Dragonfang
Author: Paul Collins
Date: 2004-06-15 07:17:22+00:00
Keywords: Young Adult; Science Fiction Fantasy; Fantasy
Description: "The long-awaited sequel to Dragonlinks. Five pentagram gems. Two people want them. Only one can have them. After destroying the Dragonlinks mailshirt and banishing her companions, Zimak and Daretor to a paraworld, Jelindels is refuge with the Sister of Verity is destroyed when the Temple is attacked. Jelindel escapes, disguises herself as a boy and joins a voyage on the ship, the Dark Empress, where she learns of an evil plot to conquer the paraworlds. Jelindel must destroy the Pentacle Gems to save the worlds . . .
Publisher: Penguin Books
Rights: All rights reserved

Paul Collins was born in England, raised in New Zealand and moved to Australia in 1972. In 1975 he launched Void, a science fiction magazine.

In 1978, Paul moved from magazine to book publishing, with a series of original Australian science fiction and fantasy novels and anthologies. During this time he published Australia’s first heroic fantasy novels.

He sold his first professional fantasy story in 1977 to the United States magazine Weirdbook. The best of his short stories have been collected in The Government in Exile (1994). A later collection, Stalking Midnight, was published by cosmos.com.

His first fantasy novel for younger readers was The Wizard’s Torment. Paul then edited the young adult anthology Dream Weavers, Australia’s first heroic fantasy anthology. This was followed by Fantastic Worlds, and Tales from the Wasteland.

Together with Michael Pryor, Paul is the co-editor of the highly successful fantasy series, The Quentaris Chronicles; he has also contributed to the series as an author. Paul’s recent works include The Jelindel Chronicles, The Earthborn War trilogy and The World of Grrym trilogy in collaboration with Danny Willis.

Paul has been the recipient of several awards, notably the inaugural Peter McNamara, the Aurealis, and the William Atheling. He has been short-listed for many others, including the Aurealis and Ditmar awards.

Paul served time in the commandos, has a black belt in both tae kwon do and ju jitsu, he was a kickboxer, and trained with the Los Angeles Hell Drivers.

Visit him at www.paulcollins.com.au and www.quentaris.com

Also by Paul Collins

Dragonlinks

Dragonsight

Wardragon

Swords of Quentaris

Slaves of Quentaris

Dragonlords of Quentaris

Princess of Shadows

The Forgotten Prince

Vampires of Quentaris

The Spell of Undoing

The Slightly Skewed Life of Toby Chrysler

Allira’s Gift (with Danny Willis)

Lords of Quibbitt (with Danny Willis)

Morgassa’s Folly (with Danny Willis)

The Wizard’s Torment

Cyberskin

The Earthborn

The Skyborn

The Hiveborn

Sneila

Metaworlds (ed)

Dream Weavers (ed)

Fantastic Worlds (ed)

The MUP Encyclopaedia of Australian Science Fiction and Fantasy (ed)

BOOK TWO IN THE JELINDEL CHRONICLES

Paul Collins

Published by Ford Street Publishing, an imprint of Hybrid Publishers, PO Box 52, Ormond VIC 3204

Melbourne Victoria Australia

Text © Paul Collins 2004
4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3

This publication is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced by any process without prior written permission from the publisher. Requests and enquiries concerning reproduction should be addressed to Ford Street Publishing Pty Ltd
2 Ford Street, Clifton Hill VIC 3068.
Ford Street website: www.fordstreetpublishing.com

First published 2004
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

Author: Collins, Paul 1954–
Title: Dragonfang / Paul Collins

ISBN: 9781921665080 (pbk.)
Target Audience: Fantasy – Juvenile fiction
Dewey Number: A823.3

Cover design: Grant Gittus
Map: Marc McBride

Printed in Australia by
McPherson’s Printing Group, Maryborough, Victoria

Acknowledgement

I am indebted to Sean McMullen for his constant generosity, and to others who have offered valued help: Meredith Costain, Randal Flynn, Liz Harper, Dmetri Kakmi, Louise Prout and Cathy Larsen

To Celeste Pryor, who loves dragons

From a concept by Sean McMullen

Contents

1       The Great Temple of Verity

2       The Tower Inviolate

3       Assassins

4       The Dark Empress Sails

5       To Save a World

6       The Dragonfang

7       The Witches of Zaria

8       The Green Mountains

9       The Warrior Gate

10       Prince Ulad’s Lair

11       The Library of Hazaria

12       Chicken Run, Bat Flight

13       The Book of Alchemorum

14       Lady Forturian

15       Piracy

16       The Ringstone

17       Rescue

18       The Voyage Home

19       Dragon Versus Dragon

20       Homecoming

21       The Lindraks

22       Allies and Enemies

23       Epilogue

Chapter 1

THE GREAT TEMPLE OF VERITY

During the night, someone had scrawled a slogan on the outer wall of the Great Temple of Verity in Arcadia. The two-foot tall letters were clumsily executed, as if the writer had clutched the brush in a tight-fisted grip rather than with the finer grasp needed for delicate penmanship. What surprised the former Countess Jelindel dek Mediesar even more was that a common street agitator could actually write. It didn’t make sense. And things that didn’t make sense worried her.

Writing was important to Jelindel. Years earlier, when the Preceptor murdered her family, she had escaped. Disguised as a boy, she had begun a new life as a market scribe. Writing had saved her that time. Writing was powerful; it could make lives or end them.

Jelindel always treated people who could write with respect, care, and sometimes suspicion.

The previous week she had discovered in the Temple’s library an obscure tome that spoke of five pentacle gems. It was written that, when brought together, they could bridge the gulf between paraworlds. Was the chronicler retelling a myth or had he first hand knowledge of the gems? Jelindel had a very real need to visit one particular paraworld. Eyes still fixed on the graffiti, she failed to hear someone’s approach.

‘That will take hours to scrub off,’ said a worried voice.

Jelindel turned to find the Holy Priestess Kelricka, gazing at the slogan.

‘Hours?’ Jelindel shook her head. ‘Better make that days. I can smell binding magic from here. The ink has depth-bonded with the mortar.’

Kelricka sighed. ‘Why Has Verity Forsaken Us?’ She read the slogan aloud. ‘Why indeed?’ she asked of herself.

‘Pardon?’

‘Do not mind me. Lindkeer slips deeper into sickness, and I fear that she will not last this night …’ After a moment, she continued. ‘She has always been as a mother to me. The new Dean of Human Powers is – aggravating, to say the least. She acts as if she is in charge. As if Lindkeer were already gone …’ A single tear ran down her cheek.

‘I am sorry, Kelricka.’

‘Never mind. All things pass, as they say.’ She changed the subject. ‘What do you make of it then?’

‘The slogan? It’s the work of the Preceptor, of course.’

‘Why of course? Why not some empty-headed navvy who has lost his job and blames us for it?’

‘This is not the work of the merely disenchanted,’ Jelindel said. ‘For a start, the author can write. That alone sets him apart. It means he is educated, reasonably intelligent. Even the wording is cleverly phrased: “Why Has Verity Forsaken Us?” Not: “Has Verity Forsaken Us?” but a question that presumes established guilt. And then …’

‘Yes?’

‘The clumsiness of the writing is too – calculated.’ Jelindel paused. ‘The Preceptor moves against us, Kelricka. He has sworn a vendetta against the Verital Priestesses, and he is not a man to be easily thwarted. If he cannot get what he wants one way, then he will do it another.’

‘By stirring up the people against us?’ Kelricka asked, alarmed.

‘With professional agitators – why not? His forces are perilously stretched across the continent. I would guess that he is discovering just how costly it is to maintain his newfound empire. He can ill afford a major push right now, certainly not one that might prove unpopular with the people.’

‘So he will make it popular with the people first?’

‘That is my guess,’ Jelindel replied.

She did not admit that she might be partly to blame. That part of the Preceptor’s bile was actually aimed at her. She and her former companions, Daretor and Zimak, had eluded the Preceptor’s grasp once too often. History had proven that emperors – especially tyrants – were unforgiving.

Kelricka expelled another deep sigh. ‘These are dangerous times. I will send some neophytes to start scrubbing.’ She turned on her heel and departed.

That night, the first of month four 2132, Jelindel walked the battlements of the Arcadian temple. It was already a full year since her dedication to the Sisters of Verity. Life had been rich in learning and meditation; she had healed many old wounds, those on the outside more quickly than those on the inside. Even in this beautiful retreat, shut off from the outside world, the nightmares continued unabated. Some nights she screamed in her sleep, or lunged up out of deep dreaming, frantically smothering imaginary fires. The same fires which had consumed her family when she was but a girl of fourteen.

Yet Jelindel was not content. She felt stifled. She gazed out over the battlements at the busy town below, and heard laughter and singing. Somewhere close, a fight had broken out.

The sounds of life. She shook her head in annoyance.

‘Tch! What is wrong with me?’ she asked herself, querulously. And that’s when she saw it. Something dark blotting out the stars.

She stood very still, relaxed her breathing as she had been taught, and scrutinised the star- strewn firmament. To seek a thing in the dark, the central field of vision is useless, droned the voice of old Surreanten, her father’s spellcaster. The dark of the eye cannot penetrate the darkness; for that the peripheral vision must be employed.

She stared into the sky but switched her attention to her side vision. And saw them. They came swooping out of the darkest quarter of the moonless night like so many bats, only larger, and vaguely man-shaped.

Jelindel did not know what the creatures were, but she knew evil intent when she saw it. She raced along the battlement, leaped the eight-foot gap to the roof of the chancery, then swung herself over the railing of the belfry and onto the narrow platform that ringed the great bell and allowed the maintenance men to perform their duties. However, the bell could only be rung from the floor of the belfry several storeys below. By the time she reached the ground floor, it might be too late, despite the guard spells that protected the Temple. Such spells were usually designed to thwart would-be intruders who came afoot; aerial attackers were a rare consideration.

Jelindel knew she must warn the sisterhood. But how? The great bell, fully nine feet across at the base, bulged above her in the darkness. A braided rope dangled from a giant brass clapper to the flagstoned floor sixty feet below.

‘White Quell protect me,’ Jelindel whispered.

She spat on her hands and leaped into the darkness. And almost missed the rope. She plunged through the air, smothering a cry, twisted like a cat and clutched the thick rope. Her grip was poor and the rope snaked through her fists, burning her palms. She muttered a small binding spell. The electric blue lights danced briefly around her fists and her grip held. She dangled thirty feet in the air.

Above her the great clapper crashed against the sides of the bell – but emitted no sound. That’s impossible – unless a dampening spell had been cast! But who would do such a thing?

Far below she caught sight of a small figure, barely more than a blacker patch of darkness, huddled on the floor. As she watched, the figure raised a hand and inscribed a hexagram in the air. A low muttering reached Jelindel’s ears.

A traitor, Jelindel thought. And she hasn’t spotted me yet, so preoccupied with her dampening spell must she be.

Jelindel let go of the rope and dropped. She muttered a cushioning spell and landed on the huddled figure, smashing it to the ground with a loud ‘Oomph!’

Instantly, the Temple bell boomed out its basso profundo warning as the dampening spell broke, its author either dead or unconscious. Gasping for breath, Jelindel picked herself up and limped over to the still figure. She tugged back the cowl and grunted in surprise.

Lying on the floor was Kelricka.

A raspy voice erupted from the darkness. ‘You have damaged my tool. It is only fitting that you should replace her.’

Morgat, the new Dean of Human Powers, stepped from the shadows. Her hands were already weaving a spell of control. Jelindel took a step backwards, ransacking her mind for the appropriate counter-spell. Behind her, the Temple was rousing. Lesser bells were tolling, emphasising the danger. But there were also hideous cries, and screams of agony.

‘Concern yourself not with what is happening out there, Jelindel. A danger greater than any you have faced stands before you now!’

Jelindel was too preoccupied to answer. Her mind was busy dredging up bits and pieces of mage lore. She was still barely an Adept 9, whereas Morgat was at least an Adept 11. But Jelindel was different to other Adepts: she had worn the dragonlink mailshirt, and absorbed some of the skills and knowledge it had stolen from its legion of wearers.

Jelindel uttered a sharp cry as she felt the blackness invade her mind. Morgat cackled, enjoying herself. ‘You shall become my personal mind-slave, my dear. How does that please you?’

‘It pleases me little, Morgat,’ Jelindel managed to say between clenched jaws. The blackness, a sentient control spell, extended cold penetrating tendrils deep into her being. In a few more seconds, it would control her, and her doom would be sealed.

Then she saw it. It stood out against the control spell like a small and lonely lighthouse. An ancient word, not of this world. And like Morgat’s black spell, it possessed an existence of its own, though unlike anything human.

As the control spell squeezed tightly about Jelindel’s mind, she grunted, almost spitting out the word: ‘Eskusk-il-Querl!’

Morgat screamed, her bony hands darting out and feverishly inscribing a counter-spell. But, before she could complete it, a blob of Stygian blackness flung itself from Jelindel’s forehead, crossing the gap between them in a blurring blink, and dived into the old mage’s open mouth. Morgat gulped, partly in surprise and partly from necessity. Her eyes opened wide with fear.

A moment later her face caved in, as if the brain had been consumed and a voracious vacuum created. The rest of her skull imploded; her arms and legs telescoped backwards into her trunk even as the body itself crumpled inwards with a sound like crunching glass. A moment later, there was nothing left of Morgat except a pea-sized bead of luminescence. Then that too shrank to a pinpoint and disappeared with a pop.

Four silvery globes floated where Morgat had been. They coalesced and hovered above Jelindel. Their single voice was whisper-fine. ‘We await your command to enter, Lord Adept.’

Jelindel waved them away. ‘You are free, slave spirits. Return to your paraplane with my blessing.’

The globes rained a shower of multi-hued energy and healing over her. ‘Be thee well, Lord Adept, and accept our undying gratitude,’ the slave spirits said, and vanished.

If clothes maketh the man, Jelindel thought, then paraplane spirits maketh the Adept. But she wanted no part in enslaving spirits for her own gain. Taking a deep breath, she turned to the growing clamour outside. She hurried towards the door just as Metriele, a novice, cannoned into her.

‘Run!’ Metriele screamed at her. ‘Lindraks! They fly –!’ She collapsed in a blubbering heap. Jelindel pushed her between two latticed columns and stepped outside. A black shape swooped at her from above and she dived to one side; she hit the ground rolling and came gracefully to her feet as would an acrobat.

The attacker wheeled in the air and came back for her.

‘Not a lindrak,’ she muttered to herself. ‘A deadmoon warrior. A levitating deadmoon warrior.’

The deadmoon warriors were a creation of an Adept 12 mage called Fa’red. Having engineered the lindraks’ downfall, themselves a formidable enemy employed by the former King of Skelt, Fa’red had turned the deadmoon warriors into an implacable fighting force in the service of the Preceptor. And now this new ability: levitation.

Jelindel uttered a binding spell that arced out to wrap around the attacker’s legs, but it made no difference. He wasn’t using his legs.

Jelindel muttered a quick curse and ducked aside as a throwing star sluiced the air where she had been standing a second before. All over the Temple compound similar confrontations were taking place. The deadmoon warriors, supernaturally superior fighters against whom few could stand and even fewer succeed, were butchering novices and priestesses virtually unopposed.

As Jelindel watched, a young girl ran screaming across the central courtyard, her arms covering her head in a futile attempt to ward off attack. Like a dark and silent shark of the air, a levitating warrior sliced down out of the night sky and gutted her on his sword. Her screaming ended in a ragged wet gurgle deep in her throat and she collapsed on the mossy flagstones, her arms flung out before her as if beseeching some higher power.

Meanwhile, Jelindel’s attacker banked sharply and came diving in again, a thin tight-lipped smile on his otherwise expressionless face. In this engagement, he had the ‘high ground’ and he knew it.

Jelindel flung herself backwards and upwards in a somersaulting spinning kick that Zimak had taught her, and which she had rarely had cause to use. It caught the deadmoon warrior completely by surprise. Her left foot, punching out like a piston, slammed into his face, breaking his nose and stunning him for vital moments. By the time he blinked back to consciousness, it was too late. He rocketed headfirst into the Temple wall and dropped like a stone into one of Kelricka’s prized flowerbeds.

Acting on instinct, Jelindel scooped up the fallen warrior’s sword and raced across the apron. Piled high in the centre of the courtyard was a large cairn composed of dried logs and kindling. It had once been kept in readiness to signal for aid, a remnant from centuries earlier, before magic spells replaced the need for crude signal fires.

Jelindel reached the cairn and hurled a word of conflagration into it. The woodpile caught instantly and blazed up into the night. Within moments it was roaring fiercely, lighting the night sky – and a swarm of deadmoon warriors. Now that all could see them clearly, a significant part of their advantage had been removed. But how to remove the next?

Jelindel hunted desperately through her mind for a spell that might undo the power that kept the deadly warriors airborne. But all that came to her aid was another binding spell.

Although the spell itself was useless against the attackers, she knew her mind was trying to tell her something.

Dismissing it for the moment, Jelindel rallied several priestesses and novices to her side. She sent two of the more fleet footed ones racing to the Temple armoury to bring back the ceremonial swords and pikes. The rest she organised into a small fighting unit and armed them with flaming brands, and the surprisingly successful Siluvian kick-fist techniques that Jelindel had taught them, to temporarily hold back the enemy.

‘There are so many of them!’ wailed a young neophyte.

‘So there are,’ Jelindel admitted, tightly. ‘And see how they crowd one another with their inexperience?’

The girl sagged to her knees in prayer.

‘We’re not finished yet,’ Jelindel said, heaving the girl to her feet. She wove a quick spell of confusion and an aerial attacker dived straight into the blazing bonfire. Jelindel’s moment of glory became decidedly less triumphant a moment later when she threw herself into a pile of goat dung to narrowly avoid a hissing sword stroke.

The novices who had been sent to the armoury returned, laden with ancient pikes, halberds, and swords. More priestesses rallied to Jelindel’s side, grabbing weapons. Together they created a wall of deadly blades raised against the sky.

‘Here, I found this,’ one of the novices said, thrusting a crossbow at Jelindel. It was the old-fashioned sort that used a cranking arm. Jelindel’s heart sank. There were only three bolts.

She quickly fitted an iron bolt into the fluted channel of the crossbow, cranked up the string, and aimed. Muttering a spell of true-aim, she let fly. The bolt found its mark and a deadmoon warrior plummeted from the sky.

‘Oh Mother of Redemption, lead us …’ prayed several novices in quavering voices.

‘We’re holding our own,’ Jelindel reassured them. As if to mock her words, twenty deadmoon warriors that had been held in reserve outside the walls of the Temple suddenly rose into view above the battlements, hovering like a terrible veil of blackness. Their sheer number shattered the spirits of all in the courtyard. Novices and priestesses alike cried out in horror and flung their weapons from them, demoralised.

Jelindel realised it was part of the enemy’s strategy. In all wars and confrontations, the psychological edge was often the one that bit the sharpest.

The new reinforcements emitted an eerie cry that paralysed many who heard it with abject fear, and gave all others a sense of their own danger. The warriors swooped in for the final all-out kill.

‘Hold your ground!’ Jelindel ordered. Some broke rank, but others held firm.

The same binding spell as before presented itself to Jelindel, but this time it appeared with the symbol for ‘like but unlike’. For an instant it meant absolutely nothing to her. Then she saw what it was trying to tell her. She shouted a new spell at the massed horde screaming down upon them from above.

‘Ketar unsa kitab!’

At her utterance the airborne warriors were momentarily blinded.

Unable to see, and blasting down with speed, they smashed in wave after wave upon the flagstoned walls and battlements, till the Temple was dotted with the broken remains of the aerial assassins. In the light of the bonfire, they looked like so many squashed raisins.

‘Back,’ Jelindel cried out to the startled women. ‘Get back!’

Deadmoon warriors plummeted. But some veered away, eluding Jelindel’s snare. Others managed to save some of their falling brethren.

Within moments it was all over. But Jelindel was deaf to the praise raining down on her. She was too busy pondering what little difference there was between the words ‘binding’ and ‘blinding’.

She untangled herself from the clutching novices, who clearly saw her as a newborn messiah, and hurried to the bell tower to check on Kelricka. The crumpled form of the Holy Priestess was still sprawled on the cold stone. But she was breathing and her pulse, though weak, was steady. Jelindel expelled a deep sigh of relief. She fumbled her way to the rearmost wall and felt along it till she came upon a torch embrasure. She was about to use a lighting spell to ignite the torch when she was struck on the back of the head, and she knew no more.

Chapter 2

THE TOWER INVIOLATE

The thing about being transported to another world via magic is that there are no guarantees where you may land, or if you will land at all. Nor can you pick and choose which reality will be your host.

When Daretor and Zimak were first flung across the paraworlds, they landed reasonably softly and with few ill effects. It was unfortunate that they arrived at a recent massacre and had had to defend themselves against two brawny victors. Having survived that encounter, Daretor decided that they would attack the freebooters and free their prisoners.

‘Daretor, what are you thinking of? There must be a dozen of them, maybe fifteen,’ Zimak remonstrated.

‘Maybe more,’ Daretor replied.

‘This is the end, this is the beginning,’ thought a resigned Zimak.

In the next instant, a vortex of bluish light spotlighted them. In that split second their screams were cut off and they were hurled up at such fantastical speed that both men passed out.

Moments later, a terrifying blast of sound broke like a thunderclap across a darkening sky in which three pale moons rode high in their orbits. A crack appeared, a rent in the fabric of reality, and a chaotic spasm of blue light spewed forth once more. Two shapes belched outwards with insane violence, and they began to tumble towards the ground far below.

The shapes were Daretor and Zimak, still bearing the flash-burns of magic used violently and at point-blank range. Zimak screamed as they were flung through, their new world lunging crazily. Zimak clutched frantically for something to grab hold of. But there was nothing but air, and thin air at that.

‘What in White Quell’s name is happening?’ shrieked Zimak.

Daretor, who was just as scared and confused but constitutionally unable to show weakness, said nothing. He clenched his teeth to stifle any errant cry and grabbed hold of his equally terrified companion.

‘Black Quell means to have us this time!’ he said, tightening his grip on Zimak.

They plummeted earthward, punching through thin patches of cloud that slapped them wetly, making them shiver as the cold airstream pummelled them.

‘She betrayed us,’ Daretor snarled. He had to shout to be heard.

Zimak clenched his eyes shut. He was getting himself back under control, or trying to – not an easy feat when the distant ground was becoming exceedingly less distant by the second. ‘Gah, Daretor! Is that all you can think about?’

‘She sent us here to die, the miserable witch. We survived the first landing, so she’s hit us again.’

‘Agreed. But how about being more constructive, like how by all the truenames of all the true gods do we get out of this?’

‘Fool!’ Daretor hissed. ‘We are not meant to “get out of this”. We are meant to die. That’s the vixen’s intention.’

‘I don’t want to die, Daretor!’

‘I intend to pass this life with honour, not squealing like a stuck pig.’

‘I’ll stick to my squealing …’

It was growing dark. The land below, still a good league down, was already in shadow. An encampment could be seen as campfires sprang up in a great ring reflected from the surface of a lake or slow-moving river.

Zimak peered down. ‘Hie, those yayas are still there.’

‘Well, you’ll soon be joining them,’ said Daretor.

‘Hope they don’t mind company dropping in.’

Daretor’s hand tightened around Zimak’s. Humour was not usually Zimak’s strong point. ‘I’m sorry about the squealing pig remark. It was … unfair. You appear to have some honour after all.’

Zimak opened his eyes. It wasn’t often that Daretor apologised.

‘Sometimes I forget that you, at least, are one who never betrayed me,’ Daretor continued.

Zimak opened his mouth to say something when a shadow passed over them. Then a gout of jagged flame ripped past like livid-green lightning. The flame lit up the pale underbody of a vast aerial creature that banked sharply away, screeching hideously.

Zimak screamed again, quickly forfeiting honour for sheer terror. The creature swooped back and suddenly a giant net swept towards them.

Daretor spun in the air, trying to get a glimpse of their attacker. The net closed around them and they found themselves no longer falling but swinging in sickening gyrations inside the huge sack-like mesh.

‘We’re alive!’ Zimak yelled. ‘We’re saved!’

Staring upwards, Daretor shook his head slowly. ‘Saved for what, I wonder?’

‘You’re such a pessimist.’ Zimak squirmed around, trying to get a look at their saviour. When he did so his mouth fell open. Nothing came out save a strangled sound deep in his throat.

‘That what I think it is?’ he asked finally.

Daretor nodded. ‘Aye. It is.’

Flying above them, its huge bat-like wings sawing the air with massive downstrokes, was a crimson armour-encrusted dragon that was at least a hundred yards from wingtip to wingtip. Trailing behind for balance was a long, thin, forked tail.

‘I don’t believe it. Dragons aren’t real. They’re just in … dummart fairytales.’

‘Then,’ said Daretor, ‘you’ve been ensnared by a fairytale.’

On the dragon’s back, riding in a sleek streamlined cockpit, were several armed warriors who grinned down at them. Each man was richly outfitted in the harness and accoutrements of battle, and small metal ingots that appeared to be insignia.

