A Rage in the Heavens (The Paladin Trilogy Book 1) (20 page)

“I was told to ask for her by a man named Tallarand,” he said quietly, and again he noted the instant response in the woman’s face. “He thought she would be eager to meet with me.”

The woman shook her head, her eyebrows arched.

“That may well be,” she said. “But you should be careful what you wish for, Stranger. You just might get it. Still, I’ll see the word goes out.”

* * * * *

Bishop Kal sat back in the comfort chair of his private apartments in the Cathedral of Alston’s Fey and took a deep drink of the fine red wine from the south which was his particular favorite. The vintage, he knew, was expensive, three times the cost of the local wine which most of his parishioners were inclined to drink, but the bishop was no longer troubled by such matters, just as he wasn’t troubled by the plush suite set aside for him, filled with feather pillows and fine art.

In his younger days as acolyte and priest, the Bishop had considered such luxuries an embarrassing indulgence, even a sign of the Church’s decadence, but years and experience had brought him wisdom. An older man who had forgone the joys of family for all the cares that beset a bishop had need of a few creature comforts to ease the strains of a trying day.

And Kal had seldom had a more trying day than this one.

There was a light knock at the door, and a moment later, it opened to admit one of the few people who had the privilege of immediate access to the Bishop any time of the day: Father Maldonar, Inquisitor for the Propriety Council and special envoy of His Blessedness, the Patriarch Innocent IV.

Kal smiled at his visitor, welcoming the company. “Have some wine, Father. You look as if you could use a drink.”

“No thank you, Eminence,” Maldonar said, his face showing the same earnest intensity it always bore. “Has any news come from Monarch?”

Kal let out a sigh. He liked Maldonar and had a sincere respect for his dedication, but he wished the young man would learn to relax. The fire always burns hottest in the young, he reminded himself.

“No news from Monarch,” he answered. “But I fear we may have an even more pressing problem at hand.”

Maldonar frowned. “What could be more pressing than the possibility that one of the Dukes of the Southlands might be a devil-worshiper?”

“A Paladin has come among us again.”

Maldonar’s frown deepened, but his silence said he recognized the significance of the event.

Kal let out another sigh. “Young Joshua must have known he was riding with a heretic, and yet he stayed silent before the Congregation. The message from Father Michan says the Lairds are convinced this man single-handedly turned the tide at the High Pass, and their voices are loud with his praises. Even from the brief encounter with him in the Square today, I could tell he is no mere butcher. This man will sway others.”

“But should we allow this to take us from our watch over Argus?” the priest asked, the question not quite rhetorical.

Kal took a long drink from his wine goblet as he studied the young man before him. So confident, so determined, so full of hope. Perhaps it is time to bring him a cold dose of reality, Kal decided.

“Even if our darkest fears about Argus are true, I doubt if we will ever be able to bring him to justice,” he said slowly. “I know Argus well, and I must tell you that he is too clever and too cautious to be caught by us, far less by the likes of Father Rathman.” He shook his head. “Even if we were to prove the charges in a court of the Inquisition, there would be a terrible bloodbath before we dragged Argus from the throne of Corland.”

The Priest blinked, and a touch of anger came to his fine face. “If this is your opinion, then why did you request my presence here?”

Kal could not keep his shoulders from shrugging in answer. “Because it is our duty. If Argus is guilty, he must be brought to justice regardless of the cost, and close scrutiny might at least make him more cautious. But now a greater danger looms before us. Argus is only one more monster in the world, and there is a limit to the amount of harm he can do. But this Paladin brings with him a heresy that strikes at the very foundations of our Church. We cannot permit him to spread his poison freely.”

“I’m not certain I share your alarm, Eminence,” Maldonar said slowly. “Certainly any man who claims contact with Mirna outside the sanction of the Church is a heretic and must be loudly denounced. But this man seems to be holding his tongue. And if he can rally the forces of the Southlands against the invaders, he may be our salvation.”

“That is the very point, Father,” Kal shot back. “The man does not need to open his mouth. His actions, his presence, his very being is a rebuke to the Church. The Church has been Mirna’s instrument on Earth for thousands of years, and it is we who have guided and instructed the people in His ways, shielding them from the voices of the devils, the corrupt, and the confused. What good is there to survive the onslaught of Regnar if people suddenly decide they hear the voice of Mirna in every whispered breeze or huckster’s cry? We are facing an assault on the very institution of the Church, and from that battle we cannot flinch.”

