A Rage in the Heavens (The Paladin Trilogy Book 1) (12 page)

Regnar’s smile widened. “No more than a minor skirmish. These horse-boys are but cattle to feed the Silver Horde.”

The General’s jaw tightened, but he restrained himself. “My Lord has instructed me to offer a treaty of peace and neutrality between yourself and Kargos. I am to request on what terms such a treaty might be based.”

“Terms?” repeated Regnar, savoring the word. “You shall have terms. First, you shall abandon and cede to my control the citadels of Argoban and Freia, including all stock, stores and arms which they now contain.”

“The frontier citadels?” expostulated the general. “But…but that would render us defenseless!”

“Second,” the Tyrant continued calmly, “you shall deliver 1,000 of your best warhorses into the hands of my quartermaster, along with the necessary saddles, bridles, harness, and tack. Third, you shall immediately transfer your Regiments of Garmac and Dartell to the western portion of your realm and base them in one of the small villages along the western border. Fourth, you shall sign a formal treaty, declaring on the honor of your lord that Kargos will never raise arms against me nor any of my allies.”

A low threatening growl came from the group of bodyguards at this endless list of demands, terms more fitting for a province already broken by the invaders.

“Is that all?” the General asked with heavy sarcasm, and he could not keep his hand from twitching on the hilts of his sword. “The keys to the citadels of our frontier, a third of our cavalry, our best infantry regiments moved beyond the defense of our capital, and a formal treaty of non-aggression. Kargos would be spread out like a sacrificial lamb before you. Surely there must be more than that.”

An evil smile came to twist the lips of Regnar, and his red eyes seemed to gleam. “You are very perceptive. Fifth and finally, you shall escort the Lady Felicity and her suckling child to be our guests here in the Citadel of Nargost. Here, we shall keep them safe.”

“The Duchess and the Heir as hostage?” cried the general even as his hand drew the sword. “Take, then, the answer of Kargos!”

With surprising quickness, the old man leaped onto the dais, rushing the gloating horror before him, and the dozen swords of his escort were only an instant behind him. The Northing guards were off to the side, unable to intercept the sudden attack, and they made no effort to do so. Regnar held forth the great scepter, and immediately, a terrible beam of green light shot out from the orb and totally encased the charging general, stopping him instantly. He was imprisoned in a block of solid green light, and his body, barely visible within the glow, began to contort as if in terrible pain.

Even as the figure twisted and writhed within the green light, Regnar raised the scepter higher, and green lightning began to thunder through the room, bolts flying in all directions, striking the walls only to rebound back towards the room’s center. The Northing guards had seen this power unleashed at the gates of Nargost Castle, and they instantly flung themselves for cover, though several were caught none the less. The general’s bodyguard, taken by surprise and standing in the very middle of the storm, were deluged with thunderbolts, most of them dying instantly, their bodies burned and smoldering.

Slowly, the green aura around the general began to fade, and in the place of the old man, still dressed in his regal armor, stood a great hulking beast, a hideous mixture of man, wild boar, and wolf. The thing raised its head and let loose a heart-wrenching roar from its fang-choked mouth, perhaps a last despairing cry from the human soul now twisted and warped beyond all recovery within. The thing then hunkered down, still grasping the sword in its paw-hands, glancing from side to side as if seeking prey.

“Come, Pretty,” smiled Regnar. “Come and stand with me.”

The thing completed the leap onto the upper dais, but now it turned to face the hall, leering at the Northing guards as if waiting to be unleashed upon them.

The Captain of the guard came forward and knelt before the dais, head bowed. “Great One, shall we remove these scum and cleanse the hall?”

But Regnar shook his head, cradling the scepter like a darling child. “No. Let them lay. Now show in the delegation from Maccabor. We will see how they take the offered terms.”

Obediently, the Captain rushed to do the Tyrant’s bidding.

