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

by James A. Hillebrecht

  For a few fleeting, precious moments, the Northings continued their relentless pursuit, their whole attention focused on their intended victims, a wolfpack closing upon a crippled stag. Then a warning cry went up, heads were turned, and orders were bellowed, the warriors closing their straggling ranks, preparing to receive a cavalry charge against their exposed flank. The barbarians moved with surprising speed, hard experience having taught them the price of slowness, and they pivoted almost in place, bringing a hundred spears to bear against this new enemy. They would have been prepared in time had it not been for Zarif’s madness.

  “Belwine, Belwine, Belwine,” he spoke into his charger’s ear, urging him onward, racing still faster instead of slowing, the two becoming one as they hurtled towards their deaths. Somewhere behind, a single trumpet was blowing wildly, a sole surviving bugler reveling in his last charge, and a sound like the roar of a pride of lions came with it, the deep-throated battle-cry of a hundred desperate men.

  Downward he charged, swinging his saber over his head, flying across the prairie grass like a mad dervish, and horse and rider drove right into the barbarian ranks without slowing at all. Belwine died on the spears of the first rank of Northings, but his momentum carried him right over his slayers, smashing three deep into the barbarian formation. Zarif tumbled from the saddle, miraculously unhurt, and he slashed out savagely with his saber, killing one, then two of his shocked and staggering opponents. A moment more he stood there, surrounded and alone, inviting the blows from a dozen foes, and the next instant, another horse and rider crashed into their ranks, crushing more black and silver bodies. Then came another and another, the barbarians breaking beneath the living meteors smashing in upon them.

  Zarif leaped forward, saber slashing, his face glazed with a mad fury that knew nothing save the driving need to kill. To the left, the right, to the left again, he struck, spears scraping against his chain mail, a dagger slicing into his arm, an officer’s sword glancing against his shoulder guard. He struck and struck again, killing and then stumbling over the slain to reach more foes, lunging madly, heedless of the counter-strokes.

  From somewhere far off came another roar, another body of men rushing to their deaths, and the Northing force seemed to stagger as one, fear like electricity flashing through them all. Zarif blinked and peered up through the blood and sweat clouding his single eye to see mounted men wearing the green and striped brown of Kargos cutting their way through the barbarian horde. An instant more the Northings held, then they broke and fled from the fury of the plainsmen, each running for their lives, a fighting force no longer.

  Horsemen took off after them, running the murderers to the ground, seeing to it that not a single one escaped. Zarif was gasping for breath, looking around dully at the slaughter, wondering how it was that he still stood. He could see a few dozens of his own men standing likewise in battle-shock, the few survivors of that mad suicide charge. Farther off, he could see foot soldiers of Kargos and even villagers as well, poised with bloody weapons, triumphant, having turned with the fury of a cornered deer to drive against their tormentors.

  Victory! their faces declared, and Zarif turned and spat. They had overthrown a tiny section of one tribe of Northings, and these fools waved their weapons in celebration. The pall of smoke hanging over Kargos told the true tale of victors and vanquished.

  A single horseman in striped brown and green was picking his way slowly through the bodies, moving towards him. The stance and the horse seemed vaguely familiar, and Zarif blinked, staring upwards and trying to clear his good eye. Finally, his sight cleared and he recognized the man’s face: Exelar, Captain of the Third Troop of Kargos, a soldier that Zarif had fought against in a dozen border skirmishes. Now the tall Captain towered over him, a bloody saber in his hands, cold hatred in his eyes, and Zarif could see the savage scar down the man’s cheek which he himself had inflicted on him barely three months before.

  “I would rather die beneath the Northing axes than owe my life to you and this Nargosian scum,” Exelar growled. “But you saved not just my life this day, but my men as well and nearly two hundred villagers. Including my sister and her children. For that and for your courage, I salute you, Zarif. For if the truth be told, never have I seen such a charge as you made this day.”

