Dragonfang

by Paul Collins

  ‘Ah, yes, ah, yes,’ shouted Jelindel. ‘I see it all, I see where you will die.’

  ‘Where?’ Despite himself, Zimak was almost frightened.

  ‘Some alley behind a tavern in Skelt, I should think,’ said Jelindel, displaying a blue teardrop on the palm of her free hand. She closed her fingers over it and spoke the spell given to her by T’rr’ll.

  At that moment Queen Premiel swept aside a curtain. She had brought with her a dozen loyal guards. She waved her hands in what she hoped were impressive magical gestures and shouted, ‘Zarabastllim, tar psylertien.’ Blue tendrils boiled over Daretor, Zimak and Jelindel. Suddenly they vanished with a loud blast. Disoriented by the explosion and bright light, every one turned to Premiel for guidance.

  It worked, Premiel screamed inwardly. For one hundred gold crowns and some jewellery worth about as much again she had absolute control of the kingdom.

  ‘He crossed me, he neglected me, and he has paid the price!’ she shouted. Everyone looked convinced. ‘All guards loyal to me, raise your hands.’ Every guard in the room raised his hand. ‘You and you,’ she said, pointing to two guards whose disloyalty stood out clearly in her mind. ‘Congratulations on your appointment as envoys to the barbarian raiders of the plains. You women, I have decided to free you from your bondage as courtesan slaves.’ Seventeen faces brightened with delight. ‘In return you will spend ten years cleaning the palace stables and scrubbing out the guardhouse privies. Get some sensible clothes on and get to work.’

  Zimak had not been as prepared as Daretor and Jelindel for what had happened, and he fell to the ground when they materialised. He uttered a high-pitched squeak and exhaled loudly as though the air had been knocked from his lungs. He sat for a moment, eyes wide with disbelief.

  Jelindel and Daretor quickly stepped out of the red-hot stone circle and beckoned for Zimak to follow. There were bodies everywhere. The Duke of Mordicar’s villa was in ruins. The garden beds charred and blasted. Heat from the smouldering rocks made Zimak scramble up and hop from one foot to the other.

  ‘Where am I?’ he shouted. ‘Guards! Guards, attend me!’

  ‘Keep shouting like that and a great many guards will attend you very quickly,’ called Daretor. ‘If you want to stay alive, however, keep quiet and come with us.’

  ‘Where am I?’ Zimak wailed. ‘Hey. Wait for me.’

  ‘You are in a recently razed temple in northern Bravenhurst,’ said Jelindel, ‘and, what is more, we are not meant to be here. Now do you want to be killed or not?’

  Zimak followed. He stepped on the line of melted rock and screamed with pain. Then he ran. Jelindel was dressed as a sailor, and Daretor as a palace guard, but Zimak was wearing red silk trousers, a dozen or so rings, and nothing else.

  ‘Get dressed, Zimak. You look like a whoopsie in those pantaloons.’ Jelindel tossed him the cloak that Queen Premiel had given her.

  Zimak hastily wrapped the cloak around himself and began stripping a corpse. In the distance horses were galloping, and people shouting. They were the shouts of a highly organised group planning a hurried but methodical search.

  ‘There’s been a skirmish since I left,’ Jelindel said. ‘It appears the explosion caused by the paraworld bridge killed the Duke and half his men.’ She examined several burnt bodies, including that of the Duke. He was almost unrecognisable, save for the clothes he had been wearing.

  Daretor climbed a mound of blackened rubble banked against a wrecked wall, and peered through a shattered leadlight window. ‘And who’s killing the rest?’ he asked.

  Jelindel joined him. In the middle distance she could see the Preceptor’s standard.

  ‘I see it now,’ Daretor said. ‘It appears they’re laying siege.’

  Zimak scrambled up the slope, avoiding several spot fires. ‘Hie, Jelindel. This is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into.’

  Jelindel and Daretor turned and in unison said, ‘Zimak, shut up.’

  As they spoke the Preceptor’s men began deploying along the eastern battlements, although they stood well back. Men scurried to shore up the defences, but the Preceptor’s battalion easily outnumbered the decimated Mordicarian army.

  ‘One doesn’t need to be a master strategist to know what’s going to happen here,’ Jelindel said, sombrely. ‘The Preceptor’s short on time – already the Duke’s officers would have sent word to his brother in Sezel. That’s maybe only a two days’ fast ride away – less by sea. The five pentacle gems are in my possession, but the Preceptor doesn’t know that.’

