A Rage in the Heavens (The Paladin Trilogy Book 1) (2 page)

Adella was glad to see the tiny rat run, although she should have welcomed the creature as a little brother. Like other thieves, she was accustomed to encountering rodents of all sorts in pursuit of her goals, and the presence of a rat here made it very likely that any traps or alarms in the passage ahead were set with a coarse trigger, making them easier to find and remove. But though she would have gladly died before admitting it, Adella didn’t like rats.

Bloodseeker took advantage of the pause to turn and look back at its mistress, its green eyes disturbing in the darkness even to Adella.

The battle still rages
, it said without words.
Why do we waste time crawling through darkness and stone?

“I’ve spent eight thousand dinars and three months preparing this job,” she whispered grimly. “I’m not going to have the prize snatched away by a bunch of foul-smelling mountain goats.” She put her dagger out and playfully jabbed Bloodseeker’s hind end. “Now get moving. The sooner we’re done here, the sooner you can get back to playing with the Northings.”

The rat turned and obediently waddled down the shaft, though in the darkness, Adella could detect a faint green light that seemed to pulse from it. A danger sign. It was reckless to use Bloodseeker as a scout after a battle such as they had just fought, but there was no choice. Still, the sooner she could return it to its true form the better in all ways.

She stretched herself out again, using her fingers and toes to propel herself forward, and the long dress of pure black satin which had replaced her serving wench disguise helped her slide easily over the rough stone, the fabric feeling cool and smooth against her skin. Her leather armor, of course, had been left behind. She had to squeeze every fraction out of the available space, and the armor would also have scraped against the stone, sending dangerous echoes down the shaft. But after the fight in the courtyard, she felt uncomfortable without the solid hug of the armor.

For just a moment, her mind went back to the huge shadow which had broken its way through the walls of the castle, and a shiver ran through her again, an echo of the horror that had filled her. She shook the memory off, having no time for it now. In truth, she had been too distracted to watch the thing as it passed through the courtyard and began pounding an exit through the back wall of the castle, but she had seen enough of its handiwork to understand its power. No castle could hope to stand against such a monster, and the implications of that for the people of the plains were frightening even to Adella.

Up ahead, there was the faintest glimmer of light, showing that a side shaft intersected the main passage, and she was relieved to have normal vision again. There was more than a trace of elvish blood in Adella’s veins which empowered her with some sight even in total darkness, but she was always happier when she had real light with which to see. That, too, distinguished her from other thieves.

Bloodseeker paused again, but this time it was looking up at the ceiling of the shaft. Cautiously, Adella peered forward, and her trained eyes picked up the tiniest of trip wires perhaps two inches below the top of the shaft, a trap designed to catch a two-legged rat. She froze immediately, knowing a false move here would mean certain death, and she studied the offending wire by the dim light filtering from the passage beyond. It took only a few moments to assure herself that whatever it triggered, the wire itself was no more than a simple trip, the sort of problem Adella had faced countless times before. She tugged ever so gently on it, her trained fingers determining on which side it was anchored, and then, holding the active side taut, she cut the wire.

Dropping the dagger, she pulled a sliver of wood out of the sleeve of her dress and tied the end of the wire to it, releasing it with a painful delicacy to rest against the side of the shaft. The wood held. Adella smiled in the half-light like an artist admiring her newest work, for traps were designed to be thief-killers and this one would never fulfill its purpose. Then she moved forward.

She peered around the corner to the source of the light, a narrow opening with heavy iron bars blocking the way. Adella grinned. Even the fools who had designed this backwater castle had known the ventilator shafts were an inviting avenue for thieves, and this was their way of taking precautions. Guards, traps, and bars, the three defenders of every horde. But guards had a way of being moved suddenly, traps were never as good as the designers hoped, and a few drops of dragon’s blood would eat its way through any iron. The gold was as good as hers.

She pulled herself closer to the opening and then froze again, only this time not from any tripwire.

