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

by James A. Hillebrecht

  The horsemen were closing the distance rapidly, a few fanning out to the right and the left, showing a proper caution when approaching strangers on the plains. The horses were at a half cantor, and many of the men were carrying spears, held at the half-ready where only the smallest effort would level them for a full charge. It was unsettling to be the objective of such a force.

  “I don’t like this,” Jhan muttered. “The truth is the straight path that will never lead you wrong. That’s what my Father always taught us.”

  “Spoken like a man who doesn’t know how to lie,” Adella answered through a smile. She was studying the approaching horsemen, reading the details. “Plainsmen, as I said, and soldiers as well. But I count three separate uniforms, mostly Kargos and Nargosia. Take my eyes, I never thought to see those birds in a single flock.”

  The warriors were upon them now, and Adella stepped forward to reveal the habit of one of the Blessed and holding up her hand in greeting.

  “The blessing of Mirna be upon you, Plainsmen!” she called out as the riders reined in their mounts.

  There was a long silence as the horsemen slowly took their measure. The men were ragged, their uniforms rent many times, voiceless testimony to the tattering the flesh beneath had endured.

  “Who are you?” demanded a tall man in the middle of the riders. He wore an eye patch, and there were silver stripes on the arms of his coat, a sign of rank in some army now long forgotten.

  “My name is Cleon, a Matron of the Blessed of Mirna, and this is Daughter Shannon, an acolyte of my Order,” Adella said primly.

  “My name is Zarif. Matrons and acolytes don’t normally flit about the Plains in a flying boat,” the man said in the same voice, throwing a leg over his saddle as if to dismount, his hand laying lightly on the hilt of his sword. “That’s a wizard’s tool.”

  “Indeed it is,” agreed Adella. “We were lost in the Mountains when this young man found and rescued us. What he lacks in flying skills he more than makes up for with courage and enthusiasm.”

  Jhan opened his mouth to make some reply, but inspiration failed him. He had just enough sense to keep his face composed, but Shannon could tell from the Plainsman’s face that he was sensing a coming lie.

  “He is Jhan, a wizard’s apprentice,” Adella said, touching his shoulder lightly as if bestowing a blessing. “And we are greatly in his debt.”

  The touch seemed to steady Jhan even more than the words, and taking a small breath, he said stiffly, “It…it was nothing…really…I…did nothing…”

  Shannon could read the subtle shift in Adella’s mood as she, too, came over and half-embraced the young man. With her emotions keyed to their highest state, Shannon suddenly realized that it was not wise to appear too weak to these rough-looking riders.

  “You are far too modest, Wizard,” Adella admonished him gently. “Show him at least your Wand of Power.”

  Puzzled, Jhan reached into the pouch indicated by the woman, and to everyone’s surprise, he pulled out a thin wand of dark brown wood Adella had used to lift the boat back in Llan Praetor.

  “An apprentice, say you?” Zarif repeated, still somewhat skeptical. “And where did you get these wondrous items?”

  “I won them in a gamble,” Jhan said with a glint in his eye.

  “From who?”

  “The Wizard Trexler.”

  Too late he saw the warning sign from Adella. There was a rasping of steel as a dozen swords were drawn at the name.

  “Trexler?” snarled the Horseman. “You were apprentice to that black…?”

  “Hold, Good Sir,” Adella interjected hastily. “I beg you to hear the full story before you act.”

  Zarif’s expression didn’t change, but he paused long enough to say, “What was the wager?”

  “I bet that I could bury my dagger in his belly before he could fry me with his lightning,” Jhan said evenly.

  Zarif’s eyebrows went up in surprise, “You are the slayer of Trexler?” He studied the boy, his face hardening again, and he asked suspiciously, “Where did the black-hearted son of a goblin die?”

  Jhan’s eyes flickered to Adella who seemed to adjust her headdress, her hand making the tiniest capping gesture.

  “In the mountains,” he answered slowly, trying to sound reluctant, as if the memory were painful. Adella’s hands slipped down to her knees, making a small slashing movement reminiscent of a kilt.

