Adella quickly laid a tiny dagger down on the floor, just off to one side, and then silently opened the door to Room Number One directly beside her and slipped inside. She had no need to check to be sure the room was empty, for she had reserved it under another name as soon as tonight’s appointment had been made. Then she drew Bloodseeker quietly from its scabbard and held it against the door.
For what seemed like an eternity there was no sound from the corridor save the distance babble from the barroom, and Adella had to take a grip on herself, forcing herself to stay calm and quiet.
Then, just as she expected and hoped, Bloodseeker announced, Someone enters the corridor.
She took a breath, readying herself, but the sword had another surprise for her.
It is a woman, it said. One of the serving maids.
Adella gritted her teeth in annoyance at the thought that by evil chance, one of the maids had blundered into the killing zone at just the wrong moment. An unwanted witness, quite possibly one who would scream and alert the second assassin in the other room, or who might rouse the entire barroom and make it impossible to catch the Slayer if he should choose to flee. For a moment, she considered just abandoning the plan, slipping quietly out through the room’s locked and shuttered window, but the sword suddenly spoke again and changed everything.
She is moving towards the dagger. She is right outside the door.
Right outside the door, yet Adella’s fine ears could hear not a sound. And the girl was moving towards the tiny dagger that an innocent serving wench would hardly notice, but which was the universal sign among thieves and Slayers of a message or a warning. In that fleeting instant, Adella understood.
With one motion, she leveled Bloodseeker and thrust it unerringly right through the door, the sharp blade piercing the wood as easily as the air. There was a tightly controlled gasp of pain from beyond, and Adella felt the terrible tingling in the hilts that told her the sword had found blood. But the next instant, the door burst in upon her, and she barely had time to retract the sword before the girl, bleeding from the side, was charging at her with a dagger in either hand.
There was no chance to level Bloodseeker again, for the foe expertly rushed to the right to crowd her sword-hand. Adella ducked and rolled, trying to buy space in which to swing, but the girl was lithe and quick, turning and slashing despite her wound. Adella felt the sharp pain of a dagger cutting through the light leather on her legs and into her calf, and she knew she now had only minutes to live. She swung behind her in a wide sweep, forcing the girl back and gaining an instant of time.
Two daggers. Complimentary poisons. The thought flashed through her head like a scream of warning. Each dagger coated with a deadly substance, either of which could kill, but when both were injected into the bloodstream of a victim, they combined to freeze the heart instantly. The first poison was already working its way through her blood, but the slightest prick with the second dagger would mean immediate death.
There was only one chance: lure her opponent into a premature thrust. She scrambled to her feet and charged for the door, then grimaced with pain as she pretended the wounded leg was buckling beneath her. The Slayer was almost directly behind her, and she knew the second dagger would quickly be coming to finish the job. Bloodseeker was in her right hand, and with one motion, she swiftly tucked the blade up under her left arm and thrust back blindly with both hands, aiming with a sixth sense that told her where the killing thrust would be made. The deadly point of the second dagger was just piercing the thick leather guarding her torso when Bloodseeker struck home, and the sudden surge in the hilts assured Adella that she need never fear this foe again.
The sound of the breaking door was bound to attract attention, the second assassin was undoubtedly aware that something was going wrong, and she had no idea what the third assassin might be up to, but none of that matter at the moment. Bloodseeker was pulsing with the kill, the sword gleaming with heat and energy, and Adella turned and placed the flat of the hot blade directly against the knife wound in her calf. There was a horrible sizzling sound, a smell of charred flesh, and Adella gritted her teeth against the agony. But she held the blade steady, enduring the pain, knowing that she must use the power of the sword to draw the poison from the Slayer’s dagger out of her blood before it completed its deadly work.
An endless instant later, and she knew she had destroyed enough of the venom to save her life. She moved quickly to the window but paused long enough to glance down at the dead girl on the floor behind her. Tough, fierce, and fanatic, wielding two daggers with complimentary poisons, she clearly had been no common Slayer. Someone must have paid a huge sum of money for her services and those of her accomplices, an indication of just how important Adella’s death had apparently become.
To someone.
The next moment, she had unlatched the window and was slipping out into the dark alley, knowing her two remaining opponents would be equally dangerous and equally fanatic. And they now knew she was alert to them.
* * * * *
Speed made discussion between Darius and his companion difficult or impossible during the day and evening following the battle at the High Pass. Andros raced against the approaching night, his pace excluding even minor conversation, and as they made camp, Joshua found that the strains of the day, the battle, and the wound made it hard to even keep his eyes open for long. The best he could manage was to exchange a few words while Darius changed his bandage.
“Whither are we bound, Warrior?” he asked. “To Jalan’s Drift?”
“No,” Darius answered thoughtfully. “At least, not immediately. I think I should meet someone in Alston’s Fey first.”
“Who?”
“A woman who claims to have information about the invaders,” he said. “There are too many pieces missing from this puzzle, and I need whatever information I can gather. I trust the Fey will serve your needs also?”
