They had barely spoken to each other as each arrived, spectators now as at some sporting event, their burdens of authority momentarily forgotten. As the time lengthened, however, Clarissa broke the silence.
“I have sent my troops out of the city,” she said calmly. “Whatever the results of this contest, they will no longer be needed here.”
“As have I,” Mandrik rumbled. “The Drift may fall, but the struggle will continue.”
Just then, Darius emerged from the preparation tent and passed alone through the open Wizard’s Gate, and every eye widened and every muscle tightened at the sight of that solitary figure marching bravely forward.
“We have abandoned the Paladin to his death,” said Thrandar heavily.
“We had no choice in that,” countered Georg-Mahl. “Our only choice was whether to live or to die with him.”
“He’s as steady as steel, I give him that,” rumbled Mandrik. “The morning cold by itself would set me ashiver.”
“Courage alone will not sustain him now,” said Clarissa. “Not against what he will face.”
“But courage is still his one and only hope,” replied Thrandar. “A solid core from which to take strength.”
“That is yet to be seen,” Argus said darkly, his eyes locked on the solitary figure.
*
The eldest of the goblin-mages stepped respectfully up to the right hand of the Tyrant and whispered, “The potions have worked as intended, My Lord. All the Dukes are gathered at the appointed place.”
Regnar nodded, feeling the killing urge stirring in his bones. But the Ohric restrained him.
Soon, the scepter said soothingly. The time of reckoning draws nigh.
*
Darius looked up at the eastern horizon, his heart telling him the sun was cresting though the green clouds robbed him of the sight of it. Then his ears became aware of a vague humming, deep and dark, like the fell song of some dwarven god down within the bowels of the earth. The song grew, a moaning born of land and wind, and off to the side of the circle, something of blue and green began to grow out of the earth, as if the sound itself were bursting forth. The vibrations grew stronger yet, the notes reverberating in the head and in the chest of the listeners, the sound made palpable until it seemed only the thunder was real and the world naught but shadow. Then the sound seemed to withdraw again, gathering in upon itself, and the blue green form now towered before them all.
The armies of both sides gaped at the apparition. It stood as tall as the Third Wall of the Drift, and though it appeared slender and graceful, it was still thicker than the torso of any giant in Regnar’s train and its roots were welded to the rock as if the earth itself had taken a humanoid form. It had no neck, but there were eyes where a face should be, eyes black within the blue-green skin that radiated a power felt even a thousand paces off. The being opened a great maul of a mouth and spoke with gentle thunder to all gathered in attendance.
“The Median am I, summoned to attend this dawn by the fell power of the weldmort forged. Death is the bond of the weldmort, and death shall it have, either by the seconds here gathered or by the principals deep pledged. What weregild is laid upon the weldmort’s end?”
Then Brillis stood forth upon the Third Wall and cried down to the entity and to all the gathered throngs, “The city of Jalan’s Drift shall be yielded if my champions fall.”
From far across the second tier of the city up on the Second Wall came the answering voice of Regnar, and it echoed in every ear. “The armies of the Silver Horde shall be yielded if my champions fall.”
“Thus so is the weregild lain,” the Median intoned, and Darius suddenly felt as if some giant force had descended over the entire city. “Send forth the champions that they be known.”
Instantly a beam of green power burst forth from the second wall where Regnar stood and struck the ground inside the circle, making the earth boil and twist and give forth a fountain of steam. When the steam began to subside, the watchers could discern a shape within the smoke, a shape that might be a man, might be…something else…
The monster that sprang forth out of the cloud had arms and legs, but that was the only resemblance it had to a human. Its skin was the shiny black of an insect’s shell, it had short wings extending out of its back, and it had huge eyes in a demonic face that bulged out and stared at the world without pupils. It had claws for hands and feet, and it carried a short black weapon with an ax-head on one end and sword point at the other, a weapon it twirled with an easy dexterity.
“Be it known that Beezelarb has come forth,” the thing sang in an insect’s voice, its forked tongue tasting the air like a serpent’s. “I am summoned to kill…I am to be the first champion…the champion of the Ohric and the army it has created. I glory in the undead whose ranks will swell with the coming slaughter.”
It seemed as if every human watching, Northing and Southlander alike, took a half-step back in common revulsion, for the demon had come from the Nether Regions to feed upon the living essence of man and cared not at all for the conflicts between its prey. It represented a far more ancient and primal conflict than this minor struggle between men.
But the eyes of the crowds were swiftly pulled from the insect man as something else stepped forward from the tangle and wreckage of the bazaars, something that towered above everything about it and made the very ground tremble with its passing. Even men accustomed to terrible foes shrank back before this gigantic form with face and body in a stretched and distorted parody of men.
The thing stood more than three times the height of a tall man, and its arms and legs were thicker than the body of a warhorse. It wore a thick leather jerkin with rings of steel that stretched from its throat down to the middle of its thighs, and in one hand it carried a massive wooded club while the other grasped a sword twice as long as Sarinian itself. It came to a stop once it had entered the circle and rested the knob of the club on the ground with the sword slung on its shoulder.
