by Paul Collins
‘Most especially first class. The largest wagons even have privies.’
‘It would seem you can take the girl out of the countess but not the countess out of the girl.’
Jelindel ignored the remark. ‘It’s sort of romantic, don’t you think?’
‘Romantic?’ Daretor asked. His mind went slightly blank at the thought.
‘Yes, romantic. It’s something we should try once in a while.’ ‘You’re deliberately annoying me because I wanted a good night’s sleep before the journey.’
‘Not true!’ Jelindel snapped, and turned her back.
Caravans are very much like moving towns. By day they are a long, thin line. By night they are a small, compact settlement with markets, defences, homes, workshops, and even taverns. With the caravan stopped for the night, Jelindel toured the market to see what was on offer. Amid the exotic drinks, foods, trinkets, amulets, herbal powders, and weapons, she found a book stall. Few people paid much attention to the stall and its owner, and Jelindel soon learned that the man could not read. Someone had apparently marked the books according to what they thought their value ought to be, but whoever it was did not know much about literature. Significant books with no pictures were reasonably priced, while simple books with nice pictures and good leather covers were expensive. There were books about dark magic with forbidding covers; one in particular was so horrible that it drew Jelindel’s eye. She picked it up reluctantly. It was about Golgora, the paraworld of eternal punishment. ‘The Place of the Damned,’ she said, shuddering. She dropped the book back on the pile, childhood nightmares unpleasantly rising within her. She moved quickly to a stack of geographical books. They seemed safer. One of these took her fancy, and she bought it. The price was low because it contained maps instead of pictures.
Jelindel took the book to her tent, and began poring over it by the light of a candle. Candles were expensive on a caravan because they took up weight that might otherwise be occupied by spices.
Over the course of the next two hours Jelindel merged with the book, peering at the intricate maps, and reading the histories that accompanied each place name. It brought back memories of her childhood home, before it was stormed by the Preceptor’s lindrak assassins. She could not bear to think of her slaughtered family. In those far-off days she had loved maps; the larger and more exotic the better. For hours she would study them, tracing out roads and ancient highways that linked now vanished towns and kingdoms, creating her own imaginary kingdoms and visualising them in her mind.
Daretor returned from sentry duty at the perimeter of the encamped caravan. ‘You’re burning a candle?’ he exclaimed.
‘All the better to see by,’ replied Jelindel.
‘But don’t you know how much they cost?’
‘Well, yes, I paid for it after all.’
‘But you could read by sunlight.’
‘No I couldn’t. I’m riding a horse between dawn and dusk, and I’m supposed to be watching out for danger as well.’
‘Well, have you eaten yet? I’m hungry.’
As it happened, Jelindel had forgotten about dinner. They stepped out of the tent, carrying their packs for security. As they did, a thin man moved swiftly away in the direction of the market. Jelindel had the distinct impression that he had been eavesdropping outside the tent.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Jelindel demanded, but the man had already vanished into the crowd.
Daretor looked at her, puzzled. He hadn’t noticed anything. ‘Something the matter?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ she said, putting an arm around him. ‘Nothing at all. Let’s go and buy some overpriced food and drink.’
The area near the food stalls had become a type of open-air tavern. The caravan master sat at the centre of a circle of several dozen people, holding court like a minor monarch. Jelindel and Daretor listened as they ate dinner, which consisted of various odd looking scraps wrapped in stale flatbread.
‘I come from a long line of sailors,’ the caravan master was saying, ‘going back eight generations, but in me it nearly came to a halt because – and I am ashamed to admit it …’ he roared with laughter, ‘that no sooner am I upon the water, no matter how calm it may be, than I am bent over the railing being sick. Nothing to be done about it. Nothing at all. So here I am. Captain of a ship of camels and horses that sails a different sea, one that is mercifully without the slip and sway that so unmans my poor landlubber’s stomach.’
‘You can’t be ridin’ a camel!’ someone called, and everyone laughed.
