Wardragon (30 page)

‘The spirit globes!’ Daretor shouted.

Zimak stopped Daretor from rushing into the inferno. Daretor shrugged him off, and stood transfixed.

More than a dozen of the globes had appeared, each with a mirror-like surface that reflected back the flames around it. The globes encircled Jelindel’s body, moving faster and faster until they were a blur of motion. The body moved, drawing a collective gasp from those watching. Some muttered prayers of propitiation; others swooned and fell. Several turned and fled.

Suddenly, the white burial cloth flashed into ash and blew away like dust. Jelindel sat up, then stood. Naked, she stretched out her arms. The spirit globes slowed in their frenzied circling, and seemed to caress her. Then they gathered close about her, lifted her out of the flames and gently deposited her on the floor of the chamber.

‘Your cloak!’ Daretor demanded, holding out his hand to Zimak.

Daretor stepped forward and wrapped Jelindel in the cloak, and threw his arms about her. ‘I knew! I knew this couldn’t be right!’

Jelindel blinked, as if waking. She looked at Daretor, her eyes shining. ‘You brought me back, you summoned them,’ she said, as the bolder priests returned and crowded around.

‘I thought I’d failed.’

‘But what
happened
?’ demanded Zimak as Jelindel embraced him in turn.

‘I went to the place of the dead,’ she said. ‘Then I came back.’

‘Just like that?’ laughed Zimak.

‘No, not just like that.’

‘Is Lord Daretor here?’ called a loud, authoritative voice.

There was a sudden hush, as might happen when someone farts particularly loudly during some important temple ceremony. Daretor did not hear the query, but he did hear the city’s bells tolling their warning.

‘The enemy is here,’ Daretor said. It was then that he noticed the messenger. ‘You! How close are they?’

‘A half hour away, no more.’

Daretor turned to the undertakers. ‘You took off her clothes before wrapping her in the death robes. Return them. Now! You, messenger, get three horses here within the minute.’

‘But –’

‘Confiscate them, steal them, beg them, cut them from the harnesses of the hearse, I don’t care. Just do it!’

‘Is there any food?’ Jelindel asked. ‘Nothing like death to build a good appetite.’

‘I’ll – I’ll fetch a venison haunch from the wake hall,’ said a pale-faced undertaker. ‘And maybe wild greens …’ He hurried off in a daze.

‘Can you tell us anything of what happened?’ asked Daretor as they walked away from the blazing pyre.

‘I can tell you that the poison was a deadly one. Without the help of the spirit globes I would have truly died.’

‘They cured you of it?’

Jelindel frowned. ‘They slowed time, and that gave my body a chance to recover from it. Like all mages, I have permanent magical protection against poison. But part of this one’s deadliness was that it acted so quickly. There was no time to mount a defence.’

‘But where exactly did you
go
?’ Zimak asked.

Jelindel seemed nervous, even afraid. ‘Somewhere else, somewhere
different
. But I brought something back with me.’

Zimak looked around. ‘Not something dead?’

‘No. Something else,’ she said. ‘At least, I think I did. I’m not sure.’

They were outside now, Jelindel having quickly dressed. The messenger ran up with three horses in tow. Jelindel, Daretor and Zimak mounted and rode for the main battle station from where the defence of the city would be orchestrated.

‘I don’t mean to press you, Jelli, but have you found something that will help us?’ Daretor asked.

‘I don’t know. I need time to think about it.’

‘We don’t have time,’ said Zimak.

Daretor gripped Jelindel’s hand. ‘Do what you must, my beloved. If the spirit globes can buy you time, then Zimak and I can do no less.’

As Jelindel tucked into a fist-sized slab of venison, they spurred their mounts on and sped through the city.

The War Council met on the battlements of the outer wall. Rumours of Jelindel coming back from the dead and even eating something from her own death-feast had spread about the city. Few knew what it meant, but all took renewed hope from it. Someone truly remarkable was on their side, and that was all that mattered.

Jelindel herself displayed confidence wherever she went, aware that confidence won as many wars as did feats of arms, but she was not herself fooled by her bravado. She had not told Daretor and Zimak, but what she had learnt in the place of the dead terrified her.

The War Council conferred with the trio. D’loom was already practically under siege. Although the Wardragon’s army had not yet reached the walls, it had cut off most of the city’s land approaches, and a fleet of ships with blood-red sails – courtesy of Fa’red, it appeared – had blockaded the harbour.

