Upon This World of Stone (The Paladin Trilogy Book 2) (11 page)

Now there was motion next to him in the darkness, large bodies shifting, dangerously close. The dragons were moving, swirling around him, their huge bodies slipping by with surprising agility, their scales whispering softly against the stone of Llan Praetor, and their speed seemed to increase with each passing rotation. Gold, silver, red, the colors becoming a whirl, a kaleidoscope of power and gentle sound, soothing, seductive, intoxicating.

He swallowed hard, actually leaning on his staff to support his tiring legs, but he couldn’t look away from the wonders unfolding around him. He was protected, he assured himself, warded against any attack of power that might be launched against him, his defenses as strong as they had ever been. He was impervious to any assault the dragons might put forth. He was safe. He…he…

No.

This is wrong, his experience warned him, terribly wrong. The dragons had become a cyclone of colors with him in the eye of their storm, a barrier of brilliant hues that played perfectly with his growing fatigue, sapping his ability to resist, destroying his desire to struggle. He was turning with them, caught up in the sickening motion, no longer sure where he was, no longer sure on what he stood. With a sudden exertion of will, he did indeed put forth his power, but now it was to resist the pull of those damned colors, to stop his motion heedless of what the dragons might do. He focused, putting his staff before him, magic and will exerted for a single end, to hold him steady in whatever space he now existed, and he was surprised to discover the energy would not take hold, dissipating even before it could form. Blinking, he suddenly understood that the dragons were not attacking him, but rather immersing him in a field of magical negation. A negation that had eliminated both the Sustaining Spell and the Invigoration Potion with which he had been staving off weariness, leaving him helpless in the throes of utter exhaustion.

A grim and horrible sound emerged from the swirling colors around him, the sound of a dragon’s mirth.

“You have failed even the first test, human,” came the gloating voice of Albathor, though by some strange trick it seemed the source of the words were somewhere behind him. “You are lost in the ether, caught between the eternal stone and the timeless ones, and from here you shall never emerge.”

Eternal stone…timeless ones…never emerge. Even as he strove to master his senses, Malcolm recognized there were valuable clues in the goads of his adversary, a lifeline of bitter hatred but a lifeline nonetheless. Anger suddenly surged upward within him, white hot anger that wanted to strike something, anything simply for the sake of striking, an emotion he had relentlessly trained himself to resist. But now it offered him one last chance, the final card he had held back for just such a situation.

He began to summon the full power of his staff, ignoring the colors, the motion, even his own fate as he drove back his weakness to gather all the power he possessed, an aura of light beginning to shine about him. His vision told him he was isolated and alone, powerless to strike at his enemies, but his mind told him his warped senses were now the only real shield the dragons possessed.

“Do not be rash, Wizard,” came the deep voice of Mraxdavar, and now Malcolm was sure the words were coming from behind him. Behind him, and not so very far away. “You shall have need of that power yet.”

The words gave him a point of reference in this distorted void in which he found himself, and he focused hard as he tried to gage where the dragon was. Behind, below, and only a short distance away…that suggested Malcolm was floating in the central chamber, probably no more than a few feet above the floor.

“Now the third and final question by which you are bound,” the voice continued. “How did you first discover travel through the halls of the castle?”

Malcolm had no time for such riddles, though his mind locked on the words and remembered them.

He found himself facing three choices. He could continue with the retribution and unleash all the power he possessed in a massive explosion which would almost surely kill him but would take at least two of the dragons with him. Or he could launch himself blindly downwards at the source of the voice, using his power as a shield to break out of the trap in which he found himself. Even if successful, that would leave him reeling and blind, exposed to the powers of the dragons until he could regain his bearings, and he rejected it for that reason. The third option was to launch himself at any other known and steady reference point, something that he could be certain was within the range of his power, and he knew immediately what that was: Llan Praetor itself.

Without further reflection, he chose the third option.

Malcolm slammed his mind shut, closing out all the distractions of his senses, even the dreadful sense of being exposed to the fury of his enemies. The dragon’s voice had given him the only reference point he needed, and he sent himself downwards, fighting off the shrill warning in his mind that such a move was suicidal, and for a horrible moment, it seemed as if the warning were right. He was creating a psychic hurricane that would take him somewhere, anywhere, other than here, a storm on which he would be not much more than a piece of litter, but one which not even Mraxdavar could control. The exertion of power spun him around, force collided with force, and he tumbled head over heels out of control. He bounced against something, but whether it was energy, stone, or dragon flesh he did not know. The stars had vanished, the trap now far behind him, and he grasped his staff hard with both hands as he strove to stabilize himself, to break the reeling motion and bring himself back under control. He hit something again, something hard and real, and he grabbed it with his power, anchored himself to this unknown mooring, the only sure and solid thing in the swirling chaos about him.

