Dragonsight (23 page)

‘Speak many tongues.’

‘You have been to Q’zar?’

Faruk grunted.

‘Your ancestors went there long ago?’

His eyes never left hers. Jelindel stared impassively back, confident that her binding spell would hold till she released it.

‘Long ago,’ said Faruk.

‘When men were young?’

‘Before.’

‘Before men came?’

‘Dragons then.’

‘You fought dragons?’

Faruk smiled, grim but also admiring. ‘Dragons great enemies. Destroy many Farvenu. We go.’

‘When men came, Farvenu were there?’

Faruk blinked, bored with her questions.

‘Did your people know the language of the first men?’ Jelindel leaned forward, almost holding her breath.

‘We learned.’

‘Do you remember it? Was it passed down? Are there records of it?’

‘Who cares?’

‘I care.’

‘I don’t.’

She muttered beneath her breath and the binding around Faruk tightened. He grunted in pain but showed no other sign of discomfort. ‘There is a word in the language of the first men. I must know its meaning.’

Faruk opened his mouth in a parody of a grin. He laughed scornfully, as if she had said something stupid.

‘Children forget.’

Jelindel sighed. ‘Yes, we have forgotten. I think your people live a long time. It is easier for you to remember.’

‘What word?’

‘Hadirr. Do you know it?’

‘No.’ That scornful grinning laughter again.

Jelindel felt defeated. She doubted she could extract the information from this creature even if she had the will to torture it. She stood up.

‘Let’s go, Hakat. We have what we came for. Most of it.’ She strengthened the binding spell and eyed the chieftain. ‘This binding will hold for an hour. It will not harm you further.’

She and Hakat moved to the door. Hakat peered out, making sure the way was clear. He nodded and stepped over the bound body there. Jelindel followed him.

‘Good enemy,’ Faruk said.

Jelindel looked back.

‘Meet again.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Kill you.’

‘Perhaps.’ She turned to go.

‘Ask dragons.’

She stopped. ‘Ask the dragons? Why?’

‘Dragons taught first men. Gave them speech.’ The laugh rumbled out again. ‘This you should have known.’

Jelindel stared. ‘The language of the first men came from the dragons?’

Even as she said it she knew it to be true. Some of the words for dragon meant ‘shepherd’ and ‘father’, even ‘guardian’. How could she have been so stupid? The traces of the ancient relationship between dragons and men were still to be found in modern-day Q’zaran, like the impressions of bones sometimes found in ancient rocks, the fossils of the past.

Jelindel bowed to the Farvenu. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘Hunt good,’ Faruk bid her as she left.

Daretor stared in horror at the bloated figure lying on the straw pallet. ‘Zimak?’ he asked, incredulous.

Two podgy little eyes opened in the fat face, then blinked rapidly. The figure struggled into a sitting position, still staring.

‘What have you done to my body?’ Daretor demanded. He almost reeled with anger, but QeSu tugged his tunic.

‘It’s not his fault,’ QeSu said, confused. Although her Q’zaran was poor, she was sure Daretor had claimed that Zimak was in
his
body.

‘Nothing ever is,’ Daretor said sourly. He shrugged off QeSu’s hand.

‘Daretor? Is it really you? Tell me it’s you,’ said the corpulent man on the floor.

‘It’s me, Zimak. And this is QeSu. We’re getting you out of here.’

‘Gah, they’re going to eat me,’ Zimak said in a high-pitched voice.

‘Keep your voice down,’ Daretor warned. ‘We know. That’s why we’re here.’ He handed Zimak a meat cleaver.

‘I don’t understand. How did you get to this paraworld?’ Zimak asked, gripping the meat cleaver.

‘Same way you did. On the
Sargasso
. Now, fewer questions and more listening. This is what we’re going to do.’ Daretor quickly outlined their plan.

Zimak blinked his sunken eyes. ‘You call that a plan?’

‘Fine, stay here and get eaten.’

‘Hie, I never said I wasn’t desperate enough to try it.’

Daretor and QeSu backed out of Zimak’s cell, leaving it unlocked. Together the two returned the way they had come. They tossed the key back to the guardsman, then QeSu fainted. It was an ancient ploy but sometimes the old ones were the best. QeSu was pretty and somehow, in the process of visiting Zimak and coming back, her tunic had miraculously opened part way. The swell of her breasts could be clearly seen as she lay on the floor. Three of the guardsmen jumped to their feet and crowded around her. They decided that she needed air and were of the opinion that her tunic should be opened further, especially as it was an emergency.

