Dragonfang (39 page)

‘We’re almost there.’

‘Almost where?’ Daretor asked.

‘We’ll come to a wide, fast-flowing river on the farther bank of which a dense forest known as Tanglewood begins. It is a place where even a lindrak would have trouble following us.’ They remounted and urged their tired mounts on. ‘Let’s start inflating the bladders.’

Back in Argentia, Jelindel had purchased several bladders normally used to carry wine. They now filled them with their own laboured breath and tied them with twine. As an added precaution, Jelindel filled the ‘valves’ with fast-acting glue. Moments later they reached the river.

Two large bladders were fitted to each horse, one on each side, and each rider strapped two smaller ones, back and front beneath their shoulders. Thus outfitted they rode into the inky
water. Before long the horses were unable to keep their footing and the river swept them southwards into a watery darkness.

‘It is a feint, I tell you,’ the Preceptor said. ‘They move south, back to the river.’

The army moved slowly up the Marisa River, having commandeered several Passendof grain barges for the purpose. Fa’red watched the Preceptor pace the length of the former captain’s cabin before clearing his throat.

‘You do not agree, I take it?’ the Preceptor asked.

Fa’red smiled. ‘Perhaps. There are feints within feints here. The skill is in reading the true intent from the false.’

‘Why state the obvious? If you have better intelligence, bring it out.’

‘Your garrison at Obly saw them heading north, yet turn south they did almost immediately. My own spy followed them as they slowly bent their course northwards again until they reached Tanglewood. There he lost them.’

‘Heading north? And do you think they were unaware that they were being followed?’ asked the Preceptor, icily.

‘On the contrary, Preceptor, I instructed my agent to give himself away …’

‘Ah-ha. Then they knew they were being followed and the strike northwards was a feint indeed.’ The Preceptor smiled, satisfied. ‘They are somewhere on the river ahead of us, concealed on a grain barge. I will have messages sent. The barges will slow down imperceptibly and we will overtake them. Meanwhile, my lancers will be sent down from the Passendof border. We will smash them between two irresistible forces!’

The Preceptor slammed his fist into his palm. A happy man
again, he strode from the cabin. Fa’red, on the other hand, did not move. Almost to himself he murmured, ‘A good thing I did not tell him that in all likelihood they
knew
my agent was supposed to be seen. Ah, feints within feints within feints …’

As it happened, Daretor and Jelindel
were
concealed on a grain barge some thirty miles northeast of the Preceptor at that very moment. They had floated south for many miles, eventually returning to the Marisa River. Cold and hungry, they risked a fire in a ruined cottage and warmed themselves. This time Jelindel abandoned her modesty and stripped, pretending not to notice Daretor’s occasional sidelong glances. Perhaps she was feeling more comfortable with him, or perhaps she was simply too numb and tired to care.

Before dawn broke they boarded a grain barge when it drew alongside one of the many depots scattered along the banks of the river. Jelindel cast a spell of invisibility that, while it failed to make them truly invisible, had the useful effect of deflecting all eyes away from them. Thus, they could walk amongst many and be seen – or at least remembered – by none. In time, the spell had the effect of weakening Jelindel considerably, forcing them to hurry aboard with Daretor supporting her most of the way.

The hours passed uneventfully, even somewhat pleasantly, since they were able to rest. However, late in the afternoon, the barge began to slow down. Before long they heard the familiar sound of wharfjacks shouting instructions. Soon, the barge thumped into something and then lay still, rocking slightly. They were cinched to bollards, which alarmed Jelindel.

‘We shouldn’t be stopping until tomorrow night. Something
is wrong.’ She suddenly jumped up. ‘Come on, we must get off now. It’s some kind of trap.’

Daretor didn’t argue. He had learnt to trust Jelindel’s instincts.

‘I fear,’ Jelindel told him, ‘that we must abandon the horses here. They’ll give us away.’

Daretor was more upset at this than at the sudden move. He had developed a deep respect, and even a love, for his horse. Some time ago he had named it Emisaar, a word which came from an ancient dialect meaning ‘fleet’. He stroked it now and whispered gentle goodbyes into its ear, promising that if he lived through the next few days he would come back and find the mare no matter what. Emisaar’s head bent towards him and she seemed to understand his words.

Daretor turned and left her tethered beside Jelindel’s mount.