CHAPTER 7

Songs of the High Pass

Brother Joshua felt as if the mountains themselves were bleeding to death.

Before him, a steady stream of people was flowing down from the High Pass, each one carrying, pulling, or pushing bundles of household goods in a pathetic attempt to carry some part of their homes with them, and every person who passed was like another surge of life’s-blood spurting out of the mountains. Women, children, and old folk, warriors, youths, and strong men in their prime, all were fleeing, leaving behind the beloved peaks of their homeland which, to Joshua, suddenly seemed to be growing lifeless.

“Oh, my brothers, heed me now!” he cried to refugees. “You flee only to your own ruin! If the High Pass falls, there will be no haven for you in the Southlands! There’ll be no safe haven anywhere at all!”

Joshua stood on a small ridge of rock which divided the mountain road, the crowd splitting in two to flow past on either side of him, and even though his yellow priest’s robes were lessened by the white sleeves of the un-ordained acolyte, he stood tall and poured his heart out to the throng, trying desperately to find the words which might turn them.

Great Mirna, he prayed fervently, give me the skill to sway them. Send me help that we might not be shamed and destroyed.

“The Clan McCullen has donned the Battle Tartan and holds the High Pass!” he shouted again, pointing back up the road. “Does that mean nothing to you? They alone stand against the invaders, while you run like frightened hares! Be you Highlanders or cowards?”

It made no difference. Curse, beg, shout, speak of the past, the present, or the future, none of it produced so much as a flicker in the dead eyes of his people. Pride was gone, courage a meaningless word, and honor had been discarded like so much useless baggage that was impeding their flight. The faces flowing past him now wore a hunted, desperate expression, emotions he had never before seen in the eyes of the Highlanders. His mentor, Father Michan, was away at this critical moment, consulting with his Bishop, and Father Oldran had taken the other acolytes down into Norealm at the first serious sign of trouble. Only Joshua now remained, the sole representative of the Church, and his words were only puffs of air, touching nothing, stirring nothing, his proud yellow robes invisible to the fleeing horde.

For several moment, Joshua had been aware of someone looking at him, someone who had come up the pass behind him and had paused once they had drawn even with his rock. He turned to look and was startled to see a fully armored knight seated upon a great white stallion, the shining plate mail making him look like an image out of the past. The warrior had no helm, the mountain breeze stirring his long blonde hair, and his expression was attentive, quizzical, and just slightly amused as he studied the boy.

Joshua frowned. Madman or fool, he had no time to spare for the newcomer. He turned back to the crowd. “Does the land mean not to you any longer? The land you have tended, the land you have loved, the land within which your ancestors are buried! Will you yield all that without so much as a whimper, without raising a single fist? Have you lost even the ability to feel?”

No head was turned, no face was raised, and the shame and frustration of failure made Joshua burn. These were his people who had always held their land and their freedom above even life itself, and yet they were running now at the first sign of invasion like so many broken cowards. He had to resist a sudden, overwhelming desire to simply go berserk and jump down among these running sheep with both fists swinging.

“Your heart’s in the right place, Lad,” the knight said unexpectedly. “But you’re going about it all wrong.”

“What’s your business with me?” he snapped angrily, rounding on the only person to pay him heed.

The big man smiled at him. “To start a fire, you must first have some fuel. And you can’t blow so many words on it.” Joshua bristled, but the man continued easily, “Is there any force still holding the Pass?”

“Laird McCullen holds the crest of the Pass with his clan and a handful of others,” the boy answered proudly. “He says he’ll die a Highlander rather than live a coward.”

“A single clan?” the man repeated, his eyes going up towards the pass. “Brave men or fools to wait so for their deaths.”

“Laird McCullen is the bravest warrior in all the land,” Joshua answered hotly, “and I’ll not have his name sullied by the likes of…”

“Peace, Lad,” the man interrupted, holding up a hand. “I honor such courage, too. Let us see if we might bring them some help.”

