by Jack Lovejoy
Srana knew she had lost the initiative; she also knew that Khal, groping his way through the warps of concealment and illusion she wove around him and his dragon, had recognized her as the granddaughter of the Sentinel, his most implacable enemy. His malice assailed her like a physical force, again and again deflecting back on her the very magic she herself had created.
All familiar references had dissolved. The sun stood in the sky, and yet it seemed to be night, as if she was being drawn against her will into some evil dimension. Hideous liskash began to materialize all around her.
She sensed from their groping that they could not see her yet, and she raised her scepter and redoubled the concealment magic deluding them. Not one of them looked in her direction.
Neither did Khal himself, although he seemed to know exactly where she was. His three ruby eyes glittered evilly in the strange darkness. Turning her bambarong, she retreated down the far side of the hill. She knew he would follow her anywhere she went. He seemed to have forgotten all about the battle raging around the walls of Ar, such was his passion for vengeance.
The longer and farther she lured him away, the better. She knew not whether Ar could long withstand the siege, only that with his evil magic guiding and reinforcing the besieging hordes, the defenders would be doomed.
Why had Khal begun summoning forth reptile-demons to do his bidding? A sign that he could not defeat her alone? So potent an exorcism must surely dissipate the magic he remultiplied through the Third Eye. Nor could his monstrous dragon, for all its powers of levitation, overtake so fleet and agile a creature as her bambarong. Perhaps she had not irretrievably lost the initiative after all.
She had been schooled by the Sentinel himself, the mightiest wizard of his time. She too wielded vast powers of magic, powerful enough to keep liskash now closing in on all sides from looking at her. Their movements seemed to be coordinated, and she at last recognized them as groping patterns of containment, which Khal was somehow directing. Toward what end? She peered through the unnatural darkness.
The devastation would need a generation of peace to redeem. Should Ar fall, neither redemption nor peace would ever come, and the land would remain a desert forever. She had concealed herself in the single grove she found still undespoiled by the enemy hordes. Its leafy branches circumscribed her vision, and it was some moments before she spotted the canyon, which seemed to narrow toward the southeast. Once herded inside, her bambarong would no longer have room for its elusive running, leaping, and gliding.
She had pierced the wild and terrible illusions with which Khal had first tried to ensnare her, all but the unnatural darkness, which for all she knew was not an illusion at all, but some sinister effect of the Third Eye. Now he seemed to be attacking her indirectly, through her bambarong. Without it, she would be left helplessly on foot.
Nor was there anything she could do but leave the futile concealment of the hilltop orchard, and move in exactly the direction she least wanted to go. Even the mouth of the canyon dangerously constrained the elusiveness of her mount.
Each time she looked around there seemed to be more reptile-demons converging on her. Both Khal and his dragon had slipped from sight. Was this so he could safely divert more of his power to exorcising the evil host against her?
Their duel hall been a stalemate until now: vast resources of magic the remultiplication of which was comparatively mean, against a mere novice, who by an odd chance of destiny was able to remultiply such magic as she had by the untold powers of an evil dimension.
Yet even a stalemate served the purpose of withdrawing Khal from the siege. But what if he now tipped the scales against her? Grimmer still, what if he took possession of her scepter? Could anything on the planet then withstand his dark ambitions? Certainly not the city of Ar.
If only she had been able to slip past him when she first arrived here, and give her scepter to Mithmid or some other great wizard of The Three. But Khal had seen her before she had seen him, and she had had no choice but to stand and fight with such powers as she had.
Fire-starting? More intense concealment? Somehow she had to break through the contracting ring of reptile-demons before it utterly enclosed her, and she peered still more intently into the strange darkness, searching for some opening screened from Khal by the steepening canyon walls. Once she broke free their duel could begin afresh, this time on a battlefield of her own choosing, out on the open plains, where the elusiveness of her bambarong would be decisive.
