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

by James A. Hillebrecht

  “And how is that to be achieved?” fumed Regnar. “I have drawn as much power from the Canopy of Oblivion as I dare, and I cannot feed it more of my army after such losses, or we shall arrive at the Drift with the Juggernaut and nothing more.”

  He looked ahead to where the black titan still led his armies, but it was moving clearly slower, each step labored, threatening to be the last. The ready supply of blood had provided a vital boost to the entity, but that had now been fully consumed, and the trickle of prisoners from the villages of the plains had all be dried up, thanks to the patrols from the Southlands and the raids of those who called themselves the Dead of the Plains.

  We have one last option available to us, the Ohric said with clear reluctance. The Juggernaut was forged with the power of the earth, and from the earth can it find sustenance. Indeed, it survived the long centuries in its hidden cave due to its contact with the living rock. But availing it of such a source will take a wearisome time and may be fraught with other dangers

  “A short pause will give the rest of my forces a chance to gather their strength for the final campaign,” Regnar answered. “But what of these other dangers?”

  We have already extended the life of this form long beyond its original design by using human blood, the scepter continued. To sustain it now with the power of the earth is to make a changeling of the new form struggling to be born.

  “I care nothing for the titan after it batters a path through the walls of the Drift,” replied Regnar dismissively, already sending the green cloud on which he rode surging forward. “And time may bring division to our enemies.”

  Or give them the chance to find unity, said the Ohric, even as it burst again into an explosion of green power, engulfing Regnar and the entire cloud.

  Around them, Northings and rock goblins alike threw themselves to the ground as their leader passed, their skins alive with surging energies, searing them, threatening to ignite the very air itself.

  He brought the cloud to a halt close behind the stumbling behemoth,the power gathering around Regnar to shine like a miniature green sun, overwhelming, irresistible. For a moment longer he held it, glorying in the ecstasy of pain as it burned him as well, and then with a roar like a thousand lightning bolts, he sent it forth, smashing into the ground at the foot of the Juggernaut. Immediately a mold of brown and green began climbing the legs of the titan, and the higher it grew, the slower the giant strode, until finally it reached and covered the very head. And the Juggernaut stopped.

  “How is this possible?” demanded Regnar. “You have always said that if it stops, it will form the cocoon to the next stage.”

  That is still true, the scepter replied. But the titan has no more stopped moving than the grass has stopped growing. It has merely slowed to adjust itself to the speed of the earth which now nourishes it.

  “And how long shall it remain at this pace?”

  More than hours and less than weeks. The Juggernaut itself shall tell us when it is ready again to surge forth.

  * * * * *

  Argus, Duke of Corland, swept down the crude stone stairs that descended from his palace in the capital of Monarch to the secret caverns which lay beneath, his boots clocking steadily forward, the echo a herald to his approach and the pace matching the haste with which he had traveled from the distant battlefield. This day, however, he was dressed not only in his usual leather armor but with the sweeping purple mantle that marked him as Duke, a symbol of public power that had no standing in this dark and hidden place. Yet it carried with it a quiet authority; and a subtle threat.

  He reached the bottom of the stairs and swept past the three Red Priest who normally attended upon him, the surprised clerics simply staring as he strode into the deeper recess of the cavern normally forbidden to outsiders. Argus had been here only once before, back when he had first forged his alliance with the followers of the devil-god Bal, and even he had been a little disturbed by the things he had seen at that time. But that had been many years ago, and much blood had been spilt on the stones since then.

  He came upon a single iron-bound door set in the stone, the simple structure almost incongruous amid the chiseled rock of the cavern walls, but Argus knew better than to simply throw open that seemingly innocent door. He reached for an amulet he wore on a necklace beneath his armor, and clutching it, he muttered a dark incantation and focused on the door before him. A moment later and it opened of its own accord, spilling a blood-red light out into the hall.

  Argus entered carefully, looking around the chamber. It was dominated by a stone altar against the far wall, an embossed sculpture above it showing a leering diabolical face with ruby eyes and a small stream of blood dripping from its fangs down onto the altar itself. At equal intervals around the altar were beds of iron spikes, and lying impaled on these were the naked bodies of men and women several already dead, the others moaning out their last moments. Sluices from beneath these horrid beds carried the blood of the victims down into the altar. Almost time to change the holy candles, thought Argus, dismissing them.

  There was a single figure in the room, a man of moderate height dressed in the red robes of a Priest of Bal, but when he turned to face the intruder, it was immediately clear that he was much more than an average cleric. Three heavy gold chains hung from his neck, their weight seeming to bow him down, and he wore some kind of half-helm of black metal on his head that somehow seemed to be part armor, part weapon. This was Al-Lutrax, though whether that was his name or his title, Argus did not know.

  “Greetings to you, My Lord Argus,” the Priest said, bowing his head slightly, though his eyes took in the purple cloak and the formal bearing of his visitor. “What impulse brings you to thus put your life at risk?”

  Argus ignored the open threat.

  “You are aware of the progress of Regnar’s armies and the attempts to resist them?” Argus demanded without preface.

  “Certainly,” the Priest answered. “We are careful to track all things that are of interest to Great Bal.”

