A Rage in the Heavens (The Paladin Trilogy Book 1) (8 page)

“And this is all the evidence you possess?” asked Ursulan scornfully. “Rathman holds the Lord Duke responsible for every accident that occurs. If a child wanders off, it is self-evident to him that it must be Argus performing necromancy. Ridiculous!”

“That may well be, but my hands are tied,” the man answered.

“You should advise Father Rathman to take care of these mad charges,” Ursulan continued, his voice now low and fierce. “I will warn you directly, My Lord Bishop, that such an insult will not sit well with Duke Argus’ vassals. They are men of honor and of action, and they will not condone such a slur to their liege lord. If Rathman presses this outrageous accusation, we cannot be held accountable for his safety.”

At that, the Bishop nearly shrugged, and the game suddenly became perfectly clear to Argus. Rathman was but a pawn in the Church’s gambit to draw him out, to lure him into swatting this annoying little fly and thereby put himself into a vulnerable position. The murder of a priest would certainly bring a court of inquisition to Corland, and it would be far more attentive than one looking into an absurd charge of witchery.

“We shall not object to the convening of such an inquisition,” Argus interjected, and both men looked at him in surprise. “Though of course, unless some real evidence is produced, we will not appear before the court ourselves. Let Rathman strut before his superiors and shout his lies. We have nothing to conceal.”

The slightest shade of disappointment flashed over the Bishop’s face, and Argus knew that no inquest would be convened. The Church could not afford to have the august inquisition be made a mockery by investigating such outlandish charges.

“The audience is over,” Argus announced, and all three priests immediately bowed and withdrew. Ursulan repeated the call for audience, and the soldier in the golden armor strode up to the dais.

“I am Balthock, Major General of the armies of Maganhall and…” he began in a loud deep voice, but Argus cut him off by rising sharply to his feet.

“The slurs of the little priest have disgusted me,” he announced to the room at large, leaving them to guess whether he meant Rathman or the Bishop. “The morning audience is at end.”

The doors of the hall were thrown open at his last word, and the surprised assembly bowed in response and began to file out. General Balthock alone paused, his eyes hot on Argus at this rude interruption, but the two nearest guards took a step towards him with their hands on the hilts of their swords. The general sourly remembered his duty as an emissary of his lord, bowed shortly, and followed the rest of the group out through the doors. The six guards from the dais slowly followed the people out, but stopped just inside, the doors clanging shut again, leaving Argus alone at the dais with his chancellor.

“My compliments, Your Grace,” Ursulan said, turning to Argus. “You saw right through the Bishop’s game.”

“Something I would have expected of my chancellor,” Argus observed harshly, and the smaller man blanched. He kept the man squirming for a moment longer before demanding in a slightly softer voice, “What news of the Northing invasion?”

“Nothing substantial, Your Grace,” Ursulan said uneasily, clearly wishing he had more to offer. “Our most recent information is only a few days old, and it suggests that the horde has already reached the borders of Nargosia. Nargost Castle itself may be under siege even as we speak.”

Argus frowned. Nargost castle was the strongest citadel in all the plains, and it could normally be expected to resist a siege for many months. But the green he had seen in the golden basin had not paused for anything.

“There is one other possibility,” Ursulan hastened to add, “though I can not vouch for its reliability.”

“And what is that?”

“Our agents have learned of a woman who says she was present at the fall of Carthix Castle. She claims to possess valuable information about the invaders, and she is prepared to share this knowledge. For a price.”

A person who had actually seen the invaders! Argus restrained his eagerness and merely nodded. “If she can substantiate the information, pay her price.”

Ursulan bowed and prepared to leave, knowing from the curtness that his lord wanted the information quickly. But as he headed for the door, Argus asked, “Do you know if any other lords have shown an interest in this woman’s offer?”

“I do not believe so, Your Grace,” Ursulan replied. “Most do not even know of the offer, and the others are likely to be too skeptical.”

“See to it that we alone acquire this information,” Argus said.

Ursulan bowed again. “The voice of Argus is law.”

