by Paul Collins
If it was hot in the crater, it was sweltering in the ravines. Within minutes sweat was pouring off them, and their clothes hung dank and heavy, weighing them down. Their packs chaffed and added to the burden. Before long they trudged along the snaking maze-like ravines feeling so fatigued that they could not imagine fighting off any attacker.
‘Our water won’t last at this rate,’ said Daretor, panting.
‘We shall see,’ Jelindel replied, somewhat cryptically.
Then they both looked at Zimak.
‘What?’ he asked. ‘What did I do now?’
‘Nothing,’ said Jelindel.
‘Which is the point,’ said Daretor. ‘You haven’t complained once since setting foot in these canyons.’
Zimak, who still carried quite a bit of fat, shrugged. ‘No one ever listens anyway. Besides, I’ve come up with a whole new philosophy of life.’
Daretor raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
Daretor gazed at him for a moment. ‘Well, are you going to share this wondrous revelation, or keep it to yourself?’
‘I’m going to live in the “now”.’
‘The now what?’
‘Just the now. The moment. The present. I’m going with the flow of events.’
‘What flow? What are you talking about?’
‘The flow. Life is like a stream. It flows along. You can either go with the current or you can fight against it and try to swim upstream, or you can get out of the water entirely. It’s your choice. Me, I’m going with the flow. And right now, this is the flow. Trudging along, sweating like a pig, about to die horribly in all likelihood.’
‘I’ve heard of something like this,’ Jelindel said. ‘The monks of the Nerrissi Plateau have a similar faith.’
‘They do?’ Zimak said, surprised.
Daretor groaned. ‘You’re only encouraging him,’ he said. ‘The poison has driven him mad, and you’re making it worse. Going with the dummart “now”. Being in the “flow”. The babblings of a deranged brain, if you ask me. Next thing you know he’ll be talking to common stones.’
‘Well, the Nerrissi monks do –’ Jelindel began.
‘I don’t want to hear it,’ Daretor said. The others shrugged and they continued. For the next several hours they moved wearily, but they covered a lot of ground. At various junctures they were reassured to see that they were closing in on the tower.
They were probably half-way across the crater floor, when they spotted several high-flying dragons soaring overhead. It was at this point that their water ran out.
Jelindel called a stop and they rested for several minutes. They knew that they had little chance of reaching the tower without water. Even if they did, they would be in no condition to carry out the plan.
‘What are we going to do?’ Zimak asked, his eyes glazed.
‘Isn’t that a question about the future?’ asked Daretor. ‘I thought you were the fellow who lived in the now?’
Zimak waved him away, too drained to waste words. ‘Jelindel?’ he asked again.
‘There is something I can do but I am loath to do it. It may give us away.’
‘We may be dead either way then,’ Daretor pointed out.
‘Perhaps. In any case it’s too soon. Let’s move on.’
They trudged on, putting one weary foot in front of the other. In this manner, they covered half the remaining distance, but then could go no further. All three were stumbling, their mouths gaping, their breath coming in dry gasps.
They finally staggered to a stop. Zimak sat down, unable to get up again. Daretor lowered himself to the ground with as much dignity as he could manage and looked to Jelindel. She swam in and out of focus before his eyes.
‘Whatever you’re going to do,’ he said, ‘now would be a good time.’
Zimak smiled through cracked lips. ‘See? Now would be a good time.’
‘Imbecile,’ said Daretor.
Without speaking Jelindel slid to her knees and began to rub her palms across a section of the ravine wall. As she did so she murmured an incantation. Very slowly, as if reluctant, a flickering blue light gathered on her lips. Instead of leaping out, it slid across her cheek, down her neck and arm and into the rock, where it sparkled and foamed.
A moment later the rock darkened and began to sweat. Water started oozing from the very pores of the stone until a small trickle formed.
‘Quickly,’ Jelindel said. ‘Fill the canteens, drink as much as you can, then fill them again. I can’t maintain this for long.’
