Upon This World of Stone (The Paladin Trilogy Book 2) (15 page)

“Now swiftly!” Al-Lutrax cried, still prostrate on the ground. “Your quarry will not loiter for long, and the beast must feed on something soon!”

Snarling, Argus seized the thing out of the tongs with his heavy black mitts and hurried to the door.

*

Darius was standing with Duke Boltran on the ramparts of the third wall of Jalan’s Drift, the last wall that extended fully from the Wolfsberg to the East to Goblinshead in the west. It gave them a dominant view of the city below and its approaches, as well as the towering mountains and the star-pocked sky above. The Duke’s bodyguard was standing a few yards away to give the two men some privacy, and even Father Rathman had discovered enough diplomacy to keep his distance.

“Our scouts report the Juggernaut has stopped as if in mid-stride,” Boltran said. “They say the prairie grass has grown over it already like the stone of some long-forgotten citadel. It may be that single mighty blow your scored did greater good than we dared hope.”

“It felt Sarinian’s edge, that is true,” Darius answered. “But if it were dead, Regnar’s armies would not still protect it. No. I fear this earthen growth is yet another means to suck life to power this horror, this time out of the very bones of the world.”

Boltran let out a small sigh. “You are not exactly a comfort, Paladin.”

“I fear my thoughts are darker yet, My Lord,” Darius said. “This thing is no mindless machine that moves blindly forward. It has taken no notice of the attacks against it, for none of those attacks have done it harm. Now, it knows different. Now it realizes that there exist weapons that can do it damage. Sarinian has now taught it that it must attend to the ants scurrying about its feet.”

“So it will be all the more dangerous for that knowledge,” concluded the Duke. “You make our victory the smaller with every passing word.”

Darius said nothing, merely pausing to look up at the stars, their unchanging patterns like a permanent assurance of law and structure in a world that seemed so often guided by mad chaos. There was nothing to be gained by adding that the sight of the Juggernaut and the size of the enemy army were likely to lead to division within their ranks and play right into the waiting hands of Argus. Boltran would come to that realization soon enough on his own. Nor would it serve any good purpose to tell him that the Church was now much more likely to act against an heretical Paladin who had gained such notoriety in so short a period of time; that like Rathman, they would soon see him as a greater threat than Argus or even Regnar himself. No. Now was a time to renew one’s faith in order and structure by observing the constancy of the stars.

Boltran, however, was not content with star-gazing.

“You think our peril is somehow actually increased by this pause,” the Duke said, studying him closely. “When Death holds back its scythe, is that not always cause for gratitude?”

Darius turned and looked at the young man, impressed with his perceptiveness. Boltran had shown surprising wisdom to go with an unusual physical and moral courage that boded well for his people and all the Southlands. Provided he lived long enough to offer them that benefit.

Darius looked over the walls at the darkened horizon as he considered his reply. Finally, he said, “Tell me, My Lord, do we get stronger or weaker with the passing of time?”

Boltran considered for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. “Neither, I think. Our forces are already in position, and the flow of provider is now sure and steady. We have bloodied the enemy and can lay our plans from the knowledge gained. And while time may wear on our patience, it will also enable us to bring up the additional ballistas and catapults to give more teeth to the Drift’s outer walls. But that is not what you would say, is it?”

Darius smiled grimly. “No, My Lord. I would say that we are already under siege even though the enemy is not yet in sight of our gates. Our armies sit inside the walls, and old scores are not lessened by their idleness. The trade that has always given the Drift its wealth and strength has been strangled off, and every day that passes take a growing toll on the populace. Each morn brings another series of dispatches to the Dukes about troubles in their distant realms, robbers and pirates roaming unchecked, taxes uncollected and fortifications falling into disrepair, and men unaccustomed to being separated from their women and children will soon chafe at their absence. Our strength slowly wanes, while Regnar rests and watches and waits for the time to unleash his attack.”

To Boltran’s credit, his shoulders stayed straight and his head high as the Paladin’s words struck him, only his forehead showing the impact. His eyes, too, went to the darkened horizon as if he could see the campfires of his enemies around the hulking mass of the Juggernaut.

“When will the blow fall, think you?” he asked slowly.

