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

by James A. Hillebrecht

“I’ll give you a full loaf for it,” she said, “and one of the honey rolls.”

  “But the carving is of marsden-oak,” Shannon explained. “It’s the finest wood in all the forest and the hardest to work. I’ve seen none in any of the booths.”

  “A wood carving is worth a shilling, no matter the tree,” the woman answered indifferently.

  “But it comes from the hand of the best carver in all the woodlands…” persisted Shannon, and the woman held up her hand.

  “Alright, alright, my heart is broken,” she said. “I’ll give you two full loaves and a honey roll. That’s the best I can do.”

  Shannon hesitated, glancing at Jhan who shook his head. She considered trying another merchant and rejected the idea, for they had seen no carvings in the other booths, which was why they had stopped here first. Besides, they couldn’t waste the day trying to squeeze a few more coppers out of the carving.

  “Done,” she said, handing over the little statue. The woman smiled and put the loaves and the roll down in front of them.

  “We’ll need more than a couple loaves of bread,” Jhan muttered in her ear.

  “We’ll make do,” she answered, gathering up the baked goods.

  “We have something else for sale,” Jhan said to the woman in a quiet tone. “Something of great value.”

  “I’m sure,” the woman laughed, eyeing their home-spun clothes. “And what might this great treasure be?”

  “A sword,” he answered. “A sword of magic.”

  “Jhan!” Shannon whispered, appalled. The old woman’s eyes shot to her and then went back quickly to Jhan.

  “Let us see this renowned blade,” she scoffed, though they could both see the small glint of greed in her eyes.

  Jhan glanced warily around at the crowd, then cocked his head towards the alleyway. “Over there. Away from the throng.”

  The woman eyed him suspiciously, looking both of them over carefully. Finally she said, “Fair enough. You look smart enough not to try anything stupid.”

  The matron glanced at a young woman in the back who immediately came forward to watch the booth while her employer made her ponderous way over towards the alley.

  Shannon took advantage of the pause to grab Jhan by the arm.

  “We can’t sell the sword,” she warned him. “Remember what almost happened to us!”

  “We’ve got all our money tied up in this thing,” he replied, glancing over his shoulder. “We can’t afford not to sell it.”

  “Someone could get killed!” she whispered angrily.

  “No chance of that. The coating will last only a few more blows. The tin will show through in the first practice session.”

  Shannon was prevented from saying more by the approach of the merchant. In desperation, she faced the woman and said firmly, “I’m afraid my companion is trying to deceive you. This sword is nothing but a fake.”

  “Shannon!”

  The old woman looked from one to the other, a sly smile curving her lips. Then she pushed her way past Shannon saying, “Come, boy. Show me what you’ve got.”

  Shannon blinked in surprise. The woman thought it was she who was lying in a desperate effort to keep the sword! Jhan quickly pulled out the black cloth which hid the blade and laid it out on the ground, glanced around once to be sure they were unobserved and then drew back the cover with a dramatic sweep. The sword lay there as bright and enticing as when the Peddler had first showed it to them, but the woman’s reaction was entirely different from their own. She burst out laughing.

  “A Widow!” she roared. “You had my juices starting to flow, all for a Widow! Well, take me for a starving hay-seed!” She laughed again, as much at herself as them, heading back towards her booth.

  “You’ve seen this sword before?” Jhan demanded, gathering it quickly back into its cover.

  “Boy, I’ve seen dozens like it,” she retorted. “Even sold one or two myself, damn my eyes. But I’ll grant you nobody makes ’em better than Peddler Jack.”

  “How do you know this came from Peddler Jack?” he asked.

  “Red hilts, straight blade, and that special black shine,” she replied. “Those are Peddler Jack’s trademarks and no mistake.”

  Shannon and Jhan exchanged stunned glances. So the man had sold many of these swords!

  “Doesn’t this weapon have some value?” Jhan asked. “Even though it’s only coated, it still has two or three magical blows left. That should command at least a small price.”

