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

by James A. Hillebrecht

  The Dragon’s head came down again, the gleaming eyes once more trying to catch his elusive glance.

  “Three visits and three questions each time,” Mraxdavar countered. “And the last visit we shall enter alone.”

  He could feel the will of the monster being put forth, trying to bend him, sway him, break him. Still, questions were a coin that paid both sides: a wise man stood to learn much from the types of questions that were asked.

  “No,” Malcolm declared flatly, holding off the imposing presence. “Two visits, once before aid is rendered and once after, and I shall guide you both times. But I will answer any three questions you may ask.”

  The Dragon considered this for a moment, and then said, “Three questions shall be asked on the first visit. And if our aid is judged of value to your kind, three questions or one service shall be offered up by you upon the second visit.”

  “Done!” declared Malcolm, squashing down his doubts. “This alone I hold back: the service shall not harm me, nor any of my kind, nor Llan Praetor itself.”

  “Done and done,” breathed the Dragon with deep satisfaction.

  “Let us go, then, and visit the Castle of the Winds,” said Malcolm, preparing to leave.

  “Oh, no,” answered Mraxdavar, and was there actually a smile on that reptilian face? “There’s much more to be discussed before the time for action is at hand.”

  Malcolm hesitated but immediately recognized he had no choice. Dragons had a love of discussion and detail that far surpassed the intricacies of even the most subtle of human diplomats, and the Wizard knew he was in for a wearisome time of verbal thrusts and parries. Part of the price for aid, he assured himself. Mraxdavar knows I am not lacking in power or courage.

  Now I must prove I am not lacking in endurance.

  CHAPTER 4

  A Gathering of Armies

  Two days following the Council of the Lords, Darius stood in the military stables inside the First Tier of Jalan’s Drift fitting Andros with heavy steel barding used by the cavalry of Maganhall when they went into battle. It had been a hard ride from Maganhall to the great walled citadel of the Drift, and even though the enemy was still days off, this was the last stable they would see before the battle. Darius was taking the opportunity well before dawn to get Andros accustomed to the barding, and the stallion’s reaction was bearing out the wisdom of the decision. Andros hadn’t been happy with the breastplate or the leg-guards that his master had gently strapped into place, and he was now openly rebelling at the sight of the headguard, a monstrous looking thing with a steel horn that was more of a threat to fellow horses than enemy infantry.

  “Easy, easy, my friend,” Darius whispered, patting the horse’s head and rubbing his ears affectionately. “If we are to charge as part of the Duke’s army, we must wear the required uniform. Virtue cannot be your only armor this time.”

  The heavy wood of the stall was carved into the elaborate and extended bodies of proud chargers, a remarkable demonstration of woodcrafting and a clear sign of the regard with which the people of the Drift held horses. The walls were thicker and better built than most human homes, and the entire structure smelled of fresh hay and rich wood. The stable was dimly lit at this hour of the morning, but there was quiet movement at various places where riders were also caring for their mounts before the start of the march to battle.

  When they had reached the Drift last evening, Darius had been astonished to find the armies summoned by the Red Feather had already begun to gather here. Duke Boltran had ordered the combine force to sally forth this very morn, and even though much of the infantry had not yet arrived, he had made up the difference with several regiments from the Drift’s garrison, leaving the stragglers to man the walls in their place. It was a bold move bordering on rashness that had raised many eyebrows, yet it also held the slim promise of catching the enemy off guard.

  “A fine horse, but one unaccustomed to barding it seems,” said a voice behind him.

  Darius turned to find himself facing a stout soldier of perhaps fifty or more years with a short beard and thinning hair both shot with gray. The man was wearing the golden ringed mail of the Maganhall army, but his helm had a rim of purple feathers that marked him as a member of the Duke’s personal household. He was leading a massive warhorse outfitted in the same barding with which Darius was trying to dress Andros.

  “I am Eldoran,” the man said with a small nod of his head. “I am the Warden of the Duke’s Arms and Shieldguard of the House of Maganhall.”

