Wardragon

by Paul Collins

  ‘Go,’ Daretor said again. ‘While you still can.’

  ‘I’ll think of something else,’ the boy promised as he turned and melted away into the greying shadows.

  They were given a generous breakfast. If there was one law that was observed on almost every world that Jelindel had ever visited or heard of, it was the right of the condemned prisoner to a lavish last meal. They had porridge with raisins in it, fresh goat’s milk and clotted cream, as well as strawberries. Then came fresh-baked bread, butter, and a haunch of ham so perfectly cured it literally made Daretor’s mouth water. There was also a variety of other cold meats: chicken, lamb, duck, and some smoked fish. Finishing it up was a platter of cheeses with a pot of spiced coffee.

  Jelindel smiled. ‘I really think he means to kill us this time,’ she said, surveying the feast.

  ‘Is that why he supposedly let us go all the other times? He forgot to feed us?’ said Daretor, taking a chunk out of a succulent drumstick. ‘Is this some kind of archmage etiquette that I ought to know about?’

  ‘No, I was thinking that this is more a Farvenu style of execution. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Gah, don’t mention them.’

  By all the Odd Gods, I am sounding more like Zimak every day, thought Daretor. Living as Zimak was bad enough. Dying as him would be downright humiliating.

  They finished breakfast and sat side by side. Jelindel pressed herself against him. Well, here I am, thought Daretor, facing death while betraying myself to the woman I love, who thinks I am someone else. What does that make me? Is there a word for it? Probably not. Not much call for body-swapping betrayal words.

  Presently the jailor came, accompanied by guards. The prisoners’ wrists were shackled again, and as an added precaution, Jelindel was gagged. Then they were led out to the town square where the gallows had been erected during the night. Jelindel tried once again to summon some magic, but Fa’red’s spell combined with the simple burlap gag effectively stopped any incantations.

  They were led up onto the scaffold, around which a crowd of Argentian town folk had been gathered. None heckled them, in fact no one looked at all happy about the proceedings. Daretor wondered if the townsfolk saw them as enemies or friends. Not that it would make any difference. As they placed the noose around his neck, Daretor spotted the boy Davit in the crowd. He tried to signal him with his eyes, ordering him to leave. This was no sight for a child.

  Fa’red stepped out of the crowd and mounted the steps, stopping in front of them. Despite all of his precautions, he stayed out of arm’s reach. Daretor looked down and realised they were standing on a trapdoor. No doubt the drop was perfectly calculated to snap their necks. In all his days of journeying, he had seen many hangings, but these were always from branches, with horses beneath, which were then whipped out from under the condemned.

  ‘Why go to all this trouble, Fa’red?’ asked Daretor. ‘Why not just murder us during the night in our cell?’

  Fa’red winced theatrically. ‘The proceedings must be seen to be carried out, my boy. And it doesn’t hurt to provide the public with a free show.’ The archmage appeared jovial, almost exhilarated. ‘You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this moment. I want to see you die. With my own eyes.’

  ‘All that nice breakfast, gone to waste,’ said Daretor.

  Fa’red’s eyes narrowed with uncertainty. ‘What do you mean? It was your last meal.’

  ‘Allow me my secrets, Fa’red. Shall we get this over and done with?’

  ‘They say impatience shortens one’s life, Daretor. You will prove them correct!’ Despite his good humour, Fa’red had cause to doubt himself. He cast another spell on Jelindel. Satisfied she could wreak no immediate havoc, he ripped the gag from her mouth and stepped back. He raised his arm to signal the executioner, who stood at the lever that opened the trapdoor beneath their feet.

  Jelindel tried to utter a spell, but it fell from her lips as would spittle.

  Daretor turned to regard Jelindel. ‘Ah, don’t take this the wrong way, but I love you,’ he said.

  ‘And I you,’ replied Jelindel. There were tears in her eyes.

  Daretor’s heart lurched. ‘Then prepare yourself for a shock in the afterlife.’

  Fa’red read his lips. ‘What was that supposed to mean?’ he asked, his arm still raised.

