by Paul Collins
Zimak seemed surprised. ‘You don’t know?’ He crossed to the sleeper and shook his shoulder. ‘Wakey, wakey! We’ve got visitors.’
The man sat up. Dazed, he turned to face the others.
Daretor cried out, amazed. ‘Osric? Is it really you?’
Daretor grabbed Osric by the shoulders and embraced him. ‘Tell us everything that happened after we escaped the tower. By White Quell you must have a story to tell!’ He stepped back before the Bazitian could gather his wits. ‘You look unwell,’ Daretor added, as an aside.
‘It is also good to see you, my friend,’ Osric said. ‘First, you must know that time does not flow the same on the different paraworlds. In my world some ten years have passed since last we saw each other. In that time, much has happened. I reached my people and, as you foresaw, I became a hero, returning with a fertile red female dragon. We chose our best male to breed with her and in no time we had a clutch of powerful dragonlings, more than sixty in the first laying alone. It was a wonderful time. We raised the dragons as equals, as they are meant to be, not under the domination of a vain tyrant and a cruel vizier. The dragons respected this and grew in freedom, in a way that the king’s dragons did not. By the start of this year we had over a hundred sturdy dragons, each as large as those in the tower’s thrall.
‘By that time the king realised he’d made a mistake in not striking early, as his vizier had advised. But it was too late; we were a force to be reckoned with. Unfortunately, we were also a force to be dickered with. I and a large group of my brethren – some fifty in all, each riding a free dragon – were invited to the Tower to sign a treaty. But it was a trick.’
‘Surely you could have seen through such a lame ploy?’ exclaimed Daretor.
‘There was a woman involved,’ muttered Osric. ‘A woman that I thought I could trust.’
‘This sounds familiar,’ mumbled Zimak.
‘Whilst here, the massif was magicked back to this realm, to Ancient Q’zar, and in the confusion the king sprang an ambush. We were captured and imprisoned. And now my people – and the other free dragons – are marooned back on our adopted paraworld.’
Osric slumped as though weary. ‘Yes, my people are finally free from the yoke of King Amida, but when the citadel departed, it took everything with it, our history is within its walls and its lands for many leagues around.’
Jelindel put a hand on his arm. ‘Perhaps we will find a way to send you back,’ she said. Osric looked puzzled.
‘We don’t wish to return. Q’zar is our ancient and rightful dwelling place. We are home. But I must find a way to bring the rest of my people here … with one exception.’
‘Understandable,’ said Zimak, glancing at Jelindel.
‘Yet no one knows what will happen to us now …’
Jelindel told him about their interview with the Sacred One, and that they were charged with finding the dragonsight. Osric did not look happy.
‘I fear you are being sent on a fool’s errand,’ he said. ‘Nobody is more familiar with fools’ errands than me. How can one find a bauble lost somewhere on a whole world?’
Zimak leaned closer and dropped his voice. ‘Ordinarily, I would agree. But there’s something you don’t know.’
‘If this is some scheme –’ Daretor started, but Jelindel stopped him.
‘Let’s hear what he has to say,’ she said.
‘Glad someone’s got some sense between the ears,’ Zimak said, flinching from Daretor. ‘When I was brought here I wondered how they’d found me. After I had my audience with the old dragon downstairs, the king seemed to take a liking to me –’
‘A story I find hard to believe,’ Daretor grated.
Zimak ignored him. ‘Anyway, one day I’m lounging around trying to get friendly with one of the court ladies when I see something that baffles even me. The vizier was wearing a moon-stone ring on his little finger, and this wasn’t just any moonstone; it was one of the fabulous gems from the collection of Skeel of Gratz.’
Daretor snorted. ‘If your latest ploy is to bore us to death, then you are halfway there.’
‘Shhh,’ said Jelindel. ‘Go on,’ she said to Zimak.
‘Well, a month before I was kidnapped, Skeel’s gem house was raided, and his prized moonstones vanished. The rumour on the street had it that the gems were stolen by none other than our old friend, Fa’red, presumably to fund his war machine. Which is another reason why I was paying him a visit.’