Dropping from the sky above, a dozen more dragons came crashing into view, swarming in apparent chaos before quickly forming into aerial ranks. Each dragon trailed a net similar to the one that held Daretor and Zimak. In most of them small figures could be seen clutching the mesh, and wailing mournfully.

‘At least,’ said Zimak, ‘we’re not going to die immediately.’

Meanwhile, Daretor was testing the strength of the mesh and looking for a way out. All too quickly he concluded that they were well and truly trapped – for now.

The dragon squad flew at staggering speed towards a vast high wall of rock that towered above them for a hundred furlongs, its topmost pinnacle lost in dark swirling clouds. The noise of the leathery wings pounding the air was overwhelming. Every now and then, as if in triumph or ire, a dragon spewed forth a greenish gout of flame that seared the optic nerve and created a minor thunderclap as the air was annihilated.

Nervously staring ahead, Zimak gulped. ‘Do you think they know what they’re doing?’

Lit up by the three orbiting moons, the rock wall appeared unbroken; yet the dragon squad raced towards it with no sign of veering aside.

Daretor shrugged. ‘It’s their world. Unless, of course, we’ve fallen into the hands of a tribe of lunatics.’

‘I’m always surrounded by them,’ Zimak said, miserably.

Daretor pointed. ‘Steady yourself, Zimak – the wall is upon us!’

Zimak steadied himself to scream yet again as the squadron shot towards a jagged rampart of rock that jutted from the wall, and which swelled quickly into view. Surely the dragons would dash themselves to pieces on the rock. But, at the last second, they banked hard and swerved around it, rocketing into a narrow canyon of sheer walls that revealed themselves at the last moment. The canyon, which disappeared above into dizzying heights and below into darkness, was barely wide enough to accommodate the dragons’ massive wingspans. The slipstream from the dragons in front and above sucked the air from the men’s lungs and violently buffeted the net, till they were sick, bruised and dazed.

From time to time, they cast a look outwards to see the canyon walls blurring past. The speed of the dragons, not apparent in the open air, was here revealed as truly incredible, as was the precise nature of the flying. One small mistake would have dashed a dragon into a wall. Yet the entourage flew with nerveless disregard of the danger, deeper and deeper into the mountain.

Occasionally, other canyons veered off at sharp angles, and into some of these a dragon sometimes darted, dragging its human cargo to whatever fate awaited it. At one point the canyon closed in tightly, a blank wall looming ahead. Zimak cried out, flinging his arms over his head.

The dragon carrying them lunged abruptly upwards, towards a narrow cleft. Zimak peeked out and was sorry he did so, for the cleft was far too narrow for the dragon to pass.

‘We’re done for!’ he wailed.

Daretor grunted, refusing to look away.

The dragon banked steeply, turning almost sideways so that one wingtip pointed at the sky and the other at the dark canyon depths, before shooting through the cleft and levelling off on the other side.

The view that greeted them was breathtaking. A vast crater, at least fifty miles from rim to rim, had been scooped from the earth by an aeons-old cataclysm. In the crater’s centre reared a single pinnacle of dark basalt, sheer and daunting for over five thousand feet.

Carved into the pinnacle’s peak was a dark and foreboding castle. Its narrow turrets and battlements, thrusting upwards and outwards in a tumult of chaotic design, spewed steam and flame.

‘I fear that is our destination,’ said Daretor.

Zimak regarded the castle with a shudder. Its aspect was illomened. Around its base were massive holes or ‘hangars’. As he watched, a dragon shot towards one. Folding its wings at the last minute, it plunged inside.

‘Pigeon holes for dragons,’ Zimak mumbled.

Twenty minutes later their own dragon swooped towards one of the dark entrances. The net containing them was hauled in tight to the dragon’s flank, the wings snapped up with a creaking crash, and suddenly they were inside, the dragon alighting with unexpected grace.

‘Well,’ said Daretor, ‘we’re here.’

‘Here’ was a vast hangar at least a hundred feet high and twice that width. The walls were pockmarked with tunnel entrances and staircases cut into the rock. As the dragon settled on its haunches, the net was unceremoniously dumped on the floor. A squad of soldiers jogged out and surrounded them. Meanwhile, ‘engineers’ saw to the dragon itself, removing the flying harness and ‘cockpit’ apparatus.

As the soldiers dragged the net containing Daretor and Zimak to a holding pen, the dragon was guided further into the hangar to what appeared to be a feeding trough. The pitiful screams coming from the trough left little to the imagination as to what composed the dragon’s diet. Zimak paled visibly.

‘I don’t think I’m going to like it here,’ he groaned.

‘For once, we are in complete agreement,’ Daretor growled.

The soldiers spoke little, though when they did it was oddly intelligible to the two Q’zarans.

‘I don’t get it,’ Zimak remarked. ‘How come we can understand them?’

Daretor shrugged. ‘It is my belief that a paraworld is a different world from whence you started, and it exists on a completely different plane. A different cosmos even.’

‘Well, if it is anything like our world, then we are in for it,’ Zimak said.

‘It is a world of men,’ Daretor stated plainly. ‘When did men ever treat other men with anything but savagery?’

‘There you go again. Always the optimist.’

‘Pay attention, Zimak. There are other things to note.’

‘Such as?’

‘Have you noticed anything about our weight?’

Zimak looked at him, mystified.

Daretor gnashed his teeth. ‘You have the brains of a mule. We weigh less here. We are much lighter!’

Zimak bounced from foot to foot, testing Daretor’s observation. ‘You’re right. I feel like I could jump over their heads! Do you think that’s possible?’

‘The laws of this world may be different from Q’zar’s. If so, do nothing suddenly. It may give us an advantage later on. There is something else I have observed. The soldiers are small. Their arms and legs are thin; their musculature is like yours.’

‘Being small and lithe has its advantages,’ Zimak replied.

‘It may be that we are stronger than they,’ Daretor continued.

If so, they did not get a chance to prove it. Still draped inside the net, they were taken to a stone chute where the net was opened and its protesting contents dumped. Daretor and Zimak hit the slippery chute and slid out of sight, Zimak’s echoing wail fading in the distance.

‘I don’t like this one little biiiiiitttttt –’

Oomph! They landed hard, face down in a shallow pool of scum-covered water that reeked of refuse and worse. They scrambled to their knees, retching.

The head and snout of a small dragon poked through an archway. Smoke coiled from its nostrils. ‘Down. Get down!’ a voice shouted.

Such was the urgency of the voice that neither Zimak nor Daretor sought to argue. They plunged beneath the water as an inferno of green fire erupted across the pool’s surface. Superheated by the dragon’s fiery breath, the water exploded into steam. If they had still been above water, they would have been fried then broiled instantly.

As it was, they stayed under till their lungs were bursting, then surfaced, gasping for air. The voice now broke into laughter.

‘What a bedraggled pair of candidates!’

In place of the dragon stood a youth of about fourteen years. He helped them out of the pool and they sat on a stone ledge, catching their breath.

‘My name is Osric. I am Candidate Keeper to the Sacred Worms.’ He said it proudly, obviously expecting them to be awed by his status. When they gazed at him with incomprehension, his face fell. ‘You are strangers from afar, I fear.’

‘Very far,’ said Zimak. ‘But thanks for saving our lives. I appreciate it. He probably doesn’t, but I do.’ Zimak gestured at Daretor.

‘You called us candidates. Are we to be like you, and tend to the dragons?’

Osric laughed. ‘You are too old to be mind-melded to a Wormling. No, you are to be gladiators and you will fight in the next Games and win much honour for your native country before dying gloriously.’

Daretor nodded. ‘That is good news.’

Zimak stared at him nonplussed. ‘That’s good news? What about escaping? What about being made royal guests? What about winding up in a harem instead of an abattoir? Huh? Any of those remotely qualify as “good news” to you?’

Osric stared at Zimak, amazed by the flow of words. ‘Your friend must be a scribe, to talk so,’ he said to Daretor.

‘Not at all. He is simply deranged. It would be best if you ignore most of what he says.’

Zimak stood, brushing bits of muck from his skin. ‘Can we get some clothes? And maybe something to eat?’

‘Of course,’ said Osric. ‘Those-Who-Will-Soon-Be-Dead are always afforded every comfort. But you cannot tarry. Training begins at once.’

‘When are the next Games?’ Daretor asked.

‘Five days. I hope you are good fighters. I wish you a speedy and painless death.’

‘Can you stop saying that stuff?’ Zimak snapped. ‘It’s defeatist.’

They saw little of the castle over the next five days. The gladiatorial training was tough and dangerous, especially for Zimak who seemed to have lost some of his swordsmanship and Siluvian kick-fist abilities. But the food was good and so were the women. As Those-Who-Will-Soon-Be-Dead – or ‘gladiator fodder’, as Zimak put it – they were provided with an endless supply of courtesans, each of whom felt it was her unique privilege to bed a gladiator about to die in battle. Zimak took full advantage, while Daretor spent his time conversing with Osric.

The only fly in the ointment was the Master-at-Arms, a short heavily scarred man with an utterly cavalier attitude towards death, mainly that of others. He drilled Daretor and Zimak relentlessly along with the other ‘candidates’ – men captured in battle. It was from just such a battle that the dragon squad was returning when one of their number spotted Daretor and Zimak tumbling through the air. It was generally believed that they had fallen from another dragon cruising at a higher altitude. Daretor and Zimak did not correct this view.

By day they trained with mock weapons, sometimes alone, sometimes in teams. For some reason it was assumed that Daretor and Zimak were a fighting unit. However, it was not long before their unique abilities were discovered.

On one occasion, Zimak was attacked by a horned half-human creature, its lower half not unlike that of a goat. Zimak feinted, stabbed, and was jumping back to feint again when he tripped. The goat-man lunged for the kill. Zimak snap-rolled aside but the goat-man was on him in a flash. Hardly thinking, Zimak managed to get to his feet and jump.

He sailed over the head of his assailant, who stared up at him in amazement. Fighting stopped everywhere in the arena as gladiators caught sight of the prodigious feat.

The Master-at-Arms hurried over, looking Zimak up and down.

‘Do it again,’ he said.

Zimak stared at him for a moment. The Master-at-Arms raised his shortsword and plunged it towards Zimak’s genitals – or where they would have been had he not sprung back. Zimak sailed a good thirty feet before landing and stumbling.

After a long moment the Master-at-Arms clapped his hands. ‘Back to work!’ he roared. He said nothing more about the incident.

Daretor helped Zimak to his feet. ‘I’ll warrant something nasty is going through that fellow’s brain right now,’ he said. ‘And I would say he will keep your skills a secret, and bet heavily on you in the Games.’

They went back to their training. The other advantage that Daretor had noticed on the first day was also borne out soon enough. With an ease that soon had the other candidates talking, they won all their fights. They were significantly stronger than the men of this world. Their bones would not break as easily, nor did they bruise as quickly. One punch from Daretor could flatten the strongest adversary, while even Zimak outclassed all the other candidates in speed, strength, and stamina.

One evening Osric pointed out that this would prove a wonderful boon, as the winning gladiator or gladiator-team was always freed.

‘You mean we can just walk out of here?’ asked Zimak in amazement.

Osric shook his head. ‘No, of course not. None who enter the Tower Inviolate, except the Freemen, may ever leave. But you will be given a position of status and comfort, probably in the harem –’ Zimak’s eyes lit up. ‘As a eunuch,’ Osric finished off. Zimak’s face fell so quickly that even Daretor laughed.

‘Well, we must try to preserve Zimak’s patrimony at whatever cost. Tell me, Osric, how are the dragons controlled? They seem like wild beasts much of the time, yet the dragonriders fly them fearlessly.’

‘The Riders are chosen when young and are mind-melded to a particular dragon. Only then will a dragon allow a human to approach it. No others will it permit unless by request of its mind-melded companion. The dragons are a very proud and ancient race.’

‘You have also been mind-melded to one, have you not?’ Daretor asked, casually.

Osric nodded. ‘It is necessary for those charged with the care of the creatures to be mind-melded, otherwise they could not carry out their duties.’

‘Have you ever thought of escaping on your dragon?’

Osric stared at Daretor. ‘Escape? But where would I escape to? And why?’

‘Were you not brought here as a prisoner?’ Daretor demanded. ‘Do you not have a home, a family? They must miss you.’

‘I come from the mighty Bazite High Plains.’ But then Osric closed down. ‘We must not talk of this,’ he said, and left.

Zimak studied Daretor in admiration. After a long silence, he said, ‘So tell me, O Wise One, what is the plan?’

The night before the Games commenced, the gladiator candidates were led up a spiral hallway to the main hall of the castle. Here they were feted in grand style. They were served exotic dishes and sweet-meats, and two flagons of mead per table. For entertainment, they watched jugglers, jesters, and a troupe of women dancers whose long hair managed to partially, and teasingly, conceal their nudity.

As the evening drew to a close, Daretor spied the Master-at-Arms conversing with an unsavoury looking man and pointing in their direction. The man then approached the gaunt-faced King Amida III, who sat on a raised dais at the head of the hall.

The next day they were awakened early. Each candidate was led by two nubile women into a private bath and there bathed with exquisite care, before being rubbed with aromatic oils, and dressed in full fighting harness. Finally, they were bedecked with garlands of bright flowers and led to a staging pen from whence they would be taken into the gladiatorial stadium.

From where they waited, Daretor and Zimak could see a portion of the stadium. It was easily eight hundred feet across and rose in tier after tier, the thousands of seats jammed with a howling, exuberant crowd.

As the day wore on, gladiators and gladiator-teams and squads jogged onto the bloody floor of the stadium and did battle. Sometimes they fought with other gladiators. Sometimes with wild men. But just as often with savage beasts, the like of which the Q’zarans had never seen.

Finally, it was their turn. Zimak was pale and shaking. He turned to Daretor. ‘I’ll see you in the Halls of the Dead,’ he said.

‘Just do as I tell you. Keep your eyes open,’ Daretor replied.

They walked into the stadium. As they had been taught, they turned and bowed towards the King, who signalled for the match to begin.

‘See the pulsing red orb medallion about the King’s neck?’ Zimak said. ‘I’ll wager that’s worth his ransom.’

‘I said keep your eyes open for danger,’ Daretor seethed. ‘And keep your thieving thoughts to yourself!’

‘Daretor, I’ve got nothing else to hang on to.’

Daretor raised his broadsword in anger at Zimak. The crowd mistook his action as one of gladiatorial defiance and roared its approval.

‘Hie,’ Zimak said. ‘I think they like us.’

The first round was against two gladiators who were quickly dispatched. Then came a knot of longhaired wild men waving cudgels and screaming incoherently. They, too, were easily slain. The crowd roared at each success. Though the first time Zimak leaped over the heads of their assailants the stadium fell silent, then roared again, louder than before.

Two hours later, Daretor and Zimak were still undefeated. The King collected significant wagers off several of his noblemen, who glared at the pair of gladiators. Then a trumpet sounded and a page stepped forth and bellowed for all to hear: ‘King Amida has commanded that the final battle shall be against the mantid.’

The crowd hushed and a ripple of unease swept the gallery. Archers appeared on the lower stand, fixing arrows to bows, and aiming them down into the arena.

‘A mantid? What in White Quell’s name is that?’ asked Zimak.

Daretor wiped blood from his brow and dried his hands with sand. ‘I rather think we shall find out soon enough.’

At the far end of the stadium a heavy portcullis was slowly being raised. Even before it was a foot off the ground something impacted with it on the other side, almost tearing it from its oiled runners. A fierce roar erupted from the holding pen and again the portcullis shook from a massive splintering impact.

Zimak tried to swallow his fear. The blood had drained from his face. ‘I was thinking, we could easily leap the wall into the lower stands, and take our chance in the chasms.’

‘You should have thought of that before the archers were positioned there.’

‘Well you think of something,’ Zimak countered.

Daretor waved Zimak aside and took several steps away himself. His eyes never left the cranking portcullis. ‘Whatever is coming will be very hard to kill. If there is a chance at all, we will have to co-ordinate our attack. Look, there’s Osric, in the stand above the portcullis.’

Osric was standing beside a thick column. ‘Great,’ said Zimak. ‘I thought you were befriending him to help us.’

A sudden commotion drew their attention back to the portcullis. It was now half way up. With a great roar, something exploded through the wooden gate and hurtled towards them in a blur of speed. It looked like a giant crab only it had the mandibles of an insect or spider. Its six legs smashed into the ground like pistons as it whirled towards them.

‘Jump!’ shouted Daretor.

Zimak complied. Fortunately, they jumped in opposite directions, confusing the walnut-sized brain of the creature. It skidded to a stop, then cocked its head first one way then the other to glare at each of them.

With amazing speed it darted towards Zimak. Its forward pincers snapped the air where he’d been a second before. Instead, he was sailing through the air to land some forty feet behind the creature.

It spun round and charged for Daretor, who stood his ground till almost the last second. Then he darted between the creature’s legs, peering up at its underbelly, seeking a vulnerable point. But there was none. Its entire body seemed to be encased in rock-hard armour plating. He slashed at it anyway, then darted out again and jumped for safety. The whole manoeuvre took only seconds.

The crowd went wild, cheering the gladiators till they were hoarse. No one had ever lasted this long against the mantid. The fact that they had done so was miraculous; the fact that they still had all their limbs was unprecedented.

Daretor caught sight of Osric still standing by the column. The dragon guardian’s face was tense as he leaned against the balustrade. He raised his hand and made quick jabbing movements towards his nose. Daretor frowned, then something dawned on him. He called to Zimak.

‘Distract it!’

Zimak stared at Daretor with a look he reserved only for the profoundly insane. Since the mantid was scuttling in his direction anyway he simply ran – or jumped – for his life. The mantid veered after him, slamming into the restraining wall of the stadium. The impact ripped out chunks of wall and pulverised dozens of pitchers. It also knocked two archers into the stadium. The mantid pounced on them, rending them to pieces and stuffing them into its twitching mandibles. The crowd roared.

Daretor launched himself through the air, landing on the creature’s neck. Utter silence fell instantly. Even the King leaned forward, shocked by the sheer boldness of the move.

Before the mantid could react, Daretor leaned down and plunged his sword up its nostril, burying the blade to the hilt. The mantid reared up, screeching in mind-sawing agony. Daretor was flung off to land fifty feet away. Zimak hurried to his side and helped him up. Daretor was dazed, but there was no further danger from the mantid.

With an ear-splitting screech it pitched over backwards and lay with its massive legs twitching in the air, a green ichor pooling on the sand beneath its head.

Complete silence reigned for what seemed like an age. Then the crowd erupted, going berserk. Money, charms, food, and items of clothing – including women’s underwear – rained down into the arena.

Daretor and Zimak stumbled to the centre of the arena and saluted first the King and then the crowd. Pages ran out and escorted the heroes away amidst chanting adulation.

‘So let me get this right,’ Zimak said, addressing Osric. ‘Because we won the Games we get our freedom, but our freedom is really that we just get to live here for the rest of our lives as eunuchs. Is that it?’

Osric looked perplexed. ‘There is nothing better these people can offer.’

‘Gah,’ said Zimak. ‘Just tell me one thing. Who do we petition about this?’

Daretor took Osric by the arm and sat him down. ‘Osric,’ he said, sitting beside him, ‘we are not staying here. We plan to escape and we want your help.’

Osric stared at him. ‘I do not understand.’

‘I have learned many things from you. I have learned that King Amida and his people rule these lands because they control the dragons, and none can fight against them. Yet you have also said that your own people rear dragons. Why do you not fight back?’

‘Who can fight back? We have no female dragons of the warrior strain left; just sickly males. Only here are the crimson females to be found. Bazitian dragons have become weak, they do not breathe fire, and are small compared to these.’

‘What would happen,’ Daretor said, slowly, ‘if you stole the crimson female in your care and took it back to Bazite? It is female, is it not?’

Osric looked at him in frightened wonder. ‘S’cressling is female, yes. And I – I would be a hero, the saviour of my people. But –’

‘But what?’ Zimak asked, impatiently.

‘I am scared. I was brought here as a boy of eight years. Perhaps my people will not want me any more.’ His eyes brimmed with tears. An old pain had surfaced and Daretor saw that he must move carefully.

‘Is there no prophecy amongst your people of one who will rise to liberate them?’

Osric’s eyes suddenly shone. He looked thunderstruck. ‘Of course there is, and it is said that He will come on the back of a crimson dragon, breathing fire to shatter the bonds of His people!’

‘Well,’ said Daretor, ‘I think it’s time he came, don’t you?’

Later that night, as the castle slept, three figures lurked in the shadows of the Dragon Keepers’ quarters. One of them crept forward and stole silently through a door. A moment later there was a sharp cry, and the figure emerged bearing a ring of keys that he took care to stop from jangling.

The three then crossed to the holding pens, moving to one in particular. They stopped in front of it. Osric whispered, ‘I must go in alone and speak to her. I will tell her we are going on a training flight. She will not care. Dragons do not think as we do.’

He vanished into the pen and there were a series of low growls, then a kind of odd purring noise. Osric returned and beckoned them in. The dragon, which was still an adolescent, was hunched on the floor. Osric had rigged a canopy on its back. He helped Daretor and Zimak to climb the dragon’s flank and buckle themselves in to the seating harness. Then he took the pilot’s seat and placing the palm of his hand on the dragon’s neck, whispered a soft command.

The dragon moved forward. It entered the hangar and had almost reached the launching area when the alarm was given. A squad of soldiers, roused from their sleep, charged onto the hangar floor just as Osric’s dragon sprang from the launching pad and sailed into the night air of the vast crater.

Picking up speed, it shot towards the canyon in the distant wall.

Daretor raised his voice above the hissing slipstream. ‘How soon can they launch a pursuit?’

Osric shook his head. ‘Bare moments, I fear, but dragons cannot navigate the canyon with any certainty at night when there are no moons in the sky. If we get that far, we are safe.’

‘Then what makes you think we can get through the canyon?’ Zimak asked.

‘This dragon is half the size of the adults. It will be easy.’

Zimak frowned. ‘S’cressling has three of us to carry and our pursuers will only have one.’

Daretor looked behind. ‘They’re coming!’

Spouts of flame lit up the face of the Tower Inviolate as a trio of adult dragons launched themselves in pursuit. The adults may have been too big to negotiate the narrow canyon in the dark, but they were also faster than the adolescent. With dismaying speed, they closed the gap.

‘We’re not going to make it!’ yelled Zimak, staring back.

‘What’s to stop them going above the canyons, over the rock wall?’ Daretor asked.

‘The air is too thin. The dragons cannot fly that high,’ Osric replied.

The dragons were coming into firing range. Suddenly, flames mushroomed towards them. ‘Fire!’ yelled Daretor.

Osric gave the dragon a command and it twisted aside, narrowly avoiding the swelling tongue of flame that would have incinerated them.

The three dragons now arranged themselves in a tight formation. ‘They will fire at once.’ said Osric. ‘We have only one chance. Grab on tightly.’

They had acquired a great deal of height in the race towards the canyon entrance, but it was still a good three miles away. Osric put the dragon into a steep dive, gaining speed. It half-folded its wings and almost fell towards the canyon opening, its adolescent body more streamlined than those behind it. It picked up speed and actually widened the distance between them and their pursuers.

‘They don’t dare put on too much speed,’ Osric said. ‘Because they are heavier they would not be able to pull up in time.’

The dragons spat flames again but it was clear they had lost the initiative. With a final frightening whoosh, the adolescent dragon speared into the canyon almost at ground level and came close to crashing. It quickly gained height again and sped on over the canyon maze.

Zimak expelled a deep sigh of relief. ‘White Quell! We actually made it.’

Chapter 3

ASSASSINS

Jelindel fumbled her way up out of a dark and confusing nightmare. A hissing sound filled her ears and she was numbingly cold. As her eyes opened she became aware that she was suspended by her arms. Her shoulders ached with a throbbing agony, threatening to push her back into that pit of unconsciousness from which she had emerged.

She moaned and tried to focus her eyes. It was dawn and the sun was just rising.

‘So you’re awake,’ said a harsh and strained voice above her.

Another voice, also from above, joined in. ‘Hope you’re enjoying the journey. We thought you might like to travel first class.’

The second voice was lighter than the first, as though sharing in a joke. Though any joke right now, Jelindel instinctively knew, must be at her expense.

As her eyesight cleared, she realised why she was so cold, and what the hissing noise was.

She was flying several leagues above the ground, and hanging by her arms, which were lashed to the ankles of two levitating deadmoon warriors.

The wind whistled past as they flew at awesome speed. Gazing at the land far below, she thought she would throw up. She clenched her eyes shut and took several deep breaths, feeling the bile rise in the back of her throat. After a time, she opened her eyes a slit and peered down, trying to accustom herself by degrees to such great height. It wasn’t easy but she eventually calmed her tumultuous stomach.

‘Where are you taking me?’ she demanded, hoarsely.

Her captors exchanged a quick glance.

‘You will know soon enough. And do not try your blinding spell on us or we will all be doomed.’

Below she could see a large fast-moving river that looked familiar. It was the Marisa River and, judging by the sun, they were heading north-west.

‘You’re taking me to D’loom in Skelt.’

‘There is a price on your head, is there not?’ one of the warriors asked.

Jelindel snorted. ‘A deadmoon warrior bringing a hostage back for a mere thousand argents? I think not. Another hand directs you, and I believe it belongs to the merchant-mage Fa’red.’