  ‘Gah,’ Zimak said. ‘You’ve got what you want, as always. Now let’s get out of here before there’s a massacre.’

  ‘Shut up, Zimak,’ Jelindel hissed. ‘The Preceptor has an Adept 12 called Fa’red, remember? He’s bound to be here somewhere, probing the location for the pentacle gems. It doesn’t matter where we run, he’ll find us. Together, the five gems leave a magical trail too bright for me to cloak completely.’

  ‘Well, there’s an easy solution,’ Zimak snapped. ‘Leave the dummart pentacle gems here.’

  ‘Zimak,’ Daretor said. ‘You have the brain of a toad mouse. If the pentacle gems were of no value, Jelindel would not risk our lives for them; furthermore, the Preceptor wouldn’t be halfway across the continent in search of them.’

  ‘Our lives are not hers to risk,’ Zimak said. ‘But why should you worry, Daretor? You’ve got what you wanted anyway. You’re back home.’

  ‘Not in my body I’m not, you little toad.’

  ‘And I’m not in mine,’ Zimak said. ‘Besides, I seem to remember a certain mailshirt that we risked our lives to find, and look what happened to us then.’

  ‘Jelindel?’ Daretor said.

  ‘To leave the pentacle gems here would be to open Q’zar to a horde of abominations from other worlds,’ Jelindel explained, patiently. ‘Imagine leaving a key behind that would open unimaginable power. That is what you’re suggesting, Zimak. Now if you can’t come up with something constructive to say –’

  ‘If either one of you tells me to shut up again,’ Zimak seethed, ‘I won’t be responsible for my actions.’

  ‘Sorry –’ Jelindel began.

  ‘Apology accepted,’ Zimak said, brusquely.

  ‘– it’s just that I find it hard to take you seriously when I think of you wearing those silk pantaloons,’ Jelindel finished.

  ‘Right,’ Zimak snapped.

  ‘Look,’ Daretor said, urgently. ‘The Preceptor’s Adept. There’s a black mist sweeping across the battlements. Jelindel do something.’

  Fa’red was not visible, although his position at the epicentre of the spreading wave of blackness was easily located. Jelindel promptly remembered Lady Forturian’s lessons. She was a novice Adept 10, about to do battle with an Adept 12. No contest, not without a powerful weapon, like the mailshirt.

  Shrill screams rent the air. The blackness swept over the battlements as though feeding on oxygen. Every living being it touched simply vanished, as though devoured. The blackness stretched forward, questing this way and that. It seeped across the ground like a flood of oil.

  Jelindel racked her brain for its meaning. Fa’red had unleashed an anomaly. He had opened a floodgate that was causing a paraplane to be sucked into Q’zar like a vacuum. When Jelindel realised this, she caught her breath. It was a highly dangerous spell, for whatever lived in the paraplane, could also get sucked into Q’zar. And predators knew no allegiance to friend or foe. The Preceptor’s men were as much at risk as the Duke’s. Which meant he would hold his force back within Fa’red’s protection for the time being.

  The Duke’s men were in full retreat. Several rushed past where Jelindel, Daretor and Zimak crouched. Fear-crazed, the men simply scrabbled past without question.

  Daretor and Zimak looked frantically at Jelindel. ‘Is it swallowing everything in its path or simply covering it?’ Daretor asked. ‘Jelindel!’

  ‘Judging by the screams,’ Jelindel said, anxiously, ‘I’d say it’s
swallowing. They call these things shadowlands.’

  ‘I’m not waiting –’ Zimak said as he shoved away.

  Jelindel caught his arm and dragged him back. ‘There’s no running from a shadowland,’ she said. ‘Now just sit tight. There’s something we’re missing here. Why didn’t Fa’red let loose his spell earlier? The Preceptor’s time is short. He needs the pentacle gems urgently, yet only now has Fa’red moved against the Duke’s army.’

  She peered across the broken terrain. The Preceptor had a full guard contingent with him – possibly a hundred and fifty lancers of his elite guard, plus retainers and others who could be called upon to bulk up his guard if conflict ensued. That made about one hundred and seventy men. From what she had ascertained, the Duke was dead and the villa was being defended by less than a hundred of his house staff and guards. It was clear in their blackened, stony faces that every last one would be slaughtered.

  ‘Fire,’ Daretor said, suddenly. ‘A fire beats back a shadow.’