Voices!

The Demon take the luck! Those thrice-damned Northings had beaten her to the horde! A dozen angry oaths rose to her throat, but she swallowed them down again, forcing herself to be calm. Rage was an extravagance she could not afford at this point. But it was hard. Three months of planning, of playing a serving maid to learn the castle’s routine, the dangers, the bribes, the scouting, and finally joining the bloody battle in the courtyard in a hopeless attempt to beat back the invaders, all for nothing.

As she got herself back under control, she realized the voices were talking calmly, certainly not the triumphant cries of a gang of looting barbarians. With a small surge of hope, she put Bloodseeker on her shoulder and inched her way forward, straining to hear what was being said.

“…as you promised. This room alone holds more gold than I could have gathered from the Northlands in a full year.”

The tone was harsh, loud, and masculine, using the tongue of the Northings with which Adella was roughly familiar, though many words were lost on her. But the voice that answered it sent a shiver up her spine. Cold and echoing, it came from no human throat, and she felt an almost instinctive urge to back away from it.

And this is but a…of the wealth and power yet to come
.

“I’ll grant the…has more than proven its worth,” the first voice answered. “And I can use the quick destruction of Carthix Castle as a lever against the other states of the plains. But will its power last to Jalan’s Drift and beyond?”

Jalan’s Drift?! Adella blinked, the thought staggering. The Northings were planning to cross all the Plains of Alencia and assail the Drift itself?!

That is still to be seen
, the dark voice said.
But you must husband its strength and resist any attempt to control it further. Such…will only drain its…and divert it from the course we have set. And you must not waste opportunities
.

“What do you mean?”

The halls of this castle ring with the dying screams of the captured…as your warriors make bloodsport and gamble their loot on the outcome. There is a more valuable use for those prisoners
.

“True. But my men have suffered greatly during the crossing of the mountains, and they will fight better after a night’s play. There is still a hard…before us.”

Your warriors mean nothing beside the… You have seen its power. Nothing can stand against it. Only you can bring it to a stop with your foolishness
.

Despite her reluctance, Adella felt a pressing need to see who was speaking. She edged herself slowly forward, thankful for the silencing effect of the satin dress.

“…without doubt. For my men will have to hold this land after the…passes, and that may prove to be a long and hard task. Your…will have ample opportunity to prove itself before we reach the Drift,” declared the first voice as Adella peered through the bars of the shaft.

The room was stone-lined with a single door of heavy iron in the far wall, and all around the room were locked chests, perhaps thirty total. Adella didn’t need to see the contents to know she had indeed reached the main treasury of the castle, the goal she had been seeking for three months now.

In the middle of the room stood the first speaker, a giant of a man whose head was only inches beneath the seven-foot ceiling, and his broad shoulders with their trailing black cape seemed to fill half the room. He wore no gauntlets, but his massive arms were encased in silvery armor, while his torso and legs were covered with black chain-mesh. His head was bare of helm, leaving his long black hair to fall unhindered to his shoulders, and his face bore the cruel ferocity which must have made even the Northings flinch. Worst of all, however, were his eyes. They were gleaming red, as if stained by all the bloodshed they had witnessed, and Adella knew them by rumor: the Burning Eyes of Alacon Regnar, the Tyrant of the Northlands, whose gaze no one could endure.

In his hands, the Tyrant held a large rod of green stone whose head was carved hideously into the shape of a demon’s face with glowing rubies set in the eye-sockets, and Adella found herself even more disturbed by that strange scepter than by the Tyrant’s eyes. Bloodseeker crawled from one shoulder to the other to get a better view. There was no sign of another speaker in the room, but she felt oddly certain that the man had been speaking to the scepter itself.

And in confirmation, the great rubies flashed red light, and the cold voice said,
We are overheard. A spy has penetrated your defenses
.