He looked around at the stream of people hurrying past, and he seemed to pick one out. He jumped down from the saddle and walked forward to the front of the rock, intercepting Siras McGiver, the big blacksmith, who was struggling along with a huge pack on his back.

“Ho, my good man,” the warrior said cheerfully. “Where are you rushing in such a hurry?”

“Let me by,” muttered Siras, trying to walk around. The warrior reached out and put a gentle hand on the blacksmith’s shoulder.

“Are you a turtle that you walk with your home upon your back?” the warrior asked with a smile. “Have you no house of wood or stone?”

The blacksmith blinked, trying to focus. Slowly, he said, “It’s…behind…”

“It must be a poor place indeed to leave it thus for the Northings,” the warrior observed. “Is it a poor place?”

The blacksmith stirred, some sign of life returning. “The best forge in all the mountains. A warm cottage in the lee of a cliff with the shop right next to a mountain spring.”

The warrior’s eyebrows rose in appreciation. “A fine home, by the sound of it. So have you tired of being a smith?”

“Nay,” Siras replied. “It’s…it’s my life.”

Several people had slowed, a puzzled expression shifting across their faces as they listened to the words passing between the two men, as if coming from a language they had nearly forgotten.

“So you flee now to find a lesser place in a strange land,” said the stranger. “To huddle there awhile until the Northings come to chase you out of that, too.”

The blacksmith frowned, his face now beginning to show a hint of anger. Many people were now slowing to take in the byplay, several stopping and thus bringing others to a stop, slight frowns on their faces like people trying to rouse themselves from an unpleasant dream. Joshua, watching closely, felt it was more than just the words which was reaching out to touch all of them.

“Have you tired of the high country, then?” the warrior asked, a touch of goad entering his voice. “Have you tired of the wind and the free air? Have you tired of the feel of good stone beneath your feet? Have you tired of being a Highlander?”

“No!” Siras shouted, and an angry ripple ran through the gathering crowd, the word echoed from a dozen mouths. Joshua saw eyes blinking as if just coming awake, and his heart blazed with sudden hope.

The warrior reached around and grabbed the head of a war-axe sticking out of the blacksmith’s pack. He pulled the weapon free, hefted it, checked its weight.

“Why are you bothering to carry this with you?” the warrior asked, puzzled. “To defend your home?”

“Aye,” Siras answered.

“Your home is up there,” the man said, pointing behind them. “Your home is the High Pass. Will you use your axe to defend it?”

Siras took a great breath, and he seemed to grow back to his full height. He looked up at the crest of the mountains, breathed deep, and then he let his pack fall and took the axe from the warrior’s hands. “Aye!”

“Then let us return to your smithy,” the warrior said, his eyes shining now. “And see what together we might yet forge.”

The two men started climbing back up the grade, pushing through the people who had paused to listen, and first one, then two, and finally many of the crowd turned and began to follow. Joshua saw one man slap his neighbor on the shoulder with a big grin as if just noticing him, and both men turned and followed Siras and the warrior up the mountain path. It felt as if the wind itself had changed, the fresh mountain breeze returning to blow away the fear.

“It’s a miracle,” Joshua whispered, hardly able to believe his eyes. A moment before, the people had been fleeing like whipped dogs, and now, abruptly, life and energy seemed to have returned to them with only a few words between a warrior and a blacksmith.

He leaped down from the rock to join the crowd, feeling strangely as if his people had suddenly returned. The warrior glanced back and summoned him with a gesture.

“What’s your name, Lad?” he asked.

“Joshua.”

“Sing me a song, Joshua,” the man said. “Sing me a song of the Highlands.”

“What?” Joshua asked with a frown. “A song?”

“There’s a spell of fear on your folk,” the warrior explained quietly. “A magic that comes from wind or water or words. Perhaps all three. But fear sits uneasily on brave hearts. Sing then. Sing them a song to shake off the shadow.”

