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

by James A. Hillebrecht

  CHAPTER 16

  Deep Plans, Dark Plans

  “Have we a chance, do you think?” asked Darius.

  The three of them were gathered around the small table in the middle of the cell where they had spent most of the previous night and all of the present day talking over the endless aspects of the coming trial. The single candle had been replaced half a dozen times already at Adrian’s command, and this one was beginning to sputter as well. The Prefect sat back in the chair, looking at the notes he had carefully scribed on the three sheets of parchment.

  “The Scholar prosecuting this case is Ebaras nar Etham, and he is not an evil man,” he said simply. “If he comes to believe you are innocent, he will say so openly to the judges. But it is they who will arrive at a verdict. They too are honest men and will hold to their oaths of justice.”

  The man stopped and Darius actually smiled. “I seem to hear a very loud ‘however’ at the end of that statement.”

  The Prefect looked at him and considered for a moment before continuing, “However…they know all too well the impact you have had on the Faithful of the Southlands and even on members of the Church.” He shot a telling glance at Joshua. “Whether you intended it or not, you stand as a rebuke to both the Congregation and Dogma of the Church, a challenge to their claim to be the light and the way of Mirna. If once you have been brought to trial and acquitted, it will seem that they are sanctioning your views and, by association, condemning the position of the Church. It will take truly compelling evidence for them to choose one man over Mother Church.”

  Darius nodded slightly to acknowledge the honesty. Then Joshua spoke up.

  “Forgive me, Prefect, but while I have every confidence in your ability to argue an accusation on heresy, murder and treason are both civil charges. Should we not have a civil lawyer as part of this team?”

  “I fully concur,” said Adrian. “But no civil lawyer will touch a case such as this. The chances of success are minute, and the damage to one’s career is inevitable. I fear the Prisoner is stuck with the likes of you and me. Are you satisfied with us, Paladin?”

  In response, Darius looked up at the ceiling, closed his eyes, and softly sang:

  “While truth you hold, no sword can bite,

  No foe can injure thee.

  If truth you yield and scorn the light,

  No force can succor be.”

  Joshua put a hand over his eyes and shook his head. Adrian sat back in the chair and said, “Accused of heresy, and yet you openly sing the Great Song outside the body of the Church. Have you given yourself up for lost, then?”

  Darius paused and then shrugged. “I do beg pardon, for I put you both at risk by such actions. Old habits die hard and fealty to truth dies harder yet. As for giving up, I still have some scant hope. But I fear you do not yet see the true threat, the weapon Argus and Regnar have pointed at the very heart of the Church and the Southlands.”

  “What weapon might that be?”

  “Me.”

  Both men blinked at him,

  “After all the technical arguments and legal maneuvers have been exhausted,” Darius continued, “our only viable defense to heresy is to challenge the Church’s tenet that it is the sole road to Mirna, either by inference or openly. Do you not agree?”

  Adrian opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again, and Darius almost smiled. He had spent most of his adult life wrestling with this very issue, so he understood the man’s reluctance.

  “Not openly,” he answered at last. “But…”

  “But if I am right, the Church must be at least partially wrong. That is the only defense possible, correct?”

  The man gave a short, uncomfortable nod.

  “That is the road to schism,” answered Darius. “It would break the Church between those who held to the old faith and those who accepted the new ways. You can be sure Regnar will drive that difference like a wedge into the heart of the Southlands; in truth, this trial may well be his opening hammerblow on that wedge. No. I won’t buy my life and freedom at the cost of the Southlands and the Church.”

  “And if your challenge happens to be the truth?” asked Adrian slowly.

  “That battle is for another time,” Darius replied. “Not now. And such a defense would play right into the Scholar’s hands, would it not? Would not putting forth the claim that the Church’s dogma is flawed bring a charge of heresy down on your head as well?”

  Arian actually shrugged in answer. “It may.”

  “Will not your execution cause the same schism?” Joshua challenged.