‘So you think Fa’red travelled to the paraworld of the dragons …’ Jelindel prompted.
‘Or was invited there,’ said Zimak.
‘To perhaps dispose gems too valuable to be sold on this world?’ Daretor guessed despite his doubt. ‘So the vizier is behind this?’
‘It’s all supposition,’ said Jelindel. ‘There’s no doubt that the vizier and Fa’red are alike in many qualities. But why bring the Tower Inviolate back to Q’zar?’
‘It’s some kind of ancestral rite,’ said Zimak.
‘It’s our destiny,’ said Osric. ‘When the dragonsight went missing it was a great calamity, but in searching for the world of the supposed thieves, the dragonriders discovered Q’zar … the home of our ancestors, and the First Abode of the dragons. After that, there was no debate. They prepared the ancient dragon magic, a magic so powerful that normally it cannot be used by mortals, and hurled the massif on the return journey that was begun five thousand years ago.’
‘A charming story,’ said a dry voice behind them. They looked around to see Rakeem in the doorway. Clearly he had only heard the last fragment of their discussion. He beckoned for them to follow him. As they did so, guards fell into place around them.
‘The Sacred One has spoken and the king has agreed that you shall be sent forth this day to find the dragonsight. Please note that your freedom – indeed, your very lives – depends upon your success.’
Two old men shuffled forward, holding vials. At a signal from Rakeem, guards immobilised the trio. Their mouths were forced open and the first old man forced the Q’zarans to take a sip of a vile-smelling greenish philtre. It made them gag and caused their eyes to water. The second man daubed their foreheads with a spot of what looked like red paint.
Coughing, the three shrugged off their captors and looked at each other.
‘The mark is dragon blood from the Sacred One,’ said the vizier. ‘Even now it is depth-bonding with your flesh.’
‘Binding magic?’ asked Jelindel. The vizier nodded.
‘Our dragons can now find you anywhere on this world. There is nowhere to hide,’ Rakeem said. ‘The philtre you drank is a slow-acting poison. You have less than six weeks to complete your task and return for the antidote. Mind that the antidote is peculiar to our world, and not to be found on yours.’
‘Gah, six weeks are hardly long enough to scour the taverns of D’loom, let alone an entire planet,’ spluttered Zimak.
The vizier smirked. ‘Then you will need to spend your time wisely.’
‘I gather Osric is coming with us,’ said Jelindel, noting the red mark on his forehead.
‘You will need transport and I see no reason to risk one of our own loyal servants. Yes, the traitor and his equally treacherous dragon will go with you,’ said Rakeem, sneering at Osric. ‘My assistants will provide you with supplies, and I suggest that you waste no time in commencing your journey. You have very little time. The poison is already at work within your bodies.’
‘You have no honour,’ said Daretor, scowling.
Rakeem paused near the door, then turned to face Daretor.
‘I do my duty as I see fit,’ he replied in a neutral voice. ‘Why is that worse than running someone through with a sword?’
Daretor spat. The guards surged forward, but Rakeem stopped them with a cursory wave. He smiled.
‘Let the barbarian be,’ he said calmly. ‘I want results, you want honour. Very well, then, you may have the chance to settle all accounts at the end of your little quest.’
‘Be sure of it,’ Daretor promised.
The dragon S’cressling had been fitted with a palanquin that easily accommodated a party of four. Two rows of saddles were mounted against a solid gunwale larboard and starboard. A double saddle occupied the bow, or what dragonriders called the mane.
S’cressling had grown considerably since Daretor and Zimak had last seen her, adding further credence to Osric’s claim that time passed at a different speed between the two worlds.
They flew south at first, heading toward the Garrical Mountains before striking for Yuledan. While Osric guided the dragon, Jelindel called Daretor and Zimak together to make plans.
‘The first question is where do we begin?’ she said. ‘Gratz is the obvious choice, since that’s where Fa’red was seen last.’
‘He’s in this up to his eyeballs,’ said Daretor. ‘I think we can all agree on that. Besides, finding Fa’red would give me the chance to squeeze his neck until his eyeballs pop out.’
