A Rage in the Heavens (The Paladin Trilogy Book 1) (3 page)

“But I have learned. To kill a tyrant does not bring peace, for always there is another who rises in his stead and seeks to devour all the world. War does not bring healing and life, only hacked corpses and charred villages. And worst of all, slaying the enemies of justice brings no honor or glory, only the stigma of a human butcher plying his filthy trade.”

He whirled to fully face his master, his right hand slowly moving down the hideous wound that scarred his torso.

“Do you see the proof? This is the memento from the third champion that the Ice King sent against me, a mighty warrior who played my exhaustion well and struck the killing blow at just the right moment. But your accursed blade would not allow me the dignity of an honorable death. It staunched my wound and fed into me an unnatural life that gave me the strength to strike again and lay my opponent low. To lose and yet to see the victor slain: this I call butchery, not combat!”

He turned away. For long years those words had waited within him, gnawing at his strength and rectitude like a cancer, and now that they had finally been given voice, he felt drained and exhausted, resigned to whatever blow his arrogance had earned him.

“What would you have, then?” the voice of his master asked softly. “Shall we sit quietly in the woodlands and watch the slayers of men pile up their gory trophies unchallenged? You are right, Darius. Evil does not have a single neck that you might sever with one blow and be done with. It is a plague that breaks out ever anew, for like the plague, men bear it within themselves. Did you think that you and my other sons were only to hack and slay? No, you were to be the examples for Mankind, the proof that there was a better way than the paths of darkness, the heroes that might stir men’s’ souls to valor. And in this you have not failed.

“For now when evil sweeps across the land, there are men who remember the glory of my sons and rise up to resist the shadow. They have seen the tyrants fall before and tasted the rich fruits of freedom and justice, and they have learned that these are things worth fighting for. Some die in that cause, and many more suffer hurt, but they would rather face the horror of war than the sight of their sons pulling a slaves’ yoke. Is it butchery, then, to slay the killers of such men and deliver their offspring from beneath the murder’s heel?”

Darius’ gaze was fully upon him now, his eyes no longer averted by doubt and shame. He stood as a prisoner hearing the sentence passed upon him by a judge, but though his face was grim and determined, the bitterness had left his mouth, leaving only a hint of regret and perhaps of longing.

Yet there was more in the face of Bilan-Ra, more left unspoken, and even the Messenger of Mirna could not hope to deceive with the sweet tones of the True Tongue still ringing in the glen.

“What else?” Darius asked slowly. “You ask for all and want still more. What is left to give?”

“Your life,” Bilan-Ra answered. “For from this road there is no return. If once you tread this path, know your end lies at its completion.”

At that, a grim smile touched the lips of Darius. “The doom you speak is to me a welcome release. My daughter is of age, and my time is already passed. Death is but an awakening from the cruel dream of life.”

Then, slowly, the air before him began to shimmer as if from the heat of a summer’s day, and gradually a light began to grow, a small sphere of brilliance that soon illuminated all the glen. The brightness was too fierce for normal man or beast, but Darius endured it unflinching, watching as the light slowly resolved itself into a glowing sword that seemed to hover upon the air.

“Behold your tormentor, Inglorion! I ask you now: will you not take the Avenger and stand forth in my name against the enemies of men?”

In answer, Darius reached out and seized the sword, raising it up as if offering it to the heavens above.

“Inglorion en feale!” he cried, and the light from the sword enveloped them both, reforging the bond that was never fully sundered. He turned to the shining presence of the man in white.

“My answer is now as it has ever been: while I yet breathe, you shall not lack for a champion. It is done. I will once more take up the burden of Sarinian the Avenger.”

CHAPTER 2

Preparations

Adella crouched down in the semi-darkness outside a ruined farmhouse just in sight of the broken citadel of Carthix Castle, now garrisoned only by the dead, and leaned back against the cold stone. She was making no attempt to hide herself, for the Northings had killed all they could find on two legs or four and moved on, following in the wake of the black titan. Regnar had not bothered to leave even a single warrior behind to man the citadel, and that was the clearest proof his interests lay far beyond the northern plains.

