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

by James A. Hillebrecht

  The Highlanders around him guarded his back and sides, men dying gladly for the chance to fight beside him, and he drove through the invaders like a spear through cloth, the enemy axes glancing off his heavy armor. An honor guard stood about the standard-bearer, a dozen of the tallest and strongest of the Northings, and they leaped forward to deal with this single warrior, their silver axes flashing.

  Joshua’s heart rose into his throat, and he shouted a warning, the words hardly registering even on his own ears amid the battle din. He could see nothing for a moment except the light of the great sword, and he feared that Darius had simply been overwhelmed. But the Highlanders were with him, holding back the press, and the next instant, he could see the shining sword rise again, striking hard to the left and then to the right. Suddenly, Darius burst free from the mass of bodies and charged directly for the enemy flag.

  The standard-bearer was a giant of a man who held the great banner like a simple spear, and the last two of the honor guard stood with him. The two guards charged wildly at Darius, trying desperately to knock him off his feet, and while the first died before he reached him, the second managed to knock him back and hold his right arm for a moment. The standard-bearer rushed at his partially pinned opponent, the sharp point of the flagpole glinting, a skewer hungry for meat, and Joshua screamed in fear. At just the last moment, Darius put his left hand on the remaining guard, jerked hard, and spun the man into the path of the on-rushing giant. The spear thrust right into the Northing’s back, piercing him through and holding the banner still for a moment. Darius slashed out and his sword shattered the flagpole, banner and dead Northing dropping to the ground together, and a savage second swing dispatched the dumbfounded giant.

  The fall of the banner broke what remained of the Northings’ will. The men at the back of the pass turned and ran, easing the press at the crest, and soon the barbarians were streaming back down the mountain rode, leaving the Highlanders triumphant behind.

  With a thrill of relief such as he had never known, Joshua watched the enemy fleeing, and he didn’t even realize that he was cheering and yelling and crying right along with everyone else around him.

  * * * * *

  Darius sat on a low rock at the side of the High Pass, his shoulders hunched, his elbows on his knees, hands limp. There were blood and corpses all around him, for this was the point where the battle had raged hottest. Highlander and Northing lay together in the indignity of death, for men had given their lives freely to try to gain or hold these few precious yards of earth. The smell of blood was heavy in the air, the stench which would bring the carrion crows and vultures flocking, the odor of a fresh battlefield soon to give way to the reek of rotting flesh. Yet this had been no more than a skirmish, a clash between the vanguards of armies.

  Darius felt his stomach heaving, and he fought the nausea down. But it was not the smell of death alone which assailed him.

  Directly before him lay the body of a big Highlander, his hands folded across his chest, his war-axe at his side where Darius had placed it: Siras McGiver, the blacksmith whom he had first swayed from flight.

  But for me, he would still be alive, Darius thought dully. I killed him as surely as if I had struck the fatal blow myself. Yet is he any different from all the others who now line the Pass?

  Four feet away, Sarinian stood embedded in the solid rock of the mountain road, for Darius had thrust it into this stone scabbard at the end of the battle, unable to endure its touch any longer. There was no stain of blood upon it, no record of the gory work which it had just completed, as if boasting that the deaths of mortals could not touch it in any way.

  “Speak, you monster,” grated Darius. “Your voice was loud enough a few minutes before. Have you nothing to say now?”

  What needs said? the sword answered. The enemy has been put to flight, and the High Pass is saved. You fought well and are now weary. Rest, for there is still much work ahead of us.

  “Rest,” growled Darius. “Yes, rest so that I can kill again tomorrow and then again the day after. Rest, that I might put others to rest.” He stared at the gleaming sword and asked, “Do you feel nothing for the men we killed? Over there lies the graybeard, a warrior with a veteran’s skill but an old man’s speed. He knew the counterthrust was coming but could not move in time to block it. Do you remember him?”

  No.

  “No. And what of this one?” Darius stared down at a small body just off to the right, its limbs sprayed out in the abandonment of death, the proud silver shield lying beneath it. “No more than a boy of sixteen summers. This was likely his first battle. And I blocked his pathetic attack and cut him down with a single stroke.”