Joshua yawned widely and nodded. “Right well. It’s closer than the Drift, so I can make my report all the quicker. I wouldn’t have to rush at all if Father Michan hadn’t taken all the carrier pigeons with him.”
“Took the pigeons and left the acolyte behind,” observed Darius softly.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing. There. The bandage is finished. Now rest while you can, Lad.”
Joshua, however, was already snoring softly.
Darius let the boy sleep right up till dawn when Andros was saddled, the breakfast cooked, and the camp already broken. Joshua barely had time to clear his eyes, answer the call of nature, and wolf down his breakfast before he found himself back on the warhorse, tearing southward again.
The Mountains of the Winds were already melting away behind them, the High Pass nothing but a powerful memory, and the land had changed from rocky bones to the rich soil of the Southlands. They were riding across the vibrant countryside of Norealm, passing orchards sprouting their spring flowers and fields just turned by the plow for planting. Occasionally, they passed hands working in the fields, the men squinting and wondering at the great charger galloping past.
They paused only a short time for the noon meal, chewing down salted pork and unleavened bread from Darius’ stores and drinking from a small stream. They talked mainly about the Northings, Joshua wondering how such a force could have assailed the High Pass when the main body was apparently still many days from the Drift.
“The Northings are basically raiders,” Darius explained. “They live off the land and travel fast and light. The question is not so much how this party reached the Pass so quickly as why the main body moves so slow.”
Joshua considered this, but before he could even pose another question, they were mounted again and closing the gap between themselves and Alston’s Fey.
As evening began to creep up upon them, Darius eased Andros down to a walk, wanting him to cool down a bit before they stopped for the night, and the quieter pace gave Joshua the chance to ask some of the questions that had bounded aroun
d inside his head during the afternoon ride.
“You spoke of a spell of fear that had struck my people,” he began. “I’ve never heard of such a thing before. What is it?”
“I’ve encountered it several times, but never on such a magnitude,” admitted Darius. “It simply increases a person’s natural fears until they overwhelm every other emotion. That’s why your people seemed so glassy-eyed.” He shook his head slowly. “Still, the extent of the spell is alarming. Alacon Regnar is said to be a conjurer, a master of the black arts, but even an arch-mage would be hard pressed to send such power over so large an area.”
“But if it was so strong, how did you counter it so easily?”
“I only needed to shake them lightly to rouse them from that stupor.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The Highlanders are a hearty and tightly joined folk, and it goes against their grain to run,” Darius answered with a smile. “More, the Pass bunched them together and led them right to me.” Then the smile faded. “But if such a spell of fear falls upon the mixed forces defending the Drift, the battle might be over before it is ever joined. I, by myself, could never hope to counter it there.”
“But surely the main forces of the Church will be gathered for the defense of the Drift,” Joshua said, a little puzzled by his overlooking the obvious. “It won’t be just a single acolyte trying to contain the fear.”
Darius glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “Don’t dismiss that acolyte so easily. It took real courage to stand against both the fear spell and your own people, Lad. Don’t forget, it was more than your two mentors were able to manage.”
Joshua’s frown deepened, however, despite the compliment, and Darius realized he had gone a little too far. The boy seemed to be stepping back, taking a wider look at this strange armored knight who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.
“Where did you come by such a sword?” he asked, eyeing Sarinian in its saddle scabbard.
“The Avenger chose me,” Darius answered simply. “Sometimes I think I am no more than its feet, carrying it from one battle to the next.”
The boy pondered this, the words seeming to raise even more doubts or questions in him. Darius waited patiently.
“Why do you wear such antiquated armor?” the boy continued, now clearly suspicious. “Chain-mail is lighter, far more flexible, and nearly as strong.”
“It is the armor I was given.”
“By whom?”
There was no way to avoid it. “Bilan-Ra, the Messenger of Mirna the Glorious.”
“You’re a Paladin!” the boy cried, aghast.
“Yes.”
“Let me down! Let me down, I say! I’ll not ride with the likes of you!”
The boy began pushing himself off the horse, Andros neighing angrily at this unwarranted behavior. Darius reached behind and grabbed the boy’s shoulder, keeping him from jumping.
“Don’t be stupid,” answered Darius sternly. “You put weight on that leg, and you’ll lose it.”
“I don’t care!” Joshua shouted, still struggling. “Let me down!”
Darius had little choice, but he was able to hold his grip on the boy’s robes as he dismounted, lessening the impact on the wounded leg. Despite the help, Joshua still grunted with pain as he hit the ground, but he stepped out manfully, limping along in the same direction, Alston’s Fey now an infinitely longer distance away.
We have no time for such foolishness, said Sarinian coldly. Ride on!
Darius let out a small sigh. “It’s still a little early to make camp, but perhaps we can make it up in the morn.”
With that, he spurred Andros past the boy, going a short distance further down the road before dismounting and starting to make camp. By the time Joshua drew close, Darius had already tended to Andros, started a fire, and was preparing the meal. The boy’s angry eyes were focused farther down the road, ignoring both fire and food, but it was clear that the shock of the tightening wound had already taken a toll on his resolve.
