by Paul Collins
‘Not today. This is a wedding and you should go as what you are. Besides, remember that my guards have noticed that I like you and spend much time with you. We cannot have such rumours getting back to my superiors, can we?’
At mid-morning the village bell rang out to summon everyone to the wedding and feast. Kelricka’s guards remained outside the inn, muttering to each other and writing in their trip log.
There was a collective gasp from the tavern as the band beneath its awning caught sight of Jelindel when she emerged into the sunlight. Kelricka’s guards goggled for a moment and dropped the trip log in the dust.
With the guards and village band trailing along behind them, Jelindel and Kelricka walked out into the village square.
Kelricka had taken in the waist of Jelindel’s clean tunic to show her figure to full effect, and the Mage Auditor was wearing it over trews and newly oiled boots. Her hair was down and dancing in the wind. She wore cherry red lip-blush and green eye shade. Her wide-buckled belt was cinched tight, emphasising her figure even further – although she still wore the thundercast on her hip in a leather sheath that she had sewn.
The blacksmith Gemoti took one look at her and dropped a stoneware jar of wine, which smashed at his feet.
‘Mage Auditor!’ he cried, and everyone nearby turned to stare.
‘Yes?’ asked Jelindel. ‘What – what have – I mean, why are you dressed like that?’
‘Because I’m a girl,’ she replied demurely. ‘You said to dress in my very best, so I have.’
Jelindel turning up to the wedding as Jelindel was almost enough to upstage the bride and groom. Although she had transformed from a fairly plain youth into a stunningly pretty girl, she still walked with a pronounced swagger and had learned only the men’s dance steps in her travels since escaping Dremari. Any number of men, Gemoti included, were always there to be dancing partners and give her helpful instructions, however.
Finally the bell rang out again, and Kelricka met the bride and groom at the shrinestone steps. She read out a fairly long and elaborate version of the formal wedding ceremony, but for the villagers the presence of a real Verital priestess was an honour and blessing beyond purchase by mere coins.
After the newlyweds had kissed, the groom carried his bride to the centre of the square, set her down, and gestured to the band. They danced three jigs alone, then other married couples joined in, one by one and in the order of those most recently married.
The rest stood about clapping, then the two groups swapped roles and the unmarrieds all danced. Gemoti and Jelindel were first, followed by Zimak with a serving girl from the tavern and Daretor with Kelricka.
Kelricka’s guards stood back looking unhappy, but they wrote nothing more in their trip log. One had already torn several pages out and fed them to the fire beneath a sheep roasting on a spit.
It was the bride who first saw the approaching dragon craft, and her scream pierced the music of the band and silenced them.
The craft was moving slowly among the peaks, and a deep rumble was audible even though it was still beyond the edge of the fields.
Everyone in the village square stood in silence for a moment, then the place dissolved into bedlam. Mothers gathered up their children and men ran for their swords, axes and bows. Only Jelindel stood where she had stopped dancing.
With legs planted solidly at shoulder width, she watched the dragon craft approach. Her knees were shaking, her bowels seemed about to betray her and there was a sharp, acidic taste of fear on her tongue. Despite it all she stood her ground and slowly drew the thundercast.
With great deliberation she depressed two studs.
As the thing got closer it was obvious that it was about the size of a very large grain ship, vaguely disk shaped, but with a neck-like structure protruding from what seemed to be the front and vanes like wings from the sides. The deep rumble that emanated from it shook the very ground that they stood on. The craft stopped above the market area and hovered. Its hulking mass cut off all sunlight from the village centre.
Suddenly it made a squealing sound and one of the larger cottages exploded into burning wood, thatching and broken stones. A line of blue fire became visible in the smoke.
A patch of heat moved on to the next cottage at the end of the blue beam, leaving a trail of melted, smoking ground in its wake.
Chapter
21
Jelindel stood in the deserted centre of the square, teeth jammed together and heart racing. As soon as she retaliated, her presence would be recognised. She was so small, and the dragon craft was so big.
‘Jelindel, get under cover!’ shouted Kelricka from somewhere behind her.
