by Paul Collins
Daretor raised himself in the stirrups. ‘I don’t intend to be here when they drop,’ he said. ‘Odd though it seems, the craters are focused in this spot and nowhere else.’
They crossed a brief expanse of broken, baked clay and pulled rein at the precipice of the crater before the escarpment of green. The foothills were tantalisingly close.
When they finally arrived, the Forest of Castles was no more than dozens of stone columns, a hundred feet across and about twice as high. They looked a little like castles, but they were clearly natural. Zimak regretted his earlier announcement that he would end their partnership here.
‘Staying?’ asked Daretor.
‘Very funny,’ Zimak replied. He did not even bother to rein in his horse. They cantered through the monoliths, the horses’ hooves echoing like cannon shots between the pillars.
It was almost dark. The twin suns had retired below the horizon and a moon had risen. Its presence made the pair uneasy. Q’zar had three moons. This world had one moon and two suns. That meant that some nights were very dark indeed, and moonless nights were more common.
The ground was littered with shards of rock that had fallen from the pillars during the frosts of the intensely cold desert nights. The horses began to slip and stumble, until the pair was forced to dismount and lead. Now it was their turn to slide, stumble and stagger.
‘Be careful,’ Daretor snapped as Zimak fell. ‘You make enough noise for an army.’
‘There’s no one here, you great ox,’ Zimak called as he got to his feet. He was bone-weary and Daretor’s indomitable spirit was beginning to grate.
Something dark fluttered above them, and Zimak pointed. ‘There’s something with wings up there, flying,’ he warned.
‘Without wings it would be down here, and walking,’ Daretor said, simply.
‘I mean, it’s a bat. They fly out at dusk, and suck blood from creatures like us.’
‘The Matriarch told me they are fruit bats,’ Daretor replied. ‘She told you, but you were too busy fondling her handmaiden to listen.’
‘Andzu was fondling me and ministering to my wound – and I was paying attention. To both the handmaiden and the Matriarch.’
Daretor squinted at the sky. Dark shapes like sheets of paper seemed to be fluttering up there. He pulled rein and held up his hand for silence. ‘Can you hear something?’ he said, cupping his ear.
Zimak’s horse whinnied. ‘You’re spooking my horse –’ he began, but didn’t finish his rebuke.
All at once, every cave, overhang and fissure in the towering rocks poured a tide of black creatures into the sky. The sound of their wings and the chittering was so loud that Daretor and Zimak had to shout to make themselves heard. They flattened themselves against their rearing mounts, and Zimak’s horse galloped off, dragging him along with it. Eventually the torrent of bats dwindled on currents of hot wind, then silence returned.
Zimak staggered back to Daretor, his foot aching from being dragged across the uneven ground.
‘That was a bit of luck,’ Daretor said, mounting.
‘Black Quell’s blood!’ Zimak screamed. ‘How could you call that luck?’ He jabbed a finger at the distant sky that was now shifting and swirling like a locust plague.
‘Lucky for us they didn’t tarry,’ Daretor said. ‘Best we move on before they return from their feasting.’
‘Feasting?’ Zimak whispered, fearfully. ‘You said they were fruit bats.’
‘The Matriarch said they were fruit bats. I suspect they are vampire bats, Zimak. They eat flesh and suck blood. It’s what they do,’ he said, matter-of-factly.
‘Well they seem to be the citizens of the Forest of Castles,’ said Zimak.
‘Fancy any of the girls?’ Daretor laughed.
Zimak ground his teeth. ‘I’ve had just about enough of your Jelindel-type remarks. I want a real city. Peopled by real people. With money. Women. A thriving population not afraid to take a bet. A place where someone of my talents can advance.’
Daretor smiled. ‘There is one close by.’
‘Gah, Daretor. And how would you know that? Did a bat tell you?’
‘Yes, as it happens. I was joking about the vampire bats, by the way. We wouldn’t be here if they had been bloodsuckers. Fruit bats mean fruit. Fruit sufficient to feed as many bats as that means very large orchards. Large orchards mean many people buying fruit. Many people means a city. The Matriarch said we should cross the river by morning, get past the Forest of Castles and be amid the mountains before evening. Perhaps we should not have been so hasty, with evening so close.’
