Upon This World of Stone (The Paladin Trilogy Book 2) (5 page)

“You are far too rash, Albathor,” Malcolm said calmly to the dragon, knowing that hearing his proper name from the lips of a mortal would be even more degrading than being held by the spell. “Your youth has betrayed you. Even a wizard’s apprentice knows a dragon can have no magical protections up if he is using his fire-breath.”

“And what do novices know of a father’s wrath?” asked a deep voice behind him. Malcolm whirled instantly, his stomach churning with fear at being caught unprepared. There, rising up from the floor of the cave was the head of a gigantic dragon, nearly twice the size of the prostrate Albathor, its whiskers as thick as a man’s arm, its white teeth each the length of a full double-handed sword.

Mraxdavar, breathed Malcolm to himself. And he’s caught me in a corridor of his own choosing. A gesture with his staff released the force holding down the younger dragon, and a subtle twist of a ring on Malcolm’s right hand lifted himself from the ground and carried him slowly back down one of the broader corridors. Albathor roared his fury, shaking his neck in preparation for a lunge at his retreating tormentor, but a hiss from the Eldest Dragon brought him up abruptly. Yellow eyes gleamed at each other in the darkness, unspoken messages being exchanged, and finally, Albathor slowly retreated, his eyes like venom still burning the wizard who had humiliated him.

Malcolm’s instincts warned him this tunnel was the very course Mraxdavar wanted him to take, a long, wide corridor with numerous side tunnels, but there simply wasn’t any other choice. He went only a short distance along, however, before settling himself back down on the stone floor, preferring to be uncomfortably close to the master of the tunnels than what might be lurking in the labyrinth farther back.

Mraxdavar took a heavy step forward, the ground actually trembling from the blow as the great dragon revealed more of himself. Huge and glistening, gigantic muscles flexing beneath armored scales, moving with a snake-like speed despite his size, Mraxdavar radiated power, the ability to easily obliterate anything as small and insignificant as a human being, but Malcolm held his ground, holding his staff slightly ahead, power coursing up and down the wood in warning. It was clear the intruder would not be pushed further down the corridor, so the dragon, too, came to a halt.

“My son will one day crush your bones between his teeth for this offense,” breathed the dragon slowly, his eyes glinting with a light of their own in the darkness. “He will dream restlessly of your blood through all the long ages of his life.”

The voice filled the corridor, surrounding Malcolm, threatening to enchant him with its sheer volume. He held off the fascination and shook off the fear, staring at the monster’s long neck to avoiding the hazard of those shining eyes while still watching him carefully.

“If this is the extent of his ability, then he faces a long life of frustration,” the Wizard answered. “To match his father’s power, he must first match his wisdom.”

“Perhaps. But it depends still more on the power of his prey.”

The dragon’s head was in slow, constant motion, the movement itself hypnotic, its sweeping eyes trying ever to catch his glance, to drive home its overwhelming presence on this mere mortal, to capture him in the dragon-spell. Malcolm was ever cautious to avoid the eyes, and never to let his attention slip for even a moment.

“You have risked much to return to my home unbidden,” the Dragon said. “Have you come seeking treasure?”

“Aye,” answered Malcolm, “the greatest treasure of all. I come seeking the aid and counsel of the Lord of Dragons, the Master of Fire and Air.”

“Indeed?” the dragon whispered, and there was the slightest touch of amusement in his deep voice. “And what matter could be of such import for you to risk instant death?”

The voice, too, was melodic, rhythmic, seeking to capture his attention, to hold him captive with words. Malcolm cleared his throat harshly, the echoing sound helping to hold the Dragon’s voice at bay.

“There is a mighty movement of creatures of my kind across the northern plain,” he said. “An invasion the like of which has never before been seen.”

“Alacon Regnar and his tribes of barbarians,” sighed the dragon. “But the movement of such ants is nothing to me. If humans kill each other, it makes the world a safer place for all other creatures.”

“But Regnar brings with him an army of Rock Goblins,” Malcolm answered, knowing the name would send a shiver of hatred through the dragon. “A long train of the creatures marches out of the Earth’s Teeth, bearing down on the Mountains of the Winds. Bearing down, perhaps, on these very caves.”

