Wardragon (14 page)

‘What did she do, Zimak?’ Ethella took his hand in hers, and held it tightly, because it was shaking. ‘What did Mizzy do?’

Slowly, Zimak said, ‘She threw herself at the guard holding my hands. Caught him by surprise and knocked him off his feet. He let go of me. And Mizzy yelled, “Run, Zimak, run! Before they get you!”’

‘And you ran?’

‘Gah, to my great shame, I did.’

Ethella stroked his hand and, after a while, said, ‘What happened then?’

‘I found her later. They beat her up and threw her in the river. I used every argent I ever stole, every damned copper, and got her a proper burial.’ Tears ran down his cheeks, and he wouldn’t look Ethella in the eyes. She knelt beside him and put her arms around his heaving shoulders, and he cried as he hadn’t done since the night he had found Mizzy’s tiny body stuck in the river mud.

After a while, Ethella said, ‘How old were you then, Zimak?’

He shrugged. ‘Seven. Or eight. I don’t know.’

‘So there’s nothing you could have done. You were just a little boy. And they were grown men, Zimak. Bullies. And you
tried
. You called out. I think that was very brave of you. Maybe the bravest thing I’ve ever heard of.’

Zimak mumbled something.

Ethella frowned. ‘Kamiz?’

He nodded. ‘I wanted to be like Kamiz – Q’zar’s greatest hero. I loved stories of his adventures. But after Mizzy … I guess I knew I’d never be like him, so I stopped trying.’

‘Oh, Zimak,’ Ethella said, and held him tighter.

Zimak woke the next morning on the grass near the burnt-out fire. Blankets from his pack had been draped over him, to keep off the night chill. He sat up quickly and stared about but Ethella was nowhere to be seen. He started to think she was no more than a dream. Though for a dream there had been some very real moments, such as when she had kissed him. Even now he could feel her lips pressed to his, could smell her warm, sweet breath. He remembered promising her he would come back as soon as he could, and bring his friend, Jelindel, a great mage of Q’zar, to see if she might unbind the curse that bound her forever to the lake.

Some time in the night, Ethella had told him of a secret way into Argentia, a way that might now be long gone, or impassable, but offered a safe way in if it still existed.

An hour before dawn, Ethella had suddenly stood up. ‘I must go now, my time is up,’ she had said. And kissed him. Zimak, startled at first, had then put his arms around her, and held her close – then she broke away with an odd cry and dove hurriedly into the lake, vanishing beneath the still water.

Still entranced by what had happened to him, but convinced that he had dreamed it all, he quickly ate and packed. Just as he was about to mount his horse he became aware of something around his neck. His fingers discovered a small pendant, as green as waterweed. Zimak’s eyes widened and his gaze went to the dark surface of the water.

Later that day Zimak came to the territorial boundary of Argentia, a place marked by a moss-covered cairn of rocks and skulls and an old wooden sign, now half-eaten by termites, its time-worn lettering unreadable. No doubt it bore some hearty welcome along the lines of, ‘Proceed at your own risk – death and taxes ahead!’

Here Zimak hesitated, but not because of the old sign. Was it a dream? Had he just been lonely upon the road, in need of companionship, of something more than the tavern wenches he usually allowed himself? Ethella certainly reminded him of Mizzy. If it had been a dream, then Ethella’s advice was also a dream, yet she had mentioned this cairn. Jelindel and Daretor had been to Argentia once. Could they have told him of it long ago? ‘Zimak, there’s a great cairn on the Argentia border, you should go look at it some time.’ No, neither of them made small talk like that.

Well, a decision had to be made, Zimak could not tarry there. Either he must go right, the obvious choice and the way determined in the discussions with Daretor and Fa’red, or else he must go left, the direction Ethella had advised.

Despite fingering the pendant that hung around his neck, Zimak sighed and reined his horse to the right and dug in his heels. The horse headed off at a light trot. Deep down inside, Zimak felt like a traitor, though whom he had betrayed he did not know.

An hour later he was back at the cairn, cursing himself for a fool, before sending his horse into a fast canter down the left-branching road. May White Quell have pity on him, he thought, as he pursued the shadow of a memory of a fading dream … or the mischievous whim of an enchantress.

Daretor travelled south. The Algon Mountains loomed large behind him, but after two days travel they had diminished perceptibly. As he rode, he worried. Where was Jelindel right now? What was happening to her? Was she still alive? The name of that dread place arose in his thoughts – Golgora – and he shuddered. If even a tiny part of what he had heard about the hell world was true, then there could be little hope for Jelindel. And for Daretor – no choice. He would have to find a way there. Even if there was none back.