The one point definitely out of Khal’s sight appeared at first glance to be the least promising. The reptile-demons were densest there, and more agitated than anywhere else, and she started to turn away. Then she realized that they were not agitated by fury; they were being attacked by a lone rider on a bambarong. A Yozgat warrior? Changavar himself? No, even through the eldritch gloom she could discern that the rider was much too big....
It was Branwe! The Demon Sword flashed as he swung agilely from side to side in the saddle of the bambarong which was in fact more of a trained warrior than he was leaping and dodging counterattacks with a battle empathy that did credit to his masters. The reptile-demons fell back in dismay, leaving behind them a foul carnage.
Here was the opening Srana had been looking for, and a flick of the reins was all she needed to exploit it, for her bambarong too was a trained warrior. Sidling through the trees, leaping up the canyon slopes, running wherever there was a clear stretch, gliding over the heads of the enclosing ring; within minutes she had joined Branwe, and together they picked their way through a despoiled orchard and out onto the gravelly farm road beyond.
Their bambarongs, no longer constrained, ran, leaped, and glided over the reptile-demons that loped and slithered into the road before them. Once more they were out onto the open plain, but it was a different plain than Srana had known at the onset of the duel—dark and silent and ominous. Where was Ar? Or the hordes of besiegers?
Then she realized that Branwe was looking oddly at her, and asked him where they were.
“There’s Ar before you,” he said. “The battle is raging more furiously than ever. Can’t you see the Yozgat across the river? Over there,” he pointed, “where they’ve massed their bambarongs, hundreds of them.”
She shook her head. “It’s so dark, and it seems to be getting darker.”
“Here, take this.” He leaned across from his saddle. “I know this evil magic, from its very source.”
Srana blinked at the sudden onrush of sunlight. She held the Demon Sword in one hand, and her scepter in the other, and the raging battlefield again spread before her in the afternoon light, hazy with dust and smoke.
“But you’ll be defenseless,” she protested.
“Never mind about me. I’m not the one he’s trying to capture. He wants you alive, Srana. Remember that. There! Watch out!”
The monstrous dragon lumbered into view around a low hill and out onto the plain. From every direction emerged reptile-demons, more hideous even than before, and multiplied in numbers. Srana could see them more clearly now, as well as the insane rage contorting the face of the Evil One, who advanced malevolently upon her, heedless of any consequences.
“Over there, behind those ruined buildings,” whispered Srana. “I’ve hidden you in an illusion, but I can’t protect both of us. Hurry! He’s already trying to penetrate the image.”
Branwe had no choice but to obey. He could do nothing at the moment to help Srana; his presence actually endangered her, for she needed all the magic at her command to resist the Evil One. Again he found himself hiding in the ruins of an old farmstead, watching for an opportunity. Only this time he no longer clutched the Demon Sword.
Khal now seemed to be behaving irrationally, as if in his rage for vengeance he could no longer control his impulses. He could not corner Srana out on the open plain, nor could all the reptile-demons he might exorcise from the evil dimension, so long
as she rode her elusive bambarong. As she drew him tauntingly this way and that, countering his illusions, confusing him with images of her own, holding him at bay as long as possible, his liskash mind was blinded to all else.
Branwe on the other hand was alert to everything happening around him, both far and near. Having no fragment of the Khavala in his possession, his very presence here was unknown to the Evil One; he was not affected by the unnatural darkness. In the distance he saw the Yozgat once more swarm back onto their bambarongs, then run and leap and glide out of range before a counterattack could be rallied against them. But this time, instead of landing strategically elsewhere on the battlefield, they retreated madly back toward the gates of Ar, just as another sortie burst forth to clear a path for them at the bridge.
It was not this unexpected retreat, but a dull rumble like faraway thunder, that caused Branwe to look up. The red flag! It flew from the highest tower of Ar. The besiegers continued furiously to attack the walls. They did not know what it meant, but neither did Srana, and he spurred his bambarong and raced across the plain toward her.