  “I am here to demand more power,” Argus informed the Priest bluntly. “You have done nothing to aid me in exchange for the shelter I have supplied to your followers and your Church. Now is the time to repay my patronage.”

  “I fear you are not in a position to demand anything, my lord,” the priest answered softly, his words a reptilian hiss coming through his blackened teeth. “You have been adequately compensated already for your services. Should you wish more, you must offer more.”

  Argus felt a wave of rage boiling up within him, unaccustomed to hearing such words spoken to him within his own capital, but he forced down the hot lava of anger and controlled his temper. There would be ample time in future to address the insults of the past.

  “Should I be weakened or fall, your Church would not long survive me,” Argus growls. “Rathman and his followers are ever sniffing and yapping at my door, and should that door open, the dogs would be at your throat in minutes.”

  “We have layers of defenses,” the Priest replied dismissively. “Dogs like Rathman are not a threat to us.”

  Argus’ eyes narrowed. “And what if a member of my court should aid Rathman? What if the secrets of the Church of Bal be given up by a loyal subject, either to save his own hide or to avenge me? How stand your layered defenses then?”

  There was silence as the two men took the others’ measure, both of them knowing that the only member of the Court who possessed such knowledge was Argus himself. The Duke let the threat sink in a little deeper, but he had not come to make an open breach with the Red Priests.

  “Boltran is as much your enemy as he is mine,” he continued, moving closer. “He would send his entire army into every cave and rat hole in Corland to seek you out, and none of your vaunted defenses would serve you then. He is a loyal defender of the MirnicChurch, and they will bring flame to remove all trace of Bal. But still worse is this Paladin. Once Regnar is defeated, he will turn that sword of his to take my head…and your
s.”

  “We recognize the threats that you have listed,” the Priest said with a cold calmness.

  “And have you devised a means to solve them?” asked Argus, producing a small pouch from his robe and revealing three small items it contained. “A spy of mine has worked his way into the household of Duke Boltran, and he has gathered these as you instructed.”

  The Red Priest’s eyes widened slightly at the sight, but he quickly composed himself. “These offer a means to address at least part of the problem. But why should we incur all the costs and risks when you are like to benefit far more than we?”

  The decision point. The Priest was prepared to offer the aid that Argus had come here seeking, and now the bargaining was to begin.

  “I pledge to you that your altars shall follow in the wake of my armies,” the Duke rumbled grimly. “As I conquer, so shall you, and Bal shall have a presence in every corner of my realm. Your Church shall be under the protection of my banner.”

  “That is good,” the Priest said shortly. “But we will require that support to be offered openly.”

  “What?!”

  “Openly. On land ceded legally to us. The Church of Bal shall come out of the shadows and be fully sanctioned and embraced by the Duke of Corland. Or by whatever title you have achieved at that point.”

  Argus tried to control his shock and knew by the tiny smirk on the face of his opponent that he had not succeeded. The Priests of Bal were seeking to directly challenge the Church of Mirna, and they knew they could do this only with the firm support of at least one of the Dukes. But such patronage would surely mean open war with the MirnicChurch and at least some, if not all, of his fellow Dukes, a conflict that would rip all the Southlands asunder. And yet…had not such a civil war been inevitable since he had first embraced the Red Priests? Had that fate not been the reason for him embracing them in the first place?

  “We have been anticipating your request,” the older man continued easily, “and we have been taking steps to support you. Our agents have expanded past the sanctuary you have provided us here in Corland and established bases in other cities, other… strongholds. When you elect to move beyond your own borders, you will find us there as well.”

  As allies…or as enemies. The implications of both were not lost on Argus.

  “I agree to this,” he said with slow and measured words, feeling as if the last of his humanity was leaving him with that breath. “But I shall not make known my pledge until both Boltran and this Paladin are eliminated. And I am made ruler of all the Southlands.”

  The Red Priest nodded in agreement, then indicated the altar with a small gesture. Argus understood. Having sworn an oath in the presence of the Priests of Bal, he would be physically bound to that oath by touching the sanctified altar to the god.

  Resolutely, he strode over to the small stone structure with its grotesque mantelpiece and without hesitation, he produced his dagger and made a small incision on his palm. Only a small cut was needed, for even a single drop of his blood would seal the bargain beyond any chance of evasion; or redemption. He pressed his hand firmly down upon it, and an instant chill enveloped his palm and spread quickly up his wrist, his arm, his shoulder, an unnatural cold seeping into his flesh, into his very heart. But Argus made no effort to resist the power. Slowly, a gleam of red enveloped both him and the altar, a glow that came from his own life’s blood. Thus was the holy bond sealed.

  Argus finally ripped his hand from the freezing stone and turned to face the man behind him.

  The Red Priest bowed far more deeply now and said formally, “Allow me to be the first to offer my congratulations to the future King of the Southlands.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Confrontation on the Plains

  Shannon was re-thinking her love of flying.

  Four days ago, she had sailed through the air with Jhan on the back of Gil-Gal-Som, one of the mightiest of the Pegasus, on their way to Llan Praetor, and she had gloried in the sheer joy of flight, sailing through the clouds at speeds of which she had never dreamed.