Also gathered around were a number of merchants travelling to Hez’ar in Baltoria, and some farming representatives returning to the great forests east of Passendof, beyond the Serpentire River. There was also a scattering of noblemen and their families and a mage or two. That, in itself, was odd. Mages tended not to travel, except in times of extreme danger.
Jelindel and Daretor knew no one on the journey, though some of the travellers had heard of the famed fighting duo. Certainly the two mages, under contract to a town in Unissera, had heard of the Archmage Jelindel dek Mediesar. Jelindel quickly became the centre of attention, but she was not the type who liked to boast and be admired. She made it her business to vanish as soon as she could. Sometime later, Daretor found her back in their tent, lying on her unrolled bedding, too tired to even undress.
‘I love travelling,’ she said to Daretor as he began to remove his boots. ‘I just hate the crowds that go with caravans. If we had a rich patron, we could circumnavigate all Q’zar in our very own caravan. We would employ twenty elite lancers to deter brigands, and visit at our leisure every state on the continent.’
‘Why?’
‘To bring the maps of my dreams to life.’
Daretor shrugged. ‘If you like,’ he said, ‘but we had better find that patron soon. The days are getting darker and troubles brew like plagues. You heard the captain say they’ve had to change the routes and shorten the overall journey. Many lands have fallen on bad times, and even worse rulers. You yourself have predicted that things will get worse.’
‘Why is it when one tyrant falls, twenty rise to take his place?’ Jelindel sighed. ‘And caravans will be the first casualties. Provinces and shires will withdraw into themselves, becoming suspicious of strangers. A darkness of the mind will descend on all humanity …’
‘There you go again.’
Jelindel laughed. ‘I’m just pandering to your spirit for adventure.’
Sounds of commotion came from the distance, men shouting, and the clash of steel.
‘Never fails,’ muttered Daretor. ‘Get my second boot off and the fighting starts.’
‘It begins,’ said Jelindel. ‘Our rest is over.’
‘What do you mean? It’s probably just some drunken camel drivers.’
‘I think the peril of Yuledan has come to us before we can come to it.’
‘We’re many leagues and days from Yuledan.’
‘Nevertheless, it comes for us. I can feel it. Quick. Get your boots back on and fetch your sword. I don’t know what comes, only that it does.’
The sound of fighting grew closer. Jelindel and Daretor had just emerged from the tent when a company of foot soldiers appeared from amid their neighbours’ tents. Daretor instantly recognised the device on their leather surcoats: a flaming-red dragon’s-head motif on a field of black. They were being attacked by soldiers from the Tower Inviolate. But that was impossible!
Daretor dropped into a fighting stance, his mind in fighting mode, while Jelindel stood ready with an enchantment on her lips. Before either of them could react, someone tossed a handful of yellow gems into a nearby campfire. The crystals exploded in a soundless rush of air and coruscating light. Then Daretor and Jelindel knew no more.
Jelindel was the first to recover. She stirred and opened one eye, knitting her brows as she tried to remember what had happened. Objects loomed in front of her and it was another minute or two before her vision cleared. She was in a hold
, probably aboard a ship. The muffled hissing of the wind, the creaking of leather, the swaying of the floor, confirmed her worst suspicions. Although there was something not quite right.
Salt.
There was no smell of the sea, no sound of gulls, and certainly not the ever-present salt spray. A nearby groan distracted her; Jelindel turned to find Daretor gazing at her. His hands and feet were bound, although hers were not. There were, however, ligature marks on her wrists and ankles; she had been tied, but could not remember anything.
‘Where are we?’ Daretor asked, perplexed.
‘In a lot of trouble?’ suggested Jelindel.
‘Well, I would be a lot happier if I were in a lot of trouble and had my hands and legs free.’
She untied his wrists and rubbed them to restore the circulation, then he untied his own ankles.
‘We’re on a ship,’ Jelindel said. ‘But something’s not right.’
Daretor knuckled the stinging sensation from his eyes. The yellow gems seemed to have affected him in ways they had not Jelindel.
‘We’re not on a ship,’ he said. ‘Not, at least, a ship of the sea or land.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’re on the back of a flying creature,’ he told her, wincing as the blood pumped back into his feet. ‘I think it’s a dragon.’
