Upon This World of Stone (The Paladin Trilogy Book 2) (21 page)

“It would seem the good Father did no help to our cause,” Darius said.

“He did damage,” Adrian admitted calmly. “More than I expected and more than should have been permitted. But while the judges have hard faces and harsh voices, they also have clean ears. We shall see what effect Rathman’s testimony has in the end.”

“Who are the other two witnesses the Scholar plans to call?” asked Joshua. “Do we know yet?”

“Not the third witness,” Adrian said, and Darius felt considerable respect for the man’s skill at shoveling meat and cheese into his mouth without a break in the conversation. “The Scholar’s approach is a puzzle to me. Father Rathman was an eye-witness to the death of Lord Boltran, yet he asked only a few questions on that. The Scholar seems to have one primary witness for each charge, so I would expect the second witness to mainly address the question of treason, and the third witness to give testimony on heresy. But the Scholar seems to focus again and again on the heresy charge.”

“Why?”

“I think he believes that is the one on which he will win a conviction,” the Prefect said, adding to his display of skills by gulping down a goblet of water. “By having the first two witnesses return to it time and time again, he grows the impression in the minds of the judges and sets the stage for his final witness.” The man chewed reflectively on a chunk of bread, saying to himself, “The third witness must be someone of substance. Yet it is not likely to be a member of the clergy. That would mean three churchmen as witnesses, and the judges would take unfavorable note of that.”

“The second witness is also a member of the Church Congregation, then?” asked Joshua.

“Yes, Father,” the Prefect said, finishing the bread with one bite and washing it down with the remains of the water. “The Scholar will be calling you.”

“Me?!”

“Just stay calm and answer truthfully,” Adrian advised, getting back to his feet. “The judges know Rathman was hostile, and they know that you are a friend. Of the two of you, you are the one who can do the greater damage.”

Darius actually smiled at the crestfallen expression on the young man’s face. “Don’t worry, Joshua. The truth is the truth and will out in the end. I know of no other man I would prefer speaking of me before these judges.”

Joshua swallowed hard and nodded once in answer, but he seemed unable to find his voice.

“The Scholar uses someone outside the Church to testify on the charge of heresy?” Darius asked softly, his eyes on Adrian. “How can that be?”

The Prefect shook his head as he got to his feet and brushed the crumbs from his robes. “There is only one place where we will discover the answer to your question. Come. It is time to return to the court.”

* * * * *

The hatchery of the Grand Dragons was located in a massive chamber deep within the very heart of Caraluthax, the Mountain of Death, and it was by far the most secure and sensitive of all of Mraxdavar’s closely guarded subterranean realm. No species other than dragons had ever set eyes on this place where young wyrms drew their first breath, let alone defiling it with their presence. Only one out of every fifty dragon eggs ever hatched, which made the young the most precious of all the contents of the maze of tunnels and the hatchery the most vital of all the rooms in the complex. By comparison, the breeding dens, the feeding halls, even the treasure hordes were nothing.

Malcolm was very aware of all these facts as he floated silently into the chamber and emerged from the ether, his breathing slowing at last. It had taken nearly four hours of nerve-wrenching effort to move ethereally through the deadly, shifting stone of Carathulax, and this had been the third chamber he had entered, luck coming at last to supplement his skills. He steadied himself, now that the trial was passed, and he had an even greater appreciation for why the few wizards who possessed the ability to move ethereally had never dared to attempt such a feat. Of course, none of them had had his particular motivation.

As an exercise to calm down, he forced himself to make a rough count of the eggs in sight. Twenty, twenty-five, thirty scattered against the walls, dingy gray eggs the color of rocks that had passed their hatching time and were pushed aside, though no dragon would have the heart to discard even these. Another thirty of so were in makeshift nests of stone off to the side, but they were no longer truly white and all showed signs of neglect, clear proof that they, too, were passing the time when they might be expected to hatch. Right in the middle of the room, however, protected with a soft gossamer weaved by female dragons during the extended birth of their eggs were eight, gleaming white dragon eggs, with a ninth egg already opened and empty, proving that the species had produced one more generation.