  Jelindel clicked her fingers. ‘Daretor. You’re brilliant. Fa’red was probably waiting for the spot fires to ease back. Get moving you two. Feed whatever fires are left. Quick about it. That shadowland has swept half the villa.’

  ‘And you?’ Daretor said. ‘It’s coming this way – fast.’

  ‘Move, Daretor,’ Jelindel said, hoarsely. ‘I think I can stop it. Just leave me, now.’

  Daretor and Zimak slid back towards the dying fires. Within minutes they were piling every piece of timber they could find on to the embers. Soon, even the remnants of the Duke’s army were joining them, as though there was logic in their actions. The fires blazed and bit back at the darkness, which even now was sending thin tendrils across the clearing.

  Jelindel cupped her hands. It was simple enough to create a light source for reading, but another thing entirely to conjure light that could withstand Fa’red’s powerful shadowland. Jelindel spoke the word of light. A gaseous glow nestled in her palms. ‘Actilaral!’ She accentuated the word, and even as she spoke, her body shivered as her life force fed the globe of swirling light. It glowed brighter and enveloped her hands and wrists. She closed her eyes as the globe strengthened and coalesced, pulsing out a brilliance that made her turn away and clench her eyes shut. The light spiralled out of her like a stone thrown in a pond.

  Jelindel slipped and slid back down the embankment. After fuelling the spell, her limbs were almost lifeless. She could almost feel the shadowland probing the outer limits of the globe’s ethereal light. Despite her waning strength, she repeated the spell word and the light burst out once more, throwing back the creeping shadows.

  ‘Gather around the light!’ Jelindel commanded. She was exhausted, but she pushed her weariness aside. ‘Don’t look at it – quickly now.’

  A coldness swept over the clearing, bringing with it a keening wind. Some of the Duke’s men and staff fled, screaming from Jelindel’s protective light, others huddled around her, praying for salvation.

  Jelindel ordered the Bravens to stand fast. But even as she spoke, she felt the shadowland’s frosty embrace. Don’t fail me, she pleaded. The night sky turned black as the shadowland occluded everything at the light’s borders. It swept and probed the pocket of resistance. Tendrils of stabbing frost pierced the bubble that was now spread out like a dome around the huddled group.

  Jelindel felt the ground rise up to meet her but firm hands broke her fall. For a moment her light petered out and a great cry rent the air as the shadowland leapt hungrily forward. But a power flowed into Jelindel and the light blazed with pure white force.

  The shadowland screeched as though burnt. Trapped within the sphere of light, it folded in upon itself and collapsed with a thunderclap. Beyond the light, the shadowland howled and fled back across the villa, sweeping over the broken parapets like a turbulent river.

  Jelindel dared not open her eyes, but she knew another Adept had stepped forward to lend her strength. Together they fed the light that chased back the retreating shadowland. A gale-force wind rushed past them and then as abruptly as it had started, it was over.

  Jelindel struggled to remember what happened to shadowlands that were denied food. Did they turn on their creators? Did they feed on that which called them forth? She hoped so. Fa’red was one Adept that she didn’t want coming after her for revenge.

  Jelindel opened her eyes. When they adjusted, she gasped and shook her hand free. ‘Larachel!’

  ‘Don’t be so surprised,’ he said. His face was no longer well-tanned; rather it was blanched by the strain of maintaining Jelindel’s white light. He let his hand drop. ‘Do you think you could have come this far without my help?’

  Jelindel gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Daretor and Zimak had pushed through the Duke’s people and were now at Larachel’s back.

  Larachel smiled fleetingly, as though aware of their presence. ‘We should not fight, navigator. Even now I suspect our learned friend the Preceptor is rallying his forces.’ He turned to the Duke’s men. ‘You have three choices as I see them. You can stand and fight – and since this place is now indefensible, I suggest you would all die. You can flee, but I suspect the Preceptor will hunt every last one of you down, as he does anyone who defies his command. Or you can join the Dragonfang and take your chances at sea.’

  Fifteen men and five women decided to take him up on the offer. The rest fled the ruins.

  ‘Larachel,’ Jelindel snapped. ‘There is no time, nor room on the ship for these people.’

  Larachel smiled knowingly and looked down at her. ‘Only the bravest of men and women will accept such an offer,’ he whispered. ‘They’re a manageable enough lot,’ he added, impassively. ‘You forget … Jaelin, that we’ve lost eight crew members. How do you propose we handle the Dragonfang without a full crew?’

