by Paul Collins
‘Hargav, on the other hand, has lived in the urban sprawl of D’loom. He’s reasonably well educated, and has obviously enjoyed a patronage of some kind or another. He’s undoubtedly learnt to steal and beg on the streets, and being the sole male member of the family, has had to perform the male chores of the household. I suspect there is a fire within him that, if fueled, will see him reach far beyond his current horizon.
‘My horizons are limited by the fact that I have betrayed two friends. True, they had their faults. Zimak was secretly wearing a dragonlink and coveted the omnipotent mailshirt; Daretor and his mindless quest for honour drove me to the brink of despair. But what I have done is far worse. I have vanquished them to a paraworld, where their chances of survival are practically nil.
‘I have travelled the dark and perilous roads between Q’zar and the paraworlds and they are not for the lighthearted. Monstrous birds with quarterstaff long talons fly their airways and cannibalistic tribes war one another continually. In one paraworld the cold sciences rule: metal monsters race one another at incredible speeds and fly in the skies attacking one another, and machines rule the lives of their creators.
‘I did what I had to do. Zimak would never have let me destroy the mailshirt, and Daretor would never have forgiven Zimak for having used the ring to enhance his fighting ability. Such was his hatred of the linkriders that he might have killed Zimak on the spot.’
The shrouded figure was growing faint now, as though whatever power maintained it was drained. ‘Come to me – you know where I live,’ it whispered, receding.
‘Black Quell forbid, I wore several of the links myself in search of the mailshirt. So I sail this night with a heavy heart.’
Jelindel sat up. ‘Lady Forturian?’ she breathed.
‘Wuh?’ Hargav said hoarsely from his locker underneath.
‘It’s nothing,’ Jelindel whispered. ‘Just a silly dream.’
Chapter 5
TO SAVE A WORLD
Daretor, Zimak and Osric ate their last meal together beside an oasis pool. Thick clouds obscured the sun above the desert, and gave them an added feeling of protection. The adolescent dragon crouched nearby, its glittering eyes watching them. Osric finished eating and wiped his fingers on his tunic.
‘I am sad that our ways part here. I had hoped you would return with me to Bazite as heroes.’
‘I had hoped that also,’ Daretor said. ‘But if we are to return to our own land, we must enlist the aid of a powerful sorcerer, and you say there are none among your people.’
‘Magic does not run in our blood, but I know from the talk of the Dragonriders that north of here are lands where magic is much used.’
Osric climbed onto the dragon and called down to them, ‘You must stand well clear. I bid you farewell, my friends.’
‘Remember what I told you!’ Zimak shouted.
Osric laughed. ‘I will not forget. I will make an entrance that my people will not forget for a hundred years. Farewell.’
With that, the dragon leaped off the ground, its great bat-wings cupping the air, and in a moment it was above the treetops. Daretor and Zimak watched it with mixed feelings.
Daretor waited until the dragon disappeared. ‘I’m almost sorry we did not go with him. If we don’t find a way home then we might seek out his people one day.’
Zimak shook his head. ‘Hie, Daretor, I would’ve liked to have become a hero. Even for a day.’
They wrapped the dried food, filled the water skin, and set off on foot. They travelled north for several hours before coming to another oasis just after nightfall.
‘It’s unusual to find another oasis so soon,’ said Zimak.
‘No, it’s common,’ said Daretor. ‘I saw the like often back home.’
They made for the outline of the palm trees against the darkening sky, and discovered that the oasis was very extensive. A large camel train was encamped on the far side, but after their previous experience with a caravan, they decided to keep clear of it until morning.
Daretor and Zimak made no fire, raised no tent, and ate their meal amid the low, dense bushes before settling down for the night. In the morning they would approach the camel train and ask about travelling with them as guards. Their eyes had not been closed long when a commotion roused them. It sounded like a battle coming from the direction of the caravan. Daretor pulled on his boots.
