by Paul Collins
‘We’re in trouble,’ said Jelindel, pointing to where Daretor was already looking. A grey shape speared down out of the night towards them. It too was moving in a kind of slow motion yet it still shot towards them faster than they fell.
‘Throw your sword,’ Jelindel cried.
‘What?’
‘Your sword. Throw it at the thing!’
Daretor drew back his hand and flung his sword. It spun away in an arc, then blue flickering light shot from Jelindel’s hands. The sword sparkled momentarily then became a deadly missile with the unerring purpose of a crossbow bolt travelling sideways. It shot towards the oncoming shape, far faster than the creature itself could move. They saw the sword twirling, saw the creature try to dodge, then saw the razor-sharp point slicing its side open and spilling entrails and blood out into the air like streamers and confetti. The sword swept away, upwards, to another creature that was diving on them.
Jelindel and Daretor hit the ground, bounced with the cushioning of the spell, and broke into a run. Blood and entrails showered down around them.
‘Exhausted, carry me,’ gasped Jelindel as the sword clanged down nearby. Daretor stopped to swoop it up.
Daretor hurried for the town, Jelindel across his shoulders and the bloodied sword in his hand. As soon as they approached the town centre they encountered a scene where a dozen of the town militia had decided there was safety in numbers. The aerial beasts had been hard at work and Jelindel baulked at the bloody mayhem they had wreaked. Panting, Daretor set her down to walk as best she could. Then she stumbled upon two bodies, almost intact, one minus its head and the other, an older man, seemingly untouched but with his wrinkled hands clutching his chest. Both wore swords about their waists. Jelindel unsheathed a sword and flung it into the air, to patrol overhead in a whirl of magical blue.
‘Thought you were exhausted,’ gasped Daretor, doubling up.
‘Cushion spell and sword spell together,’ wheezed Jelindel. ‘Really excessive. Either one, not hard.’
‘How long do they last?’ Daretor asked, keeping a wary eye on the scything sword.
‘Long enough to discourage the fish.’ She waved him to silence, unable to speak.
Above them the sword gave a creature a severe case of discouragement, then a vast carcass partly demolished a small house as it fell to earth. By the light from the city’s few oil lamps they could see a school of the creatures cruising high overhead, but the whirling sword continued to patrol above the rooftops. The fish-things slowed, and for a long moment they hung in the air. For the first time Jelindel got a good look at them. Then she turned her attention to the one that had fallen nearby. It was at least twenty feet long and very shark-like in shape. Silver in colour, it possessed huge convulsive gills that worked constantly, and razor-sharp fins that ended in tiny webbed fingers. But it was the jaws that set it apart from indigenous fish. The sword’s victim had jaws that hung open, revealing a vast array of gleaming swept-back teeth and a dark maw that could swallow a sheep whole – or a man after a little shredding. Jelindel had already seen the savagery of the things; now she saw, in their slitted bloodshot eyes, their madness.
‘What would a few more flying swords do?’ asked Daretor.
‘Cause me to die of exhaustion,’ panted Jelindel. ‘That sort of magic is hard work. Still, I could probably cast a second one, and that may be all that we need. Find a sword, throw it up.’
Daretor flung a dead militiaman’s sword into the air, where Jelindel snared it with a second spell. Instead of hovering, however, this one climbed to meet the cruising predators. They began to scatter, but one did not move quite fast enough. More pieces of flesh began to rain down on the city, then a vast body landed, smashing a hay cart to matchwood.
‘They’re gone,’ Jelindel called. ‘It’s all over. For now at least.’
‘Gone?’ exclaimed Daretor. ‘Call themselves warriors and they flee after only five of their number have died.’ Jelindel checked the air for more predators before allowing the two swords to fall. Daretor caught them deftly.
‘They’re predators, not warriors. Predators such as big cats prefer easy meat, and these are the same. If every victim they chose had a good chance of killing them, they would not survive long. Those things up there are too sensible to risk being ripped open for the sake of a meal.’
