Wardragon

by Paul Collins

  It struck him now, still watching the receding back of the guard captain, that the man was behaving as though he were bewitched.

  Bewitched!

  That could only mean one person as far as Daretor was concerned. Jelindel. She must be out there, waiting for him. But why was she to join him and not the other way around?

  There was only one way to find out.

  He moved carefully down the corridor, turned to the left and found the guard chamber. It was empty but he could hear the murmur of voices through a door that opened to the outside. Craning his neck he could just make out an arm and a leg. Use it to stun them, thought Daretor, looking at the weapon with incomprehension. Well, yes, I can do that.

  Taking hold of the metal barrel of the weapon, Daretor burst through the door, bringing the handle of the thing down on a guard’s head like a mace. The two other guards made the mistake of trying to get their weapons functional, but while they fumbled with slides and catches, Daretor was upon them.

  ‘Could have given me a proper club,’ muttered Daretor, tossing the weapon aside.

  In another moment the end of the knotted rope went over the side. Daretor waved the torch rod as he had been instructed, then tried to turn it off. Immersing it in the guards’ water beaker did not help. Finally he gave up and placed a helmet over it.

  Looking out, he saw a squad of shadowy figures dart across a cleared space from the jungle. One by one they shinnied silently up the knotted rope, and gathered in front of him.

  Jelindel exclaimed softly, then rushed forward with a soft cry on her lips and threw her arms around the man she thought to be Zimak. She gave him a more than comradely kiss. Daretor blinked in surprise, and seemed not to know how to react. Apart from her over-enthusiastic embrace of ‘Zimak’, it was wonderful to see that she was still alive, and to actually have her there in front of him. He opened his mouth … but she spoke first.

  ‘Zimak! Zimak! By all the gods, I’ve missed you!’

  A blow to the face from the handle of the cold science weapon could not have stunned him more effectively, and he made no more than a mechanical response to her greeting. Jelindel stood back and eyed him with concern.

  Daretor half-formed the word ‘Jelli’ but realised the mistake and cut it off by coughing.

  ‘Is something the matter?’ she asked worriedly.

  ‘I, er, no, I’ve just been through a lot.’ He waved at the fallen guards. ‘We’d better do something about these three.’

  Jelindel nodded and formed a spell to wipe the men’s memories. She was silently pleased that the combined churning in her stomach and skin-crawling effect spells were having on her was easing – providing she used the bare minimum of energy needed to concoct the magic. Noticing Zimak’s concern, she steadied herself and quickly reintroduced Taggar. Distracted, Daretor eyed the alien with dislike. Jealousy rode him bareback. It was probably Taggar’s fault Jelindel had gotten into this mess.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Taggar. He knew the layout of the fortress better than any of them. Using another of the torch rods, Taggar flashed a signal into the jungle. A reply came back, then he led the way into the depths of the Wardragon’s fortress. As they moved, Jelindel explained to who she thought was Zimak what they were planning. The two who had stayed behind in the jungle would relay messages, setting up an assault on the garrison. The attack would contain an initial feint, allowing them to use the Wardragon’s own resources against him.

  ‘By then, with any luck, we will have seized the high ground,’ Jelindel concluded.

  ‘The high ground?’ asked Daretor. ‘But we are going down.’

  ‘No, I mean a flying vessel, like Korok had.’

  ‘You jest?’ said Daretor. ‘We cannot even work their torch rods.’

  ‘Taggar can fly one.’

  ‘And what will we do with this, er, flying thing?’

  ‘You’ll see. But tell me, what are you doing here? Where’s Daretor?’

  Taggar hissed, ‘Catch up later. Right now we need silence!’

  As they penetrated deeper into the fortress, Daretor watched Jelindel’s every move and gesture like a hawk watching a rabbit. Was she now more intimate towards him because she thought he was Zimak? Or was her behaviour normal? It was hard to tell. She certainly seemed more businesslike now, but that initial greeting had been a shock. He was not entirely sure why he didn’t tell her it was him, back in his own body.

