A Rage in the Heavens (The Paladin Trilogy Book 1) (33 page)

Suddenly, the entire wall seemed to be drenched with blood, the red stain pouring down from above, covering everything, and starting to sizzle and boil before their very eyes. Shocked, Darius flinched back, his hand left the wall, and the images vanished, leaving them staring only at their own reflections. Darius shook his arm, but it was completely numb, jerking like the limb of a rag doll.

He turned to the Wizard and saw the man’s face was ashen.

“You saw more than I did in those images,” Darius said slowly. “Come! Tell me what your wizard’s eye beheld.”

“I…I’m not sure…” the man answered, his voice quavering slightly.

Darius pondered for a moment, trying to piece the puzzle together himself. “With red flame and green orb. That could almost describe the face we saw. The face of Alacon Regnar?”

Malcolm nodded reluctantly.

“So it is Regnar who comes with your death in his hands,” Darius said grimly, flexing his numb arm. “And Llan Praetor itself is warning you that no defenses can ward you from him.”

The Wizard stood staring at the mirrored wall for a long time, his face growing hard. “So it would seem.”

“And the blood?” demanded Darius. “What was the meaning of the blood? A prediction of what is yet to come?”

Malcolm sighed heavily and slowly shook his head. “No. We weren’t looking into the future but into the present.”

“The present? But where?”

“The blackness you saw wasn’t just a void,” Malcolm replied. “It was the skin of the Juggernaut. The blood came from the veins of prisoners, drenching it, feeding it. Giving it the power to go on.”

“The fuel!” Darius said, remembering Adella’s words. “By Mirna’s Thunder, this hellish thing marches on human blood!”

Malcolm nodded in agreement. “Yes, but what good does that do us? An entire army defends the Juggernaut, so we can hardly stop it from being refueled. And once it breaks through the walls of the Drift, there will be an ocean of blood to feed it. Nothing will stop it then.”

Darius shook his head and said, “Then we must stop it before it reaches the Drift!”

“You miss the main point, warrior,” said Malcolm, his tone showing his annoyance. He was not accustomed to explaining himself, let alone arguing. “The Juggernaut has lain for countless centuries beneath the earth, till even its very existence was forgotten. Why is it summoned forth now? Regnar is no more than a barbarian lord, powerful though he may be, and he could never command such incredible power by himself. Something has given him this power. Something has directed him. Something is using him.”

“I don’t understand.”

Malcolm let out a small sigh. “It is true Regnar seeks to break the walls of the Drift. But that cannot be the intention of the force behind him.”

“Why?”

“Because such power could break the walls of the Drift without resorting to the Juggernaut!” he said, his impatience brimming over. He took several steps away as if uncomfortable to be so close to another person, his eyes still studying the blank wall of the mirror. “There are details here that are not yet revealed. To act without full understanding is to invite disaster.”

“And to wait for all knowledge before acting is a stupidity we cannot afford,” replied Darius. “This thing comes to break Jalan’s Drift! Whatever its hidden purposes, that much is clear, and we must do whatever we can to stop it!”

The man shook his head and turned away, his mind focusing on the past, on the future, ignoring the present. With one swift motion, Darius pulled Sarinian from its scabbard and raised it high into the air, and the room exploded with sudden light. Instantly, he felt an answering power rising within Malcolm, a terrible response. Here was the challenge Darius had refused to meet when he had first entered the throne room, the matching of strength. Now, there was no choice.

“You dare unleash power in my presence?” snarled Malcolm. “Take, then, the consequences of your arrogance!”

“You are tied up in these events, Wizard, whether you wish it or not,” Darius said, forestalling the retribution. “I must see what the Mirror has to say of you.”

Malcolm’s eyes flashed, and Darius knew they had reached the moment of truth when the wizard must declare himself one way or the other. He felt the room surging with magic, as if threatening to burst free even from the will of the arch-mage, an overwhelming energy that required only a single, focused thought to send it blazing down upon him, and he knew his very life swung in the balance. Yet Malcolm hesitated. His eyes were on Sarinian, not the impudent warrior, held by the gleaming sword, some part of his soul answering the brilliance of the light, and Darius saw the truth, saw the purity of the Avenger reflected in Malcolm’s face.

