Wardragon

by Paul Collins

  ‘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.’

  Daretor dropped onto the bunk again. The room spun slightly. ‘You think this is funny, don’t you?’

  ‘You must admit, it’s a rare sight. I think the last time you got drunk was … why, never actually.’

  ‘Have your fun. Mock me.’

  ‘Oh, I intend to do much more than that. In truth, I am only getting warmed up. Still, I am curious. Did you and Jelindel have a fight?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Something happened on your trip?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You all of a sudden realised that –’

  ‘Enough. My head is splitting.’

  ‘Not surprising, since you drank a barrel and a half of the innkeeper’s worst ale.’

  Daretor groaned again. ‘Why are you still here?’

  ‘You mean, why am I still looking after you, despite all your insults? Well, aside from not passing up the chance to enjoy myself, I do have a vested interest in you.’

  ‘In other words, if I drop dead, you starve?’

  ‘As your manager, it behoves me to protect my investment.’

  ‘Manager? That’s a laugh.’ But Daretor did not laugh; indeed, he felt like lying down and going to sleep for several days. However, Jelindel must be wondering where he was. The evening before he had gone looking for Zimak and had finally found the wastrel wenching and drinking in a disreputable tavern, although looking oddly glum. He had started to drag the miscreant outside then somehow found himself downing a jug of strong ale. And after that, another.

  Things became somewhat blurry from then on.

  ‘I was bewitched,’ he said aloud.

  ‘No, Daretor,’ said Zimak. ‘You were unhappy.’

  Daretor eyed him. ‘You talk nonsense, as usual. I was not myself.’

  ‘We agree on something then. Come, I will buy you breakfast.’

  Daretor grunted. He knew he should seek out Jelindel at once but he felt sick, and the mood that had hung over him like a cloud for the past few weeks had not been completely erased by alcohol.

  ‘You’re paying?’

  ‘As unbelievable as that sounds, yes,’ said Zimak, who was worried about Daretor but would never admit it.

  A short time later, as they devoured spicy eggs and bacon, along with chunks of bread and goat’s cheese, and downed several mugs of strong Baltorian coffee, Daretor blurted, ‘I think Jelindel is seeing someone.’

  There was a look of such pained incomprehension on Daretor’s face that Zimak blinked, then burst out laughing.

  Daretor favoured him with a sour look. ‘Serves me right for confiding in one whose loftiest motive is to bed as many women as he can.’

  ‘No, no, you do me wrong,’ said Zimak, tears in his eyes. ‘It’s just that sometimes, Daretor, you are so – thick.’

  Daretor stood up, giving Zimak a cold, disdainful look. Zimak laughed even harder.

  ‘Look,’ said Zimak, ‘Jelindel hasn’t lost interest in you.’

  Daretor blinked. ‘She hasn’t?’

  ‘No.’

  Daretor sank back into his chair. ‘Then why –?’

  ‘Why has she been behaving strangely?’

  Daretor nodded. His heart thudded. The feelings Jelindel conjured in his breast made him uneasy.

  Zimak sobered, even looked serious. ‘I don’t know for sure,’ he said. ‘But two nights before you left for Sezel, I was awakened by a noise. I searched the house. The disturbance came from your room. I daresay you did not wake, since you sleep like a log. But Jelindel was crying out in her sleep. Over and over she said, “Poppa, Poppa, I’m sorry …”’

  Daretor shifted uneasily. ‘But she has never really spoken of her family, in all this time.’

  ‘And you don’t think that’s a bit odd?’

  Daretor did not reply. It was odd, and yet he had never found the right way to bring it up; part of making a relationship work, in his view, was respecting each other’s privacy. He had also thought she would talk about it when she was ready, but he suspected this was just his own way of evading the issue. He sighed. Dealing with daemons was easier than dealing with feelings.

  ‘I will talk to her about it,’ he said at last.

  ‘Hie, that might work.’

  Something in his tone and manner made Daretor frown. ‘You don’t agree?’

  Zimak shrugged, picking his teeth with studied casualness. ‘It may be that the best way to get her to talk about her past, is to talk about your own.’