  He lifted the hilt of the saber to his lips and let it sweep down in the formal salute, but there was no lessening of the hatred in his face.

  Zarif shook his head, looking around him. Major Arden lay dead but a few steps away, impaled on the spears of the Northings, more than half of his men dead as well.

  “I am no longer Captain Zarif,” he said slowly. “And these are no longer the men of Nargosia. Nargost Castle is taken, the land is laid waste, and the people are but whispers in the prairie grass. We few are the Dead of the Plains, and we are in search of our graves. What seek you, Exelar?”

  Exelar’s eyes widened, and his lips parted slightly, trying to find words. All his thought and energy had been focused on simply eluding the pursuing Northings, and now that they were destroyed, he found himself at a loss, without purpose, the pall of smoke behind them a symbol of their hopelessness. For a long time, the two foes looked at each other, the past and the present at war within each.

  And then Exelar said slowly, “Kargos, too, is no more, and the past dies with it. We shall leave the old grievances here with the fallen, and envy the peace they have found. For us who remain, we will join your fell brotherhood, Dead Zarif. We, too, shall become the Dead of the Plains.”

  Zarif nodded his head, looking over the grim, bloodied faces around him, the people who wished to join his search for death.

  “So be it!” he cried, calling on the sky and the prairie grass to bear witness. “Come! We shall forge an end together!”

  * * * * *

  The state dinner had been perfect, every course superb, every knife and goblet sparkling, every finished plate removed with a flawless efficiency, the evening a triumph of pageantry and style; precisely what Duke Argus had ordered it would be.

  Plates, bowls, cups, silver, crystal goblets, candelabras, linen, napkin rings, finger bowls, chairs, benches, tables, even the decorative statues which formed the centerpieces had all been brought here from Monarch for the occasion, making the banquet hall of this small fortress of Highcrown almost as magnificent as the great feasting hall of the Duke’s Palace in the capital. The meats had been cooked to perfection, the roasted quail, skin crisp and succulent, was stuffed with sweetbreads from distant lands, and the fresh-caught river trout was redolent with the subtle herbs and garlics gathered from the Green Cliffs. Artichokes and asparagus tumbled from platters, swimming in a rich butter and cream sauces, and the wine was a deep fruity red from the famed valleys of the south. That wine had flowed freely through every course, gradually easing the tensions that inevitably arose when parties from three neighboring provinces gathered. Argus, glancing down the length of the table, could even see signs of good humor among the stiff-backed counselors and soldiers who had accompanied their lords here.

  Argus nodded to a watching waiter, and immediately the great doors of the hall were flung open and four chefs wheeled in the final dish: a gigantic pastry, topped with whipping cream, which just barely made it through the doorway. The dessert was the culmination of the dinner, the masterpiece to widen eyes already drowsing from the main meal, and from the exclamation and applause, it was clear it was having the desired effect. Which was well for all concerned. If the crust had fallen, Argus would have cooked the main chef in his own oven, and the man knew it.

  “How in the name of goodness were you able to bake such a magnificent pastry?” marveled Duke Boltran of Maganhall, a handsome young man with sandy hair dressed in golden chainmail who sat in the seat of honor at Argus’ right hand. Boltran was just barely out of his teens, and he was said to still have a youngster’s weakness for sweets.

  “Quite simple, Your Grace,” Argus answered with a smile. “We built a bonfire around an ol
d smokehouse and turned the entire stone building into an oven.”

  “Clever,” said Duke Fendon of Palmany, sitting at Argus’ left. “But how were you able to keep the heat even?”

  “We employed the services of a minor wizard who resides in Monarch,” replied Argus as large slices of the pastry were placed simultaneously before the three Dukes. “Fire is one of his specialties, so controlling the flames of the bonfire was an easy matter.”

  Fendon and Boltran both nodded, but Argus could tell they were suitably impressed. To be able to employ a wizard, especially one whose mastery was fire, in something as trivial as baking a dessert suggested a great deal of influence with magicians, and both men were no doubt wondering how much damage such a fire might do to a regiment of infantry or a squadron of cavalry.

