A Rage in the Heavens (The Paladin Trilogy Book 1) (18 page)

Zarif said nothing, simply continued on, watching the lay of the land, making his estimates.

“Don’t you hear me?” Arden persisted, his rank of major long forgotten by both of them. “These barbarians are battle-hardened troops, fresh from the rape of Kargos, and they’ve faced wild cavalry charges before. They’ll cut us to ribbons!”

“Villagers, Arden, villagers,” Zarif answered, his voice low and even. “Old people, young women, little children, more victims for the axes of the Northings. Have we become so drenched in blood that the deaths of innocents mean nothing to us?”

“A cavalry squadron cannot charge massed infantry,” Arden said flatly. “It’s the first lesson we teach every cadet, the most basic rule of warfare on the plains. You have to break their formation first, scatter them, then you might be able to destroy a force twice your size, perhaps even three times. But never a force five times as large!”

“Such rules might have applied to the cavalry of Nargosia,” Zarif answered heavily. “But that cavalry died with General Salbrith in the first charge against the Northing army and the black horror which marches before it. They mean nothing to us.”

“Do our deaths mean nothing to you?” Arden countered.

Zarif looked at him, his single eye glassy, and finally said, “No. I don’t think they matter at all.”

Arden cocked his head, not sure he had heard correctly, but Zarif had no more time for him. He spurred Belwine forward and began to climb the rise, sensing the presence of the enemy. He approached the crest and held up his hand to stop the others, standing in the stirrups so no more than his head was visible from the other side. There, just as the scout had said, was a black horde of Northings directly below him, moving at a steady trot in a tight formation, and fleeing before them, well within arrow range now, was part of the remnant of Kargos, fleeing wildly, hopelessly, aimlessly.

Far on the horizon, Zarif could see three distinct columns of smoke, villages put to the torch by the barbarians, perhaps the homes of these same desperate fugitives. The funeral pyres of Kargos. He glanced back to the fleeing mass, and even as he watched, an old man fell, exhausted and helpless, to be abandoned by the rest. Then he saw a woman holding a suckling child stumble and go down, struggle feebly to regain her feet for a moment, then simply fall back to the ground, curling her body to protect her baby, waiting for the end.

The sight ripped through Zarif’s brain like a hot dagger, slashing through his last restraints, setting loose all the pain and tears which these endless days of slaughter had built up within him. Built and suppressed. With a choking cry more animal than human, he drove the spurs deep into Belwine’s side, and the stallion roared with fury and charged up over the crest, flying down upon the mass of barbarians below, the rest of his men sweeping after him.

For a few fleeting, precious moments, the Northings continued their relentless pursuit, their whole attention focused on their intended victims, a wolfpack closing upon a crippled stag. Then a warning cry went up, heads were turned, and orders were bellowed, the warriors closing their straggling ranks, preparing to receive a cavalry charge against their exposed flank. The barbarians moved with surprising speed, hard experience having taught them the price of slowness, and they pivoted almost in place, bringing a hundred spears to bear against this new enemy. They would have been prepared in time had it not been for Zarif’s madness.

“Belwine, Belwine, Belwine,” he spoke into his charger’s ear, urging him onward, racing still faster instead of slowing, the two becoming one as they hurtled towards their deaths. Somewhere behind, a single trumpet was blowing wildly, a sole surviving bugler reveling in his last charge, and a sound like the roar of a pride of lions came with it, the deep-throated battle-cry of a hundred desperate men.

Downward he charged, swinging his saber over his head, flying across the prairie grass like a mad dervish, and horse and rider drove right into the barbarian ranks without slowing at all. Belwine died on the spears of the first rank of Northings, but his momentum carried him right over his slayers, smashing three deep into the barbarian formation. Zarif tumbled from the saddle, miraculously unhurt, and he slashed out savagely with his saber, killing one, then two of his shocked and staggering opponents. A moment more he stood there, surrounded and alone, inviting the blows from a dozen foes, and the next instant, another horse and rider crashed into their ranks, crushing more black and silver bodies. Then came another and another, the barbarians breaking beneath the living meteors smashing in upon them.

