Wardragon

by Paul Collins

  That was the next signal.

  The jungle fringes came alive, boiling with bodies erupting into the cleared space around the quarry. They hurled themselves at the newly arrived Farvenu, who were now caught halfway up the slope with Ahunta above them and a dozen different races below. The slaves stopped work and stared. All were chained and could not move far from their positions, but some started to cheer when it became clear the Farvenu were surprised. Others discovered that a well-aimed stone could distract a Farvenu.

  As Jelindel’s combined forces attacked, she sat in the tree and chanted unceasingly, launching spells that froze the fingers of the Farvenu on their fire weapons. Frustrated, the Farvenu would change hands only to discover that the firing mechanism no longer worked. Taggar said all weapons were dangerous to the users if they became dependent upon them.

  The Farvenu were quick learners, however. Their hands thus immobilised, many flapped their wings and tore at their opponents with their scimitar-sharp taloned feet.

  They were superb and fearless fighters, killing five attackers for every one of themselves who died. Even with both winged arms lopped off they could still use their clawed feet to kill and maim. Their movements, lightning fast, were just a blur to the attackers, but overwhelming numbers will always overwhelm. Eventually, the Farvenu went down. Only two were captured alive. These had their limbs, and even their jaws, tightly and securely bound. Despite this, they still hissed and thrashed on the ground, their red eyes glaring at their captors.

  When the battle was over there was a moment of profound silence, as if even the jungle could not believe what had happened. This was a moment Jelindel had carefully worked towards. The greatest impediment to their success had been the almost mystical belief in the invincibility of the Wardragon’s might. That myth was now in tatters, and the realisation of this began to sink in as the weary and bloodied fighters stood or limped about the battlefield. A sudden visceral roar exploded from every throat, including the slaves. Jelindel found herself joining in. Even the mild-mannered Korsa chirruped madly.

  Only Taggar remained silent.

  A short time later Jelindel and Taggar climbed to the observer post and Jelindel stood on the guard platform. She surveyed her fighters proudly.

  ‘Look about you and marvel!’ she shouted. ‘See what you have wrought with your own hands. Who said the Wardragon could not be defeated? Speak up.’

  ‘I did,’ said a voice. ‘And I, too,’ said another. There was a chorus of such exclamations.

  ‘And who said it could be done, despite your doubts and nay saying?’

  ‘YOU DID!’ came the response. ‘DEATH TO THE WARDRAGON!’

  The voices rang out and echoed off the hillside. The trees on the edge of the jungle seemed to shiver in response.

  ‘Free the slaves,’ said Jelindel. ‘Those who wish to join us are welcome, those who want to return to their villages will be given food and maps. Then we must leave. We can’t be sure the Farvenu did not summon help with their speaking boxes. Return to your villages. I’ll send word when we’re to meet again.’

  Another cheer went up, then began the business of freeing the slaves and assisting the wounded. In this task, Jelindel’s magic, and Taggar’s medical experience, were invaluable. The able-bodied looked on in wonder as Jelindel laid her hands over gaping wounds and pumping arteries. Blue flickering light from her hands and lips swarmed over the injuries, sealing or repairing, or just advancing the healing process sufficiently so that within hours the scars scabbed over and looked to be days old.

  ‘It’s the best I can do,’ Jelindel was heard to mumble to herself on several occasions.

  Murmurs spread quickly, and Jelindel’s stature grew. Not only was she a canny general in battle, but she cared about her troops, down to the lowliest churl who did no more than carry arms for the grown-ups but who had blundered in the way of a fire projectile.

  ‘Her touch heals!’ they whispered.

  After that first attack, Jelindel concentrated her forces on harassing the Wardragon’s finely tuned production system. She sabotaged its supply lines, attacked its quarries, captured its ore caravans, and liberated its slaves, but kept away from the main fortress. She wanted the mailshirt to believe she considered the place impregnable, so that it would throw even more warriors and weapons into shoring up the weaker links in its great enterprise. These were the roads, rails, caravan paths, labour gangs and mines. And at the end of the day these were unimportant targets, but it did not have to know that.

