Dragonfang (17 page)

‘Then we shall be mercenaries in search of employment in the army of Prince Ulad.’

Finally, it was their turn to be confronted by the guards. To their astonishment, the guards took one look at them and dropped to their knees.

‘My lord Daretor, welcome,’ said the gate captain. ‘Prince Ulad has been expecting you. And this must be your squire, Zimak.’

Daretor exchanged glances with an astounded Zimak, then he looked back to the gate captain. ‘How do you know us?’

‘Why, the lady Premiel sent your description and an account of how you saved them. She is the royal consort.’

‘Premiel is the royal consort?’ echoed Zimak.

‘Why, yes. Her message arrived by carrier bird. She was full of praise for you.’

The pair was escorted into the city with five guardsmen flanking them, and several more clearing the way through a highly excited and inquisitive crowd. When the guards had first surrounded them, Zimak prepared to flee. Only Daretor’s hand had stayed him. The guards were there to protect them from an adoring public. It would seem they were heroes.

The cobblestone streets were crowded but very clean, and the whitewashed buildings looked almost new. Daretor couldn’t help thinking that the town had been prepared for some momentous occasion, something akin to a coronation.

‘Your city looks well tended,’ Daretor said to the gate captain. He couldn’t help noticing that the guards wore splendid robes and armour. Their weapons were magnificent but impractical.

‘In honour of you,’ he replied, earnestly.

Daretor and Zimak stared at each other, but did not laugh. The palace was more of a splendid mansion than a fortress, and it was clear that war and strife had not been seen in this city for a very long time. Daretor was reminded that first impressions could be misleading.

They were kept waiting in a shady garden for a half hour, while slaves brought them a sampling of local beverages and trays with fruit and pastries.

Finally they were admitted to the royal audience chamber. It was like a smaller version of the temple, circular and lined with white pillars. The white-veined marble was not local stone, and had obviously been transported at great expense and effort. Prince Ulad looked to be at least in his sixties, perhaps older. As was typical of men of his station, around the age of forty he had decided to leave fighting and exercise to younger men, and had begun to enjoy fine food and pampered living. It had been the downfall of many a king.

The herald made his announcements and declarations, and the heroes were formally thanked by the prince before the assembled courtiers. After the formalities were out of the way, the prince rose from his throne and beckoned his guests to follow him into the palace gardens.

‘My wife also mentioned that you wish to return to your own world,’ Prince Ulad said to Daretor.

‘We were sent here by treachery,’ said Daretor. ‘We burn with a desire to return to our homeworld and be avenged.’

‘
We
is a rather strong word,’ Zimak tried to interject.

‘As it happens, we are the custodians of an ancient machine,’ said the prince, gesturing to the temple they were approaching. ‘We have the ability to send people to other worlds, but they never return. We have long wondered why, for visitors from
other worlds seem to come, then go with few ill effects.’

‘They could be arriving back in their own world dead,’ Zimak pointed out. Daretor glared at him and he quietened.

‘Your people are very frail, compared with even the most puny of our world,’ said Daretor, without so much as a glance at the much smaller Zimak. ‘Perhaps the dangers are too much for your people to endure.’

‘Perhaps,’ the prince said, falling silent.

The interior of the temple had no obvious ringstone, but the sight was magnificent. The roof was a vast dome, beneath which sat a pair of thrones, back to back. The walls were an amphitheatre of terraces, but instead of seats there were circular channels full of still water.

‘The magical engine is powered by lightning fish, which are kept in the terraced channels,’ Prince Ulad explained. ‘Keepers have ways of making them release their power all together, in such a way that it is focused down by the dome and brought to bear on those two chairs.’

‘In the desert we saw many ancient ruins that might have been ringstones,’ said Daretor.

‘Ah, but you have used the key word, my good and brave warrior. Ancient. There have been advances in the architecture of magical buildings and temples in the two thousand years since those ruins were built. Why, this one is barely six hundred years old, yet it is less than a third of the age of those desert temples and ruined cities.’

‘So there are no ringstones?’ asked Daretor.