  That one I do remember, said the sword’s haunting voice. He struck, and you made no answer. You allowed him three blows before you dispatched him. Why?

  Darius shook his head, unable to admit that for just an instant, he had seen a shadow of Shannon in that youthful face. He said simply, “He was a boy.”

  He was an enemy trying to kill you, the sword countered. And he would have killed many others if you had not stopped him. Think not of these deaths, but rather of the lives you have saved.

  “Not an easy task. For it is not the lives of others which now stain my hands.”

  “Darius…Lord Darius?”

  He turned to find Joshua standing awkwardly a few feet away, his expression cautious, his eyes hesitant, the yellow priest’s robes spattered with blood. Behind him, a few other Highlanders stood quietly, waiting.

  “Are you hurt…My Lord?” Joshua asked, the title coming slowly after his previous animosity.

  “Not in any way that can be healed,” Darius replied, getting slowly to his feet. “There’s a new respect in your voice, Youngster. That’s a mistake. Never admire a man just because he can kill.”

  “It’s not the killing I admire,” the boy answered simply.

  Darius stared at him for a long moment, and the first shade of a smile came to ease the battle-pallor.

  “The Clansmen sent me to you, My Lord,” he continued formally. “They request your presence at the lodge of Lord Cairnsmore to honor you and ask your counsel. The enemy has fled back to the Northern Approach, but they are lingering there and show no signs of abandoning the Pass.”

  “They’ll not test the Highlanders again,” Darius said. “They came to occupy the Pass after the Fear Spell had cleared it, not to fight their way through. They’ll do no more now than hold the Approach.”

  Reluctantly, Darius walked over to the sword and drew it out of the rock, thrusting it back into its back scabbard. He turned to Joshua, and for the first time, he noticed a bandage on the boy’s leg.

  “You’re hurt, Lad. How badly?”

  “I can walk well enough, though not fast.” Then he shrugged and grinned ruefully. “It didn’t even happen during the battle. I tripped against a raised sword while I was trying to care for the wounded.”

  “Give it rest,” Darius advised. “Leg wounds should not be taken lightly.”

  “I have no time for rest,” the boy replied. “I must report to my superiors as quickly as I may.”

  Darius opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again. Clearly, no words of his were going to sway the boy, and in truth, he was right that he had to get news of the battle to his people as soon as possible.

  “The Clansmen are waiting for you, My Lord,” he prompted.

  “I’ll speak with them briefly, but I must be on my way,” Darius said. “The danger here may be past, but the shadows lengthen over the Drift. And the Southlands.”

  “Might I ride with you, My Lord?” Joshua asked quickly.

  He’ll slow our pace, Sarinian said coldly from its scabbard. We have no time.

  Darius ignored the sword, studying the eager face of the boy in front of him. Young Joshua had been one of the few untouched by the fear spell, and there was a simple, honest sincerity in the boy’s eyes. He nodded slowly.

  “Andros can bear us both easily enough
,” he answered.

  He turned and let out a loud, piercing whistle, and moments later, the white stallion came into sight at the southern end of the pass. He waited patiently, making no attempt to walk across the body-strewn road.

  “Come, Joshua,” he said, but then paused for a moment to look down at the body of Siras McGiver. He turned to the other Highlanders standing beside Joshua. “Grant me a boon, if you will, my friends. Gather the body of this blacksmith and bear him with honor to the Council Lodge.”

  “Aye, My Lord,” answered one. “We’ll take that charge gladly.”

  With that, Darius and Joshua picked their way to where Andros waited, and quickly mounted the horse together. They headed back down the pass to where the Council Lodge stood, and all along the way, Highlanders came out to greet them and wish them well. The battle and the losses could still be read on every face, but their honest gratitude helped to lift still more of the shadow off of Darius’ heart.

