufficient, the High Pass will still give you access to the Southlands.

  That brought a deadly smile to the Tyrant’s lips.

  “And the fall of the High Pass will be a final blow to the hopes of all who oppose us,” agreed Regnar. “But think you that a single tribe of Northings will suffice for this task? It is said whole armies have broken themselves against these stiff-necked Highlanders.”

  Doubt it not. For the Vortex of Fear which we have conjured from the Juggernaut’s aura shall be the tribe’s vanguard and will win the Pass with little struggle, the Ohric replied. The Tribe of Sarva need only take and hold what the magic wins for us.

  “Then let us begin to reap the harvest of our labors,” Regnar said.

  He concentrated for just an instant, and immediately the doors opened and his guards returned, none of them giving the slightest thought to this new means of summoning.

  “We will receive the embassy from Kargos now,” he told his Captain, and the officer turned and hurried back through the doors.

  When news of the fall of Nargost had reached the surrounding realms, three had immediately sent embassies to see what terms Regnar might be willing to offer, unaware that they lay safely away from the Juggernaut’s line of march. Regnar had used the stone giants who had joined his force in the Earth’s Teeth to break the small fortress of Darkan which guarded the northern border of Maccador. It had been a costly battle, but the result had convinced all the plains that none were safe from the power of the Silver Horde.

  The doors opened again, and a group of a dozen armed men clad in chain armor strode proudly forward, led by an older man whose white hair, barrel-like chest, and steely-blue eyes marked him as a figure of authority. All were wearing the striped brown cloaks of Kargos, and the leader had a great silver chain about his neck, each link in the form of a running horse. The newcomers were trying to keep a grim countenance before the Tyrant of the Northlands, but the screams of the dying men strained their faces and pulled at their gaze.

  The General came forward with all pomp and dignity, stopping a dozen feet before the dais, the exact spot from which he had no doubt once addressed Lord Elwin. Regnar’s lips twisted in a grim smile at the man’s poise and proud emblems, for he was no more than a leader of ants before the power of the Ohric.

  “I am General Dal, commander of the legions of Kargos, and I have come with greetings from My Lord, Tylas, Duke of Kargos,” the General announced stiffly, the words clearly having to be forced out of his mouth. “I have been directed to offer congratulations on your great victory over the forces of Nargosia.”

  Regnar’s smile widened. “No more than a minor skirmish. These horse-boys are but cattle to feed the Silver Horde.”

  The General’s jaw tightened, but he restrained himself. “My Lord has instructed me to offer a treaty of peace and neutrality between yourself and Kargos. I am to request on what terms such a treaty might be based.”

  “Terms?” repeated Regnar, savoring the word. “You shall have terms. First, you shall abandon and cede to my control the citadels of Argoban and Freia, including all stock, stores and arms which they now contain.”

  “The frontier citadels?” expostulated the general. “But…but that would render us defenseless!”

  “Second,” the Tyrant continued calmly, “you shall deliver 1,000 of your best warhorses into the hands of my quartermaster, along with the necessary saddles, bridles, harness, and tack. Third, you shall immediately transfer your Regiments of Garmac and Dartell to the western portion of your realm and base them in one of the small villages along the western border. Fourth, you shall sign a formal treaty, declaring on the honor of your lord that Kargos will never raise arms against me nor any of my allies.”

  A low threatening growl came from the group of bodyguards at this endless list of demands, terms more fitting for a province already broken by the invaders.

  “Is that all?” the General asked with heavy sarcasm, and he could not keep his hand from twitching on the hilts of his sword. “The keys to the citadels of our frontier, a third of our cavalry, our best infantry regiments moved beyond the defense of our capital, and a formal treaty of non-aggression. Kargos would be spread out like a sacrificial lamb before you. Surely there must be more than that.”

  An evil smile came to twist the lips of Regnar, and his red eyes seemed to gleam. “You are very perceptive. Fifth and finally, you shall escort the Lady Felicity and her suckling child to be our guests here in the Citadel of Nargost. Here, we shall keep them safe.”