“I am Ug-Lan-Jo,” the monster intoned. “Lord of Stone Giants. I am second of champions of Silver Horde.”
Finally, a rather plain looking barbarian stepped forward into the circle to stand like a midget at the side of Ug-Lan-Jo. He was no more than of average height, and while he was clearly young and strong, his arms showed no more than their fair share of muscle. He was dressed in the common leather armor of the Northings with a few bands of loose fitting metal around his torso, and he carried a short spear in his hands with a scimitar scabbarded at his side. He carried no other obvious weapons.
“My name is Eltherand,” he announced to the crowd. “I stand forth for the Northing peoples, and I am the third champion of the Tyrant Regnar.”
There was an instant buzz from the surrounding crowds as each felt the need to comment on this fellow to his neighbor, the gist of which reaching Darius’ ears was that this was a poor champion for even a minor lord let alone for all the Northings. But while Darius could look at giant and demon without a tremor, he felt an uneasiness as he stared at his third opponent. Only a fool would put forth a common warrior in such a contest. And Regnar was no fool…
The clamor had subsided, the voices stilled, and Darius knew his time had come. He stepped calmly into the circle, but he felt a tingle of power as he crossed it, a warning that he was now contained within its boundary.
“I am Darius Inglorion, Paladin of Mirna, one of the Chosen of Bilan-Ra,” he announced to the multitude, and it gave him joy to openly claim those titles at last. “I stand as the champion of all those who oppose the power of Regnar and the evil he brings in his wake!”
Cheers greeted him from the Third Wall, and he smiled in answer. They had no hope for him, saw no chance for victory against this fell trio, and they knew that his defeat would mean the loss of their city. Yet still they cheered, their hearts swelling to see one man unbowed by fear and danger, one man who stood in defiance against all the power that Regnar could muster, a courageous soul who stood for them all, a man
they would call hero.
“Who else stands forth for the woman Brillis and the City of Jalan’s Drift?” the Median asked, his voice quelling the crowd. “Who else?”
“I alone have taken up the challenge,” Darius said, and it seemed as if even the Median paused in surprise.
“As you are the only champion to stand forth for the woman Brillis,” the dark being pronounced, “you shall face all three of the Northing Champions, each in turn. By the ancient rules, you shall face the first for twelve beats of the hammer before the second shall be free to attack you as well. Then shall come twelve more beats of the hammer before the third moves forth to engage. There shall be no other restraints upon them, and each is free to act immediately upon the elimination of the former or if they themselves be threatened with attack. This battle is to the death, and no quarter shall be granted.”
“A question, Median,” Darius said loudly.
“Speak,” the entity replied.
“What if others should yet stand forth for the woman Brillis and the city of Jalan’s Drift? Will they be accorded the title of Champion?”
“While life remains within you, the contest continues,” the Median said. “So long as the issue is undecided, two others and only two others may stand forth. By crossing into the Circle of Decision, they will announce both their presence and their intent, and so shall they be known. But be you slain, the circle is broken and the contest ended.”
*
“You’re mad!” Jhan cried softly, his voice echoing alarmingly through the sewer tunnel. Shannon had come to a fork in the passage, glanced at the secret mark Adella had taught them to read, and run off to the right without a pause.
“Shannon!” he whispered again even as he rushed to keep up with her. “Remember what Adella said! There are traps of all kinds down here!”
“The real guardian is fear of the traps,” Shannon shot back over her shoulder. “When she first pushed us down here to save us from the goblins, we went a mile at least on our own without trouble, and that was when the invaders were entering the city.”
That was true, he realized. They had encountered several thieves at the time who took them to a place of safety, and the only trap they had seen had been on the narrow side-passage that actually lead to the safe house.
“But surely there are some traps still in place,” he protested, doubting the words even as he said them.
“I think not,” she answered. “When the thieves mobilized, they needed to move swiftly and without fear. I think the main passes are all clear.”
“You mean you hope.”
“I mean we have no choice. Come on! We are drawing close!”
*
“Let the challenge begin!” the Median announced to the city and the champions alike and thus began the battle to the death.
Darius instantly charged the insect-like creature standing opposite him, and just as he feared, the thing promptly lifted itself off the ground, propelled upwards on its wings. It was clearly not a strong flyer, but it did not need to be. After it was some twenty feet in the air, it hovered for a moment and seemed to place its weapon on its back. It then calmly pointed its claws downwards, and suddenly two small arrow-like missiles were launched from its hands. One Darius was able to parry with Sarinian, but the second struck home, the magical bolt passing even through his armor to impact on his upper torso. No sign of the missile remained, only a black mark on the armor and a small wound on Darius’ chest.
Even as Darius grimaced from the pain, the thing swerved to the left, seemed to find a position it liked, and launched two more missiles at him, both scoring. A third time, a fourth, a fifth it struck, some times one missile getting through, some times both, and while the damage from a single bolt was minor, they quickly began to take a toll upon him.
There came a distant thud, like half formed thunder. The first beat of the Median’s drum, Darius realized. Eleven more before I am faced with the second monster as well.