Daretor and Jelindel moved cautiously to one of the aft cargo bays and prised open a hatch that opened below the level of the wharf. They climbed out, latched it shut again, and made their way through stinking mud and reeds, moving all the time beneath the wharf. When it was safe to do so, they broke cover and darted into nearby woods.

Larachel was waiting for them.

He stepped out from behind a tree and said, ‘That’s quite far enough.’ He held a squat, ugly device in his hands. Jelindel recognised it as a thundercast – a dragonlord weapon she had recovered in her quest for the mailshirt. It was aimed squarely at them. A noise from behind whipped them around to find Hargrellien standing there. She held a more traditional weapon, but one just as deadly: a lindrak crossbow.

Jelindel sighed. ‘So there were
two
of you following us.’

‘One can never be sufficiently paranoid,’ said Larachel.

‘Two of you,’ Jelindel repeated. ‘That night on board the
Dark Empress
.’ She glanced wonderingly at Hargrellien. ‘You freed Larachel and with the aid of the thundercast, you killed the mutineers. Then Larachel pretended to be a mutineer, returned you to the cabin, waited an hour or so, before allowing the passenger, Mistress Sheaghan, to escape. Tying himself up afterwards, of course. And it was you, Hargrellien, who found and untied him.’ She turned back to Larachel.

‘How very clever. Now, if you please –’ Larachel suddenly gulped and clutched his throat as a feathered bolt appeared there. He shot one agonising look of surprise at Hargrellien and collapsed.

Jelindel and Daretor spun round, expecting to feel one of the lethal metal shafts in their backs. But Hargrellien just stood there. After a moment, she lowered the crossbow.

Jelindel eyed the weapon: ‘Don’t tell me you’re letting us go.’

Hargrellien shrugged. ‘The lindrak ranks have been rebuilt in secret by the Preceptor, but they are nowhere nearly as good as the original lindraks. He plans to use them against Fa’red’s deadmoons, should the mage forget his place one day. But I belong to a covert group within the lindrak ranks that believe the pentacle gems will spell disaster for us. With a ringstone gate, mercenaries far deadlier than we can be brought to this world. We will become obsolete overnight. We do not intend to allow this. We even have an alliance with Fa’red.’

‘The complexity of these plots is making my head spin,’ said Daretor. ‘The attack on your home – were they the Preceptor’s lindraks or Fa’red’s deadmoons?’

Hargrellien’s expression remained blank. ‘Lindraks. Our group has been discovered.’ She glanced down at Larachel’s body. ‘Only he knew my history; where to find us. Now, the pentacle gems, Jelindel.’

‘They cannot be easily destroyed,’ Jelindel pointed out, steeling herself against attack.

‘Our ancient lore tells us this. That is why I will assist you to get to Sezel.’

‘What makes you think that I am going there?’

‘
You
told me. Sezel and Hazaria are the only places where I lost track of you during the voyage. My lindrak faction made some investigations which led to Lady Forturian. You are right, the gems must go to her. Even Fa’red does not have powers like hers.’

‘You speak of history, Hargrellien,’ said Daretor, gesturing at Larachel. ‘What is his?’

‘His name was R’mel. He was the sole survivor of the deadmoons’ attack on Blacklight Castle,’ said Hargrellien.

‘R’mel,’ Jelindel whispered.

Hargrellien nodded. ‘He was among those who killed your family. He rebuilt the lindraks under the Preceptor’s protection. Although he didn’t see the danger in the pentacle gems.’

He didn’t see a lot of things, thought Jelindel. ‘You’re a ruthless lot,’ she said. ‘And I must be slowing down if I didn’t recognise you as something more than a confused girl.’

Hargrellien shrugged. ‘We are taught that things are never as they seem. As for R’mel, he was of the old school, and shall be remembered for rekindling the brotherhood. But have no pity for him. He sought to kill us all rather than lose the pentacle gems. We need to hurry. The Preceptor knows you are here. Even now he is closing the trap.’

The world was filling with shadows as evening came on. Jelindel, Daretor and Hargrellien crouched amongst cloven boulders atop
a small hill. Below them, in all directions, the campfires of the Preceptor’s combined armies burned brightly into the distance.

The three fugitives had fled on foot all day, narrowly avoiding the scouts and patrols of the enemy, but in the end there were simply too many of them. Weary, they were no match for the Preceptor’s well-trained legions and his fleet-footed cavalry.

