A Rage in the Heavens (The Paladin Trilogy Book 1) (32 page)

Finally, she managed to say, “I’m Shannon, and this is Jhan. We can’t thank you enough for what you did. I’ve never seen anything like that: snatching a wolf out of the air in mid-leap!”

The woman shrugged, leading them away from the edge. “I had no choice but to try. When I heard the wolf howling, I thought he was hunting me. I spotted him a few minutes ago, and I watched and waited. It never occurred to me that he might be stalking someone else in this desolate wilderness, or I would have called out a warning. When I did see you, it was almost too late.”

“I think your timing was perfect,” Shannon smiled.

“Mmmmm, yes,” Jhan said, and Shannon’s eyebrows rose at the doubting inflection in his voice. “And can we ask what you’re doing way up here?”

“Certainly,” she answered easily. “I was acting as guide and companion for a warrior who wanted to reach Malcolm the Magnificent, the master of Llan Praetor.”

They both blinked at that, and Shannon asked quickly, “What is this warrior’s name?”

“Darius,” the woman answered. “A Paladin of Mirna.” When she saw the reaction on their faces, she asked, “Do you know him?”

“He’s my Father!” Shannon exclaimed. “Oh, please. Can you tell me where his is?”

They were now back to the little gap between the boulders from which the wolf had attacked, and Adella paused in surprise. “Your Father? He never even mentioned a daughter to me.”

“But…but where is he now?” Shannon persisted.

Adella flipped her thumb towards Llan Praetor. “Inside. He went in to meet Malcolm hours ago.”

“And you’re waiting for him?”

Adella shrugged again. “There’s only one way into Llan Praetor, but many ways out. I doubt if Darius will come back this way.”

“And I doubt if Lord Darius had anything to do with you in the first place,” Jhan said suspiciously.

“Jhan!” Shannon said, scandalized. Adella just watched him, a slow, dangerous smile coming to her face.

“You know your Father,” Jhan said to her. “Is he the type to abandon even a stranger in a place like this, let alone a companion and one who claims to have been of such service?”

Shannon’s eyebrows rose slightly, and she looked back at Adella, a hint of doubt in her eyes.

“You’re sharp, Young One,” she said. “And cautious. Those are the keys to a long life. But Darius left me here because he did not want to put me in even greater danger by entering Llan Praetor. I begged him to let me come, but he refused.” She glanced at Shannon and smiled. “And your Father is not a man who argues when he’s made up his mind.”

Shannon found herself nodding at that, but Jhan’s words had struck a cautious note inside her. “If you traveled very far with my Father, I’m surprised you didn’t see him in my face. I’m said to favor him a great deal.”

“I can see it now in the rising light,” Adella said.

“Liar,” said Jhan.

The woman’s eyes flashed at that, and her hand touched the hilts of the sword at her side.

“Those sorts of words get people killed, boy,” she said in a low hard voice that made Jhan blanch. “But if you doubt me, I can offer proof.”

She pulled a small golden band out from her armor and offered it for them to see.

“My mother’s ring!” cried Shannon.

“I saved your Father’s life on the journey here,” said Adella. “And he left me this as a token of the debt. Is that enough for you?”

Jhan blinked, not sure what to say, but Shannon immediately said, “I apologize if we’ve given you any offense. If my Father left you with this ring, it is the strongest sign of obligation that he could offer. I will honor it as he would.”

Adella’s eyes, however, were still locked on Jhan, and she asked in the same hard voice, “And you, boy?”

Jhan met her gaze steadily, but both he and Shannon knew that the next words he spoke would determine whether he lived or died.

“I apologize as well,” he said. “I still feel there is much left untold in your story, but I will honor this token, too.”

Adella nodded slowly, her hand leaving her sword. “Smart, cautious, with a steady eye and a ready tongue. You might be the only one of the three of us who dies in his bed, my friend.”

Shannon let out a sigh of relief. “Well, dangers or no, I’m going in to find him.” She started walking towards the door now visible in the dawn light. “I haven’t come all this way to turn around and go back.”

She walked right towards the door, though she felt the faintest tingling on her skin as she approached, almost as if she had passed through a thin patch of cold morning mist. She was about to grab one of the handles when she heard a gasp of surprise from Adella. She turned back to see the woman staring at her in complete shock.

“What’s wrong?”

“You are indeed your Father’s daughter,” she breathed softly to herself.

“Beg pardon?”

The woman blinked, coming back to herself, and then said, “Ah, I…I think I might have twisted my ankle in that tussle with the wolf. Do you think you two might lend me your shoulders?”

