by Paul Collins
‘What a lot of codswallop,’ Zimak said. He almost said ‘prove it’, which might have been fatal, for those words were like flinging down a gauntlet to Jelindel.
‘Exactly why I didn’t want to explain everything,’ Jelindel said. Before Daretor could say anything, she said, ‘We need to find the Stone People. Luckily, Thaddeus has shown the way.’
‘So now you’re saying we have to travel to some other paraworld?’ Zimak glared at Jelindel, obviously displeased. ‘Because I have to tell you that my experiences with paraworlds have not been positive. I just want you to know that.’
‘Then don’t come,’ Jelindel snapped.
Daretor put a placating hand on Jelindel’s arm. ‘Normally I would be the last person to agree with Zimak, but this time I am inclined to take his side.’ Noticing Zimak’s wide grin, he added, ‘Just this once.’
‘There you are,’ Zimak said, as though Daretor’s backing settled the argument.
Daretor ignored him. ‘On the other hand, should you explain your motives much better than you have, I might change my mind.’
Jelindel took a deep breath. ‘Going to other paraworlds is a last resort. The process of discovering which one we need to visit would probably give us the information we need anyway.’
‘And what information might that be?’ said Zimak.
‘The name of the city that was Hadirr,’ responded Jelindel.
‘Could there be a correspondence between the old name and the new?’ Daretor asked.
‘Of course there could,’ Jelindel said. ‘But the name could also have been changed by later conquerors, or it may just have evolved, or it may be the same name in a different language. For instance, D’loom means “Gem of the Sea”. Two thousand years ago it was called Liallon, which means the same thing in the language of the Musea’a.’
‘This is all fascinating but let’s just do something,’ Zimak said. ‘We’re being poisoned, remember?’
Jelindel narrowed her eyes. ‘Very well, pack up.’
Zimak smiled. ‘Great.’
Jelindel looked at Osric. ‘I hope S’cressling hasn’t forgotten us.’
‘Now that the weather has cleared, she will come,’ he said confidently. ‘S’cressling will always seek me out.’
‘Reminds me of a certain witch,’ Zimak mumbled.
They bid goodbye to Leot and the other townsfolk who came out to see them off. Jelindel found it hard to look Leot in the eyes. She blamed herself for what had happened.
Leot understood. ‘Do not feel badly,’ he said. ‘It may be true that these things would not have occurred had you not come but we have learned much. There is a sense of unity and achievement in Ogven not felt in my lifetime.
‘More, such fantastic events may well draw the curious who no doubt will stop here a time and spend their money. We also discovered that one of our own, who we had long slighted, was a great mage. I wish I had known that before. Many times I sat at Thaddeus’s feet as a child and listened to his wondrous tales.’ He sighed, and for a moment seemed lost in memory.
‘But there is something else we got out of this,’ he went on, lifting his head proudly. He turned and pointed to the northwest from where the attacks had come. ‘Whatever has happened, whether because of Thaddeus’s magic, or the great quantity of snow, I do not know, all the wasteland to the south of here is now alive. Green buds and grass are sprouting, growing at an incredible rate. Underground springs have bubbled to the surface and streams are finding their way through the Dragon’s Breath. It is truly a miracle and will bring growth and prosperity, perhaps forever.’
‘We thank you for your understanding, and your kind words,’ Jelindel said, shaking the man’s hand. Then she and the others hoisted their packs to their shoulders. Osric put his fingers to his lips and blew a whistle that none could hear.
Moments later a dark speck appeared in the sky, rising up from the foothills of the Hazgar Mountains. As they watched, it grew larger. Leot shaded his eyes and squinted against the sun.
‘What manner of thing is this?’ he asked, puzzled. Many other townsfolk also shaded their eyes and watched the speck grow.
When it could be seen clearly the Ogvenians moaned in trepidation and in wonderment. A dragon in the Dragon’s Breath.
Leot stared at Jelindel. ‘Is this possible?’ he asked. ‘A creature out of the fairy tales told to children now comes?’