Now it was Darius who shrugged. “When Regnar believes his strength has surpassed our own. That will be more than a day and less than a year. To the rest, throw a dart at the calendar. That will be as accurate a guess as any.”

Boltran let out a slow sigh. “It cannot come too quickly for my taste. I long for the chance to avenge the fallen.”

“The fallen do not seek revenge,” replied Darius. “They are long past such earthly cares. Vengeance is a flaw of the living, and we do a grave disservice when we attribute it to the dead.”

“It sounds as if you would offer council to a Lord of the Southlands,” Boltran said with a small grin. “My advisers would call that impertinence.”

“And you would say?”

“I would say it is wisdom to listen to the words of the wise.”

Darius’ eyebrows rose slightly at that, and they rose even higher as the man waited patiently for him to continue. The Paladin took a small breath before he said grimly, “War is always the most glorious part of governance. Until you see your first battlefield. Even then, all too many are caught up in the power of life and death, with the awareness that warriors will go off and die at the utterance of a few words by them. Such leaders are never good rulers, just as they are not good people.”

“Does being a good man make you a good ruler, then?” asked Boltran.

Darius smiled and shook his head. “No. If that were so, Paladins and Priests would make excellent rulers, and I assure that is not the case. A good lord is one who rules from the middle, a captain of moderation in all things who brings an even hand down upon any issue or problem that confronts him. He holds a vast amount of power, and if he rushes to one extreme or the other, he shifts the balance of the entire society with him. As in a ship, let the cargo shift to one side or the other, and the vessel will be in danger of floundering.”

“But what if that extreme is for the worship and glorification of Mirna?” asked the younger man. “Do you advise moderation even there?”

“You cannot mandate religion, My Lord,” the Paladin answered, “no more than you can legislate morality. Religion exists only between the worshipper and their God, and any attempt to expand it beyond that is to weaken and corrupt the experience.”

Lord Boltran stared at him in near shock. “Have a care, My Lord Darius. It sounds as if you would include the Church in the same ban you would put on the secular government.”

Darius looked at him with an unsmiling, unblinking countenance. “So you can now appreciate why the Church Fathers oppose Paladins, even when the fate of the Church itself hangs in the balance.”

*

Down below in an adjoining alley, a dark figure was staggering forward like a drunk newly ejected from a local tavern. But this man showed none of the merriment or bravado that often accompanied intoxication, and despite his swaying gait, he was clearly trying to stay as quiet as possible. Argus slammed his shoulder against the stone wall to guide him, his hands clenched beneath the black cloth as he tried to contain the power it hid. The flesh of his entire body tingled from the energy, while his hands and arms felt as if a hive of angry bees were crawling over them, only a moment away from delivering their deadly stings. The stable, the Red Priests, and even Al-Luthrax’s resurrected corpse were forgotten behind him, and his one thought now was to be rid of the abomination that he carried.

It seemed as if he had been walking for hours and traveling for miles when he finally stopped and looked up at two distant figures standing on the battlements above him. The one figure was very large, giving the Duke a strong hint, but there was no mistaking the identity of the second figure; the hive in his hands had burst into full fury.

With a snarl of anger and agony, Argus cast the thing out from under the black cloth and unleashed the horde of bees to find their prey.

*

Darius felt the approach of evil even though he could not see it.

“Ware, My Lord, ware!” he cried, ripping Sarinian from its scabbard. “Something is set upon us!”

It comes, Inglorion
, the sword intoned.
A hunger from the Place of Shadows. It comes!

“What is it?” asked Boltran, drawing his own sword.

Darius saw it for only an instant as it rushed up from the ground and swarmed over the battlement, a thing of fire and blackness that was given its form by evil, a spirit and a weapon both, striking with the speed of a monstrous snake. He struck out hard, Sarinian passing without resistance, and he knew immediately that he had done damage to the thing. And that it was not enough.

An instant later, and it was upon Lord Boltran, threatening to envelop him, and the young Duke stepped backwards as he struck at the nearly invisible cloud.

“No!” cried Darius as he leaped forward to strike at the thing again with Sarinian, but it was too late. Even as Boltran raised his sword a second time, the cloud seemed to soak into his body, dousing the light of his life as it entered.

The young Duke shook violently as if in the hands of an invisible giant, and the sword fell unresisting from his grip. A moment longer his body convulsed in a hideous dance, and then he fell to the ground, all signs of life gone.

