by Paul Collins
‘We need a giant net to scoop them up,’ responded Zimak.
‘Osric, call S’cressling!’ Jelindel said.
Osric was aghast. ‘She’s in the battle. To flee a battle is highly dishonourable for a dragon.’
‘Nothing is as dishonourable as dying needlessly. She has to organise rescue squads for her brothers and sisters. The fastest, most elite dragon fighters must skirt the battle, diving after stricken dragons to pluck the arrows out of them and break the paralysing magic.’
S’cressling was some minutes in responding to Osric’s call. By the tossing of her head and the glare that she gave Jelindel, it was clear that she was not happy to be dragged out of the fight. After a minute or so S’cressling took Osric onto her back and sprang into the air, beating her mighty wings.
Jelindel and Daretor watched as the huge creature banked to skirt the great sphere of whirling, plunging creatures and airliners.
‘The dragon wasn’t convinced,’ said Daretor. ‘You brought her dishonour.’
‘She doesn’t have to be convinced. She just has to carry the message,’ replied Jelindel.
A huge, multi-hued dragon was hit by an arrow. It spiralled slowly out of the battle. S’cressling went after him at once, catching up to him after he had dropped about half a mile. With a snap of her jaws and a twist of her head she tore the arrow from the dragon’s flank and tossed it aside. Immediately the larger dragon came back to life, beating his wings, striving to regain height. S’cressling stayed with him, apparently communicating in the way of dragons.
‘Why doesn’t he rejoin the battle?’ asked Daretor.
‘Because I told Osric that rescued dragons would probably make the best recruits – there. He’s going after another paralysed dragon.’
Before more than a handful of minutes had passed, there were a dozen rescued dragons patrolling the base of the battle. The dragons that they in turn rescued were ascending right back into the fight. In no time, the dragons were losing very few of their number. Burning houses with charred wings and kicking legs fell from the sky, trailing smoke. Some of the human operators chose to ram the dragons, and leap to safety on their wicker and cloth wings. Dragons with broken wings or twisted necks spiralled out of the fight, to plunge to their deaths. Archers fell from their stricken mounts like nuts shaken from a tree. Operators glided out of the battle, only to be flamed by dragons that were currently idle, and all the while dragons belched flames, while arrows fell like a dark, sinister rain.
Nearly an hour into the battle, Jelindel and Daretor noticed that Fa’red’s living machines were falling out of the sky almost continuously, sometimes trailing smoke, and occasionally breaking in pieces. The battle had become just a prolonged slaughter of the living battle machines, and those of their riders whose wicker and cloth wings did not function properly.
The Sacred One drew most of their attention now. Finally he had fought his way to Fa’red’s flagship. Golden flashes of magic spewed between the combatants. The dragon’s fiery breath mushroomed against an invisible barrier about Fa’red’s airliner. The next moment it vaporised and Fa’red retaliated with a broadside of red tendrils that struck out to lasso the Sacred One. He writhed for a moment like a fish in a net, but snapped through the magical bindings with his scythe-like teeth.
‘Can’t you help him?’ Daretor asked Jelindel.
‘Not now, Daretor. I’m assisting the others. This showdown has to be between the two champions.’
‘Fa’red’s flag-chicken is on fire!’ said Zimak. ‘The old guy’s going for it now.’
‘There. Look! A wing’s collapsed. Everyone aboard’s jumping for their lives with those wicker wings.’
The Sacred One dived after Fa’red’s airliner. His breath flamed many of those who bailed out while others escaped on fast air currents.
The defenders did not know it at the time, but this marked the end of the battle. Osric reported that several of the escapees from Fa’red’s flagship were picked up in midair by others of the hybrid bird-forts. These, in turn, fled rather than rejoin the battle. Robbed of their leadership, and seeing their numbers steadily decline in the face of the onslaught, the morale of the remaining operators collapsed. Some surrendered, some scattered, and others had to cope with mutinies between their crews and the archers. Although the last of the fighting was to be a long time trailing off, the battle was over. Victory was with the dragons.
In the days that followed, great changes came to the Tower Inviolate. King Amida was overthrown, and all his supporters imprisoned or banished. Those who wished it were sent back to their own paraworld. Osric’s people and their dragons were brought through to Q’zar, using the dragon magic.
One particularly important ceremony was performed as soon as people and dragons stopped fighting each other. Osric was escorted by a squad of nervous warriors between the ranks of an honour guard made up of enormous, battle-scarred dragons. Upon reaching the pavilion at the end, Osric was officially crowned temporary Regent of Dragonfrost with a circlet of office. His new subjects cheered as the selected dragons puffed a twenty-one fireball salute into the air.
Osric began his reign by sending ambassadors to all the nearby realms, and making reparations for the depredations of the dragons under Rakeem and King Amida. His neighbours were pleased merely to have some peace. Nobody felt inclined to say that what was on offer was not enough.
Fa’red was sought amid the mountains, but he was not found. The wily sorcerer was assumed to have escaped on one of the battle machines that fled the fighting just after his flagship was destroyed. Like the Preceptor before him, most assumed that he had gone to ground and would never be heard from again.
‘The likes of Fa’red are never truly defeated,’ Jelindel warned as she stood in Osric’s chambers, watching him sign the decree ending the search.
‘I am aware of that. I am also aware that we have done everything possible to find him, yet failed,’ replied Osric.
‘Daretor has declared a quest. He has dedicated his life to tracking down Fa’red and Hargrellien,’ said Jelindel. ‘Zimak’s going with him for some unfathomable reason. Although I suspect it will be to talk him out of it.’
‘I have heard such rumours. Why are you not going with them?’
‘Because right now I can probably do more good here. Have you thought about my suggestion?’
‘You mean organising some dragon folk as a type of special constabulary to ride the dragons? Yes. Patrols like that will bring back peace, and it will be very welcome.’
‘So you agree, just like that? Whatever happened to all your suspicions about women?’
‘With one woman in particular … With you, I don’t think they apply.’
Jelindel laughed.
‘What is funny?’ exclaimed Osric, suddenly embarrassed.
‘Oh, I’m just thinking how nice it is to be wrong,’ replied Jelindel. ‘The thousand years of darkness that I once foresaw is giving way to a new dawn. It makes me happy … for lots of reasons.’
‘The ancient prophecy said that when the dragons came back to Q’zar, so too would peace and justice fill the land for all the days to come. Can it really last forever?’
‘As with all such prophecies, only time will tell,’ said Jelindel. ‘The indications thus far are very promising …’