  That, however, had been in the care of a skilled aerial creature who had born them willingly. Now she was clinging to the sides of a magical devise that was being controlled by an inexperienced driver who seemed to have no knack at all for flying.

  “Blasted thing must have been made by a man,” growled Adella as the boat swooped upward once again. “Refuses to listen to a word a woman says.”

  “Can…can we just land?” asked Jhan from the other side of Shannon. He was holding on to the boat’s side with a deathgrip and had not opened his eyes since they had taken off. “We can surely walk wherever we need to go.”

  “We’re making marvelous time,” Adella retorted as the boat leveled off again, though now at a dizzying height.

  “Towards our graves,” Jhan muttered.

  “We are now over the plains,” Shannon said, trying to sound reasonable. “I would think we can now make good progress on foot.”

  A gust of natural wind caught the little craft and heeled it over again, sending it plunging down to the right, and it took a moment before Adella could compensate and find the magical breeze again.

  “If I set this thing down on the Plains, I doubt I’ll be able to get it launched again,” she warned. “I barely got it air-born this morning, even with launching off that plateau.”

  “We never intended to fly all the way to Nargost Castle, did we?” said Shannon as the wind-boat slid off to the right again. “This is hardly the way to approach the castle unseen.”

  “Not the way,” agreed Jhan.

  Adella seemed to consider this for a few moments, and then she grunted once. She eased off on the control line just a fraction, and the nose of the wind-boat dropped accordingly.

  “We’ll have to make a long, slow descent if we’re to avoid the excitement of our last landing,” she said.

  “Long and slow is fine,” Shannon assured her.

  The winds, however, had different plans for them. A huge gust hit the little craft and sent it tumbling onto its side, sharply increasing the angle of descent. Adella had enough experience to ease the tiller and right the wind-boat, but she couldn’t pull hard enough on the control rope to get the vessel’s head up again.

  Shannon lunged again to help raise the bow, but they were already too low. Then, without any warning, Adella abruptly put the tiller hard over, sealing the vessel’s fate. It surged to the left, tilting at an alarming angle that threatened to dump them all over the side, and Shannon barely grabbed the mast to save herself. But Adella had gained some mastery of the craft over these past hours, and at the last moment, she pulled up hard with the bow rope and avoided a direct collision with the earth. Even as the bow came up, the stern of the wind-boat hit the ground, stealing the speed it needed to climb, and a moment later, it crashed down hard for the last time, jolting all three of its occupants.

  Shannon blinked and swallowed, trying to adjust the unnatural state of stillness. Jhan was already crawling out of the boat, apparently having suffered the least of the three of them and the most desperate to be back on solid ground.

  “Why in the name of wonder did you do that?” she demanded of Adella while rubbing a bruised right shin. “We would have come down well enough if you hadn’t put the tiller over.”

  Adella, however, was moving swiftly, and said over her shoulder, “Horsemen. Two score or more off to the east. I wanted to put as much distance between them and us as I could.”

  “You think they saw us?” Jhan asked.

  “If they didn’t, they’re the first group of blind men ever to ride horses,” she said, already walking away from the wind-boat. But she was walking eastward, the very direction from which the horsemen would be coming. Shannon and Jhan grabbed their backpacks out of the vessel and hurried after her.

  They caught up with her at the top of a small rise, over which she was carefully peering. Cautiously, they followed her example, and there, riding hard directly towards them,
were at least three score cavalry.

  “Plainsmen, that’s clear enough,” she said softly, mostly to herself. “Possibly soldiers, though they’re spread wide for a military patrol.”

  “How can you be sure they’re not Northings?” asked Shannon, peering at the distant figures.

  “From the way they sit their horses,” Adella explained. “Northings are mountain folk who force animals to do their bidding, and it shows. Plainsmen treat their horses as friends, and they move and fight as one. I think we should have a little talk with these good fellows. Though not, perhaps, quite like this.”

  To their shock, she produced a white scarf from her pouch and with three deft folds, turned it into the head-shawl of one of the Blessed, the order of holy women who dedicate themselves to the Church. She took her cloak, spun it around, and clasped it modestly at her neck and waist, the black lining completing the disguise.

  Adella pushed a hand out through the arm slit of the cloak and held up the three spread fingers in the standard blessing.

  “Let us greet these strangers properly and cordially,” she told them with a smile. And then to Jhan in the exact same tone, “If you don’t get that look off your face, my son, I’ll wipe it away with my sword.”

  Jhan hastily composed his features and exchanged a worried glance with Shannon who could only shrug with a bemused look. Adventuress, thief, warrior, and now a Matron of the Blessed. But despite her doubts, she couldn’t suppress a surge of excitement at trying to fool a group of armed strangers.

  “Here, Shannon,” Adella said, producing another scarf. “Let me wrap this around your hair. You’ll be my novice, and Jhan, you’ll be our servant. No, not a servant. A fellow refugee helping two stranded women. Leave the rest of the talking to me. Understand?”

  Both nodded, though they clearly still had doubts.

  “Follow my lead, my children,” she said sweetly, “and keep your wits about you. These horsemen are not to be taken lightly.”