‘Anything in the sky?’ Jelindel asked.

‘Nothing, unless you count the stench of fear,’ said the captain, who had ordered the alarm rung. There were a few tired laughs.

‘A fleet of airships will come,’ Jelindel said. ‘The army, the ships in the harbour, they are simply to ensure that no one escapes.’

She quickly outlined what they might expect, especially from the air. The assembled commanders did not like the sound of the Farvenu, but Jelindel assured them that the Wardragon had only a finite number of the devil creatures at his command. The metal birds and their thundercasts were another matter. There seemed little defence against them.

‘If this Wardragon has enough of these craft, then we are lost,’ a commander said. ‘We should surrender. Surely they will spare the women and children –’

‘Then you believe in old wives’ tales,’ said Lukor, the palace captain. Like the others here, Jelindel knew the commander had never seen a thundercast in action; worse, he had not seen what she recently had.

‘Let him be,’ said Jelindel. ‘Let all here speak their minds freely. As for the vessels of the air, they are not invincible. I have destroyed many of them.’

‘What do we do?’ asked Lukor. He glanced at the horizon that was now a smudge of brown dust moving at an extraordinarily fast rate.

‘Your men can defend the walls,’ said Daretor. ‘Everyone must stand by their assigned station and defend it – to the end, if need be.’

‘Let us all go to those stations,’ added Jelindel, trying to keep the despair out of her voice. How unfair it would be if she infected these fine men and women with her own grave doubts, with her terrible dilemma. ‘The battle we fight today will chart the future course of Q’zar. The enemy has put everything into this attack. Defeat what they have here, and they will have nothing left. Whether this world is to be ruled by magic and honour, or by greed and cold science, all shall be decided before the sun sets. Go quickly now, and whatever the enemy throws at us, do not quail.’

The War Council broke up, leaving Jelindel, Daretor and Zimak alone on the rampart.

‘So, it comes to this,’ said Daretor quietly.

‘It comes to this,’ Jelindel agreed. She swallowed. She wanted to tell Daretor what she had seen, she wanted to tell him about
the knife’s edge
.

But something, fear perhaps, kept her silent.

‘Gah, it comes to what?’ asked Zimak. ‘Death? We’ve faced that many times.’ An image of Ethella in her lonely solitude flashed into his brain. ‘Besides, there is something I will need your help with after all this, Jelindel. A personal matter.’

Daretor snorted, though good-naturedly. ‘Then it must involve a woman.’

Zimak looked hurt. ‘Not just any woman. This is the woman I intend to wed.’ He almost gulped. Had he really said that? He could have bitten his own tongue out.

Daretor, and even Jelindel, stared at him. ‘Are you sickening with something?’ asked Daretor, genuinely concerned.

‘Oh, go soak your head in a wine barrel,’ Zimak said gruffly.

The first assault very nearly shattered the confidence of the city’s defenders. A great horde darkened the plains around D’loom like a carpet of army ants on the move. It flung itself at the city walls but was met by a deluge of arrows and throwing spears, and barrels of burning pitch. Scaling ladders were thrown up, and promptly knocked or cut down again. In other places, the attackers reached the battlements, but the elite of the city’s swordsmen were there waiting, armoured more heavily than those who had had to climb the walls under fire. The mages of the city were also at work, countering the magic of the attackers where it was brought to bear, and hurling blistering spells upon the heads of the enemy. After roughly an hour of fighting, the attacking army retired to just outside of the range of arrows, and the weaker spells of junior adepts.

Jelindel, Daretor, Zimak and the other commanders patrolled the walls, helping on the various battle fronts.

‘Isn’t it time for your special gift from the afterlife to be used?’ asked Zimak as they stood assessing the resting enemy army.

‘I’m saving it for when it’s needed,’ said Jelindel dismissively.

‘Gah, I’d have thought it was needed yesterday.’

‘The Wardragon wishes to remake the legend of the mailshirts, I think,’ said Jelindel, changing the subject.

Daretor nodded. ‘My thoughts also. It sends the army against us, which is pushed back again and again. The Wardragon then comes forth and breaches our walls, lays waste to our buildings. A personal glorious victory. The Wardragon’s people then know that it can defeat armies and cities that they cannot.’