He had the help he had come here to find.

A moment longer, Darius let the light of Sarinian dazzle the room, and then he whirled suddenly and struck Sarinian bodily against the wall, pulling the startled Wizard’s focus with it.

And the mirror burst again into images.

The first pictures were as confused and random as Darius’ initial attempt, pictures of high walls within a city, of shelves with endless books, of a stern looking man with a flowing white beard, and a young woman with a sad and yearning face. Matters of concern only to Malcolm, a breach of his past.

“Think of the Juggernaut!” Darius demanded. “Think!”

In any trial of power, Malcolm could break the feeble hold of Sarinian in an instant. But the light of the Avenger burned away all deceptions, all masks, leaving a man naked before his own image. Malcolm looked upon himself, upon his world, and he chose to help. The images gleamed forth again with a green mass of clouds like a monstrous gale coming into view, dark lightning flashing within, and Darius frowned, wondering at the meaning of the storm.

“Think!”

The picture seemed to move backwards, and they realized they were staring at a scene from the Plains of Alencia, with mobs of Northings fanning out in advance of the storm and shadowy figures of other soldiers lurking beneath its shadow. And there, clearly visible beneath the clouds was a huge darkness shaped vaguely as a man, moving slowly, steadily, inexorably forward: the Juggernaut.

“No walls can stand against a thing like that,” breathed Darius, the image showing the monster in its true form and laying any doubts to rest. “But we need a weapon, some way to fight it. You have the power, Malcolm! Find us a weapon!”

Malcolm grimaced, but Sarinian’s light held him to his purpose. The flawless view of the Northing army faltered and vanished, dissolving into a mass of reds and golds, a strange yet somehow compelling mosaic, and both men frowned, trying to discern something from amongst the colors.

Then, abruptly, the red and gold moved of one accord, and a monstrous face with cold green eyes filled all the mirror, making them both flinch.

“Mraxdavar,” cried Malcolm softly. Abruptly, he broke away, and the mirror went clear again. Yet his eyes returned to that mirrored surface, troubled by the memory of those images.

“A dragon,” Darius said softly, grimly. “And one you call by name. Wizard, you’ve had truck with a monster.”

“No worse a monster than you, Warrior, with your blood-soaked sword,” Malcolm shot back. “The dragons are a noble race, and if on occasion they have brought death raining down upon some village or town, it is usually because they were pushed to it by the incursions of men.”

“Or by a blind lust for treasure,” Darius countered.

“That may be, too,” the Wizard admitted, coming forward slowly. “There are evil dragons just as there are evil men. Now, both races walk in mortal fear of each other, and it is that fear rather than evil which contributes most to the killing on both sides.”

Darius frowned at the words and stared hard at the Arch-Mage. It seemed likely that Malcolm had been seduced by the dragon-speech, for any dealings with such creatures were filled with peril. Yet Sarinian was silent, giving no hint that Malcolm lay beneath the power of an evil spell. He looked into Malcolm’s cold blue eyes, searching him, and he saw only an angry conviction, an honest belief in what he was saying. Whatever errors of wisdom might lie in his judgment, no magics had twisted his mind.

“So this dragon…this Mraxdavar,” Darius said slowly. “He might be willing to give us aid against the Northings?”

Malcolm hesitated as he pondered the idea, and his eyes went back to the mirror as if remembering the face that had filled it moments before. He shook his head slightly.

“I can’t believe that he would actually offer aid,” he replied, clearly troubled. “It is true there’s an understanding between us, perhaps even a grudging respect. But he would no more put himself at risk to save humans than I would to save dragons. I’m not sure what his image in the mirror means.”

“It means this dragon somehow holds a key to the power of the Juggernaut,” Darius said bluntly. A wizard’s subtlety, he knew, often blinded him to the obvious. “Perhaps he has some knowledge that we lack, perhaps he keeps some vital item in his treasure horde that we will need, or perhaps he might be induced or persuaded to intervene directly on our behalf. Whatever the answer, it seems a visit would be well worth our while.”

“But not with you,” Malcolm replied instantly. “One sight of an armored knight with a great hacking sword would mean a fight for certain. If an emissary must be sent to Mraxdavar, I shall go alone.”

