Wardragon (33 page)

Jelindel came up behind Daretor. He turned, sword raised high for a felling blow, then caught himself. His ashen face and lank hair were spattered with blood, sweat and dirt. Zimak rushed to her side then, sensing some urgency.

‘I need you both to come with me,’ Jelindel said. She turned without waiting for their reply.

The three cut a swathe through the clashing armies, angling to meet the Wardragon head on.

Zimak hastened beside Jelindel. ‘Gah, Jelindel, you sure this is a good –?’

Jelindel waved him to silence. Like a galleon cutting across the water, she strode purposefully on. Neither Daretor nor Zimak had a need to raise their swords, nor defend themselves. Attacker and defender alike fell back as she approached.

Everything that had happened came down to this moment.

She had been given a terrible gift in the Place of the Dead, if ‘gift’ was the right name for something that might save the world she knew, or destroy it.

In that place, which was like a dark ocean, she had been shown how to fuse magic with cold science. The spells that could weave the great blind energies of the cold science universe – electricity, gravity, magnetism, and even the very forces that bound the atoms together – with the old magic, were hers to command.

But this was the knife’s edge.

By using such forces against the Wardragon, Jelindel could set off a chain reaction that would destroy magic forever, and not just the magic she knew, but that of the dragons also. Leaving the universe at the mercy of the mailshirt.

The darkness that followed would be even greater than the thousand years she had once foreseen.

Yet that was not her fear now. Her real fear was more personal, closer to home. If magic died, she was afraid she would lose her soul. Afraid she would lose her
self
.

What was she if not the embodiment of magic? Why had she survived the death of her family, if not to make up for it by saving others with her magical abilities?

And making some atonement in the process? Before long, she and Daretor and Zimak drew near the Wardragon. She gestured for her two comrades to stop some distance away and continued on alone. The Wardragon dismissed Fa’red and Ras who fell back.

Jelindel and the Wardragon stopped on a small knoll, facing each other.

>A BRAVE, BUT FOOLHARDY CONFRONTATION. WOULD YOU DO COMBAT WITH ME, COUNTESS?<<<

Jelindel forced a laugh. ‘You are a mighty warrior. But as I suspected, your host is inadequate for your needs.’

The Wardragon considered this. The Preceptor’s body was indeed failing. Its skeleton was breaking and nearing its end. >>>AND YOU OFFER YOURS?<<<

‘On condition that my people are not slain. That they’re allowed to go home.’

>I NEED NOT PARLEY WITH YOU. I TAKE WHAT I WANT<<<

Jelindel already had a spell chanted and invoked when she had set eyes on the Wardragon. It was eerily calm, standing with folded arms, as if it were waiting for her. Behind it stood the Farvenu. Jelindel knew this called for exquisite timing. She had to lure the Wardragon just so, otherwise it might simply annihilate her. If she put up no resistance, it would suspect a trap.

She cast her binding spell, and blue, writhing coils of light expanded into a ball between her hands. She flung it, and the blue lightning engulfed the Wardragon. Still it did not move. That much at least was what the spell was designed to do, yet the suggestion of a smile on the Preceptor’s lips had Daretor on his guard.

>YOUR PUNY MAGIC IS WORTHLESS<<< the Wardragon mocked. It dissipated the spell like it was discarding a shimmering cloak.

>WHILE YOU STILL LIVE I SHALL TELL YOU SOMETHING OF YOUR WORTHLESS LIFE. IT WAS THE PRECEPTOR WHO ORDERED THE ASSASSINATION OF COUNT JURAM DEK MEDIESAR AND HIS FAMILY<<<

Jelindel floundered. She needed to close the trap on the Wardragon before her spell unravelled. Damn the machine – it was too smart, too canny. She had to play along. ‘So the King of Skelt was innocent after all?’

>SUCH PETTY INTRIGUE<<<

By now Jelindel was consciously struggling. ‘Why did the Preceptor do it?’