She had once more halted just out of reach of Khal and his demon horde. Their stalemate was not passive but dynamic: each had to expend all available powers just to balance those of the other, and was oblivious to all else.
Branwe was never clear afterwards why he acted as he did next. It was a wild impulse, a reflex; had he paused to consider the dangers involved he might never have dared such a feat. He just acted, and his actions were the salvation of Ar.
So intently was Khal’s malice focused on Srana that even his danger sense forsook him. The slithering, loping, waddling horde of reptile-demons saw his attacker, and converged with angry snarls and hisses, but they were, too laggard to head him off.
Branwe leapt from his bambarong onto the dragon’s back, just behind the crouching sorcerer. Boldness and agility were now his only weapons—and the heedless courage of an impulse. Not even the dragon could react quickly enough to thwart him.
Stunning Khal with a blow from the side, Branwe ripped the uraeus mounting the Third Eye from his sloping forehead, and leapt out of reach of the dragon’s snapping jaws.
Khal himself nearly followed Branwe to the ground, as the dragon’s long flexible neck clumsily knocked him sprawling. But he caught himself in time, and with a hiss of rage, his ruby eyes glittering with malice, he turned to retaliate—only to become aware of a graver peril. For even his dull reptilian senses now perceived the thunderous roar, rising in volume, closer and closer. And he saw a tremendous surge of water, higher than the very walls of Ar, crash through Dragonneck Gorge and rush over the plains beyond in a deadly tidal wave, engulfing everything in its path. He also saw that he had been lured too near the riverbed, too far from the safety of high ground. Not even his passion for vengeance now clouded his survival instincts, and he turned his mount in a blind race for the hills.
The dragon was too huge and ponderous to be very swift; neither could it now levitate itself above the colossal wall of foam and destruction rushing down upon them with appalling speed, since he had lost the power to reinforce its own magic. It was a crude footrace, and Khal’s cold reptilian mind calculated only unfavorable odds.
Meanwhile the odds against Branwe seemed even more hopeless. His bambarong had bolted out of reach of the dragon, leaping riderless over the converging hordes of reptile demons. Branwe too saw the advancing wall of death, but was on foot and weaponless, surrounded by hideous enemies.
“Branwe!”
He looked up, and there was Srana. For an instant none of the reptile-demons around him seemed to know exactly where he was; they looked in every direction but his. The next instant there was a flash in the sunlight, and the Demon Sword stuck blade-first into the ground beside him. Wrenching it free, he fought his way through the reptilian horde with furious agility, once more in possession of a magic that should have made them more visible to him, more vulnerable and real.
Instead he found himself battling mere shadows, as hazy and evanescent as the dust-laden sunlight, shadows that one by one faded into nothingness, as if there was no longer a magic strong enough to hold them in this dimension.
The whole combat lasted but seconds, and he found himself alone on the doomed plain. The mighty flood hurled itself against the walls of Ar, which it no longer overtopped, and was hurled back again with a tremendous explosion; its roar was pierced by the wail of thousands of terrified voices as it swept over the enemy host.
Where was Srana? He could not believe she had deserted him. No, there she was, gliding toward him, with his bambarong beside her own. Then they were running, leaping, and gliding side by side toward the hills, past the ruined farms and orchards, past Khal himself. Their last glide was the longest of all; water swirled beneath them, but they alighted high and dry on a hilltop, beyond its reach.
Only now did they dare look back. The great city of Ar still stood, but the battlefield was a chaos of wrecked towers and machines, drowned food and draft animals, and thousands upon thousands of corpses. The flood waters were already receding toward their natural channel.
And Khal? Neither he nor his dragon were to be seen anywhere. Had they been swept from sight by the mighty flood, or had the liskash sorcerer still enough power to teleport them to safety, perhaps into the evil dimension where
they belonged? ‘
Without a word, Branwe handed the Third Eye to Srana.
