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

by James A. Hillebrecht

  Here, the limited light from the congested city almost entirely disappeared, and Argus had to move cautiously, mostly feeling his way. Just up ahead, the path ended in some kind of broad building, a barn or a forge of some kind, and while there was no hint of any light, he had a distinct feeling there was a fierce fire blazing within.

  As instructed, Argus found his way to the doorway, knocked twice, then once, and without waiting for answer, opened the door and went in. The urgent summons that had brought him to this obscure location in the dead of night had warned him he faced an opportunity that would not come again, and it had implied the risk would match the potential rewards. But nothing had prepared him for this.

  Argus’ heart started pounding as if it were trying to beat its way right out of his chest at the sight before him. This was madness. Three men stood before him gathered around a blazing forge, all three openly clothed in the red robes of Priests of Bal.

  “Are you insane?” he hissed at them. “To appear in such garb within the very streets of Jalan’s Drift!”

  The deserted stable was alive from the inferno burning in the central forge, a fire from no earthly fuel that threw a hellish light on the walls and seemed to make the red cloaks of the priests come to life. The door and windows of the stable were tightly closed, but Argus knew that a blaze such as this would not be restrained by anything as innocent as wooden walls. He could feel a power emanating from the fire that was much more than heat or light.

  Then, coming forward out of the shadows was another figure draped in red, but bowed down with three heavy gold chains and a half-helm of black metal. Argus actually started as he recognized Al-Lutrax, the High Priest of Bal.

  “Did I not tell you that our reach has grown?” the man said, his face flickering evilly in the firelight. “Soon, there will be no city or town in all the Southlands where our influence will not be felt.”

  Argus’ heart faltered for just a moment at those words, the prince within him responding to the advent of an alien power, but his mind rallied at the immediate implications.

  “Why have you brought me here?” he snarled, yet there was a touch of anticipation in his angry voice.

  “Your purpose is now very close at hand, My Lord,” Al-Luthrax said almost casually as the other priests produced black jugs and proceeded to pour a red liquid onto the fire, a liquid that gave it even more life rather than quenching it, a liquid that filled the room with the stench of burning blood. “This night will put you within reach of your goal.”

  “What are you saying?” Argus demanded as his eyes darted from Priest to forge.

  “The two enemies of which we last spoke are met this night upon the adjacent wall,” the man explained as he took items from a pouch on his belt and walked within arm’s length of those diabolical flames. “You now have the chance to strike both with a single blow. Provided, of course, your will does not falter.”

  Argus was about to rage at this slight until he saw the items the Priest was slowly casting into the fire: a lock of hair, a piece of cloth, and a tiny item that looked like a straight twig. His eyes widened as he recognized the items that his spy in the Household of Maganhall had brought him and which he in turn had entrusted to the main Priest of Bal in Monarch, the personal toiletries of Duke Boltran from his head, his body, and his mouth, supplied from the sprig of a tree he used to clean his teeth. As each item hit the flames, it vaporized and the fire seemed to double in intensity. But not in heat. The room seemed to grow…colder…as the red tongues grew.

  Then, to his amazement and horror, he watched as Al-Lutrax walked right into the roaring fire, his entire body bursting instantly into flames, the inferno doubling in intensity from this new fuel. For a moment, the figure stood motionless as if reveling in the destruction of its own flesh, and then it moved its arm slowly, steadily, as if gathering some of the fire together…as if sculpting another body from the wildly flaring tongues. The new body took on a ghostly form with a vague torso extending from a well defined head, and when the thing looked up, Argus saw two huge black eyes staring out at him from amidst the flames.

  “The Blood Beast,” he gasped, his voice quivering. He had heard of this fell power only in whispered rumor and in dark passages of banned tomes, but there was no mistaking the leering face taking shape within the flames. A hunger glared out at him from those black eyes, a hunger of something long dead lusting to devour any and all who still lived. Argus took an involuntary step back, his heart betraying him.

  The burning figure of Al-Lutrax staggered backwards out of the flames, its task completed, and even with the black eyes of the Blood Beast upon him, Argus could not stop himself from staring at the charred corpse of the High Priest. Yet even as he gaped, he watched as the gold chains around the blackened neck gleamed with sudden power, and the burned skin began to fall away to reveal the untouched body of Al-Lutrax beneath.

  The High Priest looked up, his face exhausted with pain, but there was an unholy light of triumph in his eyes at what he had achieved.

  “Great Bal gives back from the flames much more than is offered,” the man said, his voice an agonized growl. “All praise to the power of Bal!”

  Two of the priests stepped cautiously towards the flames carrying metal tongs between them with some kind of clear globe held in the middle, and their faces showed a mixture of dread and exultation as they approached the deadly forge. The fire was licking at them as if seeking a taste of human flesh, and their hands were trembling as they lowered the globe into the middle of the forge. Instantly, the dreadful flames were pulled inside the container, filling it with a terrible power…the flames…and the eyes…

  “Swiftly, swiftly!” Al-Lutrax hissed at him, his voice growing more human again. “The containment cannot last long! Take up now your power and your doom!”