Maldonar’s eyebrows were raised now, the danger much clearer to him. Finally, he asked, “But what can we do, then, Eminence?”

“Perhaps no more than watch and wait,” Kal answered. “Tomorrow, I’ll make the position of the Church clear to this man, and hopefully, that will help to keep him in check. We need to keep him away from people, chase him out of the cities, for that is where he might do the greatest damage. But he shines with a brilliant light, and I fear to try to hide it.” He looked down at his goblet before adding, “Or to try to quench it.”

Maldonar’s face opened in alarm at the Bishop’s words, but it was clear he now fully understood the dilemma facing them. Finally, he said simply, “Perhaps I’ll have that drink now, Eminence.”

Kal smiled bleakly and poured the wine.

CHAPTER 11

A Meeting of Warriors

“The Delmar Inn. The Dining Room. At Dusk. Come Alone.”

Those were the only words on the slip of paper which the young boy had delivered, the child adding only that the note had been given to him by a very pretty lady.

Adella.

As he walked down the street towards the Inn with the shadows from the dying sun as his only companions, Darius felt a curious anticipation, an unaccountable interest bordering on eagerness which had been growing all day. Of course, if Tallarand were right, the woman’s information was vital to his quest, but his sense of expectation went beyond that. To have survived the slaughter of Carthix Castle and come the length of the entire continent to barter the knowledge gained there with anyone willing to pay spoke of a unique and fearless individual, and the impression was amplified by the tone in Tallarand’s and the waitress’s voice when they had spoken of her.

Oddly, Sarinian, too, seemed to be having its own premonition. For nearly an hour now, the great sword had been muttering constantly in its own strange language, a sure sign of agitation, but Darius was inclined to leave it to its murmurs. He had no desire to listen to yet another lecture on moral conduct and the endless shortcomings of people with whom he associated. Still, the behavior was strange, a foreboding of something significant, and it heightened his sense of anticipation.

He was dressed in simple leather armor, having left his heavy plate mail in the room of the small inn at which he was staying, and he felt more at ease and less conspicuous as a result. He hadn’t been in a city in years, and despite the seriousness of his mission, he couldn’t keep himself from watching the horde of people pushing past and the endless variety of goods displayed in the stores. After the quiet, closed world of the forest of Delberaine, Alston’s Fey seemed like an endless, constant carnival.

The Delmar Inn was not just another public house; it was one of the best taverns in the Fey, and as Darius entered, his eyebrows rose slightly at the finery displayed by the patrons. Many were armed and armored, as was only to be expected in such a town, but the flash of silken capes, of polished boots, of jewelry openly worn made Darius conscious of his own plain brown leather. The Innkeeper, a portly little man with a permanent smile stamped on his face, seemed to share Darius’ doubts and showed him to an inconspicuous table close to the kitchen.

Glancing around the dining room, Darius couldn’t help but think about his shrinking supply of coins. He had spent more money on stabling Andros than he had on his own humble room, but prices in Alston’s Fey had taken him by surprise. Everything seemed dear, everything costing more than he expected, and he wasn’t quite sure how long he might have to remain in town. This Adella had apparently selected the Delmar Inn because of the security it afforded for their meeting, but Darius found himself wishing she had chosen a less expensive site.

“Can I get you wine or beer, Sir?”

He looked up into the gentle face of a woman wearing a serving smock and wiping her hands on her apron. The waitress smiled at him warmly, and Darius felt as if he were being welcomed. He smiled back and said, “Just coffee and some bread rolls, please.”

“Certainly, Sir,” she said and hurried off.

Yet the young waitress had no sooner left than a woman entered the dining room alone, her sudden appearance drawing the attention of many of the patrons. She surveyed the room calmly, and when her eyes touched at his table, she headed directly towards him. She was sleek and beautiful, moving with a feline grace, and she was dressed as a warrior with a great sword scabbarded at her side. She threw herself casually into the chair opposite him without introduction or permission, putting a leg comfortably over one arm, and stared coolly at him.

“Can I be of some service to you?” Darius smiled.

“What did you have in mind?” the woman asked softly.