‘What are you doing?’ demanded Zimak.
‘Going to investigate, of course.’
‘Massacres must happen a lot around here, Daretor. These people? They’re used to it.’
Daretor stared at Zimak. ‘No one gets “used” to being murdered, you dolt.’
‘Do you have to go looking for trouble? Doesn’t trouble find us without us helping it along?’
‘Are you coming or staying?’
Zimak groaned and fumbled for his boots.
They found a massacre. There was a large campsite close by, but on an open stretch of sand were dozens of bodies. All appeared to have been able-bodied men, and most had died fighting. Others lay tied up in a neat row, as if slaughtered after surrendering. Occasional screams and cries came from the more distant tents.
‘There’s something awfully familiar about this,’ Zimak said. ‘These men. They’re the same ones we fought, before Jelindel struck us a second time.’
Daretor’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘What in Black Quell’s name is happening to us?’ He shrugged off a creeping sense of unease. ‘Find a weapon,’ he commanded.
‘Mere steel will not save us,’ Zimak said morbidly, but followed Daretor’s order. ‘Money, weapons, light armour,’ Zimak mumbled. ‘These bodies have not been looted.’
‘The victors are busy ravishing the women again. Or should I say, “still”?’ muttered Daretor. ‘We are honour bound to intervene once more.’
‘I am getting very tired of the sound of that word,’ Zimak said.
‘Come, let us see how the land lies before we attack.’
‘Perhaps we’ve been given a second chance, Daretor.’ Zimak gripped the bigger man’s shoulder. ‘Maybe some god here saved us before and dragged us back through the paraplane.’
Daretor looked at him as if to say, You’d come up with any old nonsense to get out of a fight. Instead, he said, ‘We are champion gladiators on this world. We have already defeated a mantid. What can sozzled warriors do to us?’
‘There’s something about the logic of that, but I still think we should get as far –’
Daretor waved him quiet. ‘It sounds as though they’re being murdered as we stand here. Hurry!’
‘These weapons are drenched in blood. Erk.’
‘Zimak?’
‘What?’
Daretor’s knuckles were white against the haft of a broadsword. ‘Shut … up.’
As Daretor had ascertained, the raiders were not at their most alert. He observed that the few that were on guard wore spiked helmets, light chainmail and leather breastplates. They carried a variety of weapons: scimitars, broadswords, halberds and bows.
‘They appear to be armed with the best that can be looted on battlefields,’ said Daretor. ‘That’s good.’
‘They have the best and that is good?’ muttered Zimak.
‘Yes. You should be armed with what best suits you, not with what has the highest value. Still, they do not seem to have suffered even one loss during their encounter with the caravan’s guards and drivers. A disparate bunch of men, but they fight well. That is their weakness too, of course.’
‘Of course that’s their weakness,’ Zimak said, with ill-disguised sarcasm. ‘Are we really going to attack them?’
‘The greater the odds, the greater the glory. Besides, the lives of the women are at stake.’
‘Maybe so, but my life is at stake as well.’
Daretor eyed Zimak up and down. ‘I have known many mighty warriors, solid, staunch men and women upon whom I could entrust my life. I have met powerful Adepts, intellectuals, and people of hon
our. People who understood the meaning of the word chivalry. Of all these companionable people I have known, I find myself here with you.’
‘That’s not fair,’ Zimak said, stung by the words. ‘If I’d had my choice of partners, I’d have chosen someone different, too.’
‘I agree that Adenia Troddledope, the fishmonger’s daughter, would have suited your immediate needs, Zimak. But I wonder whether her knowledge of the hayloft at the back of the cobbler’s shed would have been of much practical use here.’
‘She wasn’t just a pretty face …’
Daretor paused, listening. ‘Two men, coming our way.’ He locked eyes with Zimak. ‘We might have been brought here for a reason other than Jelindel’s treachery. I feel this deeply.’
