Upon This World of Stone (The Paladin Trilogy Book 2)

by James A. Hillebrecht

  UPON THIS WORLD OF STONE

  Second Book of

  The Paladin Trilogy

  by

  James A. Hillebrecht

  STORY MERCHANT BOOKS

  BEVERLY HILLS

  2012

  Copyright © 2012 by James A. Hillebrecht All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.

  http://www.jamesahillebrecht.com

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  Cover Art Copyright © 2012 by John J. Blumen

  To Frosty, to Guy, and to John

  Who kept the fires burning through the darkest and coldest days.

  The Heavens are for the blessed, the Nether Regions for the damned, but first we must toil and struggle and bleed upon this World of Stone.

  From The Catechism of Saint Horatio,

  3rd Patriarch of the Church of Mirna

  PROLOGUE

  Death was marching steadily, inexorably across the broad open prairie of the Free Lands.

  A huge black shadow in man-form moved slowly forward in a relentless march, each megalithic footfall sending a tremor through the earth, the red eyes which blazed in its head bringing a thrill of terror to any who might be caught in that dreadful gaze. The Juggernaut had stalked over two hundred leagues from its ancient burial chamber deep beneath the Mountains of the Earth’s Teeth through every barrier that had stood before it, devouring flesh, stone, and distance. Above it, a thick black-green bank of clouds, the Canopy of Oblivion, protected it from the sun, green lightening streaking through the thunderheads, sometimes striking down to incinerate one of the small creatures that capered around the titan’s feet. The sprawling legions of the barbarian army of Northings which had crossed the Earth’s Teeth had been joined by an endless horde of Rock Goblins which sheltered with the Juggernaut beneath the vast canopy, and the prairie lay trampled and blackened for miles in their train.

  But this mighty host had begun to slow.

  The titan’s pace had fallen steadily for the last few hours, and the two armies had followed suit, the whole armada winding down towards a dead stop. The Juggernaut was once again running low of food, coming to the end of its first stage of life and preparing for a great change. The goblins, however, were striving desperately to stave off this metamorphosis. The creatures were dragging a wagon in front of the monster, a wagon containing several barrels of fresh human blood, and three goblin mages were levitating pails drawn from these barrels through the air to soak the Juggernaut, turning its black skin crimson for a moment until the blood was sucked inside to feed the fires within. The ghoulish buckets seemed to lure the titan forward, spurring it on as if reaching for that elusive…taste.

  “A light breakfast before the day’s march.”

  Alacon Regnar, Magician, Warrior, Tyrant of the Northlands, and Master of the Silver Horde smiled at his own words through lips cracked and bleeding. Nothing would stop him, nothing, not armies, not layered walls, not even a lack of human blood. Only a few days’ march away, the walls of Jalan’s Drift waited to be broken, and beyond them lay all the riches of the Southlands, enough wealth to make him supreme over all the lands for ages to come. All he need do was to carry the Juggernaut over the last hundred leagues, to keep it for just a few more days from dissolving into the black cocoon that would change it into its true form, a form even Regnar could not predict. And perhaps not control.

  No. No, the change would not come, not yet at least, not while there was blood left to feed the titan. Regnar cradled the Ohric, the great green scepter and source of much of his power, in his arms and whispered, “Have you ever seen such loveliness?”

  This supply of blood will not bear the Juggernaut all the way to the Drift, the Ohric said in its haunting, echoing voice. Did it sound the same in the dark abyss from which its demon lord had sent it forth to serve me? wondered Regnar. And could even the demon control it as well as I?

  More blood must be found, persisted the Ohric.

  “More will be found,” said Regnar complacently. “Even if it must come from Northing and Rock Goblin veins.”

  His flesh, it seemed, had begun to rot, leaving tiny pools of mucus behind whenever he stood in a single place for long. It was an odd sensation, not particularly painful, to have his skin flow slowly off his arms like a warm liquid, but the degeneration was raising his senses to an incredible level. Now, he felt not just the wind but the flavors it carried from myriad things it had touched on its way to him. He could smell and taste the fear, the loathing, and the awe of the creatures that came to bow and scrape in his presence, could sense every emotion that coursed through their pathetic souls, every thought that passed through their limited minds. His eyes were no longer restrained by distance, seeing clearly what lay beyond the horizon, reaching now to the very walls of Jalan’s Drift, and his ears could detect the muffled curse of the smallest rock goblin in his army.

  Physically, he had grown stronger than ever, able to throttle even the largest man with his bare hands if he chose, but it was far more gratifying to use the new-found power of his mind to strangle a victim, to watch the terror bulging from the eyes as the man’s face blackened and his tongue swelled. Nothing was beyond his grasp, nothing beyond his ability. The gods had withdrawn and left his power supreme over all the Earth.

  Yet powerful as he had become, he had not yet been able to free himself of all concerns.

  The Council of Lords is met while the Juggernaut still struggles across these endless plains, the Ohric said, exactly matching his own thought. There is still time for the armies of the Southlands to man the walls of the Drift before the titan can pound a way through the stone.

