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

by James A. Hillebrecht

  “With the entire garrison awaiting us at the top.”

  “What of a night attack?” asked one of the troopers. “We could reach the walls before the first alarm is given and use grapples to climb the battlements.”

  Zarif and Exelar exchanged glances before Zarif said simply, “The goblins see clearly in the night, and they would have the advantage of us. Too few of us know Nargost, so even if we gained the walls, you would be floundering around in an unfamiliar castle in the dark. No, we need daylight to have any chance.”

  “What if the main gate were thrown down?”

  Everyone stopped and stared at Adella, but even a single glance assured them the question was more than merely academic.

  “Then we could storm the main courtyard before any defenses could be prepared,” said Zarif. “The Northings would fear for their lives as well as their citadel, and you would have the distraction you desire. But I trust you have some method other than prayer to achieve such a miracle.”

  “Certainly,” she said, looking over at Jhan. “We have our sorcerer’s apprentice.”

  Zarif spun to look at Jhan who was caring for his horse and oblivious to the conversation. Shannon’s eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to speak, but Adella put a hand on her knee and dug in with her fingernails. Shannon shut her mouth again with a gasp and a snap. Zarif turned back to them and asked carefully, “Does the boy possess such power?”

  “Perhaps,” Adella answered, though the shrug of her shoulders said much more. “But he most certainly can make a grand display. What will be the reaction of the defenders when they see magics being cast against their gates?”

  “They’ll send ever man and monster to guard it.”

  “And leave the breach exposed.”

  The group tensed with excitement as they examined the plan in their minds, picturing the charge across the open ground to the walls, the confusion of the garrison, the numbers they might be forced to face.

  “Perhaps,” said Exelar tightly. “Just perhaps we might gain the battlements.”

  “Great Mirna, then the fighting will begin!” growled a trooper savagely.

  “We’ll cut a swath through Northing and goblin alike!”

  There was a low roar of intensity, as men seized weapons as if ready to storm the castle that very moment.

  “What say you, Dead Zarif?” Exelar asked, and then men quieted, waiting for their leader to speak.

  The tall Captain got slowly to his feet, staring at the intense, watchful faces of his men. “What better death can we want than trying to retake our home from the invaders? And even if we fail, we shall so rouse the garrison that they will have naught a thought for the hostages. You ask what I say? I say we ride at dawn!”

  * * * * *

  The mirror of Llan Praetor was thick with his rage. The image of the room was obliterated by white mist, and only Malcolm himself was clearly visible, his light blue cloak like a slash of sky through the cloud of smoke. Malcolm was attempting to take control of the Eye of Llan Praetor and force it to reveal events of the past. Not events of his own past; that was a relatively simple task. No. He was seeking to find the pasts of the thieves who had raided the castle and stolen his possessions during his absence.

  The image in the mirror showed him seething with cold anger, his eyes dangerously bright, his teeth barred, even though his actual countenance was composed and disciplined as he completed the magic. The mirror was responding to his power and was adjusting the image gradually, and it had paused for a moment to reveal the true picture of emotions burning within him.

  The angry image before him was not at all inappropriate given the circumstances. Outmaneuvered by dragons and imprisoned within his own home, the castle violated and one of the great stone guardians of the threshold destroyed, and the thieves had penetrated even to his personal sanctums, pawed over his possessions, and stolen the wand of power and the flying boat that had been a valuable if outdated means of transport. And far, far worse was the burning knowledge that the thieves had escaped unharmed and therefore might very well return at will. No. The angry image was quite in line with events and easily explained why he was seeking a means to visit his rage upon the offenders.

  “To the Winds of the Ether, to the Winds of the World,” he spoke slowly, deliberately, raising first one hand and then the other. “Darkness to Light, let Truth be Unfurled.”

  The words were a personal invocation that helped his mind to focus rather than part of the actual casting, and as he concentrated, the sky blue cloak began to fade into the white mists to be replaced by three other figures, at first indistinct but gradually taking sharper form.