  “My name is Darius,” the Paladin replied with a return nod. “Warden of the Duke’s Arms? That marks you as the Duke’s Champion, does it not?”

  “More bodyguard than champion,” he answered with a small shrug. “The young Duke has more need of a guard at his back than his front.”

  The man stood calmly, almost casually, looking over both warrior and horse, but Darius could see a hard inventory was being made. There was a wealth of experience behind those cold blue eyes, and an old scar down his left cheek lent his entire countenance a feel of toughness, a man unbowed by wounds.

  “They say you will be riding with us this day against the barbarians,” Eldoran said. “I am told you will be given the honor of riding at the Duke’s left arm.”

  Darius nodded once, but said nothing. An aging champion might take exception to another warrior gaining the Duke’s favor, and Darius had no desire to offer any offense that might escalate into a fight. But Eldoran did not seem to be looking for a confrontation.

  Finally, the man reached over to his saddle, took the gleaming lance from its post on his mount, hefted it once, then offered it to Darius. “Take this, warrior. It is the lance entrusted to the guardians of the House of Maganhall, made of dwarven-steel and runed with banes for all giants. I think you should be the one to wield it in the coming battle.”

  The weapon was adorned with a beautiful inscription from an unknown tongue, but Darius recognized it was indeed some dialect of dwarvish. He cocked his head, switched from reading the lance to trying to read the older man. “Why would you yield such a weapon at a time when you would have the most need of it?”

  “I’ve served in the ranks of Maganhall since I was a youngling, almost two score years now,” Eldoran answered gruffly. “I’ve seen warriors of all size and form in that time, and I know their cut. Outdated armor, a sword too large and ungainly, a mount too free of bearing to stand a close quarters charge. But there is a power in you, a power that can bend all this to your will. I know it is you who shall lead the charge when the time is come.”

  Darius looked closely and asked, “And you?”

  “Any sturdy spear will skewer goblins, and I’ll take my rightful score,” Eldoran replied. “Never fear of that. But even if I win through to the Black Titan, I am not sure I have the strength and skill to strike true, and I would not dishonor such a weapon with a glancing blow. You, I think, will not waste that one chance.”

  A slow, grim smile answered him, and Darius said, “Of that, I can make you a promise.”

  “One thing only I would ask in exchange,” the older man said, his eyes and voice suddenly earnest. “Stand by young Boltran, if I should fall. He shall have need of a champion when this battle is joined.”

  “That promise I cannot make,” Darius answered with a shake of his head. “My work is with the Juggernaut, and no other bond may hold me. Yet this much I will say: I shall ride to battle beside the young Duke, and if my strength does not fail, I shall end the battle there as well.”

  Eldoran nodded slowly, hearing the truth. “My hand on it then.”

  Darius shook with one hand as he held the gleaming lance with the other.

  *

  Two hours after dawn, Darius was riding Andros near the front of a long column of cavalry, the walls of the Drift having already vanished behind the rolling hills. Behind them on either side, the Mountains of the Winds still loomed, the gap between them marking where the Drift stood, and before them was the wide
endless expanse of rolling hills that would soon flatten into the Plains of Alencia.

  On either side of the road marched the Maganhall infantry which had set out from the Drift two hours before dawn, for it was their pace which would determine the distance the army traveled each day. The cavalry was riding in line of four abreast, the preferred order of march for heavy horse, and Darius could make out even the food carts and supply wagons of the baggage train keeping up bravely in the wake of the infantry. It was astonishing that the force of the Southlands had been gathered so quickly, but Darius reminded himself the armies had begun to mobilize the moment the Red Feather had been sent forth. It was the traditional response to the threat of invasion. Even as their lords had met at the Council to debate their deployment, the forces of the Southlands had closed on the Drift as if it were already besieged.