  A shadow fell across the scaffold, engulfing them. Fa’red spun at once, and it saved his life. He had just a moment to see the enormous clawed foot reaching for him, to see razor sharp talons sweeping to eviscerate him, before he flung himself off the scaffold. The huge dragon swept onwards, the mangled body of the executioner dangling from its other foot. Screams and cries erupted from the crowd, none of whom had seen the dragon dropping out of the sun.

  Now the huge beast wheeled back, and the crowd fled. The guards hesitated, uncertain which was worse, the terrible daemon of the skies or the eventual wrath of the archmage. Concluding that there was a fairly good chance of the archmage being eaten, they ran for their lives. Daretor and Jelindel found themselves alone on the scaffold. The lever to the trapdoor was all that separated them from death, but at least now the lever was unattended. The dragon landed with a great swoosh of wings, then Zimak jumped down onto the platform.

  ‘I’m always getting you two out of trouble,’ he said as he removed their nooses. Having fetched a bloodied key ring from the dead executioner’s belt, he unlocked their shackles. Then all three scrambled up onto S’cressling’s back. Osric hailed them from the mane but immediately turned his attention back to S’cressling. Just as the dragon was surging forward into flight again, there came a yelp from beneath the dragon.

  Daretor stuck his head over the edge. Hanging off one leg was the boy, Davit. Daretor muttered an oath, then uncoiled an anchor rope and threw it down.

  ‘Hang on, boy,’ he called.

  A moment later Davit stood on the saddle-deck. He immediately threw his arms around Daretor’s waist. Daretor hugged him back, half-laughing and half-scowling. ‘You could have been killed, child.’

  ‘Davit!’ Zimak yelled out. He came over and ruffled the boy’s hair.

  Davit peered at him. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. Zimak opened his mouth to reply then an odd look swept his face. His eyes went to Jelindel, and a new complication registered there. Daretor watched what everyone else’s eyes were doing.

  ‘Hie, welcome aboard,’ Zimak declared at last.

  Jelindel threw her arms around Zimak and hugged him tightly. ‘That’s one I owe you,’ she cried, and planted a kiss on his cheek.

  Then Jelindel went back to Daretor and took his hand in hers. Daretor stared at her, unresisting.

  ‘Did you think I was going to sweep Zimak off his feet?’ Jelindel asked. ‘Do you really want me to do that, Daretor?’

  Daretor’s shoulders loosened as though a great tension had left them. ‘How long have you known?’ he asked.

  Jelindel shook her head, as if sorry for him. ‘I’ve guessed for a while now – calling me Jelli once confirmed my suspicions. But you wanted to test me, didn’t you?’

  Daretor averted his gaze.

  ‘Do you really think I wouldn’t know the man I love, the man to whom I’ve pledged myself?’ She sighed and said, almost to herself, ‘Men are such dolts.’

  ‘Yet when you first climbed into the Wardragon’s tower, you rushed forward in the dark, and kissed who you thought was Zimak very passionately,’ said Daretor. ‘Then there was “Zimak! Zimak! By all the gods, I’ve missed you!”, and a kiss and a hug that I never knew was shared with Zimak as well as me.’

  Zimak pulled Davit aside and started explaining to him that he was the boy’s friend, not the big brute sharing an exquisitely awkward moment with Jelindel.

  ‘Sometimes,’ began Jelindel, ‘sometimes it is just pleasant to be with someone a little wicked and daring.’ Jelindel paused, and realised, inexplicably, that she had been wanting to say this to Daretor for some time. ‘Zimak has a sense of fun. You are always so
serious and steady, always worried about your honour. Seeing Zimak in your body, well, it showed me how you could be – a loveable rogue.’

  ‘You do not value my sense of honour?’

  ‘Your sense of honour cuts you off from the rest of the world. Even I can’t live up to it. I, Jelindel, am not as honourable as you. Am I making sense?’

  ‘More sense than you realise.’

  ‘What is that meant to mean?’ Jelindel asked.

  ‘You are the intelligent one, work it out.’

  ‘I could burn you to cinders!’ Jelindel snapped. In that moment she realised that she could. Fa’red’s spell had dissipated the moment he had fallen from the gallows.

  Daretor spread his arms. ‘Then do so.’

  Jelindel shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. I apologise. Forgive me.’

