by Paul Collins
Chapter 20
The Balance
Hours later Jelindel was seen slowly picking her way through the corpses that riddled the battlefield. Here she saw a decapitated body, its head nowhere to be seen; there a body with an arm hanging on to its shoulder by a thin thread of bloodied tendon. Many had their eyes open, as though having been slain so swiftly they had not had time to close them. She saw so much death that a horror grew in her.
Jelindel turned a full circle, casting her glazed eyes over the thousands of dead and dying. She didn’t know what she was doing out here in the midst of all this death. Was she expecting to find someone she knew? The answer to that question came quite suddenly. She recognised from her past Holgar Drusen more by his blacksmith’s garb and huge frame than by his face, which had been slashed from forehead to chin. His helm lay cleaved to either side of his scalp. He was cut elsewhere, and had been struck by two arrows, she noted clinically, but it was the head wound that had finally felled him. She knelt down and closed his cold, staring eyes. He had died in battle, as he would have wanted. Proof to himself, more than to his fellows, that he was no coward.
We turn our own fears against ourselves, she thought.
Jelindel closed her eyes. When she looked again, the blood-soaked plain had turned a sickly sepia; its metallic stench assailed her nostrils. Even now carrion birds were circling, their raucous calls beckoning others to the feast. She would gladly have rid the skies of them there and then, but nature had its own way of dealing with death. Interfering with the balance of things was never wise.
But isn’t that what I must do? she asked herself. Interfere with the balance?
Having found Drusen, having somehow made all this horrible death personal and real, she knew that she could go no further. In this sea of madness there were sure to be others she knew: Kelricka and her Temple of Verity men-at-arms and neophytes? Leot and the townspeople from Ogven? Thousands had flooded D’loom, and thrown in their lot against the might of the Wardragon and the attack on magic. She didn’t want to see their dead faces; she didn’t want to be reminded that she had brought them here to their deaths. Time enough later to feel that particular guilt.
She felt dizzy then, and a confusion filled her soul. She blinked, wondering which way lay the city walls. It was as if a veil had come between her and the city. She started to panic a little. Then she felt someone’s hand taking hers, guiding her.
With a start she realised it had been there for a while.
‘Come,’ said Daretor. His voice was husky with his own emotions. ‘We shall see our people receive their proper funeral rights after we’ve dealt with their murderers. We must care for the living now. And you need rest.’ He ruffled her matted hair and forced a smile onto his face. ‘And, if truth be told, a good wash!’
She smiled and allowed Daretor to navigate her back to the main gate and the cool shadows within.
That night the defenders held what many believed would be the final council of war. No one believed the Wardragon to be defeated, but none knew its exact strength either.
‘The outlook is mixed,’ Lukor said, with the casual tone of someone discussing his town’s chances in the wheelbarrow races at some regional fair. ‘On the positive side, D’loom is still in our hands. On the negative, the enemy has not retreated far, and is showing signs of bringing up yet more reserves.’
Several of the other commanders scowled and grunted, but could add nothing to Lukor’s dour comments.
‘Lukor speaks more truly than he knows,’ said Jelindel. ‘The enemy is far from vanquished, but then not all those who have pledged their help to us have arrived yet.’
‘A man might think such absence is itself a message,’ said one of the grizzled commanders.
He spoke with impatience, but not rudely. After all, this was an archmage whom he addressed.
‘A man might,’ said Jelindel, smiling wearily. ‘Or he might think that help comes when it can …’
‘If it can,’ said another of the battle-weary veterans.
Jelindel thought fleetingly of all those familiar faces she had seen during the battle. People she had met over the past few years. They had given up everything to defend the world they loved. How many of them would live out the next day? She did not want more lives wasted.
‘The question is, what can we do that we’ve not yet done?’ said Daretor.
Jelindel glanced around the room. ‘I won’t lie to you, our backs are against the wall. Without further help I … The defences have been breached in too many places. And after all, this is only the Wardragon’s opening gambit.’
‘When your back’s against the wall you can’t be stabbed in it,’ said Zimak.