  As they approached the great Council Lodge, the doors opened and nine of the Lairds of the Ten Clans came out to pay him tribute, their number lessened by a single terrible loss. The noble Laird McCullen had perished holding the center of the Highlander Line.

  Darius raised his hand in a salute, acknowledging their gesture, but he did not dismount.

  “I thank you for this honor, My Lords,” he said, “but I fear I cannot tarry. There is still much work to be done.”

  “Will you not even stay the night, Warrior?” Sinclair asked, bandages around his head and shield arm. “You’ll travel the better for it.”

  “No, the sun will still see me through many miles yet. I am in haste.”

  “I give you my hand, Warrior, if you’ll take it,” Cairnsmore said coming forward. “You saved my honor as well as the Pass.”

  Darius smiled and took the proffered hand gladly. “I did no more than help break a magic that was sent against you. As it has always been, it was the courage and strength of the Highlanders which held the Pass.”

  “Then take a meal with us,” Cairnsmore said. “If only in token of our gratitude.”

  “I must wait for that feast,” Darius answered. “But I would beg of you another token, if you will.”

  “Anything.”

  “Behind me, men are bearing the body of a blacksmith who perished fighting beside me in the battle,” Darius said, swallowing. “I would ask that you bury him beside his forge, with a stone to mark his bravery.”

  “You have my word, Warrior,” Cairnsmore answered, and Darius nodded, satisfied.

  “But will you not wait long enough even to give us your counsel?” Sinclair asked. “We need to decide what steps to take now.”

  “You know well enough, My Lord, how events will go, whatever you and I might plan,” Darius said slowly. “The invaders are no threat in the Northern Approaches, but their presence won’t be endured for long. One Laird or another will seethe and chafe at the nearness of the enemy, and they’ll bring hot and furious words with them to the council. The next day, the clans will gather and sweep down out of the High Pass like a mountain storm, and the Northings will be destroyed. And men will die on both sides for nothing.”

  “Nothing?” repeated the old Laird with a touch of anger. “You call defending our homes nothing?”

  Darius shook his head. “The Drift is where the real battle will be decided. This is no more than a skirmish by comparison. If the Drift should fall, no place, however strong, will endure for long.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he looked back towards the north as if trying to see through the distance. “Nothing seems to stand against the enemy’s main force, nothing even slows their progress. Yet they move with a strange slowness, strolling almost leisurely across the plains.” He shook his head slowly. “There is a vital piece to this puzzle that has yet to be seen.”

  He turned back to the Lairds.

  “Fare you well, Highlanders!” he said. “May your courage today spare you future tests!”

  “Fare you well, Warrior,” Cairnsmore replied for them all. “Our hearths and hearts shall always be opened to you.”

  With that, Darius, Joshua clutching his shoulders, turned Andros southward, and the great steed rushed down the mountain road, heading towards the Southlands.

  CHAPTER 8

  A Crossing of Swords

  Adella walked confidently around the corner of The Green Dragon Inn, the heels of her boots clocking steadily on the wooden sidewalk, and then, the instant she was around the corner, she froze, her ears alert. There it was again, the merest half-step in the darkness behind her as her silent pursuer was forced to match her speed and took that one incautious step that told Adella all she wanted to know. She immediately continued walking, the steady sound of her footfalls reassuring her unseen enemy, as she headed for the main entrance of the Inn. No need to worry about the one behind, she told herself. He’s no more than the watchdog. The real killer is waiting somewhere up ahead.

  She pushed through the carved wooden doors of the Inn (each showing a curling dragon with the head forming the doorknob) and entered the loud, boisterous atmosphere of the Green Dragon, the roughest and most entertaining barroom in all of Alston’s Fey. The Fey was an open town, and unlike Jalan’s Drift, it had only a few marshals to help keep order, leaving most of the citizens to protect themselves. The crowd inside the Green Dragon reflected that code, for nearly all were armed and armored, their weapons an open warning to any who might antagonize them.

