by JW Webb
Chapter 2
The Dragon
Tamersane crouched uncomfortably on a boulder and surveyed the darkening skies above with little relish. Snow was coming. And to think that only a few days earlier they’d been sweltering in the desert heat. He stole a glance at his companions, wondering why everyone was so damned grumpy this afternoon.
Bleyne stood yards away, whittling at a stick and brooding under the leaden cloud, whilst Zallerak was muttering incomprehensible expletives as he gazed morosely at the mountains behind them.
Corin an Fol and the young Prince Tarin stood glaring at each other and saying nothing. The prince was all sulks and scowls, whereas Corin simmered on the edge of boiling point. Tamersane, usually so jocular, just stared at the two of them with world-weary eyes. Tamersane didn’t know why he currently felt thoroughly miserable. Nor did he care—he just wallowed in it.
It was approaching evening on the third day since their crossing the Liaho River, and already their time spent in the Permio Desert seemed an age ago to Tamersane, the young Kelwynian. They were gathered together on the barren crown of the Fallowheld, a raw-capped tooth marking the southern end of The High Wall—the chain of heights warding the Four Kingdoms from the wild eastern lands beyond.
Behind Tamersane, the closest of those peaks loomed down on them out of the murk, its lofty crown already lost in snow cloud. Tamersane hated winter. Just why they had climbed this bloody hill was beyond him. Another Zallerak thing. Who were they to question him? The bard had insisted in his usual annoying way, and so they’d spent most of that chilly day trudging up the steep slopes, so that they could loaf about shivering in this cold, grey, remote and windy place, and wait for snow to arrive.
And now Corin and the prince had fallen out again. The argument had started back in the desert after Ulani’s departure. Tamersane missed the King of Yamondo. Ulani of the Baha would have knocked some sense into the pair for sure, or else he’d find something funny to shatter the ice.
If only Tarin hadn’t mentioned Lady Shallan. Prince Tarin had known the Morwellan beauty from state visits in Kella before his father’s untimely death, and he made it eminently clear that Corin, a “lowborn from the backwoods,” was unworthy of her attentions. Corin had come close to skewering the prince. Instead he’d settled for a tongue-lashing, rendering Tarin as spoilt, arrogant, and obtuse. And the cause of all their troubles. Currently they were beyond words, just glaring at each other in mutual animosity, as Tamersane watched on gloomy, with the chill damp seeping into his aching joints.
“Looks like snow coming tonight.” It was an obvious statement, but Tamersane thought someone had to make an effort, and he wasn’t really up to more expansion at the moment. Corin and the prince ignored him; Bleyne grunted and scratched an ear. Zallerak turned and awarded Tamersane a sharp glance. He looked irritated and edgy. Nothing new there.
“You said something?” the bard snapped at Tamersane. “Snow? It’s fucking winter, what do you expect? A brief time ago you were griping on about the desert.”
“Well, so what if I was! I for one don’t see why we had to trump all the way up this bloody hillock,” complained the Kelwynian. “I mean, it’s not as if we can see a lot now we’re up here, apart from snow clouds and snot dripping from our noses.”
“Here, eat this and stop whining.” Bleyne tossed a lump of meat across to the Kelwynian. Tamersane snatched it out the air, wiped his chilly nose and chewed mournfully. Corin and Tarin, both hungry, postponed their hostilities until after supper.
Nobody spoke as they chomped and sucked their way through the dried goat meat. It was the last of Barikani’s desert fare and had served them well, but Tamersane was thoroughly bored with it. He longed for the fine cuisine of the Silver City. It was past time he went home. Good ale, warmth, and laughing lasses.
Let Zallerak deal with prince and crown. Bleyne, Corin, and himself had done their part. Or had they? That uncertainty was part of the reason Tamersane felt so edgy. Being on top of this freezing hill helped not at all.
“So what’s the plan then?” Tamersane asked Zallerak, after gulping down the last of his meat and belching into their meagre fire. “You kept saying we’ll decide when we reach the Fallowheld. I’ll tell you more when we’re on top of Fallowheld. We’ll know what to do once we crest yonder hillock. Well, here we are and very comfortable it is too. So then—what’s the plan?”
“Things will be clearer in the morning,” announced the bard airily. His left arm crooked the heavy crown hidden beneath his sapphire cloak. He’d not let anyone see it since their flight from the Crystal Mountains, which struck Tamersane as broody and ungrateful, but he’d refrained from commenting on the matter.