‘The dragons have come back to Q’zar,’ Jelindel said, smiling apologetically. ‘I kind of left that part out before. It would have taken too much explaining.’
S’cressling swooped overhead, huge and majestic. Leot swallowed. ‘You left out rather a large part, I am thinking,’ he said, awed.
S’cressling landed with a great whoosh. Jelindel and the others climbed aboard.
‘Tend Thaddeus’s cairn as you would your mother’s,’ Jelindel called to Leot.
Leot waved acknowledgement. Flowers had already been placed where the archmage had vanished. Even the disbelievers felt some kind of power emanating from the spot. Jelindel hoped that the marking spell at the cairn site made its presence felt long enough to instil some respect in the locals.
Soon they were heading south-west at a swift pace. Jelindel had decided they should head back to D’loom. She needed to scour the oldest libraries in Q’zar and to talk to other archmages. Along the way they would call in at Yuledan and look up Theroc, whose money they had taken in good faith.
Zimak laughed. ‘Wait till he sees us flapping in on the back of one of his aerial predators.’
Osric bristled. ‘S’cressling is not a predator.’
‘Try telling that to the people taken by Rakeem’s dragons.’
Osric stroked S’cressling’s red mane. ‘Then it is Rakeem who is the predator. For the Tower Inviolate dragons are under his control.’
Daretor squeezed Osric’s shoulder. ‘We shall see about that when we have found the dragonsight.’
Osric slumped back into his seat. How could these Q’zarans not realise that their lives were forfeit when they completed their task? he wondered. Or did they not care?
They flew west for the next two days, veering south when they crossed the Serpentire River. Stopping occasionally to rest S’cressling and replenish their water bladders, they otherwise flew on relentlessly. Leot had given them ample supplies of food. Their only enemy was the cold that never ceases to claw at those who fly.
On the morning of the fourth day they sighted the Garrical Mountains far to the south-west. Osric asked S’cressling to stay low and get as close to Yuledan as possible without being seen. They did not want to alarm the already terrified townspeople, yet they did not want to land some distance away and face yet another long and probably dangerous walk.
‘How do you know Fa’red won’t try something here?’ Osric asked Jelindel.
‘Why should he?’ she asked. ‘I doubt very much that he thinks we can learn anything in Yuledan. We already know the nature of the aerial attackers that have been preying on the town.’
Osric was either inexperienced at low-flying manoeuvres or he had been distracted by thoughts of Fa’red. In any event, he overshot the landing spot and they were, all of a sudden, directly above the town. Frightened men and women looked up and ran for cover, gathering children as they went. Alarm bells began to toll.
‘Land over there,’ Jelindel told Osric. ‘If we delay they’ll start firing arrows at us or worse. Let’s get down quickly so they can see that we’re friendly.’
‘Somehow I think they won’t ever see a dragon as friendly,’ Zimak said.
Osric guided S’cressling to the large open area Jelindel had indicated. It was the town green, a place where children played, lovers strolled, and where fairs were held in summer. It ought have been a picturesque spot but it had a blighted look. Some of the trees were burnt and there were scorch marks on the ground.
‘The marks of dragons,’ said Osric, looking about in alarm.
S’cressling settled onto a
low mound near the centre of the green but did not relax. Her nostrils flared when she sensed the fear in the town. She could smell the presence – faint now and several days old – of other dragons. Dark mucus dribbled from her snout and she moved her head restlessly from side to side, watching.
She did not have long to wait.
A group of archers appeared at the north end of the green and ran quickly to pre-arranged positions. Jelindel stood on the prow and waved a white cloth for all to see. Holding this aloft, she and Daretor climbed down and advanced towards the archers who fingered their arrows nervously and never took their eyes off the pair, as though they were daemons.
‘Come no closer,’ shouted a mountain of a man, with a yellow beard and no hair on his crown. ‘Go back where you came from. You are not welcome.’
‘Not welcome?’ Jelindel called back with deceptive composure. ‘We were invited.’
