by Paul Collins
A cool wind swept the curtains and Fa’red looked up in annoyance. Ever on guard against necromancy, the Adept 12 was gripped with paranoia. A breeze, a sudden silence in a room that should be buzzing, could mean all or nothing. To maintain his magical aura was taxing enough, although not altogether debilitating. To explain the obvious to a warlord was an expenditure of energy he did not care to make.
However, Fa’red was inclined to persist. ‘The Unisserans are simple woodspeople, Preceptor. They know nothing more than the woods they maintain. Such is the scarcity of white wood that those in Yuledan would have the Marisa River flooded with it. Yet old growth needs to be replenished. White wood takes many years to mature, and mature it must to reach its optimum quality. That it is renowned for its water-repellant density while retaining its lightness is due to its age.’
‘Fa’red, get to the point,’ the Preceptor said.
Fa’red sighed. ‘The point is this. Cut down all the old growth and you are left with new growth. Cut that down and you are left with nothing. You will have plenty of ships, yes, but inferior ships. And no wood to rebuild your navy. Not for many years to come. Without your navy, the entire Skeltian coast is vulnerable to attack.’
The Preceptor held up his hand for silence. ‘From whom?’ he demanded. ‘Who has a navy? Gratz? Lycellia? I know of their seaborne troops. They could scarce scratch ten troop ships together and fill them. My armada would blow them from the water before they reached the Hamarian coastline.’
Fa’red looked up. ‘And what of the pirates that ply the Skeltian coast, Preceptor?’
‘Pah! They are like fruit flies buzzing around a bowl of pears. Besides, most are in my employ. You forget, Fa’red, none plunder the coastlines unless they pay me levies.’
Fa’red opened his mouth to speak, but stopped. To tell him about Jelindel now, or later, he mused. Later. ‘Getting back to Arcadia – its rulers would burn all the bridges, burn the grain stores, foul the water supplies, send diseased beggars to infect your troops, and seal off every city, town and castle behind high walls.’
‘The issue is one of troops, and a very important part of supporting troops is pay. I want troops that can live off the land, and would be happy with something cheap for their pay. You travel between worlds, and you have told me stories about some … interesting warriors on other worlds.’
‘Ah yes, mighty demons with the strength of ten men, who can tear the strongest Q’zaran warrior apart with their bare hands, then devour the remains.’ Fa’red grew sombre. The Preceptor’s plans were transparent.
The ruler pointed at Fa’red. ‘That is just the trouble. Demons eat flesh, and flesh is expensive when one has to keep them fed between battles. No, I was thinking of the herbiasts.’
‘The herbiasts?’ Fa’red laughed uneasily. ‘Granted they are strong, and know the use of weapons, but they are vegetarians.’
‘Yes, vegetarians. They eat grass and leaves, they can literally live off the land. They breed fast as well, and their young are ready to fight five years from birth. Even better, you say lead has the value of gold on their world. If we were to bring half a million of them to this world, they could graze in the fields and loot the roofing lead from the cities that they conquer in my name.’
‘There is only one problem, Preceptor. Travel between worlds is like throwing a spear. You must do it yourself. You need the training, skills, muscles and judgement of a veteran to throw a spear effectively. You cannot have one skilled man throw the spears for an army of a thousand.’
‘But a mighty siege catapult can throw a rock that weighs as much as a thousand spears. I know that a prince is building a magical device, a very precise stone circle in which to mount pentacle gems.’
‘They are very rare. I know the prince you speak of. He has one. That is why he is building the stone circle. He hopes to form alliances with others who have gems in their possession.’
The Preceptor nodded sharply. ‘I acquired mine from the Skeltian King.’
‘More’s the pity he only had the one. As it happens, we need five. Collecting another three will not be easy. I do have contacts, but the price will be great.’
‘Pay it. How long will it take?’
‘For two of them, it depends on the greed of the owners. For the third, I am not so sure. Jelindel dek Mediesar has influence with the current custodian.’
Fa’red hesitated after mentioning Jelindel’s name. The Preceptor’s face clouded.