Zallerak was a weirdo; no other way to describe him. He was an Aralais wizard apparently. Big stuff back in the day. One of those legendary Golden Folk that Galed had always wittered on about up in Wynais. A rare survivor from a distant age. Very interesting, but all a bit beyond Tamersane’s normal parameters. Hitherto the Kelwynian’s primary concerns were women, ale, and writing songs, and reciting poetry—the latter two primarily for the purpose of wooing said women. But all that had changed since they’d left the merchant’s house last autumn.
“Is it me or has it got colder?” Tamersane was aware he was the only one talking. He tugged his cloak across his chest, fidgeted for a moment, then stood up. Tamersane could stand it no longer. Someone had to break the current mood pervading over this company.
“So. We’re making for Wynais at first light.” It wasn’t a question.
“Eh?” Zallerak blinked at Tamersane. Beside him Corin picked his teeth with a grubby nail and brooded into the fire. Tarin watched him whilst Bleyne whittled his stick. No support there.
Tamersane launched a foot at a stone sending it crashing into the fire and getting their attention. “I want answers, Zallerak—you promised us answers! We have the crown and we’ve rescued Tarin. What’s next?”
“You’re welcome to accompany me to Car Carranis.” It was the first time Corin had spoken in an hour. The Longswordsman looked tired and stressed, as though something were eating at him.
“Thank you—but no thank you. I intend to make for Wynais at first light. Bleyne? I know you’re weary of all these shenanigans. Prince? How about you—coming with me?” Bleyne shrugged whilst Tarin looked to Zallerak, who now stood staring at the mountains again as though expecting them to speak. “Well, wizard—I’m waiting on an answer.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Zallerak turned and snarled at Tamersane with a sudden viciousness that startled the Kelwynian to silence. “I’m trying to think. This rage inside me—inside all of us. It’s growing fast. It’s not natural. Something works against us! It’s coming from the fog.”
“What fog?” Tarin glanced up from his perch at the fire.
“That fog.” Bleyne pointed north towards the haunch of mountain where a smoky darkness was rising over the slopes and swallowing pines. Tamersane noted how tense Bleyne looked. The archer’s face was taut and his eyes wary and alarmed.
The Kelwynian turned and watched the darkness vapour through the vale between the Fallowheld’s northern slopes and the shoulder of mountain beyond. The fog was spreading fast. Faster than it should. Within it a shape was forming. A vast, winged shape. Tamersane felt the small hairs rise on the back of his neck. This wasn’t looking good.
To his left, he heard Corin slide Clouter free of its scabbard, whilst across to his right Tamersane saw Bleyne reach down in frosty silence, retrieve his bow from its perch by a stump, and nock arrow to bow. Beyond Bleyne, the horses were restless, bucking and snorting, and jolting at their tethers, where Tamersane had tied them to a thorny shrub.
They watched in awed silence as the shadow grew within the fog, its form becoming clearer and more defined. At last there was no mistaking it.
“Dragon,” said Zallerak. “Now I understand.”
***
“I have some bad news. Your former master is broken.�
�� Caswallon gazed triumphant into his fargaze crystal. Within its depth he could just make out the slits of amber—the eyes of the creature he had summoned. “Vaarg! Waken and join me! There is much to gain from our union. Morak and his cohorts are dead, blasted by that warlock who challenged him in Crenna. He must be more powerful than I anticipated.”
The snake eyes opened just a touch. But more than enough to send a stab of malice through the void and lash Caswallon like a switch of willow across his forehead. He reeled and gasped.
The eyes were fully open now. “I WAS SLEEPING. YOU, MORTAL, WOKE ME.”
“With good cause!” Caswallon steadied his nerves and gripped the arms of the Glass Throne, where he had taken to sitting of late, the Sorcerer’s Nest being too chilly this time of year. “We are…allies. The warlock… I begin to suspect he is -”
“ARALAIS—YES I KNOW.” Vaarg’s eyes were half closed again. “AS I SAID, I WAS SLEEPING. I DO NOT CARE TO HAVE MY SLEEP INTERRUPTED BY FOOLS.”
“I need your help, now that Morak has fallen. Gribble got back late last night. There is big news from the desert. A revolution—the sultanate has fallen!”
“WHAT CARE I FOR SUCH NEWS? BEWARE LEST YOU ANGER ME, SORCERER.”