‘Nor retreat,’ Prince Augustus pointed out.
‘Can you not work some great magic, Archmage?’ The voice came from the back of the room. Jelindel did not recognise it but she noted the tone of pleading in it.
‘There are things I may yet do, of which I cannot speak, though no doubt the Archmage Fa’red has surprises in reserve as well, and I fear that in the next attack –’
‘Archmage!’
They all turned to the door, where a nervous lieutenant stood. He was clearly intimidated by the sheer weight of military and magical might collected in one room.
‘Speak,’ said Jelindel, not unkindly. A couple of the commanders guffawed quietly.
‘There is an …’ He swallowed. ‘The enemy. They’ve sent an emissary!’
There was a sudden stark silence followed immediately by an outburst of voices, questions and oaths, not to mention accusations of trickery and assassination. Presently Daretor called for order.
‘Bring him in,’ said Jelindel.
‘My lady, is that wise?’ said one commander, clearly concerned for Jelindel’s safety. ‘After all, the enemy has already made one attempt on your life.’
‘Several, actually,’ Jelindel said, smiling. ‘But right now I sense no danger. Bring him in.’
The lieutenant returned to the room bringing Kaleton, the Wardragon’s right hand man. Kaleton surveyed the room briefly then bowed. Some there thought they noticed an element of mockery in that bow. Although he stood within the jaws of his enemy, and knew that many enemy leaders were known to phrase their replies in terms of the severed head of an emissary, he showed not the slightest sign of apprehension. If he was surprised to see Jelindel alive, despite Fa’red’s assertion that she was dead, he showed no sign of it. The Wardragon had already sensed that she lived, and had even included her in its terms of the city’s surrender.
‘Kaleton,’ said Jelindel, ‘do you bring terms?’
‘I do. You will, of course, not accept them.’
‘On the other hand, it’s been a long hard day,’ said Daretor, ‘the court jester’s still in hiding, and we could do with some merriment, so speak, please.’
‘From the Wardragon I bring the following terms: lay down your arms, yield up D’loom, swear an oath of eternal allegiance, pay a tithe, and hand over Jelindel dek Mediesar. Do this and everyone else will be spared.’
The room erupted.
‘That was a rather predictable joke. I don’t think we should pay him,’ said Daretor.
Jelindel called for silence. Once it descended, she said, ‘Anything else?’
‘The Wardragon wants what I term its just deserts.’
‘He’s not getting any of my dessert,’ Zimak joked.
‘Ah, the famous Zimak wit,’ said Kaleton with the briefest flicker of a smile. ‘At least I think that was how Fa’red phrased it.’
Zimak pondered whether he had been insulted or not.
‘I judge from the temper of the room,’ said Jelindel, ‘that the Wardragon’s demands do not meet with the Council’s liking.’
‘As I predicted,’ said Kaleton stoically.
‘You may return to your master,’ said Daretor. ‘You can even do so in one piece.’
‘Hold a moment,’ said Jelindel. ‘You said “from the Wardragon�
��. You have other terms?’
‘I do. No more palatable to you, I fear.’
Jelindel’s eyes narrowed. ‘From Fa’red?’
‘Indeed.’
‘And what does the Archmage offer?’
‘An alliance.’
The ensuing uproar at this was the loudest yet. Prince Augustus leant forward on the table and rapped for silence. ‘Is this not the very thing we are looking for?’ he asked.
‘You have obviously never met Fa’red,’ said Daretor, with no trace of respect for rank.
‘Please elaborate,’ said Jelindel. ‘What shall we find in the arms of Fa’red, apart from a more subtle brand of betrayal, Kaleton?’
‘My lady is perceptive, as ever.’
‘This is ridiculous,’ said one of the commanders. ‘This man is the Wardragon’s own. He no more wants us to ally ourselves with Fa’red against his own master than he wants us to remove his eyeballs with red hot pincers – which happens to be my own recommendation.’
‘Aye. Rennok speaks truly!’ called someone else. There was a chorus of agreement.