  Regnar shrugged. “It is no matter. This traitor, this Duke Argus, will slow the Council and give us time to reach the city. And even if the walls be fully manned, what of it? My army shall roar through the breaches pounded by the Juggernaut and destroy all who oppose me.”

  Perhaps, but the losses would be great, and this army is not endless, cautioned the scepter. We will have need of troops to hold what the Juggernaut gains for us.

  Regnar looked out over the thousands of Northings, the tens of thousands of Rock Goblins. The ranks had been thinned by battle, but even more by the need to garrison the lands behind, to make certain the conquered states did not rise again after his army’s passing, and they were the absolute minimum he could spare. The nobility and aristocracy he had “invited” to stay at Nargoth Castle were a much better hold on the loyalty of the plains states than any garrison.

  “We have gained many allies in our march across the plains,” he answered confidently, “and we will gain yet more with the fall of the Drift. The Great Plan continues to unfold.”

  The Flaming Rage of Jaxar failed, and this Paladin, this Chosen of Mirna, lives still, the Ohric warned. While he is at work, no plan can be sure.

  Regnar’s eyes narrowed at the memory of failure. He had unleashed one of the most powerful magics to seek out and kill this single warrior who had thwarted his intentions twice, and as the Ohric said, the Flaming Rage had passed without the gratifying screams of the Paladin as he was consumed by the living death.

  “No matter,” Regnar repeated irritably. “When next this insect crosses our path, I shall deal with him myself. That is an end to it.”

&nbs
p; But…

  A single thought silenced the scepter, and Regnar turned his eyes to the distant prize of the Drift, still many long, slow leagues away over the horizon. His teeth gleamed red in a gruesome smile. Death was in his hands and none could blunt his purpose.

  *

  Some three miles away, a patrol of rock goblins stomped their way through the prairie grass, taking what small pleasure they could in this endless march by killing any small animals their passing might flush. They were particularly fond of the large brown grass rats when caught away from their burrows, for not only did they squeal wonderfully during the kill, they also provided a quick and tasty snack as well.

  The goblin walking the point for the patrol noticed something brown only a few feet ahead, and he quickly leveled his bow before the prey could bolt for safety. But the brown form was attached to a leg, a leg that was attached to a torso, a torso already rising out of the grass, and before he could do more than gasp a warning, a dagger came flying out of the grass to bury itself in his throat. The rest of the goblins wasted their lives by turning to look, convinced the empty prairie could hold nothing more dangerous than rats, not here so close to the Juggernaut and the Silver Horde, and they died with surprise on their reptilian faces as two dozen arrows came whistling out of nowhere.

  The man who had thrown the dagger came forward to look down the gentle slope at the enemy below, and he was joined by the leader of the archers, two men who had perished long days ago, though their hearts still pumped within dead souls. But even they sucked air between their teeth at the sight of the feeding of the Juggernaut.

  “So that is why they drag long lines of prisoners across the plains,” breathed Zarif as he studied the process with his one good eye. “To fuel that monster.”

  “There is the end we seek, Dead Zarif,” said Exelar. “Let us cut a path through to that horror and kill all we may. Even if we break our swords upon it, we will at least have killed the ghouls who feed it.”

  “No, Exelar,” Zarif replied. “We tested this giant once before, and I will not give my blood to feed the destroyer of Nargost. We can sell our lives more dearly. Come. We shall teach even the demons to fear the Dead of the Plains.”

  With that, they slipped silently away, their archers vanishing with them, and there was nothing but a rustle of wind in the grass and a dozen goblin corpses to mark their passing.

  CHAPTER 1

  The Council of the Lords

  Darius Inglorion, Paladin of Mirna, bobbed within the ethereal wind like a cork on a pond and tried to make out the shadowy world before him. The long, eerie flight from Llan Praetor had carried him helplessly over hundreds of miles of terrain, and he had peered down at the strange outline of the landscape and knew what it must be like to be a ghost. He had learned over the course of the long trip to make out the details of the real world through which he seemed to be passing like a phantom, so he knew as he passed over the walls of a formidable castle that he was now nearing the end of his journey. The Arch-Mage Malcolm, it would seem, had aimed him perfectly at his destination.

  He passed over the inner ramparts of the citadel and through the various guardposts, floating invisibly past hundreds of watchful soldiers from all the principalities of the Southlands who had been placed here by their lords to prevent any type of intrusion, until he reached a massive hall that could only be the antechamber of Duke’s Hall’s acclaimed Chamber of Audiences. Now only a dozen guards from Maganhall blocked his access to the Council of Lords, and he could see they were occupied trying to restrain a very persistent young priest. Although he knew that passing any solid barrier would put the spell at risk, he could easily let the spell’s last action be to carry him through the closed doors and materialize him in the Chamber beyond. But Darius had intentionally stopped himself here, much to the displeasure of his living sword, Sarinian the Avenger.

  Why do we tarry? Sarinian demanded. The Lords are met. Let us stand forth and speak with them.

  “We shall wait and watch a little while, and see how this drama unfolds,” Darius replied. “Do you not recognize the young priest?”

