by Paul Collins
Jelindel steadied herself. ‘Nice to see you, Zimak. What kept you?’
‘Gah, Jelindel. You know that adage, “As fast as a dragon"? Well, it’s way overrated. Trust me.’
Daretor looked at Jelindel. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. ‘You look rather silly when you get that expression on your face.’
‘Your memory …’ he said.
‘Is back,’ said Jelindel. ‘But I think the cure was worse than the disease.’ She put one hand to her head and shut her eyes against the throbbing pain.
S’cressling was a majestic curiosity. She crouched in the town square, her immense, serrated tail flicking like the tail of a cat watching a mouse. Sensing this, the people kept a respectful distance. Despite the recent display of magic, nothing compared with seeing a giant crimson dragon land in the palace grounds. All of Ishluk knew of the existence of magic, but dragons were simply the stuff of folklore.
‘She rather steals one’s thunder,’ Jelindel was heard to say.
It was two days since the triumph of the revolution. Jelindel had been partially healed by Jod, while Zimak and Osric had been brought up to date on events. The city was in the midst of joyous celebration. Within the first few hours of Provost Kagan’s demise, all the Watchers were torn down and destroyed. The surviving priest-guards were rounded up for trial. They would have to answer accusations of crimes against the people; some would be banished from Ishluk, and others hanged; a few would stay in administrative posts which were needed in the running of the city.
Almost as soon as the city had fallen, Jelindel sent word asking if anyone had heard of the realm of the Stone People. Nobody had come forward at first, but while supplies were being loaded aboard S’cressling, a heavily lined woman hobbled up to them. In her youth, she said, she had heard a tale about people made of living rock. The tale claimed that their realm was deep beneath the Hazgar Mountains, hundreds of miles to the north-east.
The old woman was partially deaf. Jelindel asked several times how the woman wished to be rewarded, but she replied that the Provost’s fall was reward enough.
An hour before noon they climbed aboard the dragon and bid their friends goodbye. Jod Ukin, the new Regent of Ishluk, conferred honorary citizenship on them and made them Stewards of the Realm.
‘A Steward of the Realm has high rank and standing,’ complained Zimak as they prepared to leave. ‘Why are we leaving without enjoying the honour for at least a few weeks?’
‘We’re poisoned, and will die unless we find the dragonsight,’ Daretor reminded him.
‘Gah, Daretor. Do you have to spoil everything?’ muttered Zimak.
Moments later, S’cressling stretched her enormous wings, provoking a collective gasp from the crowd, and causing many to back away frantically. The wings rose then dropped with a noise like a thunderclap, and the dragon sprang into the air. Her wings beat laboriously as she worked to gain height, then she began to catch air currents and ascend in a graceful glide.
From below came a long cheer and much clapping. Jelindel and Daretor waved. When S’cressling reached a height of two thousand feet she veered off to the north-east.
‘That was a costly detour,’ said Jelindel. ‘Best to avoid the like in future.’
Chapter 4
THADDEUS PIKE
T
hey maintained the same course all that day and most of the next, only veering to avoid a massive storm system that Osric feared would toss them about like leaves. Jelindel and Daretor felt far from threatened after their recent ordeal. They regarded this part of the journey as a rest, time off from danger and desperation.
Jelindel blamed herself for being taken in by Fa’red’s treachery, although she agreed with Daretor that they should have expected no less from one so cunning.
‘Next time,’ said Daretor, ‘let us just ring his fat neck.’
‘Maybe I could try that ball of power trick the Provost used. I can’t think of anything more fitting for Fa’red than to be skinned alive,’ Jelindel mused. ‘Then again, he has survived fire before.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Zimak. ‘If it were up to me, I think I’d concoct a spell that removed his bones and left the rest.’
‘Fillet him?’ Jelindel said.
‘Whatever,’ Zimak said. ‘Dissolve all the bones in his body instantly, leaving behind one big pile of useless human sludge.’