The gigantic front claw came forward a half-pace, the cave shaking slightly from its impact, and Malcolm took a breath and concentrated. Immediately, a faint sparkling sphere became visible around him, the myriad lights warning Mraxdavar that the intruder was not defenseless, and a tiny tremble ran through the rock right beneath that massive claw. The dragon remained where he was, but he seemed to ease back slightly, recognizing that any further advance would be met with real power. Malcolm let the sphere vanish again, but he knew his position was growing slowly, steadily more precarious, that each ploy and gambit laid bear another layer of his defenses, supplying another key to this ancient master, giving him a base from which to probe further.

If Mraxdavar uncovered all his defenses before the conversation was completed, Albathor would not have to wait and dream of his revenge. Malcolm’s bones would join all the others that littered the glittering caves.

“We have dealt with the Rock Goblins before,” the dragon answered, settling down to play with words again. “They are naught but fleas to my race.”

“An army of stinging fleas can fell even the proudest of creatures,” Malcolm countered. “And they are not alone. You know what leads this army, what walks unhindered through stone and space, what comes upon you again from out of the darkness of time.”

Mraxdavar paused, clearly pondering how much this human actually knew, how much of what he said was knowledge, how much conjecture, and how much pure bluff. But even the pause told Malcolm much. The Dragons had been born before the time of men, and Malcolm had learned they had been involved in the Ancient Wars when the gods had striven against each other for dominance of the world, the time when the Juggernaut itself had been created. It had been a guess that the Juggernaut was linked with the enemies of the great wyrms, but Mraxdavar’s reaction told him he had guessed correctly.

The Eldest Dragon coiled his huge body once as a sign of annoyance, but Malcolm smiled openly. Darius had recognized the significance of the dragon’s appearance in the mirror-wall, but he had not grasped the extent of aid that was possible from this source. If Mraxdavar were to summon all the creatures subject to him and lead a determined attack upon the Northings, he might be able to turn the invasion back by himself. But it would be hard enough to induce him to offer any help at all, let alone an all-out effort.

There was the softest of sounds behind him, the suggestion of a stealthy approach, and without turning, Malcolm caused the tunnels behind him to burst into light. There was a startled movement, and the sound retreated, the approaching creature having recognized its peril. Another ploy, another counter, and nothing escaped the watchful gaze of the master of the caves.

He could not win a matching of power, not here. Mraxdavar had spent centuries crafting his lair to focus his energies and put any intruder at a disadvantage, and it was now clear he had been aware of Malcolm’s presence moments after he entered the caves. That would have given him ample time to work any magics he might wish, for Mraxdavar was a redoubtable spell-caster, perhaps even more accomplished than Malcolm himself. Even now, those magics seemed to flicker across the dragon’s scales, sheer power with an unknown purpose awaiting only a thought or a gesture to be released, striking outward within the blink of a human eye.

“The red feather has been sent forth,” the Dragon answered casually. “The armies of the Southlands are already gathering even as the Dukes sit in Council. Yet they shall march only to their deaths.”

Malcolm’s eyebrows rose the slightest fraction at the extent of Mraxdavar’s information, which also inferred his interest in the subject. And he knew the dragon would not have revealed his knowledge without a specific purpose.

“If you know they march to their deaths,” observed Malcolm shrewdly, “then you must also know how the slaughter might be prevented. Will you not offer us aid against this common foe?”

“Aid?” scoffed the Dragon. “The Rock Goblins might be vicious, but man has ever been our deadliest enemy. What can you possibly offer to induce us to aid our killers?”

“Access to the Castle of the Winds,” Malcolm replied, using the Dragon’s name for Llan Praetor. The Dragon’s head rose in surprise, confirming Malcolm’s suspicions. For years now, he had been aware of Mraxdavar’s interest in Llan Praetor, and he had even begun to suspect some strange link between the dragons and the castle. His own investigations into the nature and origins of the castle had begun to flounder, and he had toyed before with the idea of giving the dragons access in order to learn more of its secrets. But the risks had always been too great. Now, however, with Llan Praetor already breached by Darius and the party following him, it was critical to learn as much of the castle as quickly as possible; where one thief tread, others would not be far behind.

“You would yield the castle to us?” asked the Dragon slowly.

“No,” Malcolm answered firmly. “But I will guide you through its halls, show you something of its secrets, and answer any one question you may put to me to the best of my ability.”

The Dragon’s head came down again, the gleaming eyes once more trying to catch his elusive glance.

“Three visits and three questions each time,” Mraxdavar countered. “And the last visit we shall enter alone.”

He could feel the will of the monster being put forth, trying to bend him, sway him, break him. Still, questions were a coin that paid both sides: a wise man stood to learn much from the types of questions that were asked.