The man’s eyes were stony. ‘None here did so.’ ‘You are mistaken. I am Archmage Jelindel dek Mediesar. Theroc engaged our services.’
A grizzled scarecrow of a man pushed forward. He shaded his eyes and peered at them. He exclaimed, coming forward with a smile on his face.
‘Archmage,’ he said, eyeing the dragon nervously. ‘You came.’
‘These are taxing times, Theroc. I apologise for our tardiness. It is often said: better late than never. I hope this is one of those times.’
‘I beg forgiveness for our reception but the manner of your coming …’ He looked again at S’cressling who stared back at him. ‘The manner of your coming is … er … somewhat unexpected.’
‘You have seen then the nature of the beasts that assail you?’ asked Daretor.
Theroc nodded. ‘We have.’
‘They are dragons?’
Theroc nodded again, still eyeing S’cressling. ‘They are dragons indeed. Like this one here.’
‘Do not fear our friend,’ Jelindel said. ‘Call your people. Let us talk. There is much to explain.’
Two hours later they met in the Town Hall. The meeting got off to a bad start when a thin man with one eye and a flash burn across his left cheek accused them of being in league with the dragonriders.
‘I lost my wife in the last raid,’ he growled. ‘Why should we deal with you? How do we know you’re not here to study our defences and spy out our weaknesses?’ There were angry agreements, and much muttering and argument followed. Theroc did his best to calm everyone down, but they were in no mood to listen. After an hour Jelindel lost her patience.
She uttered a binding spell that shot out in all directions and bound the mouths of every man and woman there. Speechless, they clutched and clawed at their mouths, staring at her in fear.
Jelindel stood at the front of the hall and addressed them. ‘As you can see,’ she said, ‘if I wished to harm you I could do so without the help of dragons. Since you prefer shouting to listening, you must stay mute until I have had my say. After that, you can decide as you wish.’ She gave an account of the return of the dragons to Q’zar, the evil King Amida and his vizier, Rakeem, and the fact that the dragons were enslaved by the very object she and her companions sought.
Finally, Jelindel asked Daretor for the purse of gold oriels that Theroc had given them. ‘I hereby return the better part of your fee,’ she announced. ‘That which I have taken, was spent in a good cause. I need no gold to persuade me to stop Amida and Rakeem and so free all lands from the predations of the dragon-riders. I offer to teach your mages such spells as may be useful here. The weakness of the dragons is their riders, and it is they who must be bound or blinded.’
She withdrew the binding spell and a soft gasp swept through the room. Oddly enough, now that they could talk again, the people seemed loath to do so. Daretor leaned close to Jelindel’s ear and whispered, ‘I shall remember that one for when we have a clutch of noisy children.’
Jelindel gave him a sidelong glance. ‘No child of mine will ever behave like this lot.’
‘So say all women before bearing children,’ Daretor replied, shaking his head.
Theroc stood, averting his eyes apprehensively, as if he expected to be struck down at any moment. ‘Archmage, let me apologise again for the reception you were given. Our excuse is that we have lived under great fear for so long that we can no longer tell friend from foe.’
Jelindel told him it was she who must apologise, and related how they had been waylaid. ‘Not only have we arrived late, but on, of all things, a dragon.’ Her tone suggested that it was a joke, and nervous laughter rippled around the hall.
All that day and the next, Jelindel worked with Yuledan’s mages, teaching them intricate, powerful spells to use against the dragonriders. Daretor and Zimak helped reorganise the conventional defences of the town. In all these things Osric was the chief consultant. Only he truly knew the ways of the dragons and their riders; only he fully understood the dragons’ aerial manoeuvring capabilities, the reach and power of their fire, and even some ways to turn aside the fire without harming the dragons. It soon became apparent, however, that Yuledan’s citizens really did not care if the enslaved dragons were hurt or not. Too many of their number had been eaten for any sort of sympathy to be possible.
During this time the swaggering Zimak wooed many young maidens, who were delighted to meet a man who flew on the back of a dragon. The way he told it, dragonriding was much more dangerous and exciting than it actually was; and that only entranced the girls all the more.