  Am I afraid? he wondered. What if she can’t love me in this body? Worse, what if she can? And what if she loved Zimak? What if she had been in love with this body all the time, but had forced herself to love Daretor even when he was in Zimak’s body? She had seemed especially friendly with Zimak these past few months, spending time with him, showing him odd little gestures of affection, rather than the usual contempt.

  Daretor’s feelings surged back and forth like storm waves on a beach. He was a seething mess of facts, emotions, hates and jealousies, convinced one moment that it was Zimak she loved, and the complete reverse a moment later. After all, it had been his body she had started the affair with. Could she switch allegiance now, even though Daretor was back in his own body? He muttered a soft curse. A man could go mad with such thoughts. Better, far better, the torture of the Farvenu than this sort of agony. Daretor made up his mind. Deception was not to his liking. Time to tell her.

  He started to speak, but circumstance intervened. Jelindel slipped her hand into his and squeezed it.

  ‘When we have time you need to tell me everything.’ She looked meaningfully at the squad about them. In a quieter voice, she added, ‘When we’re alone.’

  What did she mean, ‘when we’re alone’? The words sleeted through Daretor’s mind. Alone over a quiet ale in a tavern’s noisy taproom? Alone with their trews down and their tunics up in a rented room above that same taproom?

  Daretor decided to hold his tongue.

  Taggar seemed to know where he was going. They met no guards and ran into no checkpoints. Perhaps no one could imagine an enemy penetrating this far into the fortress, or even gaining entry in the first place. Taggar led them down two levels towards the great hangars which were built around a massive courtyard at the centre of the fortress. Here the flying wagons could be wheeled into the open for easy launching. Taggar stopped abruptly.

  ‘We’re within a hundred yards of the main hall of the flying machines,’ he explained.

  ‘Then we need somewhere to hide till tomorrow night,’ said Jelindel. ‘I doubt even the fastest runner will have warned all the scattered tribes yet, and we’ll need as many fighters as we can get if we’re to win the day.’

  Taggar said, ‘Follow me.’

  He located what appeared to be a small, disused workshop off a dead-end corridor. A window looked out over a tiled rooftop. Daretor felt happier knowing that an escape route was available, if one was needed. They bedded down for the night, with Taggar taking the first watch.

  Jelindel unrolled a blanket and indicated that Daretor should share it with her. Immediately, his heart jumped into his throat. What if she made some move upon him in the night? How should he react? Was it betrayal, since he wasn’t actually Zimak, but Daretor? And what about himself? He wanted to hold her and kiss her so badly that he might betray himself in his sleep.

  He lay down on the mat stiffly, but immediately Jelindel cuddled up close. Was this sexual interest, or did she just want to talk to him, while keeping her voice down? Daretor could not tell, but he was very suspicious.

  ‘What is it with you, Zimak?’ she whispered. ‘You’ve gone all funny. Are you sure you’re all right?’

  He did not know what to say, and felt ashamed and miserable. It was already too late to admit the truth. How could he explain why he had not told her that he was Daretor straight away? He cursed Zimak, and cursed the fact that he was growing more like him by the hour. Already he had deceived and lied to the woman he loved, and he could see no way out of it. Still, why was she being so familiar?
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  ‘Zimak?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ he said. ‘Tired. I’m just tired.’

  He turned over, then felt her cuddle up behind him. Not too closely, yet not too distant either. She moved her face close to the back of his head. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me what’s happened since I left D’loom? Is Daretor all right?’

  ‘Daretor is fine. He – wanted to come for you himself, but he had another mission.’

  ‘What mission?’

  Lying thus, facing away from her, it was easier to talk. Daretor started to relate the events since her departure. In spite of concentrating as hard as he could, he began getting mixed up, saying ‘I’ when he meant Daretor and ‘he’ when he referred to Zimak. Jelindel chuckled and dug him in the ribs a couple of times, finding his confusion amusing.

  ‘I think you’ve been spending too much time with Daretor,’ she said, and even though she laughed at her own jibe, Daretor managed to find a second meaning in her words.

  When he had finished, Jelindel brought him up to date on her own adventures.

