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

by James A. Hillebrecht

  “I don’t think we were ever in any real danger,” she said. “Other than from the cliff, of course.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Jhan replied wryly. “These Rock Goblins. Do you think they’re real or just a part of his madness?”

  “Oh, I think they’re real enough.”

  “If he can sense their approach at this distance,” observed Jhan, “the dwarves of the Dwarf Holds must be growing frantic and preparing for war. They’re leagues closer to the invaders.”

  Again, Shannon shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. I know nothing of the Dwarf Holds, but I can guess that they’re something like our cities, far too busy and far too noisy to hear such a tiny sound. I think that little dwarf is much more aware of his surroundings, much more sensitive to the tiny vibrations in the rocks. Indeed, I think that may be why he left the Dwarf Holds in the first place.”

  Jhan’s eyebrows rose, and for a moment, he too stared back up the side of the cliff.

  “Do others know of the approach of these Rock Goblins, do you think?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” she answered. “But I do know one thing. We have more to do now than simply to find my father.”

  She thought for a moment about the little dwarf, about how many other beings like him might be scattered across the path of the invaders, individuals, small families, isolated communities. She had tended to think just of great cities defended by huge walls and mighty armies. Now, her mind turned to the fate of the lone person, frightened and hopeless, crouching in their homes with only a single weapon to try to defend their young against the flood about to engulf them.

  “Let’s go,” she said

  With that, she swiftly hitched up her various satchels and headed off into the woods, leaving Jhan blinking at her in surprise. Then he quickly gathered his own parcels and hurried after her.

  CHAPTER 9

  Madness on the Plains

  The Plains of Alencia were dark with his power.

  Alacon Regnar floated forward on a glowing green cloud that moved rapidly only a few feet above the prairie grass, masses of Rock Goblins breaking and fleeing before him, many groveling as he passed. Occasionally, a goblin would glance back too slowly or not dodge quickly enough, and there would be a burst of green flame and a wondrous howl of agony as the cloud struck, leaving a burning corpse behind for the goblins to prod and pick.

  Above him was the Canopy of Oblivion which blocked out the endless sky of the plains, holding the night here around his army, a captive to his will. The green Canopy was not only a vital shield for the night dwelling Rock-Goblins and a means of spreading the terror which was the true vanguard of his force, it was also a massive source of raw power, a huge saturated sponge of energy floating above his army, awaiting only a gesture from him to disgorge that magical force. The time was now at hand when he must tap that power source.

  A powerful streak of green lightning flashed through the black clouds, perhaps welcoming the Ohric, the dreaded green scepter that had given Regnar the power to summon the Canopy. Regnar clutched the Ohric in both hands, his burning red eyes growing brighter as he felt its magics stirring restlessly within, and he silently commanded the cloud on which he stood to move even faster, leaving more smoldering goblin corpses in his wake.

  The Canopy and the glowing green cloud were symbols of his growing mastery of the Ohric’s awesome powers, the massive Canopy dominating the fierce winds of the plains just as he had dominated its armies. But, today, his sense of power was being held in check by the fact that his great armada had ground to a halt yet again, the third time since leaving the shelter of the Earth’s Teeth. Up ahead was a darker shadow beneath the clouds, the terrible entity around which the Silver Horde was built: the Juggernaut. Since the fall of Nargost Castle, the Juggernaut had marched across the prairie unchallenged, the small states of the plains laying down their arms and accepting any terms which Regnar chose to dictate, several even electing to join the unstoppable host sweeping down upon Jalan’s Drift. But though no force of men could stop it, this was now the third time the Juggernaut had halted of its own accord.

  “The arms are folding in upon itself,” Regnar said as they neared the colossus.

  It once again tries to form the cocoon, the Ohric answered in its echoing voice. It is as I warned: the plains stretch on, the supply of blood dwindles, and the Juggernaut seeks to change to its next form.

  A form over which I may have no control at all, Regnar reminded himself. He brought the green cloud to a halt directly behind the huge shadow, the Rock Goblins giving it a respectful distance. The great black arms of the Juggernaut were slowly curling around itself, its man-shape vanishing in a cocoon of darkness from which a still deadlier form would eventually emerge.