  The third priest was struggling to put some kind of gauntlets on his hands, massive mitts made from a coarse, black material that felt like shredded metal, and the man then pulled his arms towards the waiting horror in the forge. Argus tried to force his feet to move forward, to embrace his destiny, but all he could do was stumble one half pace at a time.

  The third Priest threw a black cloth over the globe, the material starting to smolder immediately but sparing Argus any further sight of those horrid black eyes.

  “Now swiftly!” Al-Lutrax cried, still prostrate on the ground. “Your quarry will not loiter for long, and the beast must feed on something soon!”

  Snarling, Argus seized the thing out of the tongs with his heavy black mitts and hurried to the door.

  *

  Darius was standing with Duke Boltran on the ramparts of the third wall of Jalan’s Drift, the last wall that extended fully from the Wolfsberg to the East to Goblinshead in the west. It gave them a dominant view of the city below and its approaches, as well as the towering mountains and the star-pocked sky above. The Duke’s bodyguard was standing a few yards away to give the two men some privacy, and even Father Rathman had discovered enough diplomacy to keep his distance.

  “Our scouts report the Juggernaut has stopped as if in mid-stride,” Boltran said. “They say the prairie grass has grown over it already like the stone of some long-forgotten citadel. It may be that single mighty blow your scored did greater good than we dared hope.”

  “It felt Sarinian’s edge, that is true,” Darius answered. “But if it were dead, Regnar’s armies would not still protect it. No. I fear this earthen growth is yet another means to suck life to power this horror, this time out of the very bones of the world.”

  Boltran let out a small sigh. “You are not exactly a comfort, Paladin.”

  “I fear my thoughts are darker yet, My Lord,” Darius said. “This thing is no mindless machine that moves blindly forward. It has taken no notice of the attacks against it, for none of those attacks have done it harm. Now, it knows different. Now it realizes that there exist weapons that can do it damage. Sarinian has now taught it that it must attend to the ants scurrying about its
feet.”

  “So it will be all the more dangerous for that knowledge,” concluded the Duke. “You make our victory the smaller with every passing word.”

  Darius said nothing, merely pausing to look up at the stars, their unchanging patterns like a permanent assurance of law and structure in a world that seemed so often guided by mad chaos. There was nothing to be gained by adding that the sight of the Juggernaut and the size of the enemy army were likely to lead to division within their ranks and play right into the waiting hands of Argus. Boltran would come to that realization soon enough on his own. Nor would it serve any good purpose to tell him that the Church was now much more likely to act against an heretical Paladin who had gained such notoriety in so short a period of time; that like Rathman, they would soon see him as a greater threat than Argus or even Regnar himself. No. Now was a time to renew one’s faith in order and structure by observing the constancy of the stars.

  Boltran, however, was not content with star-gazing.

  “You think our peril is somehow actually increased by this pause,” the Duke said, studying him closely. “When Death holds back its scythe, is that not always cause for gratitude?”

  Darius turned and looked at the young man, impressed with his perceptiveness. Boltran had shown surprising wisdom to go with an unusual physical and moral courage that boded well for his people and all the Southlands. Provided he lived long enough to offer them that benefit.

  Darius looked over the walls at the darkened horizon as he considered his reply. Finally, he said, “Tell me, My Lord, do we get stronger or weaker with the passing of time?”

  Boltran considered for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. “Neither, I think. Our forces are already in position, and the flow of provider is now sure and steady. We have bloodied the enemy and can lay our plans from the knowledge gained. And while time may wear on our patience, it will also enable us to bring up the additional ballistas and catapults to give more teeth to the Drift’s outer walls. But that is not what you would say, is it?”

  Darius smiled grimly. “No, My Lord. I would say that we are already under siege even though the enemy is not yet in sight of our gates. Our armies sit inside the walls, and old scores are not lessened by their idleness. The trade that has always given the Drift its wealth and strength has been strangled off, and every day that passes take a growing toll on the populace. Each morn brings another series of dispatches to the Dukes about troubles in their distant realms, robbers and pirates roaming unchecked, taxes uncollected and fortifications falling into disrepair, and men unaccustomed to being separated from their women and children will soon chafe at their absence. Our strength slowly wanes, while Regnar rests and watches and waits for the time to unleash his attack.”

  To Boltran’s credit, his shoulders stayed straight and his head high as the Paladin’s words struck him, only his forehead showing the impact. His eyes, too, went to the darkened horizon as if he could see the campfires of his enemies around the hulking mass of the Juggernaut.

  “When will the blow fall, think you?” he asked slowly.

  Now it was Darius who shrugged. “When Regnar believes his strength has surpassed our own. That will be more than a day and less than a year. To the rest, throw a dart at the calendar. That will be as accurate a guess as any.”

  Boltran let out a slow sigh. “It cannot come too quickly for my taste. I long for the chance to avenge the fallen.”

  “The fallen do not seek revenge,” replied Darius. “They are long past such earthly cares. Vengeance is a flaw of the living, and we do a grave disservice when we attribute it to the dead.”

  “It sounds as if you would offer council to a Lord of the Southlands,” Boltran said with a small grin. “My advisers would call that impertinence.”

  “And you would say?”