Daretor was behind them. It was a relatively simple matter to yank a sword from one of the guardsmen’s scabbards and shove the guard forward so that he tripped over QeSu. In the same fluid movement, Daretor brought the pommel crashing down on the skull of the man straightening up. The third spun around, unsheathing his own sword, while the one sitting retrieved his pike. QeSu grabbed the nearest guardsman’s ankles as he charged Daretor. He promptly fell flat on his face, and as he tried to gain his feet Daretor kicked him hard in the head. By this time, the tripped guard had also armed himself with a pike. QeSu rolled out of the way.

‘Drop your weapons and I will spare you,’ said Daretor. Their response was to charge him. The pikes were several feet longer than Daretor’s sword but the tales of his swordsmanship were not myths. The guards, on the other hand, seldom had to do any real fighting, and merely used their weapons to intimidate prisoners. Daretor parried the two points and charged, smashing his elbow into the jaw of one guard, instead of running him through. The last guard turned and ran, rather than face Daretor alone.

Unfortunately for him his escape route led past Zimak’s cell. Just as he must have felt he would live to fight another day, a somewhat bloated foot shot out of a cell door and tripped him. He went sprawling and came to a stop when his head encountered a wall.

Meanwhile, Daretor held the remaining guardsman at sword point, before marching him to the cell formerly occupied by Zimak and forcing him inside. Quickly they dragged in the other three and locked the door.

They retrieved the guards’ swords and wheeled to leave when one man called to them, his voice piteous. ‘Don’t leave us here. When they learn you’ve escaped they’ll eat us alive.’

Daretor glanced at QeSu. She nodded. ‘He’s right.’

Daretor did not know what to do. It was not in his nature to allow such a fate to befall anybody, especially men who were not his enemies. He compromised by placing the keys on the floor outside the cell, some twelve feet away. He then gave them the top half of the broken pike, noting that the guards wore leather belts.

‘Tie your belts together. Using the pike as a hook you should be able to get the keys in a short time. I suggest you leave this place and don’t come back.’

‘It’s more than they deserve,’ Zimak grumbled, lumbering alongside his lithe companions.

‘Charity has never become you,’ Daretor allowed. ‘But of more importance, I daresay the Farvenu will be more annoyed that their guards failed in their duties than their missed breakfast. It is they the daemons will be chasing, not us.’

It took less than ten minutes to exit the building and head for the fountain. There was no hue and cry behind them. So far so good. They could only hope that Jelindel’s mission had gone as smoothly.

They reached the designated fountain without incident, but there was no sign of Jelindel and Hakat. QeSu was worried. They hung back in the shadows, watching the streets, nervous and apprehensive. Zimak wanted to know all that had happened since he had been abducted, but Daretor told him to keep quiet. There would be time enough later to fill him in, or there would be no time for anything.

‘I do not like this delay,’ whispered QeSu.

‘Me neither,’ Daretor admitted.

‘Let us go to my room as planned.’

Daretor debated the suggestion with himself. What if the two groups passed each other on the way? Though that was less likely in this city where few thoroughfares had parallel streets. Still, there were alleyways and lanes – anything was possible.

He had just about decided to remain where they were when the decision was made for him. A siren blared high above and even in the dark they could see a swarm of Farvenu erupting from the pigeonhole windows.

‘That’s it,’ said Daretor. ‘Come on!’

They scrambled through the shadows, hugging the walls beneath overhanging eaves, moving as fast as possible. Whatever was watching from the air had not yet reached the area. QeSu assured Daretor that the other clans would join the chase, if not to aid the injured clan, then to be part of whatever sport was on offer. The Farvenu were a hunting species and they would not lose an opportunity to chase prey.

Daretor was tormented by possibilities of what might have happened. Had it not been for the keen night vision of the predators, he would have dashed from the shadows and run full pelt for QeSu’s room. He had not yet seen Farvenu in action but Hakat had assured him that they were lethal.

It took some twenty minutes to reach the boarding house. They let themselves in by the back entrance. Jelindel and Hakat were waiting inside, but there was no time to even exchange greetings. The rear window exploded inwards as a screeching shape hurtled into the room, huge wings beating, talons raking. Jelindel flung a spell and the attacker rebounded from an invisible wall. Groggy, the Farvenu started to get up.