‘We?’ exclaimed Zimak. ‘You were the one who insisted we keep moving.’
Zimak’s outburst echoed eerily amid the pillars.
‘If there is anything here to worry about, I suggest that we start worrying,’ said Daretor.
Something in his voice made Zimak take note. ‘What is there to fear from fruit bats? What can they do? Spit seeds at us?’
Daretor pointed to a spot a few yards ahead. It was a yellowing skeleton, still partially covered in tarnished armour and perished leather. There was another nearby. And close to that was the skeleton of a horse. To either side were more bones, as though scavengers had picked the bones clean.
‘Dozens and dozens,’ said Zimak, shushing his horse.
‘Warriors, but many types of warriors,’ observed Daretor. ‘Most are in armour and have weapons beside them. They have been left here as a warning to go no further.’
Zimak’s brow furrowed as he looked to the horizon. ‘Perhaps they are vampire bats. We should get out of here fast.’
‘Too late.’ Daretor’s horse reared and he leaned forward to control it.
Some kind of flying creature was in the air above them, and it was much bigger than the bats. At least as big as a man. Others launched themselves from the towers, slowly circling and dropping lower. Yet more could be seen against the evening sky, standing on two legs, and jumping into the air.
‘Men with wings,’ said Daretor. ‘Look out!’ He shoved Zimak aside just as something clinked against the rock not a yard from them. ‘Men with crossbows,’ he hissed.
‘Stay with the horses,’ cried Zimak. ‘Stay between them and crouch low.’
They escaped the hail of crossbow bolts that followed, but both horses took a dozen or more hits between them. Screaming, kicking and plunging, the animals collapsed against each other.
Daretor and Zimak pulled themselves free of the dead horses but huddled against them. At least a score of the flying warriors was descending.
‘Light, poisoned bolts,’ said Zimak. ‘Our foes are like birds – they can’t carry much weight.’
‘They’re armed well enough, for all that,’ Daretor grunted. He balanced a dagger between his thumb and finger.
The first of the winged warriors landed, then another, and another. Most stumbled as they landed, one actually fell. They carried light crossbows, and wore headpieces that acted like the steering oar of a boat.
‘My feeling is that they cannot flap their wings,’ Daretor observed. ‘Study the enemy, then hit him where he is soft.’
‘What has flapping got to do with being soft?’
‘I think they cannot gain height.’ Daretor examined them coolly, as though completely at ease with the concept of flying men. ‘Once they have jumped, they can only descend. There are probably ropes or stairs for them to climb back up the towers again.’
By now the closest of the winged men was within range of a throwing knife. The man was virtually unarmoured, and Daretor’s dagger caught him right over the heart. The others cried out, but by now Daretor had thrown his second dirk. He ran, scooped up a fallen crossbow, pulled back its string, and fired a bolt, hitting a man who was desperately trying to reload. Unlike Daretor, he was not strong enough to load a crossbow manually. By now, Zimak had salvaged a crossbow from one of the fallen and was firing too.
Six of the winged men had fallen before the others even managed a r
etreat. They began whistling, signalling to each other. The wings were actually made of wood and canvas. Daretor and Zimak hastily cut a pair from the nearest men and, holding them above them, began to run. Almost immediately the poisoned bolts stopped. The flying warriors in the air had no way of distinguishing between their own men and the enemy. They frantically whistled coded messages, drowning each other out, and generating nothing but confusion.
Daretor was right about them not being able to gain altitude once they were in the air. The warriors that leaped down to hunt them ended up milling about on the ground, adding to the confusion.
What saved Daretor and Zimak was the darkness, and the fact that the Forest of Castles was only about a mile across. They suddenly found themselves on clear, flat ground. At a word from Daretor, they dropped their wings and ran. They were not pursued into the open. Presently they paused and looked back.
‘As I thought,’ said Daretor. ‘Away from the towers, they cannot jump into the air and glide – or not very far, at any rate.’