The words somehow broke the mesmerising effect of the dragon craft. Jelindel slowly raised the heavy thundercast in both hands, aimed at a place just behind what might have been the mouth of the dragon and squeezed the trigger bar.
A blast rocked the mighty flying weapon, but although fragments rained down into the market, the damage did not appear to be serious.
It turned like a ponderous bird of prey.
Jelindel fired again, but a cone of red tracery formed around the dragon craft. It fired back, but Jelindel had set the shielding option in her thundercast. A cone of red tracery formed about her as well, and an ellipse of molten ground formed on the ground beyond its protection.
The reek of burning was in her nostrils. A deep rumble interlaced with the screams of the villagers pierced her ears. Village archers fired arrows up at the dragon craft, but they flashed into smoke before reaching its surface.
A hot wind whipped about Jelindel, flinging her unbound hair into her face. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead but evaporated even as they ran down her skin. She wanted to drop to one knee, but that might seem a sign of weakness and she was determined not to show that.
The beam from the ship snapped off as suddenly as it had appeared, but the cone remained until Jelindel also ceased firing.
For a moment there was no sound other than the rumble from the dragon craft’s interior.
‘Puny GVG cannot stand against Korok’s warship,’ a deafening but familiar voice boomed down. The voice was Korok’s, but it was as if a mighty volcano was now talking in broken Skeltian.
‘I know about this weapon, Korok,’ Jelindel shouted back. ‘The shield utility absorbs the power from your own thunderbolts. It can last as long as you shoot at me.’
‘Maybe so, but Korok can kill all those around unless you give mailshirt.’
‘What is it to you?’
‘Mailshirt is control. Mailshirt is knowledge. Mailshirt is lost sciences and skills from ancients. Find mailshirt, find lost links, Korok will have power to rule stars. You have mailshirt and Korok’s link. Give both.’
‘Korok, hear me. The mailshirt has but one link missing now. I know where that last link is hidden. That’s tempting, isn’t it? The whole mailshirt.’
There was a pause that betrayed Korok’s interest.
‘You lying.’
‘No. We can deal. I want revenge on the King of Skelt for the death of my family. Give me this, and I shall give you the final link.’
‘You lying,’ he said again, but his voice held less conviction.
‘Why not check the truth of my words, Korok? Just as our spellvendors can cast truth charms, so must one of the crew of your dragon craft be able to glean when a person is lying or telling the truth.’
‘Hah, have no crew. This craft needs only com – but wait, yes, Korok can tell if one such as you is lying. Wait for moment.’
The dragon craft dropped lower, and another booming voice replaced that of Korok.
‘Speak your statement,’ it said with a flat, metallic resonance, like that of the thundercast.
Jelindel shouted back as loudly and rapidly as she could.
‘Hear me, Systems Control: authorisation code Prime Override 96-haz-zega-1874! Cancel Korok’s trainee pilot option.’
‘What? No, stop!’ screeched Ko
rok.
‘CONFIRMED, CANCELLING TRAINEE CONTROL OPTION,’ boomed the deep, flat voice from the dragon craft.
A hatch suddenly opened on the underside, and Korok’s head emerged.
‘Now, at my command,’ began Jelindel.
‘No, no!’ Korok screamed through the open hatch. ‘Korok make deal. Korok and you use warcraft to overthrow Preceptor in single hour. Please! You avenge your family, you be Queen of all Skelt, of continent, of entire world!’
Too late for deals, thought Jelindel. She took a deep breath and shouted to the ship again. ‘Ascend to five thousand miles at full inertial acceleration, then execute autodestruct sequence.’
‘No! No!’ screamed Korok.
‘Provide authorisation code,’ boomed the craft’s voice.
‘6998-zega-prinkiv-tol!’ Jelindel shouted back.
The craft slammed the open hatch shut, trapping Korok inside, then the huge mass of metallic glitter rotated smoothly and shot straight up into the sky.
The sudden silence was washed by echoes of the dragon craft’s rumbling engines, and the only evidence that it had been there at all was the fires and damage. False memories from the link that Jelindel wore on one of her toes gave her a new warning.