‘She has caused me much trouble. I cannot believe a stripling her age could lead such a merry chase. I have heard that she is studying the properties and usages of pentacle gems. She knows of my plan. How? Does she have more spies and resources than even I possess?’
‘She may well be a powerful witch in the guise of a girl,’ suggested Fa’red. ‘She defeated the demons Jabez Thull and Longrical. As such she was entitled to the powers bound to them. Instead, she let the entities return to their paraplanes. Only someone in no need of further power would have done that.’
‘Or someone so stupid she didn’t know what she had within her grasp,’ the Preceptor muttered.
‘Alas, she is no lackey,’ Fa’red said. ‘She has bested us at every move.’
The Preceptor scowled. ‘Her damnable luck is hard to fathom. Not even a powerful witch could have escaped all the bounty hunters and lindraks I have sent after her.’ He realised he was clenching a wine goblet, and forced his fingers to relax. The goblet fell from his hand and red wine spilled.
Fa’red coughed politely. ‘Lindraks were trained to kill rich merchants, kings, nobles, warriors, or priests. Bounty hunters? Uncouth plebs with not a thought in their heads. The girl Jelindel is not like any of these. She commands no army, owns no palace, does not run a merchant house, and no longer dwells in a temple. She cannot be corrupted by money, has no reputation to defend, neither has she people depending on her. Getting a grip on her is like getting a grip on fog.
‘That she escaped the lindraks you sent to kill her family, and beyond all belief defeated my deadmoon warriors in Arcadia, shows that she is no normal witchling.’ Before the Preceptor voiced his outrage, Fa’red added, ‘But then, she also slew an Adept 11 and an Adept 14. Unheard of, but nonetheless true.’ He took a sip from his goblet.
‘The lindraks were not up to the task, Fa’red. Nor, as it turns out, were your invincible deadmoons.’
Fa’red lifted his eyebrows. ‘That is not exactly true, my lord. They did deliver her to you – in my absence – but she escaped.’
‘Had I known she had single-handedly defeated a squadron of your deadmoon warriors, I would have taken certain precautions.’
‘Be that as it may,’ Fa’red demurred.
‘And what of those dogs she’s travelling with?’
‘The inestimable Daretor and Zimak?’ Fa’red popped a grape into his mouth and chewed. ‘Not a sign, Preceptor. It’s almost as though they’ve ceased to be.’
‘Gone to ground more like,’ the Preceptor said. ‘I will put a battalion of my best lancers at your disposal, Fa’red.’ He slammed his fist against the table. ‘Find all three of them.’
Fa’red winced. ‘That leads us to the very point pertaining to Unissera, Preceptor. Your lancers are no good as seamen, any more than frail craft would be against the more sturdy, albeit smaller, navy of Lycellia and Gratz. Now is the time for contemplation and consolidation. Leave Unissera alone for the time being. Leave it as a juicy plum to consume when the time is ripe. These grapes are delectable.’ He popped a small bunch into his mouth and crunched them up.
‘My spies tell me Jelindel is spending time aboard a merchant vessel called the Dark Empress. Have her watched, but not approached.’
Fa’red spat the grape remnants into a spittoon and coughed politely. Now was as good a time as any to divert the Preceptor from his warmongering. ‘I found out only moments before coming here that Tanglesea raiders took the Dark Empress. A carrier bird from –’
‘What? You mean t
hat some seagoing rabble has done what the finest assassins have failed to do?’
‘Well, not quite.’ Fa’red bowed his head. The Preceptor would either explode or laugh at what he had to say next. ‘The crew of the Dark Empress, including the unkillable Countess Jelindel, somehow stole the raiders’ flagship, the Dragonfang. It is currently following the coast northeast, with a cargo of spices, medicinal goods, and other lightweight but costly items that are best carried on such a relatively small but fast raider vessel like the Dragonfang.’
The Preceptor didn’t respond at once. His features remained fathomless. Then his cheeks stirred into a smile, sending leathery wrinkles streaming across his face. He laughed heartily. ‘That wench has more lives than a Lycellian snake rat, Fa’red.’