The house rocked as more of the creatures landed on the roof and began tearing away the shingles. Lath and plaster rained down.

‘Hakat,’ Jelindel shouted. ‘The machine.’

Hakat didn’t need to be told twice. He set it on the floor and worked the controls. A light came on and the machine hummed. ‘It needs to work up its power,’ he said.

‘If there’s a way to speed it up, do it,’ Jelindel urged. ‘Daretor, Zimak, back to back. QeSu, get behind us and stay with Hakat. No matter what, don’t leave the circle. It’s your only chance to escape.’

Jelindel faced the window while Daretor turned to the door. Zimak scanned the ceiling. They had barely taken up their positions when a ball of fury blasted in from each direction amidst a rain of broken glass and pulverised plaster.

Jelindel flung another impact spell even as Daretor wove a blur of lethal steel in front of him. The creature’s reflexes were almost miraculously fast. Daretor parried frenzied blows and, through sheer luck, managed to chop off one of the creature’s hands. She shrieked but did not break the fight; instead she pressed her attack even harder. Daretor slashed, jabbed, and ducked as talons raked the air where his head had been a second ago. Then one clawed fist ripped the sword from his fingers and he knew he was about to die.

Zimak spitted a falling Farvenu, then twisted laboriously to hack at the Farvenu attacking Daretor. Even as he threw his cleaver he knew he was too late. Then time slowed down. Daretor saw the scything talons arc towards him. He tried to jump back but stumbled on either QeSu or Hakat. Compared to the speed of the talons he might as well have been moving under water. He started to yell an instant before the talons made contact. He was staring at them and the part of his stomach they were on the verge of disembowelling. Then his scream died in his throat as the talons swept through him as if he were immaterial, a ghost.

The room dimmed and there was a brief period of numbness. All ceased to be. Daretor was cut off from not only his companions, but the rest of the universe. Abruptly the world of noise and colour crashed back into being.

They were standing on the side of a sandy hill. The sun was shining. It was early morning. And they were alive.

Chapter 8

THE DAMNED QUEEN

T

hey were not on Q’zar, that was obvious.

Two blood-red suns hung in the sky and four moons sailed low on the horizon beneath a green and translucent sky.

‘What went wrong?’ Jelindel asked.

Hakat shrugged. ‘There wasn’t time. The settings are finicky.’

‘Which explains why daemons appear throughout history but there’s never any real proof,’ Jelindel surmised. ‘They zap somewhere by mistake, like taking a wrong turn …’

‘At least I got us out of there,’ Hakat pointed out.

Daretor clapped him on the back. ‘And you’ll have no complaint from me. The fact remains that we’re lost.’

‘Well, more like at sea without sails,’ said Hakat, fiddling with the machine.

‘How soon can we jump to Q’zar?’ Zimak wanted to know.

‘Not any time soon,’ apologised Hakat. ‘The machine must recharge. Makin’ the jump uses a lot of power. We just gotta wait.’

‘How long?’ Daretor asked.

‘Dunno,’ said Hakat. ‘Twenty-four hours, more than likely. Five people is a lot for one of these portable machines.’

Jelindel frowned. It was yet another snag in their plans, not to mention another day for the poison to spread further throughout their bodies. She shrugged off her unease. ‘We need to find shelter and, if we can, food.’

‘I don’t think we should risk going near a town,’ said Daretor. ‘It won’t hurt us to go without food for a day and a night.’

Zimak looked stricken. ‘A day and a night? I’ll starve!’

‘You know what you need?’ Daretor asked him. But they never found out what Daretor thought Zimak was lacking. There was a clopping, jingling tumult in the distance. It sounded all too familiar.

‘Armed riders, a large squad,’ said Daretor, drawing his conclusions from the sound alone. ‘They’re coming this way.’

‘Nowhere to hide,’ Zimak pointed out.

‘Surely not everyone we meet wants to kill us?’ said Jelindel, exasperation in her voice.

Presently a squad of perhaps a hundred armoured cavalry came into view over the crest of a nearby hill. The riders reined in their strange two-humped mounts and stared impassively at the group. What appeared to be the officers rode over. They wore loose linen turbans wrapped around their faces and flowing white cloaks.

As a professional soldier of fortune, Daretor assessed their strengths and weaknesses. The newcomers were skirmishers, fast, hit-and-run adversaries, not at their best in a prolonged battle. The Q’zarans separated reflexively, presenting dispersed targets.

