Dragonsight

by Paul Collins

  ‘They come!’ he shouted. ‘The dragons come!’

  ‘Quickly,’ Jelindel said to Daretor. ‘Tell Osric that S’cressling must defend the town. Go with them.’

  Daretor hurried away. In the dim moonlight, Jelindel could see other rooftops. On many of them small figures stood perfectly still, faces upturned. These were the mages of Yuledan. She had taught them how to enmesh and interlink their powers and so act as one. She did not know if it would work. Many risks would be taken this night, and this was but one of them.

  More stars were being blotted out as a gout of greenish fire spurted down, raking a street as the dragon tried to provoke panic. Fortunately, as far as Jelindel could see, no one was hurt. The citizens of Yuledan had learnt wariness, and knew that to give in to panic was to invite death.

  She sensed the mages had begun weaving a complicated defensive spell. A faint blue lens appeared above the town. The next dragon that dropped down was unaffected by the light but when it belched fire, the flames deflected against the lens. The spell could not stop dragons; it turned aside their fire.

  From the town’s main square, a large body leaped into the air, soaring quickly up. S’cressling dove and spun amongst the attacking dragons. Osric would not use fire against them, and nor would S’cressling. Instead, he used the dragon’s greater weight and momentum to ram the other dragons and throw them off course. Several dragonriders were unseated, plunging to their deaths, and the riderless dragons flapped away quickly, no longer compelled to stay.

  The sudden attack from S’cressling and the sorcerous defence of the town was so unexpected that the dragonriders broke off the attack after only a few frantic, confused minutes, scattering into the night.

  A great cheer rose up from the town. It was the first time they had hit back decisively at their tormentors. It felt good.

  ‘With any luck,’ said Theroc, later that night, ‘it will be some time before they come again looking for dinner.’

  The next day dawned bright and hot. Jelindel and the others had a last meeting with Theroc and the town council, promising to return to see how they were faring. Then they made ready to leave, at which point they realised that no one had seen Zimak since the night before.

  ‘I thought it was unusually quiet,’ said Daretor, before he could help himself.

  They scoured the town. Theroc ordered a house-to-house search. No trace of Zimak was found. Daretor’s theory was that Zimak was lying asleep with a local girl, and would show up when she got bored with him.

  ‘It’s in the clown’s nature to bore, so we should not have long to wait,’ said Daretor as they waited.

  ‘Zimak’s not so stupid as to seek dalliance when there’s fighting to be done,’ Jelindel said. ‘If Yuledan had fallen, so would he.’

  Theroc advanced the theory that Zimak had been seized by one of the dragons and carried away.

  ‘That’s possible,’ said Jelindel, ‘yet no dragons landed, nor any of their riders. Not alive, at any rate.’

  ‘Well, what can we do about it?’ Daretor asked. ‘The days are passing, and we have few of them left.’

  Jelindel squeezed his hand. ‘There’s only one thing to do. We must find the dragonsight.’

  D’loom basked in spring sunshine. The streets were crowded with hawkers selling their wares, haggling customers, beggars and thieves, and even impoverished nobles selling letters of recommendation. The air was festive, which was a pleasant change from the grimness of the last few days. Even the presence of the brigands and other disreputable types, swaggering along the streets, or holding forth in taverns, could not mar the pleasure Jelindel and Daretor felt at returning to what they called home.

  They had arrived the night before, landing on a dark rooftop beneath an overcast sky. Osric sent S’cressling to roost on a nearby rocky islet that stood a mile offshore, and had the kind of craggy terrain that would conceal a large dragon. Nor could boats draw close, as there was no beach; just treacherous reefs.

  They found a tavern that was not quite so rowdy as the others, and discussed their plans. Zimak’s disappearance was not mentioned.

  ‘I will visit the Temple of Verity and consult the High Priestess,’ Jelindel said.

  ‘I thought the Order had fled across the continent,’ Daretor said.