‘What are they?’ Daretor asked, kicking the carcass that had crushed the hay cart. He was careful to stay away from its jaws, in case they snapped in death throes.
‘A paraworld portal has been opened in those cliffs, linking us to another world, and every night the two worlds are superimposed. This whole city is beneath its ocean.’
‘Ocean? Where’s all the water?’
‘These creatures are just deep-sea predators. For them, our atmosphere has become their sea and they are doing what they are designed to do: hunt and feed.’
‘Then they are not daemons?’
‘No. But a mortal daemon opened that portal.’
‘Someone here in Sezel?’
‘That is unlikely. I have the impression that something very powerful is draining Q’zar of magic. No mage of this world would do that.’
‘Why not? I have met some highly skilled but very stupid mages.’
‘I still doubt it. This is like a swordsman cutting off his own sword arm.’
This analogy made sense to Daretor. ‘Well then, what can you tell?’
‘At the very least, it’s a tear in the paraplane’s fabric. There could well be others.’
‘Why does this one only show itself at night, then?’
‘Tides,’ said Jelindel. ‘That other world must have massive tides. When the water level is high enough the creatures are able to swim through the portal.’
Daretor wiped the blood from his sword and sheathed it. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘I don’t,’ she said, thinking of Cimone’s prediction. ‘It’s the only explanation that presents itself.’
The next morning they made a second expedition to the cliff face, this time with an escort of guards from the Duke and most of the town’s militiamen. By noon, the paraworld portal had been sealed with tons of rubble that were anchored to the cliff by chains attached to eyelets driven into the cliff face. The Duke, anxious to show that he was due for the credit by thinking to hire Jelindel and Daretor in the first place, praised and thanked them as the city’s saviours. He then presented them with double their fee in a public ceremony at the city’s main square.
Daretor made a point of claiming the extra fee as ‘working capital’.
Back at the hostelry they sat down in the taproom and ordered drinks, relaxing for the first time in weeks.
‘Now what?’ asked Daretor.
‘Home,’ said Jelindel.
Daretor noticed how tired she looked, as if she had finally let down her guard. Then over her shoulder and through the window, he saw that a handsome, flaxen-haired man was staring intently at Jelindel’s back. When he realised Daretor was watching him he quickly turned and hurried away out of sight.
Daretor frowned. ‘There’s that fellow again, the same one I saw in Hazaria. He was staring at you.’
‘Doubtless because I am pleasing to stare at,’ replied Jelindel.
‘What’s he doing here?’ muttered Daretor, undeterred.
Jelindel stopped to think. ‘Maybe he’s a merchant,’ she said, trying to be nonchalant. ‘He’d visit most cities in Bravenhurst for trade.’
‘Maybe you’ve got an admirer,’ said Daretor, finally raising a subject that had been eating at him for months.
‘I’d have two if you admired me occasionally.’
Should have expected sarcasm, thought Daretor. Jelindel smiled and put a hand against his cheek. ‘There’s only one admirer I need,’ she finally added. ‘Besides, the blond boy is more likely some kind of spy sent to watch us. We’re not without enemies, as well you know.’
‘Aye, there’s even a bounty on our heads,’ Daretor conce
ded.
‘Technically. The ruler who declared the bounty is now a fugitive, and has little money.’
Daretor placed the tankard he was holding on the table and stood. There was nothing unusual about this, except that his tankard was not yet empty.
Jelindel looked up. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To book passage on the next ship to D’loom.’
Jelindel sighed. ‘I’m agreeable with that, even though I had other plans for this evening.’
‘For me?’
‘For my most favoured admirer.’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘It means that I was teasing you. Come along, Daretor, don’t be churlish. Let’s take the esplanade. Tonight we’re rich.’
They wandered along the esplanade. It ran along a stretch of waterfront only recently upgraded from a rat-infested dock haunted by suspicious looking loiterers to a stone walkway infested by lap-dogs and haunted by merchants and their wives talking about property values. The crowds were particularly heavy following the vanquishing of the aerial predators.
