A Rage in the Heavens (The Paladin Trilogy Book 1) (13 page)

Sinclair was an older man with a white beard and a great girth, and he stood with perhaps a hundred of his warriors close to the edge of the headlands, readying rocks and arrows to shower down on the invaders. This was the legendary point at which to defend the High Pass below, and stories abounded of how several Lairds had led their clans in a mad charge down the sides of the Headlands, for while very steep, they were still sloped enough to let a man run wildly down the rock to crash against an enemy grouped below. Joshua himself had run down the slope for sport many times, a popular game among the more daring of the Highlander youths, but that was far, far different from charging in a mass of armed men to attack a waiting enemy.

“Come,” Darius said to Cairnsmore, leading him to the edge of the bluff. “Look down upon your brethren standing below.”

Joshua went with them to the high sloping slides which led down to the High Pass. He looked down to see the Clan McCullen in battleline across the gap, a thin double line dressed in the green and red of the Tartan Royale with shield and spears at the ready. He tried to pick out the Laird, and he spotted him easily near the center of the line, talking quietly to steady his men as he walked among them. Even from that height, Joshua could see the tears of fury on the cheeks of the Highlanders, strong men whose eyes had been dry since boyhood now wept and cursed the enemy drawing down upon them.

A glance to the right showed the advance of the Northings, a horde of black and silver moving steadily upwards to challenge the Highlanders. The sight brought a tightness to Joshua’s chest, a mixture of fear and fury to see the enemy at last and watch them closing upon his comrades.

From somewhere on the Highlanders’ line came the sudden clash of spear on shield as one man flexed his anger, and another answered to the right, then a dozen, a hundred, a thousand, all crashing together, a thunder of death rolling down out of the pass to welcome the invaders.

“The sound of a clan in battle,” said Darius tightly. “Will you turn and run while the Clan McCullen alone holds faith?”

The Highlanders all bristled, and Cairnsmore took his battle-axe from his belt.

“The Clan McCullen shall not die alone!” he swore. “Win or fail, we’ll make an end worthy of a warrior song.”

“Then we live or die as one!” said Sinclair, slapping the taller man on the back.

The Northings were rapidly approaching the crest of the Pass, surging forward now, moving faster, preparing to rush the thin line which was all that blocked them from the pass and the Southlands beyond.

The warrior had turned back to the seething mob behind them, leaping onto a boulder as if his heavy armor weighed nothing and standing where the gathered clans could see him.

“Highlanders!” he cried, and every eye rallied to his voice. “Highlanders! You stand at the brink of the High Pass which your people have held since the earliest days. Below you the enemy marches and only the thunder of the Clan McCullen opposes them. Will you stop your ears and close your eyes while your brothers hold troth?”

“No!” a thousand voices answered him. An ugly roar from below dragged Joshua’s eyes from the warrior to the scene in the pass, and he caught his breath. The Northings were charging, rushing the thin line, and it seemed nothing could resist that black wave. Darius had seen the beginning of the charge, but he still turned back to crowd before him, timing the battle with their passion.

“‘A hundred deaths a yard’ was the battlecry of old,” cried Darius, “the toll your fore-sires demanded and took from every tyrant who came against them, and they taught invaders that this was the most expensive land in all the world. The strength of your fathers still flows in your arms, and their courage still burns within your chests. Strike now! Strike against the darkness and show these raiders why the Tartan Royale is feared from the Southern Ocean to the Earth’s Teeth!”

With that, Darius drew forth his great sword and a light burst out around him, a beacon for all to follow. Joshua’s heart surged as if it had been set on fire.

“Kerren nar Mortas!” Darius roared, the ancient motto of the Highlands, the words ringing through the pass, stirring the echoes that had rung here a thousand times before. “Freedom or death!”

“Kerren nar Mortas!” the warriors thundered back. With a single motion, Darius leaped from the boulder and charged down the steep slope. And with one accord, heedless of the danger, they swept forward over the crest with him, rushing down upon the invaders of their land, Joshua, club in hand, right in the front rank.

