Upon This World of Stone (The Paladin Trilogy Book 2) (19 page)

Without hesitation, she did as she was bid, and Adella stepped on her back, repeating the same procedure with the overhead stones. It seemed to take longer this time, and the woman moved from Shannon’s butt to her shoulders several times before finally announcing success.

“Together now!” Adella ordered, and two women went quickly to the other blocks, throwing their weight against them. A moment of resistance, a moment of doubt, and then all three slid inwards together! When they came to a stop, the entire sword rack slowly swung backwards to reveal a secret corridor that seemed to slant slightly upwards into the darkness. Adella jumped off Shannon’s aching back into the passage, holding up the small light stick before her.

“Come on,” she announced. “Move and move fast. The goblins will have the ass of the last one in!”

*

Jhan was moving at a slow trot across the grassland, one eye cocked on the intimidating mass of Nargost Castle, though there were no guards in sight for him to judge the distance. They had all rushed to the gates, the gates that he had broken, the gates he had destroyed with a single cast of the wand.

“Easy, easy, easy,” he said to himself, both to keep his pace steady and to restrain the exaltation that wanted to burst right out of his chest. Perhaps he had the wizard’s skills after all, perhaps he was destined to wield magics like Malcolm and control a mighty fortress like Llan Praetor. He even began to wonder how they would have fared if it had been he and not Adella at the tiller of the wind boat.

The wand itself was now no more than a charred little stump like a stick from a campfire; the power that had thrown down the gates had also destroyed the wand, and Jhan was fairly sure Adella had rigged the thing to explode in one final ultimate discharge of power. But secretly, he couldn’t suppress the feeling that it had been his hand that had sent forth the lightning, his hand that had blown down the gates, his hand that had survived the destruction that Adella had prepared for him.

“Easy,” he said again, and he looked hard at the castle. Even at this range, he could hear the sound of fighting at the gate in the front wall, and a sting of doubt came back. Yes, he had thrown down the gates, yes, he had drawn every Northing and rock goblin to the main courtyard and cleared the path for Adella and Shannon, but he was now fearing for the fate of Zarif and his men. Had they all ridden through the gates directly into the courtyard? And could any of them hope to survive once the defenders had manned the walls and begun peppering them with arrows? He remembered the arrows launched at him from extreme range when he had begun casting, how two of them would have struck true had it not been for the protection provided by Adella. How many would miss their targets when the range was barely a dozen paces?

He kept up his pace, nearing the end of the castle, and he began to scan the ground ahead for signs of these Gatestones as they were called. Shouldn’t be hard to find on this flat plain, he thought.

It proved harder than he expected. He had walked so far that the castle’s walls were out of sight, only the towers peeping over the low ridge, and he had found nothing. He swung to his left, parallel to the castle’s walls, but the plains were unrelenting in their smoothness. Finally, he came around a tiny rise, and there, a few hundred paces away were perhaps a dozen boulders piled together, tuffs of prairie grass growing on nearly all of them.

He hurried over and first began looking for a trail leading away, but the grass was clean and untrampled and showed no sign that a large party had passed. Then he poked around the stones for a few minutes to see if he could spot some opening or perhaps a disguised door, but he quickly gave up. He sat down on the stones and looked back at the castle, wondering what to do if a party of Northings should sudden appear over the crest of the ridge.

If they see me, I shall have to run, he decided. But what if they don’t see me? Should I try to hide here among the rocks? Or might that give the entrance away? Maybe I should…

Something grabbed his leg, some creature reaching out from the rocks, an iron and hungry vice around his ankle pulling him downward!

“Uh! Uh! Uh!” he cried trying to kick at the thing with his other foot and hitting only rock.

“Shut up you damned fool!” came a hiss from beneath the stones. “You want to draw every Northing in the area here?”

The iron grip lessened and finally released him, and Jhan swung cautiously around to peek down into the crevice.

“Adella?” he asked.

“No, it’s the Demon Himself come to claim your useless hide,” Adella snarled back. “Can you see any type of lever or release mechanism out there that might move these rocks?”

“Nothing. I’ve been already looking, and if it’s here, it’s more than I can find.”

“There’s a shock,” she answered. “Look for a stick, a small stone, perhaps even an outcropping from one of the boulders.”

He looked again, then shrugged helplessly. “I’m telling you there’s nothing.”

“Alright then, stand clear.”

