A Rage in the Heavens (The Paladin Trilogy Book 1) (7 page)

“Boy, have you your carrier pigeons?” he asked.

“Aye, Captain,” the youngster answered. “Two for Nargost, two for the Drift, and one each for Strallia and Maccabor.”

The Captain nodded. “Good. Then heed me well. Get you back to that small rise behind us and watch the battle. When you know the result, write the same message for five birds and launch them all. Hold back only the doubles.”

“Go back?!” Clendon repeated angrily. “But I want…”

“You will obey my orders!” Zarif said firmly, and the boy closed his mouth. “If our attack fails, you will keep ahead of the enemy and watch his movements. If they reach Nargost Castle, launch the remaining birds.”

The boy’s face mirrored Gaslon’s shock, but Zarif was in no mood for more discussions.

“Get you gone!” he said, slapping the boy’s mount on the rump to send him racing towards the rear. Clendon looked back once over his shoulder, his face showing his doubts and fears even at that moment.

Perhaps we shall not all be the dead, Zarif thought.

“Captain! The signal!” cried a sergeant, and Zarif looked down to where the battle flag of the General had risen to attention. Zarif pushed his own mount out before his men, taking all their attention.

The flag came down to point at the enemy and the entire center of the line launched itself forward, a thousand horse rushing down upon the vanguard of the Northings.

“Charge!” roared Zarif, putting the spurs to his great bay charger and flying like the wind down into the darkness, every trooper behind him following. Everyone, save Clendon alone.

Twenty minutes later, with tears falling, the boy released the first group of pigeons.

CHAPTER 4

Argus

Argus stood before the open chasm from which the heat and sulfuric stench of lava was rising, staring down into a golden basin suspended just over the brink of the fissure, the basin from which he hoped to draw a hint of his future and his fate.

The naked rock walls of the cavern flashed with the red light of the enormous flames that periodically surged up out of the volcanic pit, and the fumes filling the air made it hard for human lungs to find oxygen. But Argus was oblivious to all of it. He was a huge man with thick red hair and beard, wearing a flowing robe of black that sparkled with golden threads woven through it, and on either side of him stood slightly smaller figures draped entirely in red, the flashing light revealing demonic expressions within their cowled hoods, but their hands revealed that they were still human.

The flames from the pit were shooting upwards in the cavern, the heat baking his skin and singeing his hair and beard, but the big man stood like a statue, his eyes locked on the golden basin filled with a swirling golden liquid.

Images. Confusing, whirling images, a bizarre mixture of Argus’ past and his present, of his enemies and allies, of those whose lives touched his, of dreams and fears and the tiny core of fury and madness that wandered through it all. The images told a story, but its meaning and purpose were left for him to puzzle through, and the frown on his forehead showed the tale was as elusive as ever. Its significance was impossible to know and dangerous to guess.

One of the Red Priests leaned forward with a golden ladle and deposited a few drops of a black liquid into the basin. Argus welcomed the move, knowing the enigma of the past was now to be replaced with what he truly sought: a glimpse into the future.

“It is time, My Lord,” muttered the second priest softly.

Argus put forward his right arm and tried to force blood from the fresh wound there, but only a few drops fell into the basin, the cut already scabbing from the heat. Instantly, he produced a dagger, bared his left arm, and made a new incision, allowing the stream of blood to enter the basin. The red contents began to swirl by themselves, forming a whirlpool in the center where the red shaded away into many colors. Gradually, beginning at the center of the eddy, the colors began to form an image.

The big man frowned again, not sure at first what he was seeing, and then his forehead began to clear as he recognized a map of Corland with what must be the neighboring states of Palmany and Maganhall. As he watched, the center of the map began to pulse with a blackness with a scarlet core, close to what must be Monarch, the capital, and it began to spread outwards in all directions. It filled the borders of Corland and started to pulse again, spilling over a little into both of the neighboring states. The man watched closely, trying to tell if one was more affected than the other, but it was impossible to be sure.

Suddenly, the image began to draw back, expanding, the map growing to include the western mountains, Norealm, the hills of Warhaven, and Jalan’s Drift itself. But it did not stop there. Slowly it continued to swell, starting to reveal the Plains of Alencia, and the man’s heart began to pound with anticipation. But even as the map grew, it began to fade, the colors starting to disassociate.

“More blood!” he cried desperately. Living flesh was put into his hands to be instantly ripped asunder by his powerful fingers, and he did not know nor did he care what creature that flesh had been. The blood poured into the basin, bringing a fresh vividness to the colors, and Argus cast the corpse in his hands out into the hungry flames, his eyes never leaving the basin.