‘We care not for your empty speculations,’ said the gruffer of the two. ‘The reward on your head is three hundred gold oriels, although not even that sum would turn us from our cause.’

After that brief exchange they would not answer any further questions.

For a while, despite the pain and the insidious cold, Jelindel dozed. Once, because of some other aerial denizen that even the deadmoon warriors seemed to fear, or at least respect, they dropped to a mere dozen feet above the ground, hopping hedge-rows and haystacks and zooming above streams at unbelievable speed. She found this more frightening than the dizzying heights; the sense of speed more terrifying, as the ground rushed past in a blur that made her gasp for breath and clench her jaws till they ached almost as badly as her shoulders.

The storm burst minutes after they entered the air space above D’loom. Jelindel barely glimpsed the lights of the languishing port city before they were engulfed in wet grey clouds. The air filled with the blinding slash of lightning followed by massive detonations as thunder shook the earth and sky.

Within seconds, Jelindel was drenched, the cold intensifying until her teeth chattered uncontrollably. Great fists of air slammed into the deadmoon warriors, buffeting them back and forth, so that Jelindel swung like a pendulum. Her captors struggled to maintain their spell.

‘You’ll fly straight into a tower if you don’t land!’ she shouted through the wind and rain.

‘We are deadmoon warriors. We fear nothing,’ the gruff one answered in his rasping alto.

Jelindel craned her neck to stare at him. ‘That’s all very well, but I was looking forward to being tortured beside a nice warm fire, not smashed to pieces against some uncivil turret.’

Lightning jagged across their path, blinding them for a moment. Before they could recover they were being dragged into the vortex left in the lightning’s wake as air rushed to fill the vacuum.

A vast thunderclap sounded. They were torn in opposite directions, contorted and tumbled. One of the lashings came loose and Jelindel was hanging by one arm. She was still tied to the deadmoon warrior, and her weight pulled him down. He cried out to his companion who was desperately battling the buffeting air currents to get back to the rapidly descending pair.

Then Jelindel was falling, her arm wrenched free of the remaining lashing. She fell and fell, through storm and wind and hail. And maybe she screamed, but her tiny voice could not be heard against the storm’s mighty fury.

Still she fell, and it was like a dream where time stretched out forever. But one wakes from dreams, she mused, and still she fell.

Then something slammed into her, expelling the breath from her body, and knocking her senseless.

Voices rose and fell as waves of consciousness broke upon Jelindel. She became aware of lights and movement and the smell of cooking. Most of all she was aware of being warm.

‘She’s coming round,’ a flat almost metallic voice said.

A dryer voice, more full of dark undercurrents, answered, ‘I see that, Kantor. Stimulate her.’

A blunt stick shoved against her ribs. She heard a loud click and a strange energy smashed through her. She screamed, her back arching, mouth gaping. The smell of burning flesh filled her nostrils. The evil energy departed almost as quickly as it came, leaving her gasping, but very much awake.

Even before Jelindel focused, she knew who stood before her. The Preceptor. Her family had been murdered by lindraks in the service of the King of Skelt and, possibly, at the behest of this man.

‘Good evening, Countess,’ said the Preceptor.

Jelindel gazed at him, trying to regain her composure. By anyone’s estimation, she had jumped from the frying pan and into the fire.

‘Preceptor, you do me an unwanted honour,’ she said, thickly. Her throat was still constricted with remnants of the dark energy. ‘I renounced my title when I joined the Temple of Verity.’

‘Of course you did. But since the Temple shall soon be no more than an irritating memory, your renunciation might be considered annulled.’

The Preceptor stared at her. He had a severe, angular face with thick dark brows that hunched together when he glared. Though he had become a King of Kings, and though his ambition knew no limit, he dressed simply in warrior’s garb. He appeared like a general who had but recently returned from the campaign trail to deal with unpleasant matters of state, and who hungered to return to the field. The only garment that belied the militaristic bearing was a scholar’s cloak. Jelindel knew that the man was a deadly but learned adversary.

Standing next to the Preceptor and holding the blunt stick was a dwarf of a race Jelindel had never seen. She presumed this was Kantor. His throat appeared to have been ripped out and a metallic plate melded with the living skin. A row of lights and dials on the plate flickered whenever someone in the room spoke.

Jelindel stared levelly at the two. ‘The Temple of Verity has stood for many centuries. I doubt that you or all your black arts will bring it to an end.’

The Preceptor laughed. ‘We shall see,’ he said, lightly. His manner changed abruptly. He leaned forward, searching her face. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘where might I find the mailshirt?’

The dragonlink mailshirt, an off-world artifact of immense and toxic power, had been hunted down and destroyed by Jelindel and her two companions. With the help of the honour-obsessed Daretor and the street-savvy Zimak, she had journeyed across the continent to find the missing dragonlinks and restore them to the mailshirt. With the final restoration, however, she discovered the diabolical nature of the mailshirt and managed to render it harmless, placing it where it could never be found.

‘The mailshirt is destroyed. I destroyed it,’ Jelindel said.

The Preceptor tensed. ‘For your sake, you had better be lying,’ he said. ‘Fetch the truthseer,’ he ordered Kantor. ‘This spawn of a fool will tell us nothing willingly.’

‘Let me stimulate her again, my lord,’ Kantor said. His harsh voice sounded like the vocal chords had been replaced by a machine.

The Preceptor waved his hand, dismissing the idea. ‘I am in too much of a hurry, and I do not trust her to speak the truth even under torture.’

Kantor bowed and departed. The Preceptor poured himself a drink and crossed to the roaring fire. He stood before it, backlit and ominous.

‘How did you like my enhanced deadmoon warriors?’

‘You mean Fa’red’s enhanced deadmoon warriors, don’t you?’

The Preceptor went still, eyeing her over the rim of a goblet. ‘You would do well not to irk me, Countess. I can make your passing a thing of perpetual pain, such that peasants a thousand years from now will shudder to recount.’ He paused, sipping his wine.

Outwardly urbane, as if he were entertaining a dinner guest, the Preceptor smiled. Jelindel shuddered. Thus does a shark smile moments before it tears its victim apart, she thought.

‘Where is your Adept 12 tonight?’ Jelindel asked. ‘Surely he would want to be here for such an important interrogation.’

‘Away on business. A pity. As you say, he would not wish to miss this.’

‘Especially after the destruction of his deadmoon warriors.’

The Preceptor almost spilt his wine. ‘What’s that you say?’

Jelindel stared at him. The two levitating warriors had not told the Preceptor what had transpired at the Temple the previous night. Obviously, they owed their allegiance to Fa’red rather than the Preceptor. A thought, Jelindel could clearly see, that was beginning to form in the Preceptor’s mind as well.

He slammed his wine glass down, snapping the stem, and roared for his attendants. A small knot came bursting through the door like a scrum of kutark ball players.

The Preceptor’s eyes picked out a tall skinny man whose clothing and accoutrement indicated he was a counsellor of some rank. ‘What is the report on the Temple attack?’ he demanded in a sibilant voice. It left the listener in no doubt that one false word or gesture would cause the Preceptor to lash out.

The counsellor cleared his throat nervously. His voice was a soft squeak: ‘Report? Of course, your lordship. The report was … I mean, is … in other words, the report reports that …’

His voice trailed off. A smaller man, stocky of carriage, spoke up. ‘Your deadmoon warriors were … perhaps inadequate for the task set them, my lord. We believe the witch was responsible. Many fell to their deaths. A handful returned.’ He bowed low and was silent.

‘A handful?’ the Preceptor shouted. ‘Are you insane? These were deadmoon assassins. None can stand against them. None but lindraks, and them I had slaughtered to the last of their order. A handful!’

He dismissed the cowering men with a wave of his hand and turned to Jelindel, his dark eyes simmering. He drew an iron from the fire. Its end, shaped like a pike’s blade, glowed white-hot. He advanced towards her.

‘Iron for the witch,’ he said, as though not in his own mind. ‘And fire for the flesh. The truthseer can wait. I will have the answer I seek from you or I will sear the skin from your bones.’

Jelindel fought to clear her mind of the panic that almost consumed it. She uttered a binding word and the blue sparks lashed themselves about the Preceptor’s legs. He fell with a cry and the glowing poker clattered across the floor. It came to rest against the wall, beneath ornate curtains. The Preceptor uttered an oath and Jelindel added an extra small binding word that fastened his lips. He could not cry out for help, although he thrashed across the slate floor.

In moments, the curtains were ablaze. The fire spread quickly to the ancient timber rafters that formed the groined ceiling. Smoke began to fill the chamber.

Jelindel coughed, her eyes watering. A lesser timber crashed down from the ceiling, spilling coals across the floor. A rug began to smoulder. As an Adept 9, Jelindel had few major abilities. But one that most novice Adepts practised with ease was telekinesis, moving small objects. Even market charm vendors could manage as much. She uttered a summoning spell. A small glowing coal flew across the room and lodged in one of the leather thongs that bound her left hand. It was uncomfortably close to her skin and she had to grit her teeth to keep from crying out.

Meanwhile, the Preceptor struggled with the binding spells. Unable to best them, he had managed to squirm his way to the main door. It was an ungainly and humiliating mode of locomotion. His eyes were wild with fear and hatred, like those of a horse that has seen a snake and would like nothing better than to grind it out of existence.

Just then the doors burst open. Kantor rushed in, followed by a grey-haired truthseer. Kantor went immediately to the Preceptor’s aid but the Preceptor shook his head. Unable to speak, he pointed at Jelindel, then at the truthseer.

His meaning was clear. Kantor dragged the truthseer through the smoke and heat towards Jelindel. They stopped in the middle of the room. The beams above Jelindel were blazing fiercely and would not hold much longer.

‘Establish a link!’ shouted the dwarf.

The truthseer, trembling and coughing, put out his arms towards Jelindel. His eyes went milky white and he seemed to go into a trance.

Kantor faced Jelindel. ‘Where is the mailshirt, Countess? Where is the mailshirt?’

Jelindel tried to think of anything but the shirt. The coal had nearly burned through the thong. Once her left hand was free she had only to untie her right and she could escape. She bit down on her lip. It was no good. The scalpel of the truthseer’s thought-search sliced into her mind, scouring for the truth. She tried to fight it but she was no match for the ancient’s power.

Then several things happened at once. The ceiling began to collapse just as the leather thong gave way. At the same moment, the truthseer found what he was looking for, or at least part of it, and gasped in triumph. Jelindel swung around behind the scaffold she’d been bound to as the ceiling came down like a volcanic landslide.

Kantor dragged the old man back, but not quickly enough. A flaming rafter swung down and swept the pair from their feet. Green blood spurted from Kantor’s ruptured chest. The truthseer screeched and pushed himself back from under the cinder-hot rafter.

As the truthseer’s life drained away, so did his power over Jelindel. As though barely making the surface from a deep dive, Jelindel gasped for air and gagged on the smoke. She registered Kantor’s green blood, and in that moment of recognition, her binding words left the Preceptor and returned to her. The scaffold had protected her from the collapsed ceiling. Now she freed her right hand and made for one of the scullioned windows. She kicked out the glass and climbed outside. Pressing her back against the wall, she scuttled sideways along the stone ledge and clambered up a terracotta pipe to the roof. In no time at all she was some distance away.

The Preceptor leaned over the dying truthseer. He cradled the dying man’s head as though it were fine china. Nearby, Kantor’s neck brace continued to register words, but no more would come from him.

‘Tell me what you found, old man,’ whispered the Preceptor, ‘and I will ennoble your family for all time.’

The truthseer coughed blood and ash. The Preceptor wiped it away with his own sleeve. ‘Where is the mailshirt?’ he asked, gently.

‘It is …’ The truthseer gasped for air. ‘It is – as she said … It is gone, destroyed. I know not where. Could not get that …’

The Preceptor’s jaw tightened. All his plans, everything he had worked for, lost forever.

As if reading his thoughts, the truthseer suddenly clutched the Preceptor’s tunic in a tight grip. ‘There’s something else … in her close future,’ he wheezed. ‘A device … just as powerful … five gems … The witch needs … transference … will soon seek the gems. Find them before her, my lord, and you will rule not only this world, but myriad worlds.’

The truthseer coughed once and died in the Preceptor’s arms. For a long time the Preceptor did not move, but sat like stone, hardly aware that he still cradled the old man.

Warriors and attendants ran madly back and forth trying to quench the roaring flames.

Finally, the Preceptor’s lips moved. A senior counsellor had to lean forward to hear the words: ‘… find that witch …’

Chapter 4

THE DARK EMPRESS SAILS

It was evening on the first day of month ten 2132. The lone figure walked along the creaking pier, looking at the ships. Nobody paid any attention, as boys from poor families often started very young aboard the ships, and were a common enough sight. Despite her age, however, Jelindel dek Mediesar was no youth.

Jelindel stood by a rotting wooden derrick and tapped her fingers against the blistered frame. Night in the docklands was always the time of departure. During the day dockers loaded and unloaded, vendors sold, and carpenters repaired, but at night work ceased. And when the night tide turned, the ships did the only profitable thing that they could: they sailed.

The dockland’s clock clanged the twentieth hour. Jelindel pushed away from the derrick. The cold wind bit hard, leaching any warmth from her body, but she seemed not to notice. Her mind was preoccupied.

She had idled away several hours of the previous night in a tavern. The taverners had seemed amiable enough, she thought while sipping limewater. By the stone hearth had been two Hamarians, with their telltale axes hanging loosely from their waist clips. By the bar, in twos and threes, and dotted around the bustling tavern, were the suntanned Bravens, southern Nerrissians and Baltorians, from that newly besieged kingdom.

At odds with the forlorn foreigners, the locals, retired ship-wrights and longshoremen, ruddy faced seamen and fishermen gone to seed, were revelling in past glories and boasting of fresh conquests.

The hearth had been well fuelled and half a pig was being turned on a spit, awaiting the carve master. None paid Jelindel any attention, for she had been suitably attired in dowdy wool-lens of close weave. She had also tied back her hair as experience had taught her when visiting men’s lairs. She was as much a man as any, in strength and courage if not stature.

Perhaps it had been the cloying tobacco smoke that had made her drowsy, or perhaps someone had spiked her drink, hoping to press-gang her. Whatever the case, Jelindel’s mind had wandered. A dangerous lapse under the circumstances.

She thought of D’loom’s past. It had once been an important port, visited by every merchantman plying the Skelt coast. But the former King’s navy had been too ill equipped, or too corrupt, to stem the tide of brigands who more often than not looted and pillaged at will. Soon, the merchants began blazing new trails in camel trains – some even braving Dragonfrost Plain rather than risk the high seas and the brazen pirates. Such were the fortunes of seaports, she thought drowsily as the merriment washed over her.

A disturbance had broken out beyond the smoke haze. Indiscernible at first, Jelindel paid it little mind. It was this detachment that saved her life. While tables were upturned and patrons rushed to harry and encourage the fighters, two men held back. It was no coincidence that the two Hamarians she had spotted now flanked her.

Jelindel pushed away from the mead-soaked table. The two bounty hunters launched themselves at her. Jelindel spoke a minor word of binding, and a blue ribbon of energy entangled the nearest man’s legs. He fell with a yelp. The other hurdled a fallen chair and kept coming. His hand drove down past his knee for an underhand throw and Jelindel instinctively wove her hips aside as the man’s axe left his hand. The axehead slammed into a barrel a nose-length from her ribs.

A second later his momentum carried him into her. All Zimak’s kick-fist training came to her rescue. Her right hand grasped the man’s crotch while her left his jerkin, then she rolled him over herself and sent him flying into the wall.

Jelindel stepped back in fighting pose: right hand extended, left knife hand several inches from her hip, right leg forward and body weight resting on her left leg. A glance told her that no one had even witnessed her own fracas. The tavern’s patrons were still enjoying the main fight. The town constables would arrive at any moment, and taverns in the throes of a brawl were not a good place to be when the constabulary arrived.

Jelindel looked down at the crumpled body beside her, then at the man she had ensnared. The spell would keep him bound for at least a hundred heartbeats.

She made good her escape among the slimy cobbled alleyways of D’loom. And knew her life here, at least for the time being, was at an end. She spent the rest of the night and much of the next day on watch in a disused warehouse overlooking the docklands.

Now she watched several sailors who were in turn watching a group of women fussing around a boy who was carrying a rollpack almost as big as himself. First time at sea, she thought. He will return as an adult, and tell his mother, brothers and sisters of adventures and wonders, and some may even be true. Other things he will not tell them, tales of picking weevils out of biscuits, scurvy, beatings for the slightest mistake, smashed bodies of men fallen from the rigging, and sharks that gathered as if they could sense an accident.

There was nobody to see Jelindel off. She had been orphaned some time ago, and had found that a boy’s identity made life a lot easier than would be the case for a lone girl. No girl could walk alone in D’loom, and the only women who did not depend on men were either in religious orders or in houses where several women supported each other.

A ship’s bell began to ring, heralding the turn of the tide in a half hour. The boy walked clear of the circle of robes, scented skin, veils and excited, encouraging voices. He waved a last farewell as he strutted along the pier. It was lined with a double row of sailors, but he did not realise that this was a potential problem. The usual crew, Jelindel thought idly, pausing to watch. She had sailed with most of them on previous journeys, and had earned their respect the hard way.

Jelindel quickened her pace, passing the group of women and closing in on the boy. She had cut her hair to collar length that morning. The boy’s hair was longer than hers, and he wore a jacket, tunic and trousers that the girls of his family had probably been sewing for weeks. Oil of roses from some uptown laundry was on the air.

‘Tch, Jenza, I smell perfume,’ bawled a Hamarian, pointing to the approaching boy.

‘No women allowed aboard ship, bad luck it be,’ his companion shouted.

The boy stopped and the sailor named Jenza reached out for him. Jelindel’s brass-topped cane cracked down on his wrist. Before his companion could react, Jelindel thrust her cane into his stomach, then she turned as a huge Baltorian charged her. She held out her cane with both hands seemingly in supplication. Her assailant foolishly seized it whereupon she pulled and fell backwards. Jelindel rammed a foot to his stomach as she went down and he sailed over her, crashing into four Nerrissians and skittling them over the edge of the pier and into the water.

One of the attackers failed to recognise techniques employed by black-band Siluvian kick-fist masters. He slashed a knife at Jelindel’s head as she sprang to her feet, but she ducked, slammed her cane into his stomach, then tapped him on the head with the brass tip as he doubled over. He collapsed.

The regular crew, having foreknowledge of Jelindel’s prowess, stood idly by. Some even clapped or whistled when the scuffle ceased. The rest of the sailors were backing away hurriedly. There was a cry of surprise as one Baltorian backed over the edge of the pier and plunged into the dark water.

Jelindel exhaled and quickly breathed in the tangy salt and iodine air. Out of practice, she chastised herself. But, at least, she hadn’t resorted to sorcery.

‘Just as well none of you managed to strike me,’ she said softly to the gathered men. ‘You know what the penalty for striking a ship’s officer is.’

The penalty was not death, but it was known to be fatal from time to time. There was a stunned silence as the men picked up their gear and moved off. She realised with a start that the initiators of the fracas were the Hamarians from the night before.

‘Uh, sir?’ said a submissive voice behind her.

‘Yes?’ said Jelindel, turning to face the boy she had saved from the purported initiation.

‘That – that was fabulous, sir, my thanks to you,’ he babbled.

‘Lesson one, never show fear, it only encourages them,’ Jelindel said, putting a hand on his shoulder and gesturing to the shifting gangplank with her cane. She scanned the moorages for hidden assassins. The sudden appearance of the Hamarians had been too coincidental for her liking.

‘What were they going to do?’

Jelindel paused. She decided on the best course of action, and went with it. ‘The crew? Snatch your rollpack, rip off your trousers, drop you off the pier into the water, then vanish aboard the ship, take everything of value from your pack, and divide it among themselves. By the time someone threw you a rope, your trousers would be flying from the top of the mainmast, and your first lesson in climbing the rigging would involve fetching them down. That all assumes you can swim, of course. Can you swim?’

The boy looked worried.

She glanced over at the men as they hauled their friends from the water. ‘It’s not a prerequisite, but it’s best to learn. The previous cabin boy didn’t, and he fell overboard.’

‘Did he drown?’

‘No, sharks ate him before the question of drowning arose – mind the railing – but in case there are no sharks, trust my word and learn to swim. Purely academic if we sink of course. Few mariners survive wrecks, swimmers or not. Welcome aboard the Dark Empress. My name is Jaelin. And you are?’

‘Hargav,’ said the boy. ‘I am the only son in the family, and the youngest. My mother and nine sisters came to see me off. My father went to war before I was born, and never came back.’

‘A familiar enough story – I’m sorry. Mind your head, and down here. This is where the officers sleep, and you will sleep here too. That’s so you can come running all the quicker when they call for you. See that cupboard with the sliding doors?’

‘I – I suppose that’s where I sleep,’ said Hargav humbly.

‘No, it’s where I sleep. You sleep in the locker underneath. Drop your rollpack there now, and I’ll show you around.’

‘Is – is it –’

‘Secure?’ A pang of sympathy swept Jelindel but she pushed it away. ‘Hargav, anything in your rollpack worth more than about ten coppers will be stolen within the first week. Trust my word on this. Got any plum cake?’

‘I – I –’

‘Cabin boys always come aboard with plum cake. Get it out. I’ll help you eat it now, before it’s stolen.’

They went back out on deck, and Hargav took one last, lingering look at D’loom. He noted that a drunken group of men were staggering along the pier, cursing, shouting, smashing bottles, and even fighting among themselves as they went.

‘Who are those unspeakable rowdies?’ he asked Jelindel, with a snort of contempt.

‘Our captain and officers,’ she replied.

‘Uh – oh. Are you, er – ?’

‘An officer? Of a type. Call me Jaelin, though. The navigator drinks rather more than all the others. I do not know a vast amount about navigation, but I keep the charts in order, do his calculations without making errors, write up his logs, take his notes to the duty officer, and clean up his vomit. With luck he will not die of a drunken fit before I learn enough to get a ship from one port to another without getting lost or running into anything. Then I shall take over as navigator and become a real officer.’

‘Er, I see. How many times have you been to sea?’

‘This is my sixth voyage.’

‘You fight like a Baltorian berserker.’

‘I should hope I fight better than that. Actually, I’m seventeen, shorter than most, and I look a bit like a girl. So I’m told. Small hands, soft skin, that sort of thing. I have to compensate by being thoroughly ruthless in a fight, cultivating a short temper, and taking no nonsense from those around me. Here’s a tip, boy. Learn some bad language quickly and be heard using it.’

‘But my mother –’

‘Won’t know. It’s not a clean ship. It’s not a happy ship. It’s not even a very safe ship, but it hasn’t sunk yet. I was going to transfer to the Sea Lily tomorrow, a much hardier ship, and one less inclined to cause me problems. But there you are.’

‘Why did you change your plans?’

‘You ask a lot of questions, Hargav,’ said Jelindel. After a moment’s reflection, she added, ‘Which isn’t an altogether bad thing, I suppose. Someone tried to kill me yesterday, so I thought it wise to leave D’loom early.’

‘Tried to kill you?’ gasped Hargav.

‘That’s right. This is the forecastle. That’s because it’s shaped like a castle and it’s on the front bit of the ship. When you feel the need for the privy, drop your leggings, hold on to this rope, point your blurter over the side and give those fish a hard time. A bit refreshing in a storm, but then we’re sailors so we’re tough. This thing’s an anchor, the thing attached to it is an anchor rope.’

‘You seem very well educated for a sailor,’ said Hargav.

‘Navigator’s mate, boy, big distinction. I spent some time in the Great Temple of Verity –’ Jelindel hesitated, silently cursing her carelessness.

‘That’s a women’s temple.’

‘I became a gardener’s apprentice after I lost my parents in a fire,’ Jelindel said by rote. ‘The priestesses saw that I was pretty bright for a peasant boy, so I was allowed to sit in on lessons. I learned good speech, mathematics, even a little magic – not that it does me much good at sea since magic is diminished over water. Still had to live in a hovel amid all the other town brats, so I learned to fight, too. Don’t touch that, the penalty is five lashes.’

‘They taught you magic?’ Hargav said. ‘What sort of magic? Just tricks and illusions, I bet.’

‘Then you would lose,’ Jelindel said.

‘I’ve tried magic,’ Hargav admitted. ‘You know, saying weird words and that. But nothing’s ever worked.’

‘Anyone can pluck the strings of a lute, Hargav, but few have the ability to make it sing as it should. Discordant noise is just that: noise. Magic’s a bit like that. You need not a little talent to make it work.’

‘Why did you leave the priestesses?’

‘I took a sabbatical. I did in fact “leave” a Nerrissian temple once. But that’s another story,’ Jelindel said. The lies came glibly over time, although they never sat easily with Jelindel. Her life as a girl was by far more preferable to her role as a boy.

‘Can you sew?’ she asked.

‘I –’

‘Can’t? No problem, I’ll teach you. Why did you decide to go to sea? Get away from a house full of girls?’

‘Well, ah, I thought I would never say it, but yes. All that time, with nothing but girls talking about, well, things that concern girls. A lad can get a bit of a reputation in society, ah, it is a little hard to put discreetly, er, as –’

‘A bit of a whoopsie?’

