Wardragon (23 page)

There was the faintest note of suspicion in her voice. Daretor flinched and sought an immediate Zimak affectation.

‘Hie, Jelindel, you’ll be imagining I’m the Preceptor next,’ he laughed.

Jelindel laughed too, but much to Daretor’s relief she soon fell asleep. Daretor quietly rolled over and regarded her for a while. At last he kissed her gently on the cheek. Jelindel sighed in her sleep. Daretor lay awake for some time, wondering what he was doing. I’m better at being Zimak than Zimak, he thought with bitterness.

The next morning they played the waiting game.

Instructions were sent out via the telepathic Korsa, and reports came in at regular intervals. Groups were moving in on their pre-assigned targets, mostly transport depots, the kind that berthed their own flying troop wagons.

The tribal groups consisted of the attackers, those who would destroy the communications machines, and Taggar’s people who would steal the flying wagons. They would then be flown to predetermined locations where hundreds of warriors waited. From there they would hurtle into the very heart of the Wardragon’s fortress, the central courtyard.

Meanwhile, Jelindel’s team was already inside. It would split up into smaller units, which would do their best to destroy the defences of the fortress, and to spread confusion. Tow, a technician in his former pre-Golgora days, understood cold science systems and had been assigned the task of taking control of the tower’s communication machines, sending guards to the wrong places, and perhaps even getting them to shoot at one another.

However, the main task was to reach the hall of the flying wagons and steal one. It was Taggar’s belief that each wagon was equipped with the same type of machine to open a portal back to Q’zar that the Wardragon possessed. If he was right, they could either use the flying wagon to move everyone off Golgora, or merely use the portal opening device.

At noon, the teams shook hands and departed. Most of them were fairly sure that they would not survive the day, but it was better than not fighting at all. By mid-afternoon, the attacks on the transport complexes outside the fortress had begun. Jelindel’s people won every skirmish. Whatever powered the communication boxes was destroyed, preventing the fortress being notified of what was going on.

Daretor put a hand on her arm and she placed her own over his, squeezing it for a moment. Jealousy flared briefly in Daretor’s heart.

Taggar stood up. ‘Time to go,’ he said.

They shouldered their packs, hitched them tight, and moved out. They had barely gone a hundred yards when the lights went out, and the ever-present sigh of the air ventilators ceased.

Taggar grinned. ‘Jelindel one, Wardragon nil.’

‘Whatever that means,’ muttered Daretor. Despite his jealousy of the previous night, he found himself liking the man, even trusting him. He had difficulty believing he was more than a thousand years old.

They had brought weapons with them, traditional swords as well as more of the cold science things. This was just as well. Rounding a corner they ran into a group of guards, some of whom recognised Jelindel.

‘It’s her!’ one of them cried.

The guards charged. Full of bravado, they withheld their fire, for they were used to attacking those who were not armed with cold science weapons. Taggar and Jelindel brought down three of them with the stun devices, but Daretor did not even bother to fumble with the safety catch of his own weapon. At such close quarters there is no substitute for a good club, and while Daretor preferred a sword, he was an expert at striking people with just about anything roughly a yard long that would not break when brought down hard upon an opponent’s head. Worse, the guards had been given training in fighting at distance, but not for close-quarter battle. At least two guards managed to stun their own people, and Daretor did the rest. Given Daretor’s preference for fighting like a barbarian, it was understandable that he gave a loud and savage battle cry as the last of the guards fell to the ground. It was not typical of Zimak’s behaviour in a fight. Unseen by Daretor as he swept up a fallen sword, Jelindel cast a puzzled glance his way before continuing on.

The chamber of flying wagons was awesomely large, with a ceiling that curved at least sixty feet above them. It was ringed by catwalks, and on the floor, in perfectly aligned rows, were at least three dozen of the incomprehensibly shaped flying machines. Taggar stood frozen, gripped by some powerful emotion.

Jelindel put a hand on his arm. ‘Taggar, what is it? What’s wrong?’

Taggar shook his head, as if to clear it. There was a catch in his voice as he said, ‘The last time I saw one of these craft was the last time I saw my beloved. Garricka.’

Jelindel squeezed his arm and he seemed to come back to himself. He smiled at her. ‘I am all right, but this …’ He stared around. ‘I had no idea the Wardragon had built so many, so quickly.’

‘Remember time does not flow the same here as on Q’zar,’ said Jelindel.