‘Oh, the gods are talking to you directly, are they?’ Zimak said, raising an eyebrow. ‘Can you pass on a message or two for me? For a start, Adenia –’
‘Zimak. If we are to survive until we can find a way to return to Q’zar, we must prove ourselves, and when I prove myself I want to show that I am a man of honour. If you want my company, you had better try to do the same. If you don’t like that, then start walking. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Hmm,’ said Zimak, non-committally. How had Daretor known about Adenia Troddledope, anyway? He looked across at the carousing barbarians and almost whimpered. At least Adenia wouldn’t have been a suicidal maniac. Her honour had long since been extinguished in the seedy alleyways of D’loom.
‘So, you have not decided to flee,’ Daretor said, taking Zimak’s silence as agreement. ‘Then here’s what we do.’
Daretor’s plan was simple enough. The majority of the raiders were already drunk on whatever they had plundered from the caravan.
‘Sure I heard something,’ rumbled one of the approaching men.
‘What’s one more snivelling cur?’ said the other.
‘We’re missing the festivities.’
‘There’s more than enough skirt to go around –’
The pair were extraordinarily easy to defeat. One blow from Daretor’s sword nearly cut the bigger of the pair in two, while even the diminutive Zimak managed to overpower the other after a short but frantic struggle.
‘Come on, let us take the others.’
‘What? By direct attack? Daretor, what say we wait until they’re all drunk and asleep, then slit their throats?’
‘And let the women be defiled for another three or four hours? What manner of man are you?’
‘A survivor,’ Zimak mumbled.
Daretor walked straight for the fire where the raiders were roasting a sheep-like animal. They managed to get close to the enemy before an astonished warrior barked an oath. What followed was a very one-sided battle. The raiders were not well coordinated, having had their fill of drink, and Daretor won most of his encounters with the first blow. The problem was that the swords were as frail as the enemy, and he broke three before taking a heavy, two-handed axe from one of his victims. This he used easily with one hand.
Zimak spent most of the fight guarding Daretor’s back, but few raiders were willing to approach what must have seemed a supernaturally strong demon and its acolyte.
Suddenly everything went still and quiet. Daretor counted eleven bodies, and five raiders were on their knees with their hands in the air.
‘Four escaped,’ panted Daretor.
‘Three,’ said Zimak, pointing to a woman emerging from a tent with a bloodied knife in her hand. She approached Daretor, kneeled before him, then bowed.
‘We beg mercy, mighty demon,’ she began.
‘I am no demon,’ said Daretor.
‘But I can be a bit of a devil,’ laughed Zimak from behind him.
‘Get the other women, bind those raiders hand and foot,’ said Daretor. ‘After that, I have a little hunting to do.’
The other three freebooters were hiding amid the palms near the oasis. They tried to rally and take Daretor and Zimak by surprise, but the fight did not last long. They returned to the camp to find that the women had already tried, sentenced, and executed the prisoners.
‘Little work for lawyers in this world,’ observed Zimak, suddenly nervous about sharing a tent with any of the women.
It took some time to convince the women that Daretor and Zimak were alone, and not part of a larger army. Although they were their saviours, the women seemed loath to fully trust two men who had just defeated the barbarians when their own men – thirty strong – had been annihilated.
The eldest woman introduced herself as Premiel, but she was known among her people as the Matriarch. She knelt before the pair and almost ritualistically offered them anything from the caravan. Her outstretched hands encompassed the entire camp.
‘Yours by feudal right,’ she finished. ‘Is there anything you wish?’
Zimak nodded enthusiastically. He grinned wolfishly at one of the Matriarch’s handmaidens, then realised that the red pattern on her robes was blood. He stopped grinning.
‘We expect nothing in return,’ Daretor said, sharply. ‘Unless in the way of directions. We are homeless men and seek employment.’
‘Homeless, yes,’ said the Matriarch. ‘Mere men, no. But you appear to mean us no harm; in fact you have done us a great service. If you seek work, then travel with us as our royal bodyguard. We can pay well, whether gold or charm is to your taste.’