Promenade robes were being worn by nearly every woman, while the men wore fancy tunics, hand-embroidered soft leather breeches, and a new fashion from Skelt – triangular-shaped captains’ hats. It gave the street a rather jaunty naval feel which was enhanced by the rich yachts moored there, the lanterns of which flared with each gust of the breeze. The inns, taverns and coffee houses had nautical names, and most styled themselves along the lines of a ship’s cabin.
‘So they work hard to gather wealth, then pretend to be poor sailors when they eat,’ observed Daretor as they strolled along with their arms linked, staring at the display trays of vendors.
‘No accounting for the tastes of the rich and indolent,’ replied Jelindel as she ate a candied cherry. ‘What will we do when we get home?’
‘Nothing dangerous,’ said Daretor.
‘Sounds wonderful. And after that?’
He paused, as if thinking. ‘I’ll train others to deal with danger.’
‘Bliss.’
Jelindel’s eye was caught suddenly by a flashing trinket. A grizzled stallholder with only one leg, seeing her interest, beckoned her over. His trestle table held a display of carved wooden masks, dolls and figurines, mostly hand-carved. The thing that caught her eye was a necklace on one of the dolls, a ring made of seashells and fake pearls. The doll itself was a little sad-eyed princess, with rosy cheeks, and a wistful smile, as if she hoped someone might adopt her and take her home. Jelindel picked her up, staring, and found her eyes misting.
‘Jelli?’ Daretor said, noticing a sudden change in his companion.
Jelindel quickly smiled and shook her head. ‘I’m being silly,’ she said. Then she murmured, ‘This isn’t her.’
‘That’s a rare one,’ said the stallholder with a kind of gruff honesty. Unlike his brethren, he made no great effort to sell his wares, which made Jelindel curious. She was, in any case, tired of people making demands on her.
‘How much?’
The stallholder shrugged, named a price that was high and yet not too high. Almost apologetically, he said, ‘It’s from Dremari, from the Valley of Clouds, and ’tis said to give voice to the heart, if you believe such things.’
‘We’ve been there,’ said Jelindel, ‘to the Valley.’
She found herself handing over money, and having the sad-eyed doll wrapped in soft tissue paper and placed in a bag of fine vellum. She felt foolish again, as if she had just thrown away half a week’s pay on a piece of frippery.
But she had owned an identical doll as a child, which had surely burnt to ashes the same dark night as everyone and everything she had ever loved. Partially to distract Daretor’s attention from the doll, she picked up a mask. It was gaudily painted and studded with mock gemstones.
‘These remind me of masks I saw in the house of the Lady Forturian. I would like to visit her again.’
Jelindel placed the mask over her face. As she turned to Daretor a feather thudded into the mask, an inch below the left eye. Daretor grabbed his partner and dragged her to the ground. Behind them, the vendor collapsed with a soft cry, a feather in his cheek. Daretor and Jelindel scrabbled around behind the stall, keeping as low as they could. There was a soft hissing sound and a clatter as something fell amongst the dead man’s wares. All around them people were going about their business, most unaware of what had just happened. A watchman rushed up and checked the old man then peered round the end of the stall at them.
‘He’s dead,’ said the watchman. He looked nervously at Jelindel, but was not about to accuse the archmage of murder. ‘What’s goin’ on ’ere then?’
Jelindel sat up. ‘I think somebody’s trying to kill us.’
That night they stayed in a different hostelry under assumed names. The Duke secured them passage on a ship bound for D’loom on the morning tide. It was the Duke’s secretary who voiced a possible explanation for the attack, explaining that the local Magicians’ Guild had been somewhat affronted when the Duke hired Jelindel and Daretor to deal with the aerial scourge.
‘Why not use magic then?’ asked Daretor. ‘Why poison darts?’
The secretary raised his eyebrows. ‘And who would be foolish enough to use magic against an archmage? Especially Jelindel dek Mediesar?’
Around midnight the secretary returned bearing their boarding documents as well as a letter that had arrived for them that afternoon on a trading ship. It was from Zimak, and it was brief but clear.