He had barely taken a single step back when a silver sword blade thrust upwards out of the crevice and began knocking steadily against the smallest rock in place. A dozen small blows, then a dozen more, the endurance of the arm wielding the sword impressive, and suddenly, the small boulder simply vanished, falling out of sight. The next moment, Adella squeezed her way out of the narrow opening and rushed to peer over the highest stone back towards the castle.

“Nothing in sight. Not Northing or horseman.” She frowned down at Jhan as she thoughtfully chewed her lip. Finally, she said, “See if you can fit down into that hole.”

“Me? There? Why?”

“These stones appear to truly block the tunnel exit, which will make it the devil’s own work to get these hostages through. We’ll let the Northings search for us during the day, and we’ll come out at night. With any luck, they’ll run off in the wrong direction and buy us the time we need.”

Reluctantly, Jhan began working himself into the narrow gap, and there were hands down in the tunnel that helped to pull and wiggle him along.

“I…I think I’m stuck,” he announced at last, the stone hugging his chest. An instant later, Adella’s hands came crushing down on either of his shoulders, and he shot down into the darkness below.

CHAPTER 16

Deep Plans, Dark Plans

“Have we a chance, do you think?” asked Darius.

The three of them were gathered around the small table in the middle of the cell where they had spent most of the previous night and all of the present day talking over the endless aspects of the coming trial. The single candle had been replaced half a dozen times already at Adrian’s command, and this one was beginning to sputter as well. The Prefect sat back in the chair, looking at the notes he had carefully scribed on the three sheets of parchment.

“The Scholar prosecuting this case is Ebaras nar Etham, and he is not an evil man,” he said simply. “If he comes to believe you are innocent, he will say so openly to the judges. But it is they who will arrive at a verdict. They too are honest men and will hold to their oaths of justice.”

The man stopped and Darius actually smiled. “I seem to hear a very loud ‘however’ at the end of that statement.”

The Prefect looked at him and considered for a moment before continuing, “However…they know all too well the impact you have had on the Faithful of the Southlands and even on members of the Church.” He shot a telling glance at Joshua. “Whether you intended it or not, you stand as a rebuke to both the Congregation and Dogma of the Church, a challenge to their claim to be the light and the way of Mirna. If once you have been brought to trial and acquitted, it will seem that they are sanctioning your views and, by association, condemning the position of the Church. It will take truly compelling evidence for them to choose one man over Mother Church.”

Darius nodded slightly to acknowledge the honesty. Then Joshua spoke up.

“Forgive me, Prefect, but while I have every confidence in your ability to argue an accusation on heresy, murder and treason are both civil charges. Should we not have a civil lawyer as part of this team?”

“I fully concur,” said Adrian. “But no civil lawyer will touch a case such as this. The chances of success are minute, and the damage to one’s career is inevitable. I fear the Prisoner is stuck with the likes of you and me. Are you satisfied with us, Paladin?”

In response, Darius looked up at the ceiling, closed his eyes, and softly sang:

“While truth you hold, no sword can bite,

No foe can injure thee.

If truth you yield and scorn the light,

No force can succor be.”

Joshua put a hand over his eyes and shook his head. Adrian sat back in the chair and said, “Accused of heresy, and yet you openly sing the Great Song outside the body of the Church. Have you given yourself up for lost, then?”

Darius paused and then shrugged. “I do beg pardon, for I put you both at risk by such actions. Old habits die hard and fealty to truth dies harder yet. As for giving up, I still have some scant hope. But I fear you do not yet see the true threat, the weapon Argus and Regnar have pointed at the very heart of the Church and the Southlands.”

“What weapon might that be?”

“Me.”

Both men blinked at him,

“After all the technical arguments and legal maneuvers have been exhausted,” Darius continued, “our only viable defense to heresy is to challenge the Church’s tenet that it is the sole road to Mirna, either by inference or openly. Do you not agree?”

Adrian opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again, and Darius almost smiled. He had spent most of his adult life wrestling with this very issue, so he understood the man’s reluctance.

“Not openly,” he answered at last. “But…”

“But if I am right, the Church must be at least partially wrong. That is the only defense possible, correct?”

The man gave a short, uncomfortable nod.

“That is the road to schism,” answered Darius. “It would break the Church between those who held to the old faith and those who accepted the new ways. You can be sure Regnar will drive that difference like a wedge into the heart of the Southlands; in truth, this trial may well be his opening hammerblow on that wedge. No. I won’t buy my life and freedom at the cost of the Southlands and the Church.”