Daretor’s hand came down firmly on Zimak’s shoulder.
‘Steady,’ Zimak whined, ‘I’ve been injured.’ He rotated his arm. There was nothing like a wound to gain sympathy from women, or so he believed.
‘We need directions, supplies, weapons –’
‘And money,’ added Zimak. ‘And – mummph.’
‘We must really be on our way,’ said Daretor, striking Zimak’s shoulder.
The Matriarch spoke quickly to her people. After a whispered exchange, the Matriarch told Daretor of a city to the north that had been recently besieged. Apparently, the Matriarch and her entourage were seeking refuge in the southern kingdoms. They were fleeing the D’ai, a race of desert dwellers that had been pillaging the land for some time. Unfortunately, mercenaries from fallen keeps had formed lawless bands and were now hunting in packs, a law unto themselves.
‘We are the court women of a small principality. Our noblemen have joined forces to fight off the enemy and my husband Prince Ulad has sent us where we would be safe while they are away,’ the Matriarch finished off.
The Matriarch insisted that Daretor and Zimak stay awhile. She had all but dragged Daretor to the main tent. With two clicks of her fingers she dismissed her handmaiden, a well endowed woman by the name of Andzu, who all but dragged a grinning Zimak from the tent.
Confronted by the Matriarch, a woman obviously used to getting what she wanted, Daretor felt more nervous than he was when battling the raiders. He could have easily asked that the other women stay. However, he banished the thought when the tent flap was pulled tight and strapped.
‘We’re alone,’ said the Matriarch, arching an eyebrow. She looked at him coyly, with eyes half draped by thickly lacquered lashes.
‘Indeed we are,’ said Daretor.
‘It’s been a long time since I have been with one so obviously strong as you. In fact, I have never been with one such as you.’
‘You may be disappointed,’ said Daretor, struggling to do whatever was vaguely honourable under the circumstances.
‘Disappointed?’ Premiel laughed hoarsely. ‘Your friend is as skinny as a plains dog, but you –’ She ran her highly ornamented and colourful fingernails down the length of Daretor’s arm. She stopped momentarily and puzzled over a gash to his bicep. ‘A gash like this would have any of our men rolling in agony, yet you have not even asked for it to be bound. What are you?’
The Matriarch’s question gave Daretor an idea.
‘I am a machine,’ he said, flatly.
‘I – what?’ exclaimed the Matriarch. ‘A machine, like a windmill?’
‘A machine, like
a warship. Do you know warships?’
‘I have travelled to the coastal cities and seen the great oared galley ships.’
‘They are machines of wood powered by slaves. I am a machine powered by little demons. A wizard on another world created me. Zimak travels with me to translate.’
‘Translate? But I can understand you.’
‘That is irrelevant,’ responded Daretor, finding it curiously easy to play the part of a machine. ‘Some human things I cannot understand. I have only existed for a month. Zimak explains things that I do not understand.’
A girl’s prolonged giggle from nearby could not have come at a worse moment. The Matriarch’s eyelashes lifted despite their weight of lacquer. ‘I see,’ she said, although clearly she did not. ‘So Zimak is your master?’
Daretor smiled despite himself. ‘Zimak is my assistant. Like a groom that tends a war-horse.’
‘Ah, I see. And when you were built, did your creator include any equipment for, ah, amusement?’
‘Such as you speak of would be superfluous. A warship is for fighting, it has no need of luxuries.’
‘Pity. If ever I meet your wizard-creator, I must put in a commission for a luxury version of you. But who commands you? Every ship has a captain. Who is yours?’
‘My creator. He needed to test me. He sent me here, where there is much fighting and injustice. He gave me a mission. I must carry it out with no captain, only Zimak. I can say no more. Now I must go. I need to brief my assistant, then I must close down and let my power demons make repairs.’