Jelindel shook her head. ‘Kaleton is no man’s lackey, of that I am certain. And if he were entirely of the mind of his master then why would he bring terms from Fa’red? Further, why would Fa’red have furnished him with the very knowledge that would instantly turn the Wardragon, and all its hellish fury, against him? Kaleton?’
The commanders turned puzzled looks on Kaleton, as if they had not seen him clearly before.
‘Do you seek asylum with us?’ asked Jelindel.
‘Do you offer it?’ Kaleton countered with vast dignity. A new hush fell on the room.
‘I offer it. Jelindel dek Mediesar offers it.’
‘Then I accept your kind offer.’
Daretor raised his eyebrows and leaned close to Jelindel’s ear. He whispered, ‘Is this wise? He’s been our enemy and has plotted and spied for the Wardragon. Not to mention he killed our people.’
‘As we have killed his. Isn’t that the hypocrisy of violence? That we do unto others what we are appalled by when they do it unto us?’
‘I’ll not argue philosophy of war with you, Jelli,’ Daretor said. ‘But I feel you’re making a mistake.’
Jelindel placed a hand on Daretor’s arm, and felt the tension that his voice did not betray.
‘Trust me.’ She looked up into his eyes and said again, ‘Note, I said trust me, not him.’
‘I have always done so,’ he said. ‘Mostly.’ Louder, he said, ‘Well then, we have a refugee from the enemy. How may he be used? Soaked in pitch, set alight, and fired over the wall with a trebuchet?’
‘I thought you had dragons for that sort of thing,’ said Kaleton.
The room erupted in laughter, the tension eased, and Kaleton knew he had been accepted – if not with open arms, then at least with an uneasy grace he himself understood.
But Jelindel was still intrigued. ‘Why this change of heart, Kaleton?’
The other shrugged. ‘My loyalty was to the Preceptor, for reasons I will not elaborate, except to say that he allowed me once, long ago, to redeem my honour.’
Daretor flicked Kaleton a look. This was something he understood.
Kaleton continued. ‘But today the Preceptor – ceased to be. I cannot explain how I know this, but until now some small part of him remained, and while it did so, I was still bound to him. I am no longer bound.’
‘I guessed as much,’ said Jelindel. She turned to Daretor. ‘I want you to take Kaleton under your protection.’
Daretor nodded, saying nothing. Kaleton moved forward to the table. He was used to command and his manner carried its own authority.
‘I can assist you, though some of what I have to tell will not bring you joy. The Wardragon’s forces outnumber yours greatly. It has called up fewer than half of its total army.’
‘Fewer than half?’ gasped the prince.
Rennok waved a hand. ‘Begging the meeting’s attention,’ he said, ‘but it’s possible this man has been sent to undermine our confidence. Battles are sometimes lost and won in the heart long before sides cross swords.’
‘You speak wisely, Rennok,’ said Jelindel, ‘but good intelligence has also won many a battle. Let us keep our wits about us and assess Kaleton’s information.’
Once the meeting had broken up Jelindel sought out Daretor, who was staring morbidly at the enemy’s campfires.
‘So what do you think?’ she asked.
‘He will betray us,’ Daretor replied. ‘He will seek to destroy us.’
‘So, you think I made a bad decision? Is Kaleton the worm in the apple?’
‘Without doubt, but such worms can be a great delicacy if candied in sugar and eaten with a chilled white wine.’
The Wardragon heard the news that night. A human commander might have killed the messenger of such bad tidings, through sheer rage, but the Wardragon merely calculated what to do next, as it had when the first rumours of Jelindel’s miraculous resurrection had reached it.
It considered its current forces. The Farvenu, now decimated, were being replenished, though at a fraction of their previous numbers. Those that had survived this day stirred in their dreamless sleep, their sleek black and red wings quivering. Questionable allies now that they had tasted defeat, it conceded. It briefly dwelt on its space fleet, warships, legions of soldiers and powerful adepts such as Fa’red. Combined, it was a formidable army. Provided it could keep rein on it.
The Wardragon stared at Ras.
>DID KALETON SPEAK TO YOU OF HIS INTENTION?<<<
‘No, m’lord,’ said Ras, as imperturbable as ever.
