Wardragon

by Paul Collins

  The road to Argentia Fa’red had recommended was hardly a road at all, more a concept of a road. When it could be seen, which was not often, it was little more than a vague indentation in the ground. Sometimes a few rocks had been tossed to either side, forming a sort of default boundary for where people were meant to walk or ride. Most of the time Zimak simply followed the red arm of the lodestone Fa’red had given him, which apparently pointed north. Zimak did not believe him but was willing to use anything that made life easier.

  One argument he had tried to squirm his way out of this mission had been to raise doubts about his own abilities. He might once have been the world’s greatest thief, the acknowledged master of breaking and entering, and not too bad at the old human-fly trick either, yet there was a problem. He now inhabited Daretor’s larger-framed and somewhat out-of-condition body, rather than the light, wiry version he had been born with. It was hard to climb like a fly when you were the size of a bear.

  Zimak scowled. How come he always got the worst end of the bargain? Oh, no doubt the argument about Jelindel’s life being forfeit if they refused Fa’red’s pact was true, as far as it went. He was almost sure, despite his efforts to pretend perpetual self-interest, that he was doing this for the right reasons, yet he was distinctly aware of having been flattered by two of the most formidable fighters on Q’zar. That bothered him just a little. Was he so easily manipulated? Was there no true depth to Zimak Broagar? No inner substance? Or was he … how had Daretor once put it? Nothing more than a vain little sack of cut-price dung with the mental capacity of a Nerrissian gnat?

  He coloured. The remark still stung. Cut-price indeed! He had spent many hours thinking of insults for Daretor, and found himself really looking forward to their next meeting. Daretor was always running him down. Hadn’t they been partners for four years now? Hadn’t they gone through dozens of dangerous adventures together? It was time Daretor showed him some respect.

  Daretor had pointed out that on this mission the division of labour made sense, but now Zimak began feeling the burden of his talents. Zimak clearly was the best thief and burglar on Q’zar, so sending him to penetrate the Preceptor’s fortress in Argentia was logical. And the Sacred One would not deal with anyone who did not possess the highest standards of honour and integrity, of which Daretor had oodles, while Zimak had rather less. Was it possible Daretor had actually paid him a compliment?

  This cheered him somewhat as he rode on.

  Several nights later, and still a day out from Argentia, Zimak camped by a still lake. The water was bitterly cold and too briny to drink, though a stream emptying into it provided water for his thirst. Oddly enough, given the lake’s saltiness, most of its surface was covered by great lily pads, each one several feet across. Zimak fancied that he could almost walk across the lake, stepping from one lily pad to the next. The thought made him feel oddly sad. One of his mythical heroes as a child had escaped a fearsome dragon by just such a trick. The memory also made him a little anxious. He did not like to think about the cesspit he called his childhood. Like many, Zimak didn’t remember much of his early life. His first memories were of fear. Fear and loneliness. And being beaten. Soon after that he had run away from whoever had beaten him, probably some drunk that his mother blamed for being his father, and had discovered the world of the D’loomian streets.

  Life for Zimak had really begun when he had found his first family: Cracker’s gang. Cracker had been the best thief and pickpocket in Portside, that area of D’loom that bordered the port and sold all things maritime. After beating him senseless the first day they met, Cracker had promptly inducted Zimak into his gang of street urchins and misfits. And Zimak had never looked back. He had actually cried when they eventually strung Cracker up by the neck, as they did to thieves branded thrice and caught a fourth time. It had always been Zimak’s pride that he had never been branded. He had tried to explain this to Daretor but the warrior had not been impressed, and had angrily stalked off.

  Zimak remembered shouting after him, ‘Not everybody gets a nice cushy start in this life, you know that, Daretor?’ Daretor had kept going.

  Zimak longed to make a fire as he sat by the dark lake in the twilight. But this close to Argentia it was probably unwise. The Preceptor would have patrols sweeping the countryside around the town, looking for spies, mages, or merely because he was over-efficient. Zimak watched the stars come out, chewing glumly on a piece of dried meat. He ate a few nuts and berries then washed it all down with a tart ale that quenched his thirst but made him long for warm inns, and even warmer company.

  There was a soft plopping sound from out on the lake, as if a fish had leapt from the water and splashed back. Zimak’s eyes flicked in that direction. He scrambled to his feet and drew his sword.

  A woman regarded him from the water. Only her head was showing. She smiled.

  ‘Begone, witch!’ Zimak cried out.

  More of the woman emerged from the lake. She moved closer to the shore. Water and green fronds dripped from her flaxen hair and draped her pale shoulders, torso and arms. She was naked and gleamed in the starlight. Her breasts were small and firm, jutting out pertly; her glistening belly was flat, angling down into a darkness barely visible above the water line.

  ‘I am no witch,’ she sang mellifluously.

  Zimak blinked several times. Witch or no, she was heart-stoppingly beautiful.

  ‘Where do you go, journeyman?’ Her voice was like music, or like a voice composed of musical notes. Zimak’s heart lurched in his chest and for a moment he found difficulty in answering.

  ‘Ar-Ar-Argentia,’ he stammered, not even thinking to lie.

  The woman laughed lightly. ‘Ar-Ar-Argentia? Its name has grown. In my day it was shorter.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am the Lady of the Lake. Ethella, I am called, though I have an older name. I live here in loneliness. Will you not visit with me?’

  Zimak’s breath came in pants, but his brain finally caught up with the rest of him. Beautiful woman. Lake. Lakes were full of water. Beautiful women ought to have trouble breathing in water. Zimak certainly couldn’t. Visiting her had a distinct downside. Besides, the water was awfully cold.