  At the same time Jelindel expected it to send out patrols of Farvenu and to introduce reprisals against ‘civilian’ populations. It did both. Jelindel had misgivings about the reprisals. That innocent people should be harmed because of her actions was not a thought she found easy to bear, and left to herself she might have abandoned the campaign. It was Taggar who assured her that she could not stop the fight, that the only way to deal with reprisals was to let the Wardragon know that reprisals would cause more attacks on its infrastructure. This she did in a spectacular way, again thanks to Taggar.

  Three of the Wardragon’s most critical possessions were the deep tunnel mines at Patrel, Korvosk and Minnim. These mines, and their on-site workshops, produced tiny amounts of a chemical Taggar called gast. Gast, he said, was a rare catalyst. It took roughly a thousand tons of mineral-rich ore to produce one gram of gast, yet without it the Wardragon’s flying machines would never leave the ground; without it, no large-scale portals could be opened.

  In a raid that was incredibly daring, the mine at Minnim was attacked and annihilated.

  A message was sent to the Wardragon informing him that if reprisals continued against civilian populations, Patrel or Korvosk would be next. It was a dangerous game to play.

  It was Ras who delivered the message. The Wardragon stood in what Ras thought to be its favourite spot. It was on the balcony that overlooked the great pit. Kaleton stood nearby, nursing his own thoughts.

  When Ras handed over the message the Wardragon’s eyes betrayed nothing. It was that lack of emotion that made Kaleton think for a moment that Ras himself would be hurled off the balcony. Ras, as ever, stood at his ease, casually waiting for a response, and oblivious to the danger within a hand’s grasp. Kaleton pondered whether the man’s composure came from courage or stupidity.

  ‘What has she done, m’lord?’ Kaleton asked.

  He had estimated the right moment to interrupt. Too early and the rage might have turned on him, too late and the Wardragon might have decided that he was hiding something. Kaleton wondered briefly about the Preceptor, sensing that his true lord was still ‘alive’ somewhere. When he ceased to be, when it became obvious that he would never return, Kaleton would have to make a choice of loyalty. But not yet.

  >SHE HAS DESTROYED THE MINNIM MINE. AND CLAIMS SHE CAN DESTROY THE OTHER GAST SOURCES JUST AS EASILY. I WILL SUMMON ANOTHER BATTALION OF FARVENU. I HAVE UNDERESTIMATED THE COUNTESS<<<

  ‘M’lord, that will take time.’

  >THEN I WILL GO<<<

  ‘Would it be wise at this time to leave here? The production needs your …’

  >DO NOT FLATTER ME, KALETON<<<

  ‘May I ask what terms the Countess requests?’

  The Wardragon growled deep in its throat.

  >SHE SEEKS THE CESSATION OF REPRISALS AGAINST NON-COMBATANTS<<<

  The Wardragon could have said more, but stopped itself; thoughts of Jelindel confused it, made its heart – correction, the Preceptor’s heart – beat faster, gripped by an unfamiliar emotion. The attacks were growing, as were the images and feelings that rose unbidden from some place within its mind. The face of the woman, and the laughing child, haunted its thoughts.

  What did it all mean?

  ‘M’lord?’ Kaleton interrupted the Wardragon’s thoughts, which was a blessing. The Wardragon knew that Kaleton had a personal repugnance for the reprisals, and would gladly have seen them stop. He would doubtless point out that history had shown they seldom worke
d, and usually united those who were being persecuted.

  ‘Might it not be wise, in this one instance m’lord, to acquiesce?’

  The Wardragon could not risk revealing its confusion. >>>ARE YOU BECOMING SOFT, KALETON?<<<

  ‘Hardly, m’lord. But without the gast mines we cannot power the ships. Without the ships your great plan cannot be realised. Why take the risk?’

  >WHY? IT WOULD SHOW WEAKNESS. IF WE ALLOW COMPASSION, SHE WILL BECOME STRONGER. MORE TRIBES WILL FLOCK TO HER BANNER. I SHOULD HAVE ELIMINATED HER THE MOMENT I SET EYES ON HER<<< And yet it hadn’t eliminated her. Worse, it had let her escape, had almost been powerless to stop her. It turned with blinding speed to Ras, who did not even blink. >>>WHAT DO YOU THINK OF KALETON’S SUGGESTION?<<<

  Ras eyed the Wardragon, expressionless as usual. ‘I think both reasonings are inept, but his less so than yours.’