  ‘The Wardragon means to subjugate all of Q’zar, to destroy magic forever,’ she concluded.

  ‘But surely the Wardragon uses magic? How else could its links confer the power on mortals?’ asked Daretor. He felt Jelindel shrug.

  ‘Taggar says it combines magic and cold science.’

  ‘Can there be such a joining?’

  ‘I believe there can.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t matter. It must be destroyed. It’s too dangerous to exist.’

  Daretor felt her head jerk slightly, as if she had cocked it at him. ‘You know, sometimes you sound just like Daretor.’

  There was the faintest note of suspicion in her voice. Daretor flinched and sought an immediate Zimak affectation.

  ‘Hie, Jelindel, you’ll be imagining I’m the Preceptor next,’ he laughed.

  Jelindel laughed too, but much to Daretor’s relief she soon fell asleep. Daretor quietly rolled over and regarded her for a while. At last he kissed her gently on the cheek. Jelindel sighed in her sleep. Daretor lay awake for some time, wondering what he was doing. I’m better at being Zimak than Zimak, he thought with bitterness.

  The next morning they played the waiting game.

  Instructions were sent out via the telepathic Korsa, and reports came in at regular intervals. Groups were moving in on their pre-assigned targets, mostly transport depots, the kind that berthed their own flying troop wagons.

  The tribal groups consisted of the attackers, those who would destroy the communications machines, and Taggar’s people who would steal the flying wagons. They would then be flown to predetermined locations where hundreds of warriors waited. From there they would hurtle into the very heart of the Wardragon’s fortress, the central courtyard.

  Meanwhile, Jelindel’s team was already inside. It would split up into smaller units, which would do their best to destroy the defences of the fortress, and to spread confusion. Tow, a technician in his former pre-Golgora days, understood cold science systems and had been assigned the task of taking control of the tower’s communication machines, sending guards to the wrong places, and perhaps even getting them to shoot at one another.

  However, the main task was to reach the hall of the flying wagons and steal one. It was Taggar’s belief that each wagon was equipped with the same type of machine to open a portal back to Q’zar that the Wardragon possessed. If he was right, they could either use the flying wagon to move everyone off Golgora, or merely use the portal opening device.

  At noon, the teams shook hands and departed. Most of them were fairly sure that they would not survive the day, but it was better than not fighting at all. By mid-afternoon, the attacks on the transport complexes outside the fortress had begun. Jelindel’s people won every skirmish. Whatever powered the communication boxes was destroyed, preventing the fortress being notified of what was going on.

  Daretor put a hand on her arm and she placed her own over his, squeezing it for a moment. Jealousy flared briefly in Daretor’s heart.

  Taggar stood up. ‘Time to go,’ he said.

  They shouldered their packs, hitched them tight, and moved out. They had barely gone a hundred yards when the lights went out, and the ever-present sigh of the air ventilators ceased.

  Taggar grinned. ‘Jelindel one, Wardragon nil.’

  ‘Whatever that means,’ muttered Daretor. Despite his jealousy of the previous night, he found himself liking the man, even trusting him. He had difficulty believing he was more than a thousand years old.

  They had brought weapons with them, traditional swords as well as more of the cold science things. This was just as well. Rounding a corner they ran into a group of guards, some of whom recognised Jelindel.

  ‘It’s her!’ one of them cried.

  The guards charged. Full of bravado, they withheld their fire, for they were used to attacking those who were not armed with cold science weapons. Taggar and Jelindel brought down three of them with the stun devices, but Daretor did not even bother to fumble with the safety catch of his own weapon. At such close quarters there is no substitute for a good club, and while Daretor preferred a sword, he was an expert at striking people with just about anything roughly a yard long that would not break when brought down hard upon an opponent’s head. Worse, the guards had been given training in fighting at distance, but not for close-quarter battle. At least two guards managed to stun their own people, and Daretor did the rest. Given Daretor’s preference for fighting like a barbarian, it was understandable that he gave a loud and savage battle cry as the last of the guards fell to the ground. It was not typical of Zimak’s behaviour in a fight. Unseen by Daretor as he swept up a fallen sword, Jelindel cast a puzzled glance his way before continuing on.

