by Paul Collins
‘Surprise, surprise,’ Zimak said dolefully.
‘What manner of creatures?’ Uthven asked, ignoring Zimak. His mood had changed, Jelindel noted. No longer affable, his face was ruddy and shone with perspiration. A quick sign from Daretor indicated there had been some argument.
‘Who can say? Bring axe and steel and pike. Light fires at all points about the town’s edge. Gather the archers, and find pitch for the arrows. Have you stocks of the dark oil that burns?’
‘We do. We distil it into spirits for the lamps.’
‘Dig a trench on the north-west side of town and fill it with the oil. The brunt of the attack will come from that direction,’ Jelindel said. When no one made a move she snapped, ‘To attack us from any other front would be madness – they’d have no cover. Get moving if you still want your town to be standing in the morning.’
Leot and Uthven shouted orders. Men and women scurried to carry out Jelindel’s commands.
Left alone in the inn, Daretor and Osric related how several of the locals blamed their current plight on Jelindel’s arrival. Some had even suggested running her out of town, or handing her over to whoever had released the storm.
Daretor said that the situation hung on Leot’s word. Uthven sided with Leot, so long as Daretor could prove that Jelindel could best Fa’red. At that point, Osric had stepped forward to confirm that the archmage was a traveller between paraworlds, and that he himself came from one such paraworld.
That had set everyone arguing and exclaiming. Uthven had challenged Osric to prove his story. Without hesitating, Osric unsheathed his keen blade and slit his palm. From it oozed a yellow substance the consistency of blood. He had then held up his hand for everyone to see.
‘A charm vendor’s trick,’ someone scoffed, but he was hushed quickly enough.
‘You could say all this is getting out of hand,’ Zimak quipped, and everyone groaned.
Some time later, a commotion started outside. Sarat burst in, breathless. His face was deathly white. ‘Things …’ he said, his voice a croak. ‘Things …’
Jelindel and Daretor rushed outside, followed by a reluctant Zimak. They followed Sarat to the outskirts of town where the youth pointed into the storm.
Huge shapes were standing still as stone, shadows inside the swirling chaos of the storm. ‘Snow trolls,’ Jelindel said tonelessly.
As if the naming of them brought them to life the monsters surged forward. Smaller, swifter shapes moved at their sides.
‘Wolves,’ said Daretor. ‘Will your barrier stay them?’
Jelindel chewed a nail, uncharacteristically indecisive. ‘I fear not, else Fa’red wouldn’t have bothered sending them.’
True enough, the first wolf leapt through Jelindel’s shield. Daretor met the beast on its second bound. His sword flashed and the predator tumbled to the ground. It was a wolf as might be painted by an artist who had never seen a wolf, and had only read about them. It was long and lean in the body, but misshapen, with hind legs like those of a hare, and claws resembling five-inch scimitars.
More deformed wolves sprang out of the storm. Daretor and Zimak’s swords cut and slashed, never stopping. Many other fighters also gave a good account of themselves. Jelindel bound several wolves with magic, making them easy targets for the younger and less experienced fighters, but she found that her magic was to some degree repelled, as if the creatures were protected by powerful charms.
She did not have long to ponder this as the snow trolls lurched against the shield. It warped as they struggled through it. Pockets of the shield fractured, and sheets of snow spat through the fissures. Seemingly by brute strength, the trolls pushed their way through the bubble.
They were fully sixteen feet tall and seemed to be made of ice, as if someone had hewn slabs of it from some glacier and stacked them atop one another until a troll was fashioned.
Daretor met the first. His blade bit deep and silvery blood spurted from severed arteries. The troll howled and stumbled to its knees. Daretor pulled his sword from the creature’s chest, and slashed its throat, opening a gap. More silvery blood splattered across the troll’s chest. It pitched forward like a felled tree.
Daretor had no respite. More snow trolls appeared, and still more wolves. For all their provincialism, the Ogven militia were acquitting themselves well. The archers wrought havoc among the wolves; their flaming shafts hissing through the air and into the flanks of the beasts, burning those they failed to kill outright.