  ‘I forgive you in the same way that I would forgive a lion that tried to eat me. No hard feelings, but approach with care.’

  There was a long and chilly silence that was finally broken by Jelindel. ‘You’ve changed, Daretor. You’ve learned to use your brain, but I didn’t notice. I’m a girl, yet I’m expected to be a wise old woman. I get so tired of expectations.’ She reached out to touch him, but he withdrew.

  Daretor realised with a shock that there were tears in her eyes. His resolve crumbled and he put his arms around her and kissed her.

  ‘So where to?’ Osric asked from the mane.

  Jelindel gave Daretor an extra hard hug and turned. ‘The flying craft?’ She went to the edge of the deck platform and gazed down at Argentia. The dragon turned and flew back. Below them the town square was almost empty. The flying machine was gone.

  ‘Circle back over the town,’ said Jelindel.

  Osric brought the great dragon around in a slow turn and for the next ten minutes they quartered the town, searching for the cold science craft, but it was nowhere to be seen. Either it had been flown away by someone, or it had been moved under cover so Fa’red could inspect it at his leisure. He might not have believed their story, but he was not foolish enough to discount it entirely. The Preceptor would not have gone to Golgora by his own choice. It was totally feasible he was now controlled by the Wardragon. These were facts.

  And after all, they had reappeared on Q’zar in a sophisticated flying machine – not exactly the kind of thing one put together in a local workshop or smithy. Besides, if Fa’red found the neural circlet, and he tried it on, he would be able to fly the craft himself. Would he want to?

  Either way, the machine was gone.

  ‘Take us to D’loom, Osric,’ Jelindel said, feeling profoundly weighed down by events.

  Once more S’cressling wheeled in the sky above Argentia. Before she passed over the walls Zimak tossed a note tied to a fluttering red scarf overboard. In it he briefly explained to Davit’s parents that the boy would come with them for the time being, and that he would be brought back when things were once more safe in Argentia.

  ‘They can’t read,’ explained Davit as the scarf plunged away.

  ‘Oh,’ Zimak said.

  Jelindel sat down next to Daretor and rested her head against his shoulder. Daretor put his arm around her, thinking about what she had said regarding his expectations.

  Chapter 17

  Zimak’s Old Haunts

  There was much to do and little time in which to do it, Jelindel reflected, as they approached D’loom. It was night time which was probably just as well. Although she had been away on Golgora for nearly two years, only two months had passed on Q’zar. Despite this she had the feeling that they would find many changes when they got back, not all of them welcome.

  Her fears were not long in being realised.

  Even from the air and miles away they could see that D’loom by night was different. Watch fires burned on the old walls, creating a ring of flames girdling all of the city.

  ‘Well, that’s new,’ said Zimak, unable to hide the anxiety in his voice.

  ‘Is that where you live?’ asked Davit eagerly. Zimak nodded, staring intently at the distant wavering lights. Daretor rubbed his jaw. He could imagine the shadowy figures clustered near the fires, sharpening swords, gossiping, all the while casting fearful glances out into the darkness.

  ‘There are even lanterns on the ships at anchor,’ he said, pointing.

  ‘It seems distrust has grown since we left,’ said Jelindel.

  ‘What’s distrust?’ Davit asked.

  Zimak grinned. ‘That’s when you think dark forces are out to get you.’

  ‘Aren’t dark forces always out to get you?’ the boy asked, eyes wide.

  ‘He’s spent too much time in your company, Zimak,’ joked Daretor.

  ‘We’d better find a way to enter the city without any fuss,’ Jelindel said.

  ‘That means we don’t go in on the dragon?’ asked Davit.

  ‘You’re a bright boy,’ Jelindel said and laughed, putting an arm around Daretor. ‘See that dark patch east of the harbour? What about coming down there?’

  Daretor shook his head. ‘The watch flames are very still, there’s no wind. S’cressling is too big. She’ll be noticed even in the dimmest light.’

  ‘Then where?’ asked Jelindel.

  ‘Can we land on the shore, south of the city, Osric?’

  ‘Find somewhere safe to land and we’ll do it,’ Osric called from the mane.

  ‘But how do we get in?’ asked Zimak. ‘The place is obviously under tight guard.’