Neatly and effortlessly, they had been herded to this lonely, rocky hilltop from which they could see for miles in every direction.

Daretor paced impatiently back and forth. ‘Why don’t they just attack and get it over with?’ he asked.

Hargrellien shook her head. ‘That is not the Preceptor’s way. He wishes to taunt you with the sight of your failure, and your doom.’

‘He will strike in the morning,’ Jelindel said, tonelessly.

Hargrellien looked thoughtful. ‘I think so, too.’

‘Then I for one will get a good night’s sleep, so that tomorrow I may take as many of them with me as I can.’ Daretor threw himself down upon the ground and fell into an exhausted sleep within moments.

Jelindel envied him in some ways. His simple code of living left little room for doubt: fight for what is right, do not yield to the dark side, and when it is time to die, do so with honour and without regret.

For her, life was more complex. Sometimes she believed she had been too well educated, that a childhood spent illicitly reading had ill-prepared her for the more important things of life: remorse, responsibility, death, love. What can books tell you of these things? she wondered. They must be lived, yet in the very living of them, they change forever, because
you
are changed.

‘I don’t want to die,’ she said simply, not realising Hargrellien was nearby.

Hargrellien shrugged philosophically. ‘Who does? For all things there is a time of ending. Fa’red has plans that could be of use to us, but I fear that the Preceptor moved too fast this time.’

‘So Fa’red is in league with a lindrak faction?’ asked Jelindel, rubbing her forehead with her good hand.

‘Yes, in fact I am one of his most prized quadruple agents,’ laughed Hargrellien. ‘I may not be a very experienced or well-trained lindrak, but I am fairly small and light. Fa’red gave me some very special training, because … well, he had a plan to snatch the pentacle gems away much earlier. I was more interested in rescuing my father, however. Besides, you had the gems, and so in a sense I was within reach of them. Such a pity, if this is really the end after all we endured.’

‘No, not all things end,’ Jelindel said, thoughtfully. ‘Or at least, there are worlds of beings who do not perish.’ She jumped up. ‘Wake Daretor! We have work to do.’ And she strode off amongst the broken boulders.

The rising sun threw long shadowy fingers across the plain below so that a single man on sentry duty might cast a shadow hundreds of yards long.

On the elevated hilltop, a ring of five chest-high pillars threw out shadows that stretched for miles. The ragged stone mounds resembled the remnants of an ancient sacrificial site.

Daretor stood back to survey their handiwork. His hands were bloodied, as were Jelindel’s and Hargrellien’s. Wearily, he said, ‘This had better work, Jelli. My arms are near to falling off.’

Jelindel nodded. ‘It’s all a matter of weight. Or, to be precise, it’s all a matter of
mass
.’

‘Mass?’

‘Yes. The more massive the object, or objects, brought through the portal, the more stable must be the ringstone. The power of the paraplane interstices must be anchored in the earth, and anchored well.’

‘Then what good is this child’s version?’ Hargrellien demanded.

‘It’s all a matter of mass,’ Jelindel repeated, and paused long enough to irritate them. ‘The Preceptor thinks big, thinks in terms of gigantic armies of twelve-foot demons pouring through a ringstone portal. The total mass of such a venture is enormous, incalculable. But size isn’t everything.’

Daretor scowled at this last remark, glancing down at Zimak’s body. His eyes shifted slightly, and he faced the terrain below them. ‘Everything or not, you had best get started. They come!’

Jelindel and Hargrellien turned to stare at the plain below. While they had been talking, the Preceptor’s soldiers had formed into their fighting battalions. Now they were advancing across the flat stony earth towards the hilltop.

Even from here, Jelindel could feel not only Fa’red’s protective spells that encompassed the amassed army, but the incantations of the lesser Adepts. He was leaving nothing to chance. Hargrellien had already explained to Jelindel and Daretor that no matter how great the Preceptor’s victory this day, it would probably be Fa’red who claimed the pentacle gems at the day’s end.

Jelindel quickly placed the pentacle gems in the niches they had hollowed out in the tips of the hastily assembled pillars. As she placed the last one, she spoke the portal spell she had read in
The Book of Alchemorum
. A slight wind sprang up. It gathered about in tiny dust whirls, gathering momentum.

She drove her sword into the ground beside Daretor. ‘I won’t
need this where I’m going.’ She wove the symbol of White Quell in the air and strode forward.