‘No.’ His voice was indignant.

‘Well, I’ve been there, endured that. It’s the small hands and refined accent. Four or five dozen fights, a rackish scar or two, and you’ll have the respect of the crew, though, and the girls will be all over you every time you step ashore. Don’t worry, I won’t tell your mother and sisters.’

‘I – I see. Ah, so you like it – I mean, life at sea?’

‘Well, yes and no. I could have been a market scribe, or even an enchantment healer, but I decided to go to sea to forget. The trouble is that I can’t quite remember … that’s a joke, boy, get it?’ Jelindel thumped Hargav on the back, causing him to nearly choke on his mouthful of plum cake and to drop the rest over the rail.

‘Oh, sorry about that. Have the rest of mine,’ said Jelindel.

They watched the officers stagger aboard, followed by several dripping wet, glowering sailors. A booking agent hurried down the pier with three passengers, followed by half a dozen labourers carrying their bags.

‘Passengers,’ said Jelindel. ‘Good. The officers behave better when we have landlubbers aboard. You know about setting tables, and how to wait on noble folk?’

‘Oh, yes. Several of my sisters are maidservants, and they practise all the manners and etiquette of the high-born at home.’

‘Indeed? Excellent. The captain likes a show of refinement. An old friend of mine used to say that perfection is measured in tiny details, Hargav. Remember that at sea and you’ll go far.’

In two hours, the ship was at sea. Hargav was vomiting over the side, and Jelindel was studying a map of the northern coast of D’loom in the chart room, while the navigator was snoring under the table.

Oddly enough, Jelindel really had gone to sea to forget. She had betrayed close friends, and that did not sit well with her. She liked to think of herself as loyal. But, on the other hand, Daretor and Zimak probably had it coming.

Hargav was something else, though. He would depend on her, because having a mentor among the lower ranks of the ship’s officers was vastly preferable to being at the mercy of the sailors of the lower deck. He was younger and smaller than she, and had spent most of his short life in fairly refined female company. Jelindel suspected that he had never even been in a fight. Why, he had probably even changed his name to something rather more masculine sounding than his given name, thought Jelindel. Yes, he would be company for her, and perhaps they would even become friends.

That night Jelindel had a dream. She was speaking to a figure hidden by shadow. Whenever Jelindel tried to catch a glimpse of the silent figure, a swirl of black, eddying smoke wafted from the floor and the figure fragmented, becoming whole again further away. Jelindel kept walking after it, telling the apparition her thoughts and worries, as though under a spell.

‘Yesterday I survived an attempt on my life,’ she said in a monotone. ‘I strongly suspect my assailants were bounty hunters. There is, after all, three hundred gold oriels on my capture. My only solace is that they need me alive. Another possibility is that the Preceptor’s spies have found me. Either way, I begged my way aboard the Dark Empress, and in all modesty, I believe Captain Porterby was only too pleased to have me sail with him again.’

The wraith dissipated, then became whole again at a distance. Now it seemed vaguely familiar.

‘I have decided to take a young man under my wing. He strikes me much the same as I was when I fled home,’ Jelindel continued. ‘My introduction was more brutal than his, of course. Although well educated, my life’s experiences came from books. And nothing, I have learnt, compares to actually doing things instead of reading about them. I knew about swords, but had never had to use one for protection. My arsenal of minor spells and the herbs and ingredients to strengthen them was considerable, but my life had never depended on them. I had seen pictures of faraway Centravian, Bravenhurst and even the aqueducts of the Skeltian Empire. However, nothing could have prepared me for the experience of actually seeing them.

‘Hargav, on the other hand, has lived in the urban sprawl of D’loom. He’s reasonably well educated, and has obviously enjoyed a patronage of some kind or another. He’s undoubtedly learnt to steal and beg on the streets, and being the sole male member of the family, has had to perform the male chores of the household. I suspect there is a fire within him that, if fueled, will see him reach far beyond his current horizon.

‘My horizons are limited by the fact that I have betrayed two friends. True, they had their faults. Zimak was secretly wearing a dragonlink and coveted the omnipotent mailshirt; Daretor and his mindless quest for honour drove me to the brink of despair. But what I have done is far worse. I have vanquished them to a paraworld, where their chances of survival are practically nil.

‘I have travelled the dark and perilous roads between Q’zar and the paraworlds and they are not for the lighthearted. Monstrous birds with quarterstaff long talons fly their airways and cannibalistic tribes war one another continually. In one paraworld the cold sciences rule: metal monsters race one another at incredible speeds and fly in the skies attacking one another, and machines rule the lives of their creators.

‘I did what I had to do. Zimak would never have let me destroy the mailshirt, and Daretor would never have forgiven Zimak for having used the ring to enhance his fighting ability. Such was his hatred of the linkriders that he might have killed Zimak on the spot.’

The shrouded figure was growing faint now, as though whatever power maintained it was drained. ‘Come to me – you know where I live,’ it whispered, receding.

‘Black Quell forbid, I wore several of the links myself in search of the mailshirt. So I sail this night with a heavy heart.’

Jelindel sat up. ‘Lady Forturian?’ she breathed.

‘Wuh?’ Hargav said hoarsely from his locker underneath.

‘It’s nothing,’ Jelindel whispered. ‘Just a silly dream.’

Chapter 5

TO SAVE A WORLD

Daretor, Zimak and Osric ate their last meal together beside an oasis pool. Thick clouds obscured the sun above the desert, and gave them an added feeling of protection. The adolescent dragon crouched nearby, its glittering eyes watching them. Osric finished eating and wiped his fingers on his tunic.

‘I am sad that our ways part here. I had hoped you would return with me to Bazite as heroes.’

‘I had hoped that also,’ Daretor said. ‘But if we are to return to our own land, we must enlist the aid of a powerful sorcerer, and you say there are none among your people.’

‘Magic does not run in our blood, but I know from the talk of the Dragonriders that north of here are lands where magic is much used.’

Osric climbed onto the dragon and called down to them, ‘You must stand well clear. I bid you farewell, my friends.’

‘Remember what I told you!’ Zimak shouted.

Osric laughed. ‘I will not forget. I will make an entrance that my people will not forget for a hundred years. Farewell.’

With that, the dragon leaped off the ground, its great bat-wings cupping the air, and in a moment it was above the treetops. Daretor and Zimak watched it with mixed feelings.

Daretor waited until the dragon disappeared. ‘I’m almost sorry we did not go with him. If we don’t find a way home then we might seek out his people one day.’

Zimak shook his head. ‘Hie, Daretor, I would’ve liked to have become a hero. Even for a day.’

They wrapped the dried food, filled the water skin, and set off on foot. They travelled north for several hours before coming to another oasis just after nightfall.

‘It’s unusual to find another oasis so soon,’ said Zimak.

‘No, it’s common,’ said Daretor. ‘I saw the like often back home.’

They made for the outline of the palm trees against the darkening sky, and discovered that the oasis was very extensive. A large camel train was encamped on the far side, but after their previous experience with a caravan, they decided to keep clear of it until morning.

Daretor and Zimak made no fire, raised no tent, and ate their meal amid the low, dense bushes before settling down for the night. In the morning they would approach the camel train and ask about travelling with them as guards. Their eyes had not been closed long when a commotion roused them. It sounded like a battle coming from the direction of the caravan. Daretor pulled on his boots.

‘What are you doing?’ demanded Zimak.

‘Going to investigate, of course.’

‘Massacres must happen a lot around here, Daretor. These people? They’re used to it.’

Daretor stared at Zimak. ‘No one gets “used” to being murdered, you dolt.’

‘Do you have to go looking for trouble? Doesn’t trouble find us without us helping it along?’

‘Are you coming or staying?’

Zimak groaned and fumbled for his boots.

They found a massacre. There was a large campsite close by, but on an open stretch of sand were dozens of bodies. All appeared to have been able-bodied men, and most had died fighting. Others lay tied up in a neat row, as if slaughtered after surrendering. Occasional screams and cries came from the more distant tents.

‘There’s something awfully familiar about this,’ Zimak said. ‘These men. They’re the same ones we fought, before Jelindel struck us a second time.’

Daretor’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘What in Black Quell’s name is happening to us?’ He shrugged off a creeping sense of unease. ‘Find a weapon,’ he commanded.

‘Mere steel will not save us,’ Zimak said morbidly, but followed Daretor’s order. ‘Money, weapons, light armour,’ Zimak mumbled. ‘These bodies have not been looted.’

‘The victors are busy ravishing the women again. Or should I say, “still”?’ muttered Daretor. ‘We are honour bound to intervene once more.’

‘I am getting very tired of the sound of that word,’ Zimak said.

‘Come, let us see how the land lies before we attack.’

‘Perhaps we’ve been given a second chance, Daretor.’ Zimak gripped the bigger man’s shoulder. ‘Maybe some god here saved us before and dragged us back through the paraplane.’

Daretor looked at him as if to say, You’d come up with any old nonsense to get out of a fight. Instead, he said, ‘We are champion gladiators on this world. We have already defeated a mantid. What can sozzled warriors do to us?’

‘There’s something about the logic of that, but I still think we should get as far –’

Daretor waved him quiet. ‘It sounds as though they’re being murdered as we stand here. Hurry!’

‘These weapons are drenched in blood. Erk.’

‘Zimak?’

‘What?’

Daretor’s knuckles were white against the haft of a broadsword. ‘Shut … up.’

As Daretor had ascertained, the raiders were not at their most alert. He observed that the few that were on guard wore spiked helmets, light chainmail and leather breastplates. They carried a variety of weapons: scimitars, broadswords, halberds and bows.

‘They appear to be armed with the best that can be looted on battlefields,’ said Daretor. ‘That’s good.’

‘They have the best and that is good?’ muttered Zimak.

‘Yes. You should be armed with what best suits you, not with what has the highest value. Still, they do not seem to have suffered even one loss during their encounter with the caravan’s guards and drivers. A disparate bunch of men, but they fight well. That is their weakness too, of course.’

‘Of course that’s their weakness,’ Zimak said, with ill-disguised sarcasm. ‘Are we really going to attack them?’

‘The greater the odds, the greater the glory. Besides, the lives of the women are at stake.’

‘Maybe so, but my life is at stake as well.’

Daretor eyed Zimak up and down. ‘I have known many mighty warriors, solid, staunch men and women upon whom I could entrust my life. I have met powerful Adepts, intellectuals, and people of honour. People who understood the meaning of the word chivalry. Of all these companionable people I have known, I find myself here with you.’

‘That’s not fair,’ Zimak said, stung by the words. ‘If I’d had my choice of partners, I’d have chosen someone different, too.’

‘I agree that Adenia Troddledope, the fishmonger’s daughter, would have suited your immediate needs, Zimak. But I wonder whether her knowledge of the hayloft at the back of the cobbler’s shed would have been of much practical use here.’

‘She wasn’t just a pretty face …’

Daretor paused, listening. ‘Two men, coming our way.’ He locked eyes with Zimak. ‘We might have been brought here for a reason other than Jelindel’s treachery. I feel this deeply.’

‘Oh, the gods are talking to you directly, are they?’ Zimak said, raising an eyebrow. ‘Can you pass on a message or two for me? For a start, Adenia –’

‘Zimak. If we are to survive until we can find a way to return to Q’zar, we must prove ourselves, and when I prove myself I want to show that I am a man of honour. If you want my company, you had better try to do the same. If you don’t like that, then start walking. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Hmm,’ said Zimak, non-committally. How had Daretor known about Adenia Troddledope, anyway? He looked across at the carousing barbarians and almost whimpered. At least Adenia wouldn’t have been a suicidal maniac. Her honour had long since been extinguished in the seedy alleyways of D’loom.

‘So, you have not decided to flee,’ Daretor said, taking Zimak’s silence as agreement. ‘Then here’s what we do.’

Daretor’s plan was simple enough. The majority of the raiders were already drunk on whatever they had plundered from the caravan.

‘Sure I heard something,’ rumbled one of the approaching men.

‘What’s one more snivelling cur?’ said the other.

‘We’re missing the festivities.’

‘There’s more than enough skirt to go around –’

The pair were extraordinarily easy to defeat. One blow from Daretor’s sword nearly cut the bigger of the pair in two, while even the diminutive Zimak managed to overpower the other after a short but frantic struggle.

‘Come on, let us take the others.’

‘What? By direct attack? Daretor, what say we wait until they’re all drunk and asleep, then slit their throats?’

‘And let the women be defiled for another three or four hours? What manner of man are you?’

‘A survivor,’ Zimak mumbled.

Daretor walked straight for the fire where the raiders were roasting a sheep-like animal. They managed to get close to the enemy before an astonished warrior barked an oath. What followed was a very one-sided battle. The raiders were not well coordinated, having had their fill of drink, and Daretor won most of his encounters with the first blow. The problem was that the swords were as frail as the enemy, and he broke three before taking a heavy, two-handed axe from one of his victims. This he used easily with one hand.

Zimak spent most of the fight guarding Daretor’s back, but few raiders were willing to approach what must have seemed a supernaturally strong demon and its acolyte.

Suddenly everything went still and quiet. Daretor counted eleven bodies, and five raiders were on their knees with their hands in the air.

‘Four escaped,’ panted Daretor.

‘Three,’ said Zimak, pointing to a woman emerging from a tent with a bloodied knife in her hand. She approached Daretor, kneeled before him, then bowed.

‘We beg mercy, mighty demon,’ she began.

‘I am no demon,’ said Daretor.

‘But I can be a bit of a devil,’ laughed Zimak from behind him.

‘Get the other women, bind those raiders hand and foot,’ said Daretor. ‘After that, I have a little hunting to do.’

The other three freebooters were hiding amid the palms near the oasis. They tried to rally and take Daretor and Zimak by surprise, but the fight did not last long. They returned to the camp to find that the women had already tried, sentenced, and executed the prisoners.

‘Little work for lawyers in this world,’ observed Zimak, suddenly nervous about sharing a tent with any of the women.

It took some time to convince the women that Daretor and Zimak were alone, and not part of a larger army. Although they were their saviours, the women seemed loath to fully trust two men who had just defeated the barbarians when their own men – thirty strong – had been annihilated.

The eldest woman introduced herself as Premiel, but she was known among her people as the Matriarch. She knelt before the pair and almost ritualistically offered them anything from the caravan. Her outstretched hands encompassed the entire camp.

‘Yours by feudal right,’ she finished. ‘Is there anything you wish?’

Zimak nodded enthusiastically. He grinned wolfishly at one of the Matriarch’s handmaidens, then realised that the red pattern on her robes was blood. He stopped grinning.

‘We expect nothing in return,’ Daretor said, sharply. ‘Unless in the way of directions. We are homeless men and seek employment.’

‘Homeless, yes,’ said the Matriarch. ‘Mere men, no. But you appear to mean us no harm; in fact you have done us a great service. If you seek work, then travel with us as our royal bodyguard. We can pay well, whether gold or charm is to your taste.’

Daretor’s hand came down firmly on Zimak’s shoulder.

‘Steady,’ Zimak whined, ‘I’ve been injured.’ He rotated his arm. There was nothing like a wound to gain sympathy from women, or so he believed.

‘We need directions, supplies, weapons –’

‘And money,’ added Zimak. ‘And – mummph.’

‘We must really be on our way,’ said Daretor, striking Zimak’s shoulder.

The Matriarch spoke quickly to her people. After a whispered exchange, the Matriarch told Daretor of a city to the north that had been recently besieged. Apparently, the Matriarch and her entourage were seeking refuge in the southern kingdoms. They were fleeing the D’ai, a race of desert dwellers that had been pillaging the land for some time. Unfortunately, mercenaries from fallen keeps had formed lawless bands and were now hunting in packs, a law unto themselves.

‘We are the court women of a small principality. Our noblemen have joined forces to fight off the enemy and my husband Prince Ulad has sent us where we would be safe while they are away,’ the Matriarch finished off.

The Matriarch insisted that Daretor and Zimak stay awhile. She had all but dragged Daretor to the main tent. With two clicks of her fingers she dismissed her handmaiden, a well endowed woman by the name of Andzu, who all but dragged a grinning Zimak from the tent.

Confronted by the Matriarch, a woman obviously used to getting what she wanted, Daretor felt more nervous than he was when battling the raiders. He could have easily asked that the other women stay. However, he banished the thought when the tent flap was pulled tight and strapped.

‘We’re alone,’ said the Matriarch, arching an eyebrow. She looked at him coyly, with eyes half draped by thickly lacquered lashes.

‘Indeed we are,’ said Daretor.

‘It’s been a long time since I have been with one so obviously strong as you. In fact, I have never been with one such as you.’

‘You may be disappointed,’ said Daretor, struggling to do whatever was vaguely honourable under the circumstances.

‘Disappointed?’ Premiel laughed hoarsely. ‘Your friend is as skinny as a plains dog, but you –’ She ran her highly ornamented and colourful fingernails down the length of Daretor’s arm. She stopped momentarily and puzzled over a gash to his bicep. ‘A gash like this would have any of our men rolling in agony, yet you have not even asked for it to be bound. What are you?’

The Matriarch’s question gave Daretor an idea.

‘I am a machine,’ he said, flatly.

‘I – what?’ exclaimed the Matriarch. ‘A machine, like a windmill?’

‘A machine, like a warship. Do you know warships?’

‘I have travelled to the coastal cities and seen the great oared galley ships.’

‘They are machines of wood powered by slaves. I am a machine powered by little demons. A wizard on another world created me. Zimak travels with me to translate.’

‘Translate? But I can understand you.’

‘That is irrelevant,’ responded Daretor, finding it curiously easy to play the part of a machine. ‘Some human things I cannot understand. I have only existed for a month. Zimak explains things that I do not understand.’

A girl’s prolonged giggle from nearby could not have come at a worse moment. The Matriarch’s eyelashes lifted despite their weight of lacquer. ‘I see,’ she said, although clearly she did not. ‘So Zimak is your master?’

Daretor smiled despite himself. ‘Zimak is my assistant. Like a groom that tends a war-horse.’

‘Ah, I see. And when you were built, did your creator include any equipment for, ah, amusement?’

‘Such as you speak of would be superfluous. A warship is for fighting, it has no need of luxuries.’

‘Pity. If ever I meet your wizard-creator, I must put in a commission for a luxury version of you. But who commands you? Every ship has a captain. Who is yours?’

‘My creator. He needed to test me. He sent me here, where there is much fighting and injustice. He gave me a mission. I must carry it out with no captain, only Zimak. I can say no more. Now I must go. I need to brief my assistant, then I must close down and let my power demons make repairs.’

Daretor left the Matriarch’s tent, waited for the next giggle, walked to the tent that was its source, seized a male-looking foot protruding from the entrance, and dragged Zimak out. He carried him out of earshot, then dropped him in the sand.

‘Listen and listen carefully,’ said Daretor. ‘This is our story. I am a machine; you are my engineer. I was made a month ago, and sent to this world to be tested. Our lives depend on the Matriarch believing that.’

‘Our lives?’

‘Yes. A wizard created me, a wizard on another world. I am very strong, but have no sexual abilities.’

‘Hie – not far from the truth.’

‘We shall put together more of a story later. Now go, and try to behave with honour.’

‘But the women would think it a dishonour if I did not make merry after rescuing them,’ said Zimak, standing up.

Daretor walked a little behind Zimak as they returned to the camp. By the firelight he saw the handmaiden Andzu beckoning Zimak back to her tent. Then he saw the Matriarch stride over to Zimak, speak to him briefly, and guide him directly to her tent.

‘Machines are not meant to laugh, but sometimes I am tempted,’ he whispered to himself.

Daretor spent a restless night, being bothered by insects that buzzed and sucked blood. In the morning he found a scatter of dead insects around him. Evidently his blood did not agree with them.

After breakfast, the women prepared packs for the two warriors. These were hessian bags filled with a dried spiced meat that Daretor found chewy but digestible, ointment cure-alls said to relieve inflammation and sunstroke, meal biscuits, water skins, a tinder box and something that made Zimak cry out with delight.

‘A farsight!’ he exclaimed. ‘Hie, look, Daretor. Just like Jelindel’s invention, only made from polished brass. Professional, like. How would a smithy make it so round?’

Daretor reached out and plucked it from his hand.

‘Gah, that was given to me.’

‘You would use it to look at the girls. I need it to look out for danger. And Premiel has warned me of the dragonriders.’

Zimak glanced back at the Matriarch. She and her retinue waved a last farewell. ‘She warned us of many things, including keeping our destination a secret. Why do you suppose she said that?’

Daretor waved languidly and turned his back. ‘She has every right to be cautious. Perhaps her caravan was waylaid on information from her own people. Royal courts are rife with subterfuge.’

‘Not only courts,’ Zimak said. ‘If you think Premiel fell for that dummart “machine” story you fed her, you must have rocks in your head.’

Daretor’s eyebrows rose. ‘You must be right, Zimak. I’m sure she prefers skinny prairie dogs to wolves.’

They reached a settlement a day later. Over a mug of cool beer, Daretor raised an issue that had been niggling him for some time.

‘Jelindel,’ he said.

The tavern was fairly busy, but people kept their distance. Very quickly, Daretor had established a reputation as a monstrously strong thing constructed of clay powered by demons. Even Zimak was looked upon with awe.

‘What about her?’ asked Zimak, taking a drink from his mug.

‘Jelindel,’ said Daretor again.

‘I know the name. What would you like to say about her?’

Daretor stared into his mug.

‘Gah, Daretor, snap out of it. If you want to discuss Jelindel, then do it.’

‘I was thinking about the treacherous vixen.’

‘I’d noticed.’

‘She betrayed us.’

‘If not for those dragonriders, we would’ve been desert kill,’ Zimak reminded him. ‘Betrayal of the worst kind.’

Daretor took another sip of beer. He was unaccustomed to heavy drinking, and morbidity had come upon him.

‘We travelled around a whole continent, collecting the links of an enchanted mailshirt,’ he said. ‘And when we finally got all but one of the links together, Jelindel turned on us and banished us here. She obviously planned on keeping the mailshirt for herself. That thing is the most powerful object on Q’zar. She’s probably using it to rule the world now – if she has the last link.

‘Who would have thought it? She was a powerful enchantress all along. I thought she was a brave girl with a few spells and a good heart. A soul sister.’

‘That’s women for you, Daretor, no constancy at all. Roll ’em and run, that’s what I say.’

‘You would have had to run fairly fast to escape the Matriarch.’

‘You set me up. Is there no end to what you’ll do to avoid getting a leg over? She could well have killed me – the woman was insatiable. I much preferred Andzu –’

‘How are your fighting skills coming along?’ Daretor asked after trying to swallow from the now empty mug. ‘I thought it strange that your fighting skills have waned, while mine remained intact.’

‘Why do you ask?’ said Zimak.

‘Because you are fingering the place where you used to wear a ring. Was that ring a dragonlink?’

Zimak clasped his hands together. ‘My ring was just lead, it was from a beloved admirer.’

‘It was a thick lead ring, thick enough to enclose a dragonlink. Wear a dragonlink and it takes possession of your fighting skills. When you take it off, your fighting skills go with it and are given to the next person to put it on. Everything we were wearing is back in our home world, including your ring, and quite probably your fighting skills – or at least those of the poor fool whose skills the dragonlink sucked out.

‘Did I ever tell you how much I hate people who steal the fighting skills of others with magical tricks like the dragonlinks?’ asked Daretor, seizing Zimak by the tunic and dragging him halfway across the table.

‘Many, many times,’ said Zimak, weakly.

‘You know how much I hate betrayal?’

‘Lots and lots. It’s another thing we agree on.’

‘Jelindel betrayed me, but she is in another world. Yet I intend to track her down and be avenged. I now suspect that you too have betrayed me, but you are a lot closer.’

‘There is an innocent explanation,’ suggested Zimak.

‘Tell it to me.’

‘My mother gave me that ring –’

‘Do you not mean a beloved admirer?’

‘Er, or, yes, I mean it was a lady who was very close to me and my mother –’

‘Get on with it.’

‘She, ah, gave it to me just as I was taking my first fighting lessons. She said that it was a special ring that gave good luck in fighting. It could be that it was a dragonlink unbeknownst to me. It could be that it was only ever worn by people with no fighting skills, and that some of my hard-learned skills got sponged away when Jelindel blasted us here.’

Zimak grinned feebly.

Daretor scowled, then released him.

‘If it is true, then Jelindel has the last dragonlink, and the enchanted mailshirt really is complete. She will certainly be ruling Q’zar.’

‘Empress Jelindel the First,’ said Zimak, diverting attention from himself. He raised his mug in a toast. ‘Here’s health to her, and may she long reign over someone else.’

‘We are going back and we are going to bring her to justice,’ rumbled Daretor. He raised his mug, crumpled it in his hand, and flung it aside. Several drinkers clapped, and three of them threw coins.

‘We?’ asked Zimak, quickly pocketing the coins. ‘We, as in you and me?’

‘You were betrayed as much as I was by that vile enchantress. She banished us to this accursed world –’

‘She banished us to this exceedingly pleasant world, where I’m three times stronger than I was at home, where the women fall over each other to wave their charms at me, and where I’m generally as happy as a pig in shit.’

‘She magicked us up in the sky the second time where we had no hope of surviving.’