  The chamber of flying wagons was awesomely large, with a ceiling that curved at least sixty feet above them. It was ringed by catwalks, and on the floor, in perfectly aligned rows, were at least three dozen of the incomprehensibly shaped flying machines. Taggar stood frozen, gripped by some powerful emotion.

  Jelindel put a hand on his arm. ‘Taggar, what is it? What’s wrong?’

  Taggar shook his head, as if to clear it. There was a catch in his voice as he said, ‘The last time I saw one of these craft was the last time I saw my beloved. Garricka.’

  Jelindel squeezed his arm and he seemed to come back to himself. He smiled at her. ‘I am all right, but this …’ He stared around. ‘I had no idea the Wardragon had built so many, so quickly.’

  ‘Remember time does not flow the same here as on Q’zar,’ said Jelindel.

  ‘Even so, this is a fleet to rule empires. If it is not stopped, the stars will surely fall to it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Daretor. ‘Stars are lamps in the Veil of Heaven. How can they ever be the Wardragon’s?’

  ‘I don’t have time to explain, Zimak, but a dozen of these vessels could destroy an entire world. They could then go to other worlds – no, not just the paraworlds. They are powerful warships. The only reason you would need so many would be … if you were intending to take back what was once yours.’

  ‘I’m only worried about Q’zar,’ said Daretor.

  ‘Three of these could annihilate Q’zar within a week,’ replied Taggar.

  ‘If there are other “worlds”, why would the Wardragon care about Q’zar?’ asked Daretor.

  ‘Q’zar is where it all started, Zimak, five thousand years ago. Which means Q’zar is a symbol. And symbols are always worth destroying, especially if they belong to the enemy.’

  ‘Would the Wardragon really annihilate our whole world?’ asked Jelindel, barely able to comprehend the idea.

  ‘Trust me, the Wardragon cares nothing for your planet, except that it is the first world it will take, and enslave. And perhaps make an example of.’

  ‘Then we must warn our people,’ said Daretor.

  ‘To do what?’ asked Taggar. ‘The weapons of these flying wagons can strip the very air from yo
ur planet. How do you warn people to prepare for that? A poster in the marketplace? “Keep A Vat of Air Handy In Case the Wardragon Strikes”?’

  Daretor remembered Fa’red’s words. ‘Perhaps help will come from unexpected quarters.’

  Taggar eyed him cannily. He nodded at last. ‘Perhaps it will. But we must do our part first.’

  A faint hum came from above. Daretor’s mouth gaped. ‘The roof. It’s … sliding open!’

  ‘We must hurry,’ Taggar said. He ran towards the nearest flying wagon, touched a coloured pattern on the surface in a complicated sequence of strokes, then stood back as a hatch opened. He climbed inside. Jelindel and Daretor followed, although not quite as confidently. Daretor’s suspicion that the roof was about to fall in on them was all that pushed him up the hatch stairway. Taggar led them to what he said was the command deck.

  ‘Jelindel, this is … look, this is a chair where someone sits when they are steering,’ he explained. ‘Please, sit.’

  ‘But I know nothing of this flying wagon.’

  ‘Just sit, and trust me.’

  Jelindel sat down. Taggar attached a metal circlet to her head, a thing that looked oddly like a crown. He then touched some glowing squares on the bench before her, and Jelindel stiffened slightly and shut her eyes.

  Daretor raised his cold science weapon like a club, but Taggar waved him back, smiling. ‘Fear not, she is merely in a light trance,’ he explained.

  Presently, Jelindel opened her eyes and removed the circlet.

  ‘How is this possible?’ she asked.

  Taggar shrugged. ‘It is a form of hypnosis, which communicates directly with the human brain, implanting knowledge. By wearing the circlet, anybody can learn to fly one of these vessels in a matter of minutes. It was developed towards the end of the great war, when new recruits were difficult to find, and training time very limited.’

  ‘It makes sense. I would never have gathered this knowledge in a lifetime,’ she marvelled, a look of wonder on her face as she gazed inwards for a moment.