‘Don’t look up!’ she shouted. ‘Everyone turn to the ground and close your eyes! Don’t look up or you’ll go blind!’
Suddenly an intense light blazed brilliantly white from horizon to horizon as the dragon craft destroyed itself. Even the light reflected back from the ground was so intense that it dazzled those foolish enough to have their eyes open. It faded quickly and the sky was again blue overhead.
Jelindel flopped down to the dust while the villagers heaped sand onto the molted ellipse surrounding her. She was carried over the sand bridge by the blacksmith, who set her down on the shrinestone steps.
Those villagers who were not smothering fires or tending the wounded gathered around Jelindel so quickly that Daretor and Zimak had to push their way through.
‘That was fantastic!’ shouted Zimak, embracing her. ‘You faced that dragon alone, you shot it, you used its magic name to drive it away. Jaelin – Jelindel, you’re the greatest Adept who ever lived.’
‘Nobody but you could have done it,’ said Daretor clapping her on the shoulder.
They pulled away as the mayor made his way through the crowd and thanked her with tears in his eyes. ‘Mage Auditor, you saved our village and our lives!’ he cried.
Everyone else now came swirling about her with their personal thanks. Gemoti held up his hands after several minutes, and tried to clear a space around Jelindel.
‘Ease back now, folks, the poor girl’s getting a worse battering from ye all than she got from the dragon.’
A circle began to clear around Jelindel as the people dispersed to clear up the mess. Only her companions, and Kelricka and Gemoti remained standing at the base of the steps.
‘How did you know all that strange language?’ Daretor asked as she sat resting, her back against the shrinestone steps. Jelindel noted the slight, familiar frown of suspicion on his face as she tapped at the studs on the thundercast.
‘Because I am wearing Korok’s link on my toe,’ said Jelindel as she pointed the thundercast at Daretor and shot him.
The villagers who were still nearby screamed and flung themselves to the ground as the tall, well-muscled warrior collapsed, as limp as a feather pillow.
‘Jaelin! Why did you do that?’ cried Zimak, aghast.
‘Because I know who has the last link,’ Jelindel replied sadly, turning the thundercast towards him.
‘Bawdykin!’ Zimak cursed, then he tried to leap for her.
Jelindel shot him in mid-air. He crashed heavily to the steps and tumbled down to the ground.
Jelindel descended the shrinestone steps. Unsteadily she beckoned Gemoti to come over.
‘Hurry, we don’t have much time,’ she said, her voice quavering. ‘Get some men together and take these two over to your shop.’
Once they had reached the smithy Jelindel slipped Zimak’s lead ring from his finger. A bright glow of orange was coming from the inner surface. She peeled the lead casing away with her knife.
‘The last dragonlink,’ said Kelricka, nodding her head in understanding. ‘But was it necessary to kill them both?’
‘They are still alive,’ Jelindel said, sounding more weary than ever. ‘Now help me prop Zimak up beside the anvil.’
‘What are you doing?’ asked Gemoti, bewildered.
‘Repairing a dream.’
Jelindel curled Zimak’s hand around the chisel and pressed it down on the link as it lay on the anvil. She took the hammer from the blacksmith and struck the chisel, square and hard. Blue tracery crawled about Zimak’s fist for a few moments, then dispersed.
‘What will you do when they revive?’ asked Kelricka. ‘They will not be well disposed to you.’
‘Daretor hates anyone who would use another’s fighting skills through one of the dragonlinks. His idea of honour blinds him to all other need or necessity. If he wakes up here, he will know that both of the people that he trusted most in the entire world have betrayed him, and have been as dishonourable as his worst enemies – in his eyes, at least. I used a dragonlink to defeat Korok, but Zimak was using one all the time that he was with us. Daretor would … gah, it doesn’t even bear thinking about.’
Kelricka clasped her hands together in alarm. ‘At least you can defend yourself. When Zimak wakes up he will be without his fighting skills. Daretor may kill him.’
‘Not so. I used a special technique to split the dragon -link. Zimak will keep a measure of his abilities for some weeks, and if he works hard he will be able to keep some of them forever. I learned the trick from a … a friend that I met in the Valley of Clouds. I kept it secret, confident there would be just such a day as this. Now then, Kelricka and Gemoti, strip everything from them.’