Zimak wagged his finger. ‘Tut tut, but we did survive. Maybe Jelindel put us exactly where the dragonriders would be at that precise moment in time.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘Daretor, we are not magicians or wizards. We don’t even have an Adept rating. How can we ever return home?’

‘A sailor does not know how to build a ship, yet he still crosses oceans,’ Daretor said, smugly. ‘I have been asking around, speaking to people. Herbalists, market witches, students of magic, and warriors who travel with caravans to distant cities. There are people within reach who know the sciences of travelling between worlds. We have gold now. We can seek them out.’

‘You can; I’ll stay here,’ said Zimak, emphatically.

________________________

Two weeks later, they went to a market. It was the mid-afternoon lull in trade and there was little to do. People were looking for diversion.

‘Good ladies, fine gentlemen!’ called Zimak. ‘You may have heard of him. Is he a man? Is he a demon? Is he a machine? I give you the mighty Daretor, the strongest warrior in the world!’

People hurried over, eager to witness feats of strengh from the demon-powered machine. Daretor knelt and held out his arms. Zimak selected four pretty girls from the crowd and had them sit on Daretor’s arms. Then Daretor got to his feet. Zimak tied a rope around Daretor’s waist, and tied the other end to a beer wagon. Even with the four girls on his arms, Daretor still managed to pull the beer wagon in a wide circle while Zimak steered.

Zimak went around collecting coins while Daretor put the girls down and untied himself. Next Zimak challenged all comers to fight Daretor – as many at once that dared. A dozen warriors accepted the challenge, and Daretor fought with only a quarter-staff. In no time at all, two of the challengers had managed to kill each other; the other ten were lying dazed and bleeding on the ground, and Daretor’s quarterstaff was splintered. When the dead and injured had been dragged away, Zimak went around taking bets that Daretor could not lift a cart on his shoulders. Of course, Daretor rose to the challenge with very little effort. With the show over, Zimak and Daretor retired to a tavern, where they stood counting the money on top of a barrel.

‘The takings are down two parts in ten on last market day. We need to move to another city,’ remarked Zimak. ‘It feels like we’ve been here for years.’

‘We now have the money to journey to the Green Mountains, where there is a stone roundel that can return us home, or so I have been told.’

‘The pox take that, Daretor. No. Never!’

‘Then I go alone.’

‘Good! Go! I have been saving a few coins here and there; I shall survive alone. Besides, I have been courting a certain nobleman’s daughter, and my prospects for advancement are good –’

Daretor scooped up the coins and took his leave.

Zimak waited a full ten seconds before chasing after him. ‘Hie, Daretor, you don’t need me back in our world. I mean, I could help you get to the stone roundel, then remain here. I like this world.’

‘Then our friendship is at an end. I wish you well doing tricks like a gypsy.’

‘It gets us by,’ Zimak said. ‘Look, I promise to get you to the roundel, and to help arrange whatever is needed to return you to Q’zar.’

Daretor stopped and folded his arms. ‘What’s in it for you, Zimak?’

‘You’re always so suspicious, Daretor. I can see that you’re determined to go home, and after all we’ve been through, I’d like to see you succeed.’

Later that night Daretor and Zimak left the city. They were riding good horses, and had plenty of gold and silver for the trip. Little did he know it then, but Daretor could have saved himself the trouble and effort by not accepting Zimak’s offer of help.

Chapter 6

THE DRAGONFANG

The first five days of the voyage were nothing out of the ordinary, and by the end of the week Hargav was being sick only once or twice a day. He turned out to be very good with meal presentation, washing dishes, cleaning the cabins, and even cooking. And he was slowly learning about life aboard a ship. He had spent most of one morning looking for the starboard, having been ordered to polish the star, had been ducked in the bilge water, and had learned the hard way not to empty the officers’ chamber pots into the wind.

A lot of what had been in his rollpack was now missing, but he had also discovered that most of what he had brought with him was of no use on a ship. Jelindel had also been giving him lessons in self-defence. He had a black eye from one of the young deckhands, but had retaliated by hitting him over the head with a wooden pail. Both had then spent a day in the forecastle stocks, with the bowspray breaking over them twice every minute.

Jelindel had just passed the navigator’s latest headings to the steersman when she noticed one of the passengers leaning against the gunwale and looking out to sea. This particular man was dressed well, yet he walked as if he was well used to rolling decks. During meals he displayed refined manners and his accent was polished without being foppish. Even more interesting, his sword was a practical type, with nicks in the hilt and wear on the leather binding of the handle. Jelindel kept the ship’s register for the purser, so she checked the details of the passengers. The man’s name was Larachel, and he was supposed to be a trade envoy for one of the D’loom merchant families.

She sat tapping at his name in the register. Such a man would have to be accomplished in many areas, else he would soon be out of business. It would not be unreasonable for Larachel to be a proficient swordsman, a man of words, and an accomplished seaman. Why then did his presence unnerve her? Did he remind her of someone? She snapped the register shut. Time enough for him to reveal his past. And she could help that along easily enough.

The mist-dulled coast was barely visible on the north-western horizon, a ragged line of low hills. Jelindel walked to the rail and stood beside Larachel. The sun was low in the sky, the chopping wave-tops drowning in reddish shadow.

Jelindel waited for Larachel to acknowledge her, but he seemed oblivious to her presence. The wind whipped at his hair, throwing it back. For a moment, Jelindel thought she recognised something about his hairline, the way it was shaped like a breaking wave. It was a game she used to play with her siblings, not all that long ago. Each player would describe what another player’s hairline reminded them of, just like making pictures from clouds. A silly game, she thought, and brushed the memory aside.

‘Zaria is not far off,’ she commented.

As though continuing a conversation, and without glancing at her, he said, ‘And you are in a position to know?’

Jelindel hid her surprise. ‘I am the navigator’s mate. It is my place to know.’

‘Ah, quite so.’ Now he turned his full attention on her. ‘Our first port of call. We are to unload a hundred jars of olive oil, five dozen barrels of mead, and ten boxes of crockery. I am a merchant’s trade envoy. It is my place to know.’

Larachel’s iron-hard eyes bored into her, yet his tone was friendly enough. Lesser recipients of his attention might have been unnerved, yet Jelindel remained detached.

‘All of it in your care?’ she asked, wide-eyed.

Larachel’s mouth twitched. ‘None of it is my concern. A load of expensive spices is to come aboard at Zaria. It belongs to the merchant house that employs me.’ He returned his attention to the red-hued sea. The sun was fast sinking on the horizon.

Now he was unsettling her. If they were laden with a valuable cargo they would need to be part of a convoy, and there was nothing in the logbook to suggest they were accompanying other ships after Zaria. ‘So, the Dark Empress is to be part of a convoy?’ she persisted.

‘No.’

This news did not cheer Jelindel. One of the ship’s few redeeming features was that it carried goods that privateers would not bother with. But a cargo of spices! Something was wrong here. Spices took up little space, and were of great value. Small loads of spices were carried on sleek, fast caravels, while large loads made do with convoys that could fight off privateer squadrons.

Water slapped at the prow and Larachel brushed back his raven hair. Had he once worn it in a ponytail? It was too short now, of course, but the shape of his fringe haunted Jelindel.

‘So,’ she said, focusing, ‘the spices will be in crates with PLEASE STEAL ME stencilled on the sides?’ She could barely control her incredulity.

He glanced at her as though she were a troublesome pest. ‘That is not usual practice with my merchant house.’

Still that unflinching look. Jelindel had seen that expressionless veneer somewhere before. But where? Looks could be disguised, albeit at a price beyond most people’s means. Nonetheless, it was possible.

Jelindel filed away her unease for future investigation. ‘Then why move a highly valued cargo on a slow, defenceless ship?’

Larachel looked the length and breadth of the Dark Empress. ‘I wouldn’t say that. In fact, I feel quite secure. The crew is renowned in a dozen towns for their ferocity in tavern brawls.’

‘That would be really helpful if we were attacked by a tavern. But a squadron of privateers is more likely to come after us in fast caravels. Is there any reasoning behind what we are about to do?’

Larachel considered Jelindel, his face impassive. ‘The Dark Empress has a reputation for travelling slowly and carrying heavy cargoes of low worth. Privateers will not expect a large, expensive cargo to be aboard.’

‘And as soon as we have discharged our large and highly valued cargo every privateer on the water will add us to his list of ships to be given close attention.’

Larachel’s voice hardened. ‘That is not my business. I suggest you seek employment on another vessel after this voyage.’ He smiled but it was without mirth.

‘How very –’ Something caught Jelindel’s eye. Her suddenly alarmed face made Larachel turn to follow her gaze. ‘What is that?’ she said in disbelief.

Jelindel pointed into the glare of the setting sun. There were shapes visible, and they seemed like ships with high masts carrying a lot of sail. Without another word Jelindel heaved herself into the ratlines and scrambled up to the crow’s nest. The lookout was snoring. She stared out to sea, where six privateer caravels were now distinctly visible and on an interception course. Taking the lookout’s whistle, she blew three short blasts, then backed down the ratlines again, leaving the lookout to work out what had just happened.

Minutes later, the alarmed captain and officers were gathered on the sterncastle, staring at the approaching caravels.

‘They are at least twice as fast as we are,’ observed the first mate, Henrik Ju’shron.

‘Don’t know why they’re bothering with us,’ said the purser. ‘Our cargo is bulky, and would be little more than beer money to them.’

‘The Dragonfang,’ the captain said flatly, fixing one rheumy eye on the fast approaching vessel. He passed his farsight to the first mate. ‘That does it for us. It’s the fastest three-master there is. Navigator, what is your opinion?’

‘I think we should have a nice jar of Maldera ’25,’ managed the navigator, who was being held up by two sailors.

‘Why do I bother?’ muttered the captain. ‘Master Jaelin, what are your estimates, lad?’

‘We are about twelve hours from Zaria, and we are about twelve minutes from being boarded –’

An arrow swished past Jelindel and thudded into the navigator’s chest, killing him instantly. Everyone immediately dropped to the deck.

‘– but we are already within bowshot,’ Jelindel finished.

A flurry of arrows then landed among them.

Jelindel got up. ‘The initial volley is always meant as a warning.’

Captain Porterby floundered between indecision and certainty. ‘Open the weapons racks. All hands to the deck,’ he shouted. ‘Someone run up that confounded white flag!’

It took another two or three minutes before his orders were obeyed and every seaman and officer was armed with swords and bows.

‘Now, at my word,’ the captain began. ‘All hands, fling your swords and bows overboard and make sure that the privateers see you do it.’

A murmur of dissent swept the seamen. But the veterans among them knew that to resist was certain death. Privateers often spared those who surrendered – it was bad for business to kill merchant seamen. As for those who retaliated, few were ever seen again.

When the crew had flung overboard everything that even vaguely resembled a weapon, they began to chant, ‘We surrender.’ All joined in, except those who were sent aloft to take in the sails. The flagman on the Dragonfang signalled that they should reef the sails, and the Dark Empress signalled that it was being done. Then the signal to be boarded was given.

‘I was told that we would be in savage, exciting battles,’ muttered Hargav miserably, as he helped Jelindel haul on a line.

‘Well, the navigator was killed,’ she pointed out.

‘That was only because we did not surrender fast enough. We should have … you know …’

‘Fought?’ Jelindel said.

‘That’s right,’ Hargav said, bunching his hands into fists.

‘Down to the last man, no doubt,’ Jelindel said. ‘Personally, I’d rather live to fight another day. Now keep close to me, Hargav.’ She ruffled his hair. ‘And keep your mutinous thoughts to yourself. They’ll like as not have you tossed overboard for shark bait.’

Grapples were thrown aboard, the Dragonfang was made fast to the Dark Empress, then a couple of dozen sailors came aboard and tied up the entire ship’s company. Only then did the captain of the Dragonfang climb over the rail from the smaller but faster ship.

‘I am Captain Learder,’ he said, pacing before the officers of the Dark Empress.

‘And I am Captain Porterby,’ the Dark Empress captain said. ‘Under the terms and conditions of –’

‘Silence!’ bellowed the privateer. ‘I am in command, and your lives hang by my word. Remember that, and take care that you provoke me to no angry words.’

A pirate came hurrying up from below decks and stood before the privateer captain. ‘The cargo is oil, plates and the like,’ he reported. ‘Not much worth pissing on.’

‘I already knew that,’ said the privateer, turning back to the officers of the Dark Empress. ‘But my informant also told me that a pentacle jewel is aboard.’

The faces of his captives remained blank.

‘Some of you, perhaps most of you, do not know what you carry.’ He strode along in front of the officers, searching each man’s face. ‘Let me explain. There is a gemstone aboard, probably well hidden. It is said to burn scarlet with the fires of another world. It is worth enough to buy my fleet of caravels five times over, and it is more magical than a convention of Senior Adepts. I want it.’

Captain Learder craned his neck and appeared to study the furled spars. ‘I could very well hang a man from the yardarm on the minute until my demands are met.’ He looked back at the officers. ‘But I doubt there’s one among you who knows where the gem is. Constra – get a move on and search this tub while there’s still daylight. Get on with it, man.’

‘Cap’n, sir.’

The sun was setting, and after a quick, preliminary search of the ship, the privateers moved the crew below decks. As the least likely to cause trouble among the Dark Empress crew, Hargav was kept on deck to familiarise the mutineers with the ship. The passengers were deemed to be most likely the couriers of the pentacle gem, and were held separately in the officers’ quarters for interrogation.

It was dark when Hargav was thrown down the stairs and shoved into the cabin with the rest of the crew.

He had no answers to the questions that were instantly hurled at him. All he knew was that the mutineers were tearing the Dark Empress apart in search of some gemstone, and that the merchant’s representative, Larachel, had already been interrogated. Hargav himself had been kicked and abused, and Jelindel tended to his head wounds as they sat in the gloom of a single oil lantern.

Jelindel was roused from a deep sleep. Judging by the snores in the hot, crowded cabin, no one else was awake. What had woken her? She was well used to the creaking timbers and the waves batting against the planks; the grumblings and snorting of her fellow crew members.

She sat up. The oil lantern had died and the silvery light of Specmoon and Reculemoon that pushed through the porthole did little to illuminate the cabin. In the gloom, she strained to hear beyond the immediate noises. Had it been a thump she had heard? Her skin crawled with unease. She considered waking the others, but to what end?

Someone hammered at the hatch door at the top of the stairs. Then hurried footsteps echoed down the companionway.

‘Get up everyone,’ Jelindel shouted. ‘Quick about it. Something’s happening!’

Instantly, the cabin came alive with struggling figures and confused oaths.

There was a shrill scream from somewhere above. Then frantic fumbling at the bolted door. One of the three passengers suddenly unlatched the door and stood in the hatchway, holding a spluttering lantern. It was a diplomat’s wife, Mistress Sheaghan.

‘Dead, they’re all dead!’ she shrieked.

‘Aye, they’re going to torture all of us to death until the one who has the gemstone tells them where it’s hidden,’ Henrik said above the fearful din.

‘You don’t understand,’ Mistress Sheaghan babbled. ‘It’s the privateers that are dead.’

Jelindel warily led the officers up on deck. It sounded like a trap – how could all the privateers be dead? Taking the oil lantern from the trembling passenger, she stepped through the hatchway.

The officers spread out behind her – better a death on deck than to be butchered below like cornered rats. The first bloodied corpse they found on the upper deck set their original fears aside – and replaced them with new ones.

It did not take long to search both ships. The privateers were indeed dead. Most had had their necks broken, and a few their throats cut.

The privateer officers were in the master cabin, and the bodies of their men were scattered like rag dolls throughout both vessels. Within minutes the more superstitious and illiterate of the sailors were begging forgiveness from their gods. These were indeed death ships.

The three passengers had been imprisoned in separate cabins, and Mistress Sheaghan was the only one not bound hand and foot. When no one came to question her after several hours, she had called out, then tried the door. It was not locked.

The two male passengers were in other cabins, still bound. Larachel had been tortured but he refused Jelindel’s offer to bandage his wounds, and insisted on helping the crew look for survivors.

‘So what do we do?’ asked Henrik as the officers gathered to make sense of the situation. ‘We’d best sort out this mess before we have a mutiny on our hands.’

‘The crew are the least of our worries,’ Jelindel pointed out. ‘In the morning the other caravels will close in again, and we will have a lot of explaining to do.’

‘How so?’ asked the captain. ‘We were tied up. Clearly we’re not responsible for this … this massacre.’

‘Sir, you know that, I know that, but convincing the privateers on the other caravels is going to be a demon of a job. As it stands, we appear to have freed ourselves and butchered their comrades down to the last man.’

‘You’re right, of course,’ the captain said. ‘Surrendering a second time is not an option.’

‘This time they would hang us by the yardarm,’ said Henrik.

‘We fight,’ said the captain. ‘After all, someone killed every single privateer. Obviously, we have some experienced swordsmen aboard.’

Jelindel’s patience snapped. ‘Sir, with due respect,’ she said. ‘Attention everyone!’ An expectant hush descended. ‘All those who went about the two ships breaking necks and slitting throats, then tied themselves up again, hold your hands in the air. One, two, three!’

No hands were raised.

‘This is ridiculous,’ snapped Captain Porterby. ‘Someone did it.’ He nudged a corpse with his toe.

‘Perhaps mutineers from another ship?’ suggested Henrik. ‘They comes up, sneaks aboard, kills every one of their own people – including their leader – then sneaks off. In the morning, it looks like we did the deed. We get filled with arrows, then it’s promotions all round as they replace the dead leader and crew the Dragonfang.’

Suddenly the mystery looked a lot less mysterious, but their plight looked a great deal worse.

‘I have a suggestion,’ said Larachel. He had tidied himself up. Apart from a bruised and cut lip, he seemed no worse for wear. ‘Why not jump ship?’

‘The nautical term is “walk the plank”, and I have a feeling that the other privateers will make us do that anyway.’ The captain wrung his hands nervously.

‘No, no, good sir,’ Larachel said, patiently. ‘I mean, why not abandon the Dark Empress and sail off in the Dragonfang? The caravel can out-sail all others, and if we leave right away we may even be over the horizon before sunrise.’

‘Yes, and they might not check on the Dark Empress for hours after that,’ agreed Captain Porterby. ‘I mean, it’s only when they find the bodies that they will get suspicious.’

‘Need they find the bodies at all?’ asked Jelindel. ‘Sir, if we weight the bodies with a few crates of crockery, and drop them over the side, it would look like we were put aboard the Dragonfang and taken away, leaving the Dark Empress for the rest to loot and burn. We quickly swab the decks of blood –’

‘Lad, had that arrow not already promoted you to navigator, I would do so right away,’ said the captain. ‘Well, you heard the boy. Fetch those crates and ropes and buckets. Look lively!’

And so another nightmarish sea legend was born. The Dark Empress was found the next morning without a sign of life on board, as though all its crew had been swallowed by a mysterious monster.

Before the stars had traced out another hour in the sky, the Dragonfang was flying as much canvas as its masts and spars could carry. Behind her, the running lamps of the other caravels and the Dark Empress were dwindling in the wake. Captain Porterby called a meeting of his officers, including Larachel among them.

‘As it stands, we have lost the ship,’ announced the captain. ‘On the other hand, we find ourselves in possession of a caravel reputed to be the fastest vessel on the high seas.’

‘According to my log castings, in a good wind it would be at least three times the speed of the Dark Empress,’ said Henrik.

‘We have, however, lost the cargo,’ said the purser.

‘But gained six hundred gold oriels found in a chest under the privateer captain’s cabin. That would be enough to cover the worth of the cargo, everyone’s pay, and leave enough over to bring my retirement date forward by about five years.

‘It would seem a good plan to plot a course back to D’loom, and declare the voyage a premature and profitable triumph,’ thundered Captain Porterby.

‘We are in known waters,’ said Jelindel, eagerly. ‘Known to me, at any rate. I could get us back.’

‘If I may,’ said Larachel, after clearing his throat for attention. ‘It might profit us to continue the voyage.’

‘What?’ snapped Jelindel. ‘Were you not listening? I know the way home, that’s all. The man who knows the shoals, coasts, reefs, ports, bearing lines and constellations to the north of the Tanglesea Islands is several dozen miles astern, at the bottom of the ocean. He has an arrow through his chest and his legs tied to a crate labelled FRAGILE and FLOPSICLE BUNNY BOWLS AND PLATES FOR THE SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF DISCERNING GENTLEFOLK!’

If Larachel was angered, he kept it well hidden. ‘There are sure to be charts in the chartroom. Are you saying that you cannot read a chart?’

‘I can read a chart as well as any man!’ shouted Jelindel, thumping the table with her small fist.

‘Splendid. That means we can take my load of spices aboard at Zaria, then sail north for Hazaria, Sezel and to Mordicar.’

‘But this is a much smaller ship,’ the captain pointed out.

‘My spices will fit, even if we have to stow some bags on the deck. Just think, nobody can match our speed and we can visit all the ports on our itinerary to sell my cargo for a profit of five thousand oriels. Remember, Captain, a fifth of that profit goes to you.’

‘A thousand oriels,’ whispered the captain.

‘After a seventy-five percent deduction for bonuses to the crew,’ the purser said.

‘Still enough to bring my retirement forward to … well, later this year. Most Excellent Larachel, we accept.’

The one disadvantage to being aboard the Dragonfang was that the quarters were even more cramped than aboard the Dark Empress. Jelindel was now sleeping in a storage locker the size of Hargav’s locker on the Dark Empress. Worse still, she was sharing it with Hargav.

If he knew I was a girl he’d go out of his mind, thought Jelindel. ‘Fart once and you’re out of here and sleeping on the floor,’ warned Jelindel.

‘Master Jaelin, I would never do anything so –’

‘Crude?’

‘That wasn’t the word I was looking for,’ Hargav said. ‘But it will do.’

‘Something disturbs me about the way the privateers were slaughtered,’ Jelindel confessed. ‘A good two dozen rogues, gone. Just like that.’ She clicked her fingers.

‘It was an act of great cruelty –’

‘No, I mean it was done so quietly. Why? If another caravel’s crew came aboard, why would they bother keeping quiet for our sake? Chances are they would have slaughtered us as well, and made it look as though we had killed their comrades and were in turn slain.’

‘How can you sound so … I don’t know the word,’ Hargav said, shivering.

‘Clinical,’ Jelindel provided. ‘On the other hand, if some incredibly deadly assassin was aboard, he might have gone about in silence, picking them off one by one. He would be silent, because such odds are too steep, even for a lindrak.’

‘Lindrak?’

‘You’ve never heard of the lindraks?’ Jelindel paused, and wondered at Hargav’s almost imperceptible intake of breath. ‘You definitely needed to get away from your mother and sisters, Hargav. A lindrak is a killing machine. One that goes about its business quietly and efficiently. One lindrak could have done all that back there. I know the crew, mostly, and there are three new men. As for the others, I know them too well. And I say no lindrak could ever put on such a good act of being a slob. So, three sailors and three passengers that I do not know. Not the woman, that leaves – or maybe the woman is a disguised man!’

‘Oh, no,’ Hargav said, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘A man would never do such a depraved and disgusting thing as to dress like a woman.’

‘Hargav, when we reach Zaria I really must take you on a little tour of some interesting places that only open at night. Meantime, staying alive could be quite a strain with a lindrak aboard – but what am I thinking? The lindrak must have the pentacle gemstone!’ She pounded a fist into the palm of her hand. ‘He needs us to crew this ship until he can deliver it to wherever he is going. We probably have nothing to worry about.’

‘How do you know so much about lindraks?’ Hargav snuggled into Jelindel as though the very word worried him.

‘They killed my family and burned our house.’ At Hargav’s stunned silence, she added, ‘But they can be killed. I killed one.’

‘You killed a man?’ gasped Hargav, eyes wide.

Jelindel’s knife suddenly pressed against Hargav’s throat, while she pulled his head back by the hair.

‘Mother,’ Hargav managed to whisper.

‘It crosses my mind that you are one of the three new crewmen,’ said Jelindel, then she let him go and laughed.

‘Oh, Master Jaelin, I swear that it was not me as killed all those men.’

‘And I trust your word on it. You were tied up and sitting in front of me most of the time. Ah, go to sleep. But repeat what I have told you to no one.’

Chapter 7

THE WITCHES OF ZARIA

Although Hargav had grown up in a port city, he seemed unprepared for the splendours of Zaria. Whereas D’loom was in decline, its weathered piers and moorages beyond repair, Zaria was prosperous in mercantile trading and the fishing industry. It was the first port of call for any northern-bound traders and obviously the last for those returning home after successful voyages.

Over a hundred vessels, including clippers with furled red triangular sails, a forty-oared slave galley, caravels and merchant ships either lay at anchor in the harbour or were moored at the quayside. Zaria was as crowded as D’loom had been less than fifty years ago, or so said the old seadogs.

Jelindel and Hargav made their way through the busy streets as the sun was touching the western horizon. Its golden light fell on the rapidly cooling tiled roofs of brick and clay houses, each reflecting a different hue of red.

‘So, we have a night in this foreign port,’ said Hargav. ‘Now I see why sailors get so excited about the end of a long voyage.’

‘A week is hardly a long voyage,’ Jelindel pointed out.