Black leather armor with gleaming silver buckles, long flowing hair, flawless complexion, a woman who clearly used sex as one more weapon in her arsenal. Darius, however, found himself frowning slightly, as if something about the woman were not quite right. She carried the sword well and held it at the right angle to be drawn quickly, and it was her left leg over the arm of the chair, the perfect position from which to launch a dagger hidden in the boot. Yet there was still something wrong. Perhaps it was the slightest stiffness in her posture, as if remembering the proper stance. Perhaps it was Sarinian continuing to mutter to itself, ignoring this obvious criminal who had just joined them. Or perhaps it was the woman’s eyes, bold brown eyes that stared unflinchingly into his; yet they were eyes that had never looked upon death.

As the silence between them began to lengthen, the woman spoke again.

“So, Warrior, you wish to make a purchase,” she said with a deep, rich voice. “You look well enough heeled. Since you know something of the goods, perhaps you also have an offer.”

Darius continued to study her for a moment before saying, “Yes, and one of inestimable value. I can offer the survival of thousands of people sheltering behind the walls of Jalan’s Drift.”

“What?” the woman blinked. “I mean money. What money have you to offer?”

Again, that slight uncertainty clashed with whom she claimed to be. Could a mere serving maid have somehow come by the information and was now trying to pass herself off as a redoubtable thief? He shook his head slightly, none of the impressions making sense.

“As to money, I’m afraid I have little,” he said finally. “I might be able to pay for a meal for you here if that’s of any use.”

“I have expenses,” the woman shot back. “Major expenses. This information did not come cheap, and I cannot let it go cheap. Now I’ll ask you again: what are you prepared to offer?”

In answer, Darius drew out his coin pouch and emptied it carefully on the table.

“I have seven dinars, four shillings, and nine pennies,” he counted. “I offer it all to you gladly.”

“Is this a joke?” the woman demanded angrily. “I’m asking for thousands of dinars, not pocket change! A man riding a magnificent stallion, with flawless armor and such a sword must be able to offer more money than that!”

“Andros is my friend, not my possession,” Darius answered simply. “And the armor and the sword were given to me as a sacred trust.”

“Sacred trust?” the woman repeated with a frown. “You mean, you’re a…a…”

“A Paladin,” he finished for her. “So you can see that seven dinars is actually a fairly generous offer for me. Come. Be sensible. You stand to be seven dinars richer in exchange for a few quiet moments of talk.”

The woman blinked again, clearly unsure of how to respond, and she looked down at the money as he slipped it back into the pouch, the offer having an unexpected appeal. But before either of them could speak again, there came a sudden roar from Sarinian.

Devil’s spawn!
the sword raged.
Evil Incarnate! Beware!

“Eh?” frowned Darius.

“What?” the woman asked, her ears deaf.

Behind you, Inglorion!
the sword cried.
Evil behind! Beware!

Darius spun swiftly and found himself staring at an old man in a stained apron who was slowly clearing the cups and dishes from the table behind them. Startled, the old man looked up, and Darius looked into cool blue eyes that age had not touched; but eyes that had looked upon death, many deaths.

In an instant, the figure had dropped the dishes and fled, knowing the disguise had been penetrated. Darius leaped to his feet and charged in pursuit, the game suddenly clear as he left the surprised actress behind at the table and chased the true quarry. He brushed aside the waitress bringing his bread and coffee and pushed through the door into the back room, a wave of heat and the aroma of cooking striking his face. The kitchen was filled with benches, shelves, stoves, and sinks, and three women were looking up in surprise from their tasks, clearly bewildered by this intrusion. But off to the side was a back door, already swinging shut. He rushed through it, knowing his opponent was only a few steps ahead, and emerged into a back alley that seemed completely deserted.

He paused, uncertain, looking carefully to the left, then to the right, sure the figure could not have reached the ends of the alley without being seen, yet finding no one in sight. He looked upwards, but the two buildings were both tall, and he could not believe anyone could have scaled the walls in such a short time.

Behind the wall, Inglorion!
Sarinian cried.
It is behind the wall!

Darius stared directly ahead at the blank wooden wall of the adjacent building and saw immediately that there was neither door nor window through which the individual could have escaped. Yet there was no doubting Sarinian. Some garbage from the kitchen lay on the ground directly before him, and he noticed it had been smeared in the direction of the wall. Yet the fugitive had been far too alert and agile to have simply tramped it under foot.