>BECAUSE HE WAS YOUR UNCLE AND WAS PROMISED THE DUKEDOM. YOUR SORRY ExCUSE FOR AN OLDER BROTHER, LUTIER, WAS BORN, AND THE PRECEPTOR WAS CAST ASIDE AND NO LONGER OF USE. INDEED, THEY RATHER THOUGHT HE MIGHT BECOME A NUISANCE, SO THEY TRIED TO POISON HIM<<< The Wardragon allowed himself a moment to reflect on such a primitive weapon as poison.

>A MORTAL BECOMES SUSPICIOUS WHEN HE SEES A FLY WALKING ON THE RIM OF HIS WINE GLASS SUDDENLY FALL DEAD. HE RAN. PENNILESS AND HUNTED, HIS ENTIRE BIRTHRIGHT STOLEN FROM HIM. BY SHEER GOOD FORTUNE HE BECAME WEALTHY AND CALLED HIMSELF THE PRECEPTOR. THEN ONE DAY FA’RED PAID HIM A VISIT AND STRUCK A DEAL. PART OF THE PACT WAS TO ELIMINATE CERTAIN NOBLES ON THE ADEPT’S LIST. THE MEDIESARS WERE ON THAT LIST. SO THE PRECEPTOR RETURNED AND PAID THEM BACK IN KIND<<<

‘The Preceptor was my uncle?’ Jelindel’s voice was barely above a whisper.

The Wardragon’s laughter rumbled across the knoll. >>>UNCLE SENIC DEK MEDIESAR. NOW I SHALL CLAIM YOU AS MINE<<<

The Wardragon moved swiftly. And in that moment she knew the whole of his mind, and
he
knew hers.

To onlookers, a bright point of light flared into being midway between them, and expanded rapidly so that both were engulfed in a shiny golden ball of coruscating glow. Jagged, brilliant lightning shot out from the mailshirt at Jelindel, but stopped halfway, fanning out and dimming against an invisible shield. Both the Wardragon and Jelindel staggered slightly, as the titanic forces they controlled surged back and forth, moving something that could be neither seen nor penetrated first one way, then the other, as the balance of power shifted.

When Daretor saw Jelindel stumble to one knee he made to go to her, but Zimak pulled him back. ‘We mustn’t interfere,’ he yelled above the noise, for the energies unleashed within the golden sphere were almost deafening.

Slowly, sweat beading her face, Jelindel forced herself back onto her feet. She was dazed, and exhausted, but so too was the Wardragon.

The strangest part of the battle was not visible.

Their minds, even as they strove against each other, met and spoke.

>YOU CANNOT DEFEAT ME, JELINDEL<<< said the Wardragon.

‘Were you able to overwhelm me, you would not be making idle boasts.’

>NO, NO, I VALUE YOU, I DO NOT WANT YOU DESTROYED<<<

‘I see that you are torn by some old grief.’

>THAT IS NOT TRUE<<< ‘There are things in your mind, blocked to you, which are clear to me.’

>I KNOW MY MIND BETTER THAN ANY OTHER!<<<

‘A bird flying above a city sees things that its king cannot. Who are you angry at?’

>SURRENDER AND I WILL SPARE YOU AND THIS WORLD. I WILL MAKE IT A SANCTUARY, SAFE FROM MY DESIGNS<<<

Unexpectedly, Jelindel saw familiar structures within the Wardragon.

It had once been a man.

The makers of the first mailshirt, still perfecting their art, had used the mould of a living mind upon which to model the machine. Later mailshirts were pure machine, but later mailshirts were not her problem.

There was more. The mailshirt had once loved.

Jelindel called out, shouting with her real, human, voice, ‘I know her name!’ Inside the golden sphere, all was silent. The cacophony of noise that blasted the ears of those outside did not penetrate here.

At her words, the Wardragon staggered. The
foci
of force – the silvery, writhing lightning and the ‘shield’ that it played upon – surged back towards the mailshirt. Sweat broke out on the Preceptor’s brow. The raging
foci
stopped only a yard from his face.

Again Jelindel shouted, ‘I know her name. I know who she was.’