Zarif leaped forward, saber slashing, his face glazed with a mad fury that knew nothing save the driving need to kill. To the left, the right, to the left again, he struck, spears scraping against his chain mail, a dagger slicing into his arm, an officer’s sword glancing against his shoulder guard. He struck and struck again, killing and then stumbling over the slain to reach more foes, lunging madly, heedless of the counter-strokes.

From somewhere far off came another roar, another body of men rushing to their deaths, and the Northing force seemed to stagger as one, fear like electricity flashing through them all. Zarif blinked and peered up through the blood and sweat clouding his single eye to see mounted men wearing the green and striped brown of Kargos cutting their way through the barbarian horde. An instant more the Northings held, then they broke and fled from the fury of the plainsmen, each running for their lives, a fighting force no longer.

Horsemen took off after them, running the murderers to the ground, seeing to it that not a single one escaped. Zarif was gasping for breath, looking around dully at the slaughter, wondering how it was that he still stood. He could see a few dozens of his own men standing likewise in battle-shock, the few survivors of that mad suicide charge. Farther off, he could see foot soldiers of Kargos and even villagers as well, poised with bloody weapons, triumphant, having turned with the fury of a cornered deer to drive against their tormentors.

Victory! their faces declared, and Zarif turned and spat. They had overthrown a tiny section of one tribe of Northings, and these fools waved their weapons in celebration. The pall of smoke hanging over Kargos told the true tale of victors and vanquished.

A single horseman in striped brown and green was picking his way slowly through the bodies, moving towards him. The stance and the horse seemed vaguely familiar, and Zarif blinked, staring upwards and trying to clear his good eye. Finally, his sight cleared and he recognized the man’s face: Exelar, Captain of the Third Troop of Kargos, a soldier that Zarif had fought against in a dozen border skirmishes. Now the tall Captain towered over him, a bloody saber in his hands, cold hatred in his eyes, and Zarif could see the savage scar down the man’s cheek which he himself had inflicted on him barely three months before.

“I would rather die beneath the Northing axes than owe my life to you and this Nargosian scum,” Exelar growled. “But you saved not just my life this day, but my men as well and nearly two hundred villagers. Including my sister and her children. For that and for your courage, I salute you, Zarif. For if the truth be told, never have I seen such a charge as you made this day.”

He lifted the hilt of the saber to his lips and let it sweep down in the formal salute, but there was no lessening of the hatred in his face.

Zarif shook his head, looking around him. Major Arden lay dead but a few steps away, impaled on the spears of the Northings, more than half of his men dead as well.

“I am no longer Captain Zarif,” he said slowly. “And these are no longer the men of Nargosia. Nargost Castle is taken, the land is laid waste, and the people are but whispers in the prairie grass. We few are the Dead of the Plains, and we are in search of our graves. What seek you, Exelar?”

Exelar’s eyes widened, and his lips parted slightly, trying to find words. All his thought and energy had been focused on simply eluding the pursuing Northings, and now that they were destroyed, he found himself at a loss, without purpose, the pall of smoke behind them a symbol of their hopelessness. For a long time, the two foes looked at each other, the past and the present at war within each.

And then Exelar said slowly, “Kargos, too, is no more, and the past dies with it. We shall leave the old grievances here with the fallen, and envy the peace they have found. For us who remain, we will join your fell brotherhood, Dead Zarif. We, too, shall become the Dead of the Plains.”

Zarif nodded his head, looking over the grim, bloodied faces around him, the people who wished to join his search for death.

“So be it!” he cried, calling on the sky and the prairie grass to bear witness. “Come! We shall forge an end together!”

* * * * *

The state dinner had been perfect, every course superb, every knife and goblet sparkling, every finished plate removed with a flawless efficiency, the evening a triumph of pageantry and style; precisely what Duke Argus had ordered it would be.