“And if your challenge happens to be the truth?” asked Adrian slowly.

“That battle is for another time,” Darius replied. “Not now. And such a defense would play right into the Scholar’s hands, would it not? Would not putting forth the claim that the Church’s dogma is flawed bring a charge of heresy down on your head as well?”

Arian actually shrugged in answer. “It may.”

“Will not your execution cause the same schism?” Joshua challenged.

“No,” Darius answered calmly. “Some will consider me a martyr, to be sure. But martyrs die for you, not the other way around. No. We have no choice but to skirt the edges of this issue as I have always done, and trust to luck and the mercy of Mirna to save me from a sentence I so richly deserve.” He paused, his eyes going again to the ceiling of the cell, seeking the invisible heavens above. Softly, he added, “My life has ever been in service to Mirna. It may be now that I can only serve him with my death.”

The two clerics just looked at him, a touch of helplessness and despair in their eyes, and more than a touch of respect. They were men of faith hearing the catechism of a man who walked ever in the light, heedless of the obstacles and threats around him. Darius took a deep breath, tried to hold them at arm’s length. For their sakes.

“Let us bid each other good evening and get what rest we can,” he said. “It has been a long day for all of us, and we shall need our strength come the morrow.”

* * * * *

Two men and a woman were met in the inner courtyard of the MayoralPalace, the renowned residence of the Lord High Mayor of Jalan’s Drift. The building was of white marble quarried from the far reaches of the Earth’s Teeth and adorned with statues of angels and long-dead leaders. The courtyard boasted scores of exotic plants from across the wide world, proof of the range and richness of the Drift, and many were flowering with the first warm days of spring to fill the area with rare and delicate fragrances. It was close to dinnertime, the business of the day winding down at last, only a few young pages racing by to deliver their final messages, and to a casual glance, the three people standing here might be no more than merchants or city officials pausing to bid each other a casual if lengthy good evening.

Only a closer glance would reveal that they were three of the most powerful lords of the Southlands and their conversation was far from casual.

“Boltran leaves behind an infant son as heir to the throne of Maganhall, and the regent is a grand uncle older than Feldon of Palmany who has no interests outside his own borders,” Clarissa of Gemsbrook said slowly. She was a tall woman with hawk-like features and flaming red hair to go with sea-green eyes. “The Council of Lords must select a new leader.”

“By rights, Feldon should come next,” said Georg-Mahl, Duke of Hathage, with no conviction. He was a slight man with nervous mannerisms, but his eyes were sharp and clear. “Palmany is second to Maganhall by all traditions.”

“Feldon is a weakling and a fool,” Mandrik of Warhaven replied gruffly. He was a short bear of a man, with a bristling black beard and a voice like grinding gravel. “We all know he is not suited to lead his own realm, let alone the entire Council.”

“That takes us to another choice,” Georg-Mahl said quietly. “Norealm or Corland. Thrandar or Argus.”

The three looked at each other, the main issue now laid bare. The Council of Lords had deep traditions, as they well knew, rules handed down from on old that helped to maintain some semblance of order between seven fiercely independent rulers. Maganhall was the senior House, followed by Palmany, but after that, there was some contention. Norealm had generally been considered the third House, but Corland had been growing in both power and influence for many years, quickly eclipsing its northern neighbor.

“Thrandar is a solid leader and a good general,” Clarissa offered, but there were clear reservations in her tone.

“Solid and good, perhaps,” Georg-Mahl echoed. “But the times are perilous and demand much more than that. This, we all know in our hearts.”

Silent agreement, marked by a reluctance to move on to the next decision.

“If we three stand firm with Thrandar…” Mandrik began, and then trailed off, his conviction faltering.

“If we nominate Thrandar, Argus will never accept it,” Clarissa said finally, voicing what they all knew. “Openly or deviously, he will seek to undermine him at every turn. Remember, it was the Paladin who nudged Argus to act when the Maganhall cavalry was surrounded by the Northings. And the Paladin is now gone.”

“Whatever killed Boltran is still active,” Georg-Mahl reminded them. “It will do no good to nominate a new leader only to have him suffer a similar fate.”

Eyes met, and unspoken accusations floated between them.

“We must decide, and we must decide now,” Clarissa said finally, annoyed with herself as well as with the two men.

“Say what you will of Argus, he is still the best general among us,” ventured Georg-Mahl. Then, with an apologetic glance at Mandrik, added, “No offense, My Lord Duke.”