The next morning they sighted the Hazgar Mountains in the distance. The highest peaks rose nearly twenty thousand feet, too high even for S’cressling to fly over. The range stretched away into the distance. Many of the high ridges and peaks were blanketed in snow, while fir and birch carpeted the lower escarpments, even where great rocky gorges cut deep into the slopes.
In stark contrast, the lowlands were arid and empty. According to Jelindel it was not due to climate.
‘Some terrible magic was wrought here long ago,’ she said, studying the scorched land. ‘A great battle between sorcerers maybe.’
The principal town in the territory was Ogven. It sat at the confluence of two rivers, one of which eventually ran into the Bay of Samile after nearly two hundred miles and many name changes.
S’cressling landed in a small valley some ten miles from the town. Leaving the dragon to forage for herself the group made their way to a nearby road, and hitched a ride on a slow, rumbling wagon.
‘I hope this wagon ride is more auspicious than my last,’ said Daretor.
‘I wish we could avoid contact with towns altogether,’ said Osric, glancing around uneasily.
‘If you know how to find the Stone People, I am all ears,’ Jelindel said. ‘If not, then we must gather information as best we can.’
She spent the rest of the journey questioning the wagon driver about the town and its people. Ogven sounded pretty much like any normal town on the continent.
‘Seems to me we end up in more danger in “normal” places than the other kind,’ Zimak protested.
‘You’re such a pessimist, Zimak,’ said Jelindel, laughing easily.
Zimak stared at her. ‘You hang out with Mister Doom-and-Gloom here,’ he said, indicating Daretor, ‘and you call me a pessimist?’
The wagoner dropped them three miles from town at a fork in the road. Jelindel and the others waved goodbye and turned towards the distant huddle of buildings.
The land had a withered, blasted look, as if indeed a battle had taken place, one using vast quantities of magical power. Jelindel shuddered as they passed an earthen mound burnt blacker than the rest. ‘Something is buried there,’ she said, averting her eyes. ‘Something that should never have walked the face of this world in the first place.’
‘You mean it’s akin to the fallen god that crashed into Skyfall?’ Daretor said.
‘Don’t remind me of that business,’ Jelindel said. ‘Just keep sentient mailshirts out of it.’
Zimak’s ears pricked. If it had anything to do with powerful artefacts, then he wanted to know more. He was all for digging up the dead thing. ‘Perhaps we could sell off parts of it as potent amulets,’ he suggested casually.
‘Zimak, shut up,’ said Daretor.
Zimak kept his eyes on the ravaged ground. ‘Ever since you two got together you’ve both lost your sense of adventure,’ he said.
Neither Jelindel nor Daretor deigned to reply.
As they trudged towards the town, the air became noticeably chill. A shadow fell over them. Looking up they saw that the sky had become overcast. Thick grey clouds scudded across from the Hazgar Mountains, obscuring the sun, and cooling the land.
‘Now that’s odd,’ Zimak observed, staring at the fast-moving clouds. Jelindel also stopped to watch the strange weather, frowning slightly.
‘I have seen places where it is like winter on one side of a mountain and summer on the other,’ said Osric. ‘All other places roundabout are unaffected. Perhaps this is one of those.’
‘Localised weather,’ said Jelindel. ‘I have visited one country that has
four seasons all in one day. I didn’t like it, either. I think we should get to town as soon as we can.’
She walked faster. The others matched her pace. ‘What do you fear?’ Daretor asked, striding by her side.
‘I don’t know,’ she answered after a long pause. ‘And I fear what I don’t know.’
The temperature continued to drop. Overhead, clouds thickened and grew dark. The light was like that of early evening, though it had an odd bruised quality that made them look sickly. The wind began to strengthen, blowing in icy gusts that whipped up sand and pebbles, blasting the travellers.
‘Is it my imagination or does this storm have something against us specifically?’ Osric called above the howl of the squalling wind.
‘Black Quell alone knows,’ Jelindel answered, leaning into the gale. ‘But if this is the worst of it, then we are safe.’
Zimak thought he heard Jelindel mock the inclement weather and hastily traced White Quell’s sign on his chest to avert bad omens. As they continued towards the town, the wind swung around to blow directly in their faces, as if it wanted to force them back.