“Certainly,” Shannon said, coming back to her. Jhan took one side and she the other, and they helped to carry the woman up to the door, the strange tingling striking Shannon again. Cold, yet oddly refreshing, and…almost…welcoming…

“This will do nicely,” Adella said, pausing to quickly wrap a scarf around her ankle for support. “Why don’t you try the door, Shannon?”

Shannon paused to look back at her companions, wondering if they had felt that welcoming tingle, perhaps might even have felt resistance, and she was suddenly certain that the power, whatever it was, could easily have blocked either or both of them, regardless of how physically close they were. It was as if the power recognized they were now all tied to a single destiny…to her destiny…

She turned back to the door and was a little daunted by all the locks and handles, but she fearlessly reached out and grabbed the closest one. To her immense relief, the door opened readily for her.

She frowned a little. “Isn’t this…well, a little too easy? I mean an unlocked door for a castle such as this…”

“Darius must have left it open when he entered,” Adella answered with a slow smile. “Come along. I can’t wait to see his face when we catch up with him.”

CHAPTER 21

The Arch-Mage

The heart of the castle lies beyond these doors
, Sarinian said at last.
Within lies a mighty power
.

Darius looked up at the emblazoned insignia of a pentagram on the great stone doors which stood before them, an emblem that seemed to have risen out of the very stone itself. He could just barely make out the thin line which marked the juncture of the two doors, exactly bisecting the pentagram, and he could actually feel the potent magic that stood before him, a sensation like heat radiating on his face and arms.

He let out a long, low sigh. Sarinian had led him swiftly and unerringly through the bewildering maze of Llan Praetor’s corridors, and Darius knew that on more than one occasion, the great sword had staved off the castle’s magic, quelling the restive stone just as it had the gargoyle statues which guarded the main entrance. These doors, however, were not to be evaded so easily. Well, at least this will be the last test, he told himself.

Slowly, he lowered the blade of Sarinian towards the center of the insignia, and immediately, white bolts of electricity began to crackle between the two, the air sizzling with power. Desperately, Darius held onto the hilts, though the resistance was growing as he forced the sword closer and closer to the center of the door, each bolt like the hammerblow from an ogre. The electricity was swelling, flying wildly in all directions as if all the mountain storms of the last year were being released in this one short moment, and Darius was shaken and blinded by the intensity of the power, the hair springing up all over his body, his nose wrinkling with the smell of burning, his ears deafened and useless. His eyes blinked and rolled back in his head, his legs buckling as the power overcame him, ripping consciousness from his grasp. Something seemed to strike him, and he blinked feebly, willing his eyes to see. Slowly, his senses returned, and he found himself lying on the floor, Sarinian still clutched in his hands. And the great doors stood open before him.

He struggled to his feet, fighting down the weakness in his limbs, taking a deep breath. Then he stepped through the doors.

A giant awaited him within. A massive dais of colored marble rose thirty feet above the floor, ending in a huge chair of black obsidian, its base solid, its arms black claws, its back surmounted by a five pointed star like the insignia upon the doors. And on this throne, dressed in flowing blue robes, sat a man nearly three times the size of Darius with long black hair beneath a silver miter. His jaw was firm, his nose sharp and narrow like the beak of a bird of prey, and his eyes were bright and clear, the exact same blue as his robes. He seemed surprisingly young for one of such power and experience, looking hardly more than a man of thirty years, and Darius wondered what his true age was.

Two words only passed the giant’s lips.

“Pain, Warrior.”

Instantly, three rings of fire sprang up around Darius no more than an arm’s length away, burning him from all directions as if he had just been dropped into the middle of a furnace. He tightened his teeth to bite back a scream of pain, but the rings were tightening, closing in, the heat rising as they neared, promising to incinerate him when they touched. Sarinian surged in response, ready to break the spell, but though the fire and the pain were growing in tandem, searing all the skin on his body, Darius fought the desire to break the magic and so invite a further display of power. An endless moment longer the torture lasted, making Darius fear that the very hair on his head might ignite, the flames getting closer and closer still. Just as the agony was growing unendurable, the giant spoke again.

“Enough.”

The flames vanished immediately and with it, the pain. Darius stared down at his hands, half-expecting to see blisters or charring, but there was no sign of damage. The fire had only been in his mind.