  ‘The moment word spread that the Preceptor had been defeated, Kelricka promoted her seniors to High Priestesses and re-established the Temple of Verity in key cities.’ To Osric, she said, ‘I want you to go to the university and seek out the professors of history and languages. Daretor, I think we need to know what our friend Fa’red is up to. I doubt very much that he has forgotten about us.’

  ‘Nor us, him,’ Daretor grunted. ‘The man has an uncanny knack of knowing exactly where we are at any given time. How is that?’

  ‘I can only guess at the powers of an Adept 12, Daretor,’ Jelindel said. ‘There’s also the Sacred One’s blood on our foreheads, remember. Perhaps there’s a connection between Fa’red and Rakeem …’ She reached out and squeezed his hand. ‘Fear not. I have it on good authority that we too are being looked after by a powerful friend.’

  Daretor looked suspiciously around the tavern.

  ‘Not a mortal guardian, silly,’ Jelindel laughed. ‘Something higher up. And don’t go looking at the ceiling.’

  Daretor took a gulp from his tankard and swallowed. ‘Very funny. I’ll leave the mage mongering in your capable hands,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, I notice that we have company.’

  Jelindel and Osric glanced across the room. There was indeed someone seated at a table in the corner. Noticing their eyes on him, he slumped further into his seat and looked away.

  ‘He came in after us and I am almost certain I saw him earlier near the marketplace,’ Daretor said. ‘He must be the sorriest looking deadmoon that I’ve ever seen, though.’

  ‘To underestimate your adversary is to court death,’ Jelindel mused. ‘But I sense no malice in that one.’

  They finished their drinks. Jelindel and Osric rose to go. Daretor lounged back, and looked as if he were settling in for the rest of the day. ‘I think I will stay awhile,’ he told them.

  As they left, Daretor watched the man in the corner. He seemed suddenly flustered, as if he did not know whether to follow Jelindel and Osric or stay. At the last minute, he made up his mind, and nonchalantly left. Daretor went after him, maintaining a safe distance. He lost him once or twice, but picked him up on each occasion. It seemed the man was in no immediate hurry, for he stopped at stalls, halted twice to curse at holy shrines, and once he kicked a beggar who would not leave him alone. Stopping at a market stall, he haggled with the vendor over the price of a melon. The bartering ended when the man swept half the produce from the stall.

  To Daretor’s surprise, the man had tracked neither Jelindel or Osric. Instead, he headed for the docks, and after speaking briefly with a one-armed man, boarded a caravel.

  Daretor leaned against an empty water barrel, pondering what he had seen. He was sure that the man had been watching them at the tavern. But it would seem Jelindel had been right. Perhaps the man meant them no harm. Putting him out of mind, Daretor turned back to the city and went looking for those who earned a living by knowing more than was good for them.

  Chapter 6

  SEA GATE

  O

  nala, the High Priestess of the Temple of Verity in D’loom, was new to the post and keen to prove herself. She knew the so-called ‘Archmage’ Jelindel dek Mediesar, and was not impressed that she had sought an audience. Onala hadn’t forgotten her first meeting with Jelindel when she was a mere neophyte. Jelindel had ensnared her with a binding word and humiliated her in front of her fellow seniors. Onala did not forget that sort of thing, and she looked forward to putting Jelindel in her place.

  The High Priestess donned her most impressive vestments in a leisurely manner: a burgundy-trimmed robe with flared cuffs, a black velvet mitre with stiffened wings bordered with exquisite silver and go
ld embroidery. She placed her ceremonial crosier with its staff-long tassels by the table.

  Onala kept Jelindel waiting two hours. Finally she sat behind her desk in a high-backed chair that looked more like a throne. Satisfied, she had Jelindel ushered in by a fawning neophyte. Her brown tabard with the Temple’s rising sun emblazoned in golden yellow across the front were the only colours allowed such lowly clerics.

  ‘Leave us,’ the High Priestess said imperiously to the neophyte, who seemed to almost worship the famous archmage. Only at Onala’s command had the infatuated girl scuttled out, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  ‘Close it,’ Onala added.

  Jelindel smiled faintly at the click behind her. The bullying of the recently appointed High Priestess brought back memories, even fond ones. Onala thought the smile somewhat mocking and her face tightened.

