A Rage in the Heavens (The Paladin Trilogy Book 1) (10 page)

Nearly half way up the tree, Jhan took the end of the rope, climbed out on a thick limb that pointed away from both the slope and the wagon, and tied it to the center of the branch. Once it was secured, he moved back to the trunk, took a safe position, and began to cut away at the base of the limb.

“What in wonder…?” the peddler said as he stared up. But Shannon was already beginning to understand, and she grabbed the peddler’s arm and moved him safely off to the side.

Jhan’s axe was flying with long skill and youthful strength, and it wasn’t long before the limb was shivering with every blow. There was a creaking, a jerk, and then a crack, the limb half-falling, still attached to the tree. Four more blows from the axe was all that was necessary, and the heavy limb plummeted downwards. But it didn’t hit the ground. The rope caught on a thicker lower limb, the heavy severed branch jerking to a halt and giving the rope a pull to match the strength of a giant.

Shannon and the peddler looked down at the wagon, and they were overjoyed to see that the sudden jerk had broken it loose from the mud. It was still at the bottom of the great ditch, but the branch was pulling hard on it, supplying much of the muscle they lacked.

“Come along,” said Jhan as he scrambled down from the tree. “The oak won’t do all our work for us.”

He went to the wagon and tied two more ropes around it, carrying the ends back up the slope. One he handed to Shannon and the peddler, and the second he took himself. On the count, they all three pulled hard, and with surprising ease, the wagon rolled back up the slope. It reached the top before the branch hit the ground and thus rolled alarmingly towards the oak for a moment, but the next instant, the limb was on the ground and the muddy wagon was safe and sound.

Immediately, the bird flew from the tree limb to a perch right beside the driver’s seat, clearly delighted to be there.

“Praise be to all the Gods!” cried the Peddler. “I am forever in your debt my friends, forever and a month! Such cunning, such skill, such…!”

“Praise your luck and your good wagon,” Jhan answered. “But I fear we can’t waste any more time here. There’s still hours of daylight ahead of us.”

“I’d like to take one of these lengths of rope with us,” Shannon said, coiling the long piece she held in her hands. “And we could make good use of a map of the road ahead.”

“Certainly! Certainly!” he cried, scrambling up into the front of his wagon. “I have just the thing, a wonderful map of all the Southlands, drawn by the master cartographer, Machlar, himself!”

A moment later he produced a small leather cylindrical case and opened it to pull out a detailed map much like the one Darius had had.

“We are here,” the Peddler added casually, indicating a point on the far western edge of the map. “Barely a day’s walk from the Green Cliffs.”

Shannon smiled at Jhan. They had what they needed.

The Peddler caught the look and added hastily, “But wait, wait! There must be something more I can do to repay you, some other small token I can offer. My wagon is at your disposal!”

Again, they exchanged glances, eyeing the jumbled contents of the wagon.

“Well, we could use a sword,” Shannon said cautiously.

“A sword?” repeated the peddler. “A sword! Why, of course! I have blades from every part of the continent, weapons that…”

“Auck! Show them the Widow!” the bird suddenly said. “Show them the Widow! Auck!”

“Silence, bird!” the man said harshly.

“The Widow?” repeated Jhan slowly. “What does the bird mean?”

“He’s only a stupid animal,” the man said, brushing it off. “Pay him no heed. Here!” He reached under the seat of the wagon and pulled out a gleaming scimitar, offering them the hilts. “Here is a weapon to be proud of, a weapon to be feared! I purchased this in the bazaars of the Spice Islands years ago, and have kept it close ever since. But to settle my debt to you, I am prepared to part with it for a mere 10 dinars. Far, far less than I paid for it in the bazaars.”

“You expect us to pay for it?” Shannon asked in surprise.

“Only a token payment, only a token,” the man assured them. “I will have to buy a new horse, make repairs to the wagon, deal with all the breakage within. A few dinars to keep the wolves from my door.”

Shannon took the proffered hilts, but she could tell immediately that the blade was of mediocre make and had a poor balance. A glance at Jhan was all the warning he needed.

