Dragonfang (8 page)
That night Jelindel had a dream. She was speaking to a figure hidden by shadow. Whenever Jelindel tried to catch a glimpse of the silent figure, a swirl of black, eddying smoke wafted from the floor and the figure fragmented, becoming whole again further away. Jelindel kept walking after it, telling the apparition her thoughts and worries, as though under a spell.
‘Yesterday I survived an attempt on my life,’ she said in a monotone. ‘I strongly suspect my assailants were bounty hunters. There is, after all, three hundred gold oriels on my capture. My only solace is that they need me alive. Another possibility is that the Preceptor’s spies have found me. Either way, I begged my way aboard the
Dark Empress,
and in all modesty, I believe Captain Porterby was only too pleased to have me sail with him again.’
The wraith dissipated, then became whole again at a distance. Now it seemed vaguely familiar.
‘I have decided to take a young man under my wing. He strikes me much the same as I was when I fled home,’ Jelindel
continued. ‘My introduction was more brutal than his, of course. Although well educated, my life’s experiences came from books. And nothing, I have learnt, compares to actually
doing
things instead of reading about them. I knew about swords, but had never had to use one for protection. My arsenal of minor spells and the herbs and ingredients to strengthen them was considerable, but my life had never depended on them. I had seen pictures of faraway Centravian, Bravenhurst and even the aqueducts of the Skeltian Empire. However, nothing could have prepared me for the experience of actually seeing them.
‘Hargav, on the other hand, has lived in the urban sprawl of D’loom. He’s reasonably well educated, and has obviously enjoyed a patronage of some kind or another. He’s undoubtedly learnt to steal and beg on the streets, and being the sole male member of the family, has had to perform the male chores of the household. I suspect there is a fire within him that, if fueled, will see him reach far beyond his current horizon.
‘My horizons are limited by the fact that I have betrayed two friends. True, they had their faults. Zimak was secretly wearing a dragonlink and coveted the omnipotent mailshirt; Daretor and his mindless quest for honour drove me to the brink of despair. But what I have done is far worse. I have vanquished them to a paraworld, where their chances of survival are practically nil.
‘I have travelled the dark and perilous roads between Q’zar and the paraworlds and they are not for the lighthearted. Monstrous birds with quarterstaff long talons fly their airways and cannibalistic tribes war one another continually. In one paraworld the cold sciences rule: metal monsters race one another at incredible speeds and fly in the skies attacking one another, and machines rule the lives of their creators.
‘I did what I had to do. Zimak would never have let me
destroy the mailshirt, and Daretor would never have forgiven Zimak for having used the ring to enhance his fighting ability. Such was his hatred of the linkriders that he might have killed Zimak on the spot.’
The shrouded figure was growing faint now, as though whatever power maintained it was drained. ‘Come to me – you know where I live,’ it whispered, receding.
‘Black Quell forbid, I wore several of the links myself in search of the mailshirt. So I sail this night with a heavy heart.’
Jelindel sat up. ‘Lady Forturian?’ she breathed.
‘Wuh?’ Hargav said hoarsely from his locker underneath.
‘It’s nothing,’ Jelindel whispered. ‘Just a silly dream.’
D
aretor, Zimak and Osric ate their last meal together beside an oasis pool. Thick clouds obscured the sun above the desert, and gave them an added feeling of protection. The adolescent dragon crouched nearby, its glittering eyes watching them. Osric finished eating and wiped his fingers on his tunic.
‘I am sad that our ways part here. I had hoped you would return with me to Bazite as heroes.’
‘I had hoped that also,’ Daretor said. ‘But if we are to return to our own land, we must enlist the aid of a powerful sorcerer, and you say there are none among your people.’
‘Magic does not run in our blood, but I know from the talk of the Dragonriders that north of here are lands where magic is much used.’
Osric climbed onto the dragon and called down to them, ‘You must stand well clear. I bid you farewell, my friends.’
‘Remember what I told you!’ Zimak shouted.