  “We had brought the wizard with us to help deal with these elusive bandits,” Ursulan, Chancellor of Corland said from a little ways down the table. “In fact, he helped us catch the band that raided Maganhall a few days ago.”

  “That’s a good start on a long road,” rumbled Fendon as he took a huge bite of his dessert. “These bandits have been terrorizing my frontier for nearly two years now. ’Bout time something was done.”

  “I’m not sure I’d recognize a bandit if I saw one,” Boltran said. “No doubt a sign of my youth.”

  Argus smiled. “Experience will temper your years, Your Grace. You will learn.”

  “Indeed, I hope so,” the young man replied. “For when I looked at the bandits which your commander handed over to us, I was puzzled. They all had the rough hands and weathered faces of men who did honest work all their lives. I half-thought to find hayseeds in their beards.”

  There was an uneasy chuckle around the table, the hope that the issue was still light, but Argus’ smile vanished as he focused on his young guest. Boltran met his eyes calmly, his own polite smile never faltering.

  “That is hardly surprising, Your Grace,” Ursulan interjected. “Many of these bandits were undoubtedly farmers at one point, and the poor harvests which we have endured would certainly chase many into banditry. A particular unfortunate situation, for it makes the state doubly poor.”

  “I thank you, Chancellor, for the explanation,” Boltran answered a little dryly. “I’m sure that must be the case. For the other possibilities are far too disturbing.”

  Argus felt the anger stirring through his veins to be baited within one of his own fortresses, and for just a moment, he had a mental image of grabbing his great axe and cleaving this insolent pup in twain. But no matter how satisfying that act would be, he knew it might well lead to disaster. Just before entering the hall for the dinner, General Kaltron, the commander of the Black Watch, had warned him that an entire brigade of Maganhall infantry and at least five squadrons of cavalry had crossed the Delmar River and taken positions within easy striking range of the castle. If Boltran and his numerous bodyguards should manage to fight their way free of the castle, they would have immediate support awaiting them outside. The young man was clearly no fool.

  “These bandits are a problem for all of us, Your Grace,” Argus continued easily. “In fact, their numbers seem to be on the rise. I would suggest that our common interests would be better served by pulling our resources to exterminate them, rather than worrying about some barbarian raid far beyond Jalan’s Drift. Let the plains folk deal with their own problems, I say. We have grist enough for our mills.”

  “This seems to me to be far more than a mere raid, Your Grace,” Boltran answered. “Rumor has it that Nargost Castle itself has fallen, and I have heard from Duke Thrandar of Norealm that the Highlander’s Pass is under assault. Such events constitute a very real danger to the Southlands, and I would be remiss in my duty as the head of the Council of Lords if I did not call us together to consider this threat.”

  Argus’ eyes narrowed. This was the entire point of the meeting, to dissuade or at least delay Boltran from summoning the Council, and it was clear from the man’s steady glance that he was fully aware of it. Boltran was obviously past the point where argument and persuasion would carry any weight. That left the dangerous area of threats.

  “You act too hastily, young Boltran,” Argus said in a low voice that few at the table could hear. “Calling a summit of lions is fraught with danger. You’d be well advised to have a restraining noose around a few necks before putting us all in a room together.”

  “A wise counsel, Your Grace,” the young man answered softly. “But it seems to me that the same restraints which have made this dinner possible will be equally effective when all the lords are gathered.”

  A snarl began to twist Argus’ lips, but he fought it down, keeping both his voice and his anger under control.

  “You have answers for every problem,” Argus continued. “All save one. I do not wish the Council summoned at his time. Corland can be a grateful ally. Or a deadly and vengeful foe.”

  “There is no need for such words, my lords,” Fendon of Palmany said in a shaky voice. “We are all friends here.”

  Both Boltran and Argus ignored him, their eyes locked, the mollifying disguise of humor gone from both faces.