Yet Daretor knew just how truly powerful Jelindel was and that he, Daretor, would be in far greater peril on Golgora than she. But none of this helped, and as he rode south towards Dragonfrost he continued to fret. Competing with these worries was his concern over what sort of reception he might get when he arrived at the Tower Inviolate. The new dragonriders, including Osric, their ruler, credited him and Zimak with their freedom and the salvation of the dragons, but he did not let this lull him into thinking that his request might not ruffle feathers – or scales. The Sacred One was not a tavern oracle, to be consulted willy-nilly by anyone with a spare copper.

He would know soon enough. Three more days and he would arrive at an outrider post and from there he would hitch a ride to the Tower itself, via dragon-travel. It was one of the safest ways to travel, according to Osric. Except that Daretor was afraid of heights.

That evening Daretor came upon a small town nestled into a hillside, and surrounded almost completely by a large loop of river.

He spent the night in a simple but clean and wholesome inn, where the food was plain but hearty. There were few guests, and as the night deepened he soon had the taproom, with its crackling fire, to himself. Sitting there thus, filled with food, weary from the day’s travel, his aches and pains being soothed by the warmth of the flames, his mind went to another matter, much as a tongue goes to a sore tooth, endlessly prodding and testing it.

What would happen if he returned to his own body? He swallowed, and faced the thing he feared: would Jelindel still love him?

He felt stupid and boorish for thinking such thoughts, but could not stop himself. All his energy and feeling was bent on just one question: who had Jelindel fallen in love with? Was it Daretor, or was it Zimak’s body? She had seemed only too willing to jump into bed and make love to Zimak’s flesh after the body swap. And love had not come till later. Why hadn’t she fallen in love with him earlier, when he was still himself, so to speak?

The doubts went round and round in his head till he felt giddy. He ordered stronger wine and drank half the flagon, desperate to stifle such dishonourable thoughts, but the alcohol only gave him a strange clarity of mind in which one particular idea slowly crystallised: he did not know what would happen if he were to be restored, but he
needed
to know. He got to his feet and ponderously climbed the stairs to his room, a small man walking like a very large one. If the wine had not fogged his thoughts it did help him sleep. Mercifully, he did not dream.

Daretor woke the next morning with a dry foul-tasting mouth, and a head that throbbed. He bathed in icy water and went down to a breakfast of porridge, fresh-baked bread, butter, oatcakes and a local dish consisting of fried liver, tomatoes and mushrooms. He soon felt better, and even somewhat hopeful.

As he left the town, a militia captain warned him against venturing too far into Dragonfrost. Although relations with the Tower Inviolate had improved, they still had a deep mistrust of anything to do with dragons. Daretor wished him good harvest and rode on.

That afternoon he was ambushed.

Chapter 10

The Ragtag Army

S
everal weeks had passed since Jelindel’s escape, and she and Taggar were hungry, thin and badly scratched. They were crouched high in a tree overlooking a compound. Overhead, lightning crisscrossed the sky, and the ever-present volcanoes bathed the world with their blood-red glow. In all the time she had been here, Jelindel had still not seen the sun.

The creatures who lived in the compound were humanoid: they had two arms, two legs and a head. But their skin was the colour of a grass snake: a faint iridescent green. Their ears stood up like tiny trumpets and never ceased to twitch, as if a good sense of hearing was more important to them than sight. They were about five feet high and very thin, yet despite this they were at least as strong as any human, and perhaps more so. Jelindel did not know from which world they hailed, but it was none she had ever visited. Taggar claimed a vague familiarity, but he had been to so many worlds over so many centuries that it was hard to remember any one in particular.

In spite of the creatures’ strangeness Jelindel thought of them as human: they laughed, they cried, and they cared about their children.

‘I want to make contact,’ Jelindel whispered.

‘Too dangerous,’ said Taggar matter-of-factly.

‘We’ve been watching for three days.’

‘And it won’t hurt to watch for another three.’

‘I’ll die of boredom by then,’ Jelindel said.

‘Go down there now and you might die sooner.’

‘Taggar –’

‘Is your race always so impatient?’

‘Is yours always so sensible?’

A slow smile spread across Taggar’s lined face. ‘My method has kept me alive for twelve centuries.’

Jelindel opened her mouth for a retort but for once could think of none. At the tender age of eighteen her own experience was hardly in the same league.

‘Well, I’m sure it was a really boring twelve centuries.’

Taggar chuckled. ‘Not
so
boring. I remember the time I –’

‘Shsssh!’