  “No,” Darius answered calmly. “Some will consider me a martyr, to be sure. But martyrs die for you, not the other way around. No. We have no choice but to skirt the edges of this issue as I have always done, and trust to luck and the mercy of Mirna to save me from a sentence I so richly deserve.” He paused, his eyes going again to the ceiling of the cell, seeking the invisible heavens above. Softly, he added, “My life has ever been in service to Mirna. It may be now that I can only serve him with my death.”

  The two clerics just looked at him, a touch of helplessness and despair in their eyes, and more than a touch of respect. They were men of faith hearing the catechism of a man who walked ever in the light, heedless of the obstacles and threats around him. Darius took a deep breath, tried to hold them at arm’s length. For their sakes.

  “Let us bid each other good evening and get what rest we can,” he said. “It has been a long day for all of us, and we shall need our strength come the morrow.”

  * * * * *

  Two men and a woman were met in the inner courtyard of the MayoralPalace, the renowned residence of the Lord High Mayor of Jalan’s Drift. The building was of white marble quarried from the far reaches of the Earth’s Teeth and adorned with statues of angels and long-dead leaders. The courtyard boasted scores of exotic plants from across the wide world, proof of the range and richness of the Drift, and many were flowering with the first warm days of spring to fill the area with rare and delicate fragrances. It was close to dinnertime, the business of the day winding down at last, only a few young pages racing by to deliver their final messages, and to a casual glance, the three people standing here might be no more than merchants or city officials pausing to bid each other a casual if lengthy good evening.

  Only a closer glance would reveal that they were three of the most powerful lords of the Southlands and their conversation was far from casual.

  “Boltran leaves behind an infant son as heir to the throne of Maganhall, and the regent is a grand uncle older than Feldon of Palmany who has no interests outside his own borders,” Clarissa of Gemsbrook said slowly. She was a tall woman with hawk-like features and flaming red hair to go with sea-green eyes. “The Council of Lords must select a new leader.”

  “By rights, Feldon should come next,” said Georg-Mahl, Duke of Hathage, with no conviction. He was a slight man with nervous mannerisms, but his eyes were sharp and clear. “Palmany is second to Maganhall by all traditions.”

  “Feldon is a weakling and a fool,” Mandrik of Warhaven replied gruffly. He was a short bear of a man, with a bristling black beard and a voice like grinding gravel. “We all know he is not suited to lead his own realm, let alone the entire Council.”

  “That takes us to another choice,” Georg-Mahl said quietly. “Norealm or Corland. Thrandar or Argus.”

  The three looked at each other, the main issue now laid bare. The Council of Lords had deep traditions, as they well knew, rules handed down from on old that helped to maintain some semblance of order between seven fiercely independent rulers. Maganhall was the senior House, followed by Palmany, but after that, there was some contention. Norealm had generally been considered the third House, but Corland had been growing in both power and influence for many years, quickly eclipsing its northern neighbor.

  “Thrandar is a solid leader and a good general,” Clarissa offered, but there were clear reservations in her tone.

  “Solid and
good, perhaps,” Georg-Mahl echoed. “But the times are perilous and demand much more than that. This, we all know in our hearts.”

  Silent agreement, marked by a reluctance to move on to the next decision.

  “If we three stand firm with Thrandar…” Mandrik began, and then trailed off, his conviction faltering.

  “If we nominate Thrandar, Argus will never accept it,” Clarissa said finally, voicing what they all knew. “Openly or deviously, he will seek to undermine him at every turn. Remember, it was the Paladin who nudged Argus to act when the Maganhall cavalry was surrounded by the Northings. And the Paladin is now gone.”

  “Whatever killed Boltran is still active,” Georg-Mahl reminded them. “It will do no good to nominate a new leader only to have him suffer a similar fate.”

  Eyes met, and unspoken accusations floated between them.

  “We must decide, and we must decide now,” Clarissa said finally, annoyed with herself as well as with the two men.