“I would like to know more about this Widow,” he said firmly.

“Auck! The Widow!” cried the bird. “Auck!”

“You are much too inexperienced, my young friend,” the peddler said. “It would be of no use to you. Now here…”

“The Widow, please,” Jhan persisted.

The Peddler looked from one to the other and read the determination in their faces. After a further moment of hesitation, he reached far back into his wagon and pulled out something draped in a blanket of black velvet. Carefully, he drew back the folds, and both youngsters gasped at the dark light which poured forth. The peddler pulled the sword free of the blanket and held it up for all to see: a gleaming ebony blade with blood red hilts.

“I found this at the side of a dead warrior in the midst of the bodies of a dozen savages,” the man said softly. “The warrior had been felled by a blow from behind, for none could face the fury of his sword. I named it the Widow, and I buried the warrior with full ceremony as the only payment I could offer for it. Behold its power!”

The Peddler walked over to the fallen branch which had helped to raise the wagon, the branch which had taken Jhan two dozen axe blows to cut. He raised the sword and brought it crashing down, the sword flashing as it severed the thick body with a single stroke. Jhan gasped in open astonishment, but Shannon found herself nodding, remembering the power which she had sensed within Sarinian. With a weapon such as this, she might be a real aid to her father.

“How much for the sword?” she asked abruptly.

The Peddler looked at her in some surprise, slowly shaking his head. “I’ve never really considered selling it. I…”

“We’ll give you twenty golden dinars,” Shannon said, trying not to sound absurd.

“Twenty crowns?” repeated the Peddler in disbelief. “For such a weapon?! You must be mad! The Widow is worth thousands, perhaps tens of thousands!”

“Wrapped in the back of a stranded peddler’s wagon, it is worth nothing,” Jhan countered.

“And to a starving man, it’s worth less than that,” Shannon added.

The peddler opened his mouth to protest, glanced at his wagon and at the sword, and thought better of it. Finally, he said with a trace of bitterness, “You have me at your advantage. But come, my friends, be fair. A weapon such as this. Surely you can see that it would be robbery even at a hundred crowns.”

“Twenty-five and not a copper more,” Jhan said, and Shannon nodded. She wasn’t at all sure they had a copper more than twenty-five crowns.

The Peddler sighed. “Very well. The deal is made.”

He carefully placed the sword back in its velvet blanket and handed it over to Jhan, while Shannon counted out the twenty-five coins. They then turned to go.

“Good luck to you, Peddler,” Shannon said. “I promise you this sword will go to a good use.”

The Peddler paused awkwardly for a moment, weighing the coins in his hand, and then said, “Wait a moment!”

He reached into the pocket of his trousers and drew out a small item, offering it to her. It was an odd green coin with a red rune carved into it. She studied it curiously.

“Keep this small token as a sign of my debt to you,” he said. “If your travels take you into the towns of the Southlands, you might show it to the peddlers there. Many are friends of mine, and they will show you kindness with this coin.”

Shannon smiled. “Thank you. And fare you well.”

The man smiled in reply. “Fare you well also, young friends!”

With that, the two youths returned to the road and headed westward. The Peddler watched them go, his smile turning a little rueful and a little sad.

“Auck! Poor deal, poor deal!” the parrot cried, moving side to side on its perch in annoyance.

“True enough,” agreed the Peddler. “But at least we’re back on the road with enough food to see us to the next village. And the gold should be just sufficient to make up another Widow.” He looked down the lane where his two rescuers were almost lost to sight. “Fare you well, indeed, my friends. I fear you made my choice for me. May you take the consequences lightly.”

With that, the man picked up the horse-lead and began to pull the muddy wagon slowly back out to the road.