Zimak cleared his throat. ‘Er, Gratz might not be a good idea,’ he suggested.
‘And why not?’ Daretor asked, his voice edgy.
‘Fa’red has certainly been in Gratz, but I heard a rumour that he has shifted his headquarters.’
‘Where to?’ asked Daretor.
Zimak shrugged. ‘Even the gossips are tight-lipped on some matters,’ he said calmly.
Daretor scowled, as if Fa’red’s absence might be Zimak’s fault.
‘Our lives depend on finding this bauble in time, yet you want us to base our search on gossip?’
‘Well, let us hear your suggestion,’ replied Zimak.
Jelindel spoke quietly to Osric. A moment later S’cressling wheeled slowly to the east, heading for the Dominer Pass. Daretor and Zimak looked mildly annoyed as she returned.
‘So, do you have a revelation you might care to share with us?’ asked Zimak.
‘Once through the Pass we will turn north into Baltoria,’ she explained, sounding impatient. ‘There’s no point in gallivanting about Q’zar, and I have a feeling I know where Fa’red is.’
‘Our lives are at stake, yet Zimak wants to trust them to gossip, while you would rest them on a feeling,’ said Daretor with a hand over his eyes. ‘I’m not feeling very hopeful about the future.’
‘My feelings aren’t just vague fancies. Wants and desires cast shadows into the paraplane, and I still wander there as much in my sleep as I do in this world when awake. I have seen the ripples of people’s intents and needs. From the ripples in a pond you may deduce that a stone has been thrown in, its size, and even its location.’
Zimak opened his mouth to say something but Jelindel held up a hand. ‘No, I will not teach you how to tell which girls desire you. I’m afraid you will have to blunder about working that one out like every other male in the world. But because I am feeling malicious I will tell you that it can be done.’
Zimak nervously fingered the hem of his tunic, then rallied. ‘So we’re risking our lives on a dream of yours, are we?’
‘Do you have better insights than I?’
‘It’s your life as well,’ Zimak said moodily.
Jelindel looked at Daretor, who nodded reluctantly.
‘Well, that’s settled, then,’ she said.
S’cressling negotiated the buffeting air currents of the Dominer Pass, staying clear of the snow-capped peaks that they passed on either side. The thin air was chilly, and far below they saw travellers on the high mountain road, stopped and staring up at them. Jelindel and Zimak waved. Some waved back, others scattered to take cover. A dragon carrying people was liable to be well behaved, but it was nevertheless still a dragon.
‘They’ll have a story to tell tonight when they reach the next inn,’ Zimak laughed as they saw two men plunge into a snowdrift to hide.
The dragon turned north, crossing the Marisa River and heading across the heart of Baltoria, toward Dremari in the Passendof Mountains. Fa’red had chosen well. It was an ideal place to hide in and to defend. The inhabitants of the Passendof Mountains had resisted invasion for hundreds of years. They remained neutral while other low-lying kingdoms fought wars, and experienced rebellions and uprisings. The capital, Dremari, had a wondrous system of alpine canals that linked it to the lowland rivers and hence to the port city of Tol and the world’s seaways. Most people found the idea of a mountain city being a port rather surprising, but this was Passendof’s advantage. It enjoyed not only an enviable record of peace and neutrality, but was also rich from trade.
Despite the speed of their dragon transport, the journey was long and tiring. The ceaseless wind was chill, yet the sun burned their hands and faces because they were close to the equator. Flying was disturbing for all but Osric. While he slept, the others cried out in fear as they woke from yet another nightmare of falling. Thus they slept badly, huddled on the exposed deck, watching the stars, or peering at the inky darkness of the invisible landscape below.
They spotted the first outflung foothills of the Passendof Mountains early the next morning. Jelindel directed Osric toward the Valley of Clouds. Not only did the villagers there owe her a great debt of service for having rid them of daemons, but the cloud-enshrouded realm offered the best concealment for S’cressling.
They landed high on a mountainside in a forest clearing. While Osric remained behind to pack their gear, Jelindel, Daretor and Zimak made their way along narrow mist-enshrouded trails, past an ancient, weathered skull the size of a large boulder, to a wall-fort with a signpost that read: ‘Fontimark Federation of Squires’. After bargaining with the two fort guards over the size of the bribe, they were allowed to pass into Fontimark itself.