Malcolm allowed himself to descend slowly to the cavern floor. No need to be too subtle, he decided. He reached out and took one half of the broken egg and put it away in a hidden pouch within his robes.

A tremor ran through the very stone of the mountain, an alarming quake as if Caraluthax were about to explode in fiery lava. Malcolm put forth his hand, sending his personal scent flowing down the tunnel, and he smiled when the tremor suddenly stopped. A moment later, there was a single hard thud from far off, followed by another, and another still, the steady approach of a very large body. Malcolm’s smile widened for a moment as he realized the tightly controlled defenses of the hatchery now helped to defend him; it made the terrible risks he had taken walking ethereally through a live volcano now all worthwhile. Another thud, much closer, and he carefully wiped all trace of the smile off his face. Mraxdavar was announcing his approach as a deadly warning, and the Wizard knew well enough not to compound the insult of his defiling presence here with any hint of gloating.

A minute later, and the huge red-gold head of Mraxdavar the Great pushed into the room, the rest of his massive body gradually slithering in behind

“So, you found the answer to the riddle which you posed for yourself,” Mraxdavar answered, curling coil upon coil to bring more of his body within the chamber at the same time. The more of his body he could bring within the cavern, the greater would be Malcolm’s peril. But a spoken warning would be a sign of weakness. Instead, Malcolm placed the end of his staff casually on one of the unhatched eggs, leaning down with just enough force to make it wobble. The action was the equivalent of putting a knife to the throat of the unborn dragon, and Mraxdavar froze, taking the threat very seriously.

“What is it you want here?” the Dragon demanded, the directness an open acknowledgement of his annoyance.

“Why, simply to conclude the bargain we made in these very halls,” the Wizard answered easily. “As you say, the recent unpleasantness was essentially my own fault, a fact I am, reluctantly, willing to accept. But that is now behind us, and I am come to ask you to hold to your part of the bargain.”

The ancient wyrm eased his body down some, relaxing a little as he understood the human intruder had not come seeking revenge. Finally, he said, “You must realize that entering the hatchery unbidden will most likely cost you your life, if not by my claws, then by those of my children. Why have you thus sacrificed yourself?”

“By coming here to the most closely guarded part of your realm without violence, I am proving I hold no animosity towards the dragons,” said Malcolm, the fact that he was also demonstrating his ability to penetrate even here going unspoken but not unnoted. “Thus you can trust me not to initiate an attack against you. And as a guarantee against the attack by your children, I have left detailed maps of these caverns in the keeping of an old and trusted friend. Should I meet an untimely end, he will see to it that those maps are supplied to a variety of individuals, not all of them as academically interested in the dragon lore as I.”

The dragon was silent, his mind going over all that Malcolm might know of his warren, and what use that could be to other wizards, to treasure-seekers, to dragon-hating fanatics, and he clearly came to the same conclusion that Malcolm had: it was very much in the interests of the dragons to keep the Wizard alive as long as possible.

“I understand,” said Mraxdavar slowly. “But you are mortal and shall meet your end soon enough, by old age if not by dragon-fire. Shall my house be brought low by human frailty, regardless of our behavior?”

“I am not yet on my deathbed,” Malcolm smiled. “I still have time to lift this shadow…provided the facts justify the action.”

Again there was a lengthy pause as Mraxdavar carefully examined every portion of the argument being presented to him, and Malcolm began to wonder uneasily if there was some aspect to this situation he may have overlooked, an aspect the Eldest Wyrm was now considering how to exploit.

Finally, the dragon said simply, “A deal was struck between us in good faith, and I shall hold to its terms. As to the actions of my children, I cannot be accountable, for never in my long memory has a mortal transgressed against us as have you. Yet your words are shod with iron and steeped with wisdom. You have no need to fear retribution from me.”

Just a score of your outraged off-spring, thought Malcolm wryly, remembering the fiery hatred of Albathor in particular.

Aloud, he merely said, “We now face a common foe and a common danger, and power alone will not be enough when we face Regnar and the Silver Horde.”

Mraxdavar paused, then asked, “What is needed other than power?”

“Speed,” Malcolm replied.