“No,” Malcolm declared flatly, holding off the imposing presence. “Two visits, once before aid is rendered and once after, and I shall guide you both times. But I will answer any three questions you may ask.”

The Dragon considered this for a moment, and then said, “Three questions shall be asked on the first visit. And if our aid is judged of value to your kind, three questions or one service shall be offered up by you upon the second visit.”

“Done!” declared Malcolm, squashing down his doubts. “This alone I hold back: the service shall not harm me, nor any of my kind, nor Llan Praetor itself.”

“Done and done,” breathed the Dragon with deep satisfaction.

“Let us go, then, and visit the Castle of the Winds,” said Malcolm, preparing to leave.

“Oh, no,” answered Mraxdavar, and was there actually a smile on that reptilian face? “There’s much more to be discussed before the time for action is at hand.”

Malcolm hesitated but immediately recognized he had no choice. Dragons had a love of discussion and detail that far surpassed the intricacies of even the most subtle of human diplomats, and the Wizard knew he was in for a wearisome time of verbal thrusts and parries. Part of the price for aid, he assured himself. Mraxdavar knows I am not lacking in power or courage.

Now I must prove I am not lacking in endurance.

CHAPTER 4

A Gathering of Armies

Two days following the Council of the Lords, Darius stood in the military stables inside the First Tier of Jalan’s Drift fitting Andros with heavy steel barding used by the cavalry of Maganhall when they went into battle. It had been a hard ride from Maganhall to the great walled citadel of the Drift, and even though the enemy was still days off, this was the last stable they would see before the battle. Darius was taking the opportunity well before dawn to get Andros accustomed to the barding, and the stallion’s reaction was bearing out the wisdom of the decision. Andros hadn’t been happy with the breastplate or the leg-guards that his master had gently strapped into place, and he was now openly rebelling at the sight of the headguard, a monstrous looking thing with a steel horn that was more of a threat to fellow horses than enemy infantry.

“Easy, easy, my friend,” Darius whispered, patting the horse’s head and rubbing his ears affectionately. “If we are to charge as part of the Duke’s army, we must wear the required uniform. Virtue cannot be your only armor this time.”

The heavy wood of the stall was carved into the elaborate and extended bodies of proud chargers, a remarkable demonstration of woodcrafting and a clear sign of the regard with which the people of the Drift held horses. The walls were thicker and better built than most human homes, and the entire structure smelled of fresh hay and rich wood. The stable was dimly lit at this hour of the morning, but there was quiet movement at various places where riders were also caring for their mounts before the start of the march to battle.

When they had reached the Drift last evening, Darius had been astonished to find the armies summoned by the Red Feather had already begun to gather here. Duke Boltran had ordered the combine force to sally forth this very morn, and even though much of the infantry had not yet arrived, he had made up the difference with several regiments from the Drift’s garrison, leaving the stragglers to man the walls in their place. It was a bold move bordering on rashness that had raised many eyebrows, yet it also held the slim promise of catching the enemy off guard.

“A fine horse, but one unaccustomed to barding it seems,” said a voice behind him.

Darius turned to find himself facing a stout soldier of perhaps fifty or more years with a short beard and thinning hair both shot with gray. The man was wearing the golden ringed mail of the Maganhall army, but his helm had a rim of purple feathers that marked him as a member of the Duke’s personal household. He was leading a massive warhorse outfitted in the same barding with which Darius was trying to dress Andros.

“I am Eldoran,” the man said with a small nod of his head. “I am the Warden of the Duke’s Arms and Shieldguard of the House of Maganhall.”

“My name is Darius,” the Paladin replied with a return nod. “Warden of the Duke’s Arms? That marks you as the Duke’s Champion, does it not?”

“More bodyguard than champion,” he answered with a small shrug. “The young Duke has more need of a guard at his back than his front.”

The man stood calmly, almost casually, looking over both warrior and horse, but Darius could see a hard inventory was being made. There was a wealth of experience behind those cold blue eyes, and an old scar down his left cheek lent his entire countenance a feel of toughness, a man unbowed by wounds.

“They say you will be riding with us this day against the barbarians,” Eldoran said. “I am told you will be given the honor of riding at the Duke’s left arm.”

Darius nodded once, but said nothing. An aging champion might take exception to another warrior gaining the Duke’s favor, and Darius had no desire to offer any offense that might escalate into a fight. But Eldoran did not seem to be looking for a confrontation.