  ‘You can take us in through your old haunts,’ Daretor said.

  The bowels of the city stank. Zimak tried holding his breath but that only added dizziness to the nausea he felt. This was visceral, gut-wrenching nausea, like a punch to the stomach. He had once lived down here, he kept thinking. As a street urchin in D’loom, and later a pickpocket and thief, he had needed as many boltholes as possible, and the sewers of D’loom seemed specifically designed for gutter-scrapings such as he had been. Every rat to his rathole, they used to say. The only downside was that everybody, every market seller and would-be victim, would know he was coming if they happened to be downwind. This had led to the unlikely habit of mass bathings by the D’loomian street-packs prior to going on the prowl each day.

  Zimak stumbled and almost went face down in the muck that his once fine, deer-hide boots were squelching through. To save himself he flung out a hand against the wall, getting a fistful of stinking sludge between his fingers. He cursed softly. Getting his own body back was all very well, but he was taking time to get used to it. His limbs were all wrong, they were far too light and reacted too fast. It felt a bit like wearing a brand new set of unfamiliar clothes. Daretor had been all too successful in making his body athletic.

  ‘Gah, I hate this place!’ Zimak flicked his fingers, dislodging the sludge and what looked like several leeches. ‘Don’t remember them living here when I did,’ he murmured to himself then continued on, holding an oil lamp high with his other hand.

  Behind him came Daretor and Jelindel, both looking ill but resolute, then came Osric and Davit. Osric seemed oddly immune to the stench, which was hardly surprising for someone who had grown up shovelling dragon dung. Davit was the only one enjoying himself. He thought this was a great adventure, sneaking into a dangerous city via the slimy sewer tunnels, all of it right under the very noses of the watchmen supposedly guarding it.

  ‘How much further?’ Daretor grumbled.

  ‘You suggested coming this way,’ Zimak reminded him.

  ‘Yes, yes, but how much longer?’

  ‘Getting your old body back certainly hasn’t improved your temper. Indeed, I for one feel that it’s gotten a lot –’

  ‘I asked how much further!’

  ‘Twenty minutes, maybe. Somewhere up ahead there’s an overflow from a higher level sewer and from there we can take our pick of exits.’

  ‘Exits?’ Jelindel asked.

  ‘The covered hatchways where the public muck carts dump out. They’re not locked.’<
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  ‘You would know, wouldn’t you?’ Daretor said.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Maybe for once you should just try thanking me for my – my unique life experience.’

  ‘Need I point out that your life experience stinks?’

  ‘Gah, Daretor. I’ve lived your life for a while, and it wasn’t so wholesome either. All those women throwing themselves at you, just because you’ve got big muscles.’

  ‘Had big muscles. Now all I have is a big stomach.’

  ‘Can you two give it a rest?’ Jelindel cut in. ‘Just for a change?’

  ‘A rest? That’s what he’s been doing with my body! I’m all flab.’

  ‘Quality flab,’ said Zimak.

  ‘Both of you, stop it!’ shouted Jelindel. ‘If you want to kill each other, arrange a time and place, but for now, please, work together.’

  Zimak stomped on in silence. He located the overflow, scrambled up the brick steps beside it, and started looking for the iron rungs of ladders fixed in the side of the sewer which led up to the streets of D’loom. At one point they encountered a horde of rats, but the dark, scampering mass just parted and flowed around them, paying them practically no heed at all.

  A short time later Zimak was standing at the top of one of the iron ladders, holding up a hinged wooden hatch cover and peering out into the street, which was lit by the glow from the bonfires on the distant city walls. He saw nothing moving, and heard nothing. Better still, it was a street that he knew.

  They wasted no time getting out into the open, and were soon breathing in the relatively fresh night air and eyeing each other with distaste.

  ‘Now would be a good time for a cloaking spell,’ Zimak said.

  ‘Why?’ asked Jelindel.

  ‘Because every stray dog in the city will soon be following us, not to mention strong men fainting from the stench as we pass.’

  ‘One should never use magic when there are other options,’ Jelindel said. ‘Like a bath.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right,’ Zimak said, ‘“one should never abuse one’s power”.’