by Paul Collins
The skirmish was all blurred arms, legs, and feet, each a lethal weapon. Jelindel could utter no more binding spells till the others released their victims and returned to her. Suddenly blue trails of energy warped the air and returned to her. The sorceric blast from her mouth sent the last deadmoon warrior hurtling against the wall, stunning him senseless.
Jelindel and Daretor leaned against each other, gasping for breath when, with an air-warping flash and a foul stench, something materialised in front of them. Even before half of its body could emerge from a paraworld, Jelindel was dragging Daretor away.
‘Do something,’ he shouted as he was dragged backwards.
‘I am,’ she wheezed. ‘I’m fleeing. Why don’t you join me?’
They sprinted across the hall, into an auditorium. The creature’s pursuit was evident in the clattering echoes of its stampeding feet. Doors on the far side of the chamber opened onto a large courtyard.
Racing across the marble floor, Jelindel and Daretor reached a stone balustrade on the far side. Daretor turned as the creature burst into the courtyard, ripping the ornate doors off the hinges and flinging them aside as if they were sheets of parchment.
‘Is this what you call doing something?’ Daretor said, crouching with his dagger in hand. It seemed ludicrously inadequate.
‘You won’t need that,’ Jelindel said. ‘At least, I don’t think so.’
Across the courtyard, something was happening to the creature. It was writhing and smoke was pouring from its segmented body. It gave a deep, painful bellow, which reached a crescendo. Then the abomination burst into flames.
Daretor flinched, shielding his eyes. ‘What – ?’
‘It’s a Sivocan materialisation,’ Jelindel explained. ‘The tiniest amount of moonlight unzips the magic that binds it to reality.’
‘You could have told me,’ Daretor said. ‘I would have run faster.’
‘I doubt anyone could have run faster than that.’
They looked at each other. ‘Except Zimak,’ they said together, bursting into laughter. A voice interrupted them.
‘I’m glad to see that you two are still entertaining each other.’
Daretor and Jelindel turned slowly, preparing for the inevitable attack. The man standing behind them was heavily built, but tending to excess weight. His face bore the scars of a narrow escape from death by burning some years in his past.
‘Well met, Fa’red,’ said Jelindel, recognising the voice of the archmage.
‘Always a pleasure, Countess,’ Fa’red replied.
The words were still emerging from his mouth when he flung a freezing spell at Jelindel; but the red light met her blue flame, and the two spells collapsed with a resounding pop. Jelindel felt the backwash sweep through her like pins and needles.
‘I see your powers have grown,’ said Fa’red.
‘I see yours have declined,’ Jelindel replied. ‘Rest easy in Black Quell’s pit, Fa’red.’
‘I might say, “Ladies first”,’ Fa’red said guardedly. ‘You were never one to be underestimated.’
Jelindel pulled a small metal cylinder from a pocket. She put it to her lips and blew. Nothing happened. Daretor held his ground, clearly in the knowledge that his presence was superfluous.
As though reading his thoughts, Fa’red said, ‘Put that blade away. You have no idea how silly you look.’ All the while he remained staring at Jelindel.
Daretor sheathed the dagger, casting a quick glance to the palace gardens far below. They were two storeys down, which meant the flowerbeds would not break his fall, to any useful degree. He knew he was a liability to Jelindel. The instrument at Jelindel’s mouth made no noise, yet Daretor would have sworn that a high ghostly sound on the edge of hearing had been on the air.
Fa’red watched Jelindel warily. ‘A toy from a hard science paraworld?’ he asked, then his lips broke into a cautious smile. ‘You have risked too much this time, Countess. Your powers are no match for mine, despite the spirits you have claimed from your victims.’
‘I’m still alive, Fa’red, so don’t waste your breath with boasts. Where is the dragonsight?’
‘The paraworld amulet? Is that what you seek? Rather charming of the old prophecies to turn out to be true, don’t you think? Who would have guessed the dragons would return to the world from which they originated? Of course, I knew straight away that the dragonriders would need a guide once they arrived back in this world. They have been gone for centuries, after all.’