‘Won’t you at least consider using this gift, whatever it is?’ asked Zimak, undeterred.

‘Who said it’s a gift, Zimak? Who said that? Is a sword a gift? A sword has two edges. It can cut both ways.’ Jelindel glared at him, then her look softened. ‘I … fear what I have at my command,’ she admitted finally.

‘But the spirit globes brought you back,’ Zimak pointed out. ‘Would they have done that if you weren’t meant to use this – whatever it is?’

Jelindel remained stubbornly silent and did not meet his eyes.

Daretor put his arm around Jelindel’s shoulders. The gesture was awkward but well meant, and Jelindel took some comfort in it. He said, ‘The Wardragon’s spy network is undoubtedly thorough, but with luck it will think Jelindel is dead. Perhaps it is best she hold off as long as possible. The element of surprise is always the best hand to play, after all.’

‘Hie, Daretor, I hate it when you make sense,’ Zimak grumbled but Jelindel shot him a grateful look.

So far, the losses were few in D’loom, the walls had withstood the initial charges. Because the invaders had moved so fast they had not brought any siege engines to bear, so none of the city’s defences could be battered down. Jelindel had no sooner voiced this thought than the bells tolled a new warning, ringing dolefully throughout the city. Peering into the distance, the three could just make out dark specks in the sky.

A ragged cheer erupted from the invading army.

‘They come.’ All at once Jelindel felt tired.

Soon a score of the flying vessels could be clearly discerned. For a moment Daretor hoped it was Taggar coming to their rescue, but then the vessels began firing their thundercasts at the city. A dozen buildings erupted in flame with the first salvo, as if their intention was to demoralise the defenders – in which they were largely successful – before the weapons were turned upon the walls. Several ragged breaches were blasted in the ancient stone. The attacking army surged forward again. Daretor squeezed Jelindel’s shoulder and took his leave to rejoin the cavalry.

Despair, and anger, spread through the city. Jelindel bit her lip. What should she do? Was this the last extremity, when all should be gambled, or merely the first round?

She hurried along the battlements to the nearest breach. Already attackers were merged in a blanket of hand-to-hand fighting with the city’s warriors, while within the walls a great force of cavalry was being readied, with Daretor among the officers. They would soon ride out and harry the attackers from the outside, trying to take the pressure off the breaches.

‘Are things bad enough yet?’ cried Zimak, who was suddenly beside Jelindel.

‘No,’ said Jelindel, pointing to a dark cloud that was approaching. ‘They are worse.’

‘Farvenu,’ spat Zimak, though like everyone else he had been expecting them.

Two hundred Farvenu flew towards the city, yet still Jelindel was undecided. ‘
Your fate is to save magic, or destroy it. The future lies on a knife’s edge
…’

Damn Cimone and her warning. And damn those who dwelt in the Place of the Dead! Why was this her job? Why did
she
have to save magic?

As dangerous as the Farvenu were, Jelindel knew their greatest weapon was fear. The fear they would instil in the defenders. Farvenu were daemons, straight out of the nightmares of childhood.

‘Move well back from me, Zimak,’ Jelindel ordered.

She fell to her knees, closed her eyes, and concentrated, chanting, gesturing, marshalling her powers to assemble what she had never used before: the Spell of Rupture. It was ordinary, if powerful, magic – and a way to avoid the knife’s edge, which she feared. Maybe they could win this day without her being forced to do what she loathed.

As the dark cloud of daemons neared and the noise of bat-like wings beating the air was heard above the sounds of battle, Jelindel carefully wove the spell – then just as the Farvenu folded their wings and dropped out of the sky like hideous birds of prey, she opened her arms wide and spoke the final word of command.

A great ball of blue lightning erupted from her fingertips and hurtled up towards the Farvenu. Some, but not many, were lucky enough to be out of its path. The ball of light engulfed the cloud of horrors, leaping from body to body, causing their wings to stay locked together, so that they fell out of the sky, smashing into the ground. Some few, low to begin with, survived the impact, but these were quickly cut down by the defenders, though they took many with them.

A horde of near-invincible horrors is liable to make any army run, but the Farvenu that remained did not inspire the same fear, though the few survivors descended and fought fiercely. Soon these too were isolated and overwhelmed, and a significant part of the Wardragon’s effort was decimated.