With one motion, Adella put her hands against the sides of the shaft and shot herself backwards, knowing her life might now be measured in seconds. But in that instant before her arms pushed against the walls, the Tyrant looked up, and his red eyes locked on her blue ones, rage staring into cool defiance. Then she was gone, turning herself at the intersection and dragging herself down the shaft as fast as her arms and legs could drive her. With the need for caution and silence at an end, she moved with surprising speed, her strong, slender body charging through the stone, Bloodseeker waddling quickly behind her. Rousing the castle might actually help to cover her escape, the half-drunk Northings bumping into each other, but that was only if she could get out of this rat-hole quickly.

She came to the exit and flung herself head-first through the opening, rolling skillfully as she hit the floor and coming to a ready crouch. A wise precaution. Two Northing warriors stood nearly within reach and two more were hurrying down the corridor towards her.

“Here’s a sweet treat,” the one Northing growled, reaching for her arm. “Come, bitch. We’ve plans for you.”

Adella shrank back against the wall, feigning terror in order to give the two additional guards a little more time to close. Her right hand rose to the shaft from which she had just emerged, and the little rat with the green eyes scurried obediently onto her open palm. The warrior reaching for her suddenly found himself staring at the stump of his arm as Bloodseeker slashed down, returned at last to its true form: a gleaming silver bastard sword with ebony hilts.

Before another breath could be taken, Adella spun and slashed down at the second guard, cutting through armor and flesh and killing him instantly; though no drop of blood fell to the floor. There was a sizzling sound, and a trail of red steam rose from the body as the blood boiled and soaked into the blade of the great sword. She charged the remaining two guards, catching the first before he could flee. Her first blow crashed through the haft of his war axe, but barely cut through the tough leather of his surcoat. Desperately, the man lunged at her, trying to wrestle her to the ground, but Adella nimbly pirouetted like a fine dancer, ducked under his arms, and struck back blindly over her own shoulder, Bloodseeker unerringly thrusting into the man’s exposed back and piercing his heart. The final guard was already fleeing, having no desire to face either woman or sword, but a single gesture brought the probing dagger into Adella’s hand, and she sent it flying expertly down the corridor into the warrior’s back. There was no need to check the kill.

Ignoring the carnage around her, Adella turned her attention to the sword that now pulsed with a faint red glow. Delicately, she moved her hand along the blade as if to caress the steel, careful of the great heat that was radiating from it.

“Come, my lovely,” she whispered to the sword. “Come. Give me my share.”

Steadily the red glow began to grow, turning rapidly into a blinding red light, and when it had vanished again, the figure of Adella had disappeared, and in her place stood a Northing warrior, similar in appearance to the dead lying on the floor.

“Very nice, my lovely,” she whispered again, now with a gruff Northing’s voice.

There was no time to lose. She knew the spell would not last long, and she must be out of the gates before it dissipated. She grabbed a hide from the belt of one of the fallen and partially wrapped Bloodseeker in it, making it look like just another bit of plunder, then she picked up a war axe to complete the disguise.

As she hurried down the hallway, her mind went back to the conversation she had overheard in the treasure room, and a faint smile came to the bearded lips of the barbarian. Even though she had gotten no gold, she was leaving with something that just might compensate her for her lost opportunity. All she needed now was to find someone who was willing to buy it.

CHAPTER 1

The Greenwood

“Heave!”

Strong backs strained, great arms were pulled taut by the weight, muscles grown soft by a winter’s rest groaned and grumbled beneath the load as two score feet sought leverage in the soft earth. The pulley rope took the strain, and slowly, majestically, the great center beam rose off the ground and began its long trip upwards to the waiting hands of the roofers. The log was made of marasen oak, a dense, durable wood that made excellent building material, and its only drawback was its great weight. Even with the aid of block and tackle, it would take all the strength of the twenty men at the rope to raise the beam high enough for the fixed tackles on the roof to take over.

“Heave!”