  The thieves, thought Malcolm grimly and had to take a tighter grip on his emotions.

  They weren’t at all what he expected. The woman was sharp-eyed and quick, and she carried herself with a steady confidence that spoke of long experience. But the girl and boy with her could not even be out of their teens and looked as if this were their first time away from home. The two carried only a few knives as weapons, though Malcolm stared long and hard at the scabbarded sword carried by the woman. His eyes widened, however, when he saw the way the girl simply walked right through the barrier of force around the castle, bringing her two companions with her.

  Yes, I thought I recognized her, Malcolm said to himself.

  His eyes widened again as he watched the swift and agile moves of the woman that caused the first guardian to inadvertently destroy the second, and he paid closer attention still as the woman puzzled over the markings on the floor and compared them to the constellations displayed on the ceiling. The transport floor was the trap that Malcolm himself had barely survived on his first venture into the castle, and just as he expected, the woman was caught up in the swirling vortex of the floor and carried blindly through a long series of empty rooms. They were being drawn deeper and deeper into the mountain, and the floor would eventually deposit her in the dark spaces deep within the mountain, the cold belly of Llan Praetor, from which there was no escape. Then the girl took a hand, and with a single stroke of the dagger, brought all three of them directly to the throne room.

  Malcolm almost smiled at the symmetry. The girl had focused on the dagger, almost as if it had the power to find the throne room, just as the Paladin had thought it was his great sword that led him here.

  The wall showed the looting of the wand and the boat by the woman, but oddly, it did not show him the images the mirror had displayed for the girl, leaving him to guess their nature from their expressions and the half dozens words he could make out from their conversation. There was no mistaking their actions, however. Malcolm’s heart almost came up through his throat as the images showed the mad, uncontrolled ride in the wind boat, for he knew, none better, the threats posed by the mountain winds on even an experienced rider. He nodded his head when he saw the girl taking a hand, pulling the nose up at the last minute, for there had been more than luck and more than fate at play in that boat.

  The flight over the plains, the meeting with the horsemen, the ride to Nargost Castle, even the council within the gully where brave souls sealed their doom, all these images played over the mirror, none of their significance lost on the Wizard. Even after the wall had returned to simple reflection, Malcolm continued to stare into it as his mind explored all he had seen, pieces of an intricate puzzle slowly joined, pictures and possibilities. And modifications on existing plans.

  “The same road as before,” the Wizard mused softly, surprised by the conclusion. “Only with a few additional twists and turns.”

  * * * * *

  There was a crack and a snap that roused Darius from his meditations, and he blinked a little as he stared around at his surroundings: a windowless cell illuminated by a lonely candle on a rickety table with a single chair. He was sitting in one corner on a blanket covering a mass of hay, and in the other corner was a slop bucket to act as a latrine. It was hardly more than a day since the death of Lord Boltran, and no more than tw
elve hours since he had been transported to this dreary castle of Ringimore, the northernmost of the citadels of the principality of Maganhall, the nearest jurisdiction of the dead Duke.

  The cell door swung open, and he realized it was the sound of it being unlocked that had roused him. Darius smiled in surprise as two men entered, Father Joshua in a travel-stained cloak and an older man with thinning hair and a sizable paunch who was wearing the robes of a Prefect of the Church. Prefects had the same rank as Bishops in the Church, but whereas Bishops held sway over a particular geographical area, the Prefects held sway over particular people, such as an order of monks or a clerical arm of the Church.

  Darius got to his feet and shook Joshua’s hand warmly, but the young man was looking instead at the grim contents of the dank cell. He shook his head in disbelief, his expression one of vague horror.

  “It is good to see you, Joshua,” Darius said, grabbing the man’s shoulder and giving it a short, reassuring shake. “Thank you for coming.”

  The young Priest blinked, the greeting calling him back to himself, and he managed a small smile in answer.