  Kaleton thought Ras had overstepped the mark, but the Wardragon simply grunted. Kaleton wondered if that was laughter.

  >SOMETIMES I WONDER WHY I DO NOT DISPATCH YOU<<<

  ‘I wonder that too, m’lord,’ said Ras, without sarcasm.

  >EXPLAIN YOURSELF THEN<<<

  ‘Increasing the reprisals will put the gast mines at risk.’

  >ELUCIDATE<<<

  ‘Your production schedules would be set back, possibly by years. Kaleton’s plan is more sensible, but also too limited. For now, you should agree to Jelindel’s terms, but do it in such a way so that it looks as if you are conceding for humanitarian reasons. You can blame Kaleton or me for the excesses. At the same time, you must start fortifying the two remaining gast mines, and start looking for new lodes. When these new veins are found they must be kept an absolute secret. Do that, and you will no longer be vulnerable and production will be increased.’

  The Wardragon weighed the man’s words. >>>YOU WERE NOTHING MORE THAN A SHEPHERD WHEN YOU FOUND ME<<< It turned back to Kaleton. >>>IMPLEMENT THE AGREEMENT. I DO NOT LIKE IT, BUT PERHAPS, AS RAS HAS SUGGESTED, IT CAN BE TURNED TO MY ADVANTAGE<<<

  ‘Yes, m’lord,’ said Kaleton. He turned to go.

  >AND KALETON<<<

  ‘Yes, m’lord?’

  >WHEN THE REPRISALS BEGIN AGAIN, YOU WILL BE IN CHARGE OF THEM<<<

  Kaleton bowed and departed. Outside, he scowled. The Wardragon was both canny and cruel. Unfortunately, it was also invincible – or so the mailshirt believed.

  Chapter 11

  Drip/click – Sluicing Blood

  Daretor never knew what hit him. He had ridden slowly down a steep slope of shifting scree, angling his horse across the hillside and zigzagging his way to the bottom. There he followed a narrow brook that led into a rocky defile that itself snaked back and forth like a knotted rope. He had just emerged from this defile when he heard a noise to his right. He turned that way, eyeing some trees twenty yards away. Then he toppled forward into darkness.

  The first sensation that returned to him was a gut-wrenching feeling of sickness. The whole world seemed to swing first one way then the other, a reaction he vaguely remembered from his recent bout with cheap wine.

  He finally managed to open one eye, inducing a blazing shaft of pain in his skull. He was almost blinded by the light. When he had overcome the sheer dizziness, his stomach threatened to return his previous meal. He was hanging from a pole strung between the saddle horns of two horses, hence the swinging sensation. They were wending their way along a narrow goat trail, on one side of which was the steep mountain flank. The other featured a drop of several thousand feet. Never one to enjoy heights he shut his eyes tightly. That brought a snort of laughter from nearby.

  ‘Enjoy the view, Daretor,’ said a voice. ‘Enjoy it while you can.’

  Daretor craned his neck to see the speaker, who was a sweaty, overweight merchantman with florid cheeks and an obsequious manner. The man gave Daretor a mock bow, and pressed his hand to his chest by way of introduction.

  ‘I am called Obsol, and I will be your guide into the afterlife.’ He chuckled loudly, as if he had made a fine joke.

  Daretor let his head swing back down as though weakened. An underestimated opponent was always the most dangerous of adversaries.

  Zimak had taken the left-hand turn at the border, but was not regretting it. He was aware of what Jelindel and Daretor thought of him where women were concerned: easily led, like a pig to the market. Once at the market, there was either a long career in helping produce piglets, or a very short contract producing bacon. The thing that would really irk Zimak was that he had liked Ethella, and he would be genuinely hurt if her advice led him into a trap, especially if he ended up dead.