Then the motion was gone, the storm continued on, leaving him as part of the ruin in its wake. He struggled to stand, to be ready for battle, but with sickening certainty, he knew how exposed and helpless he was in that moment. If he were in the presence of an enemy, he would never regain his feet. He stumbled in his weariness, used his staff as a crutch to keep from falling again, got his legs beneath him, and stood upright at last.

He was in a stone chamber he had never seen before.

The dragons were gone.

He was all alone.

Keep hold, keep hold, he told himself as he resisted the sudden tug of panic. There is no imminent danger, no immediate threat. He got his breathing under control, and that steadied him; and as he forced himself to focus on his surroundings, the panic retreated and he was Malcolm again.

The room was smaller than the Throne Room, certainly smaller than the central chamber from whence he had fled, and it was made of a light grey stone that Malcolm recognized as Abamite, a material not uncommon in the myriad rooms of Llan Praetor. There was a twisted stone pillar in the middle of the room that appeared to be no more than a simple adornment, a strange design that might be sea waves or gusts of wind. And no sign of any door.

Worse, far worse, there was no design of stars on the floor.

He was in one of the “dead” rooms of the fortress, an area not part of the star pattern that was the key to travel throughout Llan Praetor.

He was a prisoner in his own citadel.

“…you have made your choice, wizard…” a faint distant voice seemed to say, or was it only is own conscience chastising himself?

No matter.

“My crypt is not yet carved,” he said to the voice, whether it be Malcolm or Mraxdavar or some haunting spirit within the stone. “This is but another step in a very long road.”

Nothing answered him, the silence a mocking challenge, and it was surely only in his own ears that he heard the two word response: prove it.

CHAPTER 9

Lessons by the Fire

The half-moon was lighting up the Mountains of the Winds, looking like the face of a god peering around some invisible corner to spy on the actions of the mortals below. Three figures were laying about a campfire on the plateaued side of one of those mountains, their posture suggesting the effects of a good meal after a hard day. The wind-boat now lay at the edge of the plateau, the rigging spliced, the hull repaired, awaiting only the dawn and a fair wind to launch.

Shannon had to stifle a burp that rose suddenly from a comfortably full belly, the result of a rich stew of smoked beef and stringy carrots that Jhan had prepared from their meager stores, the broth an admirable softener for the twice-baked biscuits which had been Adella’s contribution. The burp seemed to rouse her out of the comfortable lethargy she had been enjoying, and her mind went from the repose of this evening to the activities of tomorrow. That brought her to her feet and got her pulling a long piece of fine cloth out of her backpack.

“Come on,” Shannon said to Jhan as she wrapped the cloth around the blade of her new sword. “I need practice.”

“I’ll grant you that,” said Jhan. “But it’s been a long day. The time is better spent in sleep.”

“All the days will be long from now on,” Shannon countered. “Come on, sluggard. Are you afraid I’ll take you this time?”

Jhan smiled, but he pulled out a similar strip of cloth and began dutifully blunting his own sword, the cloth containing a fine steel mesh that prevented the edge from cutting. Adella said and did nothing, but all her attention was on the two young people. When their preparations were completed, they stood formally and saluted each other in proper fashion before assuming a fighting stance. Jhan attacked first, striking left, then right, each blow parried easily by Shannon, and even when he swung faster and harder to the left again, he hit nothing but her blocking sword.

“Fair. Fair and maybe a little more,” he allowed. “But you don’t kill an opponent with defense. Show me what you’ve learned.”

Shannon dutifully launched her attack, mimicking the very moves Jhan had used, though she swung with a speed than made him rush his counter. She tried a second time, forcing him to give ground, but she suddenly altered the pattern on the counter-stroke. She let him catch her blow and used the impulse of the counter to increase her speed, swinging around in a full arch to take his exposed side, and the trick almost worked. Jhan had to jump backwards in order to get his sword into position to block, but he shoved forward against the caught sword, using his size and strength to maximum advantage, and he sent Shannon sprawling backwards. He followed swiftly swinging with the flat side of the sword to swat her playfully on the butt, but the blow never landed.

The sword collided with an unsheathed dagger and went no further.

Surprised, both turned to stare at Adella who had thrown herself forward and caught the stroke, and she twisted the dagger sharply, disengaging from the sword.

“So this is how you teach her to fight, is it?” Adella asked, her eyes smoldering on Jhan.

“I’m the only one who will practice with her,” Jhan answered, puzzled. “She’s gotten a lot better.”

Adella snorted in disgust, slowly circling the young man like a lioness stalking prey.