CHAPTER 6

Tyrants

Ursulan, Grand Chancellor of Corland, Secretary-Adviser and member of the Duke’s Privy Council, hurried across the muddy main street of Monarch, the capital of Corland, trying to keep the hem of his purple robes from dragging in the mire. Behind him was the old Palace of the Dukes where his own quarters and offices were, a modest and aging structure which spoke of Corland’s past poverty and relative obscurity. Over the years, small shops and stores had gradually encroached closer and closer to the palace until several actually touched its walls, lessening and diluting its grandeur by association.

His two huge bodyguards were close at hand behind him, and each periodically grabbed one of his elbows and silently lifted the little man over the worst puddles. It had rained yesterday and last night, and Ursulan knew that if the rain continued today, the street would be an impassable quagmire by sundown. The capital of a great principality with its streets in such a stage, he grumbled to himself. Someone should do something about it.

His bodyguards lifted him over the last large puddle and deposited him on the wooden sidewalk, the wood creaking slightly from the combined weight of the three men. Ursulan anxiously examined the bottom of his robes, and he noted three small splashes of mud which he peered at carefully. He was headed for his daily consultation with Duke Argus, and he knew better than to appear in mud-spattered robes before his liege lord. Not too bad, he decided uneasily.

“Master Ursulan!”

He looked back irritably to see a thick-set, armored man making his way across the same muddy street, his purple cloak faring far worse than Ursulan’s robes. The Chancellor grimaced at the sight of the man and continued down the sidewalk toward the looming citadel ahead, leaving the man to chase after him. Baron Rostar might be a general of the Army of Corland and head of one of the noblest families in the land, but as Overlord of the Third District, he was definitely an inferior of the Grand Chancellor; and at the moment, very much out of favor with both Ursulan and the Duke.

“Ursulan!” the Baron barked angrily, his voice gaining on the little Chancellor.

“Sorry, Baron,” he answered casually, continuing his pace. “I am bound for a meeting with His Grace and cannot be detained.”

“Ursulan, I must speak with you,” the man persisted, puffing as he came up with him. “This issue of the taxes must be resolved.”

“It is already resolved,” he answered easily. “Your district is responsible for 90,000 gold dinars in revenue each Summer’s Eve. So far, the Treasury reports receiving only 78,000 dinars. How you make up the short-fall is your concern. But I would strongly advise you to make it up.”

“The harvest has been bad,” began the Baron predictably. “All this rain…”

“The harvest is not at issue,” Ursulan responded tartly.

Rostar let out a snort and said in a low voice, “I cannot increase the number of raids into Palmany. Their ambassador has already warned me that his troops have been given permission to pursue bandits, regardless of which side of the border they may be on. That could well mean war.”

“His Grace the Duke does not fear war with Palmany,” Ursulan answered coolly. “He fears only a drop in his revenues. And when he is frightened by something, he has been known to lash out suddenly. I would see that his fears were kept in check if I were you.”

“But the Palmanian Ambassador clearly suspects the truth,” complained Rostar. “If I…”

The Chancellor let out a loud sigh of annoyance at this incompetence, stopped and turned to the man. “Then throw them a bone to gnaw. After the next raid, present the Palmany commander with the bodies of half a dozen bandits as proof of your dedication and good will. That will ease tensions for a time.”

“Kill my own men?” asked the Baron aghast.

Idiot! thought Ursulan, then controlled himself. “They’ll be dressed as bandits and carrying a little booty from the raid. That will be enough for Palmany. Who they were in life is a matter of little importance to anyone.”

Rostar blinked as he understood. Without another word, Ursulan turned away from the man and walked on, the wooden sidewalk leaving the shelter of the shops as it approached the great new citadel. Unlike the palace, no stores had dared to come anywhere near those high black walls. The thick gates were flung wide to allow for the passing of troops, but it made the citadel look as vulnerable as a lion with its mouth open. The Baron pulled up short here, clearly having no desire to draw any closer to the citadel, and Ursulan did not even bother to return his farewell. He could not help but think that a man of Baron Rostar’s position would make an excellent object lesson for the other regional governors. Duke Argus was very fond of object lessons.