  “This is Adrian Arturo, the Prefect of the monasteries of Corland,” said Joshua, but there was a small restraint in his voice that was not lost on Darius. “He has agreed to act as your defender before the Inquest.”

  Darius offered his hand which the older man shook perfunctorily as he took the one seat and promptly began unwrapping his bundle to reveal two books, several sheets of parchment, and a quill and ink bottle. He began to arrange these into an order, and Darius glanced a question at Joshua who gave the tiniest of shrugs. As the man put a pair of reading glasses on his nose, Darius said, “A prefect of the Church offering to act as defender. I am certainly grateful, but I hope you will forgive me for asking why a man of your stature has elected to help a stranger?”

  The man looked up sharply over his glasses, his eyes shooting from Paladin to Priest. “Father Joshua, am I to understand you have not explained the situation to this man?”

  “No, Prefect. There has been no time, and…”

  “Then allow me to be direct, sir,” Adrian said, straightening up and addressing Darius formally. “I am under no illusions about your chances of acquittal from these various charges, for quite aside from the compelling evidence, the Scholar and Judges selected to prosecute you are the very best the Church has to offer. They seldom lose, and never when the charge is heresy.”

  “Heresy?” Darius repeated hoarsely, his throat suddenly dry.

  “More, I myself am almost as skeptical of your innocence as my colleagues, for I have known paladins in the past, and not a one of them would have survived an heretical inquest of this type,” Adrian continued. “Finally, I am in complete sympathy with the concern that you represent a disruptive and divisive influence at a time when we can least afford it, and regardless of your skill as warrior, you do harm with your mere presence here.”

  Darius stared at the man’s unyielding face, trying and failing to read him, and, when he offered nothing further, asked, “So am I to assume you have undertaken this task simply to hasten my conviction?”

  Adrian actually blinked in response. “Certainly not! I will prepare and press your defense to the very best of my abilities.”

  “But why…?”

  “You have enemies other than the Church, Sir,” Adrian answered. “My overlord, Duke Argus, has named you as a threat to Corland, and that is more than adequate cause to support you. With the death of Duke Boltran, a major restraint on Argus has been removed, and we fear he is planning to expand his power. You are one of our few hopes remaining. As I said, I have known paladins before you.”

  Darius frowned slightly. “Let me understand this, Prefect. You hold your duty to Corland above your duty to the Church?”

  “No, Sir,” the man answered. “Against you, the Church has many defenses. Against Argus, however, it may have none at all. In this matter, my duty to Church and Country lie together.”

  Darius’ eyebrows rose as he came to appreciate the various motivations that had brought this Prefect into his cell. Unspoken was the knowledge that the defender of a heretic ran the risk of being tarred with the same brush, of taking on the stench of heresy himself, and whatever hopes of advancement within the Church hierarchy Adrian might have cherished had ended once he entered this cell. Darius nodded slowly, both in understanding and appreciation, and asked, “What are the charges against me?”

  “Murder in the second degree upon the person of Duke Boltran of Maganhall,” Adrian said, reading of a piece of parchment. “That of course is a civil charge, and second degree means they don’t have to bother with intent or motive. Though any conviction of murdering a ruling duke regardless of intent means death by beheading.

  “Next is treason in the second degree which is the rendering of aid and comfort to the enemy,” Adrian continued, and he ignored the resulting shouts of incredulity from both men. “Again, a civil charge, but one that often requires an ecclesiastical judge be included on the panel. Take no comfort from the charge of second degree, however. Lord Boltran sent forth the Red Feather, effectively declaring a state of war, and any conviction for treason in wartime carries a mandatory sentence of hanging.”

  “The third charge is heresy?” Darius asked, trying not to sound bewildered.

  “Heresy in the first degree which is Corruption of the Faith,” agreed the Prefect with a nod as he finished reading the parchment. “I assume a paladin is painfully familiar with the particulars. For heresy in the first degree, there is no recanting or acts of contrition. A conviction means the stake and the purification of fire.”