Taggar fell silent. They stared down into the compound where families were preparing food or curing yesterday’s kill. A stir seemed to run through the creatures: all ears started twitching simultaneously. Then one of the children screamed and everyone bolted for the huts, slamming doors and windows, and shooting home bolts.

Within seconds the compound was empty save for two dozen warriors, evenly divided between the sexes, who stood perfectly still in attitudes of listening. Each was clasping a sturdy spear, the type meant for thrusting, not throwing. The blades were smeared with some dark tarry substance. The warriors waited stoically. Whatever was coming wasn’t new.

‘I think we should leave,’ said Taggar.

‘And I think we need to know more about these people. I’m staying.’

Taggar relented and kept his place. ‘I had hoped to make thirteen hundred,’ he muttered. ‘I do believe you are bad for my aspirations.’

‘Something’s approaching,’ said Jelindel.

By now even the two watchers could hear a thrashing of vegetation and a series of high-pitched snorts. A line of creatures emerged. They were similar to the centaurs. They broke from the edge of the nearby trees and hurtled into the compound. Jelindel quickly realised that these weren’t the horse-like animals she had seen before, but scaly, fleet-footed reptiles. They moved with dazzling speed.

The waiting defenders whirled to meet them and, almost too late, rammed their spears at an angle into the hard earth and presented the attackers with a forest of sharp and no doubt poisoned spear tips.

The charging creatures gave no heed to their own welfare. Hurling themselves against the spears, they died, but their bodies quickly piled up. The defenders were compelled to fall back and present the barricade of spears again and again. Nor were the defenders untouched. Several had already fallen where clawed arms had reached through the phalanx of spears to slash at them. These tactics soon opened up wedges in the defence boundary, forcing the green-skinned warriors to break into two, then several separate defence positions.

The ferocity of the attack left little doubt as to the outcome. Jelindel watched one of the reptiles leap onto the roof of a hut and begin ripping away the thatch. Within moments a great hole was opened and through this Jelindel could see a family cowering inside. As the reptile made to drop inside, Jelindel saw the mother throw herself across her three children. One of the warriors, seeing this, turned and flung his spear but his aim was off and the spear glanced off the creature’s thick hide.

Before Jelindel knew what she was doing she had muttered a binding spell and launched it at the reptile as it dropped inside the hut. The horror of this entry contorted the face of the warrior who had flung the spear; this must be his family and he cringed, expecting any second to hear sounds of carnage from within the hut. But none came.

‘Jelindel –’

Taggar laid a hand on her arm but she shook it off. She ignored the acidic ache in her stomach and jumped out of the tree and sprinted into the compound. Chanting weak binding spells, she dropped several more of the attackers. The warriors, stunned to see this white-skinned creature appear unheralded, were nevertheless quick to take advantage of her help. They quickly slew the bound reptiles. As this released each spell, Jelindel was able to bind more of the creatures. This onslaught seemed not to daunt the enemy, either because they were too stupid to realise they were suddenly losing, or because bloodlust had consumed them.

In a short time the tide of battle turned in favour of the defenders. Jelindel grabbed a spear and made it to the hut where the reptile had dropped inside. Scrambling in through the hole in the roof, she found the mother still protecting her children, her frightened eyes staring at the reptile struggling furiously with the invisible bindings. Jelindel raised the spear in both hands; the mother cried out, spreading her arms before her children, but the spear came down to impale the heaving chest of the reptile. The creature’s reflexes were extraordinary: it managed to lash out and knock Jelindel into a wall, winding her badly, but she climbed back to her feet, dodged the kicking clawed feet, and drove the spear into the reptile’s skull. Finally it lay still.

Panting from the exertion, Jelindel looked across at the mother. There was a moment of tension, as if the mother still did not know what Jelindel would do next.

Jelindel dropped the spear and spread her hands. As she turned to go the mother stepped forward hesitantly. She said something in her own language. Jelindel nodded, and removed the barricade from the door, coming face-to-face with the warrior who had thrown the spear.

He looked over Jelindel’s shoulder, saw that his family was safe and that the reptile was dead. Relief spread across his face and he clasped Jelindel’s hand.

‘
Kundas ef ’ti ghirl kundasari
…’ he said over and over.

‘He’s thanking you,’ said a voice. Taggar stepped into view. The defenders eyed him warily but made no move to stop him.

‘You speak their language?’ Jelindel asked.

‘I speak many languages. Twelve centuries gives you a lot of spare time.’

He entered into a halting conversation with the warrior, and they jabbered at each other for several minutes. The others, hearing Taggar speak their language, crowded round, and soon all were chattering and gesticulating, pointing frequently at Jelindel then back at the trees.

