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

by James A. Hillebrecht

  Ursulan was brushing himself off, but he looked warily at Argus. Finally, he asked, “Why send an ambassador all the way to Alston’s Fey if he possessed a power such as this?”

  Argus stopped, the question raising his eyebrows.

  “The sending seemed to be of only short duration,” he said slowly. “And perhaps he possesses only a limited number.”

  “Or perhaps the alliance with you has suddenly become all the more important,” suggested Ursulan. “They have failed to take the High Pass, and their main force moves only slowly over the long length of the Free Lands. More, we’ve heard rumors of bands of soldiers still active behind them, desperate men who refused to surrender with their lords and fight on, calling themselves the Dead of the Plains. And now, the Red Feather has been sent forth to all the Dukes of the Southlands.”

  Argus nodded slowly. “A good point, Chancellor. A great display of power sometimes hides a serious weakness.”

  He paused, thinking back to all he had seen and heard, and the image of the green staff kept returning to his mind’s eye, puzzling, intriguing. Ursulan might be correct that circumstances now made the alliance with Corland all the more crucial to the Northings, but Argus felt certain that rather than a mask for weakness, the sending was proof that Regnar’s personal power was still growing. Not that is truly mattered. If he honored the pact with the killing of a Bishop of the Church, he would be committed to this alliance. Or would he?

  He noticed the wide eyes of the little Minister of State who seemed as staggered by the conversation as he had been by the sending.

  Argus turned casually, carrying his axe by the head as if to put it back in its place against the wall. But without warning, he spun suddenly, lifting and swinging the axe with all his might down upon the be-speckled minister. The little door-mouse had hardly time to blink in surprise before the great blade crashed into him, splitting him almost in two.

  “Wha…What…?!” Ursulan gibbered, recoiling as the man’s blood drenched him, covering the floor and the table, flinching at the sounds of Argus wrenching the axe free of its victim. He tried to back away, his mind numb with horror, and his feet slipped on the spreading pool of blood, sending him sprawling on the floor. He struggled, trying to regain his feet, but the terror and the slick blood kept his legs from working properly.

  Around the end of the table loomed the dark shape of Argus, red-splattered armor, the bloody axe still in his hand, coming down upon him. Ursulan cowered, helpless, seeing death in his master’s face, trying to make his mouth work and say something, anything that might save him. For a moment, Argus towered above him, staring, and then he reached down and helped the smaller man to his feet.

  “Knowledge of our agreement with Regnar must be for us alone,” Argus said darkly. “Even more so, the terms of that agreement.” Then Argus’ lips split into an evil grin. “Don’t you agree, Chancellor?”

  Ursulan blinked, raised his hand to wipe his eyes only to see that it, too, was covered with blood. He swallowed hard and said, “Most certainly, Your Grace.”

  Argus nodded, his grin widening. He could be quite certain Ursulan would not be late for any more meetings.

  * * * * *

  Alacon Regnar stood silently on the Plains of Alencia in the midst of the army of Rock Goblins, the Green Sending now fully faded, the view of the distant hall in Monarch vanished, and he thought over what he had heard and what he had seen in the mind of Duke Argus. There had been twists upon twists, treachery upon treachery within the man, a loyalty to nothing but himself and power, but the treachery was aimed as much against his fellow dukes as it was against the Northings. He will serve, Regnar decided. He will serve well.

  Focus instead on this Paladin, said the Ohric. He has crossed our purposes twice and not by mere chance. He is the point of Bilan-Ra’s spear aimed at the very heart of our designs, and he must be swiftly eliminated before he can interfere again.

  Regnar nodded in agreement, and he did not have to turn to see the goblins rushing forward with the wagon which carried the gleaming green prison of Jaxar, the War Chieftain of the Tribe of Sarva. A tiny frown crossed his forehead, and the goblins redoubled their pace, dragging the wagon around in front of the green-black cloud on which their master stood.

  The figure of the warrior was vaguely visible within the globe, and around him faint forms whirled and writhed, the spirits of his dead comrades which had been locked with him within his prison. Regnar reached out a hand and the glowing sphere rose into the air, and the slightest gesture brought it towards him. He closed his hand and the green glow vanished, leaving him facing the seething anger of Jaxar, suspended in space above the thick prairie grass.