CHAPTER 18

Contention

“I request and require that Father Joshua now take the stand and bear true and honest witness to these charges.”

Joshua had been awaiting these very words, but they still made his heart hammer and his mouth go dry. He forced himself to his feet and marched to the witness chair, sat, and faced his tormentor.

The Scholar folded his hands slowly once again, his golden robes shining like a tiny sun in the illumination circle, and the expression on his face was stern, but not angry. He paused for a moment as if waiting to be sure that every eye was upon him before beginning, “You are Joshua MacAffe, and as Acolyte of the Church, you were assigned to Father Michael of the 3rd Diocese, were you not?”

“Yes, sir,” Joshua answered, striving to keep his voice firm. He was focusing only on the Scholar, using all the discipline the Church had taught him, but it was hard. He could deal with the Scholar’s harsh demeanor, could even handle the close scrutiny of the Judges, but it was the look of encouragement on the face of Darius that filled him with reservations, with the dread of his mind knowing something his heart did not believe.

“It has been your contention that the Prisoner was instrumental in turning back an assault by the Northings on the Highlander’s Pass, is that not true?”

“Yes, sir,” Joshua said. “The clans were in the midst of yielding the pass when Lord Darius rallied them and drove back the attack.”

“But not all the clans, surely?” the Scholar countered as he consulted a piece of parchment. “I have here a report that the Clan McCullen stood firm across the pinnacle of the High Pass and denied the enemy passage. Is this report flawed?”

“No, sir,” he admitted, but kept his eyes calm and steady. “The Laird McCullen held faith, and he was the anvil against which the other clans, led by Lord Darius, hammered and broke the invaders.”

“Interesting. My report also indicates that the invaders numbered no more than one thousand men, not even a fifth of the armed might of the clans. In the past, the clans have turned back invading armies ten, even twenty times the size of this force. Yet you claim in was only the intervention by the Prisoner that saved the Pass?”

“Yes, sir. A great spell of fear went before the invaders and sent even the bravest of hearts to flee the Pass.”

“Your heart was unaffected, was it not?”

Joshua shrugged at that. “No, sir.”

“In fact, you were lauded for your service in this regard by the Congregation at Alston’s Fey. The Church acknowledged that you were instrumental in countering this spell, and you were raised to full Priest as a result. I believe the Prisoner was actually present during your investiture, was he not?”

Joshua closed his eyes, remembering how he had tried to explain that it was Darius, not he, who deserved their accolades. But the time for that claim was long past. He sat straight and said, “Yes, sir.”

“So the clans held against a minor force, and you yourself helped to counter a fear cast upon them, yet you claim the Prisoner was instrumental in the defense, even though he emerged without a single wound upon him. Is that not so?”

“No, sir!” he retorted hotly. “Never have I seen a warrior show such courage as Lord Darius when…”

“Have you then seen so many battles, Father?”

He shut his mouth with a small snap before admitting, “No.”

“Do you believe the defendant is an agent of the Northings?” the Scholar asked.

“I do not, my lord!” Joshua said vehemently. “He is their most dedicated opponent.”

“Yet it was he who pushed the Lords to abandon the defenses of Jalan’s Drift and ride out to meet the enemy on the open plains. A meeting from which our armies were forced to withdraw, bringing fewer men back to man the defenses.”

“And many fewer of the invaders to assail them,” Joshua countered.

Unfazed, the Scholar continued, “Do you believe the defendant is a heretic?”

Joshua found himself hesitating, and he knew immediately that any hesitation was a condemnation. “I believe with all my heart that Lord Darius is a godly man who walks in the light of Mirna. He has demonstrated his faith time and time again, and I believe him when he says it is the true source of his power.”

“The issue, Joshua, is heresy, not paganism,” explained the Scholar with endless patience. “A man who does not believe in Mirna is a pagan, one of the unenlightened, and his crime is only against himself. He cannot spread his paganism to those who have already embraced the Lord Father. Most heretics believe in Mirna, and this makes their crime much greater, for like the plague, they can spread it to innocent people around them, corrupting and destroying them, too. Now I will ask you straight and remind you of your oath. Has the Prisoner ever said or done anything that would support the charge of heresy against him?”