  ‘My lady, I cannot,’ he said, hating himself.

  ‘You trust me not?’

  ‘Put yourself in my boots. A beautiful naked woman comes out of a lake and offers to … Hie, what exactly are you offering?’

  ‘I see that the world has grown dark and suspicious.’

  ‘Being suspicious has kept me alive through some pretty determined attempts to kill me. You could be just a beautiful lure on a stick being held by some huge, slimy thing under the water that eats unwary travellers.’ With sudden suspicion, he said, ‘You know me, you know who I am.’

  ‘Well, who are you?’

  ‘I’m a thief, and I’m likely to betray anyone at all. Jelindel knows that, she doesn’t trust me. You know that, yet you want to talk. That would make even the most naive churl suspicious.’

  Ethella laughed. ‘Don’t you know by now, Zimak? Some girls just like bad boys. You are a bad boy, and I like you.’

  This was not quite what Zimak had been expecting. He had to stop and think before answering.

  ‘I’m not that bad, I’m just good at staying alive. I was born and raised in the gutter, thieving all the while. The good boys died really fast, and the bad boys lasted. Am I bad? Yes, I’m bad and I’m alive because of it.’

  ‘But you became more than just alive, you became a master warrior.’

  ‘Pigswill. I found a dragonlink on a dying man. A single link of the Wardragon mailshirt. It made me into a great fighter without any effort at all on my part.’

  ‘Well, that makes you look bad again. Remember, I like bad boys.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Zimak, beginning to feel annoyed that she persisted with him. ‘I’ll only hurt you then run away.’

  ‘Oh, now you sound like there’s some good in you. See? You care enough
to warn me about yourself.’

  ‘Hie, that’s a point. But look, lady, I can’t join you in the water.’ He blew into his cheeks. ‘It’d be a stupid thing to do, go jumping into a pond at the whim of a – a woman.’

  She considered this for a moment. ‘If you will not come to my dwelling to please me, may I sit and speak with you where you take your rest?’

  ‘At the very least.’ Zimak’s voice quavered. He had never seen such beauty. ‘Breathing would be less of a problem here on the shore.’

  Ethella emerged fully from the lake, stepped lightly across the grass and sat down with her knees drawn up to her breasts and her arms wrapped about her shins. ‘This is as far as I can come,’ she said.

  Zimak could not resist the need for light, and he quickly lit a small fire with twigs and tinder. Ethella was delighted and held her hands out to the warmth. Zimak took care not to sit too close, but neither did he sit too far away.

  ‘You live in the lake?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘I was banished here,’ said Ethella. ‘My stepmother was a powerful mage, and a traitor to her people. Fearing I would one day become more powerful than she, she transacted a curse against me the day I came of age. If I leave the lake for more than a few hours, or venture beyond the bordering shoreline, I will die.’ She stared into the flames, and Zimak caught a glimpse of hopelessness. ‘The old road once passed by here, and for a long time I would often have company. Life was not so grim, but then my plight weighed heavily upon me, and I thought much of my past, which was bitter to me, and I cried many tears, so that over time the lake became briny with salt, and undrinkable. Travellers stopped coming here.’ She sighed. ‘I grow weary of my life. I do not think I can bear it much longer …’

  Zimak stared. ‘By all the Odd Gods, and all their nieces and nephews, how long have you dwelt here, lady?’

  Ethella’s dark eyes, downcast for a moment, looked up. She had moved a little closer to Zimak without his realising. ‘I was here before the dragons left Q’zar.’

  ‘But – but that was …’

  Ethella placed a hand over his mouth, and shook her head. ‘We will not speak of this. But what of you, Zimak? Tell me of yourself, I beg you. And of great Q’zar that stretches to the stars and the rising of the sun.’

  Completely intoxicated by her presence, Zimak started telling her of his childhood, and his escape from misery. He had never told anyone the whole story.

  ‘And there I was,’ he was saying, some hours later, ‘crouched beneath the sewer grating, so scared I was shaking.’

  ‘No,’ said Ethella, ‘not you!’

  ‘Yes, I, Zimak the greatest burglar on Q’zar. Indeed, my teeth chattered so loudly and my knees knocked together with such a commotion, I feared the brigands would discover me. But what happened next was worse, much worse.’

  Ethella sat spellbound, hanging on every word. Zimak went on: ‘From my hiding place I spotted my friend, Mizzy. They’d caught her instead, even though she hadn’t stolen a thing. All she’d done was try to give me a head start, and now they were going to cut off her hand.’

  ‘They wouldn’t do that to a child, surely?’ said Ethella.

  ‘What did they care?’ Zimak said bitterly. ‘As long as someone paid the price. They set up a chopping block right there in the marketplace, not twenty feet from where I hid. And then I couldn’t stand it anymore. I stuck my arms through the grille and started yelling, “I’m here, I’m here! I stole the pendant, not Mizzy!” And they laughed, because they’d known where I was all along, see, and one of them came and grabbed my arms and another tried to open the grille, but it was rusted in place. So they sent two lads to come at me from below while another held my arms. And then they went ahead with the chopping anyway.’

  Ethella looked horrified. ‘They cut off Mizzy’s hand?’

  Zimak’s eyes were glistening and for a moment he couldn’t speak. Finally he said, ‘They tied her wrist and one held her arm down and another used his sword. Mizzy screamed something awful. I’ll never forget that scream.’ He shuddered, and gulped several times. ‘Then she – she did something …’ He looked away for a moment, as if ashamed. When he looked back he took a deep breath. ‘She must have been in awful pain. She could barely get her breath. And they were all laughing. And that’s when she did it.’

  ‘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 Arge
ntia 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.