>I DO NOT KNOW WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT. IT IS TIME TO FINISH THIS GAME<<<

‘Lela. Her name was Lela! She was your wife.’

By means of the Preceptor’s face, the Wardragon looked stunned. The lightning shrank and dispersed. Jelindel froze the shield. She could have destroyed the Wardragon in that moment but instead took pity on him.

‘I look like her, don’t I?’ said Jelindel softly.

The Wardragon nodded, dumb with pain. Tears appeared in its eyes. >>>I REMEMBER NOW. PARTS ONLY. I HAD A LIFE. A FAMILY<<< It looked up. >>>SHE LOVED ME. I PROMISED TO RETURN AND PROTECT HER AND MY SON. BUT I NEVER RETURNED. THEY NEVER KNEW WHAT HAPPENED TO ME<<<

‘This can end now,’ said Jelindel, hope surging in her breast.

The Wardragon shook its head. >>>IT CANNOT BE, COUNTESS. THE MAILSHIRT IS DESIGNED TO FULFIL ITS MISSION. IT CANNOT BE DEFLECTED. IT – I CANNOT STOP IT<<<

‘Isn’t this why you took me to Golgora? Seek inside yourself! Was this not your plan all along, Wardragon? To end this?’

The Wardragon stared at her. Then, cryptically, it said, >>>I AM NOT STRONG ENOUGH. THE PRECEPTOR NO LONGER PITS HIS WILL AGAINST MINE<<<

Jelindel did not understand. Was it giving her some kind of clue? Was it –?

Then she understood.

‘How long?’

>THIRTY SECONDS. NO MORE<<<

‘Do it.’

Suddenly, the golden sphere collapsed, but it did not blink out of existence. Instead, it collapsed like a great tide of water, sweeping out in a rush, knocking all those nearby off their feet, and stunning them.

Jelindel ran to the dazed body of Fa’red and muttered a binding spell.

The Wardragon joined her. They exchanged a look. Then the Wardragon placed its hand on Fa’red’s wrist. The mailshirt glowed brightly, then began to flow, like thick syrup, or mercury, down the Preceptor’s arm and onto Fa’red’s.

Within a few moments the transfer was complete.

Chapter 21

The Unravelling

T
he new Wardragon stood up. And smiled. >>>FA’RED IS NOT VERY HAPPY<<< It gritted its teeth. >>>I CAN BARELY CONTAIN HIM – HE IS INDEED A GREAT MAGE. THE MAILSHIRT IS USING MUCH OF ITS POWER TO SUBDUE HIM. QUICKLY. SUMMON THE ONE<<<

Jelindel had already done so, and now the great dragon, the Sacred One, wheeled in the sky and plunged earthwards with terrifying speed. It landed heavily nearby.

The Wardragon gave Jelindel one last look.

>I GO TO JOIN THEM<<< it said, and walked almost jauntily towards the Sacred One. The dragon opened its enormous jaws and the Wardragon stepped inside without hesitation. In her mind, Jelindel could hear the terrified screams of Fa’red as he realised what was about to happen.

After all, he was only too aware of the one force in the universe that could
physically
destroy a mailshirt. Dragonfire, but not just any dragonfire. Only in the great life-furnace of the Sacred One could the almost immortal dragonlinks – forged five thousand years before – be unmade.

The jaws closed over the Wardragon. The Sacred One swallowed.

A moment later, Fa’red’s screams, stabbing through Jelindel’s mind, ceased. She slumped to the ground, spent, but around her the others were getting to their feet. Daretor and Zimak ran over. Ras came forward too.

All stared anxiously at the Sacred One, as if expecting him to die.

‘Won’t it poison you or something?’ asked Zimak.

‘A cat does not die from eating a rat,’ replied the dragon.

‘So it’s gone, it’s over?’ Zimak asked nobody in particular.

Jelindel managed a weak nod. ‘It’s over.’