Caswallon steeled his nerves again. Dealing with Morak had been stressful. Vaarg was much worse; he could almost feel the heat of the dragon’s breath filtering through the void that separated them and tingling in his own nostrils. And the last thing he wanted was another physical visit from the dragon; the previous one had left a ruined roof that cost a fortune to repair. “Gribble also informed me that the Aralais bribed the Smith into re-forging the Tekara. The crown is made whole again!”
A sound like storm rain on calm waters echoed up from the void. Somehow Caswallon knew the dragon was mocking him. “YOU SHOULD HAVE DESTROYED SHARDS AND PRINCE WHILST YOU HAD THE CHANCE.”
“I know.” Caswallon stared across to where Gribble squatted with grubby claws covering his ears. Gribble didn’t much care for Vaarg. “It was an oversight. But that crown in Aralais hands could destroy all I stand, I mean, we stand, to gain!” The heavy laughter continued. Suddenly Caswallon had an idea.
“Great Vaarg, what is it you desire above all else? Tell me!”
“YOU THINK YOU HAVE THE POWER TO PROVIDE IT?”
“I can try. Tell me—please. Let me help you.”
“VENGEANCE.”
“Then I can help you!”
“HOW SO?”
“Golganak—the black spear. Your former master desired it so he could vanquish his foe. Well, I desire it also. And with that famed black rod I can destroy his enemy and your enemy utterly. What say you?”
“WHEN THE TIME COMES I WILL CRUSH THIS ARALAIS BEETLE MYSELF. I DO NOT NEED THE SPEAR. THAT SAID, IT MIGHT PLEASE ME TO AID YOUR AMBITIONS OUT OF SHEER CAPRICE, AND WIPE THE ARALAIS STAIN FROM ALL NINE WORLDS.”
Caswallon felt a wash of relief flush through his veins. He was exhausted and his nervous system was barely holding out. “I would be honoured to have you as an ally, Lord Vaarg! My army already waxes strong, but with a dragon leading it…”
Again the grinding grate of distant laughter. “YOU, MORTAL, ARE TRANSPARENT. BUT NOW I AM CURIOUS TO RETURN TO ANSU, SEE WHAT YOU ARE UP TO. I HAVE NOT REGAINED MY FULL STRENGTH, BUT IT IS COMING. AND I HAVE FORTITUDE ENOUGH FOR A BRIEF ASTRAL VISIT BEFORE RESTING AGAIN.”
“Then fly to the desert, Lord Vaarg, find the rebels and their Aralais master. Destroy them, and nothing can stop us!”
“I SHALL PAY THEM A BRIEF VISIT, YES. BUT ONLY TO INFORM THEM OF MY PRESENCE. THE ARALAIS IS CUNNING, AND I AM NOT YET FULLY PREPARED. BUT THE TIME IS DRAWING NIGH.”
There followed a hissing sound like a distant frenzied kettle shedding steam. Caswallon’s fargaze ball misted over and he struggled to see within. Then—snap! The connection was lost. Dragon and cave were gone; behind him, Gribble crawled out from under the table and squinted up at his master.
“Why did you have to invite him back, Mr Caswallon?” the Soilfin asked in plaintive tone. He had known Vaarg of old.
Caswallon leaned back on the throne; its cold crystal awarded him small comfort. The touch of that crystal was clammy on his skin. Dead stone, its sheen was lost since the Tekara’s breaking, like some once-glistening pebble bleached dry on summer sand. No matter, it served his purpose for now. Caswallon rubbed his tired eyes and watched Gribble pick his nostrils.
“We need Vaarg. Doesn’t mean I trust him,” he told the Soilfin. “Once I find the spear I can control the dragon. Vaarg knows not the powers I possess. Morak and his associates taught me much. More than they should have. I don’t need them anymore, so it’s convenient they are dead.”
Gribble flicked a large booger across the throne room. “They were dead to begin with, Mr Caswallon. Best not rule them out yet.” The Soilfin was twitchy this morning.
“You fret too much, Gribble. Are you hungry?”
“Of course.” Gribble’s stomach rumbled and his fleshy tongue slunk out between fangs. “Why ask such a stupid question? Have you booked my next flight?”