  ‘I am quite busy today,’ Onala said. A look of disdain swept her face at Jelindel’s weather-beaten appearance. ‘You are lucky I am able to see you at all.’

  ‘I am grateful for the audience,’ said Jelindel. Her obvious sincerity caught Onala by surprise.

  ‘How may the Temple be of assistance?’ she asked, affecting weariness.

  ‘I am seeking information about the earliest human language on Q’zar.’

  ‘Quech. Any third-year servitor would know that.’

  Jelindel ignored the jibe. ‘What do you know of it?’

  ‘I know what everybody knows, which is little enough. It was called Quech, as I have just said. No living being knows how old it is or where it originated. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Is it possible to study the records?’

  ‘With the proper permission,’ said Onala.

  ‘I don’t have much time.’ ‘I cannot help that. You must obtain permission from the Temple in Arcadia. You of all people should know that,’ Onala pointed out.

  ‘I had hoped –’

  ‘You hoped in vain.’

  ‘So I see.’ Jelindel rose to her feet, bade the High Priestess good day, and made to leave. Onala allowed herself a brief smile of satisfaction.

  At the door Jelindel turned and for a second Onala’s innate timidity surfaced. She stifled a squeak.

  ‘It was wrong of me to try to bypass our ancient ways,’ Jelindel said in a tone that was nevertheless ambiguous. ‘I’ll pray to White Quell for forgiveness. Fare you well, Onala.’

  Onala did not trust herself to reply.

  When Daretor and Osric returned that evening they found Jelindel pacing the floor of the tavern room they had lodged in. Before they could even open their mouths Jelindel came to a sudden stop, eyeing them belligerently.

  ‘We’re going about this the wrong way, I am sure of it,’ she said.

  ‘I take it,’ said Daretor, ‘that you fared poorly at the Temple?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Jelindel said, her voice rising, ‘I learnt a great deal. I learnt that the High Priestess is an insufferable fool who should be stuffed into a barrel of rancid whale blubber and dropped in the middle of the Tanglesea Ocean. No, I take that back, she should be kept alive to suffer the stink.’

  ‘There’s no need to lose your temper,’ Daretor said.

  ‘Who’s losing their temper?’ Jelindel said, stamping her foot and waving her hands. Daretor and Osric tried to give her their attention while not looking directly at her. ‘Oh, you think this is funny, do you? Well, what did you two find out?’

  Osric sat down and with relief pulled off his fur-lined boots. ‘I found out that I prefer riding dragons to walking cobblestone streets.’

  ‘Enlightening. What else?’

  ‘No one at the university knows anything, nor are there any records going back that far. None of them could understand why I was interested in what they called a “dead language” anyway.’ He massaged his feet as he spoke. ‘One professor insisted that there was no original human language on Q’zar, which seemed to hint that it had to come from somewhere else. That is all he seemed to know.’

  Daretor had found some bread and cheese left over from breakfast and was busy finishing it off when Jelindel turned to him. ‘Well?’

  ‘Fa’red was here.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He came three days ago and, according to my source, left this morning. Apparently he was heading back to Dremari.’

  ‘Did your source say why he came here?’

  ‘He did not. But he had a guess.’

  Jelindel and Osric both looked at him. ‘And?’ Jelindel asked.

  ‘He met with one of the pirate captains, and they conferred for several hours. It seems Fa’red seeks to replace the Preceptor, starting with the prince here in D’loom. Why not? The entire coast is overrun by pirates, and there are rich pickings to be had. And where there are pirate lords there are pirate lordlings, smaller fry that seek some sort of security, otherwise they will be rammed and burned as the more powerful pirates consolidate against them. Quite possibly Fa’red is playing both sides of this game.’

  ‘Out goes the prince, and in strides Fa’red as overlord or regent. Mind you, the pirate lords will find themselves in even deeper water with Fa’red at the helm,’ Jelindel mused. ‘One step out of line and it’s the last mistake they’ll make.’

  ‘By the way, remember the man I thought was following us this morning? He went from the tavern to the docks and there boarded what turned out to be a privateer.’