  The War Chieftain’s skin was glowing with a faint green, the power of the sphere still tingling, still goading him, still driving him towards fury. His eyes gleamed with madness and rage, the animal in him bursting forth, lusting for blood, for a last chance to kill. Regnar smiled. He has seasoned well.

  Around Jaxar, scores of ghostly shapes continued to circle, the dead whispering, chiding, calling endlessly upon their War Chieftain to avenge them. It had not been easy to gather the spirits of the dead and hold them, but the Ohric had insisted, saying that not only would they build Jaxar’s rage, they would also lead him flawlessly to his target.

  “Are you prepared now to seek your vengeance?” demanded Regnar. “Are you ready to redeem your honor and the honor of your tribe?”

  Jaxar raised his head, and a single word managed to force its way through the straining muscles of his throat. “Kill!”

  “Then think of him!” commanded Regnar, and the Ohric began to glow. “The gleaming warrior who slashed his way through your ranks, who rallied the fleeing foe and led them down upon you. The warrior who cast the standard of your tribe into the dust of the High Pass! Think! Remember! The man who stole your honor, who humbled the pride of the Tribe of Sarva! Your mind burns with the image!”

  Jaxar’s face was contorted with hate, the memory rising within him, eclipsing everything else. Regnar raised the Ohric slightly, and the air between them began to shimmer, the War Chieftain’s hatred taking form, coming slowly into focus, the image that of a man in silver armor with golden hair and eyes of the purest blue.

  “Behold the bane of the Tribe of Sarva!” exclaimed Regnar, and a savage cry of rage came from the barbarian’s lips. His face was dark red and foam was coming from his mouth, flowing into his beard as he looked upon his foe, a monster lusting for its prey. Regnar raised the Ohric slightly higher, the air growing hot with fury, the image becoming clearer as the Ohric concentrated the War Chieftain’s mind upon it, focusing every part of his being on the picture before him.

  The Ohric rose once more, the heat becoming far greater, and Jaxar’s eyes widened in sudden terror as he finally sensed the fate bearing down upon him. Regnar’s teeth showed in a malicious grin as he raised the green scepter higher and higher yet, the heat becoming searing.

  Jaxar let out a scream of unendurable agony, his entire body beginning to glow with deadly heat, and as Regnar raised the Ohric one last time, the barbarian burst into flames.

  Burning. Body, hair, armor, all consumed in the flames. And yet he did not die.

  “Now you truly feel the pain of failure, the pain this Paladin has brought upon you!” cried Regnar to the flaming, screaming, crumbling body before him. “He is your tormentor, and only his death can free you from this agony! Seek for him! Wherever he may be, sheltering behind whatever walls, guarded by whatever barriers, you shall be drawn to him, and you shall sear him with your flame! You shall pass to him this fiery trial, and only when he is burning shall you at last find peace!”

  The mouth, the throat, the lungs of the Northing had all been consumed, and yet still the screams continued, a terrible, endless echo of ultimate torment, the barbarian now only a glowing outline, the smoke which was his body held within by the spell. As it also held his soul.

  All around the feet of the entity, the pra
irie grass began to burn and twist as well, and it, too, did not die. The stalks began to grow and writhe, becoming animated, twisting around to seize more grass in their fiery grasp, and only when all living things within reach were consumed did the fire begin to wan.

  “Seek you the heart of this Paladin, this purity which has offended me!” roared Regnar, and he twirled the Ohric, pointing it southward. A powerful wind sprang up suddenly around them, and the flaming, smoking horror was sent skimming through the air, its howling voice flowing with it across the prairie, the ghosts of the dead racing along beside it.

  Regnar watched the burning cloud go with a dark satisfaction. “Jaxar shall not fail me again. A single touch is all that is required to complete his task.”

  The spirits of the dead will insure that blow is struck, said the Ohric. They cannot assail one of the Chosen, but they carry a despair that will grip his very soul with icy fingers. That may well prove to be the deadliest weapon of all.