‘What’s going on?’ Jelindel said at last.

Taggar broke off from the conversation. ‘They say that under normal circumstances they would have killed us on sight, such are the social conventions on Golgora, but they think you are some kind of minor god. They want us to stay and protect them from the Radmerl – the reptiles.’

‘Tell them we’ll stay. Tell them we will teach them how to defend themselves against the Radmerl, and much, much more.’

Taggar eyed her oddly. ‘You have a plan?’

‘I hope so.’

‘Pray tell.’

‘My kindermaid used to say, “All things must be properly cooked; perfection is measured in tiny details”. We are going to cook – slowly and patiently.’

‘See, I’m a good influence on you.’

Jelindel smiled. ‘Ask them how many more tribes live in this area, and which ones they have regular contact with.’

Taggar began a long conversation with the green-skinned warriors while Jelindel stared off into the distance, her brow knitted in thought.

The jungle was alive. Even the shadows moved, or so it would have seemed to a casual observer. Slipping through the jungle shadows was a new type of predator. Camouflaged and cautious, warriors of several different species, some not remotely human, moved as one. Each shared one burning desire: to escape this hell world.

Ever since Jelindel had come to the aid of the Mogatar, she had been teaching the green-skinned warriors the rudiments of magic. Meanwhile Taggar taught off-world military tactics. They had recruited many of the surrounding tribes, some of them even former enemies of the Mogatar. The new army called itself the Hellholers.

Jelindel’s magical abilities, the most powerful ever seen on Golgora (and more or less under her control), had convinced many. Word had spread and new recruits appeared daily.

It didn’t hurt that almost all the Hellholers were awed by the fact that Taggar was one of the original Two Hundred – banished here a thousand years ago. The Two Hundred inspired an almost religious zeal on Golgora, not because they were ancient, but because they had
escaped
.

The shadows moved relentlessly, with purpose, closing on a mining quarry gouged into a jungle-enshrouded hillside. Machines chewed into the reddish earth and others came behind and scooped up the ore-rich material. Hundreds of slaves toiled at the hillside, using hammers, drill-spears that chattered loudly, and things that caused blasts like volcanoes. Guarding them all with cold science weapons were thirty Farvenu.

Jelindel swallowed. Well over six feet tall, the Farvenu were formidable adversaries.

‘The Wardragon’s elite guard,’ Taggar said nonchalantly.

‘This changes everything,’ Jelindel said. She hadn’t expected Farvenu.

‘How so?’

‘I know these creatures,’ Jelindel said. ‘I’ve been to their paraworld, Farvane. They’re unimaginably dangerous.’ She fought to keep worry from her voice. ‘The Hellholers are no match for them. They’ll be wiped out. We have to abort …’

Taggar gripped her arm. ‘I know them too. Predatory and pitiless, they harbour no fear of death. They do the Wardragon’s work with an enthusiasm that is sickening.’

‘How long have you known?’

‘I’ve seen them from afar, and know of them of old. Their association with the Wardragon makes perfect sense.’

‘I still can’t believe that they’re here,’ Jelindel said.

‘Have you defeated them in the past?’

Jelindel nodded. ‘With binding spells and steel.’

‘Then you shall use binding spells and steel again.’

‘I had Daretor and Zimak with me then.’ She turned a worried face to Taggar. ‘We’ll lose a lot of people today.’

Taggar nodded. ‘War is dangerous, people get killed. If you don’t like it, be a slave.’

‘I know you mean well, Taggar, but your words are harsh. I’d like to give these people the best chance of winning.’

Taggar pointed to where the jungle came close to the main concentration of the Farvenu. There was an outcrop of high ground from which the devil-like guards could easily observe both the prisoners, and the progress of the excavations.

‘We are giving them the chance to be rid of tyranny. To
act
.’ He paused, then continued: ‘The guard will soon be changed. Besides, it’s too late to change our plans now.’

Even as he said this, Jelindel’s forces moved into their positions and a number of bird calls could be heard. The Farvenu, intently watching the enslaved workers like birds of prey, paid no attention to what must have seemed like a few more noises from the infernal jungle.

Jelindel and Taggar took up their position in a tree from where they could see the prospective battlefield. The quarry had been scooped into the hillside, in the shape of a half-sack. Thus the lower sections, where the ore-chewing machines and many of the slaves worked, were overhung by the upper parts. Eventually this ‘open-cut’ method had developed into a series of tunnels worming their way into the hill, following the mineral-rich seams.