  But not yet, Regnar said to himself. He raised the Ohric in both hands, putting forth all his will and all his power.

  “Sar noftus dak brar!” he commanded and the glow of cloud and scepter grew suddenly together, enclosing him in a sphere of green light, and lightning flashed through the Canopy, turning the clouds a greenish-black.

  “Axaz tras nur dralnak kabrai!” he cried to the lightning, and it answered; with a gesture, he summoned it, and it came, flashing down out of the blackness like divine vengeance, five, eight, a dozen bolts striking the sphere of green light and increasing its power a hundred-fold.

  “Sar noftus ulat dak gual ka!” he roared, his voice now thunder, and the Rock Goblins cast themselves upon the ground and cowered. Power sparked and flared around the sphere, the captive lightning thrashing wildly, seeking for release.

  Regnar drew back the Ohric above his head.

  “AXAZ TRAS DEM ELKAN KAB!” he shouted, pointing the Ohric towards the motionless form of the Juggernaut. An immense wave of green energy flew from the sphere, pouring into the black titan and vanishing in its darkness. For endless seconds the wave continued, immeasurable energy pounding into the motionless shadow, the clouds overhead tinged with green, the great sphere shrinking as its power was sent forth. Then, at last, that dreadful wave came to an end, the abrupt silence as staggering as the roar of power. The Goblins blinked, looked up, waited.

  Slowly, agonizingly, the great arms of the titan unfolded, and a massive leg rose and fell in a first step. The Juggernaut strode forth once more.

  The Goblins were screaming and howling with delight, capering around the giant form, the entire army beginning to surge forward once again. But the Juggernaut was moving slower than before, like a runner tiring at the end of the race.

  Its power slowly wanes, warned the Ohric. The plains are too long and too barren of life, and the green lightning cannot sustain it for long. At this rate, it will cocoon long before it reaches the walls of the Drift.

  “Then we must find enough blood to lure it onward,” replied Regnar. “Even if I must feed it my own people.”

  He glanced down to see a troop of Goblins dragging forward one of their kind, the creature dressed in purple robes which clashed hideously with its green skin. The captive was larger than the others, and he snarled with gleaming red fangs as he struggled vainly to escape.

  “He is here, Great One,” the leader of the troop announced. “The commander of the titan’s escort.”

  Regnar stared down at the creature who cringed, falling immediately to his knees. The purple robes marked him as one of the Goblin-mages, the shamans of the Goblin horde who possessed some magical abilities and more than the usual viciousness (the red fangs were not blood but rather dye, a symbol of their savagery). This one had been charged with the vital duty of laying out the supply of blood in the path of the Juggernaut to both fuel it and lure it onwards.

  “We have no more prisoners, Great One,” the creature whined abjectly. “There is no blood left to feed the titan.”

  “There is blood enough,” answered Regnar. He pointed his finger, and the creature was lifted into the air, its eyes bulging with fear. A single gesture sent it flying across the ground, screaming with terror, to
drop directly in the path of the Juggernaut. A gigantic foot fell, and the screams ended abruptly. The Goblins roared their approval.

  That is no more than a drop of the blood required, observed the Ohric dispassionately. Goblin-mages are not common and should not be wasted lightly.

  “His death will encourage the others,” Regnar answered with a grim smile. “But I shall use the rest sparingly.”

  You should dispatch one of the goblin-mages to treat with this Argus, the Ohric said. Such an embassy will impress him with our power, and the mage may be able to delve into his mind and uncover his true intents.

  Regnar nodded slowly, appreciating the suggestion. The failure of the assault on the High Pass and the slow progress of the Juggernaut made responding to the overtures of this Duke of Corland all the more desirable. A goblin-mage would be a much more effective ambassador than one of the rough Northing Chieftains.

  The leaders of the Tribe of Sarva approach, the Ohric announced suddenly.