  Jelindel considered this. ‘The one belonging to the same pirate captain Fa’red was speaking with?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘So what is going on?’ Osric asked.

  ‘Apart from the obvious fact that there is a conspiracy, I wish I knew,’ said Jelindel. ‘Whatever it is, I am sure Fa’red means to delay us or stop us if he can. He’s effectively cut us off from leaving by sea, but then he must surely know we arrived by other means.’

  That night they had a stodgy meal of fried potatoes mashed with over-cooked greens. They had already been two weeks on their quest, and time was in depressingly short supply.

  Jelindel finally pushed her plate away, having barely touched her food. ‘We need to attack from a different angle,’ she declared.

  ‘And that would be?’ Daretor asked, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘We race here and there to find the Stone People, and get no closer to solving the problem. There is one who knows exactly where they are.’

  Osric frowned for a moment, then exclaimed, ‘Fa’red.’

  Jelindel stood up. ‘I am going to pay him a visit –’ She stopped as though sensing something.

  ‘No need,’ said a voice. She knew before turning that Fa’red had silently entered the room behind them. She turned as an intense red light blasted towards her. She put up her hands to ward it off, but she was unprepared for the sheer ferocity of the magical attack. The impact threw her halfway across the room. Her head slammed into the edge of a table and she lost consciousness.

  In the blackness that followed, she thought she heard a jumble of noises, followed by distant mocking laughter. The sounds followed her into sleep.

  Everything was blurry. Jelindel managed to open one eye but quickly shut it again. Blinding pain throbbed behind her temples and the room swayed. Her stomach lurched and she clamped her mouth shut to hold down the little food in her stomach.

  Slowly forcing herself into a sitting position, she peered around. It was a small cabin, well appointed, and dimly-lit. A large metal cage swung from the ceiling, moving in the opposite direction to the swaying of the room. The effect was sickening and she felt bile fill her mouth. As she moved, her foot kicked something. A bucket. She grabbed it and vomited.

  She sat up, half afraid she might be sick again, and looked at the cage. This time she realised there was a body crumpled inside.

  She tried to rise but couldn’t co-ordinate her legs properly. She slid off the bunk and crawled on hands and knees across the heaving floor. She collapsed twice before regaining her balance. Reaching the cage, she grabbed hold of it to d
ampen its swings, and looked inside. A pale face looked back. Daretor. He managed to smile at her.

  ‘I think we really are on a boat this time,’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘Salt.’

  ‘Salt,’ she agreed, sniffing the air.

  ‘I think I’d rather be back on the dragon,’ she said, cupping her mouth as another spasm took hold.

  Daretor sat up and gripped the bars. ‘Funny they should lock me up and leave you free,’ he said. ‘You’re the dangerous one.’

  She rested her forehead on the bars. ‘I’m only a danger to myself right now,’ she groaned.

  ‘Can you get me out of here?’

  Fighting the throbbing in her head, Jelindel concentrated. She flicked her hand at the lock and muttered a minor incantation. Nothing happened.

  Perplexed, she tried again. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘The blue weirdling light,’ Daretor said, ‘that gathers on your lips …’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘I didn’t see it.’

  Jelindel looked at him, trying to assimilate this information. She crawled back to the bunk and climbed up. Here a small mirror had been fixed to the wall. Gazing closely at her own image, she muttered another spell, one she used almost every day of her life. Then she sat back, stunned.

  Slowly she turned to Daretor. ‘He has taken my powers,’ she said, so quietly he could hardly make out the words.

  The door burst open and a large man with a scar on his left cheek entered. He was completely bald. With him was the one-armed man Daretor had seen the day before, talking to the one who had followed them through D’loom.

  ‘Welcome to the Sargasso,’ the scarred man said. ‘I am Captain Helnick. Bring her.’ The one-armed man grabbed Jelindel by the hair and dragged her from the room. He was immensely strong. Daretor roared abuse and strained in vain at the bars of the cage. Helnick smiled at him. ‘Wait your turn.’ He slammed the door behind him.