  The Maganhall force was in good marching order, as was only to be expected of what was widely regarded as the premier army of the Southlands, but the contingents from the other principalities were showing good form as well for having covered many scores of leagues in barely a week. The soldiers seemed to be in good spirits as they sallied forth in the bright morning sunshine, but Darius thought he detected a note of weariness in them, warriors accustomed to practice battles who normally ended a hard day with a hot meal and a long night’s sleep. This is a new experience for most of them, Darius realized. May Mirna give them the strength to meet the challenge.

  A few yards away, young Duke Boltran was wrestling with many issues other than his own force. A dozen figures in the uniform of the other six principalities were gathered around Boltran and competing for his attention.

  “My Lord, Duke Georg-Mahl reports the infantry of Gemsbrook has cut across our line of march. Hathage traditionally holds the third position in line of battle, and My Lord Duke requests you remind the Lady Clarissa that she is to maintain her proper position.”

  “My Lord, Norealm carries water for only five days. Duke Thrandar asks if any of the other forces can spare water, particularly for our cavalry.”

  “My Lord, the Lady Clarissa asks if you and the other Dukes will dine with her tonight. And we would not have cut across Hathage’s line of march if they hadn’t been loitering over their breakfasts.”

  “My Lord, the Warhaven heavy infantry still hasn’t exited from the Drift. They have the slowest rate of march and should have been on the road no later than dawn.”

  Darius almost smiled at the range of issues raining down on Boltran’s shoulders, but the young man was doing an admirable job of maintaining his composure, if not his patience.

  “The line of march will straighten itself out in due time…Maganhall has water aplenty, and we will gladly share with Norealm…We gratefully accept the Lady’s generous offer and will plan to dine at her tent some two hours after sunset…Ride to Duke Mandrik and see if the Warhaven infantry is in need of assistance.”

  Darius had been part of many other armies, and he knew well that the leader’s time was taken less with grand tactics and strategy than who would sit at his right hand at dinner and what knight would be allowed to set his tent upwind of another.

  A horse came up beside Andros, and Darius looked around to see a brown mare ridden by a man wearing a priest’s yellow cassock with the golden insignia of a Curate or Father.

  “My name is Rathman, and I am to be your guide,” the Father announced, his tone suggesting he would rather be cleaning latrines. “The Council and the Church have both agreed you need to be watched, and they have set me to be your spy.”

  The man was about medium height with a slight build and a narrow, intense face. Brown eyes burned with anger, and his mouth was tight with emotion, signs of a man embarked on a single quest. A quest whose completion he did not appear to relish.

  “I will be glad of the companionship,” Darius answered politely. “My friend Father Joshua was denied permission to ride with me, and the road can be the longer without someone to share it.”

  “I do not join you willingly, heretic,” the man snapped. “Joshua is suspected of being tainted by you, and he needs a sharp reminder about dogma. Mirna willing, he will see the error of his judgment.”

  Darius took a small breath, let it out slowly. “I suppose you were selected for this task because you are less vulnerable to being tainted?”

  “My training is with the Office of Inquest,” the man answered, speaking of the feared arm of the Church that delved into heresy. “But I believe I was assigned to divert me from other work. My task is to fry bigger fish than you.”

  “Bigger fish?” repeated Darius. “Who might that be?”

  “The Duke of Corland himself,” Rathman replied. “I have spent the last year and more trying to find evidence against Argus and bring him to an ecclesiastical trial where he will be made to answer for his evil.”

  “Then we have some common ground,” Darius observed quietly.

  The Priest’s eyes flickered slightly, but the hard frown remained on his face.

  “What crimes do you suspect Argus has committed?” Darius asked.

  “He is protecting the Red Priests of Bal,” Rathman answered shortly.

  Darius’ eyes widened. Bal at one time had been one of Mirna’s most powerful servants, a great sorcerer who had ascended to the ranks of the divine for his many services, but his lust for power had not been sated by his elevation to demi-god. He had broken with Mirna, and there were some humans who continued to worship him, glorying in his open displays of power. The Red Priests were powerful spell-casters who acted as the god’s minions on earth,

  “You believe he himself is in the service of Bal?” Darius asked, and there was a catch in his voice as he said it. It was horrifying to even think that a sanctified duke, the protector of hundreds of thousands of his people, would be in league with a devil.