Rakeem’s head whipped up. A puzzled look flashed across his face, cutting him off in mid sentence. The guard captain he was speaking to raised his eyebrows.
‘Vizier? Something troubles you?’
Rakeem silenced him with a motion and frowned. ‘I sense something …’ he said, ‘not far away but not close either … an unfamiliar magic …’
The captain looked troubled.
‘Double the guard,’ Rakeem snapped. ‘It may be nothing but … something …’
They made it to the base of the tower. As Osric had promised they found an ancient fissure through which they squeezed. Inside was a natural chamber that seemed to have no ceiling. The walls were perfectly smooth and there appeared to be no way to scale them.
‘What now?’ Daretor asked.
‘I can use the last of my magic,’ Jelindel said. ‘We’re inside the pinnacle itself. Some magic must be practised within the tower from time to time, and that might cloak mine.’
‘What kind of magic?’ Zimak began, stifling a yelp as he suddenly rose in the air. On either side of him Jelindel and Daretor also levitated. Jelindel spoke a spell, and a sphere of ethereal light burst from her hand. Their rapid ascent caused it to flicker.
Osric and S’cressling put their plan into practice. The intention was to create a diversion. They swept from the canyon into the inner crater. The great crimson dragon soared quickly across the surface, drawing no more attention than any other dragon. The hour was late in any case, and there were few dragons about, except for far-off sentinels that paid S’cressling no heed. If the tower were to be attacked they believed it could not possibly come from a dragon.
S’cressling swooped into the landing bay, folding her wings and coming to a feather-light stop. There was almost no one about. Bored engineers shuffled out to remove the dragon’s harness and lead her to the feeding troughs. But that was as far as the routine went.
S’cressling bellowed angrily and reared up on her back legs. Gouts of greenish flame sprang from her snout and swept back and forth across the walls and tunnel entrances of the bay. A sheet of flame licked across every surface and thick smoke filled the air. Sulphur fumes made everyone choke.
Osric leapt to the ground and raced for the loading bay doors. He had to stop them from being closed. S’cressling turned her attention to the barracks at the far end of the bay, before heading back to the entrance and taking flight again. Outside, she flew up around the tower, spraying it with gouts of fire. Meantime, Osric ran along a winding corridor, grabbing weapons from an armoury table set up for emergencies.
Jelindel, Daretor and Zimak continued to rise for several hundred yards. Eventually they reached a roughly hewn, domed ‘ceiling’ containing a trapdoor. Daretor managed to wrench it open. They levitated through, and stood once more on a rocky floor.
Zimak swallowed. ‘I still hate flying,’ he moaned.
‘Osric said it’s the safest way to travel,’ Daretor said.
‘Osric sticks his head between the jaws of a dragon, too. You call that sane?’
Before Daretor could respond, Jelindel fell against his shoulder. ‘Jelli?’
Jelindel’s face was pasty-white. Blood congealed around her mouth like smeared lip paint. ‘Keep moving,’ she wheezed. ‘We’ve still got a way to go.’ She stopped to gain her breath. ‘According to Osric, sane or not, we can’t reach the Sacred One except by the elevator box thing on ropes. It’s on the upper
levels.’
Daretor signalled for Zimak to help him. Together they supported Jelindel. ‘Let’s hope our “diversion” is working,’ Daretor said.
‘Pray it is,’ Jelindel agreed. She was starting to feel a little better.
An ancient spiral staircase, hewn from the rock, led upwards. They hurried up the steps. After what seemed like an eternity they found themselves in the back of what was once some kind of large chamber. Now, mildewed tapestries hung on the walls and dozens of crates were stacked about. Jelindel went to the door, opened it a crack, and listened. All was quiet.
They crept out. Suddenly, Zimak stumbled and collapsed. He was gasping for breath and the colour had drained from his face.
Jelindel felt his forehead and took his pulse. ‘The poison’s finishing its work,’ she said grimly.
