Wardragon

by Paul Collins

  ‘Tell me, why were the dragons exiled?’ said Jelindel. ‘Is that part of the story, too?’

  ‘A part, yes. At one point, it seemed that the Chironian forces had won. They had a way to destroy everyone on Q’zar, though not the dragons. And this was the undoing of the dragons. Profoundly moral creatures, they could not permit genocide. And the Chironians knew this. They gave the dragons a choice. Accept death – the complete annihilation of their own species – or else the death of every human on Q’zar.’

  ‘They chose death.’

  Taggar nodded. ‘They were willing to sacrifice themselves for you. But then came the most shameful day in Q’zar’s history. By sheer dumb luck, Q’zarian forces captured the leader of the Chironian forces and their flagship. But instead of forcing them to submit, they struck a bargain. They sold out the dragons, provided the magical means to find and destroy every one of them, in exchange for their own lives.’

  ‘But the dragons had already chosen death.’

  Taggar barked a laugh. ‘How little you know of ego. The Chironians burned for revenge. They wanted to heroically squash their enemy. Not have them roll over to be slaughtered.’

  ‘Then what happened?’ Jelindel asked.

  ‘At the last minute, two humans – Inanna and Kamiz – summoned the Stone People, whose ancient kinship with the dragons is older even than the God-kings, and who have their own kind of magic. They managed to send the dragons, and their entire Massif, to another paraworld, leaving behind an empty and arid Dragonfrost. And there they stayed until you and your companions helped them return.’ Taggar paused, then went on again. ‘After that, Inanna and Kamiz led the final revolt against the Chironian forces, and broke them, and became doubly heroes. The Last Battle took place on Q’zar, at Altimak, which means just that: the final conflict. The dragons would never have fled had Q’zar not betrayed them.’

  Jelindel was silent a long time then. Hearing the true – and somewhat sordid – history of her world was oddly disturbing, as if she had spent her life in a lie. It was a tale that Q’zar’s historian, Lady Forturian, would need to be told.

  ‘Why is magic disappearing?’ she asked at last.

  Taggar shrugged. ‘My best guess is that magic is the true language of the Dreamverse, that has been suppressed for millennia upon millennia. I think the dragons awoke it in humans by teaching them to dream in the old tongue, to become dreamers in their own story. Magic is, I believe, the Great Unconscious Mind of the universe, from where dreams come. But Q’zar has stopped dreaming. This began when they forgot the past, when they forgot the dragons. And now cold science has again taken hold of people’s imaginations. By its very nature, cold science dissipates our dreams, just as morning does.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Magic is a choice,’ said Taggar. ‘When people start choosing cold science over magic, it has an effect – it weakens it, because it is people who make magic.’

  Jelindel’s body ached. It seemed that she had barely moved in all the time Taggar had been speaking. She had much to think about and was desperately tired. Still, there was one more question.

  Taggar smiled, reading her thought. ‘Yes, Tow will help us. I am, after all, one of the Originals, one of those who escaped from Golgora nearly a thousand years ago.’

  ‘So you know how to leave Golgora?’

  ‘Yes. But it won’t be simple. We must infiltrate the Wardragon’s fortress. At least now that you are with us it is achievable.’

  Chapter 9

  Fa’red’s Pact

  ‘If we’re meant to be old friends, Fa’red,’ said Zimak, remembering their encounters with the mage in the past, ‘then I’d hate to see what you do to your enemies.’

  ‘I can provide a demonstration,’ offered Fa’red.

  ‘I said I’d hate to see it. Besides, we are your enemies.’

  ‘My dear Zimak,’ Fa’red began, then he stopped and peered carefully at him. ‘Or is that you, Daretor? I find myself somewhat confused about just who I am dealing with ever since you two managed to switch bodies.’

  ‘High intelligence and perfect physique, all in one,’ Zimak said smugly. ‘I’m Zimak, and I’m proud of it. I enhance this body.’

  ‘You’ve certainly enhanced its weight,’ muttered Daretor.

  Fa’red laughed, then motioned them to sit at a small table.

  Daretor did so reluctantly, suspicious of any civility from Fa’red. He had tried to murder them on so many occasions that it was not possible for Daretor to be off guard in his presence. Daretor did, however, cultivate a certain cat-like grace, which had him both at ease yet ready for anything.