‘What?’ they chorused.
‘Remove their clothes and weapons. Everything!’
‘But why?’ asked Kelricka.
‘To make them think that nothing but living flesh was able to go with them on their journey. Hurry.’
Jelindel finally reached up to the fine chains at her neck and snapped one. She drew out a blue teardrop shape and stared at it for a moment before putting it in Daretor’s hand.
‘What is the journey? Where are you sending them?’ asked Kelricka.
‘I don’t know,’ Jelindel said as she draped Zimak’s arm across Daretor’s back. ‘The weight is all wrong, so – I don’t know.’
‘Weight?’
Jelindel spoke a word, and Daretor was slowly swathed in blue tendrils that originated at his hand and spread to the rest of his body, then down Zimak’s arm to encase him as well. The pair began to fade within the cocoon of writhing blue lines.
‘Move back,’ Jelindel commanded the blacksmith and priestess, and they pressed against the wall as Jelindel stood with her hands clasped together. The writhing mass of blue suddenly vanished with a loud blast. All that remained was a little pile of blue powder on the floor of the smithy.
‘What did you do?’ asked Kelricka as Jelindel scuffed the blue powder with her boot.
‘The blue jewel was given to me by – well, you would not believe who it was. The device could have transported me to another world, but it is destroyed in the process. Daretor and Zimak are in a paraworld now, and can never return. Ever.’
‘You make it sound like death,’ said Kelricka softly and quietly.
‘It’s as final as death, but not death. Daretor will awake thinking that Zimak is the one friend who never betrayed him, and Zimak will retain his kick-fist skills if he practises them henceforth. Meantime, I am safe from Daretor’s wrath, even if his hate for me burns in some unimaginably distant place.’
Zimak stirred, and beside him Daretor groaned. They were lying on rubble in the half-light of morning or evening, he could not tell which.
In the distance were th
e sounds of tuneless singing and coarse laughter, interspersed with an occasional scream. Up in the sky was a huge banded moon in a greenish-blue haze. None of the stars or constellations were familiar.
‘Zimak, is that you?’ asked Daretor.
‘Aye, but – my clothes! Everything’s gone.’
Daretor sat up, warily looking about him. ‘Damn that traitorous little bitch Jelindel!’ he spat, enraged. ‘Damn her to Black Quell’s pit, aye and below it too. She’s magicked us to another world and kept the mailshirt for herself. She was probably scheming to do it all along.’ He glanced down at himself. ‘It seems that clothes and weapons cannot be sent to this particular paraworld.’
No ring, thought Zimak in dismay. ‘We, ah, we do seem to be in a new world, indeed,’ he said in almost a whisper.
‘Damn you, Jelindel!’ Daretor shouted at the sky. ‘Damn your learning, there’s no honour in it!’
‘What a strange place,’ said Zimak as the echoes of Daretor’s shout died away. ‘These ruins are smoking! They must have been only recently razed – White Quell save us, there are bodies everywhere!’
There were at least a dozen dead men where Zimak was pointing. Daretor made his way over the rubble to examine them.
‘All have their hands tied, and have been clubbed to death. It’s a dishonourable way to die. They should never have surrendered. They should have died fighting.’
‘They wear strange, fine robes,’ said Zimak as he joined Daretor. ‘We should take a set each to wear. We need warmth more than they ever will again.’
One of the bigger bodies was nearly Daretor’s size, while Zimak had his choice of the rest. Their sandals were a flexible design that strapped on easily.
‘I can’t help but worry about these robes,’ Daretor said, experimentally hefting a wooden beam that he had pulled from the rubble.
‘Why is that?’
‘Because they brand us as being among the losers in whatever fight destroyed this place – look out!’
Two heavily bearded, unkempt barbarians had been drawn to the sound of their voices. They cried out in delighted surprise at finding two more survivors and drew curving, weighted swords to attack at once. Reeling drunk and over-confident, they did not recognise Daretor’s confident, defiant stance.