With maddening indifference to the straining bodies below, the huge tree limb rose only with the greatest leisure, as if it first wished to survey the setting it would occupy for so many years to come. The old men watching cursed the obstinacy of the thing and the frailty of their own arms, women yelled encouragement, and children went shrieking everywhere, wild with excitement at this battle of wills. Still, the giant log had not yet reached even the lowest part of the roof, and the strain was clearly beginning to tell on the men.

“Heave!”

It was impossible. The tiring men began taking smaller and smaller steps until abruptly, as if by unspoken agreement, they stopped, the rope still taut, the beam dangling silently overhead, and only the pride of the haulers kept them from simply releasing it and allowing it to plunge back to earth. Time and exhaustion immediately began gnawing away their slender reserves of strength, sapping their will-power with the certainty of inevitable failure, making the thought of defeat a self-fulfilling prophecy. And then, unexpected, one of the men began to sing.

The words were strained at first, forced to fight their way past the struggling muscles of the man’s chest, and none of the others attempted to join in or accompany him in any way. But soon the song became easier for him, the anguish of the effort giving way to a rough rhythm which played upon the ears of all who heard it, and before long, the entire glen was ringing with the beautiful, deep-throated sound of a man whose heart was filled with the simple joy of living.

And suddenly, the log began to rise again.

No one gasped or cried out. No one cheered. They merely watched in quiet exultation as the haulers reached down deep within themselves and found there the additional strength they needed to raise the beam. Foot by foot the massive thing rose, reluctantly, until finally it stood at the level of the fixed pulleys, and several roofers defied the drop to the ground below by lunging forward to affix the new ropes to the dangling log. Within seconds, the beam was locked into place, the people were cheering and the exhausted haulers were lying in heaps on the ground.

The recumbent forms were allowed to rest for only a few minutes, however, for while exhaustion may excuse a man from work for a time, it can not pardon him from a feast. The dinner bell tolled imperiously, commanding their attendance at the banquet tables, and with barely audible groans, the men rose from their short rest.

As a small group of young men got to their feet, one of them called over to the man whose song had won the day, “That was a mighty tune you sang us, Lord Darius. I suddenly felt like I could raise that blasted log all by myself!”

“That’s what happens when you focus on the rope and the log,” answered Darius with a smile, “rather than watching the girls watching you.”

The others laughed and slapped the youth on the back who grinned good-naturedly, and the group joined the crowd moving towards the aroma of freshly baked breads and steaming meat.

Darius sat for a moment longer, watching them go, and then slowly rose to his feet, towering up to his full height and stretching some of the ache out of his broad shoulders. He caught sight of a small man dressed in the lavish yellow robes of a priest of the Temple of Mirna heading towards him, and he had to stifle a groan, wishing he had mixed in with the rowdy youths rather than lagging behind. The priest had a thin, frail body, a pointed rodent’s face, and lank oily hair that seemed to adhere to his skull like tar. He faced the bigger man with an expression that was half sneer, half righteous scorn.

“It is hardly proper, Lord Darius,” he began pompously, “to use the Song of Mirna as a common laborer’s ballad. To use the Great Song in such a way is to degrade the Lord Father, and it certainly lowers Him in the eyes of these simple village-folk. If you truly do the bidding of Mirna as you claim, you will save the Great Song for the temple on the Holy Days where it can be held in proper reverence by all!”

Darius said nothing at first, his face revealing only in its lack of expression. He was a man no longer young, his face marked with the scars of a life-time of emotions; the mouth accented with creases which had grown used to smiles and laughter, the blue eyes sad with the wisdom of long years and bright with the twinkle of many more yet to come. The body was large, well-muscled, still tan despite the winter, without an ounce of fat on it, and the blonde hair still showed no sign of age. But across his shirtless torso, white against the darker skin, were the faint outlines of old sword wounds, the trophies of countless battles against foes strong enough and brave enough to stand against him in open combat. Most were no more than slender tracings now, but there was one savage scar that ran from his right shoulder down to his chest to disappear where his beltline mercifully spared the observer further horror. The thing automatically drew the eyes of anyone who looked at him without his shirt, for it seemed impossible that any man could have suffered such a wound and still lived. The eyes of the little cleric were being drawn to it even now, and it was slowly weakening his stiff-lipped resolve to speak out against this sacrilege.