Joshua blinked, uncertain. He thought for a moment, but as they were climbing again with the breath-taking peaks of the Mountains of the Winds before them, one song came freely to his tongue.

The Ballad of the Peaks, a song beloved of the Highlanders, and even as he began the second verse, others around him joined in, their voices rising to greet the mountains of the High Pass.

Still more people sang, hearts filled with a common pride giving voice to the feelings which moved them, and all along the path people stopped, blinked, and slowly joined both the song and the procession, turning upwards towards the pass. The road was soon littered with abandoned carts and bundles.

They were passing the stone houses and shops that formed the small central village of the Highlands, the homes which many of the group had abandoned, and several men broke off from the group to dart into the buildings. They returned bearing a selection of swords, spears, and clubs which the unarmed of the crowd gratefully accepted, Joshua uneasily noting how many had fled with everything except their weapons. He himself took a sturdy club, hefting it and testing the solid wood, and a grim smile came to his lips. Now he would be able to do more for his people than simply talk.

Up ahead, just beyond the little village, the road began to narrow as it rose towards the high pass, the sheer cliff of Hell’s Gate to the left, the easier slope of Heaven’s Stair to the right. Nearly a hundred kilted warriors stood here, looking back in surprise at the singing mob approaching them, and at first, Joshua headed in their direction. The warrior, however, pointed to the rocky paths beside the road which lead up Heaven’s Stair to the headland directly above the High Pass.

A tall kilted man with an air of authority tried to block the way, and Joshua recognized him as Laird Cairnsmore, one of the lords of the clans.

“What madness is this?” Cairnsmore growled. “My lads are selling their lives to buy time, and you fools turn and come right back to the slaughter? Get you gone! The Northings are nearly here!”

His voice was lost in the deep song of the crowd, and the warrior walked right past him, the mob slowing slightly as it started to struggle up the rougher path to the headland. Cairnsmore turned and caught up with Joshua and the big man, two of the Laird’s retainers staying at his side. Joshua noticed that the rest of the Laird’s men joined in with the crowd.

“What in the name of wonder is going on here?” he demanded. “What do you think you do?”

“My name is Darius, a warrior from beyond the mountains,” the big man answered. “I heard of the Northing invasion, and I’ve come to offer my service against them.”

“One sword against a hundred thousand!” jeered Cairnsmore. “You’re a bit overmatched, man.”

“You’ll fight no one for long in that outdated tin,” observed one of the Laird’s retainers rudely, eyeing the man’s heavy armor. “The Northings’ll gut you like a spring deer while you’re still trying to land your first blow.”

Darius stared calmly into the eyes of the shorter Clansman before saying, “I seem to remember that the Highlanders were both courteous and courageous. It’s sad to find my memory failing.”

The man’s face reddened angrily, but the Laird restrained him with a touch.

“We’ve no choice, I tell you,” Cairnsmore continued. “You do no more than lead these lambs to the slaughterhouse. The Northings have been walking through stone walls and iron gates for three hundred leagues! Turn this attack, the next, and the next, what of it? We’re bound to fall in the end.”

“Regnar’s main force moves against Jalan’s Drift, not the High Pass,” Darius replied. “This is no more than a strong probing force, testing to see whether rumor and bluff can win what war never could. And you, My Lord, are doing exactly what Regnar hopes.”

There was a grumbling among the three clansmen, a stirring of anger at the suggestion, made worse by the fact that it seemed to be true. Cairnsmore frowned, the man’s words making him think.

Up ahead at the very crest of the headland was yet another group of soldiers, and Joshua immediately recognized the black and red tartan of the Clan Sinclair. So the Clan McCullen was not the only group determined to oppose the invaders!

“So, Cairnsmore, you’ve changed your mind, have ya?” called the Laird Sinclair with a grin. “Good! Good! If this rabble you’ve brought can fight as well as they sing, we may yet turn the bastards!”