The Scholar picked two additional pieces of parchment off of the table and held them ready as if prepared to rebut a denial. Joshua’s mind rushed over the memory of the campfire talks they had shared, the inquest by Father Maldonar at Alston’s Fey, the words Darius had spoken before the Council of Lords. Any or all of them could be construed to support a charge of heresy, but in a sudden burst of defiance, he rejected the processing of his mind and went with the judgment of his heart.

“No, sir,” he said with conviction. “The Lord Darius has never treated the Church with anything other than the highest respect. He is no heretic.”

The tiniest hint of disappointment played across the face of the Scholar, and Joshua realized that all the preceding questions had merely been to shake his resolve and prepare him for this last, damning question.

“Such is the judgment of a dear and close friend,” the Scholar concluded. “I have no further questions for this witness.”

Joshua, however, had barely left the chair when the Scholar turned to the Judges and said, “My final witness is not of flesh and blood, and I beg the indulgence of your honors for what is admittedly an unusual circumstance. But this testimony is crucial to the successful prosecution of these charges, and I shall rest my case upon it. May I proceed?”

Joshua actually turned without taking his seat to stare at the man. A witness not of flesh and blood? What was he talking about? The judges, too, were in close consultation, their whispers barely audible to the rest of the room.

Finally, the lead judge sat forward again and said, “We shall permit you to take this testimony. But as this witness be not human, we are not bound to accept all that is said as truth. We shall hold what we hear against the other facts and discard what we doubt.”

“That is fair, Your Honors,” the Scholar said with a bow. He then straightened and called, “I request and require that the sword called Sarinian now be brought forth to bear true and honest witness to these charges.”

The sword?!? Joshua’s jaw dropped, and he spun to look at Darius. But the Paladin’s face was oddly composed, his hands steady, his posture easy, almost relaxed. Had he somehow anticipated this?

The doors opened, and two guards entered with Sarinian the Avenger between them. They held two leather thongs that were wrapped around the hilts of the sword, and they dragged it like a reluctant prisoner into the presence of the court.

“These precautions are necessary, Your Honors, for the blade will suffer no man’s hand save the Prisoner’s,” explained the Scholar as the men approached.

Joshua bristled at that, knowing the court would assume the blade was evil, and therefore, by association, so was Darius. Without thinking, he stepped boldly into the aisle, taking the two bearers by surprise as he reached out and grabbed the hilts of the sword. No light came from the sword as he lifted it free of the thongs, but neither did the avenging lightning.

Triumphantly, Joshua turned and held the sword aloft before the entire court, causing a buzz of amazement, and he carried it proudly forward, laying it carefully upon the Circle of Illumination.

“Have a care, young one,” the Scholar cautioned him. “Such demonstrations may hurt you without giving any aid to the defendant.”

“The truth helps all and harms none,” Joshua shot back.

The Scholar merely turned back to the sword, held forth his hand, and the beam of light encircled the weapon. Slowly, Sarinian began to glow in answer, and then it rose off the ground to stand point upright as if held by some invisible hand.

“You are Sarinian, known as the Avenger, the chosen weapon of the Prisoner Darius?” demanded the Scholar.

There was a breathless pause, and then the sword flashed once, giving forth a word all ears could hear: “
Yes.”

There were gasps on every side to hear a sword speak, but Darius was the most stunned of all. He had heard the cold counsel of Sarinian for decades in his mind, but it was only here, when the Avenger stood within the Circle of Illumination, that his ears could now hear that dread voice.

The Scholar, however, was clearly not troubled by the sound and continued quickly, “Do you know the Lord Father or any of the Angels that work his will?”

There was no response, the sword floating silently as if oblivious to the question.

“Speak, sword!” commanded the Scholar. “Know you Mirna?”

“I was forged to slay the Stealers of the Light, to avenge the innocent and the helpless,”
Sarinian responded calmly. “
I am the instrument of Justice. That is my function.”

“Again! Do you know Mirna?”

A heart-rending moment, and then the only possible answer.
“No.”

