Upon This World of Stone (The Paladin Trilogy Book 2) (14 page)

“Do you hear them, Dead Zarif?” asked a warrior at his side. “Do you hear them whispering in the prairie grass?”

“Yes…”

“They are calling to us,” the warrior said, his own eyes scanning the land. “Beckoning us to join them…”

“As they ever have,” Zarif answered. “But now there is a new voice. A voice that calls for life. A chance…”

“A chance? A chance for what?”

“To draw the living back from the graves of the dead.”

He turned and called to the men at the rear of the column. “Bring horses! Three of them!”

He then turned to the newcomers and said, “We must ride hard to meet others of our force who are awaiting us to the west and cannot be delayed by unskilled riders. Ride north towards Nargost and we shall meet you on the road.” He paused to look at Shannon, the barest hint of a ghostly smile on his lips. “That is, if our courage does not fail us.”

With that and a single word, the entire troop spun and charged off in the direction from which they had come, a single horseman lingering to hand over the three mounts as instructed before he too charged away in a cloud of dust.

“Ha!” laughed Adella. “I assumed you’d name Malcolm as your master, but this works better in all ways. Malcolm is barely known amongst these plainsfolk, hardly more than a rumor. They’d tend to be doubtful of the power of his apprentice. But they know the power of Trexler the Black right enough, none better. That gained us respect fast.”

“I held to the truth, or at least part of it, and it served us well,” answered Jhan uneasily.

“I may have misjudged you, boy,” Adella said, jumping lightly into the saddle, a born horsewoman. “You have the dexterity of an ox and the fighting skills of a spinster aunt, but the one thing you do have is the devil’s own luck. That’s a rare and precious gift!”

“But why do we need these horsemen?” Shannon asked cautiously.

“To get them to go up against Nargost Castle, of course.”

“What?!”

“Attack Nargost? Are you crazed?”

“Didn’t you see the silver medallion around Zarif’s neck?” Adella asked. “A captain’s insignia, bearing the emblem of Nargost. A man who stays in enemy territory, wearing the emblem of his fallen lord? That’s a man dreaming of revenge or at least a clean death in battle.”

“And you hope to help him find both,” Jhan said darkly.

Adella frowned. “You’ve come to rescue the hostages, right? Will you turn down aid just because it puts soldiers at risk? We’ve found allies with whom we can make common cause, and that is not a prize to squander. Come. Those horsemen ride like the prairie wind, so we have no time to waste.”

CHAPTER 12

Death of a Duke

Shannon was courting death among the flickering shadows of the campfire.

Adella was circling her with a blunted practice sword at the ready, her body in a low crouch, ready to spring, their tiny campfire barely throwing more light than the dozen campfires of the horsemen on the far side of the ridge. Jhan was standing guard to be sure they were not observed, but his attention was much more on the two women as they improvised a battle around the crackling fire that few warriors could ever hope to match.

A feint, a thrust, and Shannon danced nimbly away out of the “killing range” that she had come to automatically recognize Her body was bruised in at least two score places where Adella’s blunted sword had taught its lesson, but most of them were already beginning to yellow, having come in the earlier training sessions. And Shannon was hugging tight the knowledge that Adella’s own body now had two minor bruises, an odd tribute to the teacher’s skill and the student’s ardor.

Adella launched another attack, coming in low for a quick thrust, but Shannon was already anticipating the real lunge when the woman pivoted completely around and brought her sword whirling down for a deadly blow against Shannon’s right leg. Shannon not only was ready to catch the blow with her own sword, but she caught it high enough not to lose much of her own momentum. Then, without even thinking, she leaped into the air, swinging a counter blow even as she moved, and Adella was not quite able to get her own blade into blocking position in time. Shannon’s blunted blade hit Adella’s ribcage, receiving a small grunt of pain in tribute, but she had learned already never to pause to admire a good blow. She hit the ground, somersaulted out of range of the counter stroke, and came to a kneeling position, sword ready again.

“Not bad,” Adella said grudgingly, rubbing her ribs. “No more than a minor wound, but one that will give its fair share of blood. Half a dozen of those and you’ll have a slow kill. But a slow kill can be the most dangerous. Don’t you agree, Warrior?”

Startled, Shannon swung around to where Adella was looking into the darkness, and a moment later the tall figure of Captain Zarif emerged from the shadows. Jhan jumped guiltily to his feet, his interest in the sword play having diverted him from his task as sentinel.

“A slowly dying enemy can have the same power and far less of the fear,” Zarif agreed as he came into the light. “You have a strange store of knowledge for a holy woman, Matron. And a truly unholy skill with arms.”

Without the slightest warning, the man ripped his own sword from its scabbard and brought it flashing down at Adella who blocked it easily enough. But Zarif followed with a swift three-swing attack that drove the woman backwards and gave her no chance to counter. On the fourth swing, she caught the saber and drove it to the ground, holding it there as she stared into the Captain’s single eye.