‘Even so, this is a fleet to rule empires. If it is not stopped, the stars will surely fall to it.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Daretor. ‘Stars are lamps in the Veil of Heaven. How can they ever be the Wardragon’s?’

‘I don’t have time to explain, Zimak, but a dozen of these vessels could destroy an entire world. They could then go to other worlds – no, not just the paraworlds. They are powerful warships. The only reason you would need so many would be … if you were intending to take back what was once yours.’

‘I’m only worried about Q’zar,’ said Daretor.

‘Three of these could annihilate Q’zar within a week,’ replied Taggar.

‘If there are other “worlds”, why would the Wardragon care about Q’zar?’ asked Daretor.

‘Q’zar is where it all started, Zimak, five thousand years ago. Which means Q’zar is a symbol. And symbols are always worth destroying, especially if they belong to the enemy.’

‘Would the Wardragon really annihilate our whole world?’ asked Jelindel, barely able to comprehend the idea.

‘Trust me, the Wardragon cares nothing for your planet, except that it is the first world it will take, and enslave. And perhaps make an example of.’

‘Then we must warn our people,’ said Daretor.

‘To do what?’ asked Taggar. ‘The weapons of these flying wagons can strip the very air from your planet. How do you warn people to prepare for that? A poster in the marketplace? “Keep A Vat of Air Handy In Case the Wardragon Strikes”?’

Daretor remembered Fa’red’s words. ‘Perhaps help will come from unexpected quarters.’

Taggar eyed him cannily. He nodded at last. ‘Perhaps it will. But we must do our part first.’

A faint hum came from above. Daretor’s mouth gaped. ‘The roof. It’s …
sliding
open!’

‘We must hurry,’ Taggar said. He ran towards the nearest flying wagon, touched a coloured pattern on the surface in a complicated sequence of strokes, then stood back as a hatch opened. He climbed inside. Jelindel and Daretor followed, although not quite as confidently. Daretor’s suspicion that the roof was about to fall in on them was all that pushed him up the hatch stairway. Taggar led them to what he said was the command deck.

‘Jelindel, this is … look, this is a chair where someone sits when they are steering,’ he explained. ‘Please, sit.’

‘But I know nothing of this flying wagon.’

‘Just sit, and trust me.’

Jelindel sat down. Taggar attached a metal circlet to her head, a thing that looked oddly like a crown. He then touched some glowing squares on the bench before her, and Jelindel stiffened slightly and shut her eyes.

Daretor raised his cold science weapon like a club, but Taggar waved him back, smiling. ‘Fear not, she is merely in a light trance,’ he explained.

Presently, Jelindel opened her eyes and removed the circlet.

‘How is this possible?’ she asked.

Taggar shrugged. ‘It is a form of hypnosis, which communicates directly with the human brain, implanting knowledge. By wearing the circlet, anybody can learn to fly one of these vessels in a matter of minutes. It was developed towards the end of the great war, when new recruits were difficult to find, and training time very limited.’

‘It makes sense. I would never have gathered this knowledge in a lifetime,’ she marvelled, a look of wonder on her face as she gazed inwards for a moment.

‘A lifetime we don’t have,’ Taggar pointed out. ‘I thought we had you to fly the craft?’ said Daretor.

‘I’m not coming with you.’

‘What?’ Jelindel exclaimed.

‘We shall have need of Hawtarnas – remember him?’ said Taggar.

‘I know the name –’

At Jelindel’s blank look he added, ‘Our chief systems engineer, who developed a means to leave Golgora the first time. One of my duties is to plead with him to assist us.’

Jelindel’s shoulders slumped. ‘I guess all allies will be welcome when the final battle comes to be fought. But why Hawtarnas in particular?’

‘I know a little of his likes, dislikes and alliances,’ explained Taggar. ‘Hawtarnas does not like the Wardragon, and he knows something of its weaknesses. Believe me, we shall need him if the Wardragon escapes here with even the remnants of a fleet.

‘Go warn Q’zar, gather as many allies as you can. But before you go, destroy as many of these craft as possible. I fear the Wardragon has others, but we must do what we can. I’ll coordinate the battle, and try to help the exiles on this nightmare world escape. Go now. As I must, to fetch a reserve that will surprise the Wardragon and its allies most unpleasantly.’

‘But won’t you need transport to escape?’ Jelindel said.

‘If we fail, you’ll have a head start on the Wardragon because it has no means to chase you. If we succeed, we can steal more craft for our people. There’s a saying on a paraworld I once visited: “Better safe than sorry”. Besides, if your plans bear fruit, we’ll have our transportation. Until we meet again, fare you well.’ With that he turned and exited the ship.