Jelindel, realising she had extended herself to her magical limits, waded in with her sword, slashing at wolves and trolls. All around her the townspeople were dropping. There seemed no end to the attackers.
A wounded wolf struggled to its feet and lunged at her. She dodged, stumbled. Then Zimak charged the wolf. It changed direction to meet the new adversary, but it was too late. Zimak’s speed took him into the wolf. Beast and human tumbled to the ground, and Zimak’s knife left the wolf twitching in the slush. Zimak rolled from the animal’s back, noting the approach of still more through the bubble.
‘The trench,’ Zimak panted. ‘Light the trench.’
In the mayhem Jelindel had forgotten about the trench. The command passed from mouth to mouth. Then, in opposite directions, torches flared, rose high for a moment as if in salute, then dipped low to the ground. Instantly, two great blazes bloomed and raced towards each other. When they met, a snow troll happened to be stepping across the trench. The conjoined flames erupted into a fireball, engulfing it. The burning creature stumbled against other trolls, embracing one in a desperate grip, and igniting it.
More flaming arrows arced high in the air, raining down on wolf and troll alike, scattering them. Daretor led by example. With Osric at his side, he rallied the townspeople to harass the retreating trolls. They pushed the trolls back to the shimmering wall. At that point the townspeople fell back, as though to touch something magical might be their ruin. No wolves had survived.
Daretor sheathed his sword and returned with Osric. ‘They’ll be back,’ he said. ‘Make no mistake on that count.’
‘You have bizarre creatures indeed on Q’zar,’ Osric said.
‘Says he who rides dragons,’ said Zimak. He was busy kicking sand into the trenches in an effort to quench the fire before refilling them with oil.
While Daretor and Osric joined Zimak, Jelindel consulted Leot and Uthven. ‘How many did we lose?’ she asked.
‘Fifteen good people, killed or wounded,’ Leot said.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jelindel said.
‘And well might you be,’ said Uthven. ‘If you are a powerful sorceress, how is it that those creatures breached your defences?’
Jelindel knew their frustration for her own. There were just too many things she didn’t understand.
‘Well?’ demanded Uthven, watching the bodies of his friends being carted away.
‘Picture a full well,’ Jelindel said. ‘Take a hundred barrels of water from it and the water level goes down. It doesn’t go back up until it is replenished. And so it is with magic.’ She looked at the bubble. ‘To maintain the shield is draining for me. Were I to let it dissolve I would have my full powers restored.’
‘But the creatures broke through your barrier,’ Uthven snapped. ‘What good is it?’
Uthven was towering over Jelindel. Daretor and Zimak were heading their way, and several of the townspeople had stopped to listen.
‘Perhaps you should let the girl speak,’ Leot suggested.
Jelindel took a deep breath. ‘Uthven, I am truly sorry that you have lost friends today, but understand this: were it not for the shield, your entire town would have fallen by now. Your militia would have been fragmented, disorganised and separated by the storm. The trolls and their wolves would have simply gone from building to building, killing everyone.’
‘It makes sense,’ Leot said.
Uthven spat on the ground. ‘None of this makes any sense,’ he said, leaving.
Leot sat while someone
dabbed at a cut on his forehead. ‘I apologise for Uthven,’ he said to Jelindel. ‘Ogven’s never lost so many militiamen in one day. Why, even when the Preceptor swept the continent he left our town in peace.’
Jelindel watched the wolves being hitched to horses and dragged across the ground. ‘Your people gave a good account of themselves,’ she said.
Leot nodded gravely. ‘Eight trolls, and I doubt that any of the wolves escaped. They’ll not forget that, to be sure.’
‘But they’ll be back,’ Daretor said. ‘Jelindel, what do you say?’
She nodded. ‘If Fa’red is controlling them, they will have little option. Distance alone favours us, for his magic will be stretched. Only if he travels here will his control strengthen. The trolls’ sense of self preservation sent them running, but we can’t count on that when they return.’
‘We’ll at least be better prepared for them,’ Leot said.
He had already ordered his men to mount a palisade around the perimeter. Jelindel had not the heart to tell him that the pointed staves would be useless against the forces that Fa’red could rally. Next time it could be something worse than wolves or trolls.
