by Paul Collins
The only disquieting note in the combat below was a few startled cries from the ranks of the enemy. Amidst so much shouting, screaming and cursing, and the deafening clash of sword and shield, it was a wonder that she heard the odd signs of alarm, but there it was, a hint of terror that seemed to have little to do with the grim business of battle.
It came from several points, and at each of these a number of attackers would unfathomably stagger and stumble about, yelling as they did so and staring down at their feet, as though an earthquake was shaking the ground.
Jelindel’s intake of breath was sharp.
As she watched, the unbalancing of attacker and defender increased, as if the ground had started moving. And moving it was, with purpose, directly towards the city walls. One of the dragons – indeed, the Sacred One himself, saw it too and swooped, spitting flame. A large crater was vaporised and what was revealed made Jelindel recoil.
Beneath the ground was a creature she had only read of in ancient books: a troll.
Twenty feet long, and made of what looked like slabs of stone, it literally swam through the earth, setting up the ripple that had caused those above to spill about like skittles.
There was a score of them. Realising they had been discovered, they emerged from the ground, shaking off sand, attackers and defenders alike. Jelindel knew they could not have entered the city underground. Powerful magic guarded the siting of city foundations on Q’zar, but their enormous strength and ferocity would scatter the defenders. Then they could literally rip the walls apart by hand. Arrows and swords had no effect upon them.
Jelindel could destroy the creatures, but this was undoubtedly part of Fa’red’s plan. It would drain her of magic, weakening her. Yet if the trolls were not stopped, D’loom would surely fall. For it was here, in D’loom, that Q’zar’s magical ley lines met, and it was the old seat of power for the dragons – a fitting place for the Wardragon to lay waste.
The trolls pounded towards the city walls, roaring and striking aside dozens of the defenders with each swing of their mighty arms. When the nearest reached the wall, it began tearing it apart. Burning oil stopped it briefly, but it soon returned to the attack; then the others were also at the wall. The noise of destruction was deafening. The Sacred One destroyed a few, but he was only one dragon and he could not be everywhere at once. Another dragon swooped too low, trying to claw one of the trolls, and was clubbed from the sky then set upon by half a dozen of the monstrous creatures.
Damn Fa’red to Black Quell’s pit, Jelindel thought. He left her little choice but to retaliate.
Then, as if on cue, hundreds of small squat creatures boiled out of the base of the city wall, literally flowing out of the very stone itself. At first Jelindel stared, unable to comprehend what she was seeing. Stone People! The ancient brethren of the dragons.
As she watched, they fell upon the nearest troll, returning it to the stone from which it had been fashioned. The creature began to bellow hoarsely. Others were also ‘breached’. Their limbs began to fall off, and they literally came apart, still screaming. In no time at all, the trolls were no more. The Stone People then turned their attention to the attackers and a great roar of encouragement rose from the throats of the defenders.
A stone man emerged from the paving of the battlements where Jelindel stood. It was Enok, whom she had met once before. He gave her a small bow.
‘Archmage. We have come, having been called. Late, but hopefully not too late. It is a long way from our home and we do not travel above ground.’
‘Oh, you are welcome, Enok, never more so than now.’
‘Our seers told us long ago of this battle, but we did not know the when and where, only the what.’
‘The what?’
Enok’s eyes gazed back at her, unblinking and unfathomable. ‘The “what” that would happen if the battle were lost. What would pass away forever if victory were not achieved.’
‘Would you pass away, Enok?’
‘Perhaps. And maybe our kin also, the dragons. Cold science would destroy all that magic has wrought. But we did not come to save ourselves. We came to keep our promise, made an age ago to the dragons. Fare thee well, Countess.’
With that Enok turned and melted back into the rock from whence he had come. Jelindel peered over the battlement. The Stone People were scattering the enemy warriors, and annihilating those who tried to stand their ground, but she knew that it would be only a matter of time before the Wardragon brought up his remaining reserves.
Now the enemy began to regroup. The warriors were faster than the Stone People, and could skirt them to attack the breaches in the walls again. Too many defenders were dead, and there were no more to replace them. The city had been bled dry.
Presently a great hush fell upon the field of battle, and all eyes turned to the northern sky. There a dark cloud had appeared, and within moments it resolved into a fleet of flying machines.