  “Say what you will of Argus, he is still the best general among us,” ventured Georg-Mahl. Then, with an apologetic glance at Mandrik, added, “No offense, My Lord Duke.”

  “Is that not our most important concern now?” Clarissa asked. “With the Paladin gone, do we not need the best general left to us?”

  “Choose Argus, and we may escape the tyranny of Regnar only for the tyranny of Corland.,” Mandrik growled.

  “We three and Thrandar will still lead the Council,” Clarissa countered. “We will hold Argus in close check there.”

  “The Church, too, will be his counter,” Georg-Mahl said in a half-whisper, and he received guarded nods in answer. Argus had the tightest fist of any of them over his land, and yet the Red Priests of Bal were more active in Corland than any other realm. “The clerics will not permit the influence of Corland to spread far.”

  “Argus will not be restrained by Councils or priests,” Mandrik stated flatly. “Only swords, spears, and sabers will hold him in check.”

  The three were left looking from one to the other, a decision point reached.

  “Gemsbrook will not abide a king of the Southlands,” Clarissa said finally. “If Argus tries to ascend the throne, we shall pull him from it.”

  There was another long pause, the two men now staring at each other.

  “Hathage will not abide a king of the Southlands either,” declared Georg-Mahl. “We stand with Gemsbrook should a war of succession loom.”

  For an endless moment, Mandrik stayed silent, and they all knew the reason. Warhaven had the strongest defenses of any of the principalities of the Southlands and yet one of the smallest armies. If Mandrik sent his regiments forth in an ill-advised attack, he might have too few left to man those redoubtable fortifications.

  “Warhaven stands with you,” he said at last. “My hand on it.”

  From a window high up in the MayoralPalace, Argus looked down at his three fellow rulers clasping hands in the courtyard below, and a grim smile twisted his lips.

  “And so the pact is forged,” he said softly.

  “For us, My Lord, or against us?” asked Ursulan quietly. The little chancellor could barely peer over the high window to see the people below.

  Argus paused before saying, “Both, I should think. They seek first to save their skins and their lands, and that will favor us. Then they plan to move against the one who saves them. They order the funeral, then hold back payment once the corpse is buried.”

  Ursulan looked up cautiously at his lord before asking, “So our recourse is to disinter the corpse?”

  “No,” said Argus. “Our recourse is to bury them as well.”

  * * * * *

  Shannon sat down on one of the Gatestones, letting out a deep breath and not caring if every Northing and rock goblin on the plains were just over the next rise. Off in the darkness came the ragged sounds of a score of people trudging through the night, and she almost despaired from the racket they were making. It had taken half the night just to get the hostages out of the narrow exit from the Lord’s Way in the Gatestones, and they had promptly begun to scatter, the young girls frolicking in their new-found freedom, the children running everywhere, even the elder ladies more concerned with appearances and the remnants of their dresses than in completing their escape. It had taken some hard words and more than a few blows from Adella to finally get the procession moving.

  “Not the time for resting, I fear,” Jhan said as he put a foot on the rock beside her. “The trek has just begun, and Adella expects us to keep the stragglers caught up.”

  “What in the world were we thinking?” she asked, mainly of herself. “Trying to flee across the open plains from a horde of Northings with a score of people who can’t understand why a coach and four isn’t waiting to whisk them safe home. What in the world were we thinking?”

  “We weren’t thinking,” Jhan said calmly. “We were hoping. The mirror showed us what must be done, and we came to do it. Hope lead us to the flying boat that got us to the plains, and hope lead us to Zarif who made the rest possible. Penetrate the castle, bring out the hostages, and start the long trek to freedom without any sign of pursuit. If we had relied on thinking, we never would have started, and thinking won’t save us now. We can only trust again to hope.”

  Shannon smiled in the darkness, struck by simple truth in Jhan’s words.

  “Get your asses up and moving!” came a fierce snarl from the darkness, and they both jumped off the stones and onto the prairie grass. “Your job is to keep these geese in line!”