‘Well, yes, there are ringstones, but they are obscured behind the terraces of channels. They give the place such an ancient, old-fashioned aspect. They are necessary, of course, but why have them on view?’

‘You say the place is no longer used?’

‘Oh, my philosophers and priests use the device to view other worlds without going there. It is far safer. What we can do is find your world by allowing you to see it from the vision chair. What is the name of your world?’

Zimak was about to say Q’zar but Daretor coughed loudly. ‘Name?’ he asked. ‘It is just the world. It has no name.’

Zimak silently cursed himself. Jelindel had often told them that knowledge of someone’s ‘truename’ or a world’s ‘place name’ gave power to magicians. Daretor was simply being careful.

The prince waited for Zimak to have his say, but when he deferred to Daretor, he said, ‘It is sure to have a name, you just don’t know it. What to do, what to do? There have been travellers from your world to ours. That is, no doubt, where our common language comes from. They, and others, have told us many world names. We could use these to view dozens of worlds until we find yours.’

‘When can we begin?’ asked Daretor.

‘Tonight. There is no special preparation needed. I am a priest of some ability, and I know many world names. I shall sit in the throne behind you, chanting the names. When we see cities, mountains and forests from your world, tell me. Then Zimak can take my place, and you can both be sent back by means of a more powerful spell.’

‘As a sign of gratitude for saving your wife’s life?’ Daretor asked.

‘Why, of course, Daretor.’ Prince Ulad rested his hands on Daretor and Zimak’s shoulders. ‘My wife has instructed me to lavish upon you both my utmost hospitality. Preparations for your safe return home began the moment we received word of your bravery.’

________________________

As was his routine, Daretor went out to the pell yard to do some sword work before the evening meal. Zimak watched from a tower window. Outwardly he was calm, but inside he was frantically trying out a multitude of plans. If he returned to Q’zar he would no longer be exceptionally strong. If he stayed behind, he would no longer have Daretor’s protection. If he returned home, he would be there when Daretor discovered the truth about him getting his martial skills from an enchanted ring.

There was a rustling of cloth behind him. When he turned around, he saw a very old man leaning on the window ledge beside him. Together, they looked down on Daretor. The man’s embroidered cloak marked him as a priest. Its cowl was down, revealing a circlet of exquisitely wrought silver with a single gem embedded as a third eye across the forehead.

‘A magnificent swordsman,’ the priest said sombrely, appraising Daretor.

‘Nobody can deny that,’ Zimak replied. He edged marginally away, sensing a power within the man.

‘My name is Modar,’ he said, airily. ‘I am the high priest of the temple. You are, of course, Zimak.’ He stroked his goatee with jewel-encrusted fingers.

‘What god is the temple dedicated to?’ asked Zimak, with no real interest. Anything to deflect the man’s penetrating stare. He looked back at Daretor.

‘No god in particular. It is actually no more than a building to house the ringstone. People hire the main chamber for religious ceremonies every so often, so I suppose it does have religious function. My own role is not so much that of a priest, as warlock. I look after magical matters, administer the place, organise ceremony rosters, lead the chanting, and generally make sure the place runs smoothly.’

Zimak looked at the priest. ‘Tell me about the process for being transported back to my homeworld,’ he said, casually. ‘Do Daretor and I go together, or does he go first?’

‘Oh, either way is possible. In this instance, the plan is for our monarch to go with Daretor, scribe the location parameters, then return and send you. We would like to establish a … friendly place to visit on your world. A place where our explorers can arrive and not be set upon by hostile locals.’

‘Tell me, is there any reason why I should be sent back at all?’

Modar paused. ‘No, but don’t you want to return home?’

‘No, to be really honest. I like it here. I am stronger than anyone else on this world, other than Daretor. Your girls are very pleased to be in my company and, generally, I like to be here. What is more, I can be of great value to you.’

‘And how might that be?’

‘I have travelled widely on my world. I can make many journeys with, say, yourself. I can show you safe and interesting places. Places of power and treasure. I would trade my knowledge for a dozen gold coins a month, a pleasant suite in the palace, and the company of your monarch’s more pleasing concubines.’

‘That seems a very reasonable offer … but from your tone I gather that you would prefer that Daretor did not find out.’