“We’re just practicing,” Shannon interjected, feeling that something serious had abruptly raised its head amongst them. “I need to learn how to use a sword.”

“This boy isn’t teaching you how to fight,” Adella answered darkly. “He’s teaching you how to die.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s the way a thick-armed and thicker-headed warrior fights,” Adella explained. “Learn the way he uses a sword, and you’ll lose every time. Come, boy. Come and teach me how to fight. I promise I’ll use not but this little dagger.”

Jhan smiled warily. “I think not.”

“Strike, you bumbling simpleton,” she snarled back, “or I’ll throw you down and carve a coward’s rune on your bare rump.”

Jhan’s eyes flashed in anger, and he moved forward swiftly, clearly having wanted to swat this arrogant woman since they had first met. He came down as if to chop, but he suddenly shifted his hands to swing in a sweeping stroke. Adella never swerved in her circling. She struck upwards with her dagger, deflecting the blow and ducking under it, and she launched herself at Jhan’s legs, knocking him to the ground. He looked up just in time to see the dagger fly down and bury itself right between his legs, hardly a hair away from his crotch.

“Close call, that,” Adella said softly. “Didn’t hurt your pride, did I?”

Jhan leaped to his feet, but Shannon rushed to intercede between them.

“Your point is well made,” Shannon said. “But isn’t the goal to teach me, not Jhan?”

Adella’s eyes were still on the young man, her smile still dangerous, but slowly she nodded her head. “I suppose.”

“Well then tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

Adella shifted her gaze to the young woman and grimaced. “Everything. You have a speed and dexterity to be envied, but you sell them short to ape a warrior’s strength.”

She walked over to Jhan who stiffened at her approach, but she was looking at his stance and his shoulders, not his eyes. “Men are square and solid, and they are built for straight swings and hard chops. But women are curves and grace, and that’s the way they need to fight.”

She swept suddenly around Jhan’s back, dropping down as she did so, and before he could even begin to follow her, Adella had stuck two fingers into his rib cage, making him wince.

“When you’re fighting a big warrior, go ahead and let him chop,” she continued, springing lightly to her feet. “He’s committed himself to land a killing blow at a given point, and if his quarry is no longer there when it lands, he’s in a very vulnerable position. You must learn to take advantage of that half-breath of opportunity, and if you can do that, you’ll kill 90% of the warriors out there on the first exchange.”

Shannon frowned slightly. “And is my Father part of the 90% or the 10%?”

Adella smiled in answer. “You’re quick in more ways than one. That is one warrior I’ll let you judge for yourself. Come. Pick up your sword. You have much you need to unlearn before you take advantage of the skills nature has given you.”

Jhan sat down uneasily and watched a fencing lesson like none he had ever witnessed before, and he felt almost like he was spying on a ritual of a girl passing into womanhood. Blow and counterblow, swinging and movement, a dance, no, a ballet of death and of life, and as he watched, he made himself a solemn promise never to draw sword on Adella again. Nor, as the night lengthened, on Shannon.

*

Finally, Shannon backed away and half-sat, half-collapsed by the campfire, her arms too tired to even lift the sword again, let alone block any more of Adella’s lightning swift blows. But she had nothing with which to reproach herself. After more than three hours of training, Adella had managed to penetrate her guard only half a dozen times; and Shannon had actually managed to score glancing blows twice on her mentor.

Adella threw herself down by the fire as well and said, “Fair. Fair and perhaps a little more as our young friend would say.”

Shannon smiled, knowing that those words coming from Adella were infinitely more significant than coming from Jhan. She felt exhilarated despite her exhaustion, Adella’s fighting style a staggering revelation that took her weaknesses and made them a deadly strength, speed and agility overmatching physical power. She felt like a swimmer who had trained all her life with weights tied to her legs who is suddenly cut loose from her restraints.

She glanced over to Jhan who was snoring softly in his bedroll, sleep having taken him nearly an hour ago in spite of the violent training taking place almost on top of him. For the very first time, she not only felt no longer his inferior in sword combat, but actually his superior.

“Why…?” she began softly as she studied Jhan’s sleeping form. “Why do you insult him, so? He truly means no harm.”

Adella shrugged indifferently. “Boys need to be taken down a peg from time to time if they are to turn into men whose respect for women is more than words. Still, I’ll give Jhan his proper due. He’s held his temper better than many, and his tongue better than most. That speaks well of his character and perhaps his brains. Just remember that insults can also be a powerful weapon in a fight.”

“How so?”

She turned and studied the younger woman carefully before continuing, “Insults give a man the strength of fury, but they steal his sense from him. If you are fighting against that strength, you have reason to fear its growth. But…”

“But we are using speed to counter strength!” exclaimed Shannon.