  Daretor’s mouth twisted and he looked away. The morning crowds were thinning; he realised then that they were near the markets, the very place Jelindel had run to the night her family was murdered by the minions of the Archmage Fa’red; he knew she had taken up with a scribe called Bebia Ral’Vey. She eked out a living, masquerading as a boy till her magical abilities blossomed, and had then fallen in with the sewer rat/thief, Zimak, and himself, a sword-for-hire. But that was about all he knew. Once, she had admitted that she did not remember much of her past beyond the night her family died, and the period immediately afterwards was like a nightmare.

  Tragedy came too early to her, he thought. But she always seemed to handle it …

  He stood again. His head hurt but the other, deeper ache hurt more.

  Jelindel moved, on fire, unable to keep still. The dream, and Cimone’s words, filled her with a profound unease. She felt that time was running out, that she must act quickly, though she could not have said why exactly. And she was annoyed with Daretor. It was unlike him to stay out all night, to fail to send word. No doubt Zimak had something to do with it. Blast Zimak to the purgatory of all the Odd Gods!

  She sat on the bed and looked at the clock, thought of Daretor, and burst into tears.

  ‘Oh, you idiot!’ She wiped savagely at her cheeks with her sleeve.

  Why did she feel like this? So scattered, and so on edge? She clenched and unclenched her hands. For weeks now she had felt a terrible sense of – burden. As if she carried too much. Sometimes she thought it was Daretor, that she was a prisoner of her feelings for him. At other times …

  Yourself, dearie. It’s your self you’ve lost.

  The sad-eyed doll stared at her from her dressing table. In a flash of insight, she saw that the doll was her, as a child. And she had mislaid that child someplace. And gone on from it, not looking back. Jelindel winced. Now there was nothing to look back to; memory had stopped that night, burned from her brain …

  Worse still, she had lived. Lived when her family had died.

  Jelindel carried her bag downstairs, packed food and water, then waited. Taggar was due around noon. She prayed that Daretor would arrive soon so they could sit and work out their problems in private.

  Why was she putting herself through all this?

  Because a man with strange eyes had spun a curious story? Because a fat woman in a market stall had foretold the future? Or because she needed to find what was lost? And because time was running out?

  She took several deep gulps of air. Her head was spinning. She did not handle pressure very well these
days. Indeed, she had hoped she and Daretor might settle down for something of a holiday when they returned to D’loom. They had money enough to last them several years and, if need be, they could take local jobs, using magic to cure the ailments of their clients. She was sick of travelling. Sick of everything. Just sick.

  But Taggar’s news disturbed her deeply.

  Guilt flooded Daretor. It was almost noon and he was still not home. He hurried through the streets of D’loom, Zimak trying valiantly to keep up, but wheezing slightly, and with a pink tinge in his face. Daretor shot him a disgusted look.

  ‘It’s no use blaming me,’ Zimak said. ‘We can’t all be dashing about like heroes. Somebody has to keep the accounts. Somebody has to procure work.’

  ‘When did you ever dash about like a hero?’

  Zimak managed a hurt look, in amongst his wheezing and puffing. ‘It might surprise you to know that when I was nothing more than a street urchin –’

  ‘You mean, a sewer rat?’

  ‘Generous, as ever. When I was nothing more than a street urchin, my deepest desire was to become a famous hero, just like Kamiz the Great, the Hero of Q’zar.’

  ‘And what happened?’ They plunged through a small courtyard, dodging midday crowds, and a noisy knot of fishmongers.

  ‘I met you.’

  ‘If history speaks truly, then Kamiz did not achieve his fame alone.’

  Zimak sighed oddly. Daretor gave him another look. Zimak said, ‘His wife, Inanna. But where might I meet someone like that?’

  ‘Not in some inn or whorehouse,’ Daretor mumbled.

  ‘As always, Daretor, you judge too harshly. We are not all so lucky as to find someone like Jelindel. Or Inanna.’

  ‘Perhaps you have been looking in the wrong places,’ said Daretor, this time with less sharpness. Indeed, there was a catch in his voice.

  ‘Perhaps I have,’ agreed Zimak.

  They arrived home as Jelindel was weaving a sign in the air. She acknowledged them but continued with her mage work. Blue light flickered along her lips and danced down her arms, transferring to the air from her fingertips, leaving glowing signs there that hung brightly for a moment then faded to a smoky purple before vanishing completely.