Jelindel stiffened. The dragons had lost many of their number, and most of the survivors were injured or exhausted. She had not imagined that the Wardragon had such reserves at its disposal. As she looked away, unable to face the approaching fleet, for some reason her eye picked out one solitary man below on the battlefield. It was Kaleton. She noted with dismay that he was grinning. So, Daretor and the others had been right about him after all. She slumped against the cold stone of the battlements, drained of all hope.
Now she would have no choice.
A number of the machines descended, making great skidding landings that piled up the earth before metal doors which swung out and down, crashing onto the ground. A clamour of feet and cries arose as thousands of warriors raced down the ramps.
Still expressionless, Jelindel watched them charge, shooting with their stun weapons – but something was wrong. Surely they were attacking the wrong side? A moment later she realised these were the Hellholers, arrived at last to seek a reckoning with the Wardragon.
A machine drew level with the battlements. Jelindel found herself gazing at Taggar, who was waving. She gave the victory sign, and he returned it before flying off to join in the battle.
Even as she watched the flying machine recede, a distant, fast-moving cloud resolved itself into a flight of Farvenu. A cry went up as other defenders saw them, and archers scurried from their positions, preparing to protect those on the broken walls as the Farvenu dived. It seemed to Jelindel that no matter where she looked, allies and foe were being butchered wholesale.
But soon the tide of battle turned. The attackers were being cut down and routed, while Taggar’s airships decimated them from above.
The Wardragon was losing.
Jelindel should have expected what happened next, but she was caught by surprise, perhaps because she still hoped to avoid her fate.
As the attacking army fell back and it became clear that defenders would take the field, their roars of defiance dwindled. Shading her eyes from the sun, Jelindel gazed across the battlefield to the faroff tent of the Wardragon. Standing outside the flaps, mailshirt glinting golden in the sun, was the Wardragon itself.
Jelindel watched as it strode onto the field of battle.
A small bolt of lightning exploded from the mailshirt, discharging into the air. More followed and soon a writhing mass of discharges enveloped it, so that it almost looked like a sun – but a sun gone mad …
With a casual wave of his hand, a huge chunk of earth was ripped from the ground and went sailing through the air, taking scores of men and women with it. Another wave, and another chunk was sent skywards.
An airship swooped on the Wardragon, unleashing its thundercast, but from the maelstrom of hellish energy that engulfed it, the Wardragon walked unscathed. A raised hand, and the airship exploded. In quick succession, several more followed.
Then as it advanced towards the city the Wardragon began hurling great blasting bolts of lightning at the defenders, killing scores at a time. The stink of burning flesh filled the air.
It’s j
ust as Daretor said, thought Jelindel. It’s remaking the nightmare.
Jelindel promptly left the battlement. On her way down a crumbling stairway she promoted a grizzled sergeant to captain. ‘Strengthen the breaches there, there, and there,’ she snapped.
Unable to find words, the newly appointed captain rushed to obey her orders.
Sheltered beneath an archway, Jelindel sought out Daretor and Zimak and spotted them not far away, fighting a rear guard action against a wall of attackers. She made her way to them. Those enemy who came too close she dispatched with simple binding spells, so that others could put them to the sword. She knew that shortly she would need every scrap of her power.
Jelindel came up behind Daretor. He turned, sword raised high for a felling blow, then caught himself. His ashen face and lank hair were spattered with blood, sweat and dirt. Zimak rushed to her side then, sensing some urgency.
‘I need you both to come with me,’ Jelindel said. She turned without waiting for their reply.
The three cut a swathe through the clashing armies, angling to meet the Wardragon head on.
Zimak hastened beside Jelindel. ‘Gah, Jelindel, you sure this is a good –?’
Jelindel waved him to silence. Like a galleon cutting across the water, she strode purposefully on. Neither Daretor nor Zimak had a need to raise their swords, nor defend themselves. Attacker and defender alike fell back as she approached.
Everything that had happened came down to this moment.
She had been given a terrible gift in the Place of the Dead, if ‘gift’ was the right name for something that might save the world she knew, or destroy it.
In that place, which was like a dark ocean, she had been shown how to fuse magic with cold science. The spells that could weave the great blind energies of the cold science universe – electricity, gravity, magnetism, and even the very forces that bound the atoms together – with the old magic, were hers to command.
But this was the knife’s edge.
By using such forces against the Wardragon, Jelindel could set off a chain reaction that would destroy magic forever, and not just the magic she knew, but that of the dragons also. Leaving the universe at the mercy of the mailshirt.