Zimak breathed with effort. ‘Help me up,’ he ordered. They assisted him to his feet. ‘We’ve come too far to let it win. Gah, Daretor. I don’t suppose you want to swap bodies?’
‘Not right now, no,’ Daretor replied.
‘Whatever happens,’ Jelindel said, ‘we must return the dragonsight to its rightful owner.’
‘Easier said than done,’ Zimak wheezed.
With an arm around Jelindel and Daretor’s shoulders, Zimak managed to make good time. They realised that they were on the lower levels. With directions from a terrified page, they soon found the staircase used by the workers. The page was left tied up in an unused chamber. As they had hoped, there was little traffic on the stairs. The diversion had to be working.
Osric had been seen, but eluded capture in the maze of passages that formed the middle levels. Finally, he was cornered. Fortunately, the strength of the guard facing him was not great, and the narrow corridor that led to where he stood could be held against many. It was a standoff, and that was as he wished it.
The captain of the guard held off. He saw no reason why he or his men should die. There was a simpler solution. ‘Send for the vizier,’ he ordered. ‘Tell him the traitor Osric has returned.’
A guard ran off. Osric unsteadily released pressure on the long bow that he had readied to fire. Although his arm had only sustained a flesh wound, it was nonetheless throbbing.
Meanwhile, outside the tower, S’cressling was wreaking havoc. She had managed to set fire to several towers and even the palace itself. Soon she would have to withdraw. Already half a dozen dragons with half-dressed riders were issuing from the launch bays. The distraction had worked admirably.
Then something unexpected happened.
As the dragonriders closed in for the attack, S’cressling bellowed. The other dragons suddenly swooped away. What she had told them in the ancient tongue of the dragons was that they could be free if they would join her. The dragonsight was no longer with King Amida. Even now it was on its way to the Sacred One.
Her brethren were puzzled. Clearly, S’cressling was not being controlled from the tower. The king and his vizier would never brook such behaviour. Indeed, the penalty for S’cressling’s actions was death. The fact that she was unharmed told the dragons all they needed to know: the binding magic was unravelling. The dragons that had loyally melded to their riders now disobeyed their frantic commands, and withdrew to consult one another. Others flipped over, shaking riders from their seats. With terrified screams, the dragonriders plummeted to the crater far below. Seven dragons belched a torrent of flame against the bulwarks of the Tower Inviolate.
Inside, Osric’s heart leapt. Their time had finally arrived.
Bells rang throughout the tower and trumpets blared. Several guardsmen raced past, not realising that Jelindel, Daretor and Zimak were intruders. This gave the trio the confidence to act with less hostility when encountering the defenders. Several times they passed unnoticed and unremarked. But such luck could not hold out for long. Nor could their pace last – all were clearly ill. They walked with great difficulty and spoke haltingly. The poison’s effect was consuming them.
They had reached the upper levels and were staggering down a corridor that opened into a wider hallway when they met their first serious opposition. A small squad of dragonriders was hurrying to the outer ramparts to determine the cause of the clamour. When they saw the Q’zarans, they paused, then charged, swords drawn.
The fight took a terrible toll on the trio. Jelindel falteringly cast binding spells on several of the attackers and Daretor killed one who rushed precipitously upon his sword. Zimak managed to dispatch another, who had tripped over a fallen comrade. The remaining dragonriders fled along the corridor.
‘Gah,’ Zimak spat. ‘These people have no taste for Q’zaran blood.’ He almost swooned, but the wall stopped him from falling.
Jelindel bent over double, then straightened, inhaling mightily. Perspiration beaded her forehead. ‘I doubt they’re too worried about us,’ she said. ‘Time’s on their side – why risk their lives to shorten ours?’
Daretor nudged them forward. ‘We’re not done yet. If it’s the last thing I do I intend taking Rakeem with us.’
‘Keep that thought,’ Jelindel said, forcing her legs to move.