  He is the one who fought at the High Pass and traveled with us to Alston’s Fey, the sword answered. What of it?

  “We have many tasks here, sword,” Darius said. “Not the least of them is to help young eagles find their wings.” He looked beyond to where the Dukes were gathered in the great chamber before adding, “And there is more than one eagle seeking to take flight this day.”

  “You must let me enter,” Brother Joshua was pleading to the Captain of the guard. “I have news of vital import to the lords.”

  He was clearly exhausted, covered with dust and sweat from days of hard riding, his yellow priest’s robes barely visible beneath the dirt.

  “I have my orders, Father,” the young Captain said firmly, though there was a hint of apology in the man’s grey eyes. “None may enter except by the command of one of the Lords.”

  “But how do they know to command my presence if they don’t know I’m here?” argued Joshua with a touch of exasperation.

  The Captain shrugged his shoulders, and even through the veil of the ether, Darius could see the intensity that touched Joshua’s face, the same intensity he had seen when the youngster had been faced with the invasion of his beloved High Pass by the Northings.

  “My news touches not just upon the fate of the Southlands, Captain,” Joshua said slowly, “but upon the fate of Mother Church herself. Those who would block my path stand also against the Church.”

  A touch of fear passed over the Captain’s face at those words, the knowledge of what opposition to the Church might mean, but it was followed by a thoughtful look as he realized Joshua had made neither threat nor overt warning, had not invoked any of the considerable power that lay at his disposal. He had simply stated another aspect of the issue.

  For a long minute, the Captain mulled over the situation, and finally he said, “My orders stand, Father, up to the testimony of the final witness. But I shall announce you to the Council when the Lord Duke asks if there be any final business.”

  Joshua’s expression brightened immediately. “That should serve, Captain. That should serve right well. Thank you.”

  Darius nodded in invisible approval. The Captain had to be made to respect the power of the Church, but not to fear it. Would that exchanges between Patriarch and Duke were as wise and as cordial as between this Priest and Captain, he thought wryly. And that thought pulled his eyes to the great Chamber beyond.

  *

  The Great Council of the Lords of the Southlands was met.

  Seven dukes sat enthroned before a select crowd of nearly two hundred in the massive Chamber of Audiences here in the capital of Maganhall. The lords had gathered to attend to accounts of the Northing invasion and decide what, if anything, should be done about it.

  In the center of the group sat Duke Boltran of Maganhall on a golden throne, traditional Head of the Council of Lords, looking composed and capable despite his youth. By ancient custom, immediately to his left was Feldon seated upon the silver throne of Palmany and to the right, Thrandar of Norealm on a magnificent throne of carved wood. Next came the iron throne of Corland which held the brooding bulk of Argus, and Clarissa, dressed in a man’s armor as she sat of the brilliantly colored throne of Gemsbrook made from crushed sea coral. Finally, the outside pair were Duke Georg-Mahl of Hathage on a throne of ebony and Mandrik, Duke of Warhaven, seated upon grey granite.

  The icy cold of the Iron Throne seeping through the thick cushions brought a small smile to Argus’ lips. This was the seat of his forefathers, the ultimate symbol of Corland, yet it stood off to the side in relative obscurity, no more than fourth in the traditional order of the Southlands. That thought, however, no longer troubled Argus as it always had in the past, for he knew that one day, one day soon, it would be moved to the middle of the room and replace the golden throne at the very center of the Council. And at some point, it would be the only throne
upon the dais.

  Argus resisted the lure of that sweet daydream and focused instead on the matter at hand. Seated before each throne on the encircling step of the dais was the minister of each of the lords, and around the minister were half a dozen bodyguards, his own minister, Ursulan, dwarfed by the six armored bodies of the Black Watch. Before the dais was a witness chair where those who were summoned would give testimony before the lords.

  So far, they had heard three women from The Free Lands tell their tale of despair which they and their people had suffered at the hands of the Northings, and a young trooper from the cavalry of Nargosia who told them Nargost Castle was indeed taken and all the land laid waste. Now they were listening to the account of a battle-scarred colonel from Kargos who was describing his reconnaissance of the Northing force, including the black shape that marched before it, destroying everything in its path.

  “I know not what this thing is,” the Colonel admitted. “But it radiates an overwhelming power that can be felt even at a great distance. I do not doubt that it is the force that destroyed Nargost Castle, and I tremble for the fate of Jalan’s Drift.”

  “Brillis holds the Drift in hands shod with iron,” Ursulan, Chancellor of Corland, answered calmly, referring to the city’s legendary mayor. “It will not slip easily through her fingers.”

  Argus nodded slowly in support of his Chancellor’s assertion and waited for the goads which would infuriate this flinty soldier and undercut his credibility. The tales of these witnesses were having a strong impact on his fellow dukes, but he knew the lords would never set their armies in motion merely on the words of three frightened women and a youngster in a torn uniform. But the account of this battle-hardened Colonel was a different story entirely. Argus, stealing furtive glances at the figures on the other thrones, could tell they were being swayed by the man’s grim bearing and steady voice.