  The trail led up and over a ridge of wooded hills north of Argentia. From this vantage point Zimak was able to gaze down at the town and see just how futile the attempt to penetrate the place would have been. The town itself was built partly into the side of a hill, which rose some three or four hundred feet. The hill was an outlier of the same foothills through which Zimak now made his way. Argentia, once easily approached by several land routes, was currently bordered by a high stone wall. It was several yards thick at the base, and constantly patrolled by heavily armed guards. There appeared to be only two gates to the town, and both were even more strongly defended than the walls. Nor was this all. Guards with exotic but vicious-looking paraworld beasts on spiked leashes patrolled the area outside the walls. Archery platforms jutted out over the wall at strategic intervals, giving the archers unrestricted coverage of all approaches. Somebody’s taking no chances, thought Zimak.

  Inside the town, in what had once been the town square, rose a huge stone building of a design Zimak had not seen the like before. It was a ziggurat, a squat layered pyramid with stone steps on one side, which reached to the third level. In the centre of this level was a tall tower that rose sheer for a hundred feet. There were two similar ziggurats around the town, forming a perfect triangle. Each tower was linked to the others by stone walkways, and to a central tower. These also were patrolled, but the guards here were not human. They were Farvenu, and the very sight of them froze Zimak in mid stride. A wagonload of questions erupted in his brain. What were they doing here? If not by magic, which they loathed, how had they arrived?

  Zimak suddenly realised he was exposed on the crest of the hill, and quickly spurred his mount down into a steep-sided canyon. This wound into the hills for some way and was crammed with birch and pine trees. The scent refreshed him, and even went some way to dispel his gloom.

  ‘Perhaps I need to be more trusting,’ he muttered, almost reluctant to admit that his enchantment-bound friend might have been honest with him. A shame she hadn’t mentioned the Farvenu. Still, if she had, he would not have come. He was crazy, no doubt about that, but he wasn’t insane.

  Zimak came to a fork in the canyon, turned right and was soon in a murky fissure between high walls of rock that flanked pools of pungent-smelling water and sported great spongy patches of lime-green fungus. The fungus smelled like a week-old battlefield. In places it had a warty texture that made him feel queasy.

  Overhead, the defile grew so narrow that sometimes the sunlight was completely shut out and he moved in what might have been a tunnel deep underground. Soon he found what he sought: the ventilation shaft for a mine. Zimak dismounted and peered into it. It was as dark as pitch, and as silent as a grave. All right, he thought, maybe grave wasn’t such a great word. Zimak dropped a stone into the darkness and listened for a long while till it struck bottom. The wait did nothing to calm his nerves.

  According to Ethella, he did not have to climb down all the way to the bottom. A cross shaft, some sort of miner’s access tunnel, intersected the ventilation shaft about a hundred feet down. This was just as well, Zimak reflected, since the rope that he carried was barely one hundred feet in length.

  He quickly unpacked and prepared himself for the descent. He did not want to tarry long here, thinking about what he had to do. There wasn’t much to think about, and besides, he was afraid he might change his
mind. He smacked his horse’s rump and sent it clattering back down the defile. He would not be needing a horse for some time, and when he did, he would be able to steal one from within Argentia.

  Zimak ate a quick meal and drank some water, then tied off the rope and dropped the other end into the shaft. Clasping the rope tightly in both hands, he backed into the opening and started lowering himself into the blackness. The pendant that Ethella had placed around his neck now burst into light, producing a soft green glow that illuminated the smooth walls of the shaft. It restored Zimak’s spirits immensely. At first, as the walls were smooth as glass – a deterrent against interlopers – Zimak swung free, then about twenty feet down his feet encountered the unfaced wall of the shaft. The rough stone outcroppings that jutted from the walls provided good footholds. Zimak half-climbed and half-dropped down for the next seventy feet or so. The air here was quite breathable, although he had to share the space with thousands of spiders whose webs stretched across the chasm. Soon he was thickly lathered in their sticky filaments. Fortunately, the spiders seemed more afraid of him than he was of them, though it took some time to convince himself of this.

  While he was trying to estimate how far he had descended, Zimak’s fingers encountered the knot he had tied in the rope to indicate that less than his own body length remained. By this time his hands and arms were aching and, although the knot at least gave him some slight relief from having to grip the rope more tightly, he was feeling apprehensive. If the passage was not close by, it was going to be an atrocious climb back. Provided he could climb back. For the first time, Zimak cursed himself for putting quite so much weight onto Daretor’s body. Breathing heavily as he hung there, Zimak peered down between his feet, searching for the side passage that Ethella had told him about.