“Exactly,” smiled Adella. “More strength means he will wear down quicker, and fury may blind him to the counterstroke.” The smile twisted slightly as she looked down at her great sword. “And an angry man bleeds faster.”

Shannon blinked at that, the cold reality of killing coming back to her. “We will have to kill many at Nargost Castle, won’t we?”

Adella looked at her in mild surprise. “If we have to kill many, it will mean we’ve failed. Three swords alone do not storm a castle or challenge a garrison. We must use guile and stealth if we are to gain what we want.”

Shannon smiled a little. “And will that be tomorrow night’s lesson?”

Adella chuckled and threw her sleeping roll at her. “If you’re anything like your Father, you’ll be a slow study in that course. Now get some sleep. We’ve a long day ahead tomorrow.”

* * * * *

Darius walked into the lobby of the Wayfarer, the small inn at which he was staying, after a long day inspecting the layered defenses of Jalan’s Drift. He had started his review with Lord Boltran who commanded the largest contingent manning the walls and Lord Mandrik of Warhaven who had the greatest experience with defensive positions, and they had slowly settled on the best distribution of the defenders for the coming assault. Then he had spoken at length with Brillis, the mayor of the Drift, along with members of her staff about such issues as the food supply, evacuation of civilians as needed, and even the quiet movement of various treasures out of the city. Finally, he had toured the defenses alone, speaking with the guards and the common soldiers who manned the walls to gain a sense of their experience and morale, and that had proven the most worrisome. When he had first encouraged the Dukes to sortie forth against the invaders, he had hoped that men who had seen the titan and fought the barbarian army would help deflate the wild rumors that marched before any new foe and perhaps bring a little stability back to the Drift. But the tale of an undead goblin army with the Juggernaut in its midst had lost none of its horror in the retelling.

As he headed for his room, he passed a doorway that opened on the small common room used for meetings or other gatherings, and he noticed a small fire burning in the hearth. Glancing inside, he saw a figure in the far corner hunched over something that was commanding his full attention. Stepping over the threshold, he realized the figure was Father Rathman, and he was even more surprised when he saw the item was a small mirror that was giving off a faint light of its own.

“Some clerics have labeled soul-viewers as magical devices and so suspect,” Darius said lightly, and Rathman actually jumped at the unexpected sound of a voice. “To find religious power from any source other than Mirna is to invite corruption.”

The man made no effort to hide the device or deny he was using it. He merely looked hard at Darius and said, “The depth and breadth of your knowledge count against you, Paladin. Some heretics can at least claim ignorance for their crimes. You have no such defense.”

“And what defense can you offer, Father?” Darius asked. “Can one who hunts heretics afford to sully his hands with heretical tools?”

“As you have said, Paladin, I am already damned. We must use any and all resources when we are faced with an enemy of such strength.”

One of Darius’ eyebrows rose at the man’s words and slow, grim tone, the voice of a man who has seen his own doom. Finally he said, “A soul-viewer is intended to help a man look within himself to reveal hidden truths. But it is also said it can be used to catch a glimpse from the outside world of matters of great importance to the individual. Such glimpses are dangerous, for they are always out of context and can lead to confusion and misinterpretations. I would take it that you have not been looking within yourself alone.”

“You are right.”

“And what have you seen?”

The man took a weighty breath, looking down at the now-dark mirror. “A haze of red within a golden light. The light stayed steady, but the red moved and grew within it. There was death within that red.”

“The golden light means the Church?” asked Darius.

Rathman hesitated. “Perhaps.”

“For you to see red within that gold can only mean the Red Priests of Bal,” Darius continued grimly. “You think the Red Priests have penetrated the Church?”

“I…I do not think so,” the Priest answered heavily. “At least, I pray it is not so.”

“Then what do you think is the meaning?”

Rathman looked up into his eyes. “I think the golden light is the life and wealth of Jalan’s Drift. And I think the image means the Priests of Bal have penetrated somewhere into the very city itself.”

Darius studied the man carefully, for he knew that dreadful though that revelation was, it was not the final issue torturing the Priest.

“But that wasn’t the reason you picked up the soul-viewer to begin with, was it?” he asked.

Rathman shook his head and looked away, answering with a voice very low, “No.”

“It was because of me.”

The Priest nodded, and for a very long time he said nothing. But Darius knew there were words seeking an outlet.

Rathman said slowly, his voice barely audible, as if speaking only to himself, “I saw it…in their eyes…when you passed them in the streets, when you were riding among them on the long trek to and from the battle, but most of all…when you stood alone against the titan and dared to strike it. I saw the respect. The admiration. The love. All that they should have felt for the Church, they felt for you.”