Hargav ignored her as he looked at the unfamiliar buildings and people. Whereas D’loom had grown upward to accommodate a rising population, Zaria’s buildings had spread out, leaving spacious, brightly lit streets. D’loom seemed dark and menacing by comparison. And the people here were more jovial and healthy, compared with D’loom’s depressed citizens.

‘What I mean is that my mother and sisters would just swoon if they thought I was a jolly tar in a foreign port, setting off to drink my first pint of ale.’

‘What do they think you are doing?’ asked Jelindel, who could not believe her ears.

‘Well, there are eleven very fine temples in Zaria – I have read about them. I promised to make a special pilgrimage, whereby I would recite the eleven chapters of Sorboravo’s lamentations in a single day, between sunrise and sunset.’

‘Lucky the ship is not here for one complete day,’ muttered Jelindel. ‘Our very suspicious merchant client is having the Dragonfang loaded at night. It’s costing two or three times the usual loading rate, but he wants to be moving again before the privateer squadron decides to bring the Dark Empress here and sell its cargo.’

Ahead of them, two men burst through a door and crashed to the road, rolling in the dust and trading punches. People inside the tavern cheered, then returned to the serious business of drinking, gambling and trying to impress the single hostess. The besieged woman was trying hard to ignore them.

‘Are we going in there?’ asked Hargav.

‘Er, no,’ said Jelindel. ‘Not a good idea.’

‘But I am a veteran of three fights aboard the ship!’ he protested.

‘Hitting a deckhand with a bucket, biting the carpenter while he and a dozen others were throwing you into the bilgewater, and getting tied up by privateers does not quite amount to three fights.’

‘I still have a black eye. That will surely impress people,’ Hargav said, buoyantly.

‘Hargav, you weigh about ninety pounds – dripping wet. I doubt that a single man in that place weighs less than double your weight. And I am certain that not a single one of them will be impressed by your black eye.’

‘It proves that I can fight.’

‘It proves that you aren’t good at it. A scar on a man tells me one thing – he is either careless or slow. It’s the man without scars that you need to be wary of.’

‘How long does it take for a black eye to disappear?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Jelindel said. ‘I’ve never had one.’

Hargav gingerly touched his swollen eye, and looked longingly at the entrance of the tavern. ‘Then where are we going?’

‘To visit some friends. And never mind the fights – you’ll be in plenty of those if you live long enough.’

Much to Jelindel’s amusement, Hargav realised he was fingering his black eye. He pulled his hand away quickly. ‘These people we’re visiting. Are they expecting us?’

Jelindel snorted. ‘They’ll know we’re here, yes. Their usual visitors comprise adventurers wanting to know what fate awaits them, merchants wondering what to import next to make their fortune, and farmers and fishermen asking for predictions about what to plant and where to fish for the best catch.’

‘Soothsayers?’ Hargav had some difficulty with the word. ‘They’re …’

‘Scary?’

‘No!’ Hargav rolled his eyes. ‘Different, perhaps. But not scary.’

Jelindel wrapped her arm his shoulders. ‘Good for you.’

Hargav fell silent. He had much to think on.

The cottage where Jelindel’s friends lived was in a reasonably respectable area of the port. It was surrounded by a neat rock and mortar wall, and the well-tended garden was overflowing with mostly exotic herbs. Scattered among the herbs were at least half a dozen plaster gnomes, peering through the luscious greenery. Hargav noted another one was relieving himself into the ornamental pool, while another was baring his buttocks.

The house reminded Hargav of a long forgotten cairn. Made from stone with a turf and thatch roof, its facade was festooned with thick unruly vines, as though the earth was chaining the structure to the ground. From an open window wafted a pungent smell that made Hargav tingle with a sense of unease. Esoteric people always had that effect on him. They could read minds, lay the heart exposed like a babe in a cradle, and look into your very soul. And Hargav had a lot to hide.

Madame Dione met them at the door. Anyone who believed in the saying ‘never trust a skinny cook’ would have trusted her at first sight. She swept Jelindel up in her arms with a delighted shriek and whirled her inside the dark dwelling. Three young women skipped out and surrounded Hargav.

‘I’m Annatel,’ said the youngest. ‘Who are you?’

‘He’s Jel’s friend,’ said one of them.

‘But his name!’ Annatel pleaded.

Hargav felt cornered. ‘Er – ah, Hargav.’

‘Erah Hargav? Well I am Bethany.’

‘No, no.’ Hargav shook his head. ‘Hargav, just Hargav.’

‘Well, if you are going to call yourself just Hargav, then you must call me just Be.’

‘Would you like to come inside?’ asked Annatel.

Since he had no option, Hargav allowed the girls to lead him into the low-beamed room. The place was much as Hargav expected from a soothsayer’s. The walls were covered with weird artifacts, from the skeleton of some small creature, to shelf upon shelf of herb jars and stoppered vials filled with dark liquids. Hanging everywhere were utensils of every shape and size. A cauldron bubbling in the open hearth was letting off the unnerving smell he had encountered earlier. One of the girls squealed and swirled a giant wooden spoon through the mixture. Hargav moved closer to Jelindel.

Although they were not officially expected, the two guests found themselves sitting down to dinner within an hour. It was obvious to Hargav that his shipmate was on intimate terms with their hosts, as they spent most of the time exchanging news and swapping stories about people they knew. The story of the privateers’ attack took Hargav no more than five minutes to tell, but his otherwise attentive audience showed amazingly little interest in the heroics.

Slowly the situation began to dawn on Hargav. These people did not pay much attention to matters of heroism. They were well educated, extremely confident, and strangely powerful.

Annatel began to take a particular interest in Hargav, and kept moving closer at every opportunity. She took his hand in hers, and Hargav found himself sitting on the edge of the bench, unable to retreat further without standing up or falling off.

‘Your skin is so soft,’ Annatel said, stroking his hand. ‘Not at all like that of a sailor. And you have such big, brown eyes, and long, fine eyelashes.’

At the other end of the bench, Jelindel was chatting with Madame Dione. She appeared not to take any interest in Hargav’s predicament. Their conversation seemed to be coming from progressively further away, until Hargav could hear nothing.

‘Hargav will not be able to hear us at all by now,’ said Madame Dione, changing the subject without altering the tone or level of her voice.

‘Just as well,’ said Jelindel. ‘Being in the cottage of a witch and her witchling acolytes would probably disturb his peace of mind. He became very nervous when I said where we were heading.’

‘From the way he is backing away from Annatel, I would say he has very little peace of mind left to disturb, Jelli girl.’

‘Will you keep your voice down,’ hissed Jelindel.

‘Have you no faith in my muffling spell?’ Madame Dione mocked lightly.

‘Break the rules when it is safe to do so, and eventually you grow careless and break them when it is dangerous. I’m Jel the boy, not Jelli the girl.’ Jelindel leaned across the table and fought hard to look serious.

‘But you are very promising, Jelindel.’

‘Jel!’

Madame Dione raised her eyebrows. ‘I would venture to say that you’re well on the way to becoming an Adept 10, Jel. Given a year of apprenticeship and instruction, why you could well out-shine the other three with ease.’

‘The path that I follow is quite interesting enough, thank you. I have no desire to settle down and learn what other people think I should learn.’ Jelindel stopped, seeing disappointment on her teacher’s face. ‘Sorry. Don’t think I don’t appreciate all you’ve taught me these six months. I do. It’s just that it’s not safe for me to stay in one place for any length of time, which is why I’ve only seen you while the Dark Empress docked here. And it’s not safe for those around me, either.’

Madame Dione hummed a little, thinking. ‘Mere mortals are no match for you, Jelindel. You should never drop your guard, of course –’

‘The mailshirt still haunts me. I saw a dwarf with green blood. He was working for the Preceptor.’ Jelindel frowned, recollecting Kantor and his twinkling neck brace.

‘Where is he now?’ Madame Dione asked. Her voice dropped several octaves.

‘Dead.’

‘You killed an off worlder? Slayer of sky people!’ Madame Dione had known Jelindel for a mere six months, but felt as close to her as she did to her senior apprentices.

‘It troubles me that they’re still here, perhaps searching for the mailshirt.’

Madame Dione pursed her lips. ‘They have been no match for you to date, Jel.’

‘You’re right,’ Jelindel conceded. ‘I must stop worrying about them and focus on matters at hand.’

‘And how are you feeling about Daretor and Zimak? Are you over them as yet?’

‘I shall never be “over them”, as you put it. In fact, their plight is why I initially came here.’ Jelindel forced her fingers to stop tapping the table. ‘They occupy my mind at every turn. I half expect to see them jump out of thin air in front of me, magicked back by some potent paraworld Adept.’

Madame Dione smiled in her motherly way. ‘Your continued grief over their loss suggests that you may have fancied one of those two fine warriors.’

Jelindel thought she might have been blushing, but it did not concern her. ‘Grief, no.’ Her tone was cold. ‘Not even much guilt. I have been thinking about it, and I think that it is myself who is my problem.’

‘You are in love with yourself?’ laughed Madame Dione.

‘No, but I did betray them. Oh, for all the right reasons, but betray them I did. I banished them to another existence. I feel that I shall not be able to redeem myself until I get them back.’

In the silence that separated them from the others, Madame Dione sat back with mild shock. ‘So, you still want them back?’

Jelindel sighed. It was a heavy sigh tinged with guilt. But she was relieved now that she could finally shoulder some of it. ‘Yes. Have you been able to learn anything about transference between worlds?’

‘Well, funny that you should ask. Someone else is making enquiries and conducting tests. My informant thought that because I was asking, I was working for this particular person. Anyway, he told me that the tests being conducted involve a magical stone device, which is powered by pentacle gems.’

‘Pentacle gems?’ Jelindel said, abruptly.

Madame Dione frowned. ‘Yes. You seem to have heard of them.’

‘Certain … people that I encountered recently made mention of them. I have read that the gems can indeed transfer people between worlds.’

‘Not exactly, but they are vital to the process.’

‘I may be able to get one,’ Jelindel said, hopefully. ‘Should I manage that, how would I use it?’

‘My informant was rather vague. I gather, however, that you can use it by giving it to one of those who seek to bring about a confluence of the gems. That, in turn, should lead you to the other gems. There will be a device with four more pentacle gems. That device will open doors between worlds, but you will still have the problem of knowing just which world you banished your friends to. Even if you did find the world, you need to locate your friends, and worlds are very big places. Are you even sure if they are still alive?’

Jelindel’s face clouded. ‘Not really, but I think that I could speak the name of the right world.’

‘Its name,’ Madame Dione mused. ‘Well, yes, that should be enough to focus a magical engine on the right place. Then it might be a matter of entering that world yourself and bringing back your quarry.’

‘But without another machine in the other world –’

‘Not needed. You can take three tethers that will drag all three of you back to Q’zar. Just wait while I find a quill and inkstone. I shall write out some incantations, and a few things that you will need to collect.’

Jelindel clasped Madame Dione by the wrist. ‘I know what this information must have cost you. I’ll be forever indebted.’

Madame Dione reached across the table and held Jelindel’s other hand. ‘Were I young and able, I would try to find the gems, too, Jellie girl. But not for the same reason. No, I would be after the pentacle gems to rid the world of them. As any responsible person would.’

It was hours past midnight when Hargav and Jelindel finally stood at the front door, bidding Madame Dione and her three apprentices goodnight. Annatel put her arms around Hargav and pressed her cheek against his.

‘This has been a magical night,’ she said. ‘You are so much more gentle and refined than other men. Is it only because you are so very young?’

‘I have not … been at sea for long,’ he managed to say, disentangling himself.

‘I like you as you are, not strong and hard and rough like Jel.’

‘Give him time,’ said Jelindel. ‘The next time we call in, Hargav will be just like me.’

‘No, I want him just like he is, and I shall have him as he is!’ Annatel said, stamping her foot. She gently touched Hargav’s bruised eye and brought her fingers to her lips. Then she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him full on the lips.

‘So, you won the heart of a lady,’ said Jelindel, as they made their way back to the ship.

Hargav glowered. ‘She’s just turned fourteen – that hardly counts.’

‘So are you.’

‘I’m different,’ Hargav declared. ‘I’m a boy and I have a black eye.’

‘Nice touch,’ laughed Jelindel. ‘A soft, refined, approachable boy who nevertheless has a battle scar. But look, it’s fading already,’ she said, touching it. She frowned pityingly as Annatel had moments before.

Hargav pulled away and scowled. ‘Well, who are they, anyway? Anyone would think they’ve never seen a male before. Their hands were everywhere – especially that Annatel’s.’

‘Madame Dione is a witch. The girls are trainee witches – she has a coven, but you only met her seniors.’

‘What? You mean I’ve been kissed by a witch?’ exclaimed Hargav in horror.

‘She started her apprenticeship at ten. Apprenticeships are three years, Annatel is fourteen … yes, it is reasonable to assume that Annatel is a witch.’

Hargav allowed himself time to think before gulping. ‘But she might have turned me into a worm.’

‘Might have?’

Hargav hurriedly checked his hands and legs. They were still there.

‘Very funny. But seriously, now that I think about it, the place did go quiet for about half an hour. All I could hear was Annatel and myself talking. The sounds of the other two girls washing the pots and things, and the crackling of the fire, it was just somewhat … well, there, but not there. I mean, that had to be a spell. It was Annatel, wasn’t it? She wanted to make lewd suggestions to me in private.’

‘Did she?’ Jelindel asked, brow raised.

‘Well, no,’ Hargav admitted, almost reluctantly.

‘The spell was Madame Dione’s. She and I had matters to discuss. Some time ago, I went on a great journey with two friends, Daretor and Zimak. I was forced to commit an injustice against them. It was for all the best reasons, but that is seldom any comfort to a victim.’

Hargav’s voice was incredulous. ‘What did you do?’

‘I had to, well, have them banished to a distant place. I had no choice in the matter, you understand, but that is no excuse for not trying to get them back.’

‘But if you get them back, surely they will be angry with you,’ Hargav observed.

‘Spoken like a real man of the world,’ Jelindel said. ‘Oh yes, they will be very annoyed. They may want revenge.’

‘Then why bring them back?’ Hargav asked. ‘Surely you should leave them be.’

‘Because I am not the sort of person who banishes his friends to distant places, then forgets about them. By now, I suspect, their anger might have cooled. Madame Dione has given me some advice and information. If the chance to rescue my comrades presents itself, I shall know what to do.’

Hargav thought about this for a while as they walked.

‘So are you continuing with your magician lessons?’

‘No. I have just picked up some magic here and there, and I seem to have a strong natural talent. It probably runs in the family.’

‘You mean there are witches in your family?’

‘Well, yes, but the technical term is warlock for a male witch, which I could be if I was willing to study and serve an apprentice ship with an accredited Adept.’ Some instinct stopped Jelindel from adding that Madame Dione had been her occasional teacher.

‘It would be grand having that sort of power,’ Hargav said, misty-eyed. ‘If anyone tried to bully me I’d just zap them. Like you did to your … friends.’

‘Aha,’ Jelindel said. ‘Then perhaps it’s just as well you don’t have such power, isn’t it?’

The Dragonfang was still being loaded by lantern light when Jelindel and Hargav reached the docks. They had to pitch in and help until the other crew members came straggling back, and the horizon began to glow with the first hint of dawn. Before the sun appeared, they were being drawn clear of the pier by a large rowboat, and soon they were under full sail, well clear of the harbour. Because Jelindel and Hargav were the only crew members who had not been drinking, they had to work the entire day while the others recovered.

Chapter 8

THE GREEN MOUNTAINS

The months on this new world had not been kind to Daretor and Zimak. But in a sense, they were no worse off than they had been when Jelindel betrayed them. They were now dressed in disparate clothing: Daretor wore a loose-fitting fur coat, currently slung across his bronzed shoulders, a wrap of a finer animal fur about his waist, and leather buskins. He carried a broadsword so keen it fairly sang as it sliced the air. Zimak, being the slighter of the two, wore a linen shirt and leggings and ankle boots made from hard leather. Across his chest he had strapped a leather belt from which hung in sheaths four dirks of various style. On Daretor’s insistence, he also wore a sword, although Zimak was more of a street fighter than a swordsman.

They rode sturdy war-horses, and even had a dozen gold coins between them – mostly won in small towns by Zimak, who threw out his now familiar challenge to anyone foolish enough to take him on in a foot and fist fight. As his Siluvian martial-arts ability gradually returned, his resolve to stay on this world became firmer. This, in turn, hardened the tension between them.

Since leaving the settlement, they had passed several cities – Daretor’s size and Zimak’s manner usually set them apart from the general populace, and their stay in each city was brief. Besides, Daretor was still on a vendetta.

They were travelling through a range of low, desert hills, incapable of supporting any growth. Their horses were laden with bags of fodder and waterskins, for there had been no grazing for over a week.

Zimak talked incessantly. Much of his conversation centred on Jelindel’s betrayal. ‘I still think she bewitched us here deliberately,’ he grumbled yet again. ‘Right down to dumping us in the sky after we’d escaped her first ambush.’

For want of nothing better to do, Daretor said, ‘I say she mightn’t have wanted us dead. And if she did pull us back to Q’zar and sent us through the paraplane again, then she did it for a good reason.’

‘Gah, Daretor. You change your mind with the wind. One moment you’re after Jelindel’s blood, the next you’re blooded to the vixen.’

‘The more we know of this place the more open minded we must be. The dragonriders are an oppressive people, and we may have well helped change the course of their future. As for the Matriarch’s retinue, they were as good as dead had we not driven off the raiders.’

Zimak rolled his left shoulder. He had taken a backhand slash of an axe during the rescue and his entire left side ached during his kick-fist exhibitions.

‘Gah, I know, but … being stuck with an honour-bound gorilla is like being stuck at a carnival with no money.’

Daretor heaved a sigh of resignation. ‘You are a man of little honour, Zimak. We did what we did because it was the right thing to do. Not because we sought to gain from it. How many times must I repeat this?’

‘Tell it to my shoulder that’s fairly left its socket,’ Zimak said moodily. He rubbed a hand in circular motions over his shoulder, emphasising his pain. ‘You’re such a boor, Daretor. If there’s gods presiding over this paraworld, I’d like to receive back what I’ve given.’

Daretor looked skyward and inscribed the circle of White Quell on his chest. ‘If there are gods on this paraworld they would no sooner have you as their disciple than a rabbit would invite a fox to its warren.’

‘Then tell me why we’re here,’ said Zimak. They were passing the ruins of a fortress that looked like it had been laid to waste in a long forgotten war.

‘Rather than tumbling like a jack rabbit the night we arrived, I spent my time thinking.’

‘I would’ve too,’ Zimak said with a smirk, ‘but I was stuck with the Matriarch. I was not inclined to think of much more than ways to escape.’

‘Well I have begun to make some sense of this world.’

‘It’s about time you told me what we’re doing,’ Zimak spat. ‘And no more of dummart stuff like “Go your own way if you don’t like it.” I want the truth.’

‘You won’t like it,’ Daretor replied. At Zimak’s defiant stance, he added, ‘From what the Matriarch said, I think there is a magical stone circle in a city near here.’

‘That’s nice. But I’m not a wizard in search of employment, and I have no use for a magical stone circle.’

‘It is a magical stone circle that could get us home.’

‘You and your dummart home.’ Zimak’s tone was weary. ‘This world is wonderful. We’re twice as strong here. Daretor – we’re something on this world.’

‘Three times as strong,’ said Daretor.

‘We have become legends. The girls fling themselves at me on the rare occasions when we get anywhere near a town or city. You could be the greatest warrior in the history of this place, yet all you want to do is leave.’

‘I would rather have revenge than greatness,’ Daretor said, emphatically. ‘Besides, if Jelindel really does use the mailshirt to rule Q’zar, we must defeat her.’

‘I’d like to see Jelindel broiled over a slow fire,’ Zimak vowed. ‘But not if it means leaving this world. In a sense, she did us a favour by sending us here.’

‘If you like the place so much,’ Daretor said, ‘just turn around and go back to the last city.’

‘I knew you’d say that. You know I can’t. I have lost some of my fighting skills, something about this world leached them away from me. They’re slowly coming back, but, if not for being stronger –’

‘Strange that my sword work remains unchanged.’ Daretor’s eyes blazed with silent accusation.

‘Some trick of Jelindel’s,’ Zimak said, hollowly. ‘She never liked me.’

‘You do nothing but complain about her. You should be even more anxious than me to avenge yourself.’

‘Look, Daretor, it’s been eight days since the last town. Supplies will last for another eight, which means we can still go back if we turn around right now.’

‘You are free to return whenever you wish,’ said Daretor, sounding as if he was all in favour of Zimak leaving.

‘Hie, Daretor, we’re blood brothers. Together we can make a difference here. We’ve already changed the course of this world’s future by inspiring little Osric’s people to defy the rule of the dragonriders. And White Quell only knows what we’ve started by saving the Matriarch from certain death.’

Daretor closed his eyes for a moment, willing patience. ‘If you stay with me, then you must assist me to get back to Q’zar.’

The landscape continued to be all granite outcrops, dry gullies, and occasional ruins of forts and castles. Although Daretor had an inkling that not all the Matriarch had said was true, it certainly appeared as though a scourge was upon the land.

‘Eight days travel, she said, then you come to a range of green mountains,’ grumbled Zimak. ‘What if she banished us to a desert that takes a hundred days to cross, and told us to take supplies for sixteen?’

‘Then I shall return and be revenged upon her.’

‘You won’t be alive to seek revenge, you great big ox!’ Zimak snapped.

‘I must do as I see fit,’ Daretor insisted.

‘You’re driven by this dummart revenge. There’s more to life than revenge and honour. Like women, money, wine, fine clothes, power, and, er, women.’

‘Then go seek them, Zimak.’ Daretor turned in his saddle. ‘If you ride hard you’ll be cuddled up to that tavern girl – the one with the flaming red hair – inside the week. That town would suit you. Of course, when the locals finally realise you’re not of this world, and you win your bouts by unfair advantage, you might need to seek another town. News will travel that an incorrigible off-worlder is deceiving everyone and soon there will be a price on your head. As there is back on Q’zar. Great strength is no protection against a hail of arrows.’

Zimak swiped at an insect. The damnable things were twice the size of Q’zaran midges, and their bite was slightly venomous. ‘That’s unfair. Tactics win over brute strength every time. Back on Q’zar I fought many powerful men. I beat them fair and square.’

‘Yes … with martial ability I have not seen displayed here.’

‘Daretor, we have been over all this.’ Zimak swiped the air. ‘We go over it every day. You demand I confess, I say there is nothing to confess.’

‘Tell the truth, now. Did you have a dragonlink hidden in that lead ring?’

‘And this is today’s NO! I did not.’

Zimak had never actually seen the dragonlink he was wearing, yet his fighting skills did indeed stem from its power. The link had been encased in a lead ring scavenged from a corpse. Incredible fighting skills had suddenly descended on him from nowhere. Eventually he had concluded that the lead ring was responsible. It was some time later that he realised it might be some enchantment inside the lead.

‘I was a street fighter even before the lead ring was given to me,’ Zimak said, smoothly. ‘I learned to fight very quickly. My teacher was astounded. People said I had great natural ability.’

‘So you keep saying. You might have unwittingly been wearing a dragonlink,’ said Daretor, choosing his words carefully.

‘How could I ever know?’ countered Zimak.

‘How could I know what you knew?’ replied Daretor.

‘Was I ever false in any other way? Besides, you know I trained under a Siluvian black-band master.’

Daretor didn’t look convinced. ‘Tell me that story again.’

‘I used to run dangerous errands for an old master who was living in exile in D’loom. He saw that I had aptitude and, in return for the errands, he taught me for four years before he croaked.’

Daretor did not reply. Instead, he rode along thinking for some time. He was a huge and powerful man, and did not look to be quick of wit. He was, in fact, quite intelligent, especially in logic. Daretor thought things through and tried to be fair, even when the answers that he arrived at were not to his liking. Had Zimak known he was wearing a dragonlink? Zimak claimed no one in D’loom knew of his master for his life depended on anonymity. A likely story, but …

Had Jelindel known about Zimak’s deceit? When they were thrown across worlds, everything they had been wearing stayed behind in Q’zar. It might have been the only way Jelindel could get her hands on Zimak’s dragonlink.

There was no point in discussing any of this with Zimak. He would only get plausible reasons as to why the little thief was innocent. On the other hand, Jelindel now possessed all the dragonlinks and the completed mailshirt. What had she done with them? Had she used their power to become the most powerful Adept in the land? Did she rule Q’zar? Daretor had to return. Perhaps it was his destiny to save the world from her.

They rode through a narrow gap between two granite columns, then reined in together. Before them stretched a vast, dry riverbed of rounded, green stones.

Zimak caught his breath. ‘Look.’

Daretor casually pulled out his farsight. The less travelled Zimak was often prone to cries of exultation and naive excitement.

The greenish-blue sky was marred by a wind tunnel that tore along the horizon. It gathered dust, shaping it like a dirk, so that the ground crunched like hardpacked snow rather than cracking like good Q’zaran sand.

What Daretor saw made him sit up on his horse.

Through the dying heat waves, he saw a mountain range so high and spiny that it blotted out the stars. It reminded him of a giant dragon whose bones had been picked dry and its skeletal remains left to bleach beneath the merciless sun.

‘You don’t suppose that range was once a real dragon, do you?’ Zimak said, uneasily.

