Upon This World of Stone (The Paladin Trilogy Book 2) (20 page)

“And to the east?”

They felt rather than saw Adella shrug in the darkness. “Strallia is the nearest realm, but I put no faith in their weakling Duke. He’d hand over his own mother if Regnar so much as growled at him. We’ve twenty leagues at least to travel before we reach the borders of Strallia, more than enough time to decide. Right now, we just need to put distance between us and the castle.”

“But won’t…” Shannon began, but Adella’s hand shot out of the darkness and grabbed her shoulder, followed by a single hissed word: “Listen!”

There was a distant sound like rolling thunder, and they all held their breathes as the sound grew, the pounding of hooves, heralding the approach of horsemen, and Adella stepped forward and drew the silver sword she called Bloodseeker, its cold light a deadly warning. Over the crest came a dozen horsemen who slowed immediately at the sight of Bloodseeker and the small party that stood between them and the hostages. Slowly they came forward, the horses blowing hard and lathered with sweat from hard riding. In the front was a tall man in the battered blue uniform of Nargosia with his one bright eye that studied them carefully.

“Flame my soul,” muttered Adella. “I never would have credited it.”

“Good evening to you, Matron,” Zarif smiled and made a formal bow from the saddle. “It appears you have fared very well indeed. Are these all of the hostages?”

“Every one.”

Shannon came forward slowly, looking with agony at the tired and the wounded men. “Is this all that is left, Captain? Only this dozen?”

“No,” he answered. “Exelar took at least two score westward, leaving a trail even a rock goblin can follow, and I sent most of my own troop south. They’ll draw off most if not all of the pursuit.”

Shannon’s shoulders slumped. Out of four hundred brave men, how many were now left alive? Eighty? If that?

“That may buy us a day or two,” mused Adella. “But even Northings will read that trail clearly, given time.”

“The garrison was much weaker than we expected,” observed Zarif. “Despite our reports, we didn’t find a single rock goblin.”

“Thank our sorcerer’s apprentice,” Adella said, pushing Jhan forward. He simply shook his head, mumbled something inaudible, and backed away.

Zarif nodded in acknowledgement, the gesture taking in all three of them. “Whoever might be responsible saved many of my men. The fools tried to face us in the courtyard, but they soon learned to stay on the battlements and rain arrows on us. We took our share and then made a lot of noise about the hostages being released and how we needed to cover them.”

“You actually told them the hostages were free?” Adella demanded.

“They would have found out soon enough, and this way, they took off after us,” Zarif answered calmly, his eye now on the waiting hostages. “You know, Nargost Castle has only been robbed once. A pair of thieves penetrated the treasure room when I was but a subaltern, and they vanished without a trace. We scoured the surrounding area for them, and it took nearly three days for us to find their trail.”

Adella nodded slowly. “And did they escape?”

“We rode them down and dragged them back with ropes tied to their heels.”

She smiled in answer. “But then, I wasn’t part of your quarry.”

“We need to move,” Jhan interjected as he looked around uneasily. “I doubt if the Northings will need three days to find our trail.”

“Don’t fret so, boy,” Adella answered, turning back to the hostages. “Thirty-six people for twelve horses with no more than a battalion of Northings in pursuit. We’re faster, stronger, and safer than we were five minutes before.”

“Every hostage is worth a regiment ready to march against the rear of the Silver Horde,” replied Zarif. “But that’s only if we deliver them safe back to their castles.”

“We have our task clearly set, then,” Adella said over her shoulder. “Come. The night is wasting.”

CHAPTER 17

Trials

Malcolm the Magnificent stood outside the main fissure of Caraluthax, the Mountain of Death, and tried to control the trembling of his body. He was ethereal, safe from detection from all but the eldest of dragons, and he was armed with staff and spell that would give him some chance in battle against even Mraxdavar himself. But it was not fang nor fire-breath that was making the Wizard tremble. It was the daunting prospect of entering a live volcano in the ethereal state.

Passing even a standard wall ethereally brought the chance of disruption of the spell itself and disorientation of the traveler, and only the most skilled wizard would risk entering even a simple house in this manner, let alone a mountain of fire. He had staunchly resisted trying to exit the prison room within Llan Praetor ethereally, for he had not known where he was or where he was trying to go, a virtual assurance that he would have been lost within a matter of minutes and almost certain to materialize inside the stone itself. Here outside the volcano, he knew his starting point well enough, and his three previous forays into the warrens gave him at least some idea of where he wished to go. But it would take all his skill and all his courage not to be destroyed within the fiery rock of Caraluthax.

He took a slow, deep breath and blew it out hard like he was extinguishing a distant candle.

“An old friend is awaiting my arrival,” he told himself. “I must no disappoint.”

With that, he stepped forward and passed into the stone.

* * * * *

Darius sat before the tribunal that would decide his fate and tried to keep his mind from wandering. It wasn’t easy. His thoughts kept returning to the Silver Horde and the Juggernaut, to the defenses of the Drift and the magics Regnar commanded, to the images of a dying Boltran and the sneering countenance of Argus. Here, he was no more than an observer, watching as others fenced and parried with words as they followed some arcane ritual that would finally, inevitably end with men marching him out to a wooden stake in the courtyard and cleansing his heresy with fire, sacrificing the body in an attempt to save the soul.