“Our order believes in teaching self protection,” she said with her same sweet tone and smile. “We maintain weakness encourages aggression.”

A hard swing released the saber and knocked it back, her own sword coming up fast enough to suggest a counterstroke but not following through.

“Can’t abide weakness myself,” said Zarif, as he launched another attack, the saber whistling through the air with frightening speed, and Shannon actually caught her breath at the ferocity of the assault. The Captain was swinging with all his strength and speed using a sharpened weapon, and Adella had to use some real skill to avoid that razored edge.

Adella was falling back, slowly circling the campfire, her practice sword still at the ready, yet she was standing nearly upright, the sword held with both hands, the exact opposite of the balanced poise she had been trying to teach. Shannon suddenly realized she was trying hard not to reveal the extent of her skills, fighting as a standard warrior that gave all the advantages to the stronger horseman. Zarif clearly knew he was dealing with no Matron of the Blessed and was trying to discover exact who she was.

Zarif threw himself right through the campfire, cutting off Adella’s retreat, and the saber slashed down once, twice, three times in a blistering attack as the woman gave ground, actually looking a little uncomfortable in the process.

“If this is the extent of your skills, Matron, I can trust you to defend yourself in the rear,” Zarif told her as he circled again to the left, a standard warrior’s move to crowd the opponent’s sword arm. “But I could not think to let you be involved in any attacks.”

There was a glint in Adella’s eyes that Shannon could see even from across the camp as the message sunk in. Then came a feint to the left, a hard move to the right that caused Zarif to commit his guard, and the next instant, Adella was lunging in, giving the warrior an irresistible target. Instinctively, Zarif swung back, his blow at a level that would have taken off his assailant’s head, but Adella had already ducked and used the momentum to bring her practice sword swinging in an upwards that crashed into the man’s hands. Zarif’s grip on his saber broke, and his left hand barely held on to the hilts to avoid being totally disarmed, but Adella had completely her deadly pirouette to bring the point of her blade slashing up into the Captain’s exposed stomach.

Shannon actually heard the sword hitting the man’s gut, the blunt blow hard enough to crumple most victims, for even Adella could not stop the sheer momentum of the thrust. But Zarif’s only reaction was to smile.

“Seldom have I seen such skill with a sword,” he said, “but I think your greatest weapon is the deceptive innocence of your face. Few men would credit you with such skill, and I doubt I am the first to underestimate you. Though I may be the first to profit from such knowledge.”

Adella took a step back, and her expression showed the compliment was nothing, but surrendering the knowledge of her skills was significant. Zarif read as much, and held up a hand in gesture of peace.

“Your secrets are safe with me, Matron. My goal is simply to be assured you do not go wantonly to your death.”

“My life is my own to spend,” she answered coldly.

“But 400 men ride with you. I know now that our deaths at the walls of Nargost will not be meaningless. A good evening to you, Matron.”

With that, he turned and walked back towards the main camp, leaving the three of them to stare after him.

Adella whirled and hefted the practice sword right at Jhan who barely caught it in time.

“Put out the campfire,” she said without looking at him. “And the next time you fail as guard, I’ll have the nose off your face.”

* * * * *

Duke Argus strode down a back alley in the Third Tier of Jalan’s Drift completely alone, trying to ignore the feeling of vulnerability at being without his bodyguards at night in a foreign city. It was not robbers nor even assassins that he feared, and he ignored the dark crevices and doorways that might be the setting of an ambush. No. The real threat would come in a burst of green magic directly before him, and the one vital service his guards could render would be in buying him a few precious seconds with their deaths, seconds which just might give their lord a chance for life. It was rash to the point of reckless to deprive himself of such a shield in light of the offense he had given Alacon Regnar, but this was an errand he could only conduct alone.

He paused at a small intersection, checking his bearings. He turned to face the Third Wall of the Drift which towered hardly two dozen yards away, the fourth guard tower bearing just to his left, and directly behind him several streets over, the square bulk of the central gaol rose above the smaller buildings. Those were the bearing he had been given. He nodded to himself once and turned down the even smaller intersecting alley, no more than a pathway, heading toward the wall.

Here, the limited light from the congested city almost entirely disappeared, and Argus had to move cautiously, mostly feeling his way. Just up ahead, the path ended in some kind of broad building, a barn or a forge of some kind, and while there was no hint of any light, he had a distinct feeling there was a fierce fire blazing within.

As instructed, Argus found his way to the doorway, knocked twice, then once, and without waiting for answer, opened the door and went in. The urgent summons that had brought him to this obscure location in the dead of night had warned him he faced an opportunity that would not come again, and it had implied the risk would match the potential rewards. But nothing had prepared him for this.