Adrian was immediately on his feet. “Your Honors, I really must protest. The Avenger is a sword, a weapon of steel and adamite! It has no capacity to know Mirna, and its purpose has never been to glorify the Lord Father! It is a hunter, a slayer of evil, a tool for the cause of good!”

“This is the keeper of Lord Darius’ conscience, Your Honors,” the Scholar countered. “This is the mentor that has walked with him for many years, advised him, guided him. This, Your Honors, is the true heretic, this is the true source of the corruption!

“You have heard the testimony of Father Rathman that even in condemnation held a touch of respect for this man. You have heard the hesitation in the voice of Father Joshua as he testified about his friend, revealing his doubts despite their close bond. Here is the answer to the riddle, a godless sword with an inexhaustible voice that hammers away at a good man and slowly, inexorably turns him away from the ways of Mirna and his Church.”

He swung to the docket where Darius stood. “I ask you now, Lord Darius, in the presence of the court and the Congregation of the Church to renounce this accursed blade, to acknowledge that it leads away from the tenets of the Church and away from Mirna. Denounce it and put it from you, my lord, and this case will proceed no further.”

Darius stood silently staring at the blade floating in the air before him, a slow painful smile coming to his lips.

“Strange and wonderful are the ways of Mirna,” he said softly. “When first I looked upon the Avenger so many years ago, I knew in my heart that I looked upon the means of my death. And now, at last, that prophecy is proven true.”

He turned and looked at the Scholar, at the Judges, and at the stone angels staring down from the ceilings.

“My answer was made many years before, and I can do no other now,” he said. “I stand before you as who and what I am: Darius Inglorion, Paladin of Mirna the Glorious, one of the Chosen of Bilan-Ra, and the Avenger was given into my hands to wield against the enemies of humanity. I can no more renounce it than I can renounce my calling. And if this is the face you give to heresy, then let the judgment fall.”

* * * * *

Shannon stood with Adella at the back of the small column of freed hostages, watching as a scout made his report to Zarif, and she could tell from the body language of both men that the news was not good. Zarif turned and both came up to the two women. With a nod from his Captain, the scout repeated his report, “Northings on horseback. Two score at least, and perhaps ten more beyond that. They’ve found our trail and are following hard.”

“How fast are they closing?” Adella demanded.

“They’ll be where we stand now in less than two hours.”

“A dozen of you against fifty horsemen,” said Shannon. “Those are long odds.”

“Horsemen?” snorted Zarif disdainfully. “The fools are barely able to sit their mounts. A good puff of wind would be enough to unhorse the lot of them.”

“Perhaps,” said Adella. “But they are still four to our one and closing fast.”

“What can we do?” asked Shannon. “We’re already pushing as fast as we can.”

Adella nodded grimly, her eyes locked on Lady Sellma as she lay exhausted in her makeshift litter now tied to the back of a horse, surrounded by her four grandchildren. The old woman stirred as if sensing a threat, her tired eyes peering into the gathering gloom.

“Then we must give them something to slow their pace,” Adella answered coldly.

* * *

Garzith Pal, Sub-Chieftain of the Balthor Tribe, smiled slowly as his eyes made out the prize cowering in the prairie grass before him. He and his men had ridden hard and fast on these accursed animals in pursuit of the prisoners, and now the first fruit of that effort was beginning to show.

Even though they had tried desperately to cover themselves with prairie grass, he could just see three figures cowering upon one of the plainsmen’s make-shift litters. They had clearly hoped that the grass and the hazy dawn would shield them from their pursuers. The first cast-offs, thought Garzith with a cruel grin. He had known the raiders would start to jettison their slowest people once it was clear his squadron was closing, though he had expected they would have been made much more obvious in the hope that the pursuers would be forced to drag them along. Fools. Dead or alive, these hostages would still serve Regnar’s purpose so long as not one of the group escaped to bring the truth to the captive states.

“Three,” grunted Durthnar, his lieutenant. They were all tired from the two day ride, and the weariness hid any emotion in the man’s voice, whether elation or disappointment. They had wasted a full day before they found the trail, but fear had supplied the speed they needed.