“You’re scheduled for Kelwyn tomorrow.” Caswallon looked peeved; the dragon had treated him with open contempt, and now Gribble was giving him lip. Soilfins had their uses, but Gribble had become impertinent of late. He had even dared to criticize his sending Derino down to Calprissa where the idiot got himself killed. “I need you to be discreet this time.” Caswallon pointed a skinny accusing finger at the Soilfin. “I want to see what that little bitch-queen is up to.”
For answer, Gribble hopped behind the throne and pissed in Caswallon’s soil bucket. “I’m always discreet,” the goblin yelled as he noisily filled the bucket. “I’m your master spy.”
Caswallon let the matter go. He had more important issues to consider. The renegades would be returning from the desert by now: the Aralais wizard, Silon, and this Corin an Fol. They would have the Tekara whole and new with them, and useless Prince Tarin too. Gribble had found that knave Hagan lurking like a whipped hound among the corpses in the desert. From him, Gribble had learnt enough to wing east and witness the fall of the sultan, and the rebels parting with their allies in the desert. Gribble hadn’t been back long, as he’d spent a good while digesting the remains rotting in the sun.
Another matter was Kelwyn. Despite Gribble’s drivel, he, Caswallon, had done well down there. Perani himself had led his army through the gates of Wynais at midnight, and the traitor Tolranna had let them in. Perani held the Silver City; he’d hurt few as yet, awaiting his lord’s word and the venomous arrival of the bitch-queen, Ariane. She would doubtless take the bait—stupid hot-head that she was.
And then there was Kelthara. That city had rallied of late, and now a group of surviving nobles had dared speak out against him whilst shored up behind their high walls. With Perani down in Kelwyn and his Groil ranging that countryside seeking the queen’s rebel army, Caswallon had to let Kelthara be for the moment. It irked him and he wished he’d crushed that city like he had Kella. Another mistake. But all these were small issues that would be ironed out during winter. One thing really bugged him: Golganak the spear.
Caswallon had long studied Urgolais lore and learned that the spear could be used by a mortal wizard, if he possessed sufficient spell-craft and mind strength, which Caswallon now believed he did. Caswallon suspected the spear to be hidden in the catacombs of Ulan Valek. Morak had tried to locate it but had failed.
Caswallon also suspected that Morak, his former mentor, lacked the resources to delve deep in the catacombs of Ulan Valek in his current astral form. But Rael Hakkenon, fresh from his defeat at Calprissa, should prove more than ready for the task. Caswallon had already sent his spies out to find the Assassin, whom he believed was still at large on the mainland, most of his fleet having been sunk off Calprissa and Port Wind.
With Golganak in his control, Caswallon would cement the final piece in this game. Aided by spear and Urgolais lore, he would unlock the keys to immor
tality, his greatest desire, and establish his place as lord of this world, Ansu. At that point he would do away with dragon and Soilfin, but for now they had their uses.
Caswallon yawned and leaned back in his stolen throne. The hall was silent, Gribble having departed to the dungeons for a snack. Not much down there of late, the Groil legion having eaten most the prisoners. On impulse, Caswallon wiped the steam from his globe; once he could see within again, he cast his fargaze south until he found the dragon.
Chapter 3
The Hidden Land
The fog was all around them, choking their breath and freezing their bones. Tamersane yelled out, but his voice was lost in the gloom. Meanwhile, ahead, the darkness loomed over them. Inside it, a great winged beast crouched, darker than the mist surrounding it.
A dragon? He had heard Zallerak say that, before the fog swallowed his voice. Tamersane knew enough about dragons to know they were indestructible and paradoxically, until now, extinct. It wasn’t the best news to discover that at least one had returned from extinction and chosen them for its first meal.
He heard muffled yells close by and glimpsed a sword in mid-air; most likely it was Clouter but it was impossible to tell. The fog—or dragon’s breath—was clouding his vision, but the winged shape seemed in no hurry to rend them. But then Tamersane remembered another thing about dragons. They loved mind tricks. This one seemed no exception; Tamersane felt alien panic shaking his body. He swiped about with his sword, cutting air and yelling. Shadows rushed at him and he dimly made out Groil faces—doggy snouts, slavering and dribbling. Tamersane swiped and yelled and the shadows faded from view.
He tripped, rolled, and regained his feet. More shadows surrounded him. Tamersane swung the blade, and again it met nothing. Phantom Groil; it seemed the dragon was working on his fears, then. Then Tamersane froze as the metallic sound of alien laughter broke through the fog like a falling rockslide shatters the surface of a frozen lake.
