Wardragon (6 page)

‘I’ll try.’

Blue light flickered about her lips then leapt the intervening space to assault the fire. At first, the flames reared up and retreated, as if they were a living thing, suddenly afraid. Then they swept back, sending out a tongue of flame that lashed at Jelindel and would have burnt her badly had Daretor not jerked her away in time.

‘In the shop,’ she yelled. ‘There’s a tub of powdered bane’s wood. Fetch it.’

Daretor hurried off and returned moments later with a small barrel of greenish powder. Jelindel started throwing handfuls of the stuff at the flames, muttering charms of suppression as she did so. Slowly, the flames retreated, leaving behind an awful stench. It took more than an hour to finally quench the fire and by that time they were almost out of the bane’s wood and all three were blackened.

Exhausted, they dropped into chairs – untouched by the flames – breathing heavily and eyeing each other uneasily.

‘A curious and potent spell,’ Jelindel remarked at last, almost to herself. ‘One that sought out flesh and left inanimate things untouched.’

‘Hie, it seems we’re not very popular,’ Zimak said, brushing his blackened tunic.

‘The master of understatement,’ Daretor grunted.

Jelindel set powerful spells of warding and protection about the house. She was in the middle of a bath when Daretor came in. ‘We have a visitor,’ he announced.

She stood up, dripping water. ‘At this time of the night? Dawn is still two hours away.’ She stepped from the tub and headed for the door.

‘Jelli?’

She stopped and looked back at Daretor.

‘What?’

‘You might want to put some clothes on.’

She looked down at herself. ‘Oh.’

A few minutes later she entered the room where they always met their clients. A hooded man sat at the table, his hands clenched together so tightly that his fingers were white-knuckled. Daretor stood nearby, a hand on the pommel of his sword, poised for action. The man did not seem perturbed by this, but since his face could not be seen it was hard to tell. His head moved slightly as Jelindel entered. She sat down opposite.

‘I’m Jelindel dek Mediesar,’ she said and after a pause, added, ‘I would prefer to see the face of the person to whom I’m speaking.’

The other slowly pushed back his hood, revealing a man in his late thirties or early forties, with prematurely grey hair, rugged good looks that seemed rather haggard right now, and a wolfish grin. Jelindel found herself liking him, though of course that very likely had been the man’s intention. Daretor noted Jelindel’s response, and his face darkened.

‘I am called Taggar. I have come from Argentia.’

Zimak came in with drinks: spiced coffee and boiled milk. A disquiet had settled on the room and everyone seemed buoyed by the pungent smell of coffee.

‘You have seen troubles this night,’ said Taggar, sipping his drink.

Daretor stiffened. ‘What do you know of that?’

Taggar shrugged. ‘I can smell mage-fire. And your house is heavily protected with wards and charms of some complexity.’

‘Which you walked right through,’ Jelindel pointed out, ‘as if they weren’t there.’

‘Do you know who attacked you?’

‘You did,’ said Zimak bluntly. ‘Don’t take us for fools.’

‘It was not I who sought to harm you.’

‘You have travelled far,’ said Jelindel, shifting the conversation slightly. ‘Your cloak is journey-stained, your boots have seen heavy use, and the lines around your eyes suggest long periods of squinting … Perhaps from looking for those who might be following you …’

Taggar laughed. ‘You are perceptive, my lady.’

‘Why don’t you tell us your story?’

Taggar finished his coffee in a gulp and held out the empty cup to Zimak, smiling. ‘Might I trouble you for some more of this most excellent brew?’

Zimak complied without grace. While he did so Taggar began his tale. As he talked Jelindel watched his face and listened closely to his words, noting places where things were left out, and where phrases were worded cautiously. He’s taking great care not to lie, thought Jelindel.

Taggar said he was from the mining town of Argentia which nestled in the western foothills of the Algon Mountains. Argentia had always been a frontier type of town: rough folk, rough manners, rough justice. In recent years however, a certain order had come to the place. Those same rough folk had had families, raised children, and their manners mellowed somewhat. More recently the town had been taken over by a large company of men and the mining operations expanded tenfold. A perplexing urgency possessed the newcomers and they worked the miners hard. Over time the owners craftily indentured all those in the town so that now they were virtual slaves and could never hope to pay off the debts they had apparently incurred. Taggar himself was indentured but had managed to escape.