CHAPTER 5

The Bandits and the Peddler

Darius walked slowly up the wooded slope to the high crest of the Green Cliffs which looked out over the lands below. Beside him, his great warhorse, Andros, meandered slowly, watching his master with sad eyes and clearly wondering why they had stopped. Three days of hard travel had merely whetted Andros’ appetite for exercise, and he was eager to break out onto the plains where Darius might give him his head and let him race against the wind. Those three days of riding, however, had left Darius sore, for it had been years since he had ridden any distance, and he was grateful now for the chance to stretch his legs. But more importantly, he was now forced to make a critical decision which he had been weighing since leaving the village.

Why do we tarry here?
complained Sarinian.
The sun is still high, the road clear, and the enemy yet many leagues away
.

“Silence, sword,” Darius growled, “or I’ll use you to chop my firewood this evening. There are choices before us, and I need time to weigh each option.”

He reached the crest, and the view below, brilliantly clear now following a spring rain, illustrated his alternatives. Before him, the rich plains of the Southlands stretched on into a blue haze, the patchwork of fields where the spring planting was undoubtedly already underway looking like a magnificent quilt woven by the gods. He wasn’t quite sure which lands those were, Corland or Norealm, but it didn’t matter. Those fields produced the most abundant crops in all the land, supplying the food to feed cities, artisans, and armies and making the principalities of the South the richest and the most powerful in all the continent of Arcadia. Yet he had heard disturbing rumors suggesting that great wealth had not produced a flawless peace. Protected from outside enemies by the surrounding mountains, the Southern Ocean, and the great walls of Jalan’s Drift, it was said the Dukes of the South had fallen to quarreling with each other, great fish within a small pond, each trying to eat the others.

“Convincing them of their danger and getting them to unite may take time,” Darius muttered. “Old wounds heal slowly.”

A common foe will cure all such wounds
, answered Sarinian from its scabbard on his back.
Turn instead to the north where the battle lies
.

Darius looked northward to where the peaks of the Mountains of the Winds ran eastward into the same bluish haze, sheltering the Southlands from both weather and invasion. Beyond those peaks were the sparsely-settled Plains of Alencia where Regnar’s Silver Horde was killing and looting on their way to claim this richest of prizes. Alencia was noted for its citadels and its cavalry, both of which could delay but not stop an invasion of this size. Darius wondered uneasily how far south the Horde may have already come.

The realms of Alencia are weak and have need of a leader to guide them
, the sword continued.
That is where our light should shine forth
.

“A good argument,” Darius agreed. “But a single sword will not stop Regnar. Nor will all the small armies of the plains be enough, even if they could be united against him. No, it is only the forces of the Southlands which can defeat him, and they must have time to prepare.”

Jalan’s Drift will buy them that time
, replied the sword.
It will take months for Regnar to break such a citadel, and by then, the south will be ready
.

“Perhaps.”

Jalan’s Drift was the one great gap in the mountain wall which separated the Plains of Alencia from the Southlands, a doorway for armies to invade. But that doorway had been blocked by the greatest fortress ever built, the rich merchants wisely using their wealth to constantly build its defenses until they were the most formidable in all the land. Regnar’s army would smash against the layered defenses of the Drift like a mighty wave against the shore, and there is would be halted. Provided the armies of the Southlands moved to man its walls.

“It might indeed be valuable to see Regnar’s force first-hand,” mused Darius. “Still, I’m not…”

Have caution, Inglorion
, the sword warned suddenly.
There are foes at hand
.

“Ho, friend,” a voice called from behind him.

He turned. A group of four men dressed in an odd assortment of leather armor, working clothes, and discarded finery had come quietly up the path behind him, pinning him against the crest. They were each holding a long sword in a threatening manner, and they had spread themselves out to have room to use them. There was the light of battle in their eyes, and they wore the smug grins of men who know they hold the upper hand.

Bandits
, said Sarinian like a judge passing a sentence of death.

“And what can I do for you men?” Darius asked, ignoring the sword. Andros neighed angrily and pawed the earth, warning off the nearest intruder.

“You can share some of yer wealth with us,” answered one slyly, a scraggly-looking ruffian who wore a gentleman’s hat in place of a helm. “We hill folk be a poor lot and needs all the help we can get from passin’ strangers.”