“Come, Lad,” Darius called kindly. “You’ll not get any farther tonight. If you’ll travel no more with me, at least share a last camp.”
The boy paused, but his face still showed his disdain. “I’ll not share a heretic’s fire.”
“Joshua, there’s something you have to bear in mind,” Darius said slowly. “Whatever our differences in religion, we have a common enemy in Regnar. Don’t forget that. The best way to insure his victory is to quarrel among ourselves.”
Joshua said nothing, but Darius could feel the turmoil coursing through the boy, a mixture of doubt, prejudice and grudging agreement. The Church spurned the Paladins as heretics, men who claimed to do the bidding of Mirna without the sanction of the Church, and there were even those who taught that Paladins were no more than killers who plied their trade in the name of the God, adding blasphemy to their crime of murder. Yet it had been Darius alone who had turned the tide in the High Pass, he who had swayed the Highlanders as they fled, untouched by Joshua’s own ramblings and ravings.
Finally, the boy nodded once and sat down exactly where he stood, unable to bring himself even to turn towards the fire. Darius sighed again, got up, and lifted the boy off the ground.
“What are you doing?” Joshua yelled, trying to resist. “Let go of me!”
Darius, however, handled him with surprising ease as if he weighed no more than a newborn infant, walking calmly over to the fire and putting him down next to it. Without asking or saying a word, he then began to examine the boy’s bandage.
“I can dress the wound myself!” Joshua snapped.
“The wound’s in the back of the leg where you can’t reach,” Darius answered simply. “If you try to dress it, you’ll be on your back in two days and dead of fever within the week. And no word of the battle and the Highlanders will reach your superiors.”
The boy frowned, mulling this over, and while he considered, Darius quickly peeled off the bandage. A glance showed that the wound was still red and angry, but there was no smell of infection. He nodded, knowing it was on the right road to mending, and he replaced the dressing with the ease of long experience.
The boy watched and said nothing.
After dressing the wound, Darius set about tending their dinner, a piece of venison from a deer he had brought down with bow and arrow two days ago. Joshua’s eyes never left him, as if he were expecting some sort of assault. Darius was content to work in silence, making no attempt at conversation, for he knew the questions were bound to come, knew the unneeded rebukes were souring in the boy’s mouth.
Must be the same age as Shannon, Darius thought to himself. With that same absolute certainty about everything.
Darius handed him a knife when the meat was done but offered no other invitation, merely setting the example by starting to carve himself a portion.
“You didn’t bless the meat,” the boy chided, his hostile eyes boring into him.
Darius glanced at him calmly while continuing to cut away a tender piece of venison. “The Lord hears the gratitude in my heart. If I speak the words aloud, it would only be for your ears, not for His.”
He sat down and began to eat, knowing the dam was now broken and the flood of questions about to strike.
“They call you heretic,” the boy said.
Darius smiled and said nothing.
“They call you renegade and outlaw. They say you reject the sacrament and sing the Great Song openly.”
Darius continued to use his mouth only for the meat, but the smile had lessened.
“They say you profane the Lord and hold the Church in open contempt.”
“And what do you say, Youngster?” Darius asked, turning his eyes on him. “We’ve fought a battle together and ridden near twelve leagues in the same saddle. What’s your opinion?”
“My opinion? But I don’t know anything about you.”
“Neither do they.”
The boy frowned, taken off guard. He considered this for a mome
nt before taking a different approach.
“Still, you have to heed the wisdom of the Church Elders.”
No response. The boy’s frown deepened.
“The Church is our guiding light,” Joshua continued with growing heat. “Though the Propriety Councils, it teaches us how to live a righteous life and remain in the Lord’s favor. The Church is Mirna’s instrument on Earth!”
Darius tossed aside the bone he’d been chewing, his own eyes calm.
“The Church is men, with all the virtues and vices of men,” he answered slowly. “They say I must stand beneath a roof and have a yellow robe in front of me to truly hear the Word of Mirna. I say the God’s voice is not so weak.”
“Blasphemy!” gasped the boy. “The Church is the House of God!”
Darius just shook his head. “If every church were torn down, would Mirna cease to exist?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why do you act as if the Church is indispensable to Mirna?”
It was clear Joshua was trying very hard to find him vile and immoral, to find confirmation of all he had heard of Paladins, and it was also clear he was not having much success.
“Then tell me what you believe,” the boy said.
“No.”
“Why not? Are you ashamed?”
“It is not to me that you should look for answers. It is within yourself.” He reached over and cut a large piece of meat, holding out to the boy. “Come and eat. You’ll never heal if you use your mouth only for words.”
Joshua took the meat absently, but his eyes were still hard on the man before him. Finally, he said with a touch of defiance, “I think they’re right. I think you are a heretic.”
Darius got slowly to his feet, but paused to look down at the boy.
A Rage in the Heavens (The Paladin Trilogy Book 1) Page 14