  “Close to the Highlander’s Pass,” Jhan continued. “I had had my fill of his evil, and even though he was my master, I followed the lead of my conscience.”

  “And how long ago was this?” Zarif asked.

  Adella discretely held down four fingers

  “Four months ago,” Jhan answered promptly, assuring himself their hatred would not have been so hot if it had been four years. “I left his body for mountain wolves and the carrion crows.”

  There was a tiny murmur of approval from the Horsemen, and one of them said, “I recall Sercis telling me that accursed sorcerer rode some kind of flying device when he burned the village of Talmil last year. He said the bastard could out-fly arrows on it. This might well be the same.”

  “And from the way they were flying,” observed another, “it’s clear the boy’s had little tutoring in its use.”

  “True enough,” Zarif said slowly, but Shannon could read in his face that he saw through the deception. Jhan, he knew, had never killed any one, let alone a powerful and deadly wizard.

  Adella, too, saw their ruse was penetrated. She took a step forward and said calmly, “We can all rejoice in the death of a monster like Trexler. And honor the one who delivered us from his hated shadow.”

  Warrior stood facing warrior now, the head-shawl and cloak nothing, the man quite certain he was indeed facing the slayer of the Wizard Trexler.

  “Whither are you bound…Matron?” Zarif asked with narrowed eyes.

  “Nargost Castle,” she answered, staring straight at the man without blinking.

  “Nargost Castle is broken, and it houses not but invaders now.”

  “It houses more than Northings and rock goblins,” Adella said evenly. “In a blessed vision, the truth was revealed to me. Nargost Castle is where Regnar has chosen to keep the hostages he has taken from the ruling houses of the Plains States.”

  Silence greeted her, but more warriors came forward, suddenly attentive to this woman, looks and unspoken words exchanged.

  “You are sure of this?” Zarif asked quietly.

  “Very sure.”

  “Then the rumors are true,” one of the soldiers said softly to Zarif. “That must be why they maintain such strength near the castle.”

  “It makes good sense,” said another. “Many of the hostages are old and would fare poorly dragged along with the main army. Even breached, Nargost Castle is still one of the strongest points in all the Plains.”

  “The hostages,” mused a third. “If they could be freed from the Northing grasp…”

  “The states of the Plains would rise up in Regnar’s rear,” finished Shannon. “They would be caught between a hammer and the anvil of Jalan’s Drift.”

  Zarif, however, slowly shook his head. “A small hammer at best it would be. There is little left of Kargos and Nargosia to rise, regardless of the fate of the hostages. And Strallia has joined with the invaders, looking to feast on the bones Regnar leaves, and their treachery will bind them closer than fear for their kin.”

  “Surely some of the states would rise,” interjected Jhan. “Why else would Regnar keep their hostages?”

  Zarif said nothing, his silence eloquent with doubt, and Shannon’s eyes blazed. She stepped forward and said, “Regardless of why Regnar holds them, they are innocents whose lives are at risk. The three of us are bound to set them free, even though they be not our people. If you haven’t the courage to join us, then at the least leave us at peace! We have enemies enough already!”

  The reaction she received, however, was not what she expected. Far from
an angry response, the leader stopped and looked out over the land, cocking his head slightly as if listening.

  “Do you hear them, Dead Zarif?” asked a warrior at his side. “Do you hear them whispering in the prairie grass?”

  “Yes…”

  “They are calling to us,” the warrior said, his own eyes scanning the land. “Beckoning us to join them…”

  “As they ever have,” Zarif answered. “But now there is a new voice. A voice that calls for life. A chance…”

  “A chance? A chance for what?”

  “To draw the living back from the graves of the dead.”

  He turned and called to the men at the rear of the column. “Bring horses! Three of them!”

  He then turned to the newcomers and said, “We must ride hard to meet others of our force who are awaiting us to the west and cannot be delayed by unskilled riders. Ride north towards Nargost and we shall meet you on the road.” He paused to look at Shannon, the barest hint of a ghostly smile on his lips. “That is, if our courage does not fail us.”

  With that and a single word, the entire troop spun and charged off in the direction from which they had come, a single horseman lingering to hand over the three mounts as instructed before he too charged away in a cloud of dust.