‘So you offered your services,’ Jelindel said. ‘For a fee, of course. Now you have a paraworld army at your disposal and you don’t even have to share it with the Preceptor.’
‘How very perceptive,’ Fa’red said, sounding amused.
‘I’m sure you and Rakeem discovered you were kindred spirits. To the Preceptor you were just the hired help.’
‘Once we dispose of King Amida, Rakeem and I will rule as equals, but what business of yours is that? I don’t have the amulet.’
Jelindel’s heart lurched. Their precious time was being leeched away without gain.
‘Lies come so easily,’ she said. ‘They just roll off the tongue with no effort at all.’
‘Why would I bother lying to one who is already dead? Mark you, Countess, Rakeem will never give you the antidote. You and the fools you call friends are merely pawns in a game more complex than you can imagine.’
‘Do you care for the dragonsight?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Then no doubt you can tell a dying woman what the dragonsight is, and what it does.’
Fa’red’s vanity was flattered. ‘Ah, so your perception does know limits? Well, the dying should be granted one last wish. The dragonsight is a gem which gives the bearer the ability to glimpse the future and, to a limited extent, manipulate it. However, it is much more than that. It is in truth the eye of the dragon they call the Sacred One, removed from him a thousand years ago by a great mage called Keretch.’
‘You’re right, Daretor. Why do all great and momentous things happen exactly a thousand years ago?’ sighed Jelindel.
‘Don’t mock. Whoever possesses the dragonsight holds dominion over all the dragons within their realm. You see, the dragons of the Tower Inviolate are little more than slaves, forced to do the bidding of King Amida and his elite band of dragonriders. If the dragonsight is not returned to its owners, the thousand year spell will be broken. It’s falling apart already, as these things do. The Spell of Renewal ritual takes days to perform, hence your deadline to return the relic. Need I tell you that the dragons are annoyed about being enslaved for a thousand years, and will waste little time in rending King Amida and his minions into small, black, crispy things?’
‘At which point, you will step in to restore the dominion and become king,’ Jelindel suggested.
‘You always were the clever one, Countess,’ said Fa’red. ‘Rakeem, as it so happens, doubts that the Spell of Renewal alone will work here on Q’zar.’ Fa’red spread his hands expansively. ‘My options are many. Return the dragonsight to my good partner Rakeem and be forever in favour; keep it and try to fathom its power, and wield it in time to save Q’zar and control the dragons; rid Q’zar of the dragons once they’ve toppled their current masters, and be the hero of all time.’
‘You’ll never be that, Fa’red,’ Jelindel said.
‘And you will never know. Now I tire of this. It’s time for you to die, once and for all.’
‘I think not,’ said Jelindel. ‘Perhaps you should take a look over your shoulder.’
Fa’red felt rather than saw the dark shape alighting on the roof behind him. He chanced a cautious glance and went rigid.
S’cressling was perched on the rooftop above the extended balcony. Osric and a rather dazed Zimak sat on her shoulders. S’cressling’s long neck looped down and her snout, leaking smoke and fumes, was barely ten feet behind Fa’red.
Jelindel brought her guard down. ‘Make the slightest move to leave, either by f
oot or by magic, and she will roast you. The flame that comes from her lungs is powered by dragon magic, and it will follow you into any paraplane in which you seek refuge.’
Fa’red’s fire-scarred face remained expressionless. He stared vehemently at Jelindel. ‘You too will die; the flames would reach you there.’
Jelindel’s lips curled into a smile. ‘I have spent many hours building the appropriate magical defence. You have not. I rather think that, even with your undeniable powers, it would take you somewhat longer to fashion one than the two seconds it will take S’cressling to roast you.’
Fa’red said nothing, but his shoulders slumped. ‘Damn you for the witch you are,’ he muttered.
‘I should like the location of the dragonsight,’ said Jelindel. ‘And while you’re at it, I should like to hear you recite The Oath That Binds in a statement that you will renounce all claim or use of the dragonsight from now unto the end of time. And just because I am paranoid, I shall invoke, with S’cressling’s aid, the ancient dragon magic to tell truth from falsehood, and to bind you to your word.’