“Never before has anyone gained access to Llan Praetor, let alone walked through my defenses and those of the castle with such impunity,” the giant said slowly. “Yet now you cannot break even a simple fire ring. You are either very weak, Warrior, or very wise, and in either case, you are no threat to me. Now why have you invaded my home? There are no heads here for you to chop with your great sword.”

“It is not my intent to intrude,” Darius answered, sheathing Sarinian as a token of peace. “I come seeking an audience with the master of this castle, who is said to be Malcolm the Mage.”

“And what would you wish of him?”

“To beg from him whatever help he might see fit to bestow,” said Darius. “A terrible force bears down upon the Southlands, and…”

“I know well the progress of Regnar’s Silver Horde,” the Wizard calmly interrupted. “Even now, death walks steadily towards Jalan’s Drift, and no force stirs to oppose it. What of it?”

Darius frowned slightly. “Does the fall of the Drift mean nothing to you?”

“It is a regrettable loss, as were the fall of Carthix and Nargost Castles and the other lands of the plains,” Malcolm said with a shrug. “Yet it is no more than a distraction on the edge of my world and holds no real significance for me.”

“Do the deaths of thousands of innocents hold no significance?” Darius demanded.

“People die all the time,” he answered coolly. “By plague or famine if not by war. It is a natural and necessary part of life. Would you have me feed and cure humanity as well as shelter it from the wrath of the Northings?”

“Every single human life has value,” Darius began. “Every person is…”

“I do not take well to lectures in my own hall, Warrior,” Malcolm said sternly, his voice rolling thunder. “I came to these mountains to escape from people, to forge my own community of one, and for many years, I have lived apart from them. Why now should I return to the treacherous, vicious world of men?”

The words, however, were not quite rhetorical, telling Darius that these issues were not new to the man before him, suggesting that he had been searching for answers ever since he first learned of Regnar’s approach. The task was to find that answer for him.

“Because all the peoples of the Southlands, men, women, and children, are reaching out and begging for your aid. The society that gave you birth and nurture now looks to you for salvation.”

That gave him pause, but his expression remained untouched. “They would make me a slave to their need.”

“If neither the past nor the present can sway you, think to the future,” countered Darius. “All people, from the least peddler to the greatest mage, must return home in the end, must leave their wanderings or their hermitage for a sight of their own kind. Will you return to the Southlands of your youth, or to the new iron-fisted realm of the Northings?”

The smallest of frowns touched the Wizard’s forehead, and Darius knew he had struck a nerve, a thought that had walked with this man through many long hours. But he answered only, “That future is still a long way off.”

“Then act in your immediate defense,” growled Darius, switching tacks. “The Southlands are no threat to you. Can the same be said of Regnar? Will he be content to leave a powerful wizard to work his crafts on the edges of his realm? Or will he seek to control you as he seeks to control the Southlands, to take your bounty as he seeks to take theirs? And if you sit idly and watch those around you fall, who will rise and come to your aid when the rams of the Northings thunder against the walls of Llan Praetor? Are your powers strong enough to withstand the force that can break Jalan’s Drift? Can you defeat the army that conquers the Southlands?”

Again, there was silence, and Darius knew his words had struck home once more. Malcolm glanced down for a moment, his face troubled, but when he glanced up again, there was a glint of grim acceptance in his blue eyes.

“My enemies are who I choose as enemies,” he said slowly.

Darius felt his jaw clenching as he understood. Malcolm’s lonely search for an answer had lead him to the brink of capitulation, of suing for terms from the tyrant, perhaps even allying himself with him. His mind had found no other solution, and the Wizard had long grown deaf to the voice within his own heart. Yet it was this voice which now put the troubled frown upon his face.

Darius closed his eyes, striving to open himself, to let an answer enter him. Great Mirna, he prayed. Give me some lead, some hope that I might offer, some way to touch the man before me. Slowly, a feeling came, dark and powerful, bringing words with it.

Darius opened his mouth, his eyes still closed.

“He comes like an icy wind out of darkness.

“He with red flame and green orb.

“He comes with power, the lightning and the fire.

“Ward thyself as thy will, no armor shall protect thee.

“For he comes with thy death in his hands.”

“What?” asked the Wizard, his voice low. “What say you, Paladin?”

Darius opened his eyes.

“…with thy death in his hands…” he mused, pondering the phrase. “These are no words of mine. They are an echo bounding within these walls. Perhaps from your own mouth. Or from your dreams.”

“Or my nightmares,” Malcolm answered heavily. He looked down at the floor, breathing hard for a moment, and said, “Llan Praetor gives such dark, rich dreams, as if living other lives in the passing of a single night. Those words you spoke come from those dreams. If dreams they be.” He looked up at Darius, his face at last showing a glimmer of his humanity. “When one spends his days alone, it sometimes becomes difficult to distinguish between dreams and the real world.”

