Wardragon (15 page)

‘Are you sure you can counter their weapons?’ Taggar asked Jelindel. Behind him were three small, cherub-like creatures, covered in soft down and rolls of what looked like baby fat. These were the Korsa, a mild-mannered but telepathic race that seemed out of place on a world like Golgora; Jelindel wondered what crime had banished them here, though Taggar had pointed out that few regimes liked telepaths. Here and now, their abilities were priceless. Where the Farvenu had speaking boxes, which allowed them to communicate at distance, Jelindel had the Korsa. They had communicated far and wide with other Golgorans. Now more than two dozen tribes and races united in the common cause.

Jelindel continued to stare down into the quarry. The bird calls told her that he was right. Their forces were in place, a fact confirmed by one of the Korsa trio. ‘We are ready,’ said the creature.

‘The Ahunta too?’ Jelindel asked.

‘The Ahunta too. All await your signal.’ The Korsa sat back, apparently satisfied with his performance. The other two chirped at him softly and he preened himself. Despite her focus on what was to come, Jelindel shook her head in amusement. The Korsa were like a gaggle of grandmothers at a village fair.

Taggar had acquired a pair of portable farsights called binoculars. He scanned the quarry, checking that they were not walking into an ambush.

‘As far as I can tell, they’re not expecting us,’ he reported. ‘Of course, the Wardragon wouldn’t necessarily tell the Farvenu. Bait works better when it doesn’t know it’s bait.’

Something nagged at Jelindel but she couldn’t pin it down. Instead, she said, ‘I suspect the Farvenu have never been used as bait. Anyway, I’m more interested in the intuition that’s kept you alive this long than what you can see with those things.’ She indicated the binoculars.

Taggar smiled. ‘If it works, I use it.’

‘Magic too?’

‘I have some ability with it.’

Something was happening among the Farvenu. ‘This is it,’ said Jelindel.

Farvenu were gliding down the slope of the high ground they had chosen as their observer post. It was the changing of the guard. A flying cart appeared in the sky, and dropped to a cleared space at the base of the high ground. Strictly speaking, the quarry guard should have waited till the cart had landed, unloaded the replacement guards, and allowed them time to reach the observer post. But as with all long-term prison duties, standards and discipline had slackened with time, boredom and routine. Jelindel had deliberately forbidden attacks on any of the Wardragon’s people, so that a false sense of security might lull them into carelessness.

The departing guards eagerly entered the flying cart, which then levitated and soared away. The new guards headed up the slope to the observer post, where only a few Farvenu stood watch.

Jelindel waited until the orange glow of the flying cart’s thrusters had dwindled to a pinpoint in the sky before giving her command.

‘Now!’ she said. ‘Mind-speak to the Ahunta. Tell them to attack.’ She gave a convincing impersonation of the call of the wild tallon, a hawk-like bird of prey. The Korsa went into light trances.

Moments later the fringe of jungle at the top of the quarry, high above the observer post, moved. Then came an extraordinary sight: a flood of sleek black bodies, hundreds of them. The Ahunta were a race of fighters, not as fierce as the Farvenu, but tenacious in battle. They also had an extraordinary ability: they could jump great distances, almost fifty yards from a standing position, and they could jump
down
from stupendous heights, their odd-shaped legs designed with massive reverse-kneed joints that could absorb crushing impacts. Now the Ahunta dropped silently from the skies onto the observer post, slaying, not without losses, the handful of Farvenu there, and claiming the high ground.

That was the next signal.

The jungle fringes came alive, boiling with bodies erupting into the cleared space around the quarry. They hurled themselves at the newly arrived Farvenu, who were now caught halfway up the slope with Ahunta above them and a dozen different races below. The slaves stopped work and stared. All were chained and could not move far from their positions, but some started to cheer when it became clear the Farvenu were surprised. Others discovered that a well-aimed stone could distract a Farvenu.

As Jelindel’s combined forces attacked, she sat in the tree and chanted unceasingly, launching spells that froze the fingers of the Farvenu on their fire weapons. Frustrated, the Farvenu would change hands only to discover that the firing mechanism no longer worked. Taggar said all weapons were dangerous to the users if they became dependent upon them.

The Farvenu were quick learners, however. Their hands thus immobilised, many flapped their wings and tore at their opponents with their scimitar-sharp taloned feet.