  “We must all do what our duty requires, Lord Argus,” Boltran said evenly. “For my part, it will be a relief to have Corland’s intentions openly declared. One way or the other.”

  Before Argus could make any response, Boltran rose to his feet and bowed politely to his host. The entire table was startled, rising to their feet as ceremony required.

  “I thank you for a marvelous entertainment, Your Grace,” he said in a voice that addressed the entire table. “You must allow us to return your generosity. Perhaps some time following the meeting of Council of the Lords.”

  Old Fendon was on his feet as well, muttering some politeness, making it impossible to focus solely on Boltran. Argus nodded his head stiffly in return, his eyes promising the young Duke that the issues between them were far from resolved. Boltran and Fendon turned and left, the banquet room emptying with amazing speed, leaving only Argus and Ursulan at the table with the guards of the Black Watch standing ready at the walls.

  “Brash young fool,” Ursulan said. “He makes things harder. For all of us.”

  Argus said nothing at first, his dark eyes glaring at the door through which his young opponent had just left, his brow furrowed. Finally, he said, “We may have to find a solution for young Boltran. It seems unlikely that he can be swayed. Still, holding one’s own mind is a great deal different from swaying others. We shall see which way this Council goes.”

  “But if I may make a suggestion, Your Grace?” Ursulan said cautiously.

  “What?”

  “This boy seems both alert and well schooled. Perhaps we should take a few extra precautions.”

  “Such as?”

  “This embassy we are expecting from the Northings. Perhaps it would be wiser to receive them in Alston’s Fey rather than Monarch. If Maganhall’s eyes are alert, it will be easier to disclaim responsibility if the meeting occurred at a neutral site.”

  Argus nodded absently in agreement, his eyes still on the doors through which Boltran had left.

  “We have agents in the Household of Maganhall, have we not?” he asked slowly.

  “Certainly, Your Grace,” Ursulan answered with a shrug. “We have several, though none, I fear, are very highly placed.”

  “I’m not interested in secrets,” he retorted. “But I want an agent placed close to Boltran. Physically close.”

  Ursulan’s eyebrows rose.

  “That is certainly possible,” he said slowly, and then added, “Though I must stress that the agent will be no more than a common servant, with no particular skills with weapons or poisons.”

  “I require none,” Argus answered. “At least, not yet.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Alston’s Fey

  The sprawling town of Alston’s Fey was spread around (and over) the juncture of the Ice Flow and Cascade Rivers as they gave birth to the m
ighty Delmar which then flowed majestically down to Azare and the Southern Ocean. The town extended in all directions, having no set boundaries or fixed walls, but the core of the Fey was situated on one large and two small islands, closely grouped down the middle of the Cascade and the Delmar. Technically, the town lay within the boundaries of Maganhall and did pay a small yearly tribute to Duke’s Hall, but it had received its own charter centuries before and was known as a free town, owing allegiance only to itself and the vast trade which flowed up and down the Delmar.

  The various bridges tying the central island to the mainlands were the Fey’s only military defenses, but they had proven more than adequate. Palmany, Maganhall, Corland, and Norealm all watched each other like dogs over a fresh bone, the other three ready to rip at the first to lunge for it, and the town had prospered at the focus of this balance of power. Thus, with others looking to its defense, the town had developed an open code for citizens and travelers alike that was summarized in the old adage “choose your fight carefully, for it may be your last.”

  “Alston’s Fey,” said Darius to himself as Andros passed the first few outlying buildings. His woodsman’s nose could already smell the complicated blend of the rivers, the woodsmoke, and the stench from thousands of closely packed humans and animals. “It hasn’t changed much even over all these years.”

  Still a haven of thieves, rogues, and river pirates, said Sarinian. Would that the rivers rose and washed all this scum down to the sea.

  “They hire wizards each spring to control the floods,” Darius answered with a smile. “So waste your wishes on something else.”

  “What say you?” asked Joshua.