Osric laughed. ‘I will not forget. I will make an entrance that
my people will not forget for a hundred years. Farewell.’
With that, the dragon leaped off the ground, its great bat-wings cupping the air, and in a moment it was above the treetops. Daretor and Zimak watched it with mixed feelings.
Daretor waited until the dragon disappeared. ‘I’m almost sorry we did not go with him. If we don’t find a way home then we might seek out his people one day.’
Zimak shook his head. ‘Hie, Daretor, I would’ve liked to have become a hero. Even for a day.’
They wrapped the dried food, filled the water skin, and set off on foot. They travelled north for several hours before coming to another oasis just after nightfall.
‘It’s unusual to find another oasis so soon,’ said Zimak.
‘No, it’s common,’ said Daretor. ‘I saw the like often back home.’
They made for the outline of the palm trees against the darkening sky, and discovered that the oasis was very extensive. A large camel train was encamped on the far side, but after their previous experience with a caravan, they decided to keep clear of it until morning.
Daretor and Zimak made no fire, raised no tent, and ate their meal amid the low, dense bushes before settling down for the night. In the morning they would approach the camel train and ask about travelling with them as guards. Their eyes had not been closed long when a commotion roused them. It sounded like a battle coming from the direction of the caravan. Daretor pulled on his boots.
‘What are you doing?’ demanded Zimak.
‘Going to investigate, of course.’
‘Massacres must happen a lot around here, Daretor. These people? They’re used to it.’
Daretor stared at Zimak. ‘No one gets “used” to being murdered, you dolt.’
‘Do you have to go
looking
for trouble? Doesn’t trouble find us without us helping it along?’
‘Are you coming or staying?’
Zimak groaned and fumbled for his boots.
They found a massacre. There was a large campsite close by, but on an open stretch of sand were dozens of bodies. All appeared to have been able-bodied men, and most had died fighting. Others lay tied up in a neat row, as if slaughtered after surrendering. Occasional screams and cries came from the more distant tents.
‘There’s something awfully familiar about this,’ Zimak said. ‘These men. They’re the same ones we fought, before Jelindel struck us a second time.’
Daretor’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘What in Black Quell’s name is happening to us?’ He shrugged off a creeping sense of unease. ‘Find a weapon,’ he commanded.
‘Mere steel will not save us,’ Zimak said morbidly, but followed Daretor’s order. ‘Money, weapons, light armour,’ Zimak mumbled. ‘These bodies have not been looted.’
‘The victors are busy ravishing the women again. Or should I say, “still”?’ muttered Daretor. ‘We are honour bound to intervene once more.’
‘I am getting very tired of the sound of that word,’ Zimak said.
‘Come, let us see how the land lies before we attack.’
‘Perhaps we’ve been given a second chance, Daretor.’ Zimak gripped the bigger man’s shoulder. ‘Maybe some god here saved us before and dragged us back through the paraplane.’
Daretor looked at him as if to say, You’d come up with any old nonsense to get out of a fight. Instead, he said, ‘We are
champion gladiators on this world. We have already defeated a mantid. What can sozzled warriors do to us?’
‘There’s something about the logic of that, but I still think we should get as far –’
Daretor waved him quiet. ‘It sounds as though they’re being murdered as we stand here. Hurry!’
‘These weapons are drenched in blood. Erk.’
‘Zimak?’
‘What?’
Daretor’s knuckles were white against the haft of a broadsword. ‘Shut … up.’
As Daretor had ascertained, the raiders were not at their most alert. He observed that the few that were on guard wore spiked helmets, light chainmail and leather breastplates. They carried a variety of weapons: scimitars, broadswords, halberds and bows.
‘They appear to be armed with the best that can be looted on battlefields,’ said Daretor. ‘That’s good.’
‘They have the best and that is good?’ muttered Zimak.
‘Yes. You should be armed with what best suits you, not with what has the highest value. Still, they do not seem to have suffered even one loss during their encounter with the caravan’s guards and drivers. A disparate bunch of men, but they fight well. That is their weakness too, of course.’