Darius knew he had only seconds in which to act. Not to save the Duke’s life; that had gone the moment the thing had touched him. But to save his very soul from being devoured. He swung Sarinian again, but this time he put no strength behind the blow, and he brought the flat of his blade down on Boltran’s still body. There was a burst of white light from the sword, followed by a small cloud of red dust that seemed to billow off of the Duke’s clothes, but Darius knew immediately it was not enough. Not nearly enough.

“My Lord! My Lord, what is amiss?”

The cry was from the Duke’s bodyguard farther down the wall, but Darius had no time for them or what they might think of his actions. He raised Sarinian again and muttered a short incantation, “Ethro Mirna nam comans!”

Again he brought the flat of the sword down, and again there was a heavier wave of the red dust, vanishing like smoke as it was emitted from the body. It was working!

“My Lord Darius! Stop!”

A body was flinging itself at him, but there was no time to pause or explain. Darius raised his right hand, caught the man by the throat, and threw him hard against the wall, stunning him.

“Ethro Mirna nam comans!” he cried again, Sarinian erupting with light as he brought the sword down a third time, and this time, the mass of red dust ended abruptly, clear proof the deadly spirit had been exorcised. Darius knelt down beside the still form, looking close, and he could see that the features were no longer contorted in pain, the body now in the restful peace of death.

“I am sorry, My Young Lord,” he said softly to the boy before him. “You should have lived a long and noble life. Those that committed this atrocity upon you shall be brought to account. Of this, I give you my sworn word.”

More shouts, more threats, more leveled weapons, but Darius ignored them all, a greater duty calling him. He held Sarinian before him, the Sacred Tree of Mirna bathing the fallen in a soft light, and quietly, he sang a verse from the Great Song, the stanzas rising to the listening sky.

“Now Trueheart take your final trip,

Across the Astral Sea.

Your honor and your fealty safe,

Blessed by Divinity.”

“With heavy heart, we gladly take

Thy banner left behind,

Let Father take a Fallen Son

Two hearts forever Bind.”

“Sacrilege!” cried a harsh voice, the acrid sound of Father Rathman. “Put down your sword, Paladin!”

Darius slowly rose to his feet, holding Sarinian before him, the sacred Tree of Mirna still gleaming upon the blade, oblivious to the swords leveled against him. Staring up into the starry heavens, he slowly, softly muttered, “Great Lord, take this boy into Thy keeping, and bear him into the presence of his fathers where he may be judged by You and them. Raise him from the shadows in death as ever he rose from them in life.”

For a moment longer he stood there, and the guards shared his silence, all hearts touched by the simple blessing for a fallen comrade. Then Darius turned to them.

“I tell you for the last time to put down your sword,” Rathman said grimly. “Guards! Do your duty!”

“You…you must come with us, Paladin,” a young guard was saying, his eyes wide, the ready sword quivering slightly in his hands. He wore the golden armor of Maganhall and the insignia of a subaltern, and Darius realized the man’s fear came as much from facing him with the gleaming great sword in his hands as finding his lord dead at his feet.

“I am innocent of any harm to Lord Boltran, but I will come with you peacefully,” he said as he calmly dropped Sarinian to the stone walkway, the cold ring of its fall echoing along the battlements. “I advise you to have a care handling that sword.”

CHAPTER 13

Malcolm’s Choice

Malcolm the Magnificent was scribbling on the walls of his prison cell.

The clean surface was covered with runes, phrases, even pictures, an array of thoughts related to his imprisonment and the events that lead up to it, as a conjured quill with an endless supply of magical ink floated in the air ready to scribe down the next item at Malcolm’s behest.

Scribing was a means of focusing, and Malcolm was becoming ever more focused as he studied the lost room within Llan Praetor in which he found himself imprisoned.

Not frustrated. Frustration was to dwell on the past, wasting crucial thoughts on matters that were now history, to make every effort a self-fulfilling prophecy so that all future attempts would end in the same ignoble state as the others.

Not angry. Anger was to indulge in the emotions of the present and cloud the mind with images of injustice and vengeance that had no part in finding a solution to the problem.

And certainly not frightened. Fear was a prediction of future disaster, the mind allowing itself to contemplate entombment within the walls, never to see the light of day again, never to breathe the fresh air of the mountains, never to see another living face…

No.