‘There is now a bounty on my head,’ he said and Zimak perked up at this, eyeing the man with new interest.

Taggar went on to say that the current mining operations were also much deadlier than the old: some of the new metals glowed in the dark and killed those who stayed near them too long. Daretor said they’d heard recruiters in the marketplace calling for workers for Argentia and offering substantial wages and bonuses. Zimak said they had been recruiting like that for weeks and by now hundreds were heading that way for work.

Taggar sighed. ‘Then they go into slavery and death.’

‘Why come to us?’ said Jelindel. ‘Do you wish to hire us?’

‘Alas, I am but a poor escaped bondsman.’

Jelindel laughed. ‘Somehow I think you’re more than that.’

Taggar acknowledged this with an almost imperceptible bow. ‘Do you know Argentia?’

‘We’ve been there,’ Jelindel said.

‘And do you know the meaning of the name?’

Jelindel’s voice faltered. ‘The place of light.’

‘What’s in a name?’ Zimak said impatiently.

Jelindel waved him quiet.

‘I think you know the man who now runs Argentia,’ said Taggar. ‘He certainly knows you and even as I speak he is seeking you with all his might and cunning, and his intent is ill.’

‘Does this man have a name?’

‘He calls himself the Preceptor. Only he is no longer the person you once defeated.’

Jelindel sat very still. Finally, she said, ‘And what does he want with me?’

‘Nothing less than the complete annihilation of magic …’

The Wardragon, now sheathing the Preceptor’s body, strode confidently along a metal walkway high above the floor of the steel works. Choking sulphur-laden fumes and red hot dust particles from the crackling arc-melting furnaces filled the air. Kaleton followed closely behind.

‘More,’ the living machine said in monotone, ‘we need more. You have to double the output.’

‘The workforce is insufficient,’ Kaleton said patiently.

‘Then get more workers. Press-gang them if you have to.’

‘We’ve tried that. The fact is, you keep taking the bulk of the new labourers for – the other project. You also take the best. What’s left isn’t worth feeding. I need skilled artisans, not farm boys and fishermen.’

The Wardragon turned. It was finding it exceedingly difficult to converse with the illogical, devious mortals, yet for the time being it needed them as an admiral needs a fleet. Nonetheless, at times it felt an overarching compulsion to completely absorb the Preceptor’s personality so that not one shred of the man’s self remained. Still, to prematurely announce itself to this puny world that it had arrived might unify its enemies. It could annihilate the lot of them of course, but that would destroy much of what it hoped to conquer. What value was there in an empty world? No, it needed labour and a base from which to move on to other worlds.

It conceded at length that it still needed the Preceptor’s illogical perspective until the last drop of pretence was gone. After that, Kaleton, weakling that he was, would be its next host.

‘M’lord?’ Kaleton persisted. He was becoming accustomed to the Preceptor’s long silences. Almost as though he were consulting the Wardragon. And then sometimes it appeared as though the last vestige of the Preceptor had long since fled the body.

‘I need results, not excuses. If you are unable to perform the function I require of you, then I shall replace you.’

Kaleton considered his reply, knowing he must tread carefully here. ‘It shall be done, of course.’

‘See to it then.’

Kaleton followed the Wardragon’s gaze. Huge brick-lined ladles of molten metal rolled along on low drays, hauled by sweating ragged men to the grease and dust-covered chain-operated pouring stations. There, the ladles emptied into greensand moulds. Open launders channelled more of the lava-like substance to different parts of the factory. Sparks showered, great hammers rose and fell, and the din was deafening.

A figure moved across the workshop floor below, inspecting the work. It was Ras, the shepherd, though scarred as he was, he would hardly be recognised by anyone who formerly knew him. He was dressed as a lieutenant and moved with a confidence that would once have been alien to him.

Kaleton said, ‘Why do you keep him, m’lord?’

The Wardragon continued staring down, and eventually said, ‘Are you jealous, Kaleton?’

‘Cautious would be a more appropriate word.’

‘As you should be. The boy you fear is, after all, nothing more than a simpleton.’

‘He is different,’ said Kaleton. ‘He is not like he was when he woke. He is getting smarter.’