‘What plans?’ Daretor asked. ‘Have people been making plans and not telling me? Again?’

‘You’d better buckle in,’ Jelindel told Daretor. ‘Things could get bumpy.’

‘Bumpy?’ demanded Daretor.

‘Just trust me,’ Jelindel said impatiently.

Daretor felt the vessel shudder with power. From outside there were sudden shouts and, in the distance, dull explosions. The flying wagon levitated. Jelindel tilted the craft, and pressed a stud on a complicated-looking rod. Yellow pulses of light leapt from the wingtips, and suddenly other vessels on the floor were exploding into flames. Debris clanged against the hull and the flying wagon rocked as though in swell. In short order, she took out most of the grounded ships.

Daretor’s mouth gaped. He looked away from the cockpit view screen when a scene of carnage appeared on the wall of the flying cart. For a moment he reeled, as though one side of the flying craft had been inexplicably ripped open and he was about to fall out. Terrified shouts and klaxons mingled with the crackling of many fires filled the cabin.

‘There’s no smell …’ Daretor said in disbelief. He sat down and was automatically fastened to the seat. Unable to comprehend what was happening, he stared in wide-eyed shock as streaks of lightning stabbed at the ground with pinpoint accuracy. Ship after ship erupted into fireballs; panicked crewmen, caught in a crossfire, fell like skittles as they tried to flee the carnage. Strapped to his side, his sword seemed about as powerful as a splinter against the might of the flying machine.

‘Uh oh, we’d better get out of here,’ Jelindel said. Guards were dragging up some large guns and plugging in power cords.

‘This isn’t how battles are fought,’ Daretor said, trying desperately to understand how so much carnage could be wrought without bearing a weapon. ‘There’s no honour to it.’

‘There was no other way,’ Jelindel said, although he barely heard her.

Jelindel guided the craft into the centre of the apron. Something akin to a giant hammer struck them but apart from a slight jarring they sustained minimal damage. Moments later they were in the sky and rising fast. Shortly they were more than a mile above the fortress, gazing down on a scene that showed a great deal of smoke and flames. A dozen flying wagons converged on the place. Hundreds of armed former slaves spilled from the wagons when they landed.

The reign of the Wardragon on this world was almost over.

‘Time to go,’ Jelindel said reluctantly.

‘But what about everyone down there?’ Daretor said, his sense of chivalry fast eroding. ‘Would you desert them on the say-so of a man you hardly know? They saved your life!’ He pointed at the image on the screen. ‘And the Wardragon’s still down there!’

Jelindel hardly reacted to his outburst. ‘There are plans in motion you know nothing of, Zimak. Remember Hargrellien? Anytime now she and her flock of warriors should arrive.’

‘
Hargrellien
?’ Daretor spluttered, looking both suspicious and annoyed. ‘Ah yes, plans that I know nothing about. Plans kept secret from me. Plans with “Don’t tell Zimak” written all over them. Anyone would think that I was working for the Wardragon. I wonder what he’s paying mercenaries!’

‘All right, all right, I apologise. You were not involved, so you were not told.’

‘Suppose you tell me now.’ Daretor stared at Jelindel in the silence that followed. ‘So, I am not to be trusted?’

‘No, no, it’s just not necessary, because you will see –’

‘Look at you! You’re like a miser, agonising over whether to spend a copper coin. Hey, Jelindel, look at all your allies giving up their lives. Such a pity you didn’t tell them that help is on the way, but that was a secret plan and you do love to surprise people –’

‘Stop it, Zimak!’ Jelindel snapped. ‘You’re sounding like Daretor! I know all of this is a … a shock. I’ve made a pact with Hargrellien, all right?’ she shouted. ‘The Wardragon has to follow us, and … this world is well suited to Hargrellien’s needs.’

‘You gave her this rat trap?’

‘Yes. She’ll guard the gast against any further mining by others like the Wardragon.’

‘Then why the secrecy?’

‘It’s the fate of a whole world –’

The battle cry that interrupted her was not recognisable as that of a chicken the size of a mansion because it was so shatteringly loud and very deep. Above them, a flock of very unlikely flying objects was materialising in mid-air from a vortex of roiling, gleaming clouds the colour of pearls. ‘BUK BUK BUKCAW,’ thundered one of Hargrellien’s airliners.