  Regnar looked up, and out beyond the Canopy in the blinding sunlight of the plains, he could see a group of Northings moving cautiously towards him. With a single thought, he sent the green cloud on which he rode racing forward again, skirting the Juggernaut and chasing the Goblins. The Northings quickly spotted him, and most fell back, leaving the largest of the group in front, a broad, beast of a man with silvered-steel links across his leather armor. The leader knelt on one knee as the Tyrant approached.

  “I crave a second chance, Great One,” the man said abjectly, though he kept his head high. “A chance to take this stain of failure from myself and my tribe.”

  Regnar glared at him, his red eyes boring into the man like hot coals. Jaxar, War Chieftain of the Tribe of Sarva, had been charged with the task of rushing ahead to capture the High Pass of the Highlanders, and his failure would normally be grounds for instant execution. But Regnar well knew the failure was not theirs but rather the Vortex of Fear which the Ohric had conjured from the cold terror emanating from the Juggernaut and sent flying before the raiders to clear the pass before they arrived.

  Still, that certainly was no reason to show weakness before both Northings and Goblins alike by sparing the man prostrate before him.

  “I have brought back nearly three hundred prisoners from the farms and homesteads of the Free Lands,” Jaxar announced. “They shall help carry the Juggernaut to the gates of Jalan’s Drift.”

  Regnar’s expression didn’t change, but the news eased some of his rage. Three hundred prisoners would not be enough to cross the miles of prairie that still stood between them and their goal, but it was a powerful start.

  “If the supply falters,” growled Regnar, “the shortfall shall come from the blood of the Tribe of Sarva. But yours shall be a different fate. Speak! How do you dare to face me with news of failure on your lips?”

  “We failed not from courage!” Jaxar growled, the fury growing again on his face. “The Highlanders ran down the very cliffs of the High Pass, and they were led by a man in silver armor with a great gleaming sword who did not feel our axes. Except for him, we would still have taken the pass!”

  A paladin, the Ohric said instantly, and Regnar tensed. So Bilan-Ra sends one of the Chosen against us.

  Even in the far North, the tales of the Paladins had reached, great warriors who stood like the banner of the god and around whom even the faint-hearted would rally. Regnar suddenly understood the failure of the Vortex to clear the Pass.

  “He slew our standard bearer and cast the banner of my people into the dust!” raged the War Chieftain. “The Tribe of Sarva put to flight before all the world! I seethe for his blood! My only goal is to seek out this cur and bring my vengeance down upon him! This I swear before all the gods of my people!”

  “Paladin or no,” began Regnar, “for failure there is no excuse.”

  Spare him, Great One, the Ohric said unexpectedly. Such hate is rare and precious. Hold it close. For soon, perhaps, we will be able to give it vent.

  Regnar’s eyes narrowed, torn between the scepter’s advice and the desire to incinerate Jaxar right here, before the watchful eyes of both the Northings and the Rock Goblins, a lesson to teach them all the price of failure.

  There is a way to do both, the Ohric answered, reading his thought. We must concentrate and season this hatred before we can send it forth.

  An evil smile crossed Regnar’s lips, and he held up the scepter before the kneeling warrior who blanched and began to get to his feet. But before Jaxar could take more than a step, a green beam shot from the Ohric, encasing him instantly in a sphere of power. Within the sphere, the War Chieftain raged and screamed, though no sound of his voice could be heard.

  “The goblins shall bring him along in a wagon,” Regnar said, “until it is time to unleash him.”

  We shall need more than even the hate of Jaxar to kill one of the Chosen, the Ohric answered. We shall gather the spirits of the dead of Jaxar’s tribe and add them to his prison. They shall bring a rich and special flavor to this spell.

  * * * * *

  Captain Zarif sat silently on Belwine, his great bay charger, listening to the wind sighing through the grass of the plains. The voices of the dead, he thought, the whispers of all who have fallen into that prairie grass and still lay unburied. For there were far too many dead these days, and too few left of the living to lay them all to rest.

  “They come!” the young scout shouted as he drove his excited horse down the short rise to where the rest of his company waited. Zarif turned his one good eye to watch the youngster’s disorderly approach and thought vaguely of how he would have disciplined him for such behavior only a few days ago.

  A few days ago? he thought. Is that all it has been since we were alive?