Finally, the man reached over to his saddle, took the gleaming lance from its post on his mount, hefted it once, then offered it to Darius. “Take this, warrior. It is the lance entrusted to the guardians of the House of Maganhall, made of dwarven-steel and runed with banes for all giants. I think you should be the one to wield it in the coming battle.”

The weapon was adorned with a beautiful inscription from an unknown tongue, but Darius recognized it was indeed some dialect of dwarvish. He cocked his head, switched from reading the lance to trying to read the older man. “Why would you yield such a weapon at a time when you would have the most need of it?”

“I’ve served in the ranks of Maganhall since I was a youngling, almost two score years now,” Eldoran answered gruffly. “I’ve seen warriors of all size and form in that time, and I know their cut. Outdated armor, a sword too large and ungainly, a mount too free of bearing to stand a close quarters charge. But there is a power in you, a power that can bend all this to your will. I know it is you who shall lead the charge when the time is come.”

Darius looked closely and asked, “And you?”

“Any sturdy spear will skewer goblins, and I’ll take my rightful score,” Eldoran replied. “Never fear of that. But even if I win through to the Black Titan, I am not sure I have the strength and skill to strike true, and I would not dishonor such a weapon with a glancing blow. You, I think, will not waste that one chance.”

A slow, grim smile answered him, and Darius said, “Of that, I can make you a promise.”

“One thing only I would ask in exchange,” the older man said, his eyes and voice suddenly earnest. “Stand by young Boltran, if I should fall. He shall have need of a champion when this battle is joined.”

“That promise I cannot make,” Darius answered with a shake of his head. “My work is with the Juggernaut, and no other bond may hold me. Yet this much I will say: I shall ride to battle beside the young Duke, and if my strength does not fail, I shall end the battle there as well.”

Eldoran nodded slowly, hearing the truth. “My hand on it then.”

Darius shook with one hand as he held the gleaming lance with the other.

*

Two hours after dawn, Darius was riding Andros near the front of a long column of cavalry, the walls of the Drift having already vanished behind the rolling hills. Behind them on either side, the Mountains of the Winds still loomed, the gap between them marking where the Drift stood, and before them was the wide endless expanse of rolling hills that would soon flatten into the Plains of Alencia.

On either side of the road marched the Maganhall infantry which had set out from the Drift two hours before dawn, for it was their pace which would determine the distance the army traveled each day. The cavalry was riding in line of four abreast, the preferred order of march for heavy horse, and Darius could make out even the food carts and supply wagons of the baggage train keeping up bravely in the wake of the infantry. It was astonishing that the force of the Southlands had been gathered so quickly, but Darius reminded himself the armies had begun to mobilize the moment the Red Feather had been sent forth. It was the traditional response to the threat of invasion. Even as their lords had met at the Council to debate their deployment, the forces of the Southlands had closed on the Drift as if it were already besieged.

The Maganhall force was in good marching order, as was only to be expected of what was widely regarded as the premier army of the Southlands, but the contingents from the other principalities were showing good form as well for having covered many scores of leagues in barely a week. The soldiers seemed to be in good spirits as they sallied forth in the bright morning sunshine, but Darius thought he detected a note of weariness in them, warriors accustomed to practice battles who normally ended a hard day with a hot meal and a long night’s sleep. This is a new experience for most of them, Darius realized. May Mirna give them the strength to meet the challenge.

A few yards away, young Duke Boltran was wrestling with many issues other than his own force. A dozen figures in the uniform of the other six principalities were gathered around Boltran and competing for his attention.

“My Lord, Duke Georg-Mahl reports the infantry of Gemsbrook has cut across our line of march. Hathage traditionally holds the third position in line of battle, and My Lord Duke requests you remind the Lady Clarissa that she is to maintain her proper position.”

“My Lord, Norealm carries water for only five days. Duke Thrandar asks if any of the other forces can spare water, particularly for our cavalry.”

“My Lord, the Lady Clarissa asks if you and the other Dukes will dine with her tonight. And we would not have cut across Hathage’s line of march if they hadn’t been loitering over their breakfasts.”

“My Lord, the Warhaven heavy infantry still hasn’t exited from the Drift. They have the slowest rate of march and should have been on the road no later than dawn.”

Darius almost smiled at the range of issues raining down on Boltran’s shoulders, but the young man was doing an admirable job of maintaining his composure, if not his patience.