  “Ha!” laughed Adella. “I assumed you’d name Malcolm as your master, but this works better in all ways. Malcolm is barely known amongst these plainsfolk, hardly more than a rumor. They’d tend to be doubtful of the power of his apprentice. But they know the power of Trexler the Black right enough, none better. That gained us respect fast.”

  “I held to the truth, or at least part of it, and it served us well,” answered Jhan uneasily.

  “I may have misjudged you, boy,” Adella said, jumping lightly into the saddle, a born horsewoman. “You have the dexterity of an ox and the fighting skills of a spinster aunt, but the one thing you do have is the devil’s own luck. That’s a rare and precious gift!”

  “But why do we need these horsemen?” Shannon asked cautiously.

  “To get them to go up against Nargost Castle, of course.”

  “What?!”

  “Attack Nargost? Are you crazed?”

  “Didn’t you see the silver medallion around Zarif’s neck?” Adella asked. “A captain’s insignia, bearing the emblem of Nargost. A man who stays in enemy territory, wearing the emblem of his fallen lord? That’s a man dreaming of revenge or at least a clean death in battle.”

  “And you hope to help him find both,” Jhan said darkly.

  Adella frowned. “You’ve come to rescue the hostages, right? Will you turn down aid just because it puts soldiers at risk? We’ve found allies with whom we can make common cause, and that is not a prize to squander. Come. Those horsemen ride like the prairie wind, so we have no time to waste.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Death of a Duke

  Shannon was courting death among the flickering shadows of the campfire.

  Adella was circling her with a blunted practice sword at the ready, her body in a low crouch, ready to spring, their tiny campfire barely throwing more light than the dozen campfires of the horsemen on the far side of the ridge. Jhan was standing guard to be sure they were not observed, but his attention was much more on the two women as they improvised a battle around the crackling fire that few warriors could ever hope to match.

  A feint, a thrust, and Shannon danced nimbly away out of the “killing range” that she had come to automatically recognize Her body was bruised in at least two score places where Adella’s blunted sword had taught its lesson, but most of them were already beginning to yellow, having come in the earlier training sessions. And Shannon was hugging tight the knowledge that Adella’s own body now had two minor bruises, an odd tribute to the teacher’s skill and the student’s ardor.

  Adella launched another attack, coming in low for a quick thrust, but Shannon was already anticipating the real lunge when the woman pivoted completely around and brought her sword whirling down for a deadly blow against Shannon’s right leg. Shannon not only was ready to catch the blow with her own sword, but she caught it high enough not to lose much of her own momentum. Then, without even thinking, she leaped into the air, swinging a counter blow even as she moved, and Adella was not quite able to get her own blade into blocking position in time. Shannon’s blunted blade hit Adella’s ribcage, receiving a small grunt of pain in tribute, but she had learned already never to pause to admire a good blow. She hit the ground, somersaulted out of range of the counter stroke, and came to a kneeling position, sword ready again.

  “Not bad,” Adella said grudgingly, rubbing her ribs. “No more than a minor wound, but one that will give its fair share of blood. Half a dozen of those and you’ll have a slow kill. But a slow kill can be the most dangerous. Don’t you agree, Warrior?”

  Startled, Shannon swung around to where Adella was looking into the darkness, and a moment later the tall figure of Captain Zarif emerged from the shadows. Jhan jumped guiltily to his feet, his interest in the sword play having diverted him from his task as sentinel.

  “A slowly dying enemy can have the same power and far less of the fear,” Zarif agreed as he came into the light. “You have a strange store of knowledge for a holy woman, Matron. And a truly unholy skill with arms.”

  Without the slightest warning, the man ripped his own sword from its scabbard and brought it flashing down at Adella who blocked it easily enough. But Zarif followed with a swift three-swing attack that drove the woman backwards and gave her no chance to counter. On the fourth swing, she caught the saber and drove it to the ground, holding it there as she stared into the Captain’s single eye.

  “Our order believes in teaching self protection,” she said with her same sweet tone and smile. “We maintain weakness encourages aggression.”