Ursulan took a breath and put the Baron out of his mind as he approached the main gate, the black stone of the citadel’s walls looming above him, crushing him with their darkness and sheer weight. The Citadel of the Black Watch. The Chancellor swallowed and composed himself, though he knew that within these gates, even he was not safe. The Black Watch was Duke Argus’ elite force of highly trained killers who were prepared to strike against any whom the Duke might name as enemies, whether they be barbarian raiders, neighboring princes, or members of the Duke’s own government.

The Citadel was the single largest structure in all of Corland, covering an area greater than two country villages and standing the height of ten full houses. How far beneath the ground it extended, how deep the dungeons, even Ursulan did not know; nor wished to know. The total count of the Black Watch was a closely kept secret, the final number known perhaps only to Argus himself, but the Chancellor, with his access to the expense records of the Treasury, could make a fair guess. From its humble origin of a few dozen men guarding the person of the Duke, the Black Watch had swelled to the size of a full army, possibly 10,000 strong, boasting the best arms and equipment of any force in the Southlands. And nearly all its power was gathered here, hidden safely behind the cold walls of the Citadel.

A state within a state, Ursulan mused. Each uneasily watching the other.

An officer and eight men awaited him at the gateway, all dressed in the gleaming black armor with the crossed golden spears insignia which marked the Black Watch, and they eyed him coldly and his guards, in their purple colors of the regular Army of Corland, with open hostility. No matter that he was Chancellor and Privy Councilor. Here, he was an outsider, a non-member of the Black Watch, gaining entrance to their most secret fortress. The officer studied his papers carefully as if hoping to find an error, an excuse, and finally he handed them back and barked a single order. Six men rushed from the near-by barracks and arrayed themselves around the three new-comers: both a guard of honor and a watch on potential spies.

They began marching through the open court-yard to the great door of the central keep, guards with notched arrows and half-drawn bows watching them suspiciously from every battlement. Ursulan kept his face composed as he passed into the darkness of the entrance hall, and he found his thoughts going back to the problems of Baron Rostar. Corland was a relatively poor principality, with only a sliver of the rich silt and richer commerce of the Delmar River compared to its wealthier neighbors, so Argus was forced to rely on other means to gather the revenues to finance his growing military. The border raids and even some dabbling in the black-market had siphoned badly needed moneys from Palmany and Maganhall, and this very citadel had been built and sustained with those proceeds. But Palmany was not alone in its growing suspicions about the Duke’s methods, and there were dangerous whispers in some of the most renowned courts in the Southlands. Ursulan frowned, for despite his brave words to Rostar, he did not believe the Duke was quite ready to go to war with Palmany. Not yet.

Perhaps I should play the same game as their ambassador, he reflected. I could lodge a loud protest with Palmany, claiming they are giving sanctuary to bandits raiding across the border into Corland. Yes. That might buy us a little more time.

The group passed through iron gates at the end of the hall and began ascending the narrow staircase to the upper galleries. Ursulan swallowed a little as he looked up at six huge iron logs poised on their sides suspended a dozen feet directly above the top step, ready with the single stoke of an ax to come rolling down to kill anything on the stairs and many who might stand in the hall. Any foe strong enough to penetrate this far would pay a stiff price for their audacity when those logs were released.

A set of forged iron doors stood just beyond the top of the stairs, and as guards opened the doors at his approach, he was greeted by the clash of steel, the ringing sound of sword against sword. Ursulan actually had to pause and blink, trying to make sense of the scene before him. This was the great exercise room of the keep, the place where the garrison trained and honed its skills, and as usual, it was crowded with close to a hundred men, all dressed in the same black armor. But now, only two were fighting, the others watching the battle intently, and Ursulan quickly saw why: the first warrior was a powerfully-built bull of a man wearing the insignia of an officer whom Ursulan had never seen before, and the second, tall and thick with long red hair streaming from his helmless head, was Duke Argus.