  The woman shrugged. “If you really want to be rid of it, I can give you five dinars for it. Though I’ll be lucky to get even that out of it myself.” She pushed around behind the booth, adding, “You might check the other booths down the way, but I’ll warn you fair, they know Jack’s handiwork as well as I do.”

  Again the exchange of glances, Jhan shrugging a little helplessly. Five dinars were better than nothing. On impulse, Shannon reached inside her pocket and found the small green coin with the red rune carved into it which the Peddler had given them.

  “And does this have any value?” she asked.

  The woman’s eyes widened as she took the coin and studied it carefully.

  “A peddler’s token,” she said softly. “From someone carrying a Widow. You must have done Jack a good turn.”

  “We did,” Jhan said quickly.

  “Yet he sold you a Widow.”

  “I’m afraid we insisted,” Shannon explained ruefully. “He didn’t want to sell, and that only made us the more eager. I think you can understand that.”

  The woman chuckled appreciably. “And then he gave you the token as a way of making some amends. Fair enough. I’ll double my offer for the sword to ten dinars. That’s as straight as I can be.”

  “Wonderful!” said Shannon, both of them smiling. Jhan put the wrapped sword on the counter while the woman produced a handful of golden coins as if by magic.

  While she counted out the money, Shannon asked, “I was wondering if you might be able to give us some information also.”

  “…eight, nine, and half a score,” the woman finished. She put the sword beneath the counter, saying, “Words are cheap enough. What d’you need?”

  “We’re looking for a man, a mighty warrior in full armor, riding a white charger and carrying a great sword.”

  The woman’s eyebrows rose. “You mean the Paladin?”

  Shannon’s face sparked with hope. “You’ve seen him?”

  “Aye. He came into town two-three days ago with a rag-tag acolyte tied to his saddle straps, and he’s caused some shaking, I can tell you!” the woman chuckled. “Gutted four mountain ogres in the main square and fed a rock-goblin to the hungry crowd while the badge-boys and the yellow cloaks stood and gawked.”

  “A rock-goblin?” Shannon repeated, her eyes widening.

  “Aye, and a magic-worker by the talk. Didn’t see the show myself, but I snuck a peek at the leavings. Four mountain ogres they were, near a story tall each, and the warrior took ‘em all down by himself.”

  Shannon frowned, trying to puzzle the pieces together. A rock-goblin, in Alston’s Fey itself? She looked at the rough crowd moving past the booths, and though they were all humans, she wondered uneasily if monsters might not be unheard of in their midst.

  “And do you know where the warrior is now?” she asked.

  “Gone, gone east,” the woman said. “Left yestermorn or the eve before. Travelin’ fast, by all accounts.”

  Shannon’s expression dropped in despair. All their haste, the sore feet, the aching back and legs, even facing the peril of the Green Cliffs, all for nothing. Their shortcut had helped, but not enough, and now Andros was racing across the Southlands with the speed of ill-news.

  “This acolyte that the warrior arrived in town with,” Jhan asked the woman. “Is he still here?”

  “Aye, but he’s acolyte no longer,” the woman said. “A full priest they made him, with the Paladin smilin’ at his side.”

  Shannon looked at the wo
man, startled. Her Father attending the investiture of a priest?

  “Do you know where we might find this priest?”

  “Where do you find any of the yellow robes?” the woman answered with a toss of her head. “In the cathedral.”

  Shannon turned immediately, already bound for the spires of the distant cathedral, but she paused to look back at the old woman. “Thank you for all your kindness. You may tell Peddler Jack that you have settled any score which may have lain between us.”

  The old woman’s face softened. “That was finely said, Fair One. My name is Raulea, and if I can help you again, you have but to make your way back to my booth.”

  * * * * *

  Father Joshua was seated in the private apartments of Bishop Kal in the great Cathedral of Alston’s Fey, surrounded by all the trappings and symbols of the Church’s power and wishing sincerely he was again an unknown acolyte scrubbing the floors of his mentor’s house. There was enough food on the table to feed a dozen families for a week, the silverware alone could buy those same families all new houses, and Joshua didn’t dare guess at the value of the artwork which hung on the walls.