The putrid green canopy now filled all the sky, save for a narrow strip of blue far to the south that likely marked the progress of Regnar’s horde with its Castlebreaker, and her nose (hardened by the sewers of a dozen major cities) was becoming accustomed to the reek of sulfur. It was difficult to judge directions accurately without sun or stars, but by her reckoning, the invaders were on a course that would carry them eventually right to Jalan’s Drift.

“And here I squat by an abandoned farm shack,” she muttered to herself. Not that she had much choice. Even on the swiftest horse, it would take her a week at least to cover the 300 leagues from here to the Drift, and longer yet if she were forced to make a wide circuit around the path of the invaders. She could not afford such time even under the best of circumstances, and certainly not now when the value of her warning would diminish with every step taken by that black horror. No. She had no option but to wait here at the designated place and hope that her compatriot would hold to their bargain. Hold even though the land was now laid waste, and the sky was poisoned.

Her mind went back yet again to the Castlebreaker, unable to escape the terrible images it had burned into her eyes. Never had she heard even rumor of such an entity, and yet there it strode as real as a mountain, pounding flat walls that should have stood a siege of many months. What is it? she asked herself for the hundredth time. And where in the name of all the gods did Regnar find such a thing? The dark memory of the green scepter with the flashing red eyes rose again in her mind, offering a possible answer to some of the questions, though it was a grim and terrifying answer. There were legends indeed of such dread items, the personal possessions of the gods of the Nether Regions who sent them forth to serve a mortal for some span of time, giving them nearly god-like powers in the sure and certain knowledge that such might could only corrupt and destroy their greedy hosts. Regnar, it would seem, had been chosen for greatness.

She thought back to the sheer size and power of the titan, the staggering ease with which it had burst through the walls of the castle and then smashed its way out through the southern wall. Comparisons to giants rose immediately in her mind, and she thought of the tales of the ancient wars when the giants had been one of the races vying for dominion of the earth. Could this horror stem from that time, some weapon prepared by the giants and lost when ruin had rained down upon them?

There was the tiniest flash of white in the western sky, and Adella turned sharply, her vision making out white wings and an alabaster body gliding down towards her, salvation dropping through that canopy of death. A small smile came to her lips partly in relief that she had not been abandoned but mainly because a living being could pass through those green clouds and survive. It put a small limit on Regnar’s power, the first check she had so far seen.

So I will be at the Drift in less than two days, perhaps as little as one, she thought as the gleaming presence neared. I shall make good use of that time.

*

Darius stood on the green hill above the village and looked down on the place that had been his home for many years, the place where his daughter had grown to be a young woman, the place he was now condemned to leave behind. People were beginning to get up from the long banquet table that had been built down the central street of the village for the feast, and even at this distance, Darius could see the carcasses of chickens nearly picked clean and the empty platters of pork that had been carried from the roasting pits where three pigs had been cooked to feed the appetites of the village. His own stomach rumbled unexpectedly at the sight, and he suddenly remembered he had not yet eaten this day.

He spotted Shannon in a group of young women who were starting to clear the table, and he thought he saw the flash of white teeth as she smiled and chatted. That twisted his stomach far tighter than the pangs of hunger. Shannon was everything to him, his very heart that walked outside his body, the joy that made every day worth living. And he was about to leave his heart behind.

This girl is the child of your loins, Inglorion?
came a cold voice close at hand. Darius winced, dark memories rising, for it had been many years since he had heard that voice speak, the words audible to his mind, not to his ears.

Shannon, she is named?
the sword persisted from where he held it in his right hand, unaware or indifferent to the discomfort it was inflicting.
The child of Briannon. There beats a noble heart
.