Darius studied the man carefully, feeling sure this was not the wisest course. Yet it was true that Sarinian would not bear to enter a dragon’s lair to barter for help, and a dragon was not likely to endure the presence of a Paladin of Mirna.

“Very well,” he agreed reluctantly. “I have no time for further adventure in any case. The Council of Lords meets in two days time, and many leagues lay between me and Duke’s Hall.”

“That is easily dealt with,” Malcolm answered. “I can send you there through the ether in a matter of only a few hours if you wish.”

“Through the ether?” he repeated dubiously. “You mean by magic?”

That made Malcolm laugh. “You have the courage to walk through the defenses of the mightiest castle in the world and face down an arch-mage, yet you flinch to profit from a simple spell.”

His face sobered as his returned the mirror wall, remembering all he had seen there, all that it implied. Finally, he said, “You may trust me, Paladin. I know not what fates await us, but this much at least you have proven to me. My path lies with you and not with Regnar.”

Darius’ face warmed slowly into a smile, and he offered the Wizard a half-bow. “It is good to welcome you back to the community of men, Lord Malcolm.”

Malcolm’s face darkened for a moment, and then it, too, warmed. “I had a premonition of this when Llan Praetor let you walk freely through its defenses, for the castle opens its own doors to those of great purity of spirit. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps the time has come to deal with my own kind and not just with the living rock of Llan Praetor.”

He paused, pulling a small amulet which he wore around his neck from beneath his robe. He studied it for a moment, then took it off and handed it to Darius. “Take this with you. To those who know me, it is a token of my trust.”

The Wizard stopped abruptly, looking up at the mirror wall with a small frown, clearly seeing more than was readily apparent.

“It would seem that you are not alone, Lord Darius,” Malcolm said, his eyes narrowing. “Llan Praetor is breached again.”

Adella! So she had found a way to enter the castle after all. Darius could only marvel at the woman’s bottomless resourcefulness, even while he wondered what terrible retribution Malcolm would call down upon this intruder; and how he might be able to stop him.

“Time might well be of the essence,” Darius said. “I…”

Malcolm smiled and held up a hand. “Your companions need not fear my wrath. Intruders must deal with Llan Praetor’s power, not mine.”

Companions? wondered Darius. Apparently, the wizard could not actually see the intruder.

“But if one should make it past the castle’s guards…”

“It is of no consequence,” Malcolm answered with a shrug. “My treasures guard themselves.”

To that, Darius made no reply, though he felt sure that Malcolm’s defenses would be fully tested by the time this invader left.

The Wizard took a step back.

“Come, then. As you say, neither of us has time to waste.” He held up his arms and began an incantation,
“Altro mir sanctar dey! Cal tralis vox!”

The great pentagram upon the black throne burst suddenly into light, and Darius found himself staring at it, his eyes held.

“Bendra mal aldro kir!”
cried Malcolm, and Darius found that the glowing pentagram had become the sun, the dawn gleaming full over the edge of the world. Both of them were high, impossibly high up in the sky, far above the tops of the mountains, and he was moving, moving at a tremendous speed.

“We shall meet again soon, Paladin,” came Malcolm’s voice from a great distance as he moved off in the opposite direction. “Though we both have long paths to travel. Take good care!”

“And you, Malcolm,” Darius murmured softly, having no idea whether he was heard or not. The land below him was passing with an incredible speed now, leagues falling in a matter of minutes, though there was no feeling of motion or wind. The morning sun was rising behind him, and he was flying westward into darkness, flying to where Duke’s Hall and the Council of Lords awaited.

CHAPTER 22

The Bishop

Bishop Kal’s heart was hammering in his chest as if trying to escape from the crime the rest of his body was in the act of committing. Never once since being ordained priest had he committed even the slightest infraction, his record and his conscience immaculate, and yet here he was creeping quietly down a stone-flagged corridor in the heart of Corland’s embassy in Alston’s Fey, heading for a secret room where the proof of Argus’ treachery against the Southlands just might be found. Two of his personal guards were walking directly ahead of him, and beyond them was a man named Altmeir who was posing as one of the Bishop’s servants. Altmeir, however, was a man with a troubled past whose special skills with his hands kept getting him into trouble with the authorities, the troubles ending when he had opted to become an acolyte of the Church. Now, for one last night, he was reverting to his old profession, though this time, with the full blessing and approval of his Bishop.