“The line of march will straighten itself out in due time…Maganhall has water aplenty, and we will gladly share with Norealm…We gratefully accept the Lady’s generous offer and will plan to dine at her tent some two hours after sunset…Ride to Duke Mandrik and see if the Warhaven infantry is in need of assistance.”

Darius had been part of many other armies, and he knew well that the leader’s time was taken less with grand tactics and strategy than who would sit at his right hand at dinner and what knight would be allowed to set his tent upwind of another.

A horse came up beside Andros, and Darius looked around to see a brown mare ridden by a man wearing a priest’s yellow cassock with the golden insignia of a Curate or Father.

“My name is Rathman, and I am to be your guide,” the Father announced, his tone suggesting he would rather be cleaning latrines. “The Council and the Church have both agreed you need to be watched, and they have set me to be your spy.”

The man was about medium height with a slight build and a narrow, intense face. Brown eyes burned with anger, and his mouth was tight with emotion, signs of a man embarked on a single quest. A quest whose completion he did not appear to relish.

“I will be glad of the companionship,” Darius answered politely. “My friend Father Joshua was denied permission to ride with me, and the road can be the longer without someone to share it.”

“I do not join you willingly, heretic,” the man snapped. “Joshua is suspected of being tainted by you, and he needs a sharp reminder about dogma. Mirna willing, he will see the error of his judgment.”

Darius took a small breath, let it out slowly. “I suppose you were selected for this task because you are less vulnerable to being tainted?”

“My training is with the Office of Inquest,” the man answered, speaking of the feared arm of the Church that delved into heresy. “But I believe I was assigned to divert me from other work. My task is to fry bigger fish than you.”

“Bigger fish?” repeated Darius. “Who might that be?”

“The Duke of Corland himself,” Rathman replied. “I have spent the last year and more trying to find evidence against Argus and bring him to an ecclesiastical trial where he will be made to answer for his evil.”

“Then we have some common ground,” Darius observed quietly.

The Priest’s eyes flickered slightly, but the hard frown remained on his face.

“What crimes do you suspect Argus has committed?” Darius asked.

“He is protecting the Red Priests of Bal,” Rathman answered shortly.

Darius’ eyes widened. Bal at one time had been one of Mirna’s most powerful servants, a great sorcerer who had ascended to the ranks of the divine for his many services, but his lust for power had not been sated by his elevation to demi-god. He had broken with Mirna, and there were some humans who continued to worship him, glorying in his open displays of power. The Red Priests were powerful spell-casters who acted as the god’s minions on earth,

“You believe he himself is in the service of Bal?” Darius asked, and there was a catch in his voice as he said it. It was horrifying to even think that a sanctified duke, the protector of hundreds of thousands of his people, would be in league with a devil.

“Argus is mad for power,” Rathman answered. “He will use the Red Priests to gain his own ends. If he has not yet crossed over into full worship, it is only a matter of time.”

“A duke of the Southlands in the grip of the Red Priests,” Darius muttered softly, as if fearing to say the words too loudly. “What say the Church Fathers to your claim?”

“They demand proof,” the man snorted, half in frustration, half in disdain. “Even to bring Argus to trial would be a scandal to shake the whole Southlands to its roots. They wish to be certain in their charges and swift in their execution, yet not even the murder of a sanctified Bishop is enough evidence for them.”

“A Bishop murdered?” said Darius, shocked. “But who?”

“Bishop Kal whose diocese included Corland. And with him Father Maldonar, a goodly man and a fine priest.”

Darius actually stopped and stared at the man. Kal and Maldonar had summoned him to the cathedral upon his arrival in Alston’s Fey to inquire about his intentions, and while they had clearly considered him heretic, they had simply tried to dissuade him from remaining within their jurisdiction. Now they were both dead.

“How?” he asked thinly. “How did they die?”

“The official account is slain and robbed by bandits as they made their way back from a visit to the Corland Embassy in Alston’s Fey,” replied the Priest. “But Argus had a hand in their murder, even if he himself did not do the deed. Yet the Church still fears to bring the monster to justice.”

Darius nodded his head grimly at that. The Southlands would be awash in blood before they could pull Argus from the throne of Corland.

“So your harm is doubled here, heretic,” Rathman said harshly. “Not only do you spread your poison freely, but you pull me from my watch over Argus. And the city of Monarch will bleed the more for it.”

Darius heard the strident note in the man’s voice, a sign that he had left much of himself behind in this single-minded pursuit of evil. It was an issue with which he himself was very familiar.