“Is that not our most important concern now?” Clarissa asked. “With the Paladin gone, do we not need the best general left to us?”

“Choose Argus, and we may escape the tyranny of Regnar only for the tyranny of Corland.,” Mandrik growled.

“We three and Thrandar will still lead the Council,” Clarissa countered. “We will hold Argus in close check there.”

“The Church, too, will be his counter,” Georg-Mahl said in a half-whisper, and he received guarded nods in answer. Argus had the tightest fist of any of them over his land, and yet the Red Priests of Bal were more active in Corland than any other realm. “The clerics will not permit the influence of Corland to spread far.”

“Argus will not be restrained by Councils or priests,” Mandrik stated flatly. “Only swords, spears, and sabers will hold him in check.”

The three were left looking from one to the other, a decision point reached.

“Gemsbrook will not abide a king of the Southlands,” Clarissa said finally. “If Argus tries to ascend the throne, we shall pull him from it.”

There was another long pause, the two men now staring at each other.

“Hathage will not abide a king of the Southlands either,” declared Georg-Mahl. “We stand with Gemsbrook should a war of succession loom.”

For an endless moment, Mandrik stayed silent, and they all knew the reason. Warhaven had the strongest defenses of any of the principalities of the Southlands and yet one of the smallest armies. If Mandrik sent his regiments forth in an ill-advised attack, he might have too few left to man those redoubtable fortifications.

“Warhaven stands with you,” he said at last. “My hand on it.”

From a window high up in the MayoralPalace, Argus looked down at his three fellow rulers clasping hands in the courtyard below, and a grim smile twisted his lips.

“And so the pact is forged,” he said softly.

“For us, My Lord, or against us?” asked Ursulan quietly. The little chancellor could barely peer over the high window to see the people below.

Argus paused before saying, “Both, I should think. They seek first to save their skins and their lands, and that will favor us. Then they plan to move against the one who saves them. They order the funeral, then hold back payment once the corpse is buried.”

Ursulan looked up cautiously at his lord before asking, “So our recourse is to disinter the corpse?”

“No,” said Argus. “Our recourse is to bury them as well.”

* * * * *

Shannon sat down on one of the Gatestones, letting out a deep breath and not caring if every Northing and rock goblin on the plains were just over the next rise. Off in the darkness came the ragged sounds of a score of people trudging through the night, and she almost despaired from the racket they were making. It had taken half the night just to get the hostages out of the narrow exit from the Lord’s Way in the Gatestones, and they had promptly begun to scatter, the young girls frolicking in their new-found freedom, the children running everywhere, even the elder ladies more concerned with appearances and the remnants of their dresses than in completing their escape. It had taken some hard words and more than a few blows from Adella to finally get the procession moving.

“Not the time for resting, I fear,” Jhan said as he put a foot on the rock beside her. “The trek has just begun, and Adella expects us to keep the stragglers caught up.”

“What in the world were we thinking?” she asked, mainly of herself. “Trying to flee across the open plains from a horde of Northings with a score of people who can’t understand why a coach and four isn’t waiting to whisk them safe home. What in the world were we thinking?”

“We weren’t thinking,” Jhan said calmly. “We were hoping. The mirror showed us what must be done, and we came to do it. Hope lead us to the flying boat that got us to the plains, and hope lead us to Zarif who made the rest possible. Penetrate the castle, bring out the hostages, and start the long trek to freedom without any sign of pursuit. If we had relied on thinking, we never would have started, and thinking won’t save us now. We can only trust again to hope.”

Shannon smiled in the darkness, struck by simple truth in Jhan’s words.

“Get your asses up and moving!” came a fierce snarl from the darkness, and they both jumped off the stones and onto the prairie grass. “Your job is to keep these geese in line!”

“They haven’t had time to scatter,” Shannon answered Adella despite the sudden stab of guilt. Then she frowned. “If you’re back here, who is leading the column?”

“Sir Robert.”

“But he’s blind!”

Adella let out a snort of annoyance. “In this dark, none of them can see. Who better to lead than a man who’s accustomed to working without his sight?”

Again, Shannon could only smile at the simple answer. Then Jhan asked, “Why are we heading east? I would have thought south would give us our best chance.”

“The Northings will think the same, I hope,” she answered. “But the whole mass of the Silver Horde stands somewhere between us and the Drift.”