They were superb and fearless fighters, killing five attackers for every one of themselves who died. Even with both winged arms lopped off they could still use their clawed feet to kill and maim. Their movements, lightning fast, were just a blur to the attackers, but overwhelming numbers will always overwhelm. Eventually, the Farvenu went down. Only two were captured alive. These had their limbs, and even their jaws, tightly and securely bound. Despite this, they still hissed and thrashed on the ground, their red eyes glaring at their captors.

When the battle was over there was a moment of profound silence, as if even the jungle could not believe what had happened. This was a moment Jelindel had carefully worked towards. The greatest impediment to their success had been the almost mystical belief in the invincibility of the Wardragon’s might. That myth was now in tatters, and the realisation of this began to sink in as the weary and bloodied fighters stood or limped about the battlefield. A sudden visceral roar exploded from every throat, including the slaves. Jelindel found herself joining in. Even the mild-mannered Korsa chirruped madly.

Only Taggar remained silent.

A short time later Jelindel and Taggar climbed to the observer post and Jelindel stood on the guard platform. She surveyed her fighters proudly.

‘Look about you and marvel!’ she shouted. ‘See what you have wrought with your own hands. Who said the Wardragon could not be defeated? Speak up.’

‘I did,’ said a voice. ‘And I, too,’ said another. There was a chorus of such exclamations.

‘And who said it could be done, despite your doubts and nay saying?’

‘YOU DID!’ came the response. ‘DEATH TO THE WARDRAGON!’

The voices rang out and echoed off the hillside. The trees on the edge of the jungle seemed to shiver in response.

‘Free the slaves,’ said Jelindel. ‘Those who wish to join us are welcome, those who want to return to their villages will be given food and maps. Then we must leave. We can’t be sure the Farvenu did not summon help with their speaking boxes. Return to your villages. I’ll send word when we’re to meet again.’

Another cheer went up, then began the business of freeing the slaves and assisting the wounded. In this task, Jelindel’s magic, and Taggar’s medical experience, were invaluable. The able-bodied looked on in wonder as Jelindel laid her hands over gaping wounds and pumping arteries. Blue flickering light from her hands and lips swarmed over the injuries, sealing or repairing, or just advancing the healing process sufficiently so that within hours the scars scabbed over and looked to be days old.

‘It’s the best I can do,’ Jelindel was heard to mumble to herself on several occasions.

Murmurs spread quickly, and Jelindel’s stature grew. Not only was she a canny general in battle, but she cared about her troops, down to the lowliest churl who did no more than carry arms for the grown-ups but who had blundered in the way of a fire projectile.

‘Her touch heals!’ they whispered.

After that first attack, Jelindel concentrated her forces on harassing the Wardragon’s finely tuned production system. She sabotaged its supply lines, attacked its quarries, captured its ore caravans, and liberated its slaves, but kept away from the main fortress. She wanted the mailshirt to believe she considered the place impregnable, so that it would throw even more warriors and weapons into shoring up the weaker links in its great enterprise. These were the roads, rails, caravan paths, labour gangs and mines. And at the end of the day these were unimportant targets, but it did not have to know that.

At the same time Jelindel expected it to send out patrols of Farvenu and to introduce reprisals against ‘civilian’ populations. It did both. Jelindel had misgivings about the reprisals. That innocent people should be harmed because of her actions was not a thought she found easy to bear, and left to herself she might have abandoned the campaign. It was Taggar who assured her that she could not stop the fight, that the only way to deal with reprisals was to let the Wardragon know that reprisals would cause more attacks on its infrastructure. This she did in a spectacular way, again thanks to Taggar.

Three of the Wardragon’s most critical possessions were the deep tunnel mines at Patrel, Korvosk and Minnim. These mines, and their on-site workshops, produced tiny amounts of a chemical Taggar called gast. Gast, he said, was a rare catalyst. It took roughly a thousand tons of mineral-rich ore to produce one gram of gast, yet without it the Wardragon’s flying machines would never leave the ground; without it, no large-scale portals could be opened.

In a raid that was incredibly daring, the mine at Minnim was attacked and annihilated.

A message was sent to the Wardragon informing him that if reprisals continued against civilian populations, Patrel or Korvosk would be next. It was a dangerous game to play.

It was Ras who delivered the message. The Wardragon stood in what Ras thought to be its favourite spot. It was on the balcony that overlooked the great pit. Kaleton stood nearby, nursing his own thoughts.

When Ras handed over the message the Wardragon’s eyes betrayed nothing. It was that lack of emotion that made Kaleton think for a moment that Ras himself would be hurled off the balcony. Ras, as ever, stood at his ease, casually waiting for a response, and oblivious to the danger within a hand’s grasp. Kaleton pondered whether the man’s composure came from courage or stupidity.