  “The Duchess and the Heir as hostage?” cried the general even as his hand drew the sword. “Take, then, the answer of Kargos!”

  With surprising quickness, the old man leaped onto the dais, rushing the gloating horror before him, and the dozen swords of his escort were only an instant behind him. The Northing guards were off to the side, unable to intercept the sudden attack, and they made no effort to do so. Regnar held forth the great scepter, and immediately, a terrible beam of green light shot out from the orb and totally encased the charging general, stopping him instantly. He was imprisoned in a block of solid green light, and his body, barely visible within the glow, began to contort as if in terrible pain.

  Even as the figure twisted and writhed within the green light, Regnar raised the scepter higher, and green lightning began to thunder through the room, bolts flying in all directions, striking the walls only to rebound back towards the room’s center. The Northing guards had seen this power unleashed at the gates of Nargost Castle, and they instantly flung themselves for cover, though several were caught none the less. The general’s bodyguard, taken by surprise and standing in the very middle of the storm, were deluged with thunderbolts, most of them dying instantly, their bodies burned and smoldering.

  Slowly, the green aura around the general began to fade, and in the place of the old man, still dressed in his regal armor, stood a great hulking beast, a hideous mixture of man, wild boar, and wolf. The thing raised its head and let loose a heart-wrenching roar from its fang-choked mouth, perhaps a last despairing cry from the human soul now twisted and warped beyond all recovery within. The thing then hunkered down, still grasping the sword in its paw-hands, glancing from side to side as if seeking prey.

  “Come, Pretty,” smiled Regnar. “Come and stand with me.”

  The thing completed the leap onto the upper dais, but now it turned to face the hall, leering at the Northing guards as if waiting to be unleashed upon them.

  The Captain of the guard came forward and knelt before the dais, head bowed. “Great One, shall we remove these scum and cleanse the hall?”

  But Regnar shook his head, cradling the scepter like a darling child. “No. Let them lay. Now show in the delegation from Maccabor. We will see how they take the
offered terms.”

  Obediently, the Captain rushed to do the Tyrant’s bidding.

  CHAPTER 7

  Songs of the High Pass

  Brother Joshua felt as if the mountains themselves were bleeding to death.

  Before him, a steady stream of people was flowing down from the High Pass, each one carrying, pulling, or pushing bundles of household goods in a pathetic attempt to carry some part of their homes with them, and every person who passed was like another surge of life’s-blood spurting out of the mountains. Women, children, and old folk, warriors, youths, and strong men in their prime, all were fleeing, leaving behind the beloved peaks of their homeland which, to Joshua, suddenly seemed to be growing lifeless.

  “Oh, my brothers, heed me now!” he cried to refugees. “You flee only to your own ruin! If the High Pass falls, there will be no haven for you in the Southlands! There’ll be no safe haven anywhere at all!”

  Joshua stood on a small ridge of rock which divided the mountain road, the crowd splitting in two to flow past on either side of him, and even though his yellow priest’s robes were lessened by the white sleeves of the un-ordained acolyte, he stood tall and poured his heart out to the throng, trying desperately to find the words which might turn them.

  Great Mirna, he prayed fervently, give me the skill to sway them. Send me help that we might not be shamed and destroyed.

  “The Clan McCullen has donned the Battle Tartan and holds the High Pass!” he shouted again, pointing back up the road. “Does that mean nothing to you? They alone stand against the invaders, while you run like frightened hares! Be you Highlanders or cowards?”

  It made no difference. Curse, beg, shout, speak of the past, the present, or the future, none of it produced so much as a flicker in the dead eyes of his people. Pride was gone, courage a meaningless word, and honor had been discarded like so much useless baggage that was impeding their flight. The faces flowing past him now wore a hunted, desperate expression, emotions he had never before seen in the eyes of the Highlanders. His mentor, Father Michan, was away at this critical moment, consulting with his Bishop, and Father Oldran had taken the other acolytes down into Norealm at the first serious sign of trouble. Only Joshua now remained, the sole representative of the Church, and his words were only puffs of air, touching nothing, stirring nothing, his proud yellow robes invisible to the fleeing horde.