Jelindel headed for the blacksmith’s shop. As she made to enter, a massive, bearded man wearing gloves and a short cloak bumped into her as he stepped out.
‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ he said. He made to walk on, then he stopped and his eyes widened. ‘Jaelin!’ he exclaimed. ‘But you’re –’
‘Yes, Drusan, I am a girl.’
‘But, but –’
‘When you knew me I had to go about in disguise. Forgive me, the deception was necessary at the time.’
‘There is nothing to forgive. Come in, come in, you do me great honour by this visit. Your companions, too.’
He gestured them inside, calling for his wife to fetch ale and fresh bread, and what new baked honey cakes they had. While they ate and drank, Jelindel explained what she needed.
‘You’re not seriously telling me that you flew here on a dragon?’ Drusan said in wonder.
Jelindel nodded, smiling at the incredulous look on Drusan’s face.
‘But they’re figments of the imagination, stories told to frighten children into behaving.’
‘Nevertheless, Drusan, the dragons have returned to Q’zar, their ancient home,’ said Jelindel. ‘Even now they roost at Dragonfrost and despoil the country thereabouts. Our dragon is better behaved than that, but I need your help to keep people away from her. She will also need feeding.’
Drusan’s face fell. ‘Not virgins, I hope. Not many of those around these parts.’
Jelindel closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘A few sheep will do, and I don’t think they have to be virgins. With luck, we’ll call S’cressling before too long.’
She offered him money for the dragon fodder but he refused. Then her gaze fell on his gloved hands. Long ago, Drusan had been branded a coward; the backs of his hands had been marked with the sign. Even though he had proven his courage many times over, single-handedly battling terrifying daemons from which the town folk fled, the brands marked his skin forever. To keep his shame hidden he wore gloves. Even in the presence of his wife, he only removed them in the darkness of the bedchamber.
Jelindel took his hands in her own. Drusan almost jerked them away.
‘It’s all right,’ Jelindel said. ‘Drusan, when I was here last I was still an apprentice of my guild.’
‘But you fought the daemons and won,’ he exclaimed.
He took a deep breath and slowly pulled off the gloves, revealing the humiliating marks. Jelindel held his hands, massaging with her thumbs the fused and furrowed skin on the backs. She spoke magical words of plasticity under her breath, and a strange blue light flickered about her lips. Gradually, a blue glow appeared around Drusan’s hands, outlining the brands so that they blazed more strongly than before.
Drusan whipped his hands away as if scalded, and muttered angry words to himself. The scars caused by the brands went deeper than the skin. The coruscating blue light shot back to Jelindel’s lips, and faded.
‘How are your hands?’ she asked.
Drusan held out his hands before him and shrieked. The skin was without blemish, the scars sponged away as if they had been sooty grease. He raised his eyes and stared at Jelindel. She shrugged and spread her hands with a smile. Drusan’s wife hurried in, saw her husband’s hands, then burst into tears.
Drusan looked at her, perplexed. ‘Why do you cry?’ he asked.
‘Your hands. The branding is gone.’
‘You knew?’ he exclaimed, tears running down his own cheeks. ‘Of course I knew,’ she said. ‘I’m your wife, am I not?’
‘But you … you stayed …’ Drusan seemed lost for words. His wife sighed and gently wiped the tears from his face.
‘Men are so foolish,’ she said. ‘You have been a wonderful husband and a loving father. Why would I leave you? Because you were once afraid in battle? Shame on you for thinking so badly of me. I’m not some silly hoyden with air between my ears.’
He threw his arms around her and they hugged. Over her shoulder he locked eyes with Jelindel.
‘Thank you, thank you, more times than I can say,’ he began. Jelindel silenced him with a flick of the wrist, and then motioned for Daretor and Zimak to follow her outside.
‘Hie, Jelindel,’ Zimak said. ‘I don’t suppose you can make my scars vanish, too? Daretor’s messed his body up a few times and –’