  “So much power to kill a single man. We have certainly forged the doom of this troublesome Paladin.”

  So it may well prove, replied the Ohric. The Flaming Rage is one of the most powerful magics, and we have prepared it well.

  “Enough of Bilan-Ra’s champion,” growled the Tyrant. “His death does nothing to speed our passing. We enter the Free Lands, but the Juggernaut trudges forward with ever slowing feet. By magic or blood, we must focus all our power if we are to bring it against the walls of the Drift.”

  CHAPTER 16

  The Paladin and the Thief

  Darius was again charging down the roads of the Southlands, giving Andros his head as they moved eastward across the outlands of Maganhall and rejoicing in their release from the troubles and complications of Alston’s Fey. It was a fine spring day, the sun tempered by a few white clouds in the sky, and the gentle breeze was just enough to cool both horse and rider.

  They had reached the rolling hills of the central highlands, and the fertile fields of crops had given way to grazing pastures and fruit orchards, the road now stone rather than hard dirt. He had skirted the great citadel of Duke’s Hall, electing to keep to the high roads where Andros could run free, and he knew he would soon have to turn northward towards the eastern arm of the Mountains of the Winds. Once there, he felt confident he could find Llan Praetor, the mountain-top fortress of which he had been told in the note from Tallarand; though, of course, getting into that fortress might be a very different matter.

  He eased Andros back slightly, and the great stallion slowed reluctantly to a walk, shaking his head once in annoyance. Darius smiled and patted the horse on the neck.

  “Have patience, old friend,” he said. “The mountains are still many leagues ahead. Both your legs and my backside need an occasional rest.”

  They still follow, Sarinian rumbled darkly from its scabbard, and Darius turned and scanned the rolling land around them. He could see nothing.

  “How many?” he asked quietly.

  Perhaps half a dozen off to the right, still more to the left, the sword answered. They match our pace.

  The sword had been warning him for several hours that they were being shadowed by an unknown force just out of sight, a small group which had come upon them shortly before noon and were now struggling to keep up with Andros while staying over the low crest of the road, their purpose as obscure as their identity. Bandits, most likely, and he hoped sincerely that the fools would keep their distance until Andros’ tireless pace wore out their mounts and forced them to leave off pursuit. He had no stomach for killing half-starved, lightly armed thieves.

  Why search we for a wizard? grumbled Sarinian, returning to its current favorite complaint. Their thoughts are curved, and their loyalty is only to their craft and their purses.

  “That may be,” answered Darius calmly. The sword had been muttering its doubts ever since he had received Tallarand’s letter. “But we know little more now than we knew at the Green Cliffs, and this war will be won or lost as much by knowledge as by might. Besides, we had worn out our welcome in Alston’s Fey.”

  He had dallied in the Fey only long enough to see Joshua invested into the Church, hoping and waiting for Adella to contact him again. But he had neither seen nor heard anything more from the woman, and he suspected that the small crowd of the curious and the skeptical which had begun to follow him was causing her to keep her distance. He had hoped she might catch up with him on the road, and he had kept Andros to a steady pace on that first day, giving her a chance. But the great stallion’s stride had lengthened on that second day, chewing up the leagues, and now the Fey and all its denizens were left hopelessly far behind, leaving Darius with an odd sense of regret.

  Our course should be northward, Sarinian continued. We need to inspect the defenses of the Drift and to see the enemy host with our own eyes. That is the sure way to gain the knowledge that you seek.

  “The Council of Lords meets in three days at Duke’s Hall,” Darius countered, “and we must have information if we are to sway them. Not even Andros could carry us to the enemy’s ranks and back again in that time. This Malcolm is our only hope.”

  Up ahead, he saw the road entered a ravine, the sides rising to rocky ridges, and he spurred Andros forward, knowing his pursuers would be forced out onto the road and show themselves. The stallion pounded into the ravine, the sound of hooves on rock echoing from the sides, and Darius realized he might be able to guess the number of foes simply from the noise made by their horses. A short distance ahead, the road turned sharply, and he glanced behind to see if there was any sign yet of his pursuers.