‘This is no natural storm,’ Daretor called. Everyone else had already reached that conclusion for themselves. Jelindel noted that snowflakes had joined the sand and pebbles on the wind.
‘Snow in spring,’ she said. ‘Interesting.’
‘Interesting?’ scowled Zimak. ‘If this gets any worse I’m going to have extremities freezing and breaking off.’
‘I can think of one that won’t be missed!’ Jelindel called back.
‘Those are my extremities, I’ll have you remember,’ Daretor shouted indignantly.
‘Oh, very funny,’ said Zimak. ‘I’ll be sure to collect them and hand them over.’
The temperature plummeted further, until the pain from its chill forced them to breathe through cloth masks. Jelindel’s hands were numb from the cold and all feeling had gone from her legs and feet. The snow whipped past, but the wind prevented it from piling up on the ground. Visibility was down to a few yards.
‘If we don’t make the town soon we shall be completely lost!’ yelled Osric, trying to be heard above the wind’s howl.
They staggered on, clutching their lightweight garb tight about them, and peering into the relentless wind. Daretor walked ahead of Jelindel, trying to shield her from the worst of the wind’s fury.
‘We’re going to die out here,’ Zimak called. ‘Do something, Jelindel.’
They needed little encouragement to stop. The four huddled together, making shelter with their bodies. Jelindel spoke some words of magic, but her teeth were chattering so much that they came out garbled. She tried again. It was still no good.
‘I’m sorry,’ she managed. ‘Have to keep walking.’
‘In what direction?’ asked Osric.
‘Into the wind, of course.’
‘If this is an enchanted wind, whoever is behind it could be trying to fool us into thinking the wind is coming from the direction of the town. If he then changes its direction, we would still walk into it, and get lost.’
A garbled argument developed about the correct direction. Zimak pointed off one way, insisting the town lay there, but was unable to explain why. Osric suggested they follow the road, but they couldn’t be certain they hadn’t already strayed from it. It was merely a dirt track, little different from the rest of the wasteland. In this light, with so much snow on the wind, they could well be standing on the road, yet not know it.
While the others were arguing, Daretor peered intently into the murk. He raised a hand, pointing. ‘I saw a light flare over there,’ he shouted. ‘Line up behind me. Everybody hold hands.’
They did as he instructed. Not daring to turn his head even by a fraction, Daretor walked carefully and doggedly in the direction of the light. Suddenly he stumbled and fell. He was so cold and cramped that he could barely move. His hands were so numb it took him a moment to realise that what he was clutching was not earth or sand but a stone signpost.
The others clumsily helped him to his feet. Daretor told them what he had found, but if they heard they gave no indication. Struggling on, they reached a wall made of ice-encrusted wooden planks. Groping his way along, Daretor found a door and pulled it open without the formality of knocking. One by one he pushed his companions inside.
The heat slowly registered on their freezing bodies. Blinking their eyes clear of grit and ice, they looked around to find themselves within the taproom of what seemed to be a well-appointed inn. The placard above the barrel bench said The Dragon’s Breath.
‘Damn dragon must eat ice instead of virgins,’ wheezed Zimak.
A dozen surprised locals turned to face them. They were gathered around a great stone hearth in which a very inviting fire crackled and danced. They gestured for the frozen newcomers to join them. The innkeeper began to put drinks on a tray without even being asked.
‘I’m Leot,’ said the burly man as he handed the drinks around.
The liquid burned as if it were molten lead, warming them from within even as the fire soaked the numbness out of their limbs and fingers.
‘I suppose I don’t have to tell you that you were lucky to have lived through that?’ Leot asked. ‘Where did you come from?’
‘Carter … dropped us,’ gasped Daretor. ‘Said town was … three miles.’
‘How can we ever thank you?’ said Jelindel.
‘Now, now, enough of that,’ said Leot. ‘It’s our custom to welcome strangers. The first drink is, by tradition, given free and with good will.’