  “They haven’t had time to scatter,” Shannon answered Adella despite the sudden stab of guilt. Then she frowned. “If you’re back here, who is leading the column?”

  “Sir Robert.”

  “But he’s blind!”

  Adella let out a snort of annoyance. “In this dark, none of them can see. Who better to lead than a man who’s accustomed to working without his sight?”

  Again, Shannon could only smile at the simple answer. Then Jhan asked, “Why are we heading east? I would have thought south would give us our best chance.”

  “The Northings will think the same, I hope,” she answered. “But the whole mass of the Silver Horde stands somewhere between us and the Drift.”

  “And to the east?”

  They felt rather than saw Adella shrug in the darkness. “Strallia is the nearest realm, but I put no faith in their weakling Duke. He’d hand over his own mother if Regnar so much as growled at him. We’ve twenty leagues at least to travel before we reach the borders of Strallia, more than enough time to decide. Right now, we just need to put distance between us and the castle.”

  “But won’t…” Shannon began, but Adella’s hand shot out of the darkness and grabbed her shoulder, followed by a single hissed word: “Listen!”

  There was a distant sound like rolling thunder, and they all held their breathes as the sound grew, the pounding of hooves, heralding the approach of horsemen, and Adella stepped forward and drew the silver sword she called Bloodseeker, its cold light a deadly warning. Over the crest came a dozen horsemen who slowed immediately at the sight of Bloodseeker and the small party that stood between them and the hostages. Slowly they came forward, the horses blowing hard and lathered with sweat from hard riding. In the front was a tall man in the battered blue uniform of Nargosia with his one bright eye that studied them carefully.

  “Flame my soul,” muttered Adella. “I never would have credited it.”

  “Good evening to you, Matron,” Zarif smiled and made a formal bow from the saddle. “It appears you have fared very well indeed. Are these all of the hostages?”

  “Every one.”

  Shannon came forward slowly, looking with agony at the tired and the wounded men. “Is this all that is left, Captain? Only this dozen?”

  “No,” he answered. “Exelar took at least two score westward, leaving a trail even a rock goblin can follow, and I sent most of my own troop south. They’ll draw off most if not all of the pursuit.�
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  Shannon’s shoulders slumped. Out of four hundred brave men, how many were now left alive? Eighty? If that?

  “That may buy us a day or two,” mused Adella. “But even Northings will read that trail clearly, given time.”

  “The garrison was much weaker than we expected,” observed Zarif. “Despite our reports, we didn’t find a single rock goblin.”

  “Thank our sorcerer’s apprentice,” Adella said, pushing Jhan forward. He simply shook his head, mumbled something inaudible, and backed away.

  Zarif nodded in acknowledgement, the gesture taking in all three of them. “Whoever might be responsible saved many of my men. The fools tried to face us in the courtyard, but they soon learned to stay on the battlements and rain arrows on us. We took our share and then made a lot of noise about the hostages being released and how we needed to cover them.”

  “You actually told them the hostages were free?” Adella demanded.

  “They would have found out soon enough, and this way, they took off after us,” Zarif answered calmly, his eye now on the waiting hostages. “You know, Nargost Castle has only been robbed once. A pair of thieves penetrated the treasure room when I was but a subaltern, and they vanished without a trace. We scoured the surrounding area for them, and it took nearly three days for us to find their trail.”

  Adella nodded slowly. “And did they escape?”

  “We rode them down and dragged them back with ropes tied to their heels.”

  She smiled in answer. “But then, I wasn’t part of your quarry.”

  “We need to move,” Jhan interjected as he looked around uneasily. “I doubt if the Northings will need three days to find our trail.”

  “Don’t fret so, boy,” Adella answered, turning back to the hostages. “Thirty-six people for twelve horses with no more than a battalion of Northings in pursuit. We’re faster, stronger, and safer than we were five minutes before.”

  “Every hostage is worth a regiment ready to march against the rear of the Silver Horde,” replied Zarif. “But that’s only if we deliver them safe back to their castles.”