Darius simply watched and waited, knowing that Mirna had answered his prayer and enabled him to somehow touch this lonely man upon the black throne.

“So you come to me for help, eh, Paladin?” Malcolm said slowly, considering him. “I have none to give you. You’ve come through many perils and more than a little pain, and I have nothing but ugly truths to reveal. How much more agony are you prepared to endure in order to face this truth you seek?”

Darius frowned, realizing it was a real question. Finally, he answered, “As much as is needed.”

The Wizard’s eyebrows arched in appreciation, and he said, “We shall see.”

He rose from the black throne, towering over the entire room, and he began to descended the colored marble steps of the dais. Each step brought him closer to the floor, and each seemed to shrink him down, passing him from titan size to giant to ogre size and finally as he reached the floor, to that of a man only a little taller than the average. Darius found himself looking down at the man who moments before had loomed above him like a god.

“Come,” Malcolm said with the pleasant tenor voice of a normal man. He led Darius to the right hand wall that was polished to such a high sheen as to be almost mirror-like, the reflection making the room seem even larger than it was.

“Give me your hand,” the Wizard demanded, and obediently, Darius offered him his right.

Malcolm grabbed the hand and forced it palm down against the mirrored wall. Instantly, a terrible cold such as he had never felt bit Darius’ palm, and at the same time it seemed as if each of his fingers had burst into flames. Instinctively, he flinched backwards, but the wall held him hard and Malcolm added his own weight, keeping the hand pressed to the cruel stone.

Then magically, images began to appear in the mirror.

A small cabin nestled among the high trees, Adella seated on a rock with anger in every line of her bearing, Andros trotting down a mountain trail, a sudden picture of Shannon laughing with her hair streaming in the wind, a wild collage of images that had only him in common. Malcolm bore down even harder on his hand as if to squeeze more from it, and Darius concentrated hard on the mirror, forcing his mind to think of the Northings and the invasion.

The scenes changed abruptly, switching to horrible sights of men dying, houses in flames, women and children fleeing helplessly from barbarians in hides gilded with black and silver. There were other faces looming beside the snarling barbarians, green reptilian faces with sharp teeth and a demonic gleam. So Rock Goblins were indeed part of the Silver Horde! Then, abruptly, castle walls were crumbling, great blocks of stone flying through the air like pebbles, and Darius watched closely, ignoring the crippling pain in his hand. There was a darkness there among the crashing stones, a darkness that seemed as tall as the walls themselves, and suddenly, two red-hot eyes seemed to flash at them out of that darkness.

“Do you see it?” cried Malcolm. “Do you see the face of despair?”

“What is it?” Darius gasped between his teeth, fighting the pain. Arrows, pikes, ballistas were being fired into the thing, to simply vanish in its blackness, the monster continuing on uninjured.

“Juggernaut,” Malcolm said grimly. “A weapon from the ancient wars, before the birth of men, when the Gods themselves fought for possession of the Earth. It has been conjured up from the Nether Regions or found in some hellish vault deep beneath the Earth’s Teeth where the gentle gods intended it to stay for all eternity. Released now to devour everything in its path. How do you fight that, Warrior? Tell me, for I have no idea.” He shook his head as burning oil poured down over the thing, to no effect. “The only people left alive in its wake are those who have sued for peace with Regnar. It would seem that is the only course open to us.”

He released Darius, taking a step back, but Darius did not take his hand from the wall. The cold was creeping up his arm, chilling bone and muscle both, even though the skin felt as if it were being broiled in a hot oven, but he fought the pain and kept his eyes on the mirror. Surprised, Malcolm looked up, seeing the images were continuing.

Armies on the move, men in silver and black and lizard-like creatures in heavy chain mail; horsemen charging across vast plains and archers raining shafts into the air; men armed with crossbows, cutlasses, pikes, and clubs, dressed in a bewildering array of uniforms and armor, charging or fleeing or simply marching over endless distances, a panorama of the turmoil and toil that is war. A face seemed to be emerging over all the images, a cruel face with hot embers for eyes, leering at the death and destruction that it beheld, and beside it was something of terrible power, its shape undefined, but its presence unavoidable, bathing the face in an evil green light. A sound like a gasp escaped from Malcolm, but Darius held his palm against the wall, his entire arm numb now, praying for another hint, another glimmer to guide him.