‘Of course that’s their weakness,’ Zimak said, with ill-disguised sarcasm. ‘Are we really going to attack them?’
‘The greater the odds, the greater the glory. Besides, the lives of the women are at stake.’
‘Maybe so, but my life is at stake as well.’
Daretor eyed Zimak up and down. ‘I have known many mighty warriors, solid, staunch men and women upon whom
I could entrust my life. I have met powerful Adepts, intellectuals, and people of honour. People who understood the meaning of the word chivalry. Of all these companionable people I have known, I find myself here with you.’
‘That’s not fair,’ Zimak said, stung by the words. ‘If I’d had my choice of partners, I’d have chosen someone different, too.’
‘I agree that Adenia Troddledope, the fishmonger’s daughter, would have suited your immediate needs, Zimak. But I wonder whether her knowledge of the hayloft at the back of the cobbler’s shed would have been of much practical use here.’
‘She wasn’t just a pretty face …’
Daretor paused, listening. ‘Two men, coming our way.’ He locked eyes with Zimak. ‘We might have been brought here for a reason other than Jelindel’s treachery. I feel this deeply.’
‘Oh, the gods are talking to you directly, are they?’ Zimak said, raising an eyebrow. ‘Can you pass on a message or two for me? For a start, Adenia –’
‘
Zimak.
If we are to survive until we can find a way to return to Q’zar, we must prove ourselves, and when I prove myself I want to show that I am a man of honour. If you want my company, you had better try to do the same. If you don’t like that, then start walking. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Hmm,’ said Zimak, non-committally. How had Daretor known about Adenia Troddledope, anyway? He looked across at the carousing barbarians and almost whimpered. At least Adenia wouldn’t have been a suicidal maniac. Her honour had long since been extinguished in the seedy alleyways of D’loom.
‘So, you have not decided to flee,’ Daretor said, taking Zimak’s silence as agreement. ‘Then here’s what we do.’
Daretor’s plan was simple enough. The majority of the
raiders were already drunk on whatever they had plundered from the caravan.
‘Sure I heard something,’ rumbled one of the approaching men.
‘What’s one more snivelling cur?’ said the other.
‘We’re missing the festivities.’
‘There’s more than enough skirt to go around –’
The pair were extraordinarily easy to defeat. One blow from Daretor’s sword nearly cut the bigger of the pair in two, while even the diminutive Zimak managed to overpower the other after a short but frantic struggle.
‘Come on, let us take the others.’
‘What? By direct attack? Daretor, what say we wait until they’re all drunk and asleep, then slit their throats?’
‘And let the women be defiled for another three or four hours? What manner of man are you?’
‘A survivor,’ Zimak mumbled.
Daretor walked straight for the fire where the raiders were roasting a sheep-like animal. They managed to get close to the enemy before an astonished warrior barked an oath. What followed was a very one-sided battle. The raiders were not well coordinated, having had their fill of drink, and Daretor won most of his encounters with the first blow. The problem was that the swords were as frail as the enemy, and he broke three before taking a heavy, two-handed axe from one of his victims. This he used easily with one hand.
Zimak spent most of the fight guarding Daretor’s back, but few raiders were willing to approach what must have seemed a supernaturally strong demon and its acolyte.
Suddenly everything went still and quiet. Daretor counted eleven bodies, and five raiders were on their knees with their hands in the air.
‘Four escaped,’ panted Daretor.
‘Three,’ said Zimak, pointing to a woman emerging from a tent with a bloodied knife in her hand. She approached Daretor, kneeled before him, then bowed.
‘We beg mercy, mighty demon,’ she began.
‘I am no demon,’ said Daretor.
‘But I can be a bit of a devil,’ laughed Zimak from behind him.
‘Get the other women, bind those raiders hand and foot,’ said Daretor. ‘After that, I have a little hunting to do.’