He let out a small sigh. He was dressed in the frilled white shirt of a nobleman and soft brown riding breaches, both supplied by Adrian (Darius suspected they were the only clothes he could find to fit a man of his size), and his hair had been washed and tied in a neat, simple queue at the back. He was standing in the ornate wooden dock that reminded him of a ceremonial cage, and at a table directly before him sat Adrian and Joshua, his advocates.

Three Judges sat at the high bench that dominated the room, their seats set back as they listened and rolled forward to command attention when they spoke, and Darius didn’t like the looks of any of them. The senior judge was middle-aged with a stern, hard cast to his face that seemed impervious to either mercy or compassion, while the judge to his left was a mere boy in his late twenties and the one to his right a dull relic of a man who looked alternately bored, distracted, or asleep.

Half a dozen armed guards stood near the door, and four clerks were busy with the paperwork of the court, scribbling away without once looking up. Standing before the judges and speaking with a deep carrying voice was the Scholar who was giving a summary of the events that had led up to the trial. The Scholar had the task of proving the charges against him, and the man looked and sounded more than capable of doing the job. Ebaras nar Etham was the name Adrian had used, a man who hailed from the eastern sections of the Mountains of the Winds, and there had been clear respect in the Prefect’s voice when he spoke of him. Tall and solid with a shock of gray in his jet black hair, he carried himself with a poise that went beyond the respect of others and showed he respected himself.

This is the man who is trying to kill me, Darius told himself, not quite able to believe it.

“We shall call only three witnesses to prove our case, Your Honors,” the Scholar explained. “These three have the longest association with the Defendant, and their testimony shall settle any and all doubts about the danger posed by this Paladin. We trust and expect that you shall bring the full power of the law to bear, once these charges be proved. I thank you for your attention.”

The Scholar sat down, but rather than Adrian rising to his feet in rebuttal, a man in the livery of the court stood forth and seemed to address the walls.

“Father Rathman is called to stand forth and bear true witness!” called the Guardian of the Court.

Darius leaned forward and whispered in Adrian’s ear, “Don’t you get a chance to speak?”

“No,” the man whispered back, his annoyance with the interruption clear with even that one word. The doors to the court opened, and Rathman strode in, dressed as always in the simple yellow robes of a cleric.

“But why…?” Darius began to whisper, but Adrian swung around and stopped him with a glance.

“You are presumed to be innocent, and therefore the burden is on the Scholar to prove your guilt,” he whispered tightly. “Now shut your mouth and do your best to show no emotions of any kind. No emotions, mind me well, no matter what is said or done.”

Rathman sat himself down in the witness chair and placed his right hand on a thick book actually embedded in the arm of the chair. This was a copy of the Catechism of Saint Horatio, a book that was said to shake when a lie was spoken in its presence and even strike out at the most grievous of offenders. Legend spoke of a sensational example several centuries before when a bishop accused of corruption had brazenly denied the charge when his hand was upon the book. The man had been struck dead on the spot by a bolt of lightning from the volume, bringing a very effective end to the trial.

Rathman went through the standard procedure of stating his name and rank for the scribes and swearing to speak only the truth as he knew it. The Scholar stepped forward into a small grey circle on the floor, his hands folded before him as if in prayer, and immediately a beam of pure white light surrounded him,

“Father, can you tell us what you observed on the night that Duke Boltran was murdered?” he asked. “I understand that you were on the battlements, only a few yards away from where the Duke and the Prisoner were standing alone?”

“Yes, sir,” Rathman said. “I had been directed to attend upon the Prisoner by the Council of Lords. The clock had recently struck the hour of eleven, when I heard a cry of warning. I turned to see a red cloud moving from the Prisoner to assail the Lord Duke, and I then saw the Prisoner raise his sword and strike the Lord Duke three times.”

Adrian got up from his seat, turned to the Scholar, and asked, “By your leave?”

“Certainly,” the Scholar said, stepping back. Adrian then stepped forward into another circle on the floor, and he, too, became bathed in light.

“The weapon employed by the Defendant was the great sword called Sarinian?” he asked of Rathman.

“Yes.”

“The weapon has a magiced edge of sharpness and when wielded by a man the size of the Defendant, it could easily cleave off an arm or even sever a man in two with a single blow, would you agree?”

“Well…possibly.”

“Did you observe any cuts on the body of the Lord Duke after his demise?”

Rathman’s lips pursed in distaste. “No, but that accursed blade…”

“Did you observe anything when the sword struck the body of the fallen Duke?”

Another pause. “A small cloud of red seemed to be emitted by the body.”

“Each time the sword struck?”

“Yes.”

“As if the sword were endeavoring to drive the murderous cloud out of the body of the fallen Duke?”

“Well, I certainly didn’t…”

“Do you know a Captain in the service of Maganhall named Pellis?” Adrian interrupted smoothly.

Rathman blinked, taken off guard. “Yes. He was Captain of Duke Boltran’s bodyguard. He was there on the wall with us that night.”