The map now revealed another spreading color, a livid green, coming down from the north over the barrier of the Earth’s Teeth, and the man was shocked to see how much territory it already covered. The green was moving at a steady pace, its speed not alarming except that it did not seem to slow for any obstacle or citadel. And while it spread towards the south-east and the southwest, its main progress was directly southwards, heading unerringly for Jalan’s Drift.

Something new seemed to be disturbing the map, a tiny brightness in one corner, and the man frowned at the distraction. He was trying to judge the progress of the green, to determine its route and intention, but the light continued to grow, slowly eclipsing the colors of the map. He was about to call for yet more blood when the light seemed to erupt, covering the entire image, and the man was left staring into a basin of red liquid, the whirlpool now vanished.

“Damn the light!” he shouted angrily. “It’s ruined the spell!”

The Red Priests flinched back from his rage and glanced at each other. Then the second priest said, “We saw no light, My Lord.”

“It destroyed the image! What kind of filth are you using for this spell?”

“Human blood gives the clearest image, My Lord,” the second priest said.

Argus was about to roar at this stupidity, but a sudden thought stopped him. He had assumed the light was some kind of contaminant, some impurity that was disturbing the spell, and if so, it should have been visible to the priests. Only he was privy to the images produced by the magic, and if only he had seen the light, then perhaps it was part of the story which the basin was trying to reveal. Part of the future.

Abruptly, he turned away from the basin and the pit, heading towards the winding stone path that led upwards, but he paused for a moment to glance back at the waiting priests.

“This future that I have glimpsed,” he asked. “Is it what must be or only what may be?”

“It is what will be, My Lord,” the second priest answered. “But it is not what must be.”

Argus nodded and turned again, heading upwards past smoking torches, leaving the flames and stench of the pit behind.

Rapidly he climbed, his strong legs propelling him upwards, his mind grappling with the meaning of what he had seen, the frown now heavy upon his face. The blackness that had spread to the borders of Corland and infringed upon its neighbors had paused and gone no farther, but it had also stirred no response in those neighbors. And before that darkness had spread more, the map had taken him to the green coming down from the north. The meaning there was clear enough. The only remaining puzzle was that annoying light.

The man came to a great stone wall across the tunnel, and he paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. He had to clear his mind of the dark ritual in which he had just engaged, leave that other person behind here in the corridor along with the black cloak. Then, when he was again Duke Argus of Corland, he pressed a hand against one of the lower stones, and a portion of the wall swung outwards, creating a door.

Beyond was a small enclosed room, filled with clothes and two full suits of armor, with a stout wooden door in the far wall. A small, older man was awaiting him here, dressed in a servant’s livery, and the man instantly knelt at the appearance of his lord.

Without speaking a word, Argus cast off his stained shirt and trousers and began to dress in his courtly attire, wide silken blouse, short leather breaches, thick woolen stockings. He took the vest of heavy black chain mail and pulled it over his broad torso, but he ignored the arms and leggings of the armor. In his own castle, there may be need for caution but not timidity.

He shot a piercing glance at the body servant who was helping him to dress, but the man’s expression was perfectly composed, giving no hint of any emotions. The man had been told that the passage led to a small shrine where the Duke would go for private meditation, and he clearly had no idea of its significance. The man’s quiet efficiency made Argus nod slightly. The Red Priests saw people as no more than cattle, and in that, they were fools. Cattle could not fight battles, build citadels, or fill a treasury with taxes. And a ruler of cattle, thought Argus with a grim smile, is naught but a farmer.

Argus buckled his sword belt around his waist, checking briefly to be sure both hidden daggers were also in their allotted positions, then the servant draped a long purple cape over his shoulders, smoothing it down his back. Argus snapped the clasp of golden eagle claws around his neck and pushed through the wooden door, emerging into the wide hall beyond.

A group of guards dressed entirely in black armor fell into step around him as he moved quickly down the hall, closing on the double doors at the end of the corridor. Four other guards, also in black armor, stood in readiness here, and two of them threw open the doors for him as he approached. Argus swept into his Hall of Audiences with the assurance and speed of a busy ruler with little time and patience to spare for supplicants.

He moved directly to the high throne which dominated the hall, looking neither left nor right, though his peripheral vision quickly assessed the numerous figures in the room. Most were the usual court functionaries, glorified clerks and messengers even if they held the high-sounding titles of Minister or Ambassador, but his eye caught a glint of golden armor fairly close to the dais. A military man sent from Duke Boltran of Maganhall, he realized, and an important one to be placed so close to the throne. So young Boltran would rattle swords at me, thought Argus. We shall let this little soldier sweat in his armor for a time.

