Wardragon

by Paul Collins

  He let go – and regretted it at once. He remembered to keep his knees bent, but lost balance during the drop and landed backwards. Thus he half-fell and half-rolled down the hill, all the way to the bottom, fetching up against the trunk of a tree, winded, bruised, and hurting in several places.

  Zimak lay there, getting his breath back, and gingerly checking all his body parts. Everything seemed intact so he got onto his hands and knees and tried crawling. Having established no bones were broken, he gingerly stood up. Aside from feeling a touch dizzy it seemed he was uninjured.

  ‘Who are you?’

  Zimak whirled around, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. Just as quickly he took it away. A boy of about ten years of age watched him warily from a distance.

  Zimak picked up his pack and put it on. ‘I’m the new grounds warden,’ he said.

  ‘We never had an old one.’

  ‘You do now. Aren’t you a bit young to be out this late?’

  ‘I’m nearly eleven.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right then. Where do you live?’

  ‘Are you going to report me?’

  Zimak eyed him. Perhaps the lad could be useful. ‘Not this time but only if you can help me.’

  ‘Help you?’ he said. ‘How?’

  ‘I fell over and hit my head, and –’

  ‘Yeah, I saw you fall from up there. What were you doing?’

  ‘Checking the old mine, making sure it’s safe.’

  ‘What old mine?’

  ‘Ask your parents.’

  ‘You did hit your head. Nobody asks anything around here anymore.’

  He sounded put out, as if all the fun had gone out of life. Zimak suppressed a grin. Such world weariness in a ten-year-old!

  ‘Where are the labour quarters?’

  ‘Two blocks that way. How come you don’t know that?’

  ‘Like I said, I hit my head. My memory’s acting all funny. What’s your name?’

  The boy stiffened. ‘You are going to report me, aren’t you?’

  ‘I said I wasn’t and I won’t.’

  Zimak’s solemn look reassured the boy. After a short pause, he said, ‘Davit. Davit Longhughes.’

  ‘Well, Davit Longhughes, do you want to help me? I need some information and I’m willing to pay for it.’

  The boy’s eyes sparkled. Zimak glanced at the three moons. It was not a good time to try breaking into the Preceptor’s fortress. The risks were too great. That meant he’d need somewhere to hide, and someone to bring him food and water.

  ‘Can I trust you, Davit?’

  Zimak held up a gold oriel. Even in the dark it gleamed alluringly. Davit nodded vigorously.

  ‘Good,’ said Zimak. ‘Here’s what I need you to do …’

  The dragon hurtled through the mountain passes at speeds that would have been terrifying had they been closer to the ground. Still, the rush of chill air around Daretor, while thrilling, was terrifying enough, as was the stomach-lurching height at which they flew. His feet and hands were numb. Below, the earth was congealing into darkness, while up here there was still a layer of golden light. The snow-capped peaks of the mountains shone so brilliantly that they dazzled the eye. Far away to his right, at the westernmost end of the world, the sun sank slowly into the great ocean. Somewhere ahead, on the other side of the great circular Fortress Massif, was a huge crater. In its centre rose a single spindle of ancient rock. Atop this sat the Tower Inviolate, home of the dragon folk and the Sacred One.

  They flew on for some time, and the numbness in Daretor’s limbs grew. He was shivering uncontrollably too, because he was not dressed for such heights and speeds. Fortunately, the dragon soon alighted on some kind of stone eyrie chiselled out of raw mountain rock in the middle of the massif. It was an observation post. Here Daretor was questioned by the rider of the dragon, a youth called Lodis. When he saw Daretor’s bloody clothes and violent shivering, he hurriedly got him inside, insisting Daretor stay near the fire, which Lodis quickly built up until it roared. Lodis then ordered a dragonrider to make spiced coffee and another to bring warm furs.

  Soon Daretor was sitting wrapped in two layers of furs, sipping scalding coffee and luxuriating in the heat of the fire. His wounds had been re-bandaged after a healing cream had been rubbed into them. When it was clear he could talk again, Lodis sat down opposite him.

  ‘You are a very lucky fellow,’ said the dragonrider. ‘On that everyone here agrees.’