Daretor’s tone chilled Jelindel. ‘You’re serious?’ she asked.
‘It fits, doesn’t it? Aerial beasts in Yuledan, gouts of fire. Besides, I recognised the livery of our attackers at the caravan. They must be from the Tower Inviolate.’
‘But that’s on another paraworld.’
‘I know,’ Daretor said. ‘But if we were able to travel there, then what’s to stop them from coming here?’
Jelindel seemed distracted for a moment. ‘Nothing, I suppose. But it’s unlikely that they would come all this way to retrieve an escaped gladiator.’
‘Agreed,’ said Daretor, shrugging. ‘But why else come for us?’ ‘I don’t know,’ Jelindel said, biting her lip. ‘I guess we will find out soon enough.’
Daretor blinked away the pain roaring behind his eyes. His vision had become blurred by a red haze. ‘What did they do to us back there?’
Jelindel moved closer to him. ‘Are you all right?’
Daretor drew a ragged breath. ‘If feeling as though I’ve drunk a squad of lancers under the table can be deemed as all right, I guess I am,’ he groaned.
‘That’s all right, then.’ Jelindel ran her fingers through his hair, concentrating. Bit by bit she drew writhing energy from his scalp, wincing as she absorbed it. When she could stand the pain no longer, she flicked the build up from her fingers.
‘It’s easing,’ he said.
Jelindel devoted part of her attention to dispelling Daretor’s psychic hangover and another to finding out what might have happened at the caravan.
‘Ordinarily I could have shielded us from their magic,’ she said at last. ‘But it was very strong – I suspect it was ancient magic. Dragon magic, which is said to be the most powerful of all.’
‘I’ve had enough of dragons,’ Daretor said. ‘Hundreds of the horrors. Intelligent, too.’
Soon, Daretor was able to stand and move about. They crossed to a viewing plate, and Daretor’s suspicions proved correct. Patches of cloud whipped past. The land was far below. Once, they ploughed through a skein of jet-black magalels, scattering them left and right, leaving them squawking in their wake.
Without warning, the door to the cargo hold opened. A man entered while two guards stood inside the opening, warily alert. The man bowed curtly. He had a sharp face, hawkish from some angles. His thick brows met in the middle, over intelligent eyes. An air about him indicated that he was no underling. He seemed malevolent, despite his seeming politeness.
A wolf badly disguised as a sheep, thought Daretor, not bothering to assess the possibility of escape while up so very high.
The man seemed to read Daretor’s mind. ‘Where would you go?’ he asked. ‘Unless you can fly? My name is Rakeem. I am vizier to his Majesty, King Amida, whose hospitality you have already been privileged to experience.’ He gazed at Daretor, who shrugged.
‘What do you want with us?’ Jelindel asked. ‘You don’t seem to want us dead.’
Rakeem switched his attention to her.
‘You know what we want.’
‘Actually we don’t,’ said Jelindel, with the confidence of someone who has nothing to lose. ‘I assume you are from a paraworld, the very paraworld where my friend Daretor was marooned in times past.’
‘Innocence does not become you, Archmage, but I shall speak our intentions plainly if you want it that way. We are seeking a powerful talisman that was stolen the same night your friend here, along with his accomplice, escaped from our domain. We want it back.’
‘We stole nothing!’ Daretor said heatedly.
‘Do not insult my intelligence,’ Rakeem said. ‘Did you not also steal one of our dragons? I would hardly call that “nothing”.’
Daretor glared back. Jelindel scratched her head.
‘Steal is putting it a bit strongly,’ Daretor said. ‘We’d been unlawfully and unjustly imprisoned, and sentenced to die in your barbaric games. Escaping on one of your own dragons was only fair. Speaking for myself, I took no talisman.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘What did it look like?’ Jelindel asked, gesturing for Daretor to keep silent.
Rakeem seemed surprised at the question. ‘It is a strange artefact, brought perhaps from an unknown paraworld long ago. It is made of something called red jade – a rarity everywhere. A thousand years ago it was fashioned into the shape of a dragon heart, and ever since it has pulsed as if filled with a dragon’s life’s blood.’