‘What has she done, m’lord?’ Kaleton asked.

He had estimated the right moment to interrupt. Too early and the rage might have turned on him, too late and the Wardragon might have decided that he was hiding something. Kaleton wondered briefly about the Preceptor, sensing that his true lord was still ‘alive’ somewhere. When he ceased to be, when it became obvious that he would never return, Kaleton would have to make a choice of loyalty. But not yet.

>SHE HAS DESTROYED THE MINNIM MINE. AND CLAIMS SHE CAN DESTROY THE OTHER GAST SOURCES JUST AS EASILY. I WILL SUMMON ANOTHER BATTALION OF FARVENU. I HAVE UNDERESTIMATED THE COUNTESS<<<

‘M’lord, that will take time.’

>THEN I WILL GO<<<

‘Would it be wise at this time to leave here? The production needs your …’

>DO NOT FLATTER ME, KALETON<<<

‘May I ask what terms the Countess requests?’

The Wardragon growled deep in its throat.

>SHE SEEKS THE CESSATION OF REPRISALS AGAINST NON-COMBATANTS<<<

The Wardragon could have said more, but stopped itself; thoughts of Jelindel confused it, made its heart – correction, the Preceptor’s heart – beat faster, gripped by an unfamiliar emotion. The attacks were growing, as were the images and feelings that rose unbidden from some place within its mind. The face of the woman, and the laughing child, haunted its thoughts.

What did it all mean?

‘M’lord?’ Kaleton interrupted the Wardragon’s thoughts, which was a blessing. The Wardragon knew that Kaleton had a personal repugnance for the reprisals, and would gladly have seen them stop. He would doubtless point out that history had shown they seldom worked, and usually united those who were being persecuted.

‘Might it not be wise, in this one instance m’lord, to acquiesce?’

The Wardragon could not risk revealing its confusion. >>>ARE YOU BECOMING SOFT, KALETON?<<<

‘Hardly, m’lord. But without the gast mines we cannot power the ships. Without the ships your great plan cannot be realised. Why take the risk?’

>WHY? IT WOULD SHOW WEAKNESS. IF WE ALLOW COMPASSION, SHE WILL BECOME STRONGER. MORE TRIBES WILL FLOCK TO HER BANNER. I SHOULD HAVE ELIMINATED HER THE MOMENT I SET EYES ON HER<<< And yet it hadn’t eliminated her. Worse, it had let her escape, had almost been powerless to stop her. It turned with blinding speed to Ras, who did not even blink. >>>WHAT DO YOU THINK OF KALETON’S SUGGESTION?<<<

Ras eyed the Wardragon, expressionless as usual. ‘I think both reasonings are inept, but his less so than yours.’

Kaleton thought Ras had overstepped the mark, but the Wardragon simply grunted. Kaleton wondered if that was laughter.

>SOMETIMES I WONDER WHY I DO NOT DISPATCH YOU<<<

‘I wonder that too, m’lord,’ said Ras, without sarcasm.

>EXPLAIN YOURSELF THEN<<<

‘Increasing the reprisals will put the gast mines at risk.’

>ELUCIDATE<<<

‘Your production schedules would be set back, possibly by years. Kaleton’s plan is more sensible, but also too limited. For now, you should agree to Jelindel’s terms, but do it in such a way so that it looks as if you are conceding for humanitarian reasons. You can blame Kaleton or me for the excesses. At the same time, you must start fortifying the two remaining gast mines, and start looking for new lodes. When these new veins are found they must be kept an absolute secret. Do that, and you will no longer be vulnerable and production will be increased.’

The Wardragon weighed the man’s words. >>>YOU WERE NOTHING MORE THAN A SHEPHERD WHEN YOU FOUND ME<<< It turned back to Kaleton. >>>IMPLEMENT THE AGREEMENT. I DO NOT LIKE IT, BUT PERHAPS, AS RAS HAS SUGGESTED, IT CAN BE TURNED TO MY ADVANTAGE<<<

‘Yes, m’lord,’ said Kaleton. He turned to go.

>AND KALETON<<<

‘Yes, m’lord?’

>WHEN THE REPRISALS BEGIN AGAIN, YOU WILL BE IN CHARGE OF THEM<<<

Kaleton bowed and departed. Outside, he scowled. The Wardragon was both canny and cruel. Unfortunately, it was also invincible – or so the mailshirt believed.