Darius lurched one way and then another, holding Sarinian before him to parry, but he was also watching the antics of the demon, getting a feel for its movements and its tactics. The thing moved to another position for its sixth attack, and that was when Darius struck. With both hands, he hurled Sarinian upward, the Avenger seeking its quarry, but the sword was only able to nick the torso of the surprised monster as it dodged out of the way at the last instant. Immediately, Beezelarb retrieved its black weapon and dove downwards at its unarmed opponent, intent on doing serious damage before Darius could do anything else. But this had been exactly what Darius had been anticipating. Even as the thing readied to strike, Sarinian appeared again in Darius’ hands, and black ichor flowed from the thing’s body as the sword found its mark.
Screaming, it climbed back to the safety of the air, and Darius cursed himself for a fool. He had stupidly swung at the thing’s trunk, determined to repay some of the injury he had sustained instead of directing the blow at its wings where a fortunate hit might have been decisive. As punishment, more missiles cam down at him, slashing into his body, each one taking its grim toll, death by a thousand blows.
A second beat of the Median’s invisible drum, or was it already the third? He wasn’t sure, his mind not ready to count a cadence.
I must heal you, Inglorion, Sarinian said. You cannot endure much more damage.
“No,” Darius whispered in reply. “The time is not yet.”
Twice more he tried the trick of flinging Sarinian upwards, but Beezelarb was not to be taken by surprise again and avoided both blows. Nor was it so foolish as to charge the seemingly unarmed man and thus give Darius another opening. A dozen times, two dozen time, three dozen the thing continued to pummel its victim with an endless series of magical arrows, each one wearing Darius down further and further, the steady drum beat from the Median marching the time when the second champion might engage. Finally, two of the missiles struck a critical mark, and Darius fell, Sarinian clustered beneath him, gasps and cries of dismay coming from the city folk, wild cheers from the Northings.
Triumphantly now, Beezelarb dove down from its invulnerable position to finish its helpless foe, but even as it dove, the great voice of the Median spoke out to all.
“The Second Champion of the woman Brillis and the city of Jalan’s Drift has come forth,” it proclaimed. “Ug-Lan-Jo is free to engage.”
Beezelarb hesitated for only a moment, its demon eyes picking out the living soul that had entered the circle even though the newcomer was cloaked with invisibility, and it decided to finish the first victim before attending to the second. But even as it charged down, it recognized its mistake. There was a sudden explosion of light around the fallen Paladin as life exploded within him, and he spun around even as the demon broke off the attack and tried to flee. The monster was just out of sword range as Darius found his feet, but it was presenting its back at last. The Paladin pointed the Avenger and unleashed the energy that Bilan-Ra had placed within the sword. A bolt of pure white lightning flew from Sarinian and struck the wings of the demon, shriveling them like a moth’s in a fire, and Beezelarb fell to earth.
It was still swift, and it swung its weapon with telling skill, its first blow scoring though it barely penetrated the Paladin’s armor. Darius was filled with a killing fury, his hatred of demons eliminating any thoughts of caution, and he brought the Avenger slashing down at the thing’s head. It dodged, Sarinian doing only minor damage, and the creature spun its weapon deftly and aimed the ax end for Darius’ arm. But the blow never fell. A silver blade suddenly burst out of the thing’s chest, causing it to convulse madly, like a broken wind-up toy whose coiled spring had burst its tension.
There was a flash of light, and the thing was gone forever, leaving Darius staring into the now visible face of Adella.
“The First Champion of the Tyrant Regnar is destroyed,” the Median pronounced in its echoing voice. “All champions are now free to engage.”
*
The time is ripe, said
the Ohric with satisfaction. Act now while all eyes are upon the battle.
Regnar turned to the two hulking mountain ogres who stood by his glowing green throne to guard his honor if not his body. The Tyrant stood up and beckoned to them.
“Come, pretties,” he said with a snarl of lipless teeth. “We have a task for you.”
As the two stood close, Regnar touched them and simply looked at the tall structure of the Leatherworker’s Guild standing just beyond the Wizard’s Gate. The next moment, all three of them had vanished, and an instantly later, they were standing on the top of the Guild’s building.
“Now for a pleasant meeting,” said Regnar.
*
Malcolm alone of all the people present witnessed the Tyrant’s movement. His Wizard’s Sight was still active, and it spotted the power passing overhead, a green aura around the travelers. Regnar and the Ohric, he breathed. They reveal their true purpose at last. But who or what waited within the Leatherworker’s Guild?
The Juggernaut had not yet emerged from its cocoon, but the Wizard had been watching the alarming developments of the entity within. It was no longer a question of days or even of hours. The new form of the Juggernaut would burst forth in a matter of minutes. Malcolm looked from the seething monster to the top of the Guild building, indecision crippling him.
I must at least warn people of Regnar’s presence.
But do I dare to risk losing the one critical moment when the new entity is vulnerable?
*
Sarinian and Bloodseeker were glowing in unison, the approaching enemies silencing their implacable animosity.
Upon This World of Stone (The Paladin Trilogy Book 2) Page 33