  Fa’red said, ‘Let’s get straight down to important matters, shall we?’

  ‘Do we have any choice?’ Daretor said, accepting a goblet from a serving maid then eyeing it with suspicion. Zimak did likewise, sniffing the contents but not taking a sip.

  ‘I could have you seized, put a funnel between your teeth, and pour the drink into you whether you want it or not,’ Fa’red pointed out. ‘Rest easy, the mead is harmless.’

  Zimak threw back his head and downed a mouthful of the amber liquid. Daretor waited patiently to see if his companion suffered any ill effects before suspiciously sipping at his own drink.

  ‘To your good health,’ Fa’red toasted. ‘And please accept my apologies for bringing you here by force. I strongly suspect neither of you would have accepted a more formal invitation.’

  ‘Just what is it you want, Fa’red?’ Daretor said.

  ‘Directness. An understated virtue. In a nutshell, I seek the mailshirt and the destruction of the Preceptor.’

  Zimak spilt his drink. Daretor sat with a blank expression, as if Fa’red had told a joke and he was waiting for the punchline.

  ‘Is that all?’ Daretor asked.

  ‘I’m serious,’ replied Fa’red. ‘The Wardragon, even as we speak, has amassed an army of workers and is somehow punching holes in Q’zar’s paraplane. If it continues to go unchecked I see the destruction of Q’zar. I don’t know what he seeks, but it bodes ill for every Q’zaran.’

  Daretor glanced at Zimak. ‘Remember our job in Sezel? Those paraworld fish escaping from another paraworld …’

  ‘Well if that’s all, we’ll be going,’ said Zimak, getting to his feet.

  Fa’red waved to Zimak to stay seated, and the serving maid came over and held up her jar. Zimak sat down slowly. The flaxen-haired maid purposefully brushed herself against him as she refilled his goblet. Zimak’s eyes followed her to the serving table in a shadowed corner of the tent.

  Fa’red coughed politely. ‘It would seem our old enemy, the Preceptor, has become a very powerful man in an extremely short span of time. Since he has no adept at his side, I can only conclude that he allied himself with that damnable mailshirt. How he found it is beyond me, but there you are. Find it he did, and all of a sudden he’s industrious, and particularly dangerous. I’ve sent deadmoon warriors by the wagonload to spy on him, yet none have returned.’

  ‘Now there I agree with him,’ mocked Zimak. ‘The only good deadmoon is a dead deadmoon.’

  ‘So the Preceptor likes his privacy,’ said Daretor. ‘So what?’

  ‘I want one of you to visit the Preceptor’s stronghold.’

  ‘Why would we want to go on a suicide mission?’ asked Daretor. ‘We’ve encountered the mailshirt before. It’s very good at killing people.’

  Fa’red maintained his smile but hardened his tone. ‘Your lives will be forfeit if you refuse.’

  ‘The usual reason,’ said Zimak, as if he had been expecting as much.

  ‘There are incentives. One for each of you.’ Fa’red’s lips twitched. ‘If you’re not concerned for your own welfare, you might be interested to learn that your erstwhile companion, the indefatigable Countess Jelindel dek Mediesar, has been captured and sent to Golgora.’

  Daretor slowly placed his goblet on the table, then stood suddenly and leaned across the table, glowering down at an
undaunted Fa’red.

  ‘Since your spies never return from Argentia, you know of this how?’ Daretor asked.

  Fa’red sighed as though talking to children. ‘Golgora is a paraworld. To travel there from Q’zar one needs to cross the paraplane. To do so leaves a trail, as you would leave footprints if you crossed a patch of sand.’

  ‘And you can ensorcell your way in there and collect her if we fight our way into Argentia and spy for you?’

  ‘No one just “ensorcells” into Golgora, my dear Daretor. Magic simply doesn’t work there. Or not much magic, anyway. It’s a well-trap world.’

  ‘Well-trap?’

  ‘Easy to fall into, but hard to crawl out of again. Magic can get you there, but magic is weak in the place. As on cold science worlds, there is no belief. It’s as though the planet has been sapped of it. Minor spells work well enough, but they give you little advantage when trying to escape. The strength of magic varies from paraworld to paraworld. I could of course “ensorcell” you there to keep the countess company, but there you would stay – although not for long in a living state. It’s a terribly unpleasant place. Suits the Preceptor right down to the ground.’

  Daretor frowned in confusion. ‘The Preceptor is here or there?’

  Fa’red grunted. ‘He seems able to travel between the two paraworlds as easily as one would visit two courtesans in the same night. I daresay the mailshirt allows him this luxury, and much more besides.’ His face darkened. ‘I am fast realising how it was that your countess bested me at every move. A mere stripling of a girl, yet as slippery as an eel and ten times as hardy. The mailshirt enhanced her, did it not? She had me thinking she had surpassed the skills of an Adept 15. Impossible, yet at the time it appeared so.’

  ‘It was never complete when she wore it,’ Daretor said. ‘But speaking of truth, how do we know what you say is true?’

  ‘I will gladly submit to truthsense on this matter. Everything I have said can be verified.’ Before Zimak or Daretor could move, Fa’red drew a symbol in the air. A wisp of smoke swirled slowly, then a silver globe appeared above Fa’red’s head.

  Zimak sat back. He had seen one of these things on the night Jabez Thull had died and again later at a huge battle in which Jelindel multiplied Daretor twenty thousand times over in order to defeat the Preceptor’s army. No matter how familiar he became with magic, it always put the fear of Black Quell in him.

  The slave spirit circled Fa’red’s head and in its flat, disembodied voice intoned, ‘Truth. In this matter, he does not lie.’

  Fa’red spoke a word and the globe vanished into his mouth as though its essence had been swallowed.

  ‘Just where do we come into all this?’ Zimak wanted to know.

  Fa’red sipped his mead. ‘I once thought of you both as mere lackeys of the countess – two lawless roughnecks she could replace at will. I have since come to realise that this is not the case. You, Daretor, have skills with the sword that are already legendary. While you, Zimak, in your own body of course, were rated by the great master of Siluvian kick-fist, Mirgish, as a black band 12 – an achievement thought impossible for anyone below the age of fifty. Mere mortal skills, but superlative. How else could you both blunder your way through thick and thin, yet come up trumps at every turn?’

  ‘Some would call it luck,’ Daretor said.

  ‘Yes, luck. A mysterious force that pervades the universe, and which none of us fully understands. Who knows how it works? Why it aids some and not others? But luck you do have, that much is clear to me now.’ Fa’red steepled his fingers. ‘Apart from that, you also have friends in high places. I am of course referring to the dragons. And in particular, the Sacred One.’

  Daretor laughed. ‘The Sacred One would no sooner help you than he would toast King Amida.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Fa’red said. ‘Which is why I need you, Daretor. I must have the Sacred One’s help. Before this thing is done we shall need the dragons, and perhaps they shall need us. I have seen it in my visions, though I admit that what I saw was not clear. The dragons are … part of the puzzle. They do not willingly enter the visions of men. But they shall play a role in this venture, that I know.’

  Fa’red turned to Zimak. ‘As for you, I need you and your excellent thieving skills.’

  ‘To thieve what?’

  ‘You must penetrate the Preceptor’s fortress in Argentia and find out what he’s up to. As I’ve said, an attack on magic has begun. And if magic fails, then Q’zar as we know it will fall.’

  ‘Why would the Preceptor want to destroy magic?’

  ‘He cares only for power and his place in history. If he hates magic, and I believe he does, then he may finally have found the way to annihilate it.’

  ‘The Wardragon?’ asked Daretor, thinking hard. Fa’red nodded. Daretor said, ‘What has the Preceptor to do with the merchantmen of D’loom?’

  ‘Perhaps Zimak will be able to tell us. When he gets to Argentia.’

  ‘Gah, who says I’m going?’ Zimak snorted. ‘What’s in it for us?’

  ‘I will return each of you to your rightful bodies.’

  Daretor and Zimak stared at Fa’red. ‘Are you serious?’ said Daretor. His heart beat erratically.

  Fa’red nodded. ‘It will mean a trip to the paraworld where the swap occurred, but it can be managed.’

  Daretor felt heady. He wanted his body back badly. Many times he had thought Jelindel’s love for him may have waned because he now inhabited Zimak’s flesh. Or worse – perhaps it hadn’t waned? He needed to know the truth, whatever it was.

  ‘And Jelindel?’

  Fa’red’s face tightened. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ he said. ‘We’re talking about Golgora – the Place of the Dead. You think I can just waltz in there and rescue your countess? Many mages as great as I have tried – and failed.’

  Daretor leaned forward, his face grim. ‘But you will try, won’t you?’

  The two men locked eyes. After a long moment, Fa’red nodded slowly. ‘I hereby give oath that I will try. I will do my best. But my best may not be good enough. The journey to Golgora is, as all know, one way. None has ever returned.’

  ‘There are rumours,’ said Daretor.

  ‘Pah! Rumours.’ Fa’red rearranged his robes and sat up straighter. ‘So we have a deal?’

  ‘In return for Zimak’s cooperation will you get Jelindel out of this Golgora paraworld?’ Daretor said firmly.

  ‘That is the deal,’ Fa’red said, looking as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. Daretor’s expression was not dissimilar.

  ‘I haven’t agreed to anything!’ Zimak bleated. ‘What exactly is this “deal”? While Daretor goes off to have a cosy chat with the king of the dragons, what must Zimak do? Why, nothing more difficult than sneak into the guarded headquarters of one of the deadliest, most bloodthirsty tyrants who has ever walked Q’zar. A tyrant who just happens to be wearing a mailshirt so magically powerful that not only can it destroy whole worlds, it actually terrifies one of Q’zar’s deadliest, most bloodthirsty mages. And just to make sure it’s not too easy, this is a tyrant who has already vanquished a host of deadmoon spies. Naturally, I’d love to do it. But I think I’m busy. For the next thirty years or so.’

  ‘Zimak,’ said Daretor. ‘Please.’

  Zimak blinked. ‘Did you just say, “please”? Look, it can’t be done, Daretor. This is a perfect example of why somebody came up with the phrase “suicide mission”. Count me out. I’ll just hang out till you two do what you have to do.’ He started to summon the serving maid again but a hand clamped onto his shoulder. He turned to find Daretor’s steely eyes regarding him.

  ‘I can’t go spying and thieving in this hulking great body, Daretor. Maybe after Fa’red swaps us back, huh?’

  Daretor shook his head. ‘I have done a good share of spying and thieving while in that body,’ he said calmly. ‘One just needs the attitude of a thief, and you certainly have that.’

  ‘I’m not going,’ Zimak said. His chin
protruded mulishly. ‘And that’s that.’

  ‘You’ll strike this bargain or spend the rest of your life defending the public toilets in the D’loom market,’ hissed Daretor. ‘Or are you afraid?’

  Zimak stared at his tormentor. ‘Afraid? After all we’ve been through? Look, this mission is ludicrous. Worse, it’s not fair. You get to go off to your old friend Osric and that great bag of bones, the Sacred One. Fa’red goes jaunting off to another paraworld – which I happen to remember is simply crawling with delectable maids with nothing more on their minds than what I’ve usually got on mine, and … where was I?’

  ‘And your problem is?’ Daretor asked. ‘You owe her, Zimak.’

  ‘Gah, the pox on you, Daretor.’ Zimak flapped his hands. ‘All right. Fine. I’ll do it. It’s not like I had any big plans for my life anyhow.’

  Despite a host of excellent arguments, and not a few last-minute quivering pleas, Zimak found himself on a disused road en route to Argentia. Earlier that morning he had said farewell to Daretor who headed south for Dragonfrost and an audience with the Sacred One. Fa’red meanwhile had opened a portal in the ruins of an ancient temple to Dagan, the paraworld where Daretor and Zimak had once been banished, and where Daretor had unintentionally exchanged bodies with Zimak. Without a word or gesture of farewell, Fa’red stepped through the glowing portal, and vanished from Q’zar.

  ‘Don’t forget to write,’ Zimak said to the fading portal. ‘Good riddance,’ he also muttered. He nudged his horse into a trot. The sooner he got this over and done with, the better. Of course, if he succeeded, his reputation – already impressive – would triple. Not a bad thing. It would certainly increase his allure to womenfolk. Although – and here he frowned – the thought of philandering didn’t quite have the effect on him it used to of old. Perhaps he was sickening with something.

  Or maybe I want something more, he pondered. What an appalling thought. He promptly turned his mind to the task at hand.