Kal had left Maldonar behind in the chambers set aside for them, the entire party having retired after a day of fruitless negotiations over the tithe. Whatever his allegiance to Argus, Ursulan was proving as intractable as ever in his defense of Corland’s gold, and even the embassy servants must have been relieved when the Bishop’s entourage had retired after a short, tense meal. No matter. It would only serve to increase the credibility of their mission, and if they found what they hoped in the secret room ahead, the tithe would be the least of their concerns.

Altmeir had come to a halt in front of a door, the door Ursulan had described in a short conversation after dinner, and Kal followed his lead, watching tensely in the half-light from a single sputtering oil lamp attached to the wall. The man examined the door carefully, running his hands lightly along the edges in search of some trap or alarm, and he paused at one point to work on some obstruction Kal could not see. Once that obstacle had been overcome, Altmeir bent down with a small tool in his hands, and after a few moments of fiddling, there came a welcomed click that resounded down the corridor. The man stood back as Kal pushed forward, taking the lamp from the wall as he unlatched the door and threw it open.

The last thing Bishop Kal ever saw was a puzzlement. It was the sight of Duke Argus himself along with half a dozen guards waiting behind that locked door as if they fully expected it to be opened by Kal. The next moment, a pair of crossbow bolts slashed into Kal’s chest, knocking him backwards and making all such puzzles meaningless, and he never heard the other crossbow bolts that slew his guards and the man Altmeir who would never now have the chance to become a priest.

Argus came forward and looked down at the body of his old adversary, the life blood slowly soaking his yellow vestments, the face etched with the blank amazement of death. Around the corner of the corridor came Ursulan with his small group of soldiers who would have intercepted any that might have escaped the ambush.

“Lieutenant,” Argus called to one of Ursulan’s guards as the Chancellor came slowly forward. “Go and insure the others are dead. Make absolutely certain of it. Then strip them of anything of value, take the bodies out into the alley and place them with the dead thieves. Even the most skeptical eye will admit that the Bishop’s party must have been waylaid by rogues when he left abruptly after we broke of the negotiations.”

The officer saluted and charged off with his men, knowing his life was dependent on the success of his mission. Ursulan had come to a halt above the body of the Bishop and was staring down at it.

“Do you believe that betrayers are condemned to the Nether Regions when they die, My Lord?” he asked softly.

Argus turned and stared hard at the little man, sensing a hint of weakness and therefore potential betrayal in the words. But Ursulan was merely looking down at the dead man, his face thoughtful, not regretful or distressed.

“I believe a man forges his own destiny, both in this life and the next,” replied Argus.

“And are we never called to account for our transgressions?”

Argus’ eyes narrowed. “Do not be blinded by the bishop’s robes, Chancellor. Kal was a cunning and ruthless politician, just the same as any duke, but he used the prestige of the Church as his authority and his force. He sought to destroy me, to pull me from the throne of Corland, and I answered him as I would any secular lord. We are the stronger for our actions this night, and our enemies are the weaker. Hold strong to that, and you will sleep soundly.”

“I am as always your willing servant, My Lord,” said Ursulan with a small bow. “That is all I require to sustain me through the night.”

Argus nodded and turned his attention back to the body, and he did not notice Ursulan backing away as he bent over the corpse. A moment later, Argus held up the severed head of the Bishop and grinned at it.

“My sincerest apologies, Lord Bishop, for such irreverence. But you were the price Regnar demanded in return for his aid. Griffin riders shall bear you to the Northings as proof of my commitment to our pact. I, in turn, shall scour the Fey and purge it of those I deem responsible for your foul murder and that of Father Maldonar, and my fellow Dukes will applaud the swiftness of my retaliation. So you see, a great deal of good shall stem from your demise.”

He placed the head inside a canvas sack and tossed it to the Captain of the guard who departed without another word.

“Come,” he commanded as he headed out the door. “We must make for Duke’s Hall with no further delay. The Council of Lords awaits!”

END OF BOOK I