Darius looked down at the man and controlled himself once again as he had long grown used to doing.

“The Song gives me strength,” he said quietly. “That’s what it was intended for. It’s a gift for all the Faithful to sing whenever they are in need or just feel the desire to be closer to Mirna. Not just for the Holy Days, but whenever they wish.”

The quietness and curtness were new, the priest noted uneasily. Usually the Lord Darius would force a smile and defer to the little man as the nominal leader of the religion in the village, even when the issue was as controversial as this. The priest should have recognized this subtle change as a danger sign, but he had started this tirade in the name of the Church, and his self-righteousness would not let him drop it so easily.

“‘Whenever they wish’! Even you must know the Creed of the Propriety Council that the Great Song may only be celebrated in the presence of the clergy! You think you are above the teachings of the Church. You think that because of your past service you are immune to the dictates of the Councils and that it would be impossible for anyone ever to accuse you of sacrilege. But there will come a time of reckoning for you, My Lord, when your blasphemies will require answering!”

He hadn’t intended to be so blunt, but once he had begun, the words had just flowed out of him like hot lava. He had always felt resentment towards this man with his position of power, the admiration of all around him, the physical perfection of his body, and most of all, his claim to being one of the Chosen of Mirna. One of those damnably righteous Paladins. Well, the man would now see what a real priest thought of such pseudo-holy men who put themselves above the dogmas of the Church. He was just about to launch into another lecture when the big man took a step forward and squashed his expostulations with sheer bulk and a look that chilled the little cleric to the bone.

“You dare talk to me of sacrilege when you sit in that glorified hovel you call a church and preach…”

“Father,” a young feminine voice interrupted, “the meal is waiting for you.”

Darius’ head jerked in the direction of the voice, and the sudden fury that had threatened to consume him began to clear. There was the watchful, attentive face of his teen-aged daughter, Shannon, her expression alert, her eyes a warning. Ever since his wife had died, she had taken her place as the guardian of his temper, and he knew from that special look of hers that he was in danger of losing it now. Without a word, he turned abruptly and stalked off into the woods, taking his rage with him.

“Your father is a brutal sort of man,” the cleric said, watching the man’s disappearing back and trying to keep the trembling out of his voice. He turned to the girl and was shocked by the icy intensity on the young woman’s face.

“Priest, for seven years now, my father has fought back a burning desire to banish you from this village and rid us of your blasphemous dribble once and for all,” she said, her voice daggers. “But I swear to you now that if I ever hear you speak to him in that manner again, I’ll kick you out onto the Eastern Road myself and spare him any further struggle.”

* * * * *

The woodlands of Delberaine were a peaceful place in the early spring. Life was just beginning to stir again from the cold embers of winter, and it had not yet reached the frenzied pitch to which the heat of summer would drive it. New plants were peering timidly out of the soil as if fearful that winter might yet return, and the animals were slowly reacquainting themselves with a world that no longer lay crushed beneath layers of snow. Even the wandering birds had returned to rebuild old nests and brighten the forest with their songs and calls.

But Darius could find no peace beneath the reborn trees.

It was the voice. Even here in the woodlands he could hear it calling to him, beckoning him, hounding him, driving him forward in a useless search for some imagined sanctuary where it could not reach. The branches of bushes slapped at him as he passed and thorns clawed at his flesh, but his mind felt nothing as it strove desperately to shut off all his senses and thus silence the distant call that invaded his every thought.