  Darius actually smiled at that. “And if I am convicted of all three charges, do I get to choose my manner of execution? They’ll find it difficult to hang, burn, and behead me all at the same time.”

  Adrian’s lips tightened slightly at this apparent flippancy, but he never got the chance for rebuttal. There was a single hard wrap that filled the chamber, and an instant later, the door opened to admit one of the guards. He handed a folded parchment to Adrian and withdrew without a word. The Prefect glanced briefly at the seal, broke it, and unfolded the document

  He read over the paper and said slowly, almost to himself, “They waste no time. The Scholar will begin his case two days hence. We are summoned to the Court Chambers at one hour past sunrise the day after tomorrow.” He looked up at them and actually smiled for the first time, his teeth surprisingly white. “Positive news, I should think.”

  “And why is that?”

  “As in mortal combat, it is the hasty blow that so often lays the warrior open,” he said. “So let us concentrate on preparing the counterstroke.”

  * * * * *

  It was night on the Plains of Alencia, though the light of neither stars nor moon could pierce the thick blanket of clouds overhead, and the only illumination came from the dozen torches that lit the battlements of Nargost Castle. The Northing guard, Geslar, walked the long wall above the main gate, trying to keep alert despite the late hour, for he knew the sub-chief would have the skin off his back if so much as a mouse scaled the walls during his watch. It was still some four hours before dawn, and the chill of the night was working its way past his fur cloak and into his bones, coaxing him to find a warm fire and a thick blanket. He tried to ignore the thought that both were waiting for him right inside the guard tower, along with nearly fifty of his tribe-mates. At the end of his walk was another guard tower, but he steered clear of that one, knowing it was infested with rock goblins.

  In Geslar’s view, this campaign had started badly and only gotten worse with the main army off raiding to the south and leaving him and his tribe to rot in Nargost with those accursed lizards. Fighting beside rock goblins. It still made his skin crawl, no matter what the orders from the chieftains were. Worse, there was a fortune in booty in the strong room of the castle, wine aplenty under lock and key in the kitchens, and a score of women hostages just sitting around down in
the dungeon. All the makings of a roaring good time right within the walls, and it was more than his life was worth to touch any of it. He was starting to wish himself back north of the mountains where both the pickings and the orders were fewer.

  There was a noise behind him, the oddly familiar sound of steel slicing flesh, and Geslar leaped around, his spear at the ready. Just visible in the torch light was a rock goblin holding a drawn sword and standing over a limp, human body. As he watched, the thing held up the dripping sword, its long tongue seeming to lick the blood right off the blade, and even Geslar recoiled in horror at the sight.

  “Murdering demon spawn!” he cried. “I’ll send you back to Hell!”

  He charged forward, but the creature was too swift, melting into the shadows with the speed of a specter. In the distance, Geslar could make out the outline of the other guard, a body sprawled on the ground in the abandonment of death.

  “Murder!” he roared. “Blood and murder, awake! Auleck! Moriv! Trav! The lizards are killing our folk!”

  In an instant, Auleck and Trav were rushing out of the guardhouse, swords ready, with Moriv right at their backs. From behind him, several rock goblins emerged from their own tower, weapons drawn, bearing wary. With a strangled battle-cry, Geslar launched himself at the goblins, the spear impaling the first, and he whipped out his sword to deal with the rest. The others struck back, one blow wounding the Northing, but the three other humans came to his defense, and soon, there was green and red blood flowing everywhere. The cries had roused the castle, and neither Northing nor goblin needed any explanation when they emerged to see the deadly battle raging.

  Off in the shadows, the rock goblin who had slain the guards watched the developing battle and smiled with thick lips.

  The killing begins in earnest, the creature’s sword said. Let us return.

  “No, my lovely,” the creature hissed softly. “Our task here is done. You will have only two of them this night.”