The darkness that followed would be even greater than the thousand years she had once foreseen.
Yet that was not her fear now. Her real fear was more personal, closer to home. If magic died, she was afraid she would lose her soul. Afraid she would lose her self.
What was she if not the embodiment of magic? Why had she survived the death of her family, if not to make up for it by saving others with her magical abilities?
And making some atonement in the process? Before long, she and Daretor and Zimak drew near the Wardragon. She gestured for her two comrades to stop some distance away and continued on alone. The Wardragon dismissed Fa’red and Ras who fell back.
Jelindel and the Wardragon stopped on a small knoll, facing each other.
>A BRAVE, BUT FOOLHARDY CONFRONTATION. WOULD YOU DO COMBAT WITH ME, COUNTESS?<<<
Jelindel forced a laugh. ‘You are a mighty warrior. But as I suspected, your host is inadequate for your needs.’
The Wardragon considered this. The Preceptor’s body was indeed failing. Its skeleton was breaking and nearing its end. >>>AND YOU OFFER YOURS?<<<
‘On condition that my people are not slain. That they’re allowed to go home.’
>I NEED NOT PARLEY WITH YOU. I TAKE WHAT I WANT<<<
Jelindel already had a spell chanted and invoked when she had set eyes on the Wardragon. It was eerily calm, standing with folded arms, as if it were waiting for her. Behind it stood the Farvenu. Jelindel knew this called for exquisite timing. She had to lure the Wardragon just so, otherwise it might simply annihilate her. If she put up no resistance, it would suspect a trap.
She cast her binding spell, and blue, writhing coils of light expanded into a ball between her hands. She flung it, and the blue lightning engulfed the Wardragon. Still it did not move. That much at least was what the spell was designed to do, yet the suggestion of a smile on the Preceptor’s lips had Daretor on his guard.
>YOUR PUNY MAGIC IS WORTHLESS<<< the Wardragon mocked. It dissipated the spell like it was discarding a shimmering cloak.
>WHILE YOU STILL LIVE I SHALL TELL YOU SOMETHING OF YOUR WORTHLESS LIFE. IT WAS THE PRECEPTOR WHO ORDERED THE ASSASSINATION OF COUNT JURAM DEK MEDIESAR AND HIS FAMILY<<<
Jelindel floundered. She needed to close the trap on the Wardragon before her spell unravelled. Damn the machine – it was too smart, too canny. She had to play along. ‘So the King of Skelt was innocent after all?’
>SUCH PETTY INTRIGUE<<<
By now Jelindel was consciously struggling. ‘Why did the Preceptor do it?’
>BECAUSE HE WAS YOUR UNCLE AND WAS PROMISED THE DUKEDOM. YOUR SORRY ExCUSE FOR AN OLDER BROTHER, LUTIER, WAS BORN, AND THE PRECEPTOR WAS CAST ASIDE AND NO LONGER OF USE. INDEED, THEY RATHER THOUGHT HE MIGHT BECOME A NUISANCE, SO THEY TRIED TO POISON HIM<<< The Wardragon allowed himself a moment to reflect on such a primitive weapon as poison.
>A MORTAL BECOMES SUSPICIOUS WHEN HE SEES A FLY WALKING ON THE RIM OF HIS WINE GLASS SUDDENLY FALL DEAD. HE RAN. PENNILESS AND HUNTED, HIS ENTIRE BIRTHRIGHT STOLEN FROM HIM. BY SHEER GOOD FORTUNE HE BECAME WEALTHY AND CALLED HIMSELF THE PRECEPTOR. THEN ONE DAY FA’RED PAID HIM A VISIT AND STRUCK A DEAL. PART OF THE PACT WAS TO ELIMINATE CERTAIN NOBLES ON THE ADEPT’S LIST. THE MEDIESARS WERE ON THAT LIST. SO THE PRECEPTOR RETURNED AND PAID THEM BACK IN KIND<<<
‘The Preceptor was my uncle?’ Jelindel’s voice was barely above a whisper.
The Wardragon’s laughter rumbled across the knoll. >>>UNCLE SENIC DEK MEDIESAR. NOW I SHALL CLAIM YOU AS MINE<<<
The Wardragon moved swiftly. And in that moment she knew the whole of his mind, and he knew hers.