  A hard swing released the saber and knocked it back, her own sword coming up fast enough to suggest a counterstroke but not following through.

  “Can’t abide weakness myself,” said Zarif, as he launched another attack, the saber whistling through the air with frightening speed, and Shannon actually caught her breath at the ferocity of the assault. The Captain was swinging with all his strength and speed using a sharpened weapon, and Adella had to use some real skill to avoid that razored edge.

  Adella was falling back, slowly circling the campfire, her practice sword still at the ready, yet she was standing nearly upright, the sword held with both hands, the exact opposite of the balanced poise she had been trying to teach. Shannon suddenly realized she was trying hard not to reveal the extent of her skills, fighting as a standard warrior that gave all the advantages to the stronger horseman. Zarif clearly knew he was dealing with no Matron of the Blessed and was trying to discover exact who she was.

  Zarif threw himself right through the campfire, cutting off Adella’s retreat, and the saber slashed down once, twice, three times in a blistering attack as the woman gave ground, actually looking a little uncomfortable in the process.

  “If this is the extent of your skills, Matron, I can trust you to defend yourself in the rear,” Zarif told her as he circled again to the left, a standard warrior’s move to crowd the opponent’s sword arm. “But I could not think to let you be involved in any attacks.”

  There was a glint in Adella’s eyes that Shannon could see even from across the camp as the message sunk in. Then came a feint to the left, a hard move to the right that caused Zarif to commit his guard, and the next instant, Adella was lunging in, giving the warrior an irresistible target. Instinctively, Zarif swung back, his blow at a level that would have taken off his assailant’s head, but Adella had already ducked and used the momentum to bring her practice sword swinging in an upwards that crashed into the man’s hands. Zarif’s grip on his saber broke, and his left hand barely held on to the hilts to avoid being totally disarmed, but Adella had completely her deadly pirouette to bring the point of her blade slashing up into the Captain’s exposed stomach.

  Shannon a
ctually heard the sword hitting the man’s gut, the blunt blow hard enough to crumple most victims, for even Adella could not stop the sheer momentum of the thrust. But Zarif’s only reaction was to smile.

  “Seldom have I seen such skill with a sword,” he said, “but I think your greatest weapon is the deceptive innocence of your face. Few men would credit you with such skill, and I doubt I am the first to underestimate you. Though I may be the first to profit from such knowledge.”

  Adella took a step back, and her expression showed the compliment was nothing, but surrendering the knowledge of her skills was significant. Zarif read as much, and held up a hand in gesture of peace.

  “Your secrets are safe with me, Matron. My goal is simply to be assured you do not go wantonly to your death.”

  “My life is my own to spend,” she answered coldly.

  “But 400 men ride with you. I know now that our deaths at the walls of Nargost will not be meaningless. A good evening to you, Matron.”

  With that, he turned and walked back towards the main camp, leaving the three of them to stare after him.

  Adella whirled and hefted the practice sword right at Jhan who barely caught it in time.

  “Put out the campfire,” she said without looking at him. “And the next time you fail as guard, I’ll have the nose off your face.”

  * * * * *

  Duke Argus strode down a back alley in the Third Tier of Jalan’s Drift completely alone, trying to ignore the feeling of vulnerability at being without his bodyguards at night in a foreign city. It was not robbers nor even assassins that he feared, and he ignored the dark crevices and doorways that might be the setting of an ambush. No. The real threat would come in a burst of green magic directly before him, and the one vital service his guards could render would be in buying him a few precious seconds with their deaths, seconds which just might give their lord a chance for life. It was rash to the point of reckless to deprive himself of such a shield in light of the offense he had given Alacon Regnar, but this was an errand he could only conduct alone.

  He paused at a small intersection, checking his bearings. He turned to face the Third Wall of the Drift which towered hardly two dozen yards away, the fourth guard tower bearing just to his left, and directly behind him several streets over, the square bulk of the central gaol rose above the smaller buildings. Those were the bearing he had been given. He nodded to himself once and turned down the even smaller intersecting alley, no more than a pathway, heading toward the wall.