One of the riders dismounted and strode towards Jelindel. Daretor moved to intercept him. With a wave of her hand Jelindel bade him stay where he was.

As the rider reached Jelindel he yanked free his scimitar. Before anyone could react he dropped to one knee and offered the sword to Jelindel.

He spoke formally in a language that was foreign to Jelindel. He then inclined his head. Unable to understand him, Jelindel looked to the others; they were similarly at a loss. The rituals of such meetings were often universal, so she gently took the sword from his grasp then handed it back to him hilt first. A soft sigh came from the mounted men. Jelindel judged that she had acted correctly.

She gestured that the man rise and he spoke to her in a melodious tongue that she once more could not understand. He seemed puzzled and tried another language. Hakat whispered to Jelindel that he knew the speech.

She waved him forward. ‘What did he say?’ she asked.

‘My understanding isn’t very good but it is one of the languages used in the great market place on Farvane.’ He spoke haltingly to the officer for some moments. There was much waving of hands and bowing. Finally Hakat turned to Jelindel.

‘He says they are the Kesparii. They are a desert people and this is the border of their realm, which lies to the west. The nearest settlement is a few hours from here and he wishes us to go there.’

‘There is more, isn’t there? Why did he single me out?’ Jelindel asked.

‘He says they were sent to get you. His people knew of your coming.’

Daretor frowned. ‘How could anyone know that? We came here by sheer accident.’

Jelindel shook her head. ‘There are no accidents,’ she said. ‘For them, or for us.’

‘His name’s Markul. He’s an officer.’

‘Tell Markul we will come.’

Markul listened to Hakat. Then he spoke rapidly, with more waving of hands, after which he issued curt orders to his men. Hakat translated. ‘Some of his men will double up. He asks us to mount and ride with him, as walking would take too long and there are predators in these parts.’

The two-humped beasts with long necks and lantern-shaped heads kneeled. All mounted, except for QeSu who insisted in sitting behind Hakat. Markul shrugged. The command then split, the majority remaining to continue patrolling the region while the others, some fifty in all, made good time.

They rode through an area of sparse vegetation: scraggly bushes and thin spiky grass such as the suns permitted. The temperature did not seem high, but quite possibly it was winter. In any case deserts were created by lack of rain rather than excessive heat.

They rode for several hours. During that time what vegetation there was ceased entirely. They entered a region of sand dunes and baked-clay flats that glittered with vast white scarves of encrusted salt where lakes had once been.

Despite the temperate climate, the unending sunlight dried out the throats of the visitors, making them dizzy with fatigue. It had been some time since they had slept, and all had passed through danger and great stress. Jelindel knew they were at the end of their endurance. She had Hakat ask Markul for a rest and some water once she realised that the journey was not going to be over for some time to come.

Markul smote his forehead with two fingers and Jelindel smiled at the universal homeliness of this gesture. Water was given to the visitors and they rested for a short time. Markul assured them they were very close to their destination.

They continued. Coming over a sharp rise a sprawling city, encircled by a stone wall, spread out below them. Pink-hued, the sandstone buildings were mostly square-shaped with narrow windows set at irregular intervals across each façade. Some buildings had minarets, whereas others were turreted. Pennants hung slack in the humid air. Even the towering palms clustered around a small oasis were picture still.

Militaristic
, was Jelindel’s first thought.

Immediately an alarm bell began clanging. Many figures swarmed the walls, but Markul had one of his men sound a signal on a horn. The distant bell began pealing slowly, signalling the end of the alert.

‘They’re well organised and alert,’ Daretor said.

Jelindel nodded. ‘Which means they have formidable enemies.’

‘You trust them?’

‘Yes, I do. I can’t explain exactly why but I feel they mean us no harm. Further, I feel that we are supposed to be here. I’m not sure why.’

They rode down the slope towards the town. ‘As long as they’re not planning a long engagement,’ Daretor said. ‘They might consider it rude if we drop dead from poisoning in the middle of our visit.’

They reached the city wall and the iron-bound wooden gates, fully three feet thick, swung open. A cheer went up as they entered, and all eyes fell upon Jelindel.

‘It’s you they’re interested in,’ Zimak noted, spurring his horse close. ‘I wonder why.’

‘You don’t think it’s my natural charm?’ Jelindel asked.

He opened his mouth to say something, but realised it was one of those questions that could only get him into trouble if he answered.