  Adella paused for a moment, looking over the crowd and giving them a chance to notice her. Tonight, she was openly wearing her leather armor with Bloodseeker scabbarded at her side, and more than a few heads were raised at her appearance, an appreciation of both her beauty and her evident power. She ignored the upturned faces, knowing their interest was only casual. Somewhere in the crowded room was a person watching only out of the corner of his eye, but she could be sure he would miss no gesture or detail. For that was the man who was here to kill her.

  Why do we play these games? Bloodseeker asked from her side. Turn to await the enemy behind, and make their number the less by one. The others may well come to his aid.

  No, my lovely, Adella answered silently. These are not warriors with a code or even thieves who share a common bond. To kill the one would only warn the others that I know I am hunted. Our first blow must be against the leader, not the follower. She began walking casually into the crowd, relaxed yet watchful, letting no hint of her tension show.

  Three, her source had warned. A trio of Slayers coming to hunt her, find her, and kill her. The Slayers were professional assassins skilled in weapons, stealth, and deception, and their most effective and dangerous tool was poison. Poison sprinkled delicately over food, coated heavily on a hidden needle, or dripping from the blade of a sword or dagger as it flashed from a sudden ambush. Adella forced down both the anger and the fear that the thought of poison roused in her and concentrated on her plan. She had been the target of these human (or non-human) vipers before, and she regularly paid a goodly sum of money to a minor member of the Slayer’s Guild for a small advanced warning, a few whispered words which now just might save her life. It only remained to identify who among this mob had been sent to kill her.

  She stepped to the bar and summoned the barkeep with a glance.

  “Evening, Junal,” she said with a smile. “I’ll take a glass of your best wine.”

  She had to force herself to order her usual drink. Around Slayers, any predictability could well be fatal, but she had to pretend to be blissfully ignorant of her peril.

  “Certainly,” he answered, producing a glass and a bottle. But there was something the tiniest bit shifty in his eyes, something that lingered on her, that told her he knew she was in mortal danger. So Junal knew; might even be in the pay of the assassins.

  She smiled again as he set the glass before her. “I’ve some business here tonight, with a man named Halran. Has he arrived?”

  The barkeep nodded. “Room Number Thr
ee. Got in an hour ago and ordered a cold supper. He should be ready for you by now.”

  Adella nodded and pretended to take a sip of her wine, hoping to lull the watching Slayer into a false confidence; even if the drink itself wasn’t poisoned, the assassin was bound to be heartened at the sight of a target drinking wine. Then she headed casually for the back rooms where meetings could be arranged, free from curious eyes and ears.

  No one seemed to be paying her any particular attention, but she was certain the heart of her opponent must be racing with anticipation as he watched his prey walking quietly into the trap. By sheer necessity, Adella had learned all she could about the ways of the Slayers, and on more than one occasion, that knowledge had saved her life. She knew very well that in order to arrange a killing, an assassin had to have a place and a time where he could be sure of finding his target, and the place chosen for her was the Green Dragon Inn; and the time was now.

  The lure dangled before her had been another buyer, anxious to learn whatever he could of the Northing invasion, a perfectly reasonable situation with the rich promise of a hefty commission to bring her out into the open. She had come gladly, for the only way to flush out the Slayers was to give them their chance; then switch the tables at the critical moment.

  Who is paying for the attempt? she wondered as she neared the back corridor. Her source said the money had come from the agents of Dralbax, the head of the Guild of Thieves in Alston’s Fey, but she doubted if he were acting alone. It was true she was one of the few thieves who refused to pay dues or commissions to the Guild, but they had learned long ago that it simply wasn’t profitable to press the issue in her case. Adella was a lone wolf who hunted where she pleased, and any who tried to block her were likely to come into contact with the wrong end of Bloodseeker.

  She put the thought firmly aside as she turned the corner and left the view of the barroom. These next few seconds while she was out of sight of her pursuer were vital, the time which would determine whether she lived or died. Just down the hall was the door to Number Three, and Adella was quite certain that the second assassin was awaiting her there, whether in the persona of the supposed buyer Halran or hidden in some recess. But the main assassin would be moving even now towards the corridor, sealing her escape and her fate.