  “Argus is mad for power,” Rathman answered. “He will use the Red Priests to gain his own ends. If he has not yet crossed over into full worship, it is only a matter of time.”

  “A duke of the Southlands in the grip of the Red Priests,” Darius muttered softly, as if fearing to say the words too loudly. “What say the Church Fathers to your claim?”

  “They demand proof,” the man snorted, half in frustration, half in disdain. “Even to bring Argus to trial would be a scandal to shake the whole Southlands to its roots. They wish to be certain in their charges and swift in their execution, yet not even the murder of a sanctified Bishop is enough evidence for them.”

  “A Bishop murdered?” said Darius, shocked. “But who?”

  “Bishop Kal whose diocese included Corland. And with him Father Maldonar, a goodly man and a fine priest.”

  Darius actually stopped and stared at the man. Kal and Maldonar had summoned him to the cathedral upon his arrival in Alston’s Fey to inquire about his intentions, and while they had clearly considered him heretic, they had simply tried to dissuade him from remaining within their jurisdiction. Now they were both dead.

  “How?” he asked thinly. “How did they die?”

  “The official account is slain and robbed by bandits as they made their way back from a visit to the Corland Embassy in Alston’s Fey,” replied the Priest. “But Argus had a hand in their murder, even if he himself did not do the deed. Yet the Church still fears to bring the monster to justice.”

  Darius nodded his head grimly at that. The Southlands would be awash in blood before they could pull Argus from the throne of Corland.

  “So your harm is doubled here, heretic,” Rathman said harshly. “Not only do you spread your poison freely, but you pull me from my watch over Argus. And the city of Monarch will bleed the more for it.”

  Darius heard the strident note in the man’s voice, a sign that he had left much of himself behind in this single-minded pursuit of evil. It was an issue with which he himself was very familiar.

  “You are Argus’ greatest victim, Father,” he said softly. “He has contaminated you with his hatred. Even if you should d
estroy him, the thorny seed he planted will ever sprout again within you.”

  Rathman paused, his eyes narrowing as he studied Darius’ unflinching face. “You have vision, Paladin. And perhaps some small store of wisdom. But if I am already destroyed, I’ll drag a foe or two of the Church down to hell with me.”

  “No, Father,” Darius answered with a shake of his head. “You might kill, but no man can cast another into hell. That is a path a man can choose only for himself.”

  * * *

  Sixty leagues to the north, the Silver Horde of Alacon Regnar marched steadily southward, the Juggernaut at its front and the Tyrant floating only a few score yards behind on his cloud of green mist.

  The forces of the Southland sortie forth from Jalan’s Drift, the Ohric said in its cold and haunting voice. The green scepter was hovering in the air directly beside its master, its light breaking the gloom beneath the thick canopy overhead. They come to challenge even as the Juggernaut weakens.

  “They will fare no better than the other fools who dared face us in open combat,” Regnar answered.

  He reached out his hand towards a rock goblin warrior who was standing frozen with terror less than a dozen feet away. A twist of the wrist, and the goblin screamed in agony as he exploded into green flames. The burning creature lunged to the left in wild desperation, but Regnar cupped his hands as if capturing the green fire and concentrating it. The blazing sphere grew smaller and smaller, shrinking down with the still living goblin within it, until it was no larger than a fiery green marble. Regnar curled a finger, and the tiny sphere flew through the air towards him, and he caught it in a small black bag whose interior was ablaze with identical green light from a score of similar marbles.

  “We have many gifts to bestow on these visitors,” the Tyrant said with a twisted smile as he closed the black bag. “I look forward with pleasure to this meeting.”

  These are not the light horse and scattered troops of the plains states, the Ohric warned. They are the combined force of the Southlands, who fight upon their native plains. Toys alone will not blunt their blow.