During the respite they quickly ate and warmed themselves with mead. Hardly had they finished when frantic shouting warned of the next attack. This time it was only the trolls, and the town militia triumphed for the loss of only two men.
The townsfolk rejoiced as the last troll limped away through the barrier, but Jelindel motioned for quiet. She sensed that the most dangerous attack of all was imminent.
‘Everybody get back!’ she shouted. ‘What comes now comes for me.’
The others fell back a little way. They all had a profound respect for the girl who could fight with steel as well as magic, and were reluctant to let her stand alone.
Daretor, Zimak and Osric joined her. ‘What do you see out there?’ Daretor asked.
Jelindel bit her lip. ‘I’m not sure.’
From behind came a noise, the sound of jeering, even laughter. Jelindel turned to see Thaddeus Pike hobbling with the help of a walking stick, his back bent, his feet shuffling.
‘Get back to your hut, Thaddeus,’ called one of the men, while others continued to jeer.
Thaddeus made his way to Jelindel’s side. To the three men he said, ‘Join the others.’ They did not move until Jelindel waved them away. Reluctantly, they went to stand with Leot and Uthven.
Leot was puzzled. ‘What does the old fool want?’
Daretor shook his head. ‘I’ve learnt not to question the ways of magic. But know this, if the old one and Jelindel fail, take your people and flee, have them scatter in all directions. What comes through that storm will not take kindly to being called here.’
‘There are few trolls left,’ Uthven said, clenching his sword handle so tightly that his knuckles whitened.
Daretor and Zimak exchanged looks, but they had no time for further talk. A dark shadow oozed out of the snow-covered earth and shaped itself into a slab of darkness that covered the ground as far as the eye could see. At the same time the storm abated somewhat, and visibility improved.
‘He wants us to see our doom all the more clearly,’ said Jelindel.
‘No, it’s that he cannot sustain both the storm and this adversary,’ said Thaddeus.
Rank upon rank of otherworldly creatures stretched away endlessly. Each one had two pairs of arms, wielding a sword or axe or pike. The bodies were covered in thick scales – a natural body armour – and the heads were snapping, slathering jaws that could swivel and attack in any direction: front, side, behind. They were mesmerisingly menacing.
The thing that chilled Jelindel’s heart was not so much their bestial appearance, but their discipline and precision. These were no dumb beasts sent to the slaughter. They were highly trained soldiers.
Her heart faltered. ‘By all the gods,’ she breathed, ‘what on Q’zar could have created such things?’
Beside her, Thaddeus snorted. ‘A riddle too easy to solve,’ he said. ‘Nothing on Q’zar created them. These were hatched on another paraworld.’
Jelindel stared at the uniform ranks. They started chanting a guttural mantra that filled the air. ‘There are too many,’ she said. ‘And I’m nearly spent.’
‘Then don’t spend so much next time,’ said Thaddeus. Jelindel shook her head. ‘More would have died if I had not,’ she said, then promptly dissolved the bubble covering the town. It seemed the sky fell in on them, for a sheet of ice collapsed with the bubble. It was followed by a light drizzle – all that remained of the storm’s fury.
Jelindel straightened as power surged back to her.
‘What of their deaths?’ Thaddeus asked. ‘You think dying is some kind of an end? Would you stop a caterpillar from becoming a butterfly just because the caterpillar thinks it is about to die?’
Jelindel said nothing.
‘We all die and we all become butterflies. There. Are you happy now?’ The mage’s eyes sparkled with mirth.
Jelindel looked at him with wonder in her eyes. ‘You speak of this like it is fact.’
‘Of course it is fact. Mind you, not all creatures become butterflies. Some become maggots, like those abominations out there. They are, if I am not very much mistaken, about to charge.’ He then wove a spell about Jelindel with his hands.
Jelindel shivered as something coursed her veins. ‘What did you do just then?’
Thaddeus sagged a little, as though the spell had drained him. ‘A simple thing,’ he said. ‘For later, perhaps. A charm against pimples.’
Jelindel did not bother to unravel his jest. She looked back at the ranks of their enemy. ‘There are too many,’ she said again.
‘Quality is far more important than quantity, child.’