The slope was so steep that Joshua had to run or fall, his feet barely keeping pace with his hurtling body in a thrilling race, and all around, a thousand men were charging with him, a wave of humanity crested with steel. Below the Northings were looking upwards, surprise turning to terror, and the first row of the barbarians disappeared in a burst of blood as the Highlanders smashed against them, instantly crushing the enemy’s left flank.

Joshua raised the club and swung wildly at the bearded Northing right before him, the wood striking the man’s thick battle hide, and leaving him wide open to a counterthrust. But the next minute, the rush of Highlanders simply overran his opponent, and Joshua abruptly found himself several ranks back, pushing like everyone else around him to try to get at the invaders. The narrowness of the Pass and the push from the barbarians at the rear made flight impossible, and the Northings fought with the courage of despair, selling their lives dearly. Joshua, looking over the heads of his comrades, could see places where the press was so fierce that the slain had no room to fall, the bloody corpses still standing as if trying to carry the battle even beyond death.

Before them all, however, leading the charge, went the warrior Darius, and none of the barbarians could stand against his fury. He alone was making progress, hacking a bloody road right through the enemy horde, his sword a beacon, and Joshua could see he was making for the standard-bearer of the Northings, the black and red flag of the invaders like a hideous stain on the mountain airs.

The Highlanders around him guarded his back and sides, men dying gladly for the chance to fight beside him, and he drove through the invaders like a spear through cloth, the enemy axes glancing off his heavy armor. An honor guard stood about the standard-bearer, a dozen of the tallest and strongest of the Northings, and they leaped forward to deal with this single warrior, their silver axes flashing.

Joshua’s heart rose into his throat, and he shouted a warning, the words hardly registering even on his own ears amid the battle din. He could see nothing for a moment except the light of the great sword, and he feared that Darius had simply been overwhelmed. But the Highlanders were with him, holding back the press, and the next instant, he could see the shining sword rise again, striking hard to the left and then to the right. Suddenly, Darius burst free from the mass of bodies and charged directly for the enemy flag.

The standard-bearer was a giant of a man who held the great banner like a simple spear, and the last two of the honor guard stood with him. The two guards charged wildly at Darius, trying desperately to knock him off his feet, and while the first died before he reached him, the second managed to knock him back and hold his right arm for a moment. The standard-bearer rushed at his partially pinned opponent, the sharp point of the flagpole glinting, a skewer hungry for meat, and Joshua screamed in fear. At just the last moment, Darius put his left hand on the remaining guard, jerked hard, and spun the man into the path of the on-rushing giant. The spear thrust right into the Northing’s back, piercing him through and holding the banner still for a moment. Darius slashed out and his sword shattered the flagpole, banner and dead Northing dropping to the ground together, and a savage second swing dispatched the dumbfounded giant.

The fall of the banner broke what remained of the Northings’ will. The men at the back of the pass turned and ran, easing the press at the crest, and soon the barbarians were streaming back down the mountain rode, leaving the Highlanders triumphant behind.

With a thrill of relief such as he had never known, Joshua watched the enemy fleeing, and he didn’t even realize that he was cheering and yelling and crying right along with everyone else around him.

* * * * *

Darius sat on a low rock at the side of the High Pass, his shoulders hunched, his elbows on his knees, hands limp. There were blood and corpses all around him, for this was the point where the battle had raged hottest. Highlander and Northing lay together in the indignity of death, for men had given their lives freely to try to gain or hold these few precious yards of earth. The smell of blood was heavy in the air, the stench which would bring the carrion crows and vultures flocking, the odor of a fresh battlefield soon to give way to the reek of rotting flesh. Yet this had been no more than a skirmish, a clash between the vanguards of armies.

Darius felt his stomach heaving, and he fought the nausea down. But it was not the smell of death alone which assailed him.

Directly before him lay the body of a big Highlander, his hands folded across his chest, his war-axe at his side where Darius had placed it: Siras McGiver, the blacksmith whom he had first swayed from flight.

But for me, he would still be alive, Darius thought dully. I killed him as surely as if I had struck the fatal blow myself. Yet is he any different from all the others who now line the Pass?