  “I would say it is wisdom to listen to the words of the wise.”

  Darius’ eyebrows rose slightly at that, and they rose even higher as the man waited patiently for him to continue. The Paladin took a small breath before he said grimly, “War is always the most glorious part of governance. Until you see your first battlefield. Even then, all too many are caught up in the power of life and death, with the awareness that warriors will go off and die at the utterance of a few words by them. Such leaders are never good rulers, just as they are not good people.”

  “Does being a good man make you a good ruler, then?” asked Boltran.

  Darius smiled and shook his head. “No. If that were so, Paladins and Priests would make excellent rulers, and I assure that is not the case. A good lord is one who rules from the middle, a captain of moderation in all things who brings an even hand down upon any issue or problem that confronts him. He holds a vast amount of power, and if he rushes to one extreme or the other, he shifts the balance of the entire society with him. As in a ship, let the cargo shift to one side or the other, and the vessel will be in danger of floundering.”

  “But what if that extreme is for the worship and glorification of Mirna?” asked the younger man. “Do you advise moderation even there?”

  “You cannot mandate religion, My Lord,” the Paladin answered, “no more than you can legislate morality. Religion exists only between the worshipper and their God, and any attempt to expand it beyond that is to weaken and corrupt the experience.”

  Lord Boltran stared at him in near shock. “Have a care, My Lord Darius. It sounds as if you would include the Church in the same ban you would put on the secular government.”

  Darius looked at him with an unsmiling, unblinking countenance. “So you can now appreciate why the Church Fathers oppose Paladins, even when the fate of the Church itself hangs in the balance.”

  *

  Down below in an adjoining alley, a dark figure was staggering forward like a drunk newly ejected from a local tavern. But this man showed none of the merriment or bravado that often accompanied intoxication, and despite his swaying gait, he was clearly trying to stay as quiet as possible. Argus slammed his shoulder against the stone wall to guide him, his hands clenched beneath the black cloth as he tried to contain the power it hid. The flesh of his entire body tingled from the energy, while his hands and arms felt as if a hive of angry bees were crawling over them, only a moment away from delivering their deadly stings. The stable, the Red Priests, and even Al-Luthrax’s resurrected corpse were forgotten behind him, and his one thought now was to be rid of the abomination that he carried.

  It seemed as if he had been walking for hours and traveling for miles when he finally stopped and looked up at two distant figures standing on the battlements above him. The one figure was very large, giving the Duke a strong hint, but there was no mistaking the identity of the second figure; the hive in his hands had burst into full fury.

  With a snarl of anger and agony, Argus cast the thing out from under the black cloth and unleashed the horde of bees to find their prey.

  *

  Darius felt the approach of evil even though he could not see it.

  “Ware, My Lord, ware!” he cried, ripping Sarinian from its scabbard. “Something is set upon us!”

  It comes, Inglorion, the sword intoned. A hunger from the Place of Shadows. It comes!

  “What is it?” asked Boltran, drawing his own sword.

  Darius saw it for only an instant as it rushed up from the ground and swarmed over the battlement, a thing of fire and blackness that was given its form by evil, a spirit and a weapon both, striking with the speed of a monstrous snake. He struck out hard, Sarinian passing without resistance, and he knew immediately that he had done damage to the thing. And that it was not enough.

  An instant later, and it was upon Lord Boltran, threatening to envelop him, and the young Duke stepped backwards as he struck at the nearly invisible cloud.

  “No!” cried Darius as he leaped forward to strike at the thing again with Sarinian, but it was too late. Even as Boltran raised his sword a second time, the cloud seemed to soak into his body, dousing the light of his life a
s it entered.

  The young Duke shook violently as if in the hands of an invisible giant, and the sword fell unresisting from his grip. A moment longer his body convulsed in a hideous dance, and then he fell to the ground, all signs of life gone.

  Darius knew he had only seconds in which to act. Not to save the Duke’s life; that had gone the moment the thing had touched him. But to save his very soul from being devoured. He swung Sarinian again, but this time he put no strength behind the blow, and he brought the flat of his blade down on Boltran’s still body. There was a burst of white light from the sword, followed by a small cloud of red dust that seemed to billow off of the Duke’s clothes, but Darius knew immediately it was not enough. Not nearly enough.

  “My Lord! My Lord, what is amiss?”

  The cry was from the Duke’s bodyguard farther down the wall, but Darius had no time for them or what they might think of his actions. He raised Sarinian again and muttered a short incantation, “Ethro Mirna nam comans!”

  Again he brought the flat of the sword down, and again there was a heavier wave of the red dust, vanishing like smoke as it was emitted from the body. It was working!

  “My Lord Darius! Stop!”

  A body was flinging itself at him, but there was no time to pause or explain. Darius raised his right hand, caught the man by the throat, and threw him hard against the wall, stunning him.

  “Ethro Mirna nam comans!” he cried again, Sarinian erupting with light as he brought the sword down a third time, and this time, the mass of red dust ended abruptly, clear proof the deadly spirit had been exorcised. Darius knelt down beside the still form, looking close, and he could see that the features were no longer contorted in pain, the body now in the restful peace of death.