As Jelindel worked with the local mages, she questioned them about the origins of human language on Q’zar, asking if they knew of a city that was once called Hadirr. As she feared, they knew less than she did. She told the others that they must reach D’loom as soon as possible for her to research the libraries. If that proved fruitless, then she would seek other sources, such as Lady Forturian, and the Library of Hazaria. The problem was that time was a commodity they could ill afford.
Their last night in Yuledan was as bitterly cold as any desert night can be. A sharp chill wind swept the sand like a giant broom. There were no clouds, just the stars, highlights on a sky of black crystal. Jelindel and Daretor were on the roof of Theroc’s house. They had eaten and had brought a bottle of honeymead wine with them. They were still flushed from food and fire, and did not feel the cold at first.
Jelindel stood for a long time looking up at the stars. Specmoon was in the sky, yellow and pockmarked with grey craters. Daretor came up behind and put his arms around her, kissing her neck.
‘Hmn,’ she said. ‘You have an hour to stop doing that.’
‘I’ll take as long as I need,’ Daretor whispered, nibbling her neck. ‘Or have you forgotten how to enjoy yourself?’
She giggled. ‘We haven’t had much time to ourselves, have we? We seem to stumble from one calamity to the next.’
‘Or are pushed.’
‘Yes. I have been thinking that,’ Jelindel mused, almost to herself. ‘So far, Fa’red has called the tunes.’
‘And we dance to them.’
‘Well, then, we must make our own music.’
‘I know what you told Zimak,’ Daretor said, ‘but I feel that you intend to search out other paraworlds if necessary.’
Jelindel sighed, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘If it comes to that,’ she said, ‘then we have little choice. It will not be other paraworlds, Daretor, just one, if we can find it. And even then there’s no guarantee that the first language of Q’zar is still spoken there, or remembered.’
Overhead, something blotted out the stars. Instantly, from the other side of town, a bell rang out. Another joined in, then another.
A shepherd shivered in his sleep. Only half waking, he dragged more furs across his body. Nearby, in a hollow, dozens of sheep stood or sat in a tight clump, eternally wary of the night, as if ancient memories plagued their waking sleep.
Tonight the memories were justified.
A terrified bleating woke the shepherd. He jumped to his feet, wiping sleep from hi
s eyes. Stumbling to the hollow, he held his staff before him like a weapon. Then he instinctively ducked as a dozen dark shapes flew low overhead.
He looked up and froze. The shapes were enormous bat-shaped creatures whose vast wings clutched the air and hurled it at the ground, where it shook the trees and raised the dust of the arid earth. In moments the shepherd was engulfed in swirling dust. He could see nothing, which was bad, but he could still hear, and that was worse.
Above the rush and tumble of the wind, the creaking acacia trees, and the bleating of the sheep, he heard the roar of night creatures and their daemonic riders, dwindling in the distance. He rose to his knees and gave thanks to all the gods he had ever worshipped for his deliverance.
Seen from high above, the desert glowed softly in the light of Specmoon. The swirling dust resembled a boiling river that appeared in the wake of the dragon squadron, stretching out far behind them, pointing like an arrow back to the heart of Dragonfrost.
On the lead dragon, the pilot sat in his saddle and surveyed the moonlit landscape ahead. He had made this trip several times already and despite the horrors that lay ahead for Yuledan, and the part he would unwillingly play in them, he was not unmoved by the awesome beauty of the desert at night or of the grandeur of sailing above it on a creature as ancient as the hills themselves. The dragonrider was not a poet. He was a fighting man who was resigned to the necessity of what he did. He had the sense to keep such thoughts to himself, however. Behind him flew his command, marked by the heavy throb of their beating wings. Woe betide the citizens of Yuledan, he thought, trying to feel detached from what he was about to do.
Below, armed men and women poured onto the streets; a clamour swept through the town. As Jelindel had instructed, no lights burned. She noted that her orders were being followed. Good discipline had developed in the village under the scourge of the attacks. From high above, one of the watch cried out: