Wardragon

by Paul Collins

  With a start she realised they were faking sleep. That could mean only one thing.

  She tried to still her own breathing, reproducing the rhythm of sleep. Maybe she should become invisible again and steal out of here, unseen, but what about Taggar? Why was he pretending? Was that a signal? Was he telling her to leave without him? She realised now that becoming part of the work force may not have been a great idea. Perhaps she should have come to Argentia secretly and remained an unseen spy, free to come and go as she pleased. Well, the die was cast.

  Jelindel took a deep breath to murmur the spell of invisibility. Before she could enact it a hand clamped over her mouth and a fiercely muscled arm pinned her to the mattress. There had been someone beneath her bed and she had not sensed him.

  Then others grabbed her, all the time keeping her hands stilled and her mouth shut, making her powerless to work any magic. Taggar was amongst them.

  The sense of betrayal swamped her. She tried to catch Taggar’s eyes, but he would not meet hers.

  She was expertly bound and gagged and dragged from the room, her captors saying nothing. Before long she realised where she was being taken. The black dragon building.

  Well, at least I’ll get a look inside, she thought. Then: Go to the place of light and darkness. Was she about to find out what that meant?

  Her captors strode into the chamber where a man with dark hair waited. He wore the markings of a lieutenant and carried himself like a fighting man. He had a face that in other circumstances she might have trusted.

  ‘I am Kaleton,’ he said. ‘You are the Archmage Jelindel dek Mediesar.’ He bowed curtly. ‘Countess, it is a pleasure. I am sorry we cannot tarry here. The … Preceptor has asked that you join him. On Golgora.’

  At the mention of the paraworld, Jelindel felt uncomfortably weak. Her captors caught her, and held her upright.

  Kaleton’s voice was bleak. He did not take pleasure in his task. ‘Yes, the Place of the Dead. Believe me, Countess, if it were up to me I would dispatch you in a more clean and humane manner.’

  He motioned Meecher to open the door which the man did by means of some winching machinery set in a corner of the room. As soon as the great metal door creaked open, a fierce cold blasted them, a cold that gnawed all hope.

  ‘Farewell, Countess,’ said Kaleton sadly.

  Her captors dragged her to the threshold beyond which there was nothing but a vague swirling mist. No wonder her magic had not penetrated this door, for it was a portal to a paraworld. To a place of no return. To a paraworld nightmare …

  As they thrust her into that thin wedge of the paraplane between the worlds, Jelindel uttered the most powerful spell she could manage, and could not help but cry out in sheer frustration that the gag prevented the spell taking place as intended.

  Chapter 6

  Mage-types and Charlatans

  When Jelindel and Taggar had left, Daretor and Zimak returned to the house and, as arranged, did nothing for a day. After the fire, and the other attacks Zimak had reported, it was safe to assume that the house was being watched, either by the merchantmen or someone unknown. Jelindel had left instructions that they should investigate, as discreetly as possible, the merchantmen’s main operations building.

  That night, Daretor and Zimak crept across the rooftops. They trod carefully, aware that many of these roofs were old and unlikely to take the combined weight of two men. Reaching the merchantmen’s warehouse, they prised up some of the shingles but it was impossible to pull the rusted nails without causing a noise. Muffled voices drifted up to them but they were too far away to make out distinctly.

  Daretor flicked his hand to indicate they should investigate the roof further. Moving away from the hole, they found a skylight in a far corner of the warehouse and managed to unlock it, though it too creaked alarmingly. They froze for a long while, expecting to hear shouts or running footsteps below, or even to have crossbow bolts twanging up through the rooftop all about them, but no one came.

  Their good fortune held. First they tied a rope to the skylight beam, paused to check that they had not been noticed, then carefully lowered themselves into the dimly lit space.

  Once on the floor of what appeared to be a disused storeroom, they moved quickly to the door, opened it a crack, and peered out. All they saw was a narrow corridor with more closed doors. They stepped into it. Daretor marked the door of the chamber they had left with chalk, in case they needed to leave that way in a hurry. They sidled down the corridor.

  Unaccustomed to such a run of good luck, Daretor silently thanked White Quell. The left-hand cross-corridor appeared to lead into the main space of the warehouse where they had heard voices.

  They crept down the corridor and came to a huge, high-ceilinged chamber. They were still not at ground level, for they had come out on a mezzanine balcony that encircled the main floor of the warehouse, itself stacked with crates and other items. Below, and to their left, they saw a group of merchantmen sitting on crates, apparently waiting.

  Daretor and Zimak made their way to a spot on the mezzanine level directly above the merchantmen and settled themselves down behind a stack of hessian sacks filled with some kind of spice.

  They did not have long to wait. After talking about a new shipment from Baltoria, one of the merchantmen, whom someone called Pilsor, announced abruptly, ‘It’s time. Stand back.’

  Daretor edged to the lip of the mezzanine and peered over. He was just in time to see a bright flash of greenish light. A shape appeared inside the swirling fumes, a shape that was huge and winged, and had a deep red hue.

  ‘Farvenu,’ Daretor whispered.

  Zimak craned for a look, and his stomach tightened.

  Nearly a year ago the Archmage Fa’red had banished both of them and Jelindel to another paraworld, where he hoped they would be either murdered or enslaved for the rest of their lives. This was the world of the daemon-like Farvenu, great winged beings who scoured the paraworlds searching for – and then stealing – weapons and other devices of cold science.

  Daretor leaned close to Zimak’s ear and whispered, ‘Fa’red must be involved in this.’

  Zimak’s jaw tightened. His stay on Farvane had been somewhat different to Jelindel and Daretor’s. He had been invited to join the Farvenu breakfast table, although not as a guest. The memory still haunted him.

  He nudged Daretor. ‘We should get out of here. I don’t want to mess with Farvenu.’

  ‘Worried that you might get another breakfast invitation?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  Together they edged back from the stacks and started to make their way towards the rope chamber.

  As they eased open the door to the chamber containing the knotted rope they were confronted by several grim-faced merchantmen. Each was holding a squat, ugly device, similar to the one Pilsor had carried, but larger. Daretor shoved Zimak back, diving aside as the weapons sprayed fire that splintered the door and its frame. They were saved only because the merchantmen were clearly not experienced in the use of the weapons.

  Daretor realised that against this furious onslaught a sword was of little use. As he scrabbled away, he felt a profound outrage that the merchantmen would resort to using such dishonourable weapons to Q’zar, a world where true magic reigned, and had done so since the dragons had first taught humans how to weave spells.

  Daretor and Zimak rolled to their feet – Zimak more slowly and clumsily than Daretor – and broke into a run, dashing into the first side corridor. Feet pounded in pursuit, and Daretor kept dodging into more corridors, not certain anymore where he was heading, but keeping out of the line of sight of those accursed weapons.

  They reached a smaller warehouse space, filled with pallets on which crates perched precariously. Daretor wondered if they contained more weapons. He had a sudden idea. Straw protruded from the crates, and he rushed about grabbing handfuls, gasping to Zimak to get out his tinder box.

  Daretor rammed the straw into the base of a pile of crates,
and watched warily as Zimak struck sparks to it.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Zimak as the straw began to smoulder.

  ‘Now we get out of here –’

  But it was too late. The merchantmen burst into the chamber and fanned out. Through their midst strode a Farvenu, its bloodshot eyes glaring about as it sniffed the air with a wet snuffling sound. Suddenly its head pivoted around and it seemed to stare straight at Daretor, although he was sure he could not be seen.

  The Farvenu raised a hand and pointed.

  A hail of metal thudded into the crates above Daretor. He ducked back, drawing his sword. Zimak did likewise.

  ‘We need to get close enough so they can’t use those weapons. When the fire takes hold we run for it.’

  Zimak nodded. The merchantmen approached, moving with an odd confidence, as if they felt their weapons made them invincible.

  At the last moment Daretor and Zimak sprang out. By this time everyone could smell smoke but the merchantmen had no time to react before two of their number were dead and a third had lost the arm holding his weapon.

  The remaining merchantmen tried to bring their weapons to bear but the Farvenu chose this moment to attack. Its wings arched outwards then folded tightly back, ready for the kill, like a hawk about to plunge down at its prey. The sweep of its wings knocked two merchantmen to the ground. One of the thundercasts skidded across the floor, and Zimak snatched it up. Despite Daretor’s angry shout to stop, he pressed the stud he had seen the merchantmen press.

  By sheer dumb luck, he was not pointing it at himself. A stream of whining, wasp-like things spat across the room from the shuddering weapon, stitching into crates, walls, merchantmen, and the Farvenu. There was instant pandemonium. Then one of the pallets was on fire, flames hungrily licking the ceiling, leaping to other pallets.

  ‘The fire weapons!’ cried a hysterical merchantman. ‘Save the fire weapons!’

  Merchantmen rushed to the crates, Daretor and Zimak momentarily forgotten, but the Farvenu was far from dead, even though hit by several of the metal wasps. Despite the purple blood streaming down its black, leathery chest, it hurled itself at Daretor with stunning speed and ferocity. Daretor barely had time to drop into the ready stance, and all that saved him was that the Farvenu’s feet skidded on the blood-slicked floor. This gave Daretor an opening which lasted an instant.

  Lunging forward he brought his sword around in a blurring arc of singing metal, chopping into the muscles of the Farvenu’s left leg. As it toppled, its arm shot out, raking him with razor-sharp talons. Daretor recoiled, snapped his sword back then plunged the blade into the creature’s chest.

  Daretor’s sword arm jarred with the impact. For an insane moment, he thought the Farvenu was wearing a boiled leather breastplate. The Farvenu shrilled its pain and toppled backwards. Daretor put his foot on the black chest, then heaved with all his strength and drew the blade free.

  Daretor leaned on his sword a moment, eyeing the parallel lines slashed across his tunic. Had the slash been a hair’s breadth closer he would have been seriously wounded. ‘Time we left,’ he announced.

  ‘It was time to leave before we arrived,’ Zimak replied.

  The merchantmen were yelling and beating at the flames, paying no heed to the fallen Farvenu, or to the two men as they beat a hasty retreat through the thick, choking smoke.

  As Daretor and Zimak darted out into the street, explosions erupted behind them.

  Outside, they kept going. Behind them, a thick column of smoke billowed into the night sky. Passers-by raised the alarm, and in no time at all, bells were ringing, calling all able-bodied folk to attend the fire. The high-pitched whine of metal wasps, triggered by the fire, echoed eerily through the night.

  Daretor and Zimak slowed to a fast walk, trying not to draw attention as more and more people peered out of windows and appeared in doorways. There was a massive explosion behind them, and the entire roof of the warehouse lifted suddenly, before crashing back down. For a second nothing further happened, then the entire structure collapsed. A cloud of smoke and flames billowed upwards and outwards, sending embers out to start more fires in the shingle and thatch roofs of nearby buildings.

  Daretor ducked instinctively as debris fell about them. ‘I think we should be seen somewhere in public,’ he said. ‘Just in case we were recognised and need an alibi.’

  ‘Hie, I know just the place,’ Zimak said.

  They made their way through the maze of back lanes and walkways, taking indirect routes and constantly checking behind them to ensure that they were not being followed.

  Entering a tavern known by the sign as The Witch’s Broom, but to its patrons as the Broomstick, they took a booth which gave a clear view of the fire above the rooftops. The tavern was busier than usual, and full of strange rumours. These had the common thread that something catastrophic was about to happen. Given that the main clientele of The Witch’s Broom were in fact mages, and that most mages had some clairvoyant abilities, rumours here tended to be taken seriously. Even Daretor had been known to visit when he had things on his mind, as if some of the prescience might rub off on him. Zimak claimed that he was hoping for a free divination, which Daretor found vaguely insulting.

  A colleague of Jelindel’s spotted the pair at the table and sat down beside Zimak. He toasted Daretor and Zimak, then leaned close, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Fire yonder is just an omen. I should go home if I were you, lads,’ said the mage, whose name was Acredin. He was an Adept 9, and his power fell well short of Jelindel’s. ‘This is not a night to be abroad.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Daretor asked, keeping an eye on the panicked people passing by in the street.