  Suddenly, there was a monstrous whoosh, the road around them erupted in a storm of dust, and Andros stumbled and nearly fell, neighing in pain and fear. Four hidden ropes had sprung off in opposite directions, attached to poles hidden in the crevices of the rocks, and two of them had grabbed Andros’ legs and were holding him cruelly. Desperately, Darius pulled out Sarinian to cut the bonds, but the stallion was bucking so frantically that he could not reach the ropes to free him.

  A quick glance back showed that a group of horsemen had indeed emerged onto the road behind him and were casually riding towards him, spiders approaching a captured fly. His eyes were pulled momentarily to the crest of the ridge directly above him where another mounted figure had appeared, and Darius knew the trap was about to slam shut. He swung Sarinian wildly, heedless of the risk, and just managed to sever one of the ropes holding Andros. The horse threw himself against the second rope which held his back right leg, and the jerk nearly dismounted Darius.

  To his surprise, he saw the single figure from above had trotted recklessly down the rocky slope to reach the road right behind him, and he readied Sarinian. But rather than approaching, the figure lingered close to the rocks where the rope was attached, and with a sudden snap, the rope was severed. Andros reared in fury, free at last, and Darius settled him down, turning to face his benefactor. A woman, dressed in black leather armor, mounted on a fine chestnut mare, and he felt an odd lack of surprise to see that it was Adella.

  “You iron-headed, glory-blinded imbecile,” she growled at him, looking back at the approaching bandits. “Most people walk into an ambush. You have to gallop into it.”

  “One of my numerous flaws,” he replied. Then, eyeing the dozen mounted bandits, he asked, “Shall we try running?”

  “No, that’s what they expect,” she said. “There’re others set to sweep the road ahead with their arrows to finish off survivors of the trap. Our best chance is to pull them out of position by making them come to us.”

  Sarinian was stirring, muttering darkly, sensing the silver sword, but Darius realized the woman must have found a way to partially hide or at least disguise its presence if Sarinian were doing no more than grumbling at this range. He nodded briefly at Adella’s words, sheathed the sword and lifted his bow from the saddle, notching an arrow. The mounted group paused at the entrance to the ravine and waited.

  A moment later, a face app
eared above one rock, a second above another, and then several came out into the open, loaded crossbows in their hands, fingers already rubbing the triggers. Darius glanced to the other side and saw a similar contingent emerging from the rocks and crevices there. A dozen, perhaps more, most armed with crossbows and set in good cover. He took a breath and steadied his grip on bow and arrow.

  A heavy-set figure dressed in leather armor hopped up onto one of the highest rocks and grinned down at them.

  “Ho, Nartave, you black mountain ape,” Adella called cheerfully. “Haven’t met your eyes since I left you gnawin’ rocks north of Hathage.”

  “Well, take my tongue if it ain’t Li’l Gem,” the leader answered with a hard smile. “Been waitin’ for a chance to speak you again. My teeth still ache me, on a time.”

  “Be glad you ain’t gummin’ your meals,” she said coolly, her voice falling into an odd rhythm as if she were now speaking a different language. “You steppin’ high if you plyin’ in Maganhall. These roads have hard stone.”

  “Seem soft ’nough to us,” he smiled. “Trade’s thin over Hathage way. Lookin’ for a juicy-worm to feed my hen.”

  “You squintin’ in da dark,” she said with a smile, her strange accent growing with each exchange. “A one-fanged snake take you right in da eye. Den it take your hen.”

  “Fashtah,” the man snorted, the expletive clear in any language. “One-fang ain’t got da moves. It be gone with one hit.”

  Adella let out the tiniest of sighs before looping her right leg casually over the saddle and leaning a little forward, the small gesture suddenly raising tensions all around the ravine.

  “You know da pick?” she said, her eyes hard.

  The man hesitated, reacting as to a threat, and then he answered with a tinge of respect, “I know da pick.”

  “It take da pick,” she said, and the man blinked. “It take you right in da eye. Den it take your hen. And Li’l Gem?” A pause, breaths taken. “Li’l Gem crack and suck da bones.”