Even closer to the throne, almost directly in his path, was Bishop Kal, fully regaled in his miter, cloak, and staff with two of his assistants in attendance. The regalia was the equivalent of battle dress for a priest, and Argus knew he was in for yet another stormy session with the Church of Mirna.

From one set of priests to another, mused Argus as he strode past the assembly and mounted the dais. The Red Priests of Bal would reward him lavishly if he made them a gift of a Bishop of the Mirnic Church, going far beyond these simple divination ceremonies to the legendary powers which Bal was said to give only to his most favored followers: the Flaming Hands, the Pillar of Fire, or perhaps even conjuring of a Blood-Beast. The Church of Mirna, however, might be even more generous if he gave the Red Priests into their hands, he cautioned himself. The clerics might throw their considerable political support behind Corland at some critical point in the future. Perhaps the very near future.

As he sat down upon the throne with the guards taking their station at the foot of the dais, a small man dressed in a simple dark blue cloak with a heavy silver chain about his neck stepped onto the lowest tier of the dais and faced the assembly, turning his back on the Duke. Only one man had this privilege, Ursulan, the Grand Chancellor of Corland, and the little man held himself with an authority that fully compensated for his size.

“All Hail Argus, Master of Monarch, Senior Member of the Council of Lords, and by the Grace of Mirna, Duke of Corland!” he cried as if Argus had only become visible to the company once he was seated on the throne, and every head in the room save Ursulan and the guards was bowed to him. “All those who would seek audience, draw near and declare your names.”

There was a general shuffling as the group moved closer to the dais, but the order of the audiences had already been set by Ursulan and well known to every person present. The Bishop, of course, was the first to step forward with his two priests beside him and declared, “I am Kal, Priest of Mirna the Glorious and Bishop of Monarch, and I seek the ear of the Lord Duke.”

Ursulan bowed slightly and stepped off to the side, though still on the lowest tier of the dais as if loath to relinquish its height and authority.

Argus put on a political smile and made a gracious gesture of welcome. “Good Noon to you, Lord Bishop. I trust I have not kept you waiting long.”

Kal bowed slowly in answer, but he offered none of the usual polite reassurances. As the Bishop’s eyes came back up, they seemed to pause for a moment at the arm of the throne.

“There is blood on your hand, Your Grace,” the Bishop said.

Argus glanced down and saw a red stain on his left sleeve and on his palm. The blood from the incision he had made on his forearm had not been entirely closed by the heat from the pit.

“A blow made it past my guard in training this morning,” he answered easily. “I fear the physician did a poor job of binding the wound.”

The Bishop stared at him for just an instant before saying, “It must have been a worthy opponent indeed if he could land a blow against you, Your Grace.”

Argus nodded his head slightly, studying the man closely, but the Bishop betrayed no suspicion or unease. That was well for both of them.

“You don’t normally bless us with your presence during a morning audience, Lord Bishop,” Argus said, turning back to business. “What brings you to the palace?”

“Father Rathman has brought charges against you again, Your Grace,” the Bishop said. “This time, he is pressing for a full inquisition.”

Argus’ eyes narrowed at Rathman’s name, a minor priest with a zealot’s faith and all the tact of a jungle ape. More wild and unsupported accusations, no doubt, speaking aloud the rumors which others hardly dared to whisper. And now, the fool was actually requesting a formal inquisition, calling in a full ecclesiastical court complete with investigators, prosecutors, clerks, and scribes, all overseen by a Grand Inquisitor. Such an inquiry, should it be allowed to take place, could be a serious inconvenience.

“What are these charges?” Ursulan demanded, interceding to spare Argus the indignity of asking questions.

“He accuses you of witchery and necromancy,” the Bishop replied blandly.

Despite the potential seriousness of the situation, Argus burst out in a roar of laughter. After his ceremonies with the Red Priests, an accusation of witchery was like accusing a highwayman of filching apples from a vendor’s cart.

“Argus of Corland a witch?” Ursulan repeated angrily. “This is an outrage!”

“I realize such an accusation seems extreme,” the man admitted. “But a charge of witchery demands a close investigation.”

Argus stopped laughing, his eyes locking onto the Bishop. “Do you intend to convene an inquisition?”

“Formally, I have no choice,” the Bishop said with clear reluctance. “Several children have vanished from surrounding communities, and at least one was last seen in the company of Your Grace’s soldiers.”