  “They come!” the scout repeated breathlessly, reining his horse to a halt. “Just as you said, Captain! A full company of Kargosian cavalry at least and perhaps another of foot, guarding a panicking horde of villagers. A force of Northing infantry is pursuing and closing fast!”

  “Villagers?” Zarif repeated vaguely, the tiniest spark of attention registering in his face.

  “Aye, a hundred or more,” the scout answered. “Old men, women, and children, too. The fools are all carrying bundles with them, as if they still have homes somewhere ahead.”

  “And the Northings?” demanded Major Arden, sitting his gray horse beside him. “What do you make their count to be?”

  The young man hesitated, trying to count the enemy in his memory, and to his credit, he was clearly fighting the tendency to exaggerate. Finally, he said, “Four hundred, at the least. Closer to five, but certainly no more than five hundred and perhaps fifty more.”

  “Too many for an open charge,” Arden said, shaking his head. He shot a piercing glance at Zarif before adding, “Still, we might test their rear after they’ve closed with the Kargosians.”

  “Villagers,” Zarif said again, the word stirring memories, carrying meaning. He blinked, his jaw clenching. “Come!”

  He spurred his horse, leading it along parallel to the short rise that separated them from the hunters and the hunted. Immediately, the one hundred ragged horsemen behind him turned their horses as well and followed, their tattered uniforms representing nearly every unit in what had once been the proud cavalry of Nargosia.

  Thirty squadrons now reduced to one.

  “Zarif, you can’t intend to charge,” Arden said quietly as he kept pace with him. “We’re outnumbered five to one, and these Northings are alert and expecting battle.”

  Zarif said nothing, simply continued on, watching the lay of the land, making his estimates.

  “Don’t you hear me?” Arden persisted, his rank of major long forgotten by both of them. “These barbarians are battle-hardened troops, fresh from the rape of Kargos, and they’ve faced wild cavalry charges before. They’ll cut us to ribbons!”

  “Villagers, Arden, villagers,” Zarif answered, his voice low and even. “Old people, young women, little children
, more victims for the axes of the Northings. Have we become so drenched in blood that the deaths of innocents mean nothing to us?”

  “A cavalry squadron cannot charge massed infantry,” Arden said flatly. “It’s the first lesson we teach every cadet, the most basic rule of warfare on the plains. You have to break their formation first, scatter them, then you might be able to destroy a force twice your size, perhaps even three times. But never a force five times as large!”

  “Such rules might have applied to the cavalry of Nargosia,” Zarif answered heavily. “But that cavalry died with General Salbrith in the first charge against the Northing army and the black horror which marches before it. They mean nothing to us.”

  “Do our deaths mean nothing to you?” Arden countered.

  Zarif looked at him, his single eye glassy, and finally said, “No. I don’t think they matter at all.”

  Arden cocked his head, not sure he had heard correctly, but Zarif had no more time for him. He spurred Belwine forward and began to climb the rise, sensing the presence of the enemy. He approached the crest and held up his hand to stop the others, standing in the stirrups so no more than his head was visible from the other side. There, just as the scout had said, was a black horde of Northings directly below him, moving at a steady trot in a tight formation, and fleeing before them, well within arrow range now, was part of the remnant of Kargos, fleeing wildly, hopelessly, aimlessly.

  Far on the horizon, Zarif could see three distinct columns of smoke, villages put to the torch by the barbarians, perhaps the homes of these same desperate fugitives. The funeral pyres of Kargos. He glanced back to the fleeing mass, and even as he watched, an old man fell, exhausted and helpless, to be abandoned by the rest. Then he saw a woman holding a suckling child stumble and go down, struggle feebly to regain her feet for a moment, then simply fall back to the ground, curling her body to protect her baby, waiting for the end.

  The sight ripped through Zarif’s brain like a hot dagger, slashing through his last restraints, setting loose all the pain and tears which these endless days of slaughter had built up within him. Built and suppressed. With a choking cry more animal than human, he drove the spurs deep into Belwine’s side, and the stallion roared with fury and charged up over the crest, flying down upon the mass of barbarians below, the rest of his men sweeping after him.