Focused.

Bringing all his powers and wisdom to bear on the issue, leaving no option excluded, considering every perspective of his dilemma in order to find a way out. The quill automatically began inscribing the word “focus” on the wall, and Malcolm raised two fingers and brought the feathered scribe back to his hand. That was one word he did not need repeated further.

“Every problem has a solution,” he said clearly and loudly as if addressing a companion. “That is the first rule of magic.”

He had taken to speaking to the ornate statue in the middle room as if it were a fellow captive, partly to counter the growing sense of isolation that was trying to impose itself upon him, partly because putting thoughts into physical words was a valuable discipline, and partly because he had learned years ago that Llan Praetor itself was at least semi-conscious, the stone vaguely aware of the events transpiring within it. It might be no more than a flea speaking to the horse on which it was riding, but if it gave the flea some sense of holding the reins, what was the harm?

“Old Eldecleses would have beaten me bloody for taking so long on a single task,” he said with a rueful smile as he remembered his first tutor of magic. “Review, he would say. Review, speculate, hypothesize, and test, the four keys to unlock every door.”

The problem was there were so many strange details to be reviewed, which was the original reason for conjuring the quill scribe.

He kept his eyes resolutely away from a single rune off to the left, quarantined from the rest of the writing, a symbol of three interlocked triangles that represented the Astral Plane. If all else failed and no other recourse were available, Malcolm would go ethereal and try to leave via the Astral Plane. Astral travel through any sort of solid material risked disorientation that could easily disrupt the spell and eject the caster out of the Astral Plane and right into the material through which he was attempting to pass, essentially entombing him in solid rock. But risky as passing through standard rock might be, Llan Praetor was much more dangerous, its energies almost certain to cause the fatal disorientation.

Resolutely, Malcolm turned away from those three interlocked triangles, determined to find another solution.

One entire wall was covered with script beneath the heading of a single dragon rune, clear proof of the dominant position the great wyrms had in the Wizard’s thoughts. The ability and knowledge of the dragons had opened the main gates of the citadel that had defied all of Malcolm’s efforts and power for two decades. It was clear they had no need of his puny efforts to gain entry, so why had they made the pact with him in the first place?

Llan Praetor, he believed, was associated with giants. The sheer size of the rooms and passages suggested as much, but the artistry, the design, the latent power of the castle suggested giants of that distant time were a far different species from the savage brutes that now bore the name. And dragons and giants had ever been the deadliest of enemies, once contending against each other for mastery of the entire world, a struggle that had resulted in the decline of both lines and the gradual ascension on humanity. But that struggle lay in the remote past, the current race of giants dispersed and leaderless, no threat to anyone, let alone Mraxdavar and his children. Why, then, had the Eldest Dragon sought to enter this citadel of his ancient vanquished foes?

“You have failed even the first test, human,” Albathor had said to him as he thrashed within the dragon’s trap. “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. Albathor had been thirsting to pay off old scores against a mortal who had humiliated him in the presence of his august father, so Malcolm felt quite sure the dragon would not have sullied the moment of revenge with lies or half-truths.

With time to reflect, it was now painfully clear that the dragons had played him for a fool from the very first, engaging him in the lengthy discussions in the dragon warrens to wear him down and force him to use the Sustaining Spell in order to keep pace with them, an easily predictable spell given the circumstances. Then he had focused almost exclusively on Mraxdavar and ignored the fact that both of his children were worthy spell casters in their own right. Fool! He had thought himself cunning when he had insisted on Mraxdavar bringing them along, their vulnerability the key to his safety, when in reality, it was they who had slowly undermined the Sustaining Spell and magnified the natural exhaustion that always followed its use.

It was so infuriatingly simple now that he had ample time to reflect upon it. The dragons had put him off his guard through one of his greatest weaknesses, his thirst for knowledge about Llan Praetor, and once he had been sufficiently distracted, it had been only a minor task to drain his strength at the right time and leave him helpless. He shook his head. All the convoluted questions surrounding the dragons would fall in place in due course. He must first resolve the problem of his immediate surroundings.

“There is no hidden door in the walls, in the ceiling, or in the floor,” Malcolm said out loud. “No physical entry of any kind.”