Daretor stifled a yawn. ‘Probably not. We’ve seen no evidence of such monsters,’ he said.

‘Thank White Quell for that,’ Zimak said. ‘Speaking of dragons, we haven’t seen a shred of the dragonriders.’

‘According to the Matriarch, they keep firm boundaries. This is where the griffiads live.’

‘Griffiads?’ Zimak scanned the horizon for any movement. ‘Did she say they’re anything like dragons? I mean, griffins back home were quite like them and just as dangerous.’

Daretor frowned. ‘Nothing like them, from memory. They’re smaller, for a start.’ He looked at the sky as though seeking signs of the flying beasts.

Zimak followed his gaze and once more found himself studying the mountain range. ‘It looks like a sculpted dragon, or maybe it’s a griffiad.’ His voice was almost awed, as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. ‘Like gods have moulded it from sand and fused it together,’ he added.

Daretor would have agreed with Zimak, but his mind was elsewhere. Zimak’s naiveté helped to relieve the tension, but it didn’t pay to lose focus. They had been climbing steadily this past day. Their water skins were half empty and the last of their salted meats had been eaten that morning. Since entering the plain they had not seen wildlife or any indication of water. To turn back now would be pure folly. To go forward was to risk not finding an exit from the basin they were in.

He swept the darkening horizon with the farsight. The land was as barren as Dragonfrost back home, although not as rocky, nor as bitingly cold. It would make sense that game sheltered during the blistering days and ventured out during the cool of the night. Still, the absence of wildlife was unsettling.

Although the path was little wider than an animal’s track, they saw that it had once been a stream leading out to a largish basin of water. Perhaps centuries of white waters had cut a manageable pass through the desert. Following the path might lead them out of here.

They dismounted to rest and shift their loads.

‘So, the green mountains,’ said Daretor, contemplatively.

‘Green mountains,’ echoed Zimak. ‘But they are mountains of green rock, not mountains covered in greenery.’

‘They are still green.’ Daretor’s voice was meditative. He had long since learned that not everything was as it first appeared.

‘But I was expecting forests and water. What are we going to hunt, eat, drink and burn? The horses eat grass. Rock is not going to be much of a substitute, even if it is the right colour.’

‘The Matriarch said there would be green mountains, and there are green mountains in front of us. Come on.’

Zimak made no further attempt at conversation. Daretor remounted his horse and moved down the dry riverbed to the vast, flat expanse of green pebbles. Zimak hesitated, then followed.

Moments later Zimak spurred his mount past Daretor. ‘Look!’

Near the centre were pools of clear water with little fish swimming in them. Tufts of ragged grass grew at the edges.

‘A strange place,’ Daretor said, shifting in his saddle. ‘From further up the track I’d have said we were in trouble.’

‘You need to be less suspicious, Daretor,’ Zimak said. He reached into the pool and replenished his waterskin.

Daretor scanned the vast tract of land between them and the mountains. ‘One of us has to do the thinking,’ he mumbled. Then he fell into a brooding silence, which Zimak knew not to interrupt.

Zimak too fell into a deep melancholy. He would have preferred to stay with the Matriarch’s camel train. But, since it had been stripped of all its men, he knew it to be a fool’s paradise, especially in times of civil unrest. Since parting company with the Matriarch he and Daretor had narrowly avoided several bands of men and witnessed the sacking of a small settlement from afar. Nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, compared with Q’zar, it had been an uneventful two months. They saw no evidence of, say, the Preceptor’s military machine, destroying everything in its path. And if they had, Daretor would have welcomed it. Action was something he understood.

Eventually Daretor broke the silence. ‘According to the Matriarch the Forest of Castles should be a little way ahead. Beyond that is the city where the magical stone circle is being built.’

‘A forest of castles sounds like a city in itself,’ Zimak pointed out. ‘Maybe I should end my journey there.’

‘As you will.’ Daretor spurred his mount. He was surprised by a small tug of disappointment. Although Zimak could be mind-bogglingly annoying, Daretor knew that a part of him would miss his companionship.

They rode up the bank on the other side. Steadily the basin became pockmarked as though smaller versions of whatever had created Skyfall on Q’zar had fallen from the skies here, too. The indentations were sometimes so deep that Daretor deemed it safer and quicker to detour around them. Others were so huge in diameter that a circuitous route was out of the question.

‘What could have made these?’ Zimak said, apprehensively. ‘Footprints made by giants.’

‘With huge pommel-like feet,’ Daretor said. ‘More like a giant stilt-walking clown,’ he laughed, going along with Zimak’s imagination. ‘It is said that Skyfall was nothing more than a star falling into the Hamarian desert,’ he added, looking skyward. ‘Perhaps the stars here are not so stable as those above our world.’

Zimak craned his neck as though a falling rock might hit him on the head at any moment. ‘One thing’s for sure,’ he said, ‘if a rock the size of this crater hit us, we wouldn’t have time to worry about it.’

Daretor raised himself in the stirrups. ‘I don’t intend to be here when they drop,’ he said. ‘Odd though it seems, the craters are focused in this spot and nowhere else.’

They crossed a brief expanse of broken, baked clay and pulled rein at the precipice of the crater before the escarpment of green. The foothills were tantalisingly close.

When they finally arrived, the Forest of Castles was no more than dozens of stone columns, a hundred feet across and about twice as high. They looked a little like castles, but they were clearly natural. Zimak regretted his earlier announcement that he would end their partnership here.

‘Staying?’ asked Daretor.

‘Very funny,’ Zimak replied. He did not even bother to rein in his horse. They cantered through the monoliths, the horses’ hooves echoing like cannon shots between the pillars.

It was almost dark. The twin suns had retired below the horizon and a moon had risen. Its presence made the pair uneasy. Q’zar had three moons. This world had one moon and two suns. That meant that some nights were very dark indeed, and moonless nights were more common.

The ground was littered with shards of rock that had fallen from the pillars during the frosts of the intensely cold desert nights. The horses began to slip and stumble, until the pair was forced to dismount and lead. Now it was their turn to slide, stumble and stagger.

‘Be careful,’ Daretor snapped as Zimak fell. ‘You make enough noise for an army.’

‘There’s no one here, you great ox,’ Zimak called as he got to his feet. He was bone-weary and Daretor’s indomitable spirit was beginning to grate.

Something dark fluttered above them, and Zimak pointed. ‘There’s something with wings up there, flying,’ he warned.

‘Without wings it would be down here, and walking,’ Daretor said, simply.

‘I mean, it’s a bat. They fly out at dusk, and suck blood from creatures like us.’

‘The Matriarch told me they are fruit bats,’ Daretor replied. ‘She told you, but you were too busy fondling her handmaiden to listen.’

‘Andzu was fondling me and ministering to my wound – and I was paying attention. To both the handmaiden and the Matriarch.’

Daretor squinted at the sky. Dark shapes like sheets of paper seemed to be fluttering up there. He pulled rein and held up his hand for silence. ‘Can you hear something?’ he said, cupping his ear.

Zimak’s horse whinnied. ‘You’re spooking my horse –’ he began, but didn’t finish his rebuke.

All at once, every cave, overhang and fissure in the towering rocks poured a tide of black creatures into the sky. The sound of their wings and the chittering was so loud that Daretor and Zimak had to shout to make themselves heard. They flattened themselves against their rearing mounts, and Zimak’s horse galloped off, dragging him along with it. Eventually the torrent of bats dwindled on currents of hot wind, then silence returned.

Zimak staggered back to Daretor, his foot aching from being dragged across the uneven ground.

‘That was a bit of luck,’ Daretor said, mounting.

‘Black Quell’s blood!’ Zimak screamed. ‘How could you call that luck?’ He jabbed a finger at the distant sky that was now shifting and swirling like a locust plague.

‘Lucky for us they didn’t tarry,’ Daretor said. ‘Best we move on before they return from their feasting.’

‘Feasting?’ Zimak whispered, fearfully. ‘You said they were fruit bats.’

‘The Matriarch said they were fruit bats. I suspect they are vampire bats, Zimak. They eat flesh and suck blood. It’s what they do,’ he said, matter-of-factly.

‘Well they seem to be the citizens of the Forest of Castles,’ said Zimak.

‘Fancy any of the girls?’ Daretor laughed.

Zimak ground his teeth. ‘I’ve had just about enough of your Jelindel-type remarks. I want a real city. Peopled by real people. With money. Women. A thriving population not afraid to take a bet. A place where someone of my talents can advance.’

Daretor smiled. ‘There is one close by.’

‘Gah, Daretor. And how would you know that? Did a bat tell you?’

‘Yes, as it happens. I was joking about the vampire bats, by the way. We wouldn’t be here if they had been bloodsuckers. Fruit bats mean fruit. Fruit sufficient to feed as many bats as that means very large orchards. Large orchards mean many people buying fruit. Many people means a city. The Matriarch said we should cross the river by morning, get past the Forest of Castles and be amid the mountains before evening. Perhaps we should not have been so hasty, with evening so close.’

‘We?’ exclaimed Zimak. ‘You were the one who insisted we keep moving.’

Zimak’s outburst echoed eerily amid the pillars.

‘If there is anything here to worry about, I suggest that we start worrying,’ said Daretor.

Something in his voice made Zimak take note. ‘What is there to fear from fruit bats? What can they do? Spit seeds at us?’

Daretor pointed to a spot a few yards ahead. It was a yellowing skeleton, still partially covered in tarnished armour and perished leather. There was another nearby. And close to that was the skeleton of a horse. To either side were more bones, as though scavengers had picked the bones clean.

‘Dozens and dozens,’ said Zimak, shushing his horse.

‘Warriors, but many types of warriors,’ observed Daretor. ‘Most are in armour and have weapons beside them. They have been left here as a warning to go no further.’

Zimak’s brow furrowed as he looked to the horizon. ‘Perhaps they are vampire bats. We should get out of here fast.’

‘Too late.’ Daretor’s horse reared and he leaned forward to control it.

Some kind of flying creature was in the air above them, and it was much bigger than the bats. At least as big as a man. Others launched themselves from the towers, slowly circling and dropping lower. Yet more could be seen against the evening sky, standing on two legs, and jumping into the air.

‘Men with wings,’ said Daretor. ‘Look out!’ He shoved Zimak aside just as something clinked against the rock not a yard from them. ‘Men with crossbows,’ he hissed.

‘Stay with the horses,’ cried Zimak. ‘Stay between them and crouch low.’

They escaped the hail of crossbow bolts that followed, but both horses took a dozen or more hits between them. Screaming, kicking and plunging, the animals collapsed against each other.

Daretor and Zimak pulled themselves free of the dead horses but huddled against them. At least a score of the flying warriors was descending.

‘Light, poisoned bolts,’ said Zimak. ‘Our foes are like birds – they can’t carry much weight.’

‘They’re armed well enough, for all that,’ Daretor grunted. He balanced a dagger between his thumb and finger.

The first of the winged warriors landed, then another, and another. Most stumbled as they landed, one actually fell. They carried light crossbows, and wore headpieces that acted like the steering oar of a boat.

‘My feeling is that they cannot flap their wings,’ Daretor observed. ‘Study the enemy, then hit him where he is soft.’

‘What has flapping got to do with being soft?’

‘I think they cannot gain height.’ Daretor examined them coolly, as though completely at ease with the concept of flying men. ‘Once they have jumped, they can only descend. There are probably ropes or stairs for them to climb back up the towers again.’

By now the closest of the winged men was within range of a throwing knife. The man was virtually unarmoured, and Daretor’s dagger caught him right over the heart. The others cried out, but by now Daretor had thrown his second dirk. He ran, scooped up a fallen crossbow, pulled back its string, and fired a bolt, hitting a man who was desperately trying to reload. Unlike Daretor, he was not strong enough to load a crossbow manually. By now, Zimak had salvaged a crossbow from one of the fallen and was firing too.

Six of the winged men had fallen before the others even managed a retreat. They began whistling, signalling to each other. The wings were actually made of wood and canvas. Daretor and Zimak hastily cut a pair from the nearest men and, holding them above them, began to run. Almost immediately the poisoned bolts stopped. The flying warriors in the air had no way of distinguishing between their own men and the enemy. They frantically whistled coded messages, drowning each other out, and generating nothing but confusion.

Daretor was right about them not being able to gain altitude once they were in the air. The warriors that leaped down to hunt them ended up milling about on the ground, adding to the confusion.

What saved Daretor and Zimak was the darkness, and the fact that the Forest of Castles was only about a mile across. They suddenly found themselves on clear, flat ground. At a word from Daretor, they dropped their wings and ran. They were not pursued into the open. Presently they paused and looked back.

‘As I thought,’ said Daretor. ‘Away from the towers, they cannot jump into the air and glide – or not very far, at any rate.’

‘Great. Just great,’ Zimak complained. ‘Not only have we lost our horses, but all our supplies.’

‘Then go back and get them,’ Daretor snapped. ‘From memory, we had nothing left.’ He threw down the crossbow. ‘You won’t be needing yours, either,’ he said and stalked off into the night.

Zimak hurried after him. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing ahead.

In the middle distance tiny sparks of light dotted the mountains.

‘It can’t be the city that the Matriarch spoke of,’ Daretor said. He closed his eyes to think. This must be another settlement, but its inhabitants seemed to be quite separate from the flying people. Perhaps they simply tolerated one another.

Another mile on, they came upon what was either a large guardhouse or a small fort. There was a belltower within an open arch. Daretor and Zimak approached cautiously, under cover of darkness.

On the crenellations above, two guards stood looking at the Forest of Castles.

‘Something has the birdmen chirping tonight,’ one of them said.

‘Ten to one whoever tried to get through is dead,’ another replied.

His companion laughed. ‘You’ll need a rookie to take that bet.’

‘Well, honest folk travel by day, and the birdmen only fly at dusk. That means they caught some rogues tonight.’

The other snorted. ‘Aye, so that’s one less customs check that we’ll have to do.’

Daretor and Zimak stayed listening for a while, learning more about the place. Then they moved off.

‘So, the birdmen can see in the dark, and they also farm and eat bats,’ said Daretor. ‘It would also appear that their primary task is to guard the approach to the fertile valleys.’

‘And they do that pretty effectively,’ muttered Zimak.

‘That was what the Matriarch warned us about, then. But why not just tell us that there were flying warriors?’

‘Maybe they are not well known. Maybe she has friends here, and does not want outsiders to know the nature of the assassins.’

In a short while, they found the ruins of a farmhouse, and decided to spend the night. Despite the risk involved, Zimak insisted on lighting a fire. They had not eaten since that morning, and the few berries and sour-tasting fruit they had found did little to fill their stomachs. A fire was one luxury they risked, if only to cheer themselves up.

They set out early the next morning, making no attempt to conceal themselves. They were not challenged by anyone, and by noon they came to a large town built beside a castle of the ever-present green granite.

‘Civilisation,’ Zimak said, as they broke through the underbrush.

‘A well-fortified civilisation,’ Daretor added. ‘Which means they fear attack. Notice how close the town is – virtually within the shadow of the castle. They’ll not take too kindly to strangers. So keep your hands to yourself, Zimak. At least until we learn something about them.’

‘I’ll remind you of that when I lift food from the market to feed your empty stomach,’ Zimak said.

Chapter 9

THE WARRIOR GATE

The Preceptor stood on his balcony overlooking the countryside that surrounded his summer palace in Skelt. An elegant flock of magalels flew in a phalanx overhead, their jet-black plumage drinking the sun’s rays. Their keening struck a familiar chord with the Preceptor. They knew no predator and ruled the airways with impunity.

The scholar and warrior was the supreme and undisputed ruler of his own land and over a dozen other kingdoms. None of his enemies had armies that posed a realistic threat. There was still a problem, however. Whereas battles were not particularly hard to win, sieges were an entirely different matter. His army had defeated all the forces thrown against it: the great kingdoms of Hamaria, Baltoria and, finally, Passendof had succumbed. Now the enemy kingdoms were hardening city defences, building castles, destroying bridges and poisoning wells. He had tried burning their crops, but then enemy agents had stolen in to burn the crops in his own kingdoms.

The Preceptor turned away from the window. His Adept 12 Fa’red was waiting patiently.

‘I could conquer the continent,’ the Preceptor announced, imperiously. His face appeared hard as granite in the glare from the window. ‘Squash it like a bug.’ He clenched his fist.

‘That is true, Preceptor,’ Fa’red replied. ‘But what good is a squashed bug?’ Fa’red’s face wrinkled with concern, but his mind was elsewhere. He had pandered to the Preceptor’s thirst for world domination for the past year. In that time he had seen the Preceptor grow increasingly powerful, yet more and more insatiable. He had spread himself painfully thin across the length of the continent.

The Preceptor glanced at the Adept. Had he detected insouciance? ‘My mathematicians and cartographers have analysed the exploration reports and maps returned by my fleet of expedition ships,’ he said. ‘The world is a depressingly big place. At the current rate, it will take eighty years to conquer it.’

‘A wonderful thing, Preceptor,’ Fa’red murmured.

‘By which time I would be a hundred and fifteen years old!’ the Preceptor shouted.

‘A fine age Preceptor.’ Fa’red brightened. ‘There is no reason why you should not live much longer. There are ways to obtain such longevity.’

Lost in his own dark thoughts, the Preceptor showed no sign of having heard the mage. ‘Even assuming that I live that long, I would be a doddering dotard, drooling over my conquests, too feeble to lift a bag of gold, incapable of eating food more substantial than mush, and too dim of sight to tell one end of a courtesan from the other.’

‘I am sure they would help, Preceptor.’

‘Assuming I could do anything with them in the first place,’ the Preceptor grunted.

‘I could help with a very special potion, Preceptor.’

The Preceptor favoured his Adept 12 with a sneer, then began to pace before him, his jewelled fingers clasped behind his back. His head was hung low, but his eyes were wide open and staring, as if he were engaged in a duel.

‘I want the continent conquered within a year, and the world within ten,’ he declared with finality.

‘World conquest at such a pace would stretch your resources, Preceptor. Every man, woman and child in your domains would have to spend every waking minute supporting your armies, and surrender every copper to your war treasury. That would generate rebellions en masse, and sap your ability to wage wars beyond your current borders.’

‘With an Adept 12 at my side, almost anything is possible, Fa’red. My spies have discovered important research being conducted by my enemies.’

‘Spies are the very essence of a stable government, Preceptor. The deadmoon warriors are at your royal disposal.’

The Preceptor turned to face Fa’red. He saw before him a once powerful mage gone to fat due to an excessive lifestyle. His attire hid most of his body, and quite a large amount of scarring. A fire, instigated by the Preceptor, had scarred three quarters of his body. That particular score had been settled between them, yet trust once broken is never firm again.

Weak sunlight cast into the room through two arched windows. Fa’red looked like a mottled peach, his skin smooth, beardless, and lurid. Fit or not, he was not a man to underestimate.

The Preceptor gestured for Fa’red to take a seat at the long oaken table, and they sat down together. It was laden with the finest fruits and breads and cheeses. The Preceptor’s valet had tasted all the food and partaken of the warm, spiced wine. He was the Preceptor’s third valet this past year. The Preceptor sighed heavily. It was almost as though the worsening weather had depleted his energy.

‘I want the world while I still have teeth to bite into fruit, and eyes clear enough to survey my conquests, Fa’red. I have thirty thousand lancers in my personal guard alone, three hundred thousand men in my army, and five hundred warships on the seas. I could march on Arcadia on the morrow and none would oppose me.’

Fa’red thought fleetingly of the Countess Jelindel dek Mediesar and smiled, but his ruined face showed no mirth. ‘And then on to Unissera. Should I remind you that Yuledan might oppose your army?’

The Preceptor’s face went rigid. ‘Yuledan’s already mine. It has been since the Skeltian king was hanged on that Lycellian merchant ship.’

‘By your command, and by your own imperial troops,’ Fa’red reminded him. ‘Yuledan does not oppose you at present. Yet meddle in too many affairs, and they will turn on their master like a pack of rabid dogs. And snap at your heels they will, Preceptor. Unissera relies on Yuledan for its access through the Barrier Ranges. In return Yuledan grows rich from its shipmaking, reliant on the white wood that comes from its eastern neighbour. Like any balance, Preceptor, move to the left or right too much, and it will tilt.’

The Preceptor waved away Fa’red’s concerns. ‘I’ve met with my war cabinet. The taking of Unissera is beyond doubt. And, according to my spies, Yuledan grows increasingly dependent on it for its shipping industry. How better to consolidate my power than to hand over Unissera? Yuledan could then have as much wood as it could cut, and not be duty bound to pay one silver argent for it.’

A cool wind swept the curtains and Fa’red looked up in annoyance. Ever on guard against necromancy, the Adept 12 was gripped with paranoia. A breeze, a sudden silence in a room that should be buzzing, could mean all or nothing. To maintain his magical aura was taxing enough, although not altogether debilitating. To explain the obvious to a warlord was an expenditure of energy he did not care to make.

However, Fa’red was inclined to persist. ‘The Unisserans are simple woodspeople, Preceptor. They know nothing more than the woods they maintain. Such is the scarcity of white wood that those in Yuledan would have the Marisa River flooded with it. Yet old growth needs to be replenished. White wood takes many years to mature, and mature it must to reach its optimum quality. That it is renowned for its water-repellant density while retaining its lightness is due to its age.’

‘Fa’red, get to the point,’ the Preceptor said.

Fa’red sighed. ‘The point is this. Cut down all the old growth and you are left with new growth. Cut that down and you are left with nothing. You will have plenty of ships, yes, but inferior ships. And no wood to rebuild your navy. Not for many years to come. Without your navy, the entire Skeltian coast is vulnerable to attack.’

The Preceptor held up his hand for silence. ‘From whom?’ he demanded. ‘Who has a navy? Gratz? Lycellia? I know of their seaborne troops. They could scarce scratch ten troop ships together and fill them. My armada would blow them from the water before they reached the Hamarian coastline.’

Fa’red looked up. ‘And what of the pirates that ply the Skeltian coast, Preceptor?’

‘Pah! They are like fruit flies buzzing around a bowl of pears. Besides, most are in my employ. You forget, Fa’red, none plunder the coastlines unless they pay me levies.’

Fa’red opened his mouth to speak, but stopped. To tell him about Jelindel now, or later, he mused. Later. ‘Getting back to Arcadia – its rulers would burn all the bridges, burn the grain stores, foul the water supplies, send diseased beggars to infect your troops, and seal off every city, town and castle behind high walls.’

‘The issue is one of troops, and a very important part of supporting troops is pay. I want troops that can live off the land, and would be happy with something cheap for their pay. You travel between worlds, and you have told me stories about some … interesting warriors on other worlds.’

‘Ah yes, mighty demons with the strength of ten men, who can tear the strongest Q’zaran warrior apart with their bare hands, then devour the remains.’ Fa’red grew sombre. The Preceptor’s plans were transparent.

The ruler pointed at Fa’red. ‘That is just the trouble. Demons eat flesh, and flesh is expensive when one has to keep them fed between battles. No, I was thinking of the herbiasts.’

‘The herbiasts?’ Fa’red laughed uneasily. ‘Granted they are strong, and know the use of weapons, but they are vegetarians.’

‘Yes, vegetarians. They eat grass and leaves, they can literally live off the land. They breed fast as well, and their young are ready to fight five years from birth. Even better, you say lead has the value of gold on their world. If we were to bring half a million of them to this world, they could graze in the fields and loot the roofing lead from the cities that they conquer in my name.’

‘There is only one problem, Preceptor. Travel between worlds is like throwing a spear. You must do it yourself. You need the training, skills, muscles and judgement of a veteran to throw a spear effectively. You cannot have one skilled man throw the spears for an army of a thousand.’

‘But a mighty siege catapult can throw a rock that weighs as much as a thousand spears. I know that a prince is building a magical device, a very precise stone circle in which to mount pentacle gems.’

‘They are very rare. I know the prince you speak of. He has one. That is why he is building the stone circle. He hopes to form alliances with others who have gems in their possession.’

The Preceptor nodded sharply. ‘I acquired mine from the Skeltian King.’

‘More’s the pity he only had the one. As it happens, we need five. Collecting another three will not be easy. I do have contacts, but the price will be great.’

‘Pay it. How long will it take?’

‘For two of them, it depends on the greed of the owners. For the third, I am not so sure. Jelindel dek Mediesar has influence with the current custodian.’

Fa’red hesitated after mentioning Jelindel’s name. The Preceptor’s face clouded.

‘She has caused me much trouble. I cannot believe a stripling her age could lead such a merry chase. I have heard that she is studying the properties and usages of pentacle gems. She knows of my plan. How? Does she have more spies and resources than even I possess?’

‘She may well be a powerful witch in the guise of a girl,’ suggested Fa’red. ‘She defeated the demons Jabez Thull and Longrical. As such she was entitled to the powers bound to them. Instead, she let the entities return to their paraplanes. Only someone in no need of further power would have done that.’

‘Or someone so stupid she didn’t know what she had within her grasp,’ the Preceptor muttered.

‘Alas, she is no lackey,’ Fa’red said. ‘She has bested us at every move.’

The Preceptor scowled. ‘Her damnable luck is hard to fathom. Not even a powerful witch could have escaped all the bounty hunters and lindraks I have sent after her.’ He realised he was clenching a wine goblet, and forced his fingers to relax. The goblet fell from his hand and red wine spilled.