The Sacred One rose back into the air with slow, almost ponderous flaps of its enormous wings. His brethren joined him, and together they flew low over the Wardragon’s forces. These scattered – most heading back for the portal through which they had come. Others ran towards the hills.

‘It’s over,’ Jelindel said again, more amazed than anyone.

Daretor helped her to her feet and they embraced. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘How did you beat it?’

‘I didn’t,’ Jelindel said.

‘But then –’

‘Part of it
wanted
to be defeated,’ she said. ‘It was very tired.’

‘I still don’t understand,’ Daretor repeated.

Jelindel laughed. ‘That is because you do not understand defeat.’

Kaleton stepped forward. ‘Jelindel, there is one who wishes to speak to you. He is called Taggar.’ Jelindel knew from his tone that something bad had happened.

She, Daretor and Zimak hurried after Kaleton to a crashed airship. Lying on the ground beside it was Taggar, his body crushed. His grip on life was all but gone.

Jelindel dropped at his side. ‘Oh, Taggar.’

‘Thus we part,’ he said softly, managing the ghost of a smile.

‘I can heal you. Let me try.’

Taggar shook his head. ‘This is beyond even your powers, Jelindel. I only –’

His eyes went wide and filled with tears. Ras knelt beside him. He too was weeping, and lifted Taggar’s head gently into his lap.

‘Taggar?’ said Ras. ‘Is it really you?’

Taggar laughed, and coughed blood. ‘I thought you dead, Garricka!’

Jelindel turned amazed eyes on Ras. ‘
You’re
Garricka?’

Ras nodded. He stroked Taggar’s brow and wept. ‘Jelindel,’ said Taggar. ‘Can you give us a moment, please?’

Jelindel nodded. She placed her hand on Taggar’s cheek, then stood and turned away, taking the others with her. From a distance they saw Taggar and Ras whispering and embracing. There was great joy and sadness between them, and then it was over.

Ras rose slowly to his feet, stood forlornly gazing down at Taggar, looking lost, then came across to Jelindel and the others. His cheeks were wet, and he seemed lost in grief, yet he rallied.

‘Taggar asked me to explain,’ he said. He halted, searched for words, and almost smiled. ‘He said you would be confused. I am Garricka, though for a great span of time I did not remember, and Taggar was my beloved.’ Daretor and Zimak exchanged puzzled looks. ‘We are not as you, eternally divided into man and woman. My species has only one gender, though once we were like you. All long-lived races are androgynous, we are not sure why. I know you think of us as males, but in a world such as Q’zar, where strength and fighting are prized, it makes sense to go in the masculine form.’

‘You are able to change forms?’ asked Jelindel. ‘We are able to accentuate one part of ourselves over the other, yes.’

‘What will you do now?’

Ras took a deep breath and exhaled. ‘I must grieve, but then I shall take Taggar’s body back to our family. Our children will not have forgotten us. Our mission, after all, is finished. The last Wardragon is gone, thanks to you.’

Ras turned and walked back to Taggar’s body, and sat down beside it. For a long time he remained there, clutching the body to himself, weeping silently.

A city-wide victory feast was underway in D’loom, for in victory thoughts for the dead are often put aside until the misery of the morning’s hangover. There was much revelry on the streets, and food and drink were dispensed as readily as arrows in a siege.

That Prince Augustus had died in one of the thundercast attacks did not seem to dampen anyone’s spirits. Indeed many called for Jelindel and Daretor to sit on the Skeltian throne in his stead. Zimak did not like this idea, as he would have to
bow
to Daretor.

Jelindel and her companions spent that evening in the Boar and Bottle, which was full to overflowing with revellers. Davit was already there, regaling Ellien, a serving maid, with his stories of rather improbable feats both on the battlefield and as a spy. He was being encouraged by Osric, who confirmed his every statement. Not surprisingly, a large part of D’loom tried to shoulder its way into the tavern, wishing for perhaps a word, or even a touch of its heroes.

‘Imagine that,’ whispered Zimak to Daretor. ‘Me, a hero!’

‘History is written by the victors,’ observed Daretor.