‘A wonderful custom,’ said Zimak, basking in the heat. ‘High time everybody took it up.’
The locals took this as a toast, raising their tankards and drinking deeply. The newcomers joined in.
Leot suggested they join the company for a meal as they sat steaming the damp out of their clothes. Rather than make people leave the fire, he dragged a table over and brought out a platter of roast lamb, fresh ryebread dripping with butter, and sauces. Vegetables were not a major feature of the meal, which was eaten with fingers off ryebread platters. Whatever else could be said of Ogven, its citizens ate well and heartily. Leot explained that the town was actually on the edge of the wasteland, and that the mountain valleys to the north were green and verdant, with good grazing and plenty of water.
‘Why then build your town here?’ asked Jelindel.
‘For trade, of course,’ Leot answered. ‘Not everyone can be a farmer. We are on a confluence of byways for merchants from the north and west, and those from the far side of the continent. Several roads and two rivers meet here. Indeed, if it weren’t for the Great Rapids some fifty miles north-east of here, we would be even more prosperous. But we have joined with some other towns nearby to build a canal and a series of locks around the rapids. It will take many years but our children will be wealthy, and this town will grow into a city.’
Predictably, Osric complimented Leot on the fine name of his inn. Leot replied that it was also the locals’ name for the wasteland hereabouts.
When the meal was eaten, they crowded closer to the fire, each with a tankard of mulled ale. Leot spread his hands flat on the table and looked at each of them in turn.
‘First, let me say you are welcome here,’ he said. ‘As I am also mayor of Ogven it is my duty to ask your business. That storm descended with truly magical swiftness. I think it would only be fair if you told us whether you have magician enemies in pursuit.’
The others waited for Jelindel to answer.
After hesitating a long time, she said, ‘We thank you for your welcome, and especially for your warmth and drink. As for our business, we come seeking old myths, stories, and lost magical things. On the matter of the blizzard, I cannot say for sure but I feel that someone does not want us to feel welcome. We have endured many storms, and that one did not come from nature.’
One of the locals, Uthven, snorted good-naturedly. ‘Far from it, miss,’ he said. ‘I have not seen weather like this
in all my years, and I am no youngling.’
The other locals nodded. Some shot nervous glances at the shutters, where the wind still hammered.
‘We are on a quest on which our very lives depend,’ Jelindel continued, ‘and we have little time to complete it. Our bodies have been tainted with a slow poison. Each passing day makes our plight more urgent.’
‘You could have left that bit out,’ grated Zimak. ‘I for one don’t need reminding.’
‘Nevertheless,’ continued Jelindel, ‘that is our circumstance. We were hurried on this quest by a treacherous archmage named Fa’red. Instead of sending us where we needed to go, he sent us to a place called Ishluk, in southern Gratz. We were lucky to escape alive. It is my belief that this storm is also his doing, and that he seeks to thwart us again. This does suggest that we are on the right track, however. Otherwise he would not be bothering with us. The trouble is that the storm is probably the least of our worries.’
‘The least?’ exclaimed Uthven.
Jelindel shrugged. ‘Fa’red will use any means to destroy us. He will not stop at a storm.’ She thought for a moment, her brow creasing. ‘Have you defences for the town?’
Leot nodded. ‘You think we will need them?’
Jelindel looked at him squarely. ‘If we stay, yes. It would be better for you if we left as quickly as possible, but I fear it is already too late. If what we seek is here, then it is in Fa’red’s interest to destroy your town.’
Leot’s ruddy cheeks puffed. ‘With whose help?’ he laughed. ‘The Preceptor is short on authority since his army was smashed.’ He turned to his countrymen. ‘Aye, we know of this Fa’red. He is a petty warlord with some skills in magic.’
The locals murmured assent. They did not seem especially fearful.
Jelindel smiled doubtfully. ‘I think you misunderstand. Fa’red doesn’t need armies to enforce his decrees. His alliance with the Preceptor was a mere convenience. No, he has a more nefarious agenda, one that requires no mortal forces. He can align himself with things not of this world.’