The Dragon Book
“I’VE ALWAYS done my duty, which is a consolation.” Mamre dabbed at her eyes, although there was no evidence of tears. “He thought he was fooling me, saying people were leaving their valuables with him for safekeeping. But I knew he was up to something no good from the start. That’s why he wanted me out of the way at certain hours, and why he wanted the little room I’ d set aside for you, Branwe. Him and his pals—I warned him against taking up with that set—needed more room to stash their booty. A shame it was, and him a refugee himself, robbing the houses of those poor folk who fled here with all they could carry. Foolish, too, as I could have told him, with so many refugees bearing arms and knowing how to use them. Always was too fond of money, and now he’s paid for it. Ah, me.” She continued to dab at her dry eyes. “Grujekh had his good points as a husband, I won’t deny that, but now he’s gone and I’m alone in the world.”
Branwe glanced at Srana, and they both smiled. “You always have a home with us, Mamre,” he said. “In your kindness you kept a room for me. Well, we’ve set one aside for you, a whole suite in fact.”
“You always were good to me, Branwe.” She patted his hand. “And so now you’re a great lord, with palaces and estates? Well, I’m not surprised. I knew you were no common lad, even when I first saw you as a kit. Grujekh said: ‘Don’t get involved; it’s none of our business.’ He was thinking of the expense, you see. But to me you were a blessing, because I was never blessed with children of my own. Housebroke you myself, and a job I had of it too, let me tell you.”
“Uh, yes.” Branwe looked uncomfortable, and Srana had to look away to keep herself from laughing. He changed the subject: “As I told you, the king has graciously restored to me, the estates seized wrongfully from my father, the Shadow Warrior. He has also, as compensation for the injustice, awarded me the estates of the noble who perpetrated the seizure. Refugees have informed me that both estates were overrun by the invaders—the noble and his entire family perished trying to flee—and plundered. But from treasure recovered, both from the ruins of the enemy camp here and from Cragsclaw, the king has further compensated us.”
“A wedding present,” added Srana, “and a generous one.” “And well earned, from all I’ve heard,” said Mamre. “But I shouldn’t wonder if the king is feeling generous these days, what with that mother of his banished—and about time, I must say—and him taking a bride of his own. The daughter of a highland king, I’m told?”
“
Yes, the eldest daughter of Ortakh of Maragadan,” said Branwe.
Mamre leaned closer, and whispered: “A highland gal is just what he needs. She’ll teach him what claws are all about, if he tries any of his old tricks with her.” She glanced slyly from one to the other, and chuckled.
The Blue Dragon was of only modest size, but thanks to Mamre’s diligence it was clean, well-appointed, and successful, despite its location in the roughest quarter of Ar. Keeping order had been a chronic problem, although not this morning. The tables were already crowded with a motley clientele of rogues, thugs, off-duty soldiers, and constables; two brawny highlanders were cavorting out on the dance floor with a pair of neighborhood slatterns. But more and more eyes watched curiously as one of the new proprietors, an extraordinarily robust female, nailed row after row of ears to the wall behind the bar. Sleek and well-groomed ears, snapped off at the base by sharp powerful teeth.
“We’ll see no more of them scoundrelly Crockercups in Ar,” observed Mamre, “Good riddance, says I. Imagine their impudence, trying to stop a holy ceremony at the Temple of the All-Mother! Why, I never heard of such a thing. And telling nasty stories about the White Dancers, too. Got just what they deserved, and folks still talk about the lovely ceremony.”
“Sruss told me all you’ve done for us,” said Srana. “That’s why I wanted so much to come here this morning with Branwe, to thank you.”
“You couldn’t have made me happier, my lady. All dressed up the way you are. Like you both just stepped out of a painting. Nobody talks about anything but the king’s wedding this morning, but there’s another wedding I’m looking forward to much more. When’s it to be?”
“In three days.” Branwe fondly took Srana’s hand in his.