‘Hmm,’ Fa’red mumbled. ‘One of the world’s true anomalies.’
The Preceptor put a hand to his face and dried his eyes. ‘Have carrier birds sent to every port on the north coast,’ he instructed. ‘Have her watched, have her shadowed.’
‘There is not a ship afloat that can keep up with the Dragonfang.’
‘Why bother? From what you say the Dragonfang is being used as a merchant ship. The time at sea is just empty days between ports. Everything that she does of any significance will be done ashore. When you have sent the carrier birds on their way, prepare for a journey. Pack just one set of saddlebags, and wear a cowl to hide your face. Tomorrow we leave for a temple far to the north, with an escort and the registers of a tax surveyor. I shall be disguised as your clerk.’
The grapes seemed suddenly very uninviting. Fa’red let go of the bunch he was holding. ‘Mordicar, where the stone circle is being built, Preceptor?’
‘It is obviously where our little nemesis is headed, Fa’red. We shall prepare a surprise for the witchling. One from which she will never recover.’
‘But without five pentacle gems the stone circle will not work.’
‘Perhaps not, but I am your monarch and you will do as I say.’ The Preceptor’s face became stony again. ‘You might think your spy network is second to none, but it has its weaknesses. My own sources tell me that, even as we speak, there are forces drawing the pentacle gems together.’
Fa’red left the chamber with his mind frantically searching through plots and hidden agendas in the words of the Preceptor. This was indeed an alarming development for his own connivance, but at least he was one step ahead.
Chapter 10
PRINCE ULAD’S LAIR
Even compared to their homeland, this was an incredibly rich and fertile place to the eyes of Daretor and Zimak. There did not seem to be much rain, but meltwater from higher in the mountains was gurgling through a vast and intricate series of channels and aqueducts to terraced gardens and orchards. In places the water tumbled down the rocks in waterfalls and rapids. Elsewhere there were waterwheels beside stone mill-houses. The roads were wide and well maintained, with exotic flowers straggling over much of the stone escarpments.
When Daretor and Zimak passed many citizens bowed with deference, while others simply waved and smiled. It did not escape the notice of the two men that those who acknowledged them were always dressed finely. They were also armed.
‘A mixed lot,’ observed Daretor.
‘And they know of us,’ laughed Zimak.
‘Those who carry weapons and have a golden colour to their skin appear to be the rulers,’ said Daretor. ‘Those who work the fields and carry the burdens are black, white and brown.’
‘But we’re white,’ Zimak exclaimed.
Daretor wagged his finger. ‘Ah, so you see the problem.’
‘But wait a moment. The rulers, the armed ones with the golden skins, they wave to us and smile.’
‘That is a puzzle, I do admit,’ said Daretor. ‘Possibly they are confused by us as well, white-skinned strangers with weapons.’
‘Well, we are not quite white, more sort of bronzed. All those months of travel in the sun.’
‘The Matriarch said to seek a large, circular temple, built on a tor of green granite,’ said Daretor, scratching his head. He looked about like a lost tourist. ‘She said we could not possibly miss it.’
‘A tor of green granite? This entire mountain range is green granite. And what if –’
As they rounded a bend in the road, Zimak was cut off by the sight of a city the size of Skelt below them. At its centre was a white, circular temple on an outcrop of rock. Pillars supported the circular roof, and several sets of stairs led up from the surrounding city.
‘Well, we did not miss it,’ said Daretor.
It took an hour to reach the city gates. All the way, people continued to bow or smile. But, at the gates, Daretor’s resolve began to weaken. People were having their slave collars inspected by the gate guards.
‘Now what?’ asked Zimak.
‘The Matriarch said nothing about this. She did not even say there would be guards. I suppose we can just say we are here to see Prince Ulad.’
‘What?’ laughed Zimak with no real mirth. ‘Just like that? If some outlandish wayfarer arrived at the gates of D’loom and asked the guards to escort him to the Preceptor, he would be seized, beaten, and flung into the nearest bog pit – if he was lucky.’