  Seated opposite him was Bishop Kal, resplendid in white robes with his miter set casually off to the side, his bearing relaxed and informal despite his guest’s obvious tension. Kal had just given him the glorious news that his first post would be the High Pass, back among his beloved Highlanders. In fact, he was to be in charge of the mission church there with three acolytes to support him, a marvelous opportunity for a newly ordained priest and what had to be seen as a wonderful compliment to his ability. Yet Joshua found himself vaguely uncomfortable with the appointment, troubled as by a small pain he could not quite locate.

  “But Eminence, I’ve only completed my third year as acolyte,” he said. “I still haven’t received all of my formal training yet. I’ve never even dispensed the sacraments without supervision.”

  The Bishop smiled reassuringly. “I have every confidence in your formal skills, Joshua. More importantly, you know well they’re of limited use in your daily duties. In the parishes, a priest deals with people, not rituals. You have to be able to reach those people, to talk to them, to listen to them, to be with them through both the joyous and the trying times in their lives. At such moments, they have little use for formal lessons.”

  Joshua nodded in full agreement, yet he was surprised to hear such sentiments from the Bishop. Even during his short stay at the Cathedral, Joshua had been overwhelmed by the bureaucracy and formality that permeated ever aspect of life here, a closely regimented daily routine that seemed choking after the relative freedom of the High Pass. Perhaps the Bishop, too, found the routine here stifling and was forced to endure it as part of his duty; yet Joshua couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it.

  He found himself wondering suddenly how the Bishop would have dealt with the panic at the High Pass and the gleaming heretic who had stemmed it.

  “But shouldn’t I be made second priest under an older supervisor?” Joshua continued. Most new priests went through two or even three years of such monitoring before being sent out on their own.

  “I fear both Father Michan and Father Oldran have lost all credibility with the Highlanders after their unseemly flight from the pass,” Kal said with a sad shake of his head. “The Church needs to have its prestige re-established there, and you are the perfect candidate to achieve that.”

  Joshua’s eyes narrowed, despite the aptness of the words, sensing there must be more. His mind went back to the glorious day of his investiture, the entire Congregation gathered around him, the long ritual of anointing followed by the celebration of the Great Song, all the time with the Bishop directly before him, dispensing the blessings of Mirna. Darius had been there as he had promised, standing in the front pew, heedless of the animosity from the Congregation, and Joshua had felt his respect for the man growing once again. Only once had Kal looked at Darius throughout the entire ceremony, a single glance during the Celebration of the Great Song when the rafters of the Cathedral had rung with the praise of Mirna, and Joshua had locked away in the back of his mind the memory of the complicated expression which had flashed over the Bishop’s face in that one moment.

  “This is more than just credibility and more than just a reward, isn’t it, Eminence?” he guessed shrewdly, watching the older man closely. “It has something to do with the warrior, Darius.”

  Kal’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

  “I am troubled by this Paladin, it is true,” the Bishop admitted slowly. “He does not pay proper homage to the Church, and some of his views are dangerously close to sacrilege. But how can that affect you?”

  Joshua met his eyes, studying the Bishop closely, and the more he looked, the more he felt that he was staring at a mask.

  “Do you think he has swayed me, Eminence?” he asked.

  The man blinked, taken momentarily off guard, and Joshua read the truth in his face. He got to his feet.

  “That’s the real reason, isn’t it? You think I may be contaminated by his heresy,” he said slowly. “So you’re sending me to a distant post as a kind of quarantine, to keep me isolated until you can discover the extent of the infection.”

  The Bishop leaned forward. “Would I send you off with three young acolytes and no supervisor if I had such doubts about you?”

  The man in the white robes seemed to be transforming, changing from a caring, compassionate priest to a cold, calculating politician right before his very eyes.