  The observation post housed a dozen riders and apprentices, and stabled four dragons. It was all part of the dragonriders’ efforts not only to patrol their own borders but to bring peace and security to all the surrounding lands. This goal was close to their own hearts but made even more urgent by Jelindel’s predictions that Q’zar faced the possibility of a thousand years of darkness, if nothing was done to prevent it.

  ‘I’ll not argue with that,’ said Daretor. His voice sounded sluggish and slightly hoarse, as if his vocal cords were still defrosting. ‘Thank you for rescuing me. Do you make a habit of such things?’

  Lodis laughed. ‘More and more these days. Our regent, Osric, commands us to help all who need it, and gives us much freedom in interpreting that command, as long as we err on the side of the needy. When I spotted you, you were standing on the edge of a two-thousand-foot drop, facing outlandish devils from some daemon world, and with a dozen or so bodies scattered about. I decided that you qualified as “needy”.’

  He laughed again and Daretor joined in, though he winced in pain. The nearby riders, who had drawn up chairs to listen, grinned.

  ‘Perhaps you could tell us your story,’ Lodis suggested.

  ‘Your arrival was indeed timely,’ said Daretor. ‘I was about to fling myself from the parapet rather than be tortured again. The dead men on the rooftop were merchantmen, who are in the pay of the Preceptor.’

  ‘The Preceptor?’

  ‘Yes. He has returned, more powerful than before. The devils, as you call them, are Farvenu. They are from a cold science paraworld that I have visited, and they’re fearsome adversaries. Their presence here is confusing though. Once they were allied to the Archmage Fa’red who himself was allied to the Preceptor. Now Fa’red seeks to destroy the Preceptor.’

  ‘We know of this conflict. But has Fa’red become an ally to us?’

  ‘Does a snake change its nature?’ said Daretor. ‘No, I have made a temporary pact with him, but he is as much an enemy of Q’zar as he is of the Preceptor.’

  ‘Are you then our enemy?’

  ‘No. I am a friend to the dragonriders.’

  ‘Many claim that but few can prove it. If we allowed you to go on your way, where would your road take you?’

  ‘To the Tower Inviolate to seek audience with the Sacred One.’

  A gasp sounded in the room, and several of the dragonriders jumped to their feet. Lodis waved them to their seats again.

  ‘Peace, brothers. Think before you react. This man may not know the high esteem in which we hold the Sacred One, so that even the mention of his name on the lips of a stranger may seem offensive to us. Tell me, stranger, why do you think the Sacred One would grant you an audience?’

  Daretor brushed dust from his tunic. ‘He told me so.’

  The dragonriders shuffled uneasily in their seats. Even Lodis this time seemed taken aback. ‘And I suppose our regent, Osric, confirmed this?’ His tone was sarcastic.

  Daretor nodded. ‘If I remember rightly, Osric once offered me the captaincy of the Bazitian dragonriders.’

  A stunned silence was followed by a burst of laughter.

  ‘By all the gods,’ said Lodis, looking at his men, ‘we have found ourselves a great teller of tales.’ He turned back to Daretor. ‘And why would Osric and the Sacred One make such pledges to you?’

  ‘Because I saved Osric’s life several times, and because I was one of those who helped restore the dragonsight to the Sacred One.’

  If the reactions before had been startled the respo
nse now was in stark contrast: absolute silence fell on the room. Only the crackle of the fire could be heard. Then Lodis stood up. ‘You are either Daretor or Zimak.’

  Daretor stood up also, facing the youth, then swayed. Lodis put out a hand to steady him.

  ‘I am both at present, in a manner of speaking, but call me Daretor, please.’

  There was bedlam for a time. The dragonriders could not get close enough to Daretor, or ask enough questions. Everyone wanted to have at least a few words with him, to be able to say they had spoken with him. Lodis was forced to sit himself between them so as to afford their new acquaintance some peace from the aggressive hospitality which all the riders now tried to shower upon Daretor.

  ‘Why did you not say so at once?’ he asked presently, and in a hurt tone. ‘I will get the most severe of reprimands for sitting you here and interrogating you instead of whisking you straight to the Tower!’

  Daretor frowned. ‘You could not have treated me more fairly, nor given me more of what I most needed. And all that while you still suspected that I might be a foe.’

  ‘Well, that may be, but there is no excuse now.’

  Lodis ordered the fastest dragon made ready, and insisted that their physician travel with them in case Daretor’s wounds needed more attention. Within the hour, they were off, and this time Daretor flew in relative comfort. On the way, he regaled Lodis with the adventures that had taken him and Zimak to their paraworld the first time and how they had subsequently become involved in the search for the dragonsight.

  As on several earlier occasions, Daretor was awed by the skill with which dragons flew through the narrow canyons that zigzagged through the Fortress Massif. Often the canyons were little wider than the wingspan of the dragons, and many of the turns were abrupt and treacherous. Still, the dragons flew steadily and without mishap, navigating the tortuous routes with the ease of long experience. Perhaps, like bats, they had some sense of space and distance long lost to humans.

  They arrived at the Tower in the middle of the night, and although Lodis wanted to awaken Osric immediately, Daretor begged him not to.

  ‘I myself need some sleep. Awakening Osric now will simply cause two sleepy friends to start yawning at each other. Better we meet in the bright light of morning. Late morning, preferably.’

  Daretor was shown to a room where the physician checked his bandages once more before leaving him rugged up in bed. No sooner was the man gone than Daretor felt himself drifting off to sleep. As he did so, he wondered where Jelindel was and if she was all right. Yet again, he cursed the ill fortune that had sent him here instead of to Argentia. At least there he was nearer his beloved, even if she had been banished to some other paraworld. Nor was he happy that Zimak might find a way to reach her, and perhaps even be the one to rescue her. That final thought made him wonder how Jelindel would greet Zimak if he did get through the paraworld portal and reach her side. Would she be overjoyed just to be rescued? Would she wonder why he, Daretor, had not come for her? Might she even be happier that he had not?

  The next morning the door was flung open and Osric stomped in, smiling and scowling at the same time. ‘I will have that boy’s head, and yours too!’ he cried. ‘Imagine not waking me the moment you arrived!’

  ‘Good morning to you, too, Osric,’ said Daretor as he sat up. ‘It’s nice to see you.’

  ‘Nice to see me? Nice? Merely nice?’

  ‘Well, it’s wonderful, but I can’t tell you that or you might get a swollen head.’

  Daretor climbed out of bed and the two men embraced. Osric pounded Daretor’s back but stopped when the latter winced in pain.

  ‘How about breakfast?’ Daretor said as Osric led him out of the room. ‘I’m famished.’

  ‘That I can manage,’ said Osric as they reached a balcony that overlooked the dizzying five-thousand-foot drop to the crater basin. The view was stunning, not least because Daretor could see various other levels, balconies, and courtyards of the magnificent Tower, all in a haphazard descending order, like overlapping glimpses into other people’s lives. The unrelenting sun gave the scene the polish of perfection.

  Daretor felt much better as he began the hearty breakfast that Osric had arranged. He told Osric everything that had happened.

  Osric was as perplexed as Daretor by the role of the Farvenu and their apparent allegiance to the Preceptor.

  ‘It might be the mailshirt that they align themselves with,’ said Osric. ‘It seems to have a life of its own, and perhaps even a spirit.’

  Daretor stopped with a fork halfway to his mouth. ‘I hadn’t thought of that, but it would make sense. With their respect for cold science, they would undoubtedly know of the mailshirt’s true nature. To them it might even be a god.’

  Osric nodded. ‘So, what of our other enemies? You say Fa’red and the Preceptor have had a falling out? That is good news.’

  ‘Fa’red might actually be feigning the falling out. He may well still be in alliance with the Preceptor.’

  ‘That would position him better for a takeover.’

  ‘My feeling as well. Now, about the audience with the Sacred One?’

  ‘As soon as you’ve eaten. I have already informed him of your arrival, as that confounded Lodis should have done last night.’

  ‘Don’t be hard on the fellow. He showed initiative, yet followed the rules.’

  ‘Hmmm. If you say so.’ He watched Daretor finish the food on his plate and push it back. ‘I’ve ordered S’cressling to be harnessed for flight. As soon as you complete the audience we’ll be off.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Of course. You think I’m letting you wander off alone? You might get into trouble without me.’

  ‘Or more trouble with you.’

  ‘Highly likely, but I’ll risk it.’

  Daretor laughed, feeling contentment for the first time in days. He would also make much better time flying on a dragon than by horse. And dragonflight would certainly be less arduous in his current state. Suddenly anxious to be on his way, he pushed back his chair and stood up.

  ‘We should make haste.’

  Osric led him up the stairs through several levels to what was called a flying room – a cabin inside a deep shaft, which was raised and lowered by thick ropes attached to a windlass. He stepped inside with Osric who yanked a tassel which rang a bell somewhere far away. The cabin lurched, then started to ascend.

  Daretor frowned. ‘Shouldn’t we be going down?’

  ‘We can if you wish, but the Sacred One is up.’

  ‘Up?’

  ‘Up.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since you freed him from bondage, along with all the other dragons.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ Daretor said.

  The flying room rose several hundred feet, and Daretor started to get a squeamish feeling in his stomach at the mere thought of the great void beneath him. Quite possibly there was a thousand feet of nothingness just inches beneath the thin planks of wood on which he stood. He swallowed and uneasily shifted his weight from foot to foot. Osric refrained from jibing his friend.

  They were delivered to a wide deck open to the sky. At the far end was what looked like a huge pigeon coop. It featured enormous round entrances, outside each of which was a stone perch. On one of these, sunning himself and idly flapping his majestic wings, was the Sacred One. When he saw Daretor he launched himself ponderously into the air, circled the wide space, then landed on the deck in front of them.

  The dragon was vastly different from the first time Daretor had seen him. At that time he had been blind in one eye, emaciated, and grey, as if all the colours of life had been leached out of him. Now he was filled out, vibrant and full of life, and he had two eyes. One was the dragonsight, that strange, semi-living gemstone that Daretor had helped recover from the Archmage Fa’red. The dragonsight connected its possessor to all the other dragons, and through them to the dragonriders as well. The dragonsight also conferred a kind of clairvoyance upon the
Sacred One, so that the future – or a future – could be seen. The Sacred One possessed the truthsense, which was one of the reasons Daretor had been sent on this mission instead of Zimak. Zimak rarely told the truth, even when there was no profit in not doing so.

  ‘Well met, Daretor,’ said the Sacred One in a grave but booming voice.

  ‘Well met, Sacred One.’

  ‘You seek a Telling?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I will send for you tonight,’ said the Sacred One. ‘I must prepare myself.’

  Without any further exchange of trivialities, the dragon turned and entered the base of the dragon roost, and was lost to sight.

  ‘That’s odd,’ said Osric. ‘The Sacred One usually sees people straight away – that is, when he sees them at all.’

  Daretor drew a deep breath. ‘No matter. Perhaps he sees more to this Telling than we do.’

  Osric clapped a hand around Daretor’s shoulder. ‘Besides, it gives us a day to catch up.’

  They returned to the flying room and descended to Osric’s private chambers. Here they spent the day deep in conversation. Once night had fallen a summons came, bidding Daretor return alone to the dragon roost.

  A pageboy escorted Daretor to the deck. Daretor strode briskly toward the huge round entrance of the dragon roost.

  Zimak flattened himself against the stonework. A few feet to his left two men had emerged onto a balcony from a lighted room but they were not looking his way. This was a bad night for scaling towers because of the moonlight, but in a curious way it was the best possible night as well. All three moons were approaching conjunction in the sky, which meant that all three were together and full, casting shadows with blurred triple edges and generally lighting up the place almost as brightly as overcast daylight. At the coast there would be very high tides on this night, and everywhere the dogs and wolves were howling themselves hoarse. This was a night that intruders scaling walls were as highly illuminated as ever happened, but there was a distinct bonus. Nearly every religion had a special ritual or festival associated with the triple lunar conjunctions, and were far too busy with prayers, beating gongs or making sacrifices to bother keeping an eye open for intruders. Even those who were not at all religious took the opportunity to have a few drinks with friends while they watched the sky, rather than watching the walls for climbing figures. It was this fact that had precipitated Zimak’s decision to scale the tower this night. Although, if anyone looked away from the sky, they could hardly fail to see his dark bulk inching up the wall like a leech.