‘Then we shall be mercenaries in search of employment in the army of Prince Ulad.’
Finally, it was their turn to be confronted by the guards. To their astonishment, the guards took one look at them and dropped to their knees.
‘My lord Daretor, welcome,’ said the gate captain. ‘Prince Ulad has been expecting you. And this must be your squire, Zimak.’
Daretor exchanged glances with an astounded Zimak, then he looked back to the gate captain. ‘How do you know us?’
‘Why, the lady Premiel sent your description and an account of how you saved them. She is the royal consort.’
‘Premiel is the royal consort?’ echoed Zimak.
‘Why, yes. Her message arrived by carrier bird. She was full of praise for you.’
The pair was escorted into the city with five guardsmen flanking them, and several more clearing the way through a highly excited and inquisitive crowd. When the guards had first surrounded them, Zimak prepared to flee. Only Daretor’s hand had stayed him. The guards were there to protect them from an adoring public. It would seem they were heroes.
The cobblestone streets were crowded but very clean, and the whitewashed buildings looked almost new. Daretor couldn’t help thinking that the town had been prepared for some momentous occasion, something akin to a coronation.
‘Your city looks well tended,’ Daretor said to the gate captain. He couldn’t help noticing that the guards wore splendid robes and armour. Their weapons were magnificent but impractical.
‘In honour of you,’ he replied, earnestly.
Daretor and Zimak stared at each other, but did not laugh. The palace was more of a splendid mansion than a fortress, and it was clear that war and strife had not been seen in this city for a very long time. Daretor was reminded that first impressions could be misleading.
They were kept waiting in a shady garden for a half hour, while slaves brought them a sampling of local beverages and trays with fruit and pastries.
Finally they were admitted to the royal audience chamber. It was like a smaller version of the temple, circular and lined with white pillars. The white-veined marble was not local stone, and had obviously been transported at great expense and effort. Prince Ulad looked to be at least in his sixties, perhaps older. As was typical of men of his station, around the age of forty he had decided to leave fighting and exercise to younger men, and had begun to enjoy fine food and pampered living. It had been the downfall of many a king.
The herald made his announcements and declarations, and the heroes were formally thanked by the prince before the assembled courtiers. After the formalities were out of the way, the prince rose from his throne and beckoned his guests to follow him into the palace gardens.
‘My wife also mentioned that y
ou wish to return to your own world,’ Prince Ulad said to Daretor.
‘We were sent here by treachery,’ said Daretor. ‘We burn with a desire to return to our homeworld and be avenged.’
‘We is a rather strong word,’ Zimak tried to interject.
‘As it happens, we are the custodians of an ancient machine,’ said the prince, gesturing to the temple they were approaching. ‘We have the ability to send people to other worlds, but they never return. We have long wondered why, for visitors from other worlds seem to come, then go with few ill effects.’
‘They could be arriving back in their own world dead,’ Zimak pointed out. Daretor glared at him and he quietened.
‘Your people are very frail, compared with even the most puny of our world,’ said Daretor, without so much as a glance at the much smaller Zimak. ‘Perhaps the dangers are too much for your people to endure.’
‘Perhaps,’ the prince said, falling silent.
The interior of the temple had no obvious ringstone, but the sight was magnificent. The roof was a vast dome, beneath which sat a pair of thrones, back to back. The walls were an amphitheatre of terraces, but instead of seats there were circular channels full of still water.
‘The magical engine is powered by lightning fish, which are kept in the terraced channels,’ Prince Ulad explained. ‘Keepers have ways of making them release their power all together, in such a way that it is focused down by the dome and brought to bear on those two chairs.’
‘In the desert we saw many ancient ruins that might have been ringstones,’ said Daretor.
‘Ah, but you have used the key word, my good and brave warrior. Ancient. There have been advances in the architecture of magical buildings and temples in the two thousand years since those ruins were built. Why, this one is barely six hundred years old, yet it is less than a third of the age of those desert temples and ruined cities.’
‘So there are no ringstones?’ asked Daretor.