Ursulan approached cautiously, recognizing immediately that this was no mere exhibition. The men both held practice swords, blades blunted so badly as to be hardly more than clubbing weapons, but they were moving with a speed and intensity of real battle, causing all those around them to stop and watch. He saw the officer launch a powerful blow at the Duke’s unprotected head which Argus just barely ducked and follow it with a second downward swing apparently at the Duke’s shoulder. This, however, was his undoing. Argus side-stepped the blow, letting the momentum lay his opponent open, swung completely around, and brought his own sword crashing into the officer’s exposed ribs. Even at that distance, Ursulan could hear the crack of bone as ribs shattered, and Argus immediately responded with a second blow that crumpled the officer’s helm. Even as the man began to fall, Argus struck a third blow, but it was unnecessary. The officer was dead before he hit the ground.

An animal growl came from the assembled warriors, a ferocious approval of their leader’s skill. To kill an experienced and armored opponent with a blunted sword took a great deal of swordsmanship and even more savagery.

“Bury him with full honors,” Argus said, tossing his sword down upon the body at his feet. “He has served his Duke well.”

Men raced to do his bidding, and Argus, glancing around, caught sight of Ursulan and his little entourage.

“Ah, Chancellor,” smiled the Duke. “Prompt as always.”

Ursulan bowed even deeper than usual and said, “May I compliment Your Grace on yet another demonstration of your considerable skill at arms?”

The Duke came slowly up to him as the rest of the company returned to practice, the sound as swords clashed helping to make their conversation private. The Duke was nearly a head taller than the average man, and he towered above Ursulan who barely came up to his chest.

“You know as much of fighting as a dog knows of flying,” the Duke said bluntly.

“True,” Ursulan admitted calmly, “but I do know waste when I see it. It took time and money to train that officer, and now it will take time and money to bury him.”

An evil grin came to the Duke’s face. “That one was a little too ambitious, and needed to be removed. A treason trial or a silent killing would hurt morale. Instead, I choose him as a practice partner and let the session run its course. Look. The rest are encouraged now, training with a real intensity, a real awareness. I do not call that waste.”

The little Chancellor’s eyebrows rose in understanding and appreciation. The Duke wiped the sweat from his face and asked, “The information about the Northings which we bought from this little thief. Has it been confirmed?”

“Partially,” said Ursulan, turning his mind back to business. “We can be sure both that she was at Carthix Castle during the Northing attack and that she caught some sight of this thing that apparently broke through the castle walls. Beyond that, we have no proof at all. But I must point out that her tale has considerable detail, and it fits the other facts we’ve been able to glean.”

Argus was silent, but his fierce frown spoke volumes. Finally, he demanded, “We owe this little cur another 5,000 gold dinars?”

“Those were the terms, Your Grace. Half the money in advance, and the remainder upon confirmation.”

“Tell her to get us more proof if she wants the rest of her money,” Argus growled.

The counselor’s eyebrows rose, and he quickly cautioned, “We have already received all the assurances which were promised. I doubt if more can be found. And I must remind you, the fee was for exclusive access to the information. Should we renege on the final payment, she will certainly try to sell her information to others.”

“Then spend the money to close her mouth,” said Argus darkly. “Permanently.”

Ursulan blinked, taken off guard. He weighed the risks, the sums involved, and the chances of success, and he quickly concluded it would be cheaper and safer to simply pay the woman her money. But the look on the Duke’s face warned him that an objection might cost him his life.

He swallowed, thought for a moment, and said, “If I may make a suggestion which might save money and trouble…?”

“What?” asked the Duke, his voice a threat.

“I understand this woman has made numerous enemies over time. If we were to approach them and pool our resources, we would greatly increase our chances of success without additional expense. And we might even avoid revealing our involvement.”

Argus considered this, his brows deepening for just a moment until the advantages of the plan won out. He nodded. “Make it thus.”

Argus began to move across the room, heading for a set of massive iron-shod doors set in the far wall. As he approached, the doors began to swing slowly open as if on their own, and even as the Duke began to enter, the doors reversed and slowly began to close. Ursulan had to step out to slip inside, and his last bodyguard literally had to leap to avoid being crushed.