The Wardragon flowed like metal waves over the Preceptor’s body. ‘Mortals do not get smarter, Kaleton. On the contrary, they become more stupid with age. Forget the boy. What of my business in D’loom?’

For a moment Kaleton was tempted to lie, but long experience with the Wardragon had taught him that lying was simply not an option. ‘The fire failed, m’lord. But on the positive side, the wares you have manufactured sell well. Money pours in like a river to swell your coffers.’

The Preceptor’s face showed no emotion at the disappointing news. ‘The money is of secondary concern, Kaleton. Be sure to make no mistake next time. Even now I tire of this world. No power will stall my departure. None. Least of all a mere female …’

It was getting dark as Jelindel packed her travel bag, having just unpacked it the night before. Daretor paced the room, scowling.

‘This is foolhardy, Jelli.’

‘Yes.’

‘It makes no sense.’

‘Yes again.’

‘You could get killed.’

‘I know.’

‘It could be a trap.’

‘It could.’

Daretor stopped pacing and threw up his hands. ‘By all the Odd Gods, are you just going to keep agreeing with me?’

‘Yes.’ Daretor looked like he was about to explode. ‘Daretor, take a deep breath, exhale, and listen to me. Everything that’s happened is connected. The merchantmen, the discarding of magic, the attacks. I sense this with all my instinct. There are no coincidences. None. The Preceptor is coming back. And he’s more powerful than ever. You remember my vision?’

Daretor nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

‘I saw a thousand years of darkness if we did not act. We did, and much of that hateful fate was pushed aside. But not all of it. This morning when I fought the mage-fire I had the vision again. It was as if it was inside the fire itself. A second crux in our future history is approaching. I don’t know what it is but it must be stopped.’

‘Why do
you
have to stop it? Why must it always be
you
?’

‘Why did I have the vision?’

Daretor lightly slapped his forehead. ‘Of course. You’ve been chosen.’

‘Don’t mock,’ Jelindel chided.

‘Why can’t they choose someone else?’

‘Do you think I
want
this? Do you think I want to go traipsing across the countryside on some cockamamie quest?’ She threw her hands up in exasperation. ‘I’m fed up with all these dangerous forces in the hands of stupid people. When am I going to be left alone?’

Daretor closed his mouth. ‘It’s not right,’ he said lamely.

Jelindel continued to pack. Daretor resumed his pacing. He did not want her to go. He especially did not want her to go with the handsome stranger, Taggar. Daretor did not trust the man though he was honest enough to admit that he was biased. For some time now he had felt – or feared – that Jelindel’s affections for him were fading and he was at a loss as to what he could do about it.

‘The Preceptor will know you the minute you enter Argentia.’

‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

Daretor threw his hands up in exasperation. ‘Fine. Have it your way. You always do. I should go and find Zimak so we can make plans.’ Before Jelindel could speak, Daretor had slammed the bedchamber door behind him. Moments later the front door opened and closed.

Jelindel wrung her hands and sighed. Perhaps it was best that she and Daretor parted company for a while.

Daretor had slept it off. Most taverns had a room out back where those too drunk to walk were unceremoniously dumped, till they could be sent on their way the next morning. It was an idea calculated to bring back custom, and it worked.

Zimak, a tall young man of strapping build, whose impressive musculature had gone to seed (and not a little flab), sat with his chin in his hands, watching Daretor stir. Daretor, in contrast to the other, was small, slim, and somewhat weaselly in appearance, though in truth he was all taut muscle and lightning reflex. Despite being the smaller of the two, there was no doubt who was leader and who was follower.

‘Why do you stare?’ groaned Daretor, opening one eye and blinking at the morning light.

‘I am admiring my noble body.’

Daretor spat on the straw-covered floor, as much to remove the unpleasant taste from his mouth, as in reply to Zimak’s remark. He levered himself into a sitting position. ‘I wish I could say the same about mine. You are starting to look like a woman!’

Zimak said nothing, merely smirked.

‘Oh, shut up,’ growled Daretor. He crossed to a barrel and dunked his head and shoulders in the freezing water, then shook himself like a dog.

Zimak was splattered head to foot. ‘Gah, I just had these garments cleaned.’