Darius gritted his teeth as he remembered his recent oath to make no answer, the words meaningless now, supplanted by a far older promise. Harshly, he said, “You will not speak the names of my daughter or my wife. I will not have you treat them as dam and foal for their pedigree to be judged by the likes of you!”

My judgment is of no consequence
, the sword answered unabashed.
My response is only to that which I see within your own heart.

Darius turned abruptly and continued up the hill towards the summit where a faint mist seemed to have gathered despite the afternoon sun, and as he drew closer, the mist seemed to deepen, to thicken, a fog bank conjured on a clear day without a cloud in the sky. Darius paused briefly as he reached the crest and stood directly before the grey curtain, the vapors swirling slightly like stirring memories, almost as if the mist were studying him as well. Almost as if it, too, were remembering. This is the barrier between two lives, he thought, the first step on a very long journey. A journey that shall be marred by blood and haunted by death.

Then, taking a deep breath, he entered.

There was a moment of chill, a touch of damp, and then he found himself striding into a copse of ancient oaks, the thick-trunked trees evenly spaced from each other, their branches spreading as if in glorification of the sky above, only a hint of blue sky showing between their leaves. Darius felt a welcome coolness as a shade against the afternoon heat, but he knew his heart would have been glad for the shelter beneath those branches regardless of the weather of the world. He strode slowly forward, relishing the sense of peace, the rich, earthy fragrance of the grove, the simple serenity of the woodland.

The Containment Realm!
declared Sarinian.
Long have I been from its Grace! How comes it here beside so humble a village?

“The Realm comes to me, not I to it,” answered Darius, realizing the sword was cast by a different hand than the one that had created this blessed place. The surroundings seemed even more serene with that thought.

Ahead at the very center of the copse was a low-built structure covered with vines to which the aged oaks gave way, as if it predated even them, an edifice as old as the stone on which it stood. Darius approached it reverently, though some part of him still held back, resisting the memories of the past and what they promised of the future, the sword he carried becoming heavier in his hands. The building was a sturdy blockhouse wrapped in long green vines that seemed almost an adornment, as if nature itself were reaching out to hide it, to protect it. To embrace it. There was white visible between the leaves, the gleam of unblemished marble that bore no mark of time or weather, and vines formed a narrow tunnel to the building’s sole entrance.

Clearly, no one had been here for many seasons. Nor would any come again for many seasons yet to come.

Barely visible through the leaves above the door was an embossed legend, and even though much of it was hidden, Darius knew the words well. “Elis an den Sortus pal Coera e Glorium et.” Only the Pure of Soul shall Embrace the Arms of Mirna.

“You are long from this place, Darius,” came a voice seemingly from within the building. “I had not thought to see you here again.”

A small, reluctant smile came to Darius’ face. “I am not come by my choice, Old One. I would most gladly have allowed you to slumber undisturbed in the greenwood throughout the long ages. But I am called, and I cannot but choose to answer.”

“Thus is the fate of the Paladin,” the voice said, though there was no trace of sympathy in that calm tone. “Yet I await the required proof of your quest.”

Slowly, Darius approached the stone door, brushing away the ivy, and placed Sarinian fully against the surface. The sword began to glow with a warm light, and the illumination spread to the door, the entire portal gleaming in answer, the stone as one with the weapon. There was a soft snap, and the door opened silently, acknowledging the traveler’s right to enter.

Inside, the interior of the building seemed bathed in a soft white radiance. It was constructed of the same marble as the exterior, the white stone reflecting what light there was to illuminate even the far corners. The room was completely empty, save for a single figure standing quietly in the very center of the area, an armored form that looked like a guardian of the room, a sentinel to its purity.

“The armor has awaited you, Darius,” said the voice. “It is now as the day you placed it here.”