To onlookers, a bright point of light flared into being midway between them, and expanded rapidly so that both were engulfed in a shiny golden ball of coruscating glow. Jagged, brilliant lightning shot out from the mailshirt at Jelindel, but stopped halfway, fanning out and dimming against an invisible shield. Both the Wardragon and Jelindel staggered slightly, as the titanic forces they controlled surged back and forth, moving something that could be neither seen nor penetrated first one way, then the other, as the balance of power shifted.
When Daretor saw Jelindel stumble to one knee he made to go to her, but Zimak pulled him back. ‘We mustn’t interfere,’ he yelled above the noise, for the energies unleashed within the golden sphere were almost deafening.
Slowly, sweat beading her face, Jelindel forced herself back onto her feet. She was dazed, and exhausted, but so too was the Wardragon.
The strangest part of the battle was not visible.
Their minds, even as they strove against each other, met and spoke.
>YOU CANNOT DEFEAT ME, JELINDEL<<< said the Wardragon.
‘Were you able to overwhelm me, you would not be making idle boasts.’
>NO, NO, I VALUE YOU, I DO NOT WANT YOU DESTROYED<<<
‘I see that you are torn by some old grief.’
>THAT IS NOT TRUE<<< ‘There are things in your mind, blocked to you, which are clear to me.’
>I KNOW MY MIND BETTER THAN ANY OTHER!<<<
‘A bird flying above a city sees things that its king cannot. Who are you angry at?’
>SURRENDER AND I WILL SPARE YOU AND THIS WORLD. I WILL MAKE IT A SANCTUARY, SAFE FROM MY DESIGNS<<<
Unexpectedly, Jelindel saw familiar structures within the Wardragon.
It had once been a man.
The makers of the first mailshirt, still perfecting their art, had used the mould of a living mind upon which to model the machine. Later mailshirts were pure machine, but later mailshirts were not her problem.
There was more. The mailshirt had once loved.
Jelindel called out, shouting with her real, human, voice, ‘I know her name!’ Inside the golden sphere, all was silent. The cacophony of noise that blasted the ea
rs of those outside did not penetrate here.
At her words, the Wardragon staggered. The foci of force – the silvery, writhing lightning and the ‘shield’ that it played upon – surged back towards the mailshirt. Sweat broke out on the Preceptor’s brow. The raging foci stopped only a yard from his face.
Again Jelindel shouted, ‘I know her name. I know who she was.’
>I DO NOT KNOW WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT. IT IS TIME TO FINISH THIS GAME<<<
‘Lela. Her name was Lela! She was your wife.’
By means of the Preceptor’s face, the Wardragon looked stunned. The lightning shrank and dispersed. Jelindel froze the shield. She could have destroyed the Wardragon in that moment but instead took pity on him.
‘I look like her, don’t I?’ said Jelindel softly.
The Wardragon nodded, dumb with pain. Tears appeared in its eyes. >>>I REMEMBER NOW. PARTS ONLY. I HAD A LIFE. A FAMILY<<< It looked up. >>>SHE LOVED ME. I PROMISED TO RETURN AND PROTECT HER AND MY SON. BUT I NEVER RETURNED. THEY NEVER KNEW WHAT HAPPENED TO ME<<<
‘This can end now,’ said Jelindel, hope surging in her breast.
The Wardragon shook its head. >>>IT CANNOT BE, COUNTESS. THE MAILSHIRT IS DESIGNED TO FULFIL ITS MISSION. IT CANNOT BE DEFLECTED. IT – I CANNOT STOP IT<<<
‘Isn’t this why you took me to Golgora? Seek inside yourself! Was this not your plan all along, Wardragon? To end this?’
The Wardragon stared at her. Then, cryptically, it said, >>>I AM NOT STRONG ENOUGH. THE PRECEPTOR NO LONGER PITS HIS WILL AGAINST MINE<<<
Jelindel did not understand. Was it giving her some kind of clue? Was it –?
Then she understood.
‘How long?’
>THIRTY SECONDS. NO MORE<<<
‘Do it.’
Suddenly, the golden sphere collapsed, but it did not blink out of existence. Instead, it collapsed like a great tide of water, sweeping out in a rush, knocking all those nearby off their feet, and stunning them.
Jelindel ran to the dazed body of Fa’red and muttered a binding spell.
The Wardragon joined her. They exchanged a look. Then the Wardragon placed its hand on Fa’red’s wrist. The mailshirt glowed brightly, then began to flow, like thick syrup, or mercury, down the Preceptor’s arm and onto Fa’red’s.