‘We did not steal it,’ Daretor repeated, ‘although we might have if given a chance.’
Rakeem scowled. He walked to the door and turned to face them again. ‘It is the dragonsight. My king wants it back, even at the price of destroying your world to get it.’
‘That’s a high price to pay,’ said Daretor.
‘That is of little consequence. He doesn’t live here, does he?’ said Rakeem.
‘Why is the dragonsight so valuable?’ asked Jelindel.
‘If you had it, I would not dare tell you. If you do not, it is none of your business.’
He strode out the door, followed by his men-at-arms. The door slammed shut, and a heavy bolt shot home.
Jelindel breathed out. ‘Charming,’ she said. Daretor snorted in amusement. ‘Perhaps you should tell me more about this world before we land. Am I liable to need a crash course as a female gladiator?’
‘No need to worry there,’ Daretor said, smiling wanly. ‘You would acquit yourself well enough.’
‘Well enough to do what? Stay alive for thirty seconds? Come now, tell me everything.’
Daretor told her the story in more detail. Nearly a year earlier, he and their former companion, Zimak, had been marooned on another paraworld. They had materialised thousands of feet above ground. As they hurtled to inevitable death, they were netted by a flight of dragonriders and carried to the Tower Inviolate. Here they were recruited as gladiators, for the amusement of the locals. With the help of a slave called Osric and his dragon S’cressling, they had escaped. Eventually they had returned to Q’zar. Osric went back to his own people with the stolen dragon, hoping to breed healthy dragons and build an army of airborne creatures that might rival the dark dominion of King Amida.
Jelindel pondered the story. ‘Something doesn’t quite make sense,’ she said.
‘How so? I think it’s a good story and it’s true.’
‘They must think you have hidden the dragonsight on their paraworld, otherwise they wouldn’t be taking you back to their world. You don’t have it in your coin purse, after all.’
Daretor shrugged. ‘You could be right. If we had stolen it, it would be the logical thing to do, in case we were caught before returning to Q’zar.’
‘Did you hide it?’
‘No!’ snapped Daretor.
‘All right, all right. I shall assume that you are telling the truth, which might not be a very sensible thing to do. But let us assume it anyway. That leaves Zimak. Surely they must also be seeking him?’
Daretor’s face hardened. ‘Let them find him. It’s nature’s way of punishing him for all that dissolute living. Good-for-nothing, overgrown braggart.’
‘Darling mine, if ever you’re to swap bodies, then you had best hope nothing untoward happens to him. Now where was I? Zimak was last seen heading towards Fa’red’s castle in Skelt. What reason could he have, do you suppose, for seeking an audience with his bitterest enemy?’
‘And ours.’
‘Maybe he wants to swap recipes.’ Jelindel ventured, scratching her head.
‘More likely tales of his amorous conquests,’ Daretor said with a sneer.
‘Now, now … No, I’m thinking he might have the dragonsight. Obviously it’s a potent icon, otherwise this King Amida wouldn’t be going to so much trouble to bring you to book.’
‘Zimak …’ Daretor left the name dangling.
The dragon lurched, banking steeply; they were flung off their feet and rolled across the floor till they crashed against the wall. They climbed cautiously to their feet and peered out the porthole when the floor corrected itself.
They were passing through a mountainous region, negotiating a high pass between peaks.
‘I wonder where we’re heading,’ Jelindel mused. ‘They must have powerful magic to bring a beast of this size through a portal between paraworlds.’
‘Beasts,’ said Daretor, reminding her of the mission to Yuledan. ‘Theroc spoke of the night swarming with aerial creatures.’
‘If these are the same dragons,’ Jelindel said.
The dragon emerged from a bank of grey cloud. Ahead were the foothills of the northern slopes of the Garrical Mountains. Instead of a great empty basin where Dragonfrost should have been, there rose a sheer rocky wall at least five thousand feet, its uppermost peaks cloaked in cloud.