The Wardragon wondered how it could have made a miscalculation of such magnitude. It had known Kaleton was disaffected, and that he had resentments, but the act of defection seemed beyond him.
> BRING FA’RED TO ME AT ONCE<<<
The archmage appeared presently, looking vaguely annoyed at having been woken. On the other hand, his eyes seemed suspiciously alert, thought the Wardragon. Almost as if he had expected to be summoned at this hour.
The Wardragon explained what had happened, carefully studying the mage’s face for any pre-knowledge of these events. But Fa’red did not even pretend surprise, which was itself a tactic of deception. Instead he pointed out that he had warned of the man’s unreliability several times.
>AND I IGNORED YOUR WARNINGS. SINCE YOU ARE HERE NOW, WE WILL CONSIDER TOMORROW’S TACTICS. KALETON’S BETRAYAL DOESN’T CHANGE OUR PLANS OVERLY, EVEN IF THE ENEMY NOW KNOWS THEM<<<
‘As you wish, m’lord.’
The Wardragon was satisfied. It had sensed the signs of treachery in the adept’s demeanour. Fa’red had known of Kaleton’s plan, perhaps had even aided him. Well, he would be dealt with in due course; for now the Wardragon needed him – needed his loathsome magical abilities, and the forces whose loyalties he commanded.
Dawn arrived too soon for the defenders of D’loom. The sight that met their eyes as the sun rose over the distant Garrical Mountains was sufficient to drive many to despair. The Wardragon’s forces had been restored, even somewhat increased, if that were possible. Daretor looked out over the plain without betraying any emotion. Beside him stood Osric and Zimak.
‘Welcome to the end of days,’ said Zimak. ‘I’ve stood on such a precipice before, and am still here to observe it,’ Osric said as he munched on some bread and cheese.
‘What about setting your dragons onto them before they reach the walls?’ asked Zimak.
‘They will have some counter for the dragons if they are parading their infantry and cavalry about in plain sight,’ warned Daretor. ‘Remember, Fa’red momentarily took away their fire yesterday. Had it not been for the failure of the thundercasts at a crucial point in the battle …’
A great gong-like sound suddenly reverberated across the battlefield. One of the Wardragon’s battalions surged forward. Bells rang throughout the city, warning everyone that battle was about to be joined yet again. Osric bade
his friends goodbye and sprinted to the nearest watchtower, where S’cressling was perched. He scrambled onto her back, and she flapped into the air. Meanwhile, Daretor and Zimak hurried to their respective cavalry squads, then rode out through the main gate and took up positions before the largest of the breaches. Many of the smaller gaps had been repaired with rubble during the night.
Daretor steadied his horse and pondered their dilemma. If the dragons can contain the flying machines; if Jelindel can fend off whatever necromancy Fa’red throws at them; if half the opposing infantry abruptly drops dead or flees – then we might have a chance, he thought. Might, he emphasised.
Battle was engaged at five minutes after the seventh hour, with the sun in the eyes of the defenders. Still, arrows poured down onto the attackers, and siege engines flung huge flaming bags of oil to burst within their ranks. D’loom had many more arrows and bolts than could be fired, but the opposing army had sheer numbers.
Down on the battlefield, where the great breaches stood like huge v-shaped invitations to the enemy, the fighting was at its bloodiest. Here in the thick of things fought Daretor, Zimak and Lukor. Here also fought Kaleton, and Daretor grudgingly noted that the Wardragon’s former aide was a formidable fighter and accounted himself well, seeming to care little for his own life. Indeed, the man fought with such a contained white-lipped fury that Daretor wondered whether some inner rage drove him.
During all this, Jelindel strode back and forth along the battlements, watching and waiting. For a time the forces of the two sides fought in balance, with neither gaining an advantage. Then Fa’red struck.
The first Jelindel knew of his presence was when the hair on the back of her neck stood up. It was a familiar feeling; it meant great magic was being brewed nearby, and would shortly be unleashed. Jelindel prepared herself as best she could, but when the attack came she almost overlooked it.