“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 b
leeding 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.”
Darius frowned, the news as bad as he had feared. The Southlands alone had the numbers and the training to stand against Regnar’s horde in open battle, but if they were divided by intrigue and politics, they would be lost before the first arrow flew.
“There is other news,” Tallarand continued, “though how reliable it may be I cannot say. Word reached me this morning that a strong column of the Northings has broken from Regnar’s main body and is rushing for the Highlander’s Pass. And I am told the Clans are preparing to flee without a fight.”
“The Highlanders yield the High Pass!?” Darius repeated in disbelief. “Impossible!”
“As I said, I question the information myself,” the man admitted, “but my source has never been wrong before. And we must remember that flight is contagious: with refugees pouring through the pass carrying rumor of Regnar’s swift progress, even the bravest might reconsider their position. Certainly such an attack would make sense, for consider what success would mean to Regnar.”
The high pass of the Highlanders was the only route other than Jalan’s Drift through which an invading army might reach the Southlands. It was far narrower and more difficult than the Drift, its high cliffs natural battlements for the defenders, and the Highlanders had a fierce loyalty and love for their land which spanned their entire history. To break through the pass would not only allow Regnar to cut off the Drift from the Southlands, i
t would be a devastating blow to all his opponents. Breaching the walls of Nargost was nothing compared to breaking the legendary spirit of the Highlanders.
“Then my decision is made for me,” said Darius, speaking more to the sword than the man, “and there is precious little time.”
Tallarand shifted his weight from one foot to the other and bit down lightly on his lower lip, clearly debating whether to relate more information or not. Finally, he said, “A final word for you. I have heard of a woman who is perhaps the only survivor of Carthix Castle and has seen the power of Regnar’s horde first hand. She claims to have valuable information about the enemy which she will sell for a price.”
“A spy?” Darius said dubiously. “Can she be trusted, do you think?”
The man before him smiled broadly. “Only a fool would trust this woman. But without knowing the details, I will still vouch for the value of her information. She sells no false goods.”
“And how do I find her?”
“Simply declare your interest in the information in the taverns of Alston’s Fey or Monarch. The woman’s name is Adella.”
Darius nodded. “I thank you for your words, Tallarand. In the wilderness, news is more valuable than gold.”
“I wish you good luck and good hunting, Sir,” said Tallarand. “While I make a rule not to involve myself in politics, I think my business might suffer under Regnar’s harsh edits. So if I can be of service in the future, please don’t hesitate to seek me out. I’m bound for Alston’s Fey now, and eventually on to Azare, but any message left with the Tavern Guild will be sure to reach me.”
“Not with the Merchant’s Guild?” Darius asked with a raised eyebrow.
Tallarand smiled. “I fear I’m a little delinquent in my dues. Pray, don’t bother them on my account.”
Darius nodded, eyeing the insignia on the man’s cloak and wondering where he would find that same pattern of inter-linked stars.
“I’ll hold your offer close. A good journey to you, Tallarand. If the war lasts long, we may yet meet again.”
A Rage in the Heavens (The Paladin Trilogy Book 1) Page 8