Zimak shrugged. ‘Daretor is a boor. He wouldn’t understand.’

The priest raised his hand and snapped his fingers. For some moments nothing happened, but when he and Zimak turned around there were two girls of about twenty standing behind them. Each was holding a gold tray, upon which was a gold cup. The priest gestured to the girl who was standing before Zimak.

‘Let us drink a toast to our arrangement,’ he said, staring levelly at Zimak. ‘This drink is yours. You may keep the cup if you wish, along with the tray. Even the slave is yours, if she is to your fancy.’

The girl smiled demurely. Zimak winked at her as he took the cup – then he cunningly took the priest’s cup as well. Both were about half filled with some sort of golden wine. Zimak poured the contents of one cup into the other, then poured out half of the mixture into Modar’s cup.

‘To our very special arrangement,’ he said, contentedly. He raised his own cup, and handed the other to Modar.

‘And to our strong sense of mutual trust,’ replied the priest, accepting the cup. With a smirk, he drained it.

Zimak looked reflectively into his own goblet before taking a gulp. The wine was a little sweet for his taste, but he decided he would have no problem drinking it in great quantities if nothing else was to hand. He opened his mouth to speak, but his throat was fast becoming numb and paralysed. He could not move, or even breathe. He stared wide-eyed, uncomprehending, as the room reeled.

The two girls gently took hold of the aged priest and laid him face-up on the floor, then one straddled him and began to push and lift with her hands on his chest. The other girl approached Zimak, who was only standing because his body was totally rigid and leaning against the wall. She eased him to the floor, sat astride him, and began to pummel his chest.

She worked on Zimak’s paralysed lungs until he began to breathe easier. ‘The poison only lasts for a few minutes, but by then you will be securely bound and in a very deep and soundproof dungeon, indeed,’ she said. ‘My lord Modar thought it wise to use some potion that subdued you without any lasting effects. He ordered that both cups be drugged, you see.’

After a few minutes Zimak was able to breathe again, but not move or speak. The girls bound his hands and feet. Then a burly guard carried him away. Zimak took note of the wending stone
stairs and corridors, but suspected that it would do him little good. The dungeons were a long way underground.

He was placed carefully in a cell, and the door was pulled shut. It was small consolation that the guard had not harmed him, which meant he was not to be killed … yet. There was no window, and no lamp. Despite the near pitch black, he sensed he had company. But there was nothing he could do, of course, being paralysed.

Squinting, Zimak etched out the form of a woman. She was watching him carefully, almost inquisitively, barely moving. Her breathing was hoarse and rattly, as though the dankness of this place had lodged deep into her bones.

After what seemed an eternity, the woman finally spoke. ‘Zimak.’

‘Uh,’ managed Zimak, his vocal chords partially defrosting.

The woman moved, making herself comfortable now, as though she knew he posed no immediate threat. ‘I saw you when the door was opened. You know me as Andzu.’

Andzu, the girl from the caravan, thought Zimak. The Matriarch’s handmaiden. She sounded more like an old crone than the canary-voiced beauty he remembered. Almost like the voice of the Matriarch, but somehow disconcerted, as though puzzled by something. His heart quickened. What had they
done
to her?

‘The Matriarch is Prince Ulad’s consort,’ Andzu went on slowly, reading his confusion. ‘I was coming here, under her protection, disguised as a servant. I am Princess Andrella, from the distant kingdom of Bazite. I was supposed to marry the son of Prince Ulad, but he has no son. I know that now. I know a great deal
now
.’

She laughed bitterly. ‘Oh yes, I slept with you, yet I was to be wed to the Matriarch’s son. How foolish of me not to have realised I was being duped when Premiel ordered me to bed you. I
naively thought it some strange initiation rite, a dark custom of these heathens.’

‘Baz … ite,’ Zimak managed.

Princess Andrella cocked her head. The outworlder spoke the name with some familiarity, despite his speech impediment.

‘I was given up by my father to strengthen an alliance with these heathens against the dragonriders. Once wed to Ulad’s supposed heir, our two people would join forces against the sky dwellers.’