Adrian picked up several pieces of parchment from the table and handed them over to the nearest scribe. “I would like to submit for the information of Your Honors the written testimony of Captain Pellis and two of his men. All three state that they saw the red cloud rising from the ground, passing by the Defendant who attempted to strike it with his sword, before it went on to assail the Lord Duke. They further state that they believe the sword strokes from the Defendant were an attempt to save or resuscitate the Lord Duke and were not intended as an attack.”

He bowed to the Scholar who bowed back and then retook his seat as the Scholar stepped once more into the light.

“You spent several days in the presence of the Prisoner, did you not, Father?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You were with him when he was touring the defenses, speaking with the generals in charge of the troops, discussing strategy with the Dukes?”

“Well…much of the time, yes.”

“Based on these observations, do you believe the defendant is an agent of the Northings?” the Scholar asked directly.

Rathman looked over to where Darius stood silently in the dock, and he slowly answered, “I have come to accept that the Defendant is not actively conspiring with the invaders. But he also has no idea of the aid he has offered to them.”

“In what form was this aid rendered?”

“In the form of division and contention which he has sown within our ranks,” the Priest replied. “He has led away the Lords of the Southlands from the counsel of the Church, and he inspires them to follow his example, not the Church’s teachings.”

Without asking permission this time, Adrian stepped forward, again invoked the light, and asked, “This example the prisoner sets. Does it somehow deny the Lord Father or denigrate him in some way?”

“No,” Rathman admitted. “But he…”

“Does it directly lessen the authority or magnitude of the Church?” he continued, his tone one of honest interest.

“Not directly, I grant, but by…”

“And I assume, since no charges have been brought, that he has done no physical harm to Church property, structures, or members of the Congregation?”

“No, he has not.”

“Father, you are a member of the Office of Inquest, correct?”

“That I have already said.”

“Then you must be aware that the definition of heresy is denial or denigration of the Lord Father, lessening of the authority or magnitude of the Church, or rendering physical damage to the persons, properties, or structures of Mother Church. Your testimony is that the Defendant is not guilty of any of these.”

The youngest of the three judges leaned forward, commanding the attention of the Court.

“The testimony elicited by the Scholar dealt with the charge of treason,” the man said. “Your answer is to address the charge of heresy. This is non responsive.”

“I ask the Court’s indulgence,” Adrian said with a small bow. “The witness is called by the Scholar to address all the charges put forth in his indictment. The claim of the witness that the Defendant encouraged others to follow his example, not the Church’s teachings, opened on the question of heresy.”

The judges leaned together for a moment, a quick whispered conference, and then the lead judge sat forward. “You are free to pursue these separate charges during your own interrogation of the witness, Prefect. During the Scholar’s examination, you must limit yourself to addressing the points he has brought forth. The testimony of the witness in response to your questions is therefore quashed.”

Darius stiffened with sudden anger, but Joshua turned and put a restraining hand on his arm and held him silent. Adrian, also, merely bowed to the decision of the Court, though he offered no apology. Nor did he step back from the illumination.

“Your testimony is that the Prisoner is guilty of treason because he led away the Lords of the Southlands from the counsel of the Church, is that not correct?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“But the matters addressed by the Prisoner were of a purely military nature, were they not?”

“Not entirely…”

“Have you examples of how the Prisoner led away the Lords of the Southlands from the counsel of the Church on other than military matters?”

Rathman paused and said, “No.”

“Is it your testimony that the advice offered by the Prisoner to the Lords was wrong?”

“No, but…”

“Is it your testimony that the advice offered by the Prisoner to the Lords was offered maliciously?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then could he have not been simply mistaken?” continued Adrian. “A bad decision does not mean a bad general, and a bad general does not mean a traitor. Is that not so?”

The Scholar stepped forth again, reclaiming the illumination. “Your Honors, I fear my Worthy Friend unfairly twists the words of the witness. It is not anyone’s contention that the Church is more knowledgeable on military matters than the Prisoner. The testimony of the witness is that by subtle means, the Prisoner has used his military skills to drive a wedge between the Church and the Dukes and thus undermined our unity at a critical time.”

Adrian immediately responded, “Your Honors, the Scholar is too helpful in his clarification of the witness’ testimony. Subtle interference was neither said nor inferred by the witness.”

“Father, has the Scholar accurately summarized your testimony?” the lead judge asked.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Then the objection has no merit. Continue.”

Darius leaned over to Joshua and whispered, “Adrian’s words are overruled and the Scholar’s are all allowed. The word ‘subtle’ is not in the Court’s vocabulary either.”

“Patience,” Joshua whispered back. “Just because words have been disallowed does not mean they have not been heard.”

“Perhaps. But words heard do not mean words believed.”

*

Almost two hours later, Darius, Joshua, and Adrian were together in a small holding room off from the main court. The Judges had adjourned for the noon meal, and Darius and Joshua had been shown to the room and helped themselves to the meat, cheese, and bread provided. Adrian had arrived later after attending to other duties, and he was now hurrying to complete his meal before the Judges summoned them back to court.