“I’m afraid I have little coin,” Darius replied cordially. “And what I have, I need. But I’d be glad to share my provisions, if any of you are hungry.”

“That be mighty kind o’ ye,” snickered another, a thin weasel of a man. “But we’d rather have that fine horse over there. And mebbe that pretty sword, too.”

“Would you indeed,” breathed Darius softly.

With one swift motion, he drew Sarinian from its scabbard, and faced with its deadly light, the bandits hesitated, a pack of jackals cringing back as the lion showed its teeth.

“Ho, my little ones!” came a voice from the road. “Come back now while still you may. A man with such a sword will know how to use it.”

The men peered nervously over their shoulders, clearly disconcerted by the gleam of Sarinian, and as Darius looked down through the trees, he spotted the caller, a darkly clad man mounted on a chestnut horse. The horseman obviously carried some influence with these brigands, for his words seemed to increase their uncertainty, at least for a moment. But the spell did not last for long.

“We came to take, brothers,” snarled the one with the elegant hat. “And that’s what we do. I’ll have that sword, at least.”

“Then take it,” replied Darius unexpectedly. “Let the burden be yours. For my part, I pass it to you right willingly.”

And he threw Sarinian to land in the dust at the bandit’s feet.

For a moment, the men simply stared at him, stunned by this sudden change of fortune. Just as their little play for quick treasure seemed about to explode in their faces, this fool of a victim disarms himself! An instant more they hesitated, fearing some trap, and then the man stooped and grabbed for the sword, laughing at the unexpected ease of the conquest. But his hand never touched the hilts.

A bolt of pure white lightning leaped from the sword and knocked down the barbarian who would have desecrated it with his touch.

“Few hands are clean enough to wield the Avenger,” said Darius quietly. “What sense is there, then, in fighting for a prize you cannot use?”

Good logic and true, but the bandits were now past the point of reason; now they wanted blood. They rushed him with swords raised, determined to cut him down before he could play any more tricks or produce another sword. But for Darius Inglorion, there could be only one weapon.

“Sarinian en aval!” he cried, and the great sword came flying through the air back to his hand, heeding its master’s call.

For an instant he stood poised, the weapon raised, offering a last, ultimate warning to his assailants. One stopped, another hesitated, but even fear could not turn the leader now, and the next moment, the air rang with the Avenger’s passing as it crashed through the fool’s feeble guard and sliced into his flesh. The man screamed and fell back, clutching his bleeding side, and Darius whirled to face his second opponent. The fellow made a desperate lunge, vainly hoping to strike before this heavily armored giant was able to deal with a second attack, but Darius easily avoided the blow, twirled deftly, and aimed for the man’s right shoulder to disarm him.

But even as he swung, Sarinian twisted suddenly in his hands, and the stroke passed above the shoulder and into the neck. With horrified eyes, the other three watched as their companion’s head fell from his body and rolled sickeningly in the dirt.

It was enough. The remaining two grabbed their wounded brother and dragged him into the forest, their frightened eyes watching the warrior in case he should charge in pursuit. But Darius saw nothing but the severed head before him, the first man he had killed in seven years, and he fought down his gorge as he cursed the treacherous blade that had killed when he had sought only to wound.

He would have slain you when you were unarmed
, the sword said dispassionately, answering the accusation it heard in its’ master’s mind.
A scar alone would not stop such a man from killing more helpless travelers, and the memory of his death might give the others pause in the future
.

“Fine words,” sneered Darius softly. “But we’ll never know the truth of them, since the only man who could have proven you wrong now lies twitching in the dust.”

“What’s that you say?”

He glanced up to see that the darkly-clad man had dismounted and come up from the road, leaving his horse tied below. At closer range, he was clearly a man of some means, for his fur-lined great cloak was of the finest material, while his blouse and trousers appeared to be of rich, dark green velvet. The buckle of his belt gleamed of silver, his riding boots were soft black leather, and he wore a curious brooch of four inter-locked stars on the breast of his blouse. He was hatless, his long, black hair moving slowly in the morning airs, and his sharp features were made sharper yet by a pointed goatee adorning his chin. He had no obvious weapon, and he betrayed no hint of fear, but he stayed several feet beyond the reach of Sarinian all the same.