‘Great. Just great,’ Zimak complained. ‘Not only have we lost our horses, but all our supplies.’
‘Then go back and get them,’ Daretor snapped. ‘From memory, we had nothing left.’ He threw down the crossbow. ‘You won’t be needing yours, either,’ he said and stalked off into the night.
Zimak hurried after him. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing ahead.
In the middle distance tiny sparks of light dotted the mountains.
‘It can’t be the city that the Matriarch spoke of,’ Daretor said. He closed his eyes to think. This must be another settlement, but its inhabitants seemed to be quite separate from the flying people. Perhaps they simply tolerated one another.
Another mile on, they came upon what was either a large guardhouse or a small fort. There was a belltower within an open arch. Daretor and Zimak approached cautiously, under cover of darkness.
On the crenellations above, two guards stood looking at the Forest of Castles.
‘Something has the birdmen chirping tonight,’ one of them said.
‘Ten to one whoever tried to get through is dead,’ another replied.
His companion laughed. ‘You’ll need a rookie to take that bet.’
‘Well, honest folk travel by day, and the birdmen only fly at dusk. That means they caught some rogues tonight.’
The other snorted. ‘Aye, so that’s one less customs check that we’ll have to do.’
Daretor and Zimak stayed listening for a while, learning more about the place. Then they moved off.
‘So, the birdmen can see in the dark, and they also farm and eat bats,’ said Daretor. ‘It would also appear that their primary task is to guard the approach to the fertile valleys.’
‘And they do that pretty effectively,’ muttered Zimak.
‘That was what the Matriarch warned us about, then. But why not just tell us that there were flying warriors?’
‘Maybe they are not well known. Maybe she has friends here, and does not want outsiders to know the nature of the assassins.’
In a short while, they found the ruins of a farmhouse, and decided to spend the night. Despite the risk involved, Zimak insisted on lighting a fire. They had not eaten since that morning, and the few berries and sour-tasting fruit they had found did little to fill their stomachs. A fire was one luxury they risked, if only to cheer themselves up.
They set out early the next morning, making no attempt to conceal themselves. They were not challenged by anyone, and by noon they came to a large town built beside a castle of the ever-present green granite.
‘Civilisation,’ Zimak said, as they broke through the underbrush.
‘A well-fortified civilisation,’ Daretor added. ‘Which means they fear attack. Notice how close the town is – virtually within the shadow of the castle. They’ll not take too kindly to strangers. So keep your hands to yourself, Zimak. At least until we learn something about them.’
‘I’ll remind you of that when I lift food from the market to feed your empty stomach,’ Zimak said.
Chapter 9
THE WARRIOR GATE
The Preceptor stood on his balcony overlooking the countryside that surrounded his summer palace in Skelt. An elegant flock of magalels flew in a phalanx overhead, their jet-black plumage drinking the sun’s rays. Their keening struck a familiar chord with the Preceptor. They knew no predator and ruled the airways with impunity.
The scholar and warrior was the supreme and undisputed ruler of his own land and over a dozen other kingdoms. None of his enemies had armies that posed a realistic threat. There was still a problem, however. Whereas battles were not particularly hard to win, sieges were an entirely different matter. His army had defeated all the forces thrown against it: the great kingdoms of Hamaria, Baltoria and, finally, Passendof had succumbed. Now the enemy kingdoms were hardening city defences, building castles, destroying bridges and poisoning wells. He had tried burning their crops, but then enemy agents had stolen in to burn the crops in his own kingdoms.
The Preceptor turned away from the window. His Adept 12 Fa’red was waiting patiently.
‘I could conquer the continent,’ the Preceptor announced, imperiously. His face appeared hard as granite in the glare from the window. ‘Squash it like a bug.’ He clenched his fist.
‘That is true, Preceptor,’ Fa’red replied. ‘But what good is a squashed bug?’ Fa’red’s face wrinkled with concern, but his mind was elsewhere. He had pandered to the Preceptor’s thirst for world domination for the past year. In that time he had seen the Preceptor grow increasingly powerful, yet more and more insatiable. He had spread himself painfully thin across the length of the continent.