On sudden impulse, Darius threw himself to the ground and rolled directly against the wooden wall. He found the lower section of the wall dropping inwards as he hit it, a spring-braced trap door, and the next moment, he was inside the building in some kind of store room. He sprung to his feet and found himself facing a startled woman with beautiful black hair and sky-blue eyes.

“You, I presume, are Adella,” he said easily.

The woman had paused to strip off the old man’s clothes and reveal a young woman’s day dress beneath, a change so complete that Darius would have rushed right past her on the street if Sarinian gave no warning. Her nose had the slightest hook that had helped considerably with her masculine disguise and now saved her from attracting too much unwanted attention to her beauty. But the delay was proving expensive. He saw he could easily block the woman’s escape through the room’s one door.

“Clever, Glory Man,” she said softly, her voice far more feminine than he had expected. “Clever. But all you’ve found is your death.”

With that, she reached inside the small pouch at her side and suddenly drew forth not a small knife but a huge silvery bastard sword with black hilts, the weapon gleaming with power and menace. He could feel Sarinian shivering in sudden fury at the sight. A Living Sword! That was what Sarinian had sensed, drawn to a fellow being like steel to lodestone, and based on the Avenger’s reaction, this sword’s nature must be evil.

Darius in turn drew Sarinian from its own scabbard, the two blades gleaming angrily at each other, though the weapon seemed to have no effect on Adella. She simply crouched slightly and began edging her way towards the door, the motion both an offer and a threat.

With a single step, Darius cut off her retreat and declared his intention.

“It seems I’ve something of value with which to bargain now,” he said with a small smile. “Surely a safe escape is worth a few whispered words.”

But Adella shook her head slightly, as if at a naive child. “You have much to learn about business.”

In that instant, she launched herself forward, the great silvery blade whistling through the still air to be met by the guard of Sarinian. An explosion of sparks flew as the swords collided, and the force of the meeting drove both warriors a little apart, leaving them blinking momentarily. The Avenger seemed to quiver in Darius’ hand, its energy surging in a way he had never felt before, and it took strength of both arm and will to keep the weapon under control. But if Adella was experiencing a similar reaction from her own sword, she showed no sign of it. She swung the sword hard again, apparently determined to test the weapons one more time, and Darius easily moved to block the blow.

To his surprise, the woman fell to one knee as she swung, the sword striking lower, and he had to react quickly or the sword would have ripped into his thigh. The sparks flew again, but while Darius resisted the force and held Sarinian steady, Adella let the momentum of the meeting spin her around, completing an entire circle as she slashed viciously at her opponent’s ankles. The blow was unblockable, and Darius literally had to throw himself off his feet, crashing to the floor, to avoid being crippled. Like lightning, Adella launched the killing stroke, the sword flying down upon him, but Darius flung Sarinian upwards and caught the blow, putting out his strength to shove back his attacker and buy a little room.

He thrust the sword at the woman, forcing her back still further and allowing him to scramble quickly back to his feet. For a moment, they stared at each other, and Darius could read in the tiny spark of surprise in the woman’s eyes how many warriors had fallen to those first simple ploys. He understood both the surprise and the success. Warriors were carefully schooled to aim for killing areas, the head and torso, and to avoid striking at the opponent’s limbs, where even a successful hit might leave them open for a deadly counter-strike. But Adella was a thief, and she had clearly studied the warrior’s code and had found the weaknesses she could exploit with her own skills. She counted on speed, surprise, and the unerring accuracy of the silver sword to cripple her opponents and avoid the counter-stroke, allowing her to either flee or finish them off at leisure.

Suddenly, Adella launched another attack, the sword seeking blood again, but this time, Darius gave ground, refusing to let the woman close where her blinding speed might find an opening. A blow to the left, to the right, an overhead feign followed by a quick thrust that nearly squewered him, and Darius retaliated with a sweeping thrust by Sarinian that forced the woman to back away again. Now Darius advanced, using his great strength to loop the Avenger back and forth before him like a monstrous propeller, driving the woman towards a corner and leaving her no opening to exploit. Desperately, Adella somersaulted to the left, flinging her sword behind her to block the blow, sparks flying again as the blades collided, but the force of the explosion knocked her off balance in the middle of the maneuver, leaving her momentarily vulnerable. Darius leaped to the attack, swinging down hard at the exposed sword arm, but the blow never landed.