Argus’ heart started pounding as if it were trying to beat its way right out of his chest at the sight before him. This was madness. Three men stood before him gathered around a blazing forge, all three openly clothed in the red robes of Priests of Bal.

“Are you insane?” he hissed at them. “To appear in such garb within the very streets of Jalan’s Drift!”

The deserted stable was alive from the inferno burning in the central forge, a fire from no earthly fuel that threw a hellish light on the walls and seemed to make the red cloaks of the priests come to life. The door and windows of the stable were tightly closed, but Argus knew that a blaze such as this would not be restrained by anything as innocent as wooden walls. He could feel a power emanating from the fire that was much more than heat or light.

Then, coming forward out of the shadows was another figure draped in red, but bowed down with three heavy gold chains and a half-helm of black metal. Argus actually started as he recognized Al-Lutrax, the High Priest of Bal.

“Did I not tell you that our reach has grown?” the man said, his face flickering evilly in the firelight. “Soon, there will be no city or town in all the Southlands where our influence will not be felt.”

Argus’ heart faltered for just a moment at those words, the prince within him responding to the advent of an alien power, but his mind rallied at the immediate implications.

“Why have you brought me here?” he snarled, yet there was a touch of anticipation in his angry voice.

“Your purpose is now very close at hand, My Lord,” Al-Luthrax said almost casually as the other priests produced black jugs and proceeded to pour a red liquid onto the fire, a liquid that gave it even more life rather than quenching it, a liquid that filled the room with the stench of burning blood. “This night will put you within reach of your goal.”

“What are you saying?” Argus demanded as his eyes darted from Priest to forge.

“The two enemies of which we last spoke are met this night upon the adjacent wall,” the man explained as he took items from a pouch on his belt and walked within arm’s length of those diabolical flames. “You now have the chance to strike both with a single blow. Provided, of course, your will does not falter.”

Argus was about to rage at this slight until he saw the items the Priest was slowly casting into the fire: a lock of hair, a piece of cloth, and a tiny item that looked like a straight twig. His eyes widened as he recognized the items that his spy in the Household of Maganhall had brought him and which he in turn had entrusted to the main Priest of Bal in Monarch, the personal toiletries of Duke Boltran from his head, his body, and his mouth, supplied from the sprig of a tree he used to clean his teeth. As each item hit the flames, it vaporized and the fire seemed to double in intensity. But not in heat. The room seemed to grow…colder…as the red tongues grew.

Then, to his amazement and horror, he watched as Al-Lutrax walked right into the roaring fire, his entire body bursting instantly into flames, the inferno doubling in intensity from this new fuel. For a moment, the figure stood motionless as if reveling in the destruction of its own flesh, and then it moved its arm slowly, steadily, as if gathering some of the fire together…as if sculpting another body from the wildly flaring tongues. The new body took on a ghostly form with a vague torso extending from a well defined head, and when the thing looked up, Argus saw two huge black eyes staring out at him from amidst the flames.

“The Blood Beast,” he gasped, his voice quivering. He had heard of this fell power only in whispered rumor and in dark passages of banned tomes, but there was no mistaking the leering face taking shape within the flames. A hunger glared out at him from those black eyes, a hunger of something long dead lusting to devour any and all who still lived. Argus took an involuntary step back, his heart betraying him.

The burning figure of Al-Lutrax staggered backwards out of the flames, its task completed, and even with the black eyes of the Blood Beast upon him, Argus could not stop himself from staring at the charred corpse of the High Priest. Yet even as he gaped, he watched as the gold chains around the blackened neck gleamed with sudden power, and the burned skin began to fall away to reveal the untouched body of Al-Lutrax beneath.

The High Priest looked up, his face exhausted with pain, but there was an unholy light of triumph in his eyes at what he had achieved.

“Great Bal gives back from the flames much more than is offered,” the man said, his voice an agonized growl. “All praise to the power of Bal!”

Two of the priests stepped cautiously towards the flames carrying metal tongs between them with some kind of clear globe held in the middle, and their faces showed a mixture of dread and exultation as they approached the deadly forge. The fire was licking at them as if seeking a taste of human flesh, and their hands were trembling as they lowered the globe into the middle of the forge. Instantly, the dreadful flames were pulled inside the container, filling it with a terrible power…the flames…and the eyes…

“Swiftly, swiftly!” Al-Lutrax hissed at him, his voice growing more human again. “The containment cannot last long! Take up now your power and your doom!”

The third priest was struggling to put some kind of gauntlets on his hands, massive mitts made from a coarse, black material that felt like shredded metal, and the man then pulled his arms towards the waiting horror in the forge. Argus tried to force his feet to move forward, to embrace his destiny, but all he could do was stumble one half pace at a time.

The third Priest threw a black cloth over the globe, the material starting to smolder immediately but sparing Argus any further sight of those horrid black eyes.