Darius walked slowly forward and put his hand gently on the breastplate, the metal cool to his touch. The armor was silvered steel with an intricate design etched delicately into the surface of the metal, a pattern of whirling lines most pleasing to the eye. To the heathen, the imagery was nothing but an artist’s rendering to impress; to the casual observer, the lines seemed to form leaves and flowers within the pattern; but Darius saw there the Tree of Life, the symbol of Mirna the Glorious and a declaration of who he was to all with the vision to see. His fingers followed the pattern, sensing it as would a blind man, forgetting its purpose for a moment as he reveled in the simple artistry of the craftsman. Then the memories flashed back, the images of when this beautiful surface had been dripping with human blood, and his hand withdrew.

“If another warrior had passed that door in my place, Old One, would he have found this same suit of armor?” Darius asked quietly, not really expecting an answer.

“The armor serves the needs of the Messenger of Mirna the Glorious,” replied the voice. “As Bilan-Ra commands, so shall the armaments be arrayed.”

Darius’ eyebrow rose at that, realizing that had he not accepted this quest, the burden would have fallen upon another. There was some cold comfort in that thought. He lifted the armor from the podium on which it stood, the metal weightless, the surface flawless, showing none of the scars that traced his own body. The armor could heal itself, closing all rents and dents inflicted upon it with time, and it did not retain any record of those blows. Perhaps a man’s body is the better, mused Darius. It is well to remember the wounds that nearly cost a warrior his life. For are not scars at the very root of wisdom?

Armor yourself swiftly, Inglorion
, said Sarinian.
Andros has already been summoned. We must not tarry
.

Andros. Darius’ heart stirred at the name of his beloved warhorse, the companion that had born him over endless leagues and through countless hardships, and he could actually see the great stallion in his mind’s eye charging over the land, closing the distance between them, answering a need in Darius’ mind even before it became a call. The means that would carry him once more to war.

“We shall tarry for one night at least, sword,” Darius answered as he placed Sarinian in its old scabbard on the armor’s back, effectively silencing it. “I will speak with my daughter this evening, even if all the world be put at risk.”

*

Shannon paused as she carried the last of the platters towards the washing tubs and frowned at the forest into which her Father had vanished more than an hour ago now. She had no fear for his physical safety. Darius had the strength of any three men, and he knew the forest well, his quiet wisdom putting him at peace with the beasts and serpents of the woodlands. No, the opponent that troubled her heart was nothing as simple or as solid as a bear or a wolf or a viper.

Oddly, her eyes went from the forest to the green hill that stood above the village, its grassy slopes a favorite picnic site for the villagers, the near one for children, the far one for teenagers who wished a little privacy from parental oversight. But now, there was a cloud of some sort touching the crest of the hill, a cloud descending out of a clear blue sky on a bright sunny day.

“What in the name of wonder?” she said to a couple of the girls who were scrubbing the platters. “How can there be fog at the top of the hill, and at such a time of day?”

“Fa, there’s naught there but sunshine on grass,” the one girl answered after a glance. “The fog is only in your own head, Shannon!”

“Snitched a taste or two of the woodland wine?” asked the other with a giggle. “You best clear the cloud from your wits before your Father returns!”

“No,” she answered faintly, dropping the platters in the washing trough. “No, it is there.”

Shannon started walking slowly towards the hill, squinting to try to see more clearly. Were those the tops of branches at the very fringe of the fog bank? Could there be a copse of trees hidden within the mist? That was crazy, crazier even than an afternoon fog on a clear spring day, this idea that trees could just appear on the crest of a grassy hill. Yet craziest of all was the odd feeling that it had been there all along, invisible for all these years to the eyes of the villagers, now just flickering into sight for her alone.

This was the Spring of her 17
^th
year, and Shannon had been feeling a building anticipation over the slow months of the winter melt, a sense that her life would take a new turn with the coming of Summer, and she had tried to dismiss it as just the natural anxiety of any teenager nearing adulthood. But now as she stood and watched that spectral forest behind the mist, she had the oddest thought that the anticipated change had already begun. For better or for worse.