  “Yes,” Joshua answered softly. “Yes, I think you would. Acolytes who have just been indoctrinated into the fundamentals might be less vulnerable to heresy than an older priest who may have developed doubts or questions of his own. And they might be more likely to report that heresy.”

  The Bishop’s face darkened, and it seemed to Joshua that the mask had fallen away at last.

  “You have great promise, Joshua,” Kal said quietly. “And perhaps a great future. You stand now at a crossroads, facing what may be your greatest test. Put your faith in the Church and turn away from this heretic. For he will lead you only to damnation.”

  He stood quietly, staring at the man, understanding the issues at last.

  Slowly, he said, “I once asked the heretic what he believed, and he refused to tell me, saying that I should seek for truth within myself. I shall heed that advice and hold it close. And if what I find there is heresy, you will have no need of spies to whisper accusations, Eminence. I shall bring you that word myself.”

  He did not wait for any answer but turned and walked out the door, a dark cloud on his face and on his heart. His welcome here, his ordination, his assignment back to the High Pass, all no more than a political game, an attempt to lock away the words and deeds of the heretical Paladin. But if this man speaks only lies, he asked himself suddenly, why is it necessary to shut him away so completely?

  He headed towards the wing of the cathedral where his quarters were, a hundred thoughts surging back and forth in his mind. Someone was hovering in front of him, and he looked up sharply to find one of the lay servants looking at him nervously.

  “Yes?” he demanded brusquely and immediately regretted it as the man winced.

  “There are two travelers who wish to speak with you, Father,” the man said apologetically. “I showed them to your quarters. Should I tell them to be gone?”

  “No,” Joshua answered, feeling guilty for his abrupt manner. He touched the man’s arm reassuringly. “Thank you. I’ll speak to them.”

  He walked down the corridor to his quarters and opened the door to the small sitting room where he could entertain guests in private. Two young people were waiting there, both rising to their feet at his entrance, a tall handsome young man dressed in woodsman’s green, and a young woman with long golden hair and the most beautiful face Joshua had ever seen. It was so striking that it took Joshua a moment to realize he had seen those features somewhere before.

  “Father Joshua?” the woman a
sked cautiously.

  He smiled in answer. “Yes. Please, take your seats.” The two reseated themselves on the cushioned chairs and Joshua joined them.

  “And what service might I be to you?” he asked.

  “My name is Shannon. This is my friend Jhan.” The men exchanged nods. “We understand that you arrived several days ago with a warrior named Darius. We are trying to reach him.”

  “And you are his Daughter,” Joshua finished for her, smiling as he now recognized her features. “I can see him clearly in you.”

  Shannon nodded and smiled in turn. “We were hoping you might know where he has gone. Our only information is that he headed off eastward, yesterday or the day before.”

  “The day before,” Joshua said, and he watched their expressions sink. He could almost feel the long miles that lay behind them. “He was bound for a distant castle called Llan Praetor in the Eastern Arm of the Mountains of the Winds. That is said to be the home of Malcolm the Magnificent, perhaps the greatest wizard in all the land.”

  “A wizard?” repeated Shannon dubiously. “Why would he go in search of a wizard?”

  Joshua hesitated for a moment, his mind still thinking of Darius as an enemy, his heart uncertain. But the simple honesty of the woman’s blue eyes freed his tongue.

  “He has need of information,” he answered finally. “The Council of the Lords of the Southlands will meet in three days’ time at Duke’s Hall to decide what action to take against the Silver Horde. I think your father is seeking a means to silence the nay-sayers and move the Dukes to gather their armies.”

  The two young people exchanged glances, Joshua watching them closely. The boy seemed protective, the girl free-willed and independent, but they were very clearly a team, blending their differences into strengths. Joshua felt a quick surge of friendship towards these two young people, both very much his own age who must have come through trials similar to his own, but he sensed no matching spark in them. The yellow robes, of course. I’m a priest, and they grew up holding a heretic in the place of honor.

  “We were told my Father had an encounter with a rock goblins,” Shannon said unexpectedly. “Is that true?”