The Preceptor glanced at the Adept. Had he detected insouciance? ‘My mathematicians and cartographers have analysed the exploration reports and maps returned by my fleet of expedition ships,’ he said. ‘The world is a depressingly big place. At the current rate, it will take eighty years to conquer it.’
‘A wonderful thing, Preceptor,’ Fa’red murmured.
‘By which time I would be a hundred and fifteen years old!’ the Preceptor shouted.
‘A fine age Preceptor.’ Fa’red brightened. ‘There is no reason why you should not live much longer. There are ways to obtain such longevity.’
Lost in his own dark thoughts, the Preceptor showed no sign of having heard the mage. ‘Even assuming that I live that long, I would be a doddering dotard, drooling over my conquests, too feeble to lift a bag of gold, incapable of eating food more substantial than mush, and too dim of sight to tell one end of a courtesan from the other.’
‘I am sure they would help, Preceptor.’
‘Assuming I could do anything with them in the first place,’ the Preceptor grunted.
‘I could help with a very special potion, Preceptor.’
The Preceptor favoured his Adept 12 with a sneer, then began to pace before him, his jewelled fingers clasped behind his back. His head was hung low, but his eyes were wide open and staring, as if he were engaged in a duel.
‘I want the continent conquered within a year, and the world within ten,’ he declared with finality.
‘World conquest at such a pace would stretch your resources, Preceptor. Every man, woman and child in your domains would have to spend every waking minute supporting your armies, and surrender every copper to your war treasury. That would generate rebellions en masse, and sap your ability to wage wars beyond your current borders.’
‘With an Adept 12 at my side, almost anything is possible, Fa’red. My spies have discovered important research being conducted by my enemies.’
‘Spies are the very essence of a stable government, Preceptor. The deadmoon warriors are at your royal disposal.’
The Preceptor turned to face Fa’red. He saw before him a once powerful mage gone to fat due to an excessive lifestyle. His attire hid most of his body, and quite a large amount of scarring. A fire, instigated by the Preceptor, had scarred three quarters of his body.
That particular score had been settled between them, yet trust once broken is never firm again.
Weak sunlight cast into the room through two arched windows. Fa’red looked like a mottled peach, his skin smooth, beardless, and lurid. Fit or not, he was not a man to underestimate.
The Preceptor gestured for Fa’red to take a seat at the long oaken table, and they sat down together. It was laden with the finest fruits and breads and cheeses. The Preceptor’s valet had tasted all the food and partaken of the warm, spiced wine. He was the Preceptor’s third valet this past year. The Preceptor sighed heavily. It was almost as though the worsening weather had depleted his energy.
‘I want the world while I still have teeth to bite into fruit, and eyes clear enough to survey my conquests, Fa’red. I have thirty thousand lancers in my personal guard alone, three hundred thousand men in my army, and five hundred warships on the seas. I could march on Arcadia on the morrow and none would oppose me.’
Fa’red thought fleetingly of the Countess Jelindel dek Mediesar and smiled, but his ruined face showed no mirth. ‘And then on to Unissera. Should I remind you that Yuledan might oppose your army?’
The Preceptor’s face went rigid. ‘Yuledan’s already mine. It has been since the Skeltian king was hanged on that Lycellian merchant ship.’
‘By your command, and by your own imperial troops,’ Fa’red reminded him. ‘Yuledan does not oppose you at present. Yet meddle in too many affairs, and they will turn on their master like a pack of rabid dogs. And snap at your heels they will, Preceptor. Unissera relies on Yuledan for its access through the Barrier Ranges. In return Yuledan grows rich from its shipmaking, reliant on the white wood that comes from its eastern neighbour. Like any balance, Preceptor, move to the left or right too much, and it will tilt.’
The Preceptor waved away Fa’red’s concerns. ‘I’ve met with my war cabinet. The taking of Unissera is beyond doubt. And, according to my spies, Yuledan grows increasingly dependent on it for its shipping industry. How better to consolidate my power than to hand over Unissera? Yuledan could then have as much wood as it could cut, and not be duty bound to pay one silver argent for it.’