‘Trouble in D’loom, come quickly,’ Jelindel read aloud. ‘Well, that’s plain enough.’ She frowned in thought.
‘The scribe must have charged by the word,’ Daretor grunted.
Jelindel folded the message and tucked it into her tunic.
‘Remember the letter I received earlier?’ she asked. ‘That too was from Zimak, asking when we’d be heading back. I didn’t want to ruin our last night here so I kept it from you. So much for our rest.’
They spent a quiet night but Daretor found himself being roused about four o’clock. He sat up, puzzled. It was still dark outside. Jelindel was dressed.
‘Get your clothes on, we’re leaving,’ she said. ‘There’s breakfast on the bench.’
‘Where are we off to?’
‘D’loom. I’ve just changed our schedule.’
Daretor dressed, stuffed cold roast boar plastered with congealed herb gravy into his mouth, and shouldered his rollpack. He followed Jelindel through the hostelry’s back door and out into the cool night air. The city was quiet this time of the night and the only sound was the restless waves lapping.
They made their way by lanes and back streets to the docklands and thence to a wharf where a small boat, piloted by a disreputable-looking bosun, took them out to a decrepit three-master at anchor. They climbed aboard, coming face to face with a one-eyed captain whose breath reeked foully of fish and chewing tobacco. He thrust out a hand immediately.
‘Me money. Now.’
‘That wasn’t the agreement,’ said Jelindel.
‘To Black Quell with agreements and to his pit with you if you don’t pay up right now.’
Jelindel pushed Daretor aside as he stepped toward the man. ‘Half now and half when we get there.’
‘Half, half! What about the lot, upfront and frank?’
‘We’re a captive audience, Captain. It’s not as though we can jump ship.’
‘So you say. But a mage you be. Mayhap you can sprout wings and fly off without paying me.’
‘Perhaps I can but if I could why would I need passage on your ship?’
This seemed to stump the captain, who swore blisteringly but took the half payment Jelindel offered before grunting at the bosun to show the ‘passengers’ to the one spare cabin the ship possessed.
The Sea Goose raised canvas just before dawn and sailed out of the harbour and into the Bay of Hazards, unremarked and unremarkable. The journey, despite the captain’s unsavoury manner, was uneventful. J
elindel and Daretor spent most of the time in their cabin, but sometimes, in the early evening as the sun sank to the sea, they stood at the gunwale and peered landward, observing the lanterns of towns and villages and sometimes spotting a navigation pyre.
They pulled into the harbour at D’loom on the morning of the fifth day. Jelindel paid the captain, who was now in better cheer, and who even uttered several hearty compliments about mages and their companions.
‘We’d have made it in better time iffin you’d given me a mage-wind,’ the captain said.
‘If my magic worked over water I would have given you a gale, good sir. Fare you well.’
They disembarked and headed up to the main concourse where they hoped to find a carriage. Instead, they found a distraught Zimak. He was pale, puffy-eyed, and looked much thinner than when they had last seen him. This was not at all a bad thing, since he had over-indulged in every possible pleasure and vice since being magicked into Daretor’s body. When he laid eyes on them he clutched on to a railing to support himself.
Daretor’s heart lurched at the sight. ‘What have you been doing to my body?’ he demanded.
Zimak waved him silent. ‘You’re not dead,’ he said. ‘You didn’t drown?’
‘Don’t sound so disappointed,’ said Jelindel, patting herself down. ‘Why should we be dead?’
Zimak explained that word had only just arrived by carrier bird that a ship had been attacked off the coast near Tol with the loss of all hands. Jelindel and Daretor had been listed amongst the passengers.
‘We took another boat,’ Jelindel explained. ‘Zimak, what’s wrong?’ she asked as he led them to a waiting carriage.
‘What’s wrong? What isn’t?’
Jelindel and Daretor stopped when they saw the carriage. It was heavily armoured and three men sat atop bearing crossbows and wearing heavy chainmail.