‘Now what’s that meant to mean?’

Several stories had to be told as they ate and drank by lamplight. The dragons, Osric said, had been delayed by magical traps set by Fa’red, but had come as soon as they had freed themselves. Jelindel already knew about the Stone People.

That left the forces from Golgora. In Taggar’s absence, one of his lieutenants – a man Jelindel had personally trained – stood up. He was a little nervous at speaking in front of a crowd, and so told his tale quickly and gruffly.

‘As you know, time passes more quickly on Golgora than here. It has been three months since you left. We overran the Wardragon’s fortress within two days. Its files showed that there were other bases of which we knew nothing. From these, attack after attack was launched upon us. Our people were inexperienced compared to those of the Wardragon’s, but we had courage and resolve which they lacked. Slowly we wore them down, harassing them, giving them no peace. Then, about two weeks ago in our time, all of the Wardragon’s forces withdrew. We knew then that they had come through to Q’zar, but we could not follow immediately. We needed time to organise, to tend the wounded and to marshal and repair the captured flying machines. That done, we came. There are many left behind that we must now bring through. Not all will be able to return to their own worlds, but anywhere is better than Golgora.’

He bowed amid the cheering, then very nearly missed his chair in his haste to sit down and again be at one with the crowd.

The celebrations continued all night, and merged into the regrets of the morning.

Thereafter, there was much to do in D’loom. Large parts of the city were in ruins, and it would be the work of months to even clear away the rubble, let alone rebuild. Here the Hellholers proved their worth and goodwill, both out of gratitude and because they needed a new home. Their flying machines ferried in food and carried loads in a morning that all the carts of the city could not have moved in a month.

Though most Hellholers elected to remain in D’loom, or agreed to found new towns, some decided to go with Ras when he departed for the star worlds with Taggar’s body. On the night that Ras left, Jelindel stood atop the tallest tower in D’loom. Watching the ship shrink to a tiny point of light in the heavens, Jelindel felt a strange emptiness. She missed Taggar. In the two years they had been together on Golgora, he had become something of the father that she had lost five years earlier.

‘Would company be an intrusion?’

Jelindel turned and smiled. Daretor came and stood beside her, and he too gazed upwards at the stars. They had not spent much time together since the defeat of the Wardragon. Daretor had become, by default, the ruler of the city, since Jelindel had refused to rule anyone. Indeed, there were still calls to make Jelindel the queen of D’loom, but she thought the idea ludicrous. Many pointed out that she
was
a countess, technically, but Jelindel insisted that skill with magic was no qualification for a ruler.

In the meantime, Daretor had to administer the city with Zimak helping under close supervision. Prince Augustus had failed to provide for the secession by fathering even a single child.

‘You didn’t think we would win, did you?’ asked Daretor.

‘No, I didn’t. I think a part of me, like the Wardragon, wanted to lose, wanted to
pay
for something that happened in the past.’

Daretor put his arms around her and she snuggled up close. ‘And you?’

Daretor said, ‘I never doubted it, not with you on our side.’

Jelindel turned and looked up into his face. ‘Truly?’

‘Truly.’

‘Well, you might have told me.’ She laughed.

‘What happens now?’ he asked.

She turned back, still within his embrace, and gazed out over D’loom, resting her chin on his arms. ‘With us?’ He nodded, saying nothing. ‘I’m afraid it’s still unknowable.’

She felt him sag a little; he could not see the slight smile that played across her lips. ‘But I think that’s all right,’ she said slowly. ‘I think it’s meant to be unknowable.’

‘And the nightmares?’

‘It’s strange, but I think I learnt something from the Wardragon.’ Jelindel became grave. ‘And from you. And Taggar too. He had a very old saying from his world: “Those who do not remember the past are condemned to relive it”. Well, I think I would change that slightly.’

‘To what?’

‘Those who keep trying to
pay
for the past will never escape it.’

Daretor laughed. ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ he said, ‘even more now that I’m a ruler!’

Jelindel lifted her face and he kissed her.