Plates, bowls, cups, silver, crystal goblets, candelabras, linen, napkin rings, finger bowls, chairs, benches, tables, even the decorative statues which formed the centerpieces had all been brought here from Monarch for the occasion, making the banquet hall of this small fortress of Highcrown almost as magnificent as the great feasting hall of the Duke’s Palace in the capital. The meats had been cooked to perfection, the roasted quail, skin crisp and succulent, was stuffed with sweetbreads from distant lands, and the fresh-caught river trout was redolent with the subtle herbs and garlics gathered from the Green Cliffs. Artichokes and asparagus tumbled from platters, swimming in a rich butter and cream sauces, and the wine was a deep fruity red from the famed valleys of the south. That wine had flowed freely through every course, gradually easing the tensions that inevitably arose when parties from three neighboring provinces gathered. Argus, glancing down the length of the table, could even see signs of good humor among the stiff-backed counselors and soldiers who had accompanied their lords here.

Argus nodded to a watching waiter, and immediately the great doors of the hall were flung open and four chefs wheeled in the final dish: a gigantic pastry, topped with whipping cream, which just barely made it through the doorway. The dessert was the culmination of the dinner, the masterpiece to widen eyes already drowsing from the main meal, and from the exclamation and applause, it was clear it was having the desired effect. Which was well for all concerned. If the crust had fallen, Argus would have cooked the main chef in his own oven, and the man knew it.

“How in the name of goodness were you able to bake such a magnificent pastry?” marveled Duke Boltran of Maganhall, a handsome young man with sandy hair dressed in golden chainmail who sat in the seat of honor at Argus’ right hand. Boltran was just barely out of his teens, and he was said to still have a youngster’s weakness for sweets.

“Quite simple, Your Grace,” Argus answered with a smile. “We built a bonfire around an old smokehouse and turned the entire stone building into an oven.”

“Clever,” said Duke Fendon of Palmany, sitting at Argus’ left. “But how were you able to keep the heat even?”

“We employed the services of a minor wizard who resides in Monarch,” replied Argus as large slices of the pastry were placed simultaneously before the three Dukes. “Fire is one of his specialties, so controlling the flames of the bonfire was an easy matter.”

Fendon and Boltran both nodded, but Argus could tell they were suitably impressed. To be able to employ a wizard, especially one whose mastery was fire, in something as trivial as baking a dessert suggested a great deal of influence with magicians, and both men were no doubt wondering how much damage such a fire might do to a regiment of infantry or a squadron of cavalry.

“We had brought the wizard with us to help deal with these elusive bandits,” Ursulan, Chancellor of Corland said from a little ways down the table. “In fact, he helped us catch the band that raided Maganhall a few days ago.”

“That’s a good start on a long road,” rumbled Fendon as he took a huge bite of his dessert. “These bandits have been terrorizing my frontier for nearly two years now. ’Bout time something was done.”

“I’m not sure I’d recognize a bandit if I saw one,” Boltran said. “No doubt a sign of my youth.”

Argus smiled. “Experience will temper your years, Your Grace. You will learn.”

“Indeed, I hope so,” the young man replied. “For when I looked at the bandits which your commander handed over to us, I was puzzled. They all had the rough hands and weathered faces of men who did honest work all their lives. I half-thought to find hayseeds in their beards.”

There was an uneasy chuckle around the table, the hope that the issue was still light, but Argus’ smile vanished as he focused on his young guest. Boltran met his eyes calmly, his own polite smile never faltering.

“That is hardly surprising, Your Grace,” Ursulan interjected. “Many of these bandits were undoubtedly farmers at one point, and the poor harvests which we have endured would certainly chase many into banditry. A particular unfortunate situation, for it makes the state doubly poor.”

“I thank you, Chancellor, for the explanation,” Boltran answered a little dryly. “I’m sure that must be the case. For the other possibilities are far too disturbing.”

Argus felt the anger stirring through his veins to be baited within one of his own fortresses, and for just a moment, he had a mental image of grabbing his great axe and cleaving this insolent pup in twain. But no matter how satisfying that act would be, he knew it might well lead to disaster. Just before entering the hall for the dinner, General Kaltron, the commander of the Black Watch, had warned him that an entire brigade of Maganhall infantry and at least five squadrons of cavalry had crossed the Delmar River and taken positions within easy striking range of the castle. If Boltran and his numerous bodyguards should manage to fight their way free of the castle, they would have immediate support awaiting them outside. The young man was clearly no fool.