  ‘Daretor and Zimak are two good men I trust,’ she replied, coolly.

  ‘And the privateers who even now must be near?’ Larachel said. ‘We’ll need all the crew, and more besides, by the time this trip is finished.’

  A dozen questions flooded Jelindel’s mind. Most of them had to do with why Larachel was helping her. But they would have to wait. At any minute the Preceptor’s men would attack, with or without the backing of his Adept 12.

  ‘We could have managed,’ she said, soberly. ‘But since these people have decided to place their safety in your hands, you had best lead them. Daretor, Zimak,’ she said curtly, and strode off with them in tow.

  The tide would be turning by the time they reached the Dragon fang, and hopefully the crew would have finished loading supplies. Timing was crucial; Jelindel quickened her pace. The Duke’s people hurried after her, and Larachel brought up the rear.

  ‘What’s been happening since we’ve been gone, Jelindel?’ Zimak demanded.

  Jelindel shook her head. Hearing Zimak speaking with Daretor’s voice was going to take some getting used to. ‘Not now, Zimak.’

  Daretor moved alongside her. ‘Now is as good a time as any. You’ve put us in grave danger here, and we need to know why.’

  ‘Not to mention why you magicked us to another world and almost got us killed,’ Zimak put in. He snatched at Jelindel’s arm but she saw his intention even as he thought it. With a deft movement, she eluded his hand.

  ‘Very well, listen closely,’ Jelindel said. As briefly as she could, she told them most of what had happened since disposing of the mailshirt. By the time they arrived at the chaotic docklands, she was winding up her story. ‘Hargav is still locked up, I hope. The rest you know.’

  Daretor glanced at Larachel. ‘I suspect we don’t have the full story,’ he said, ‘but that will do for now.’

  ‘What happened to the five pentacle gems?’ Zimak asked. He had to yell above the din as crews scrambled for their ships. Already the harbour was filling with craft as people fled the port. One half-manned galley had collided with two other vessels and their crews were fighting.

  ‘They’re safe, and that’s al
l you need to know,’ Jelindel said, bluntly.

  ‘Not when my life hangs in the balance,’ Zimak snorted. He made a strangling noise and said, ‘Gah, look behind us.’

  A pall of broiling smoke wafted above the Duke’s ruined temple.

  ‘The Preceptor’s men are sweeping through the grounds,’ said Jelindel. ‘Some of the remaining guards will be resisting. The Preceptor will soon learn that we are not there, and be on his way to the harbour.’

  They boarded the Dragonfang and located Captain Porterby.

  ‘Cast off, sail now!’ Jelindel cried.

  ‘What? But the crew. We should wait for the rest of them, Jaelin. And who are all these people?’

  ‘This says that your crew is now discharged,’ said Daretor slapping a dozen gold crowns from the alien world into the captain’s palm.

  ‘Look lively!’ Captain Porterby yelled. ‘All hands on deck. Cast off.’

  With the tide running, it was only a matter of slipping the moorings, waiting until they were clear of the pier, and running up the sails. Their only obstacle were the milling vessels as they fought to escape the mayhem.

  A light wind increased the speed that the current had given them. By the time the Preceptor’s men came running down the pier, they were past the rock-fanged shoal waters of the cape and sailing east. The lights of pursuing ships became visible for a while, but the Dragonfang outclassed them in sheer speed.

  Jelindel plotted a course. They would encircle the continent completely, in order to reach D’loom.

  ‘That’s a daunting risk,’ Captain Porterby said, when Jelindel presented him with a chart. ‘There’s nothing along that coast till we reach Centravian.’

  ‘As far as risks go, Captain, this one is of no consequence compared to what we’ve chanced on this trip. And the last I heard, the Preceptor hadn’t moved on Centravian, so it’s in neutral hands.’ She stared at the western horizon. ‘With any luck, the privateers will run into the Preceptor’s sloops. They should make quite a mess of each other.’

  What happened was not far from what Jelindel predicted. Frustrated by the Dragonfang’s elusiveness, the privateers bombarded the Preceptor’s vessels with firepots, mistaking the Sezelian sloops for local fishermen. By the time they realised their mistake, seven sloops had sunk. Fearing retribution, the privateers broke off and set a course for home. Plunder from the sacking of Mordicar was sure to bring trouble with it eventually.