Four feet away, Sarinian stood embedded in the solid rock of the mountain road, for Darius had thrust it into this stone scabbard at the end of the battle, unable to endure its touch any longer. There was no stain of blood upon it, no record of the gory work which it had just completed, as if boasting that the deaths of mortals could not touch it in any way.

“Speak, you monster,” grated Darius. “Your voice was loud enough a few minutes before. Have you nothing to say now?”

What needs said?
the sword answered.
The enemy has been put to flight, and the High Pass is saved. You fought well and are now weary. Rest, for there is still much work ahead of us
.

“Rest,” growled Darius. “Yes, rest so that I can kill again tomorrow and then again the day after. Rest, that I might put others to rest.” He stared at the gleaming sword and asked, “Do you feel nothing for the men we killed? Over there lies the graybeard, a warrior with a veteran’s skill but an old man’s speed. He knew the counterthrust was coming but could not move in time to block it. Do you remember him?”

No
.

“No. And what of this one?” Darius stared down at a small body just off to the right, its limbs sprayed out in the abandonment of death, the proud silver shield lying beneath it. “No more than a boy of sixteen summers. This was likely his first battle. And I blocked his pathetic attack and cut him down with a single stroke.”

That one I do remember
, said the sword’s haunting voice.
He struck, and you made no answer. You allowed him three blows before you dispatched him. Why?

Darius shook his head, unable to admit that for just an instant, he had seen a shadow of Shannon in that youthful face. He said simply, “He was a boy.”

He was an enemy trying to kill you
, the sword countered.
And he would have killed many others if you had not stopped him. Think not of these deaths, but rather of the lives you have saved
.

“Not an easy task. For it is not the lives of others which now stain my hands.”

“Darius…Lord Darius?”

He turned to find Joshua standing awkwardly a few feet away, his expression cautious, his eyes hesitant, the yellow priest’s robes spattered with blood. Behind him, a few other Highlanders stood quietly, waiting.

“Are you hurt…My Lord?” Joshua asked, the title coming slowly after his previous animosity.

“Not in any way that can be healed,” Darius replied, getting slowly to his feet. “There’s a new respect in your voice, Youngster. That’s a mistake. Never admire a man just because he can kill.”

“It’s not the killing I admire,” the boy answered simply.

Darius stared at him for a long moment, and the first shade of a smile came to ease the battle-pallor.

“The Clansmen sent me to you, My Lord,” he continued formally. “They request your presence at the lodge of Lord Cairnsmore to honor you and ask your counsel. The enemy has fled back to the Northern Approach, but they are lingering there and show no signs of abandoning the Pass.”

“They’ll not test the Highlanders again,” Darius said. “They came to occupy the Pass after the Fear Spell had cleared it, not to fight their way through. They’ll do no more now than hold the Approach.”

Reluctantly, Darius walked over to the sword and drew it out of the rock, thrusting it back into its back scabbard. He turned to Joshua, and for the first time, he noticed a bandage on the boy’s leg.

“You’re hurt, Lad. How badly?”

“I can walk well enough, though not fast.” Then he shrugged and grinned ruefully. “It didn’t even happen during the battle. I tripped against a raised sword while I was trying to care for the wounded.”

“Give it rest,” Darius advised. “Leg wounds should not be taken lightly.”

“I have no time for rest,” the boy replied. “I must report to my superiors as quickly as I may.”

Darius opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again. Clearly, no words of his were going to sway the boy, and in truth, he was right that he had to get news of the battle to his people as soon as possible.

“The Clansmen are waiting for you, My Lord,” he prompted.

“I’ll speak with them briefly, but I must be on my way,” Darius said. “The danger here may be past, but the shadows lengthen over the Drift. And the Southlands.”

“Might I ride with you, My Lord?” Joshua asked quickly.

He’ll slow our pace
, Sarinian said coldly from its scabbard.
We have no time
.

Darius ignored the sword, studying the eager face of the boy in front of him. Young Joshua had been one of the few untouched by the fear spell, and there was a simple, honest sincerity in the boy’s eyes. He nodded slowly.