Fa’red’s face darkened, but he rallied. ‘You exceed your ability.’
Daretor tensed. If S’cressling released a fireball, he needed to get both himself and Jelindel off that balcony.
‘Our time is short, Fa’red. Make your move now, or we shall reduce the number of villains in this world by one, then seek other help to find the dragonsight,’ Jelindel bluffed.
There was more silence, punctuated by S’cressling’s nasal breath. Finally Fa’red capitulated.
‘Well, the day goes to you, Countess,’ he declared.
His voice changed tone as he spoke the Oath That Binds beneath the watchful eye of S’cressling. He was unsuccessful, however, in keeping an edge from his voice as he swore under oath. As he spoke, he seemed to shrink like a pricked bladder.
‘And the dragonsight?’ Jelindel prodded.
Fa’red raised his bushy brow and scowled. ‘It is with the Stone People. They guard it for me and will not give it up. Now that I have made the Oath you can ask no more of me,’ he concluded with a triumphant smile.
‘Which is why you gave in so easily,’ Jelindel muttered to herself. ‘I should have asked for the location before you uttered the Oath.’ She paused to think. ‘You will send Daretor and me to the land of the Stone People. My friends will follow on S’cressling. Do it now, and do it very carefully, Fa’red. The dragon’s magic is ancient, yet she understands the nature and intent of our sorcery, though she regards it as the pastime of children.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Because I alone can allow you to reverse the Oath that you swore. In the unlikely event of you ever having both myself and the dragonsight in your power, you would really like that.’
‘Very well. Until we meet again, Countess.’ Fa’red muttered a spell and over the next few seconds Daretor and Jelindel faded from view.
Osric turned to S’cressling. ‘Are they safe?’
The huge crimson dragon nodded in a slow gesture of assent.
‘It is done,’ Fa’red said. ‘Now if you would be so kind as to leave, I have rather pressing matters to which I must attend.’ He hurried out of the courtyard.
Osric and Zimak stared at the place where Jelindel and Daretor had stood.
‘I wish to announce an uneasy feeling,’ said Zimak.
Chapter 3
FORBIDDEN MAGIC
D
aretor found himself in a great void, as if he had been sucked into the airless realm said to lie between paraworlds. Gasping for air, but finding none, he felt his lungs collapse, the last precious breath hissing from his mouth and nose. He tasted blood, and knew that in a few more seconds he would die. This must be how a fish feels, he thought, when it is ripped from its liquid world and cast upon the deck of a boat. Fa’red had tricked them.
But Daretor did not die. Sound and light and a world of sensation crashed suddenly back into existence. He gasped air, then lay panting. Somebody had thrown the fish back into the sea, thank White Quell!
The new world had its own discomforts. For a start, he was buried in something prickly, and the dust and grit nearly choked him. Daretor tried to move, to work out where he was. Raking a hand through the stuff that surrounded him opened a gap through which sunlight streamed. He blinked. At once he knew where he was: in the middle of a haystack, or something very much like it. Through the hole he could see a grimy cobbled street, and a line of ramshackle shops, their dirty windows reflecting back the scene before them. Looking closely at one of the shopfront windows he realised that the hay was piled on the back of a wagon. A pair of stout farm horses was hitched to the wagon, and several men were gathered nearby.
Before he could see much more the wagon lurched. One of the men, clad in a winter shirt woven of linen and horsehair, climbed into the driver’s seat and stowed his purchases in the back. He flicked the reins and the horses lumbered into a slow clip-clopping walk down the street. It was only then that Daretor realised Jelindel was not with him. He felt around in the hay and whispered her name frantically, but there was no trace of her.
Daretor silently cursed Fa’red for his treachery. The fault was theirs, not Fa’red’s. If one chose to trust a scorpion, whose fault was it when the inevitable sting came? He knew enough about magic to know that Fa’red could not have simultaneously sent them to two very different places; magic did not work like that, though it must be said that most of its workings were a mystery. He did not really trust magic, nor did he consider it honourable. Only a sword was honourable, although a good, honest punch in the face did have elements of honour. Magic was slippery. A little too much like life itself, Daretor thought, mocking himself ruefully.