Jelindel’s heart thumped out of rhythm. She remembered Lindkeer at the Temple in Arcadia saying precisely the same thing in precisely the same reproving tone.
The abominations charged. The creatures’ chanting rose to a crescendo, filling the heads of everyone; it grew into a kind of subsonic screech that made strong men clench their eyes in pain and forced others to their knees.
Jelindel felt the assault on her mind, but her training provided some protection from it. Thaddeus did not appear to be affected at all. He seemed tranquil, as if seated in his kitchen.
Jelindel started mustering a magical counter-assault. She built her spells and charms quickly, layering them one upon the other, connecting them in intuitively brilliant ways, fashioning a deadly instrument with which to repel the attack, knowing all along that it was pitifully inadequate.
Thaddeus laid a hand on her arm. ‘Hush,’ he said. The spell that was in Jelindel’s mind fell away. Instead, she heard a soft lilting voice she knew to be Thaddeus’s when he had been a young man. ‘Open yourself to me, child,’ he said. ‘Flow through me … let it grow.’
Jelindel opened herself to Thaddeus, her heart, her mind, her soul, her memories. She felt a raw power flow down her arm and into Thaddeus where his old withered hand gripped her. Then she was falling, not painfully, but slipping to the ground, as though there was no energy left to hold her up.
Thaddeus released Jelindel and she felt a heady feeling, as if waking from a dream. Behind her she heard an odd groan from the ranks of the defenders. She looked around. The enemy was sweeping in with awesome speed, a tidal wave of death and horror. Jelindel heard, rather than saw, the townspeople break ranks and flee. Someone, Leot perhaps, was ordering them to hold firm. Daretor had just screamed her name.
In the melee, Thaddeus flung aside his staff and walked out to meet the charge. He held out his arms in a welcoming gesture, as if inviting the monsters to come to him.
Jelindel noted that Thaddeus’s flesh was glowing, or else it was becoming translucent and a light from inside – or from some other place – was shining out.
The first of the creatures slammed into him but there was no impact. Snow storm, clouds, creatures … it seemed as though Thaddeus had
become a portal and sucked in all evidence of Fa’red’s invasion.
And, as with many portals, it snapped shut, taking its creator with it.
Chapter 5
THE DRAGONS COME
O
f the Ogvenians, Leot alone stood his ground. He walked unsteadily to Jelindel. Daretor and Zimak had just helped her to her feet.
‘What in White Quell’s name just happened?’ Leot asked, shaken.
Jelindel took a deep breath as her body reacted to a surge of power. When she had the strength to answer, she said, ‘I believe Thaddeus has rid your people of some ancient curse. You will have sudden prosperity … I sense a cleansing of the air.’
Leot’s eyes hadn’t left the spot where Thaddeus had embraced the charging creatures. All that remained was a charred circle the circumference of the old man’s outstretched hands.
Jelindel went to the fused, glassy sand and broke off a fragment. She nodded. ‘If I were you, I would collect this glassy material before the wind buries it. Secure it in an urn and place it in a cairn at this spot. Dedicate it to Thaddeus Pike, Archmage,’ she said to Leot. She looked towards the basin that was once the Dragon’s Breath. To her enhanced senses the once blighted land seemed to be changing before her very eyes. ‘It is as he foretold,’ she added, almost to herself.
‘I’ll see to it immediately,’ Leot said, sensing the urgency in Jelindel’s words.
When Leot had left to find a stonemason, Daretor said, ‘What exactly did happen, Jelindel? What did Thaddeus foretell?’
Jelindel gestured helplessly. ‘It will take too long to explain.’
‘Try,’ Zimak said. ‘There’s something not quite right about this place. And if I know Fa’red, he’s going to jump on it from a great height.’
‘Not if we leave he won’t,’ Jelindel said wearily. ‘Take away the fuel and there is no fire. As for what happened here today, Thaddeus foretold of a “cleansing”, which involved our arrival. He’s been holding on to life, waiting patiently for us. To save this place, he needed to sustain his life force, and in doing so, he drained vital energy from the earth. Hence its barrenness of recent years. Had he not been alive to assist me, this town would have been destroyed. And us along with it.’