They found the elevator and tugged on the rope, then waited an agonising few minutes as the box ground up to their level. When it finally arrived, they flung back the doors and piled in. Jelindel stopped Zimak.
‘I need you here, if you’re able. Make sure nobody interferes with this contraption,’ she said.
Zimak’s face was wracked with pain, yet he said, ‘Jelindel, you two have all the fun.’
The elevator cabin dropped. Jelindel had an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of the stomach and her ears blocked.
The journey to the lowermost level seemed like it would be uneventful. Suddenly they heard, far above and muffled by distance, the clash of arms, and the curses of injured men. There was little they could do. Fate had taken them in its grasp and they must follow where it led.
There was a distant scream that grew swiftly louder, followed by an almighty impact on the roof of the elevator box.
Jelindel offered a brief prayer to White Quell that the fallen body hadn’t been Zimak’s.
The entire cabin shuddered as though in response to Jelindel’s muttered prayer. It banged against the walls of the vertical tunnel, and then they were falling.
The cabin bucked and lurched as it gained speed.
Jelindel called out a spell that emerged from her lips as blue light. Nothing happened.
Daretor braced himself for the afterlife.
Zimak leaned on his sword in front of the elevator doors. He was thinking that lately he was always being left behind or mislaid, and that his place was really at the centre of things. Only in such places could glory be acquired – not that he particularly wanted glory. But after riding with Daretor for such a long time, some of the warrior’s principles and ideals had begun to rub off on him. Certainly glory was very good for getting girls into haylofts. Scars worked well too, but were often painful in the getting.
By White Quell, next time he would insist on going along. He might be the biggest of the three, but that was all the more reason why he should be with them.
He was just succeeding in working himself up into a black mood when he was attacked. Two dragonriders had been sent with a group of lackeys. They led the charge down the ill-lit corridor.
Zimak staggered forward to meet them. His annoyance had pepped him up to some extent, though he was also pale and shaky. He met the first man with a deft parry and riposte. His hand shook with the effort of withstanding the dragonrider’s onslaught.
He managed to wound his opponent with a complicated feint that had worked many times before. Seconds later he left a deep cut in the sword arm of the second man, forcing him to step back from the battle. The lackeys, most of whom were holding pikes and meat cleavers, hung back indecisively.
‘FLEE!’ Zimak screamed, and the lackeys fled. Zimak smiled. He was struggling to keep his eyes focused, and the ground seemed to be coming up to greet him
.
The wounded dragonrider took this moment to hurl himself at the Q’zaran.
Sensing rather than seeing the dragonrider rush him, Zimak stumbled back, barely parried the blow, then shoved the man hard in the back as his momentum swept him past. The man crashed headlong into the elevator door, smashing through the guard rail, and disappeared from view. His scream faded into the depths of the elevator shaft.
Zimak turned to face the remaining dragonrider. The man stared back nervously.
‘Your job is done here,’ Zimak slurred, summoning up enough strength to sound like he could enforce the implied threat. It worked. The man nodded in a kind of awkward salute, then fled. Few, it seemed, wanted to combat the mantid gladiator, as Daretor and Zimak had become known.
Zimak almost felt good. If it hadn’t been for the fever that was even now spilling blood from his mouth, he would have danced a little jig. Then the ropes holding the elevator snapped with an audible crack that whipped Zimak’s head around. With a sense of impending horror, he dragged himself to the broken door and peered down the shaft.
Jelindel’s spell had not failed. It had simply taken time to gather power from her depleted body. Just as Daretor expected the elevator’s crushing impact, the cabin lurched and began to slow. Not by much at first, but the retarding force increased. Within a few seconds the cabin was descending at its normal speed.
Daretor sighed and slid down the wall to rest on his haunches. He had barely enough energy to keep his eyes open.
The elevator came to a halt with a thump that threw Jelindel to the floor. Daretor dragged open the doors, then stepped back into a weak fighting stance. Before them stood the vizier, Rakeem, and a dozen bodyguards, all with drawn swords.