Brushing aside idle thoughts, Daretor hoped that Jelindel was close by. Her situation might be better or worse than his; he did not know. Resolving to make no bold moves until he knew the lie of the land, he peered through the hole, learning what he could. He yearned for the quiet life that he and Jelindel had discussed not so long ago. Maybe I should learn magic, he concluded. That way I could send other people on adventures.
The wagon turned into a narrow, muddy lane. Daretor squirmed towards the rear of the tray and made another opening for himself. He peered out. There were few people about and those that passed looked downcast. He was about to jump off the wagon when it rumbled to a stop in front of a small inn. The driver climbed down and went inside.
Daretor waited till he was sure nobody was about. Jumping from the tray, he brushed himself down. He wondered whether to head back to the busy street, or enter the inn. Inns are wonderful places to acquire news, but strangers are always viewed with curiosity or suspicion. Still, he needed information more than anything else. He had several gold oriels on him, and some silver argents. Precious metals are good currency in any paraworld, so he would not starve. He entered the inn.
The interior was gloomy. Although it wasn’t a cold day, a fire was burning and by the looks of the smoke-filled room, the flue was choked.
A bar ran along one wall, and a scattering of chairs and tables stood in front of it. Odd looking devices protruded from the walls: small black spheres that gleamed as if polished and composed of many small-faceted hexagons. Daretor tried not to stare at them. He pulled up a chair at a table away from the bar. Half a dozen idle drinkers had looked up when he entered, but most had gone back to their drinks and conversations.
A serving maid approached, but she did not smile or greet him. As he looked up, Daretor noticed a chalkboard on the wall. The writing was in a language he understood. It was Delbrian. He relaxed a little.
‘What be your liking?’ The girl’s accent was thick and guttural.
Fortunately, Daretor could make sense of it. ‘I’ll have the house ale, if you please,’ he said. She looked at him oddly. His own accent was as hard for her to follow as hers was to him.
‘You be a foreigner, then?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘From Skelt.’ He
grimaced inside. He had promised himself he would not volunteer information. He was here to learn.
‘I’ve heard of the place. A far-off land, isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ he said. The maid was obviously less travelled than most. He wondered how he might ask where exactly in Delbrias he was, but that was probably a bad idea. Perhaps there were other ways. The woman was not unattractive and she had eyed him twice now. ‘You are a local lass?’ he asked. ‘I have no ear for accents.’
‘Aye, I’m local.’ She fetched his drink and returned. As she leaned down to place it on the table her mouth came close to his ear. ‘I don’t know how you got here, stranger, but you’d best get back the same way. They’ll lock you up soon as look at you. I’ll not be surprised if the priest-guards haven’t already been called.’
Daretor handed her a silver coin and she gave him change. Though it seemed he drank at ease, inside he was in turmoil. What did she mean? In what way did he stand out and what law was he breaking that would warrant imprisonment? Obviously, coming into the inn had been a bad idea.
He drained the tankard and left. He hurried down the side of the building to a rear lane abutting the back of the inn. He had gone only a few steps into the lane when a hand shot out of a doorway and grabbed his coat. He was about to lash out when his assailant hissed: ‘Follow me, if you want to stay free.’
It was the serving maid. Daretor hesitated, but the sound of many feet on the cobbles helped to make up his mind. He ducked into the dark doorway and followed the woman down a corridor and up a creaking flight of stairs. Finally, she led him into a cramped attic space. There was a sleeping pallet on the floor, a few personal effects, a wash basin, a makeshift table and chairs, and a pile of scrolls and pamphlets.
She motioned him to a chair.
‘Are you the courier?’ she asked, panting. Cautiously, she peered through a shuttered window. The laneway had become noisy.
He blinked at her, thinking swiftly. ‘Are you the contact?’ he said in response. She laughed then and moved away from the window. In that moment her face lit up and he saw that she was quite striking. Her eyes sparkled and some colour had come into her cheeks. She sat in a wicker chair and looked at him.