Interestingly enough, whether by madness or wishful thinking or some echo of his own mind, it had begun to seem as if the pillar were making some answer to him, and he smiled slightly as it whispered back his question.

“But if a room exists, there has to be some kind of door into it,” Malcolm reasoned with the pillar. “Entry is a vital and necessary part of the act of creation. Whether it be through stone or ether or the corridors of the mind itself, the engineer must be able to reach the area in order to make a space.”

…but why…
came the spectral voice.

Malcolm’s eyebrows rose at the question, seeing it not as a challenge but as a shift in emphasis. Why, indeed? Why build such a room at all? He had been aware of the existence of these “dead-ends” for years and had always been careful to avoid them, knowing the threat they posed, and he had simply assumed they were originally intended as some sort of storage area, perhaps even treasuries (though now he was adding prison cell to that list of possibilities). What if there was some other choice, however, some option he had ignored after his first dismissive thought? He frowned, a finger going to the tip of his nose and tapping it lightly, an automatic gesture of concentration of which he wasn’t even aware.

“What if it is intended as some form of study point?” the Wizard speculated. “A scholar’s cell where an individual might escape the noise and distractions of the fortress for solitude in some academic pursuit. A sculpture might be the perfect centerpiece for such a purpose.”

…not students…
came the whispered response, and, Malcolm had to nod. He had found many indications about the previous occupants of Llan Praetor, signs of their power, their skill, and their incisiveness, but he had to admit that nowhere had he found any sign of scholastic tendencies. Indeed, he had often been puzzled and even appalled by the indications he had uncovered of great power not balanced by great wisdom.

“Perhaps they are reception areas,” Malcolm suggested. “It has been clear all along that the fortress can transport beings to far places, always offering a way out. Perhaps in some fashion, these are a way in.”

…as you came in…
said the voice.

Malcolm nodded, intrigued, the thought explaining how he might have ended here when he threw himself blindly out of the dragons’ trap, and it gave him a completely different perspective on his surroundings. The statue suddenly assumed some practical purpose, its twisted form now functional rather than aesthetic, and he examined it as if for the first time, even though he had studied it a hundred times before. Possible. Yes, it did indeed seem possible. But even if he were right, and the statue was a device for beings entering Llan Praetor, what good could that be to him?

…an affinity…for the fortress…
the voice said unexpectedly, and Malcolm’s jaw dropped. Suddenly, it was if light had sprung up in a darkened room, bringing everything into sight. It all came together in a single mind-boggling epiphany.

The closeness he had always felt for the citadel, the belief that there was a latent intelligence within the stone, an entity with which he might communicate if he could just find the right “language”, the right means of translation.

His fixation that had held him here for more than twenty years, cutting himself off from his own species in his desire to draw closer to the entity that is Llan Praetor, to finally hear the voice of the living stone…the living stone that now, at last, seemed to be reaching out to him…

And finally, the reason the Dragons had not entered the citadel without him. He had an affinity with the fortress and they knew it, an affinity that helped to shield them, an affinity that held off any retribution, an affinity that perhaps alone allowed them to enter. He remembered the questions that had been posed to him, the questions that were to reveal as much about the questioner as the answers themselves. The questions had probed Malcolm’s own relationship with the castle, and that would have told the dragons much of Llan Praetor’s current state. But it had also called Malcolm’s attention to his own history with the fortress, a review that a mortal, and one long removed from others of his kind, might easily have ignored. The last of Mraxdavar’s three questions now came unbidden into his mind: “How did you first discover travel through the halls of the castle?”

Malcolm actually smiled at the pillar as the simple response came to him: I learned to trust the stone.

“Then I have my answer,” he said to the voice within himself. “This is a prison of my own making. And the exit is right here within my own hands.”

He knew immediately that this was the best answer he would produce, and he also knew himself well enough to realize he would waste days reviewing and reconsidering all the options, procrastinating under the guise of being careful and thorough, losing time he simply could not afford. Without allowing himself to think, he turned to the statue in the middle of the room and cast a simple Entry spell as if he had done it hundred times before, sending his body blindly into the stone and entrusting his life to the silent rock of Llan Praetor. An instant at later and he was gone, a prisoner no longer, leaving behind an empty room, a discarded quill, and a glowing, pulsating pillar.