  ‘Wish I could say for certain. But the Voice does not come clearly anymore. An odd … opaqueness clouds the paraplane. I don’t understand it.’ He traced a holy symbol in the air. ‘For all the good it does,’ he mumbled in his beard.

  Daretor gave Acredin his attention now. ‘How long has it been so?’

  Acredin shrugged, gulped some more ale. ‘A month, maybe longer. It happened so slowly I was scarcely aware of it … They’re all saying the same.’ He gestured at the crowd of mages and magicians around them. ‘Bunch of market charmvendors, most of them, but there’s a canny head or two amongst them. Mark my words, it’s the same all over. A weakening in the magic.’

  ‘Is that why we should go home tonight?’ Zimak pressed.

  Acredin’s eyebrows bristled. ‘No. It’s because what can’t be seen can’t be avoided.’

  ‘Then what are you doing here?’ Zimak insisted.

  ‘Finishing my ale.’ The mage drank the last drop and slammed the tankard down. ‘And getting along home as fast as my bowlegs will take me there. And you’ll do the same if you’ve any sense. Good night to you both.’ He eyed them speculatively. ‘That will be one argent.’

  Zimak’s mouth dropped. Daretor almost choked on his ale.

  ‘Just joking, lads.’ Acredin hurried out and disappeared into the night.

  Daretor and Zimak shifted uncomfortably. ‘We’ve been seen now. Perhaps we should take his advice,’ said Zimak.

  ‘They aren’t.’ Daretor indicated the crowd of mages.

  ‘They’re drunk,’ Zimak pointed out. ‘Besides, most of them are charlatans anyway.’

  Daretor stood. ‘Nonetheless, Acredin left in a hurry. If the basis of magic truly is being attacked, it seems an easy guess that loitering here amid a taproom full of mage-types isn’t in our best interests.’

  Zimak did not need further persuading.

  Daretor and Zimak made their way home without much attempt at concealment, assuming their enemies would be rather too preoccupied to follow.

  They were no sooner inside than Daretor set about activating the various wards and charms that Jelindel had long ago provided for the protection of their home, and which anyone – even non-mage – could use. While Zimak accused him of unnecessarily fussing – ‘Nobody who saw us there could have go
tten out alive!’ – Daretor mixed up an ancient herbal concoction, daubed it about the house, and muttered minor spells as he did so, feeling odd pangs of disquiet. His old dislike of magic hadn’t vanished; it had simply gone underground.

  ‘Happy now?’ asked Zimak, when he had finished.

  ‘Aren’t you the one telling me they own half the city? You think they won’t work out it’s us? They’re using cold science. That means they’ll have farsights, like they did on Farvane. Cold science devices that send pictures over great distances.’

  Zimak hadn’t thought of that. He glanced nervously at the windows and doors. ‘Shouldn’t we use stronger spells?’ he asked.

  ‘I think we have sufficient,’ Daretor said. He returned to his stool with their medicinal pouch. After pulping a poultice of herbs and powders, he applied it to his wounds, grimacing as the soggy mulch stung on the raw flesh.

  Zimak swabbed his arm with a herbal oil. As Daretor shared out some bread, goat’s cheese, and cold chicken, Zimak poured a generous measure of syrupy Arcadian ale into two large pewter tankards.

  ‘This has magical medicinal properties,’ said Zimak with satisfaction after a deep swallow.

  ‘Aye, it grows a man’s belly so that he seems to be with child. Why do you drink so much of it?’

  ‘Gah, Daretor. A man needs some pleasure in life. There’s little else of it on offer.’ Zimak held up a finger. ‘It makes you stout – in fact, that’s not a bad name for it. Why do you think people say, “Your health” when they drink?’

  ‘To remind each other that it’s bad for their health?’

  A knock on the door made Zimak jump and his eyes go wide. ‘Is that them?’ he asked nervously.

  ‘Well,’ said Daretor, wearily, ‘I did think it would take them longer. I’d hoped to eat first. But why would they knock?’