“I really must apologize for this unprovoked attack,” he said courteously. “If I had known those fellows meant to rob you, I certainly would have called out a warning. They told me they recognized your horse and that you were an old friend they hadn’t seen in some time. Apparently, they were mistaken.”

“Apparently so,” replied Darius dryly. The man spoke easily, his eyes and face calm, unbothered by the bloody corpse at his feet. Clearly, he was no stranger to death. “And may I ask why you choose bandits for traveling companions?”

The newcomer shrugged. “This is dangerous country for a man traveling alone. Thieves or guards, if they are the only companions chance can offer, then they must serve.

“But allow me to introduce myself. I am Tallarand of Alston’s Fey, a minor merchant traveling back to his home with a small store of trinkets and diversions.”

“My name is Darius. My home is over the mountains where word of Regnar’s invasion reached me. Have you any news of it?”

“Ah, of course, the war,” the man nodded immediately. “I should have realized. A warrior with such a sword could command a handsome price in times like these.”

A dark tremor ran through Sarinian at the suggestion of being a mercenary, but Darius made no sign.

“As for news,” the dark man continued, “I’ve heard nothing of the fighting since word reached us that Nargost Castle had fallen, and that was two days ago now.”

“Nargost Castle lost already?” exclaimed Darius in shock. “But nearly half the Plains of Alencia lie between it and the Earth’s Teeth. How could Regnar cross the plains so quickly?”

“I’m no general, sir,” Tallarand answered with a small shrug. “Troop movements and cavalry charges mean nothing to me. But I do know something of survival. If I were a lord of one of the lands of Alencia, I’m sure I’d think twice before pitting my meager forces against the Silver Horde of Alacon Regnar. If half the rumors of his strength are true, my little land would be eaten up in a matter of days. And for what? To spare the South a tiny part of the tyrant’s power? Let them fend for themselves, I’d say, and then I’d sue for the best terms Regnar might offer. And in his haste to reach the South and to encourage other defections, he might offer much.”

“He might indeed,” mused Darius, impressed by the logic. “You have a sharp and subtle mind, Tallarand, but you forget one thing. Regnar would never leave a dozen hostile neutrals in his rear just waiting for the first check to rise up against him. What good is it to conquer the South if it means losing the north in the process?”

“No one says the terms would be painless,” the smaller man answered. “The price in tribute and concessions might be dear indeed. But I, for one, would rather play a game of intrigue and maneuver with Regnar, regardless of the terms, than face him on the battlefield when his strength is new.”

Darius nodded again, his face troubled. The scenario which Tallarand had sketched out made a dangerous sense, the more so since the first defection would be sure to bring others. But even worse were the implications of the fall of Nargost, one of the most powerfully built castles north of the Drift and the center of the loose federation of the principalities of the plains. If Regnar could dispatch such a strong point without a siege, he represented a real threat to the massive fortress of Jalan’s Drift which had never even been assailed, let alone breached.

“The great test of the Drift now seems to be at hand,” Darius said softly.

Tallarand studied the big man before him, perhaps realizing at last he faced no mere mercenary. Slowly, he continued, “The walls of the Drift are more vital now than ever before. The principalities of the south are divided and in turmoil. If forced into battle, they will offer a poor defense to Regnar’s Silver Horde.”

“I have heard rumor of dissension,” replied Darius, glad for the chance to discuss the issue. “But surely they’ll unite when a common enemy comes against them.”

“Perhaps,” the man answered, though the shrug of his shoulders belied the word. “But bitter feuds are not forgotten in a single day, and there is no powerful leader to rally the Dukes. The Duke of Maganhall is the traditional head of the Council of Lords, but young Boltran is newly come to the throne and is unsure and untested. Fendon of Palmany is old even beyond his long years, and Mandrik of Warhaven never looks farther than his own hills. By far, the most powerful of the dukes is Argus of Corland. A mighty warrior by all accounts, but one with the cunning of a fox and the morals of a viper. Some whisper he would trade his Duke’s coronet for a kingly crown.”