I won’t answer, he promised himself. That devil can shout himself hoarse for all I care, but it will gain him nothing if I make no response. How many days has it been since it began? How many weeks? I can’t remember. Perhaps it was no more than a few hours ago. I only know that the agony began, and I have sworn to dig out my ears before I heed him again.

His determination forced him to lengthen his stride, to step out harder and faster, and soon he was charging through the woods, his body automatically responding to the emotions that surged through his mind. He ran fast and with a surprising agility for a big man, leaping obstacles and ducking overhangs without breaking speed, rushing madly through the trees, seeking to outdistance a voice that spoke only in his own mind.

“Darius.”

The new voice brought him to an abrupt halt, stopping him as effectively as if his name had been a wall of stone. He knew the speaker without turning to look, and his body shuddered under the combined impact of the old thrill of anticipation and a new wave of nausea. He turned almost in spite of himself and beheld the glowing presence of a man robed all in white who seemed to brighten the twilight of the forest with a personal radiance. The man held a white staff composed of two wooden dragons intertwined, and beneath the robe emerged feet shod with iron which showed he was armored under the cloak. His hair was white also, but his face was ageless, and it bore such an expression of sympathy and understanding that Darius felt naked before him.

“Bilan-Ra,” he breathed in acknowledgment, the old reverence still audible in his voice.

“I have been sent to seek for you, old friend,” the newcomer said gently. “Have you grown deaf that you can no longer hear the cry of Sarinian?”

The words were in the True Tongue, the beautiful speech of Mirna the Glorious that could abide no falsehood, a language most of humanity could no longer speak.

“I have heard,” Darius said.

“Then why do you make no answer? Murder walks once more in the land, and the Avenger demands that justice be done. Why do you not heed the call and wield him once more as you did of old?”

“Leave it, Master,” Darius said, shaking his head. “My answers would not be to your liking.”

“I have asked you a question, Darius. Speak! Why do you flee from Sarinian?”

“Because his wants are not my wants,” Darius answered, the words torn out of him. “You say that he wants justice and vengeance; but I know him better. What he lusts for is the roar of battle and the blood of dying men. He was forged to kill, to slay the enemies of Peace, and he finds no rest when the fighting is done and the warmongers are banished. Listen to him! Even now he calls to me, and there is a tinge of joy in his soulless voice, a smug satisfaction that his hunger for blood will soon be sated. You wish to hear that voice in full song? Then take him and wield him yourself! I have had my fill of him long ago.”

He turned sharply on his heel as if to go and just as abruptly turned half back again, angry and uncertain, his body decrying the turmoil and doubt that boiled within.

“Darius, I know you well,” Bilan-Ra replied quietly, “and I can feel the anguish that is tearing at you now. You have tasted the joys of the peace you have won, and the memory of war seems more horrible because of it. You have served me long and well, better than any of my other sons, and if ever a man deserved to spend his days quietly in the greenwood of Delberaine, it is you. But the skies blacken, and the times grow dark once more, and in such straits one must sometimes ask for more than is offered by even the most generous. Will you not take up Sarinian and strike back the darkness as you did once before?”

Darius closed his eyes and swallowed slowly, his shoulders sagging as if in resignation, but when he turned to answer, his lips were twisted by a bitterness that reached down to the very roots of his being.

“It is now a score of years and five that I first came and knelt at your feet, a young boy with shining eyes who begged for the chance to serve the Lord of the Chosen: Bilan-Ra, the Messenger of Mirna the Glorious. I came to you dreaming of great deeds, heeding a call I could neither resist nor understand, seeking ways to heal a land that lay crushed and bleeding beneath the boot of war. And instead of answers, you put a sword in my hand and sent me forth to do battle, telling me that when evil is overthrown, the land would heal itself and peace would reign forever. And I went. There was a fire in my belly then, and the strength of youth was in my arms, and I strode forth to slay the enemies of Peace, eager to risk my life in the cause of justice.