They were led into a quiet courtyard in the middle of which a fountain carved of dazzling white marble bubbled. They dismounted, and stable hands led their mounts away. Markul escorted them into the cool stone interior of what appeared to be either a large mansion or a small palace. He spoke briefly to Hakat then disappeared.

‘He’s gone to get his chieftain. An’ I think he said something about food.’

Zimak straightened. ‘Food?’

‘Unpalatable to Q’zarans,’ Daretor quipped.

Markul reappeared, followed by a white-haired man, with an air of regal command. He bowed to Jelindel and she bowed back, which rather startled him. When the older man spoke his voice was a pleasant baritone that was oddly reassuring, even to those who could not understand a word he was saying.

Hakat explained that the chieftain was thanking them for coming, and inviting them to a meal after they refreshed themselves. He told them that in the desert all strangers, if they came in peace, were welcomed.

An hour later they were treated to a sumptuous meal that included more roasted meats than they could remember seeing in any one place: lamb, pork, fish, chicken, and duck, all done to perfection, with a scatter of dried fruits, including figs and apricots. From experience, Jelindel knew that such cooking would have taken some time to prepare – another indication that they had been expected.

As the meal progressed, the visitors relaxed. The good cheer of the desert folk and their deep respect for Jelindel assuaged their fears, but did not lessen Daretor’s certainty that something was expected of them. Hakat whispered that he kept hearing the word ‘prophecy’, and it somehow seemed an integral part of their presence.

After the meal came sweet pastries, fruit and sherbet, then sweet wine. Dancers and tumblers entertained them. By the end of the evening everyone was drowsy with food and fatigue, and ready to sleep where they were. They were finally shown to their bed chambers and left alone.

As soon as she lay down, Jelindel began to doze. Daretor roused her with a touch. ‘You seem to know what’s going on,’ he said. ‘Can you not tell me?’

She placed a hand against his cheek. ‘They have something that needs doing. I don’t know what it is, but I do know that I am appointed by prophecy to the task.’

‘Which prophecy?’

Jelindel shrugged and yawned. ‘Who knows? By the universe perhaps. By White Quell. I don’t know, and I can barely keep my eyes open. We can talk more in the morning …’

She drifted off to sleep, leaving Daretor disgruntled and puzzled. Despite his weariness he lay awake, staring at the shadows on the ceiling. Just before he closed his eyes he thought he saw shapes and images in the shadows, dark things that worried him. He dismissed them as the imaginings of a tired mind.

Next morning they woke early. There was a charged feeling in the air, a sense of expectancy. Breakfast was brought to their rooms. Courtiers appeared and led them to steam rooms built of marble and containing great baths of scented warm water. Jelindel and Daretor could have spent the whole day there, bathing and playing. But too soon the courtiers returned, bearing clean clothes resembling those of the desert soldiers. At the sight of the clothes Daretor felt a heaviness descend on him. Why dress them to fight?

The chieftain and Markul met them on a large sunny balcony. From here they could see the town. Sculpted from a white rock that reflected the sun, it sat on the edge of a huge basin that stretched to the horizon. Markul spoke. Hakat translated. The town had once been a port and the basin a vast inland sea. Long ago a war between sky gods destroyed the sea and dried out the land, leaving only desert and rock.

With Hakat’s aid, the chieftain explained the prophecy.

‘It was foretold,’ he said, ‘that a great mage would come from another paraworld. She would bring with her four companions.’

‘Gah,’ Zimak spat, ‘we’ve been dragged to this godforsaken place to fulfil some god’s whimsical prophecy.’

Sensing venom in Zimak’s words, the chieftain glowered. Hakat prompted him to continue. ‘The exact time and place of her coming was also known. That is why Markul and his men were waiting for you. Indeed, we have been waiting for you for two thousand years, and it is the great fortune of all those alive that you came at this time.’

He paused and slowly gestured to the great desert basin. ‘It never rains in the desert, nor does anything grow there. It is a wasteland.’ He turned to face them. ‘In the basin there is a low hill of shingle. It is unremarkable to look upon yet inside there is a tomb, if such it can be called. She who lies there is dead yet not dead. Her name is Ortha. She was queen of this city when water lapped its piers and the sails of ships flew on the horizon. She ruled when the sky gods fought, and when the waters were sucked into the heavens and the winter clouds came no more. It is for her you have come. It is for her that you are here.’