Fa’red coughed politely. ‘Lindraks were trained to kill rich merchants, kings, nobles, warriors, or priests. Bounty hunters? Uncouth plebs with not a thought in their heads. The girl Jelindel is not like any of these. She commands no army, owns no palace, does not run a merchant house, and no longer dwells in a temple. She cannot be corrupted by money, has no reputation to defend, neither has she people depending on her. Getting a grip on her is like getting a grip on fog.

‘That she escaped the lindraks you sent to kill her family, and beyond all belief defeated my deadmoon warriors in Arcadia, shows that she is no normal witchling.’ Before the Preceptor voiced his outrage, Fa’red added, ‘But then, she also slew an Adept 11 and an Adept 14. Unheard of, but nonetheless true.’ He took a sip from his goblet.

‘The lindraks were not up to the task, Fa’red. Nor, as it turns out, were your invincible deadmoons.’

Fa’red lifted his eyebrows. ‘That is not exactly true, my lord. They did deliver her to you – in my absence – but she escaped.’

‘Had I known she had single-handedly defeated a squadron of your deadmoon warriors, I would have taken certain precautions.’

‘Be that as it may,’ Fa’red demurred.

‘And what of those dogs she’s travelling with?’

‘The inestimable Daretor and Zimak?’ Fa’red popped a grape into his mouth and chewed. ‘Not a sign, Preceptor. It’s almost as though they’ve ceased to be.’

‘Gone to ground more like,’ the Preceptor said. ‘I will put a battalion of my best lancers at your disposal, Fa’red.’ He slammed his fist against the table. ‘Find all three of them.’

Fa’red winced. ‘That leads us to the very point pertaining to Unissera, Preceptor. Your lancers are no good as seamen, any more than frail craft would be against the more sturdy, albeit smaller, navy of Lycellia and Gratz. Now is the time for contemplation and consolidation. Leave Unissera alone for the time being. Leave it as a juicy plum to consume when the time is ripe. These grapes are delectable.’ He popped a small bunch into his mouth and crunched them up.

‘My spies tell me Jelindel is spending time aboard a merchant vessel called the Dark Empress. Have her watched, but not approached.’

Fa’red spat the grape remnants into a spittoon and coughed politely. Now was as good a time as any to divert the Preceptor from his warmongering. ‘I found out only moments before coming here that Tanglesea raiders took the Dark Empress. A carrier bird from –’

‘What? You mean that some seagoing rabble has done what the finest assassins have failed to do?’

‘Well, not quite.’ Fa’red bowed his head. The Preceptor would either explode or laugh at what he had to say next. ‘The crew of the Dark Empress, including the unkillable Countess Jelindel, somehow stole the raiders’ flagship, the Dragonfang. It is currently following the coast northeast, with a cargo of spices, medicinal goods, and other lightweight but costly items that are best carried on such a relatively small but fast raider vessel like the Dragonfang.’

The Preceptor didn’t respond at once. His features remained fathomless. Then his cheeks stirred into a smile, sending leathery wrinkles streaming across his face. He laughed heartily. ‘That wench has more lives than a Lycellian snake rat, Fa’red.’

‘Hmm,’ Fa’red mumbled. ‘One of the world’s true anomalies.’

The Preceptor put a hand to his face and dried his eyes. ‘Have carrier birds sent to every port on the north coast,’ he instructed. ‘Have her watched, have her shadowed.’

‘There is not a ship afloat that can keep up with the Dragonfang.’

‘Why bother? From what you say the Dragonfang is being used as a merchant ship. The time at sea is just empty days between ports. Everything that she does of any significance will be done ashore. When you have sent the carrier birds on their way, prepare for a journey. Pack just one set of saddlebags, and wear a cowl to hide your face. Tomorrow we leave for a temple far to the north, with an escort and the registers of a tax surveyor. I shall be disguised as your clerk.’

The grapes seemed suddenly very uninviting. Fa’red let go of the bunch he was holding. ‘Mordicar, where the stone circle is being built, Preceptor?’

‘It is obviously where our little nemesis is headed, Fa’red. We shall prepare a surprise for the witchling. One from which she will never recover.’

‘But without five pentacle gems the stone circle will not work.’

‘Perhaps not, but I am your monarch and you will do as I say.’ The Preceptor’s face became stony again. ‘You might think your spy network is second to none, but it has its weaknesses. My own sources tell me that, even as we speak, there are forces drawing the pentacle gems together.’

Fa’red left the chamber with his mind frantically searching through plots and hidden agendas in the words of the Preceptor. This was indeed an alarming development for his own connivance, but at least he was one step ahead.

Chapter 10

PRINCE ULAD’S LAIR

Even compared to their homeland, this was an incredibly rich and fertile place to the eyes of Daretor and Zimak. There did not seem to be much rain, but meltwater from higher in the mountains was gurgling through a vast and intricate series of channels and aqueducts to terraced gardens and orchards. In places the water tumbled down the rocks in waterfalls and rapids. Elsewhere there were waterwheels beside stone mill-houses. The roads were wide and well maintained, with exotic flowers straggling over much of the stone escarpments.

When Daretor and Zimak passed many citizens bowed with deference, while others simply waved and smiled. It did not escape the notice of the two men that those who acknowledged them were always dressed finely. They were also armed.

‘A mixed lot,’ observed Daretor.

‘And they know of us,’ laughed Zimak.

‘Those who carry weapons and have a golden colour to their skin appear to be the rulers,’ said Daretor. ‘Those who work the fields and carry the burdens are black, white and brown.’

‘But we’re white,’ Zimak exclaimed.

Daretor wagged his finger. ‘Ah, so you see the problem.’

‘But wait a moment. The rulers, the armed ones with the golden skins, they wave to us and smile.’

‘That is a puzzle, I do admit,’ said Daretor. ‘Possibly they are confused by us as well, white-skinned strangers with weapons.’

‘Well, we are not quite white, more sort of bronzed. All those months of travel in the sun.’

‘The Matriarch said to seek a large, circular temple, built on a tor of green granite,’ said Daretor, scratching his head. He looked about like a lost tourist. ‘She said we could not possibly miss it.’

‘A tor of green granite? This entire mountain range is green granite. And what if –’

As they rounded a bend in the road, Zimak was cut off by the sight of a city the size of Skelt below them. At its centre was a white, circular temple on an outcrop of rock. Pillars supported the circular roof, and several sets of stairs led up from the surrounding city.

‘Well, we did not miss it,’ said Daretor.

It took an hour to reach the city gates. All the way, people continued to bow or smile. But, at the gates, Daretor’s resolve began to weaken. People were having their slave collars inspected by the gate guards.

‘Now what?’ asked Zimak.

‘The Matriarch said nothing about this. She did not even say there would be guards. I suppose we can just say we are here to see Prince Ulad.’

‘What?’ laughed Zimak with no real mirth. ‘Just like that? If some outlandish wayfarer arrived at the gates of D’loom and asked the guards to escort him to the Preceptor, he would be seized, beaten, and flung into the nearest bog pit – if he was lucky.’

‘Then we shall be mercenaries in search of employment in the army of Prince Ulad.’

Finally, it was their turn to be confronted by the guards. To their astonishment, the guards took one look at them and dropped to their knees.

‘My lord Daretor, welcome,’ said the gate captain. ‘Prince Ulad has been expecting you. And this must be your squire, Zimak.’

Daretor exchanged glances with an astounded Zimak, then he looked back to the gate captain. ‘How do you know us?’

‘Why, the lady Premiel sent your description and an account of how you saved them. She is the royal consort.’

‘Premiel is the royal consort?’ echoed Zimak.

‘Why, yes. Her message arrived by carrier bird. She was full of praise for you.’

The pair was escorted into the city with five guardsmen flanking them, and several more clearing the way through a highly excited and inquisitive crowd. When the guards had first surrounded them, Zimak prepared to flee. Only Daretor’s hand had stayed him. The guards were there to protect them from an adoring public. It would seem they were heroes.

The cobblestone streets were crowded but very clean, and the whitewashed buildings looked almost new. Daretor couldn’t help thinking that the town had been prepared for some momentous occasion, something akin to a coronation.

‘Your city looks well tended,’ Daretor said to the gate captain. He couldn’t help noticing that the guards wore splendid robes and armour. Their weapons were magnificent but impractical.

‘In honour of you,’ he replied, earnestly.

Daretor and Zimak stared at each other, but did not laugh. The palace was more of a splendid mansion than a fortress, and it was clear that war and strife had not been seen in this city for a very long time. Daretor was reminded that first impressions could be misleading.

They were kept waiting in a shady garden for a half hour, while slaves brought them a sampling of local beverages and trays with fruit and pastries.

Finally they were admitted to the royal audience chamber. It was like a smaller version of the temple, circular and lined with white pillars. The white-veined marble was not local stone, and had obviously been transported at great expense and effort. Prince Ulad looked to be at least in his sixties, perhaps older. As was typical of men of his station, around the age of forty he had decided to leave fighting and exercise to younger men, and had begun to enjoy fine food and pampered living. It had been the downfall of many a king.

The herald made his announcements and declarations, and the heroes were formally thanked by the prince before the assembled courtiers. After the formalities were out of the way, the prince rose from his throne and beckoned his guests to follow him into the palace gardens.

‘My wife also mentioned that you wish to return to your own world,’ Prince Ulad said to Daretor.

‘We were sent here by treachery,’ said Daretor. ‘We burn with a desire to return to our homeworld and be avenged.’

‘We is a rather strong word,’ Zimak tried to interject.

‘As it happens, we are the custodians of an ancient machine,’ said the prince, gesturing to the temple they were approaching. ‘We have the ability to send people to other worlds, but they never return. We have long wondered why, for visitors from other worlds seem to come, then go with few ill effects.’

‘They could be arriving back in their own world dead,’ Zimak pointed out. Daretor glared at him and he quietened.

‘Your people are very frail, compared with even the most puny of our world,’ said Daretor, without so much as a glance at the much smaller Zimak. ‘Perhaps the dangers are too much for your people to endure.’

‘Perhaps,’ the prince said, falling silent.

The interior of the temple had no obvious ringstone, but the sight was magnificent. The roof was a vast dome, beneath which sat a pair of thrones, back to back. The walls were an amphitheatre of terraces, but instead of seats there were circular channels full of still water.

‘The magical engine is powered by lightning fish, which are kept in the terraced channels,’ Prince Ulad explained. ‘Keepers have ways of making them release their power all together, in such a way that it is focused down by the dome and brought to bear on those two chairs.’

‘In the desert we saw many ancient ruins that might have been ringstones,’ said Daretor.

‘Ah, but you have used the key word, my good and brave warrior. Ancient. There have been advances in the architecture of magical buildings and temples in the two thousand years since those ruins were built. Why, this one is barely six hundred years old, yet it is less than a third of the age of those desert temples and ruined cities.’

‘So there are no ringstones?’ asked Daretor.

‘Well, yes, there are ringstones, but they are obscured behind the terraces of channels. They give the place such an ancient, old-fashioned aspect. They are necessary, of course, but why have them on view?’

‘You say the place is no longer used?’

‘Oh, my philosophers and priests use the device to view other worlds without going there. It is far safer. What we can do is find your world by allowing you to see it from the vision chair. What is the name of your world?’

Zimak was about to say Q’zar but Daretor coughed loudly. ‘Name?’ he asked. ‘It is just the world. It has no name.’

Zimak silently cursed himself. Jelindel had often told them that knowledge of someone’s ‘truename’ or a world’s ‘place name’ gave power to magicians. Daretor was simply being careful.

The prince waited for Zimak to have his say, but when he deferred to Daretor, he said, ‘It is sure to have a name, you just don’t know it. What to do, what to do? There have been travellers from your world to ours. That is, no doubt, where our common language comes from. They, and others, have told us many world names. We could use these to view dozens of worlds until we find yours.’

‘When can we begin?’ asked Daretor.

‘Tonight. There is no special preparation needed. I am a priest of some ability, and I know many world names. I shall sit in the throne behind you, chanting the names. When we see cities, mountains and forests from your world, tell me. Then Zimak can take my place, and you can both be sent back by means of a more powerful spell.’

‘As a sign of gratitude for saving your wife’s life?’ Daretor asked.

‘Why, of course, Daretor.’ Prince Ulad rested his hands on Daretor and Zimak’s shoulders. ‘My wife has instructed me to lavish upon you both my utmost hospitality. Preparations for your safe return home began the moment we received word of your bravery.’

________________________

As was his routine, Daretor went out to the pell yard to do some sword work before the evening meal. Zimak watched from a tower window. Outwardly he was calm, but inside he was frantically trying out a multitude of plans. If he returned to Q’zar he would no longer be exceptionally strong. If he stayed behind, he would no longer have Daretor’s protection. If he returned home, he would be there when Daretor discovered the truth about him getting his martial skills from an enchanted ring.

There was a rustling of cloth behind him. When he turned around, he saw a very old man leaning on the window ledge beside him. Together, they looked down on Daretor. The man’s embroidered cloak marked him as a priest. Its cowl was down, revealing a circlet of exquisitely wrought silver with a single gem embedded as a third eye across the forehead.

‘A magnificent swordsman,’ the priest said sombrely, appraising Daretor.

‘Nobody can deny that,’ Zimak replied. He edged marginally away, sensing a power within the man.

‘My name is Modar,’ he said, airily. ‘I am the high priest of the temple. You are, of course, Zimak.’ He stroked his goatee with jewel-encrusted fingers.

‘What god is the temple dedicated to?’ asked Zimak, with no real interest. Anything to deflect the man’s penetrating stare. He looked back at Daretor.

‘No god in particular. It is actually no more than a building to house the ringstone. People hire the main chamber for religious ceremonies every so often, so I suppose it does have religious function. My own role is not so much that of a priest, as warlock. I look after magical matters, administer the place, organise ceremony rosters, lead the chanting, and generally make sure the place runs smoothly.’

Zimak looked at the priest. ‘Tell me about the process for being transported back to my homeworld,’ he said, casually. ‘Do Daretor and I go together, or does he go first?’

‘Oh, either way is possible. In this instance, the plan is for our monarch to go with Daretor, scribe the location parameters, then return and send you. We would like to establish a … friendly place to visit on your world. A place where our explorers can arrive and not be set upon by hostile locals.’

‘Tell me, is there any reason why I should be sent back at all?’

Modar paused. ‘No, but don’t you want to return home?’

‘No, to be really honest. I like it here. I am stronger than anyone else on this world, other than Daretor. Your girls are very pleased to be in my company and, generally, I like to be here. What is more, I can be of great value to you.’

‘And how might that be?’

‘I have travelled widely on my world. I can make many journeys with, say, yourself. I can show you safe and interesting places. Places of power and treasure. I would trade my knowledge for a dozen gold coins a month, a pleasant suite in the palace, and the company of your monarch’s more pleasing concubines.’

‘That seems a very reasonable offer … but from your tone I gather that you would prefer that Daretor did not find out.’

Zimak shrugged. ‘Daretor is a boor. He wouldn’t understand.’

The priest raised his hand and snapped his fingers. For some moments nothing happened, but when he and Zimak turned around there were two girls of about twenty standing behind them. Each was holding a gold tray, upon which was a gold cup. The priest gestured to the girl who was standing before Zimak.

‘Let us drink a toast to our arrangement,’ he said, staring levelly at Zimak. ‘This drink is yours. You may keep the cup if you wish, along with the tray. Even the slave is yours, if she is to your fancy.’

The girl smiled demurely. Zimak winked at her as he took the cup – then he cunningly took the priest’s cup as well. Both were about half filled with some sort of golden wine. Zimak poured the contents of one cup into the other, then poured out half of the mixture into Modar’s cup.

‘To our very special arrangement,’ he said, contentedly. He raised his own cup, and handed the other to Modar.

‘And to our strong sense of mutual trust,’ replied the priest, accepting the cup. With a smirk, he drained it.

Zimak looked reflectively into his own goblet before taking a gulp. The wine was a little sweet for his taste, but he decided he would have no problem drinking it in great quantities if nothing else was to hand. He opened his mouth to speak, but his throat was fast becoming numb and paralysed. He could not move, or even breathe. He stared wide-eyed, uncomprehending, as the room reeled.

The two girls gently took hold of the aged priest and laid him face-up on the floor, then one straddled him and began to push and lift with her hands on his chest. The other girl approached Zimak, who was only standing because his body was totally rigid and leaning against the wall. She eased him to the floor, sat astride him, and began to pummel his chest.

She worked on Zimak’s paralysed lungs until he began to breathe easier. ‘The poison only lasts for a few minutes, but by then you will be securely bound and in a very deep and soundproof dungeon, indeed,’ she said. ‘My lord Modar thought it wise to use some potion that subdued you without any lasting effects. He ordered that both cups be drugged, you see.’

After a few minutes Zimak was able to breathe again, but not move or speak. The girls bound his hands and feet. Then a burly guard carried him away. Zimak took note of the wending stone stairs and corridors, but suspected that it would do him little good. The dungeons were a long way underground.

He was placed carefully in a cell, and the door was pulled shut. It was small consolation that the guard had not harmed him, which meant he was not to be killed … yet. There was no window, and no lamp. Despite the near pitch black, he sensed he had company. But there was nothing he could do, of course, being paralysed.

Squinting, Zimak etched out the form of a woman. She was watching him carefully, almost inquisitively, barely moving. Her breathing was hoarse and rattly, as though the dankness of this place had lodged deep into her bones.

After what seemed an eternity, the woman finally spoke. ‘Zimak.’

‘Uh,’ managed Zimak, his vocal chords partially defrosting.

The woman moved, making herself comfortable now, as though she knew he posed no immediate threat. ‘I saw you when the door was opened. You know me as Andzu.’

Andzu, the girl from the caravan, thought Zimak. The Matriarch’s handmaiden. She sounded more like an old crone than the canary-voiced beauty he remembered. Almost like the voice of the Matriarch, but somehow disconcerted, as though puzzled by something. His heart quickened. What had they done to her?

‘The Matriarch is Prince Ulad’s consort,’ Andzu went on slowly, reading his confusion. ‘I was coming here, under her protection, disguised as a servant. I am Princess Andrella, from the distant kingdom of Bazite. I was supposed to marry the son of Prince Ulad, but he has no son. I know that now. I know a great deal now.’

She laughed bitterly. ‘Oh yes, I slept with you, yet I was to be wed to the Matriarch’s son. How foolish of me not to have realised I was being duped when Premiel ordered me to bed you. I naively thought it some strange initiation rite, a dark custom of these heathens.’

‘Baz … ite,’ Zimak managed.

Princess Andrella cocked her head. The outworlder spoke the name with some familiarity, despite his speech impediment.

‘I was given up by my father to strengthen an alliance with these heathens against the dragonriders. Once wed to Ulad’s supposed heir, our two people would join forces against the sky dwellers.’

‘What … what’s happening?’ Zimak’s throat constricted and he almost gagged with the effort to speak.

‘Premiel sent you here by a long detour. We arrived first. I was strapped into one side of an accursed double seat in the centre of the temple, then the Matriarch was strapped into the other. Priests and wizards, people in robes, lots of strange people came in and did things. There were sparks and lights, a blinding flash of light, pain like every square inch of my skin was being roasted and stripped. When I raised my head, I was in the Matriarch’s body. She stepped out of the chair, and she stood before me in my own body. She told me that I was to be kept alive to answer questions about my life and home, to help when she had to write letters to my family. They have spells that force you to tell the truth.’

‘Is Prince … going to swap with me?’ said Zimak, gaining better control of his tongue.

Princess Andrella stopped speaking for a moment. ‘No, the prince has chosen Daretor. Modar, the high priest, intends to swap with your young, strong, and above all, virile body.’

She told the rest of her story in a tortured way, her voice sometimes struggling with the words, failing, continuing. At one stage she screamed ‘Shut up! Stop yelling!’ causing Zimak to jump.

The poor girl had obviously been tortured to the edge of sanity. Her story was macabre, to say the least. It would seem that Prince Ulad and Premiel were nine hundred years old. Both had body swapped into younger bodies many times. When a young body aged, they simply swapped into another. The prince planned to take over Daretor’s body this evening.

With effort, Zimak eased himself up. He sucked saliva from his gums and swallowed. Briefly, he told Andrella of the other Bazitian they had met, and how he had escaped with a precious female dragon.

‘I have never heard of this … Osric, but that matters not,’ Andrella whispered. ‘All is not lost then.’ She smiled. ‘I felt as though I had let my people down … but now …’ she said, dreamily.

‘Are you bound?’ Zimak rasped.

‘As securely as yourself,’ she said. ‘They take no risks in this place. And forget about escape. No one ever has, or so I have been told.’

‘I once knew a girl who thrived on doing the impossible,’ Zimak said. ‘And the worst thing you could ever say to her was “prove it”. Now, can you wriggle over here until we’re back to back?’

‘Our feet are tied to rings on opposite sides of the cell,’ she replied, stonily. ‘You would have been better off with your girlfriend, I fear.’

‘She was never anyone’s girlfriend,’ Zimak snorted. He wriggled across the straw-strewn ground. His feet touched a wall. ‘The cell is not wide. If I stretched out I would be two thirds of the way across.’

Despite her better judgement, Andrella fishtailed across the floor. Her new body was nowhere near as supple as her own had been. Her movements were sluggish, as though she were pushing through water. ‘That is not enough to get our hands together,’ she said, irritably. ‘They are bound behind our backs, remember?’

‘Maybe so, but I’m not of this world. My teeth are especially strong, if you catch my meaning.’

Stretched out in the darkness, Zimak found that his face just reached Andrella’s hands. He began to nibble at the knots, methodically working at them until they became slightly looser and more pliant. Traces of the Matriarch’s exotic perfume hung about Andrella. He could feel that her hands were wrinkled and her fingernails long and manicured. At last he pulled a loop free, then Andrella did the rest. With her hands free, she slowly untied Zimak’s hands. Then they untied their own feet.

‘I know you are very strong, but the door looks too much even for Daretor,’ she said, easing circulation back into her limbs. ‘I am sorry, Zimak. But I am so very drained. This body ill suits me and is near to death.’

Zimak felt an unaccustomed pang of sympathy. But Andrella’s position had given him an excellent idea. For him to carry through with it, he could spare no room for empathy. ‘Always check a door for possibilities, any thief will tell you that,’ he said. ‘This one has an external bolt, and opens inwards. I noticed that it tends to stick as well. The guard who carried me here had to kick to get it open, and that is good.’

‘We are trying to get out, yet you’re pleased that the door is hard to open?’ asked Andrella.

Two hours later they heard the tramp of feet approaching.

Zimak cocked an ear. ‘Two of them,’ he whispered. ‘Now just do precisely what I said.’

They got into position. Andrella sat with her back to the wall and her feet against Zimak’s back. Zimak was sitting with his feet against the door.

They heard the rattle of the bolt being drawn, then the guard kicked at the bottom of the door. Zimak’s feet prevented it from opening. The guard kicked against the door again, then again.

‘Here, hold this,’ came a voice from the other side of the door.

Zimak scrambled to his feet, and Andrella got to her hands and knees before the door. The guard put his shoulder to the door with enough force to cause him to tumble in. Tripping over Andrella, he landed on the floor with a grunt.

Zimak cannoned into the second guard, who dropped the spear he had been holding and went for his sword. Zimak lifted him from his feet and slammed him against the wall.

Meantime, Andrella had scrambled outside the cell as well, and bolted the door behind her. Zimak let his victim fall to the floor, unconscious. He stared at Andrella in the light of a nearby lantern. She was indeed within the Matriarch’s body.

‘I need to find Daretor, and quickly,’ said Zimak. ‘What do you want to do?’

‘I have a very simple plan,’ Andrella replied, ‘but it does not involve you.’ Her dark eyes had a steely resolve and never left Zimak’s. She reached out and gripped his arm. ‘Where I have failed, this Osric might well succeed. I shall do my bit within this snakes’ pit.’

Zimak had seen such determination before on Jelindel’s face. Someone was in for a nasty surprise.

‘Those outside will be expecting at least one guard to come out with a prisoner, so we must stay together for now,’ he said.

Andrella clutched her head. The pain on her face was plain to see. ‘And … after … that?’ she said with difficulty.

Zimak glanced up the stairs, his features sombre. ‘We go to the temple. From there on, we’re on our own.’

‘Oh, that will suit me very well,’ Andrella said.

Zimak stripped the unconscious guard. The other guard beat against the door of the cell, but the sound did not carry far.

The guards had been carrying a hooded cloak. Zimak assumed that it was for him.

‘They don’t want you to be seen before the transference of souls,’ Andrella explained. ‘When the victim is not well-known they announce that the prince has been rejuvenated by the gods.’ She stopped to gather her thoughts. ‘When the donor of the younger body is known, they tell the people that the old prince has died, and named the young man his heir to the throne.’

‘But I am as well-known as Daretor,’ Zimak protested.

‘You are small, lean and do not stand out. I wager that soon it will be announced the old priest died of sudden illness, and a brilliant young foreign scholar has been appointed to run the temple. Trust me, Zimak, nobody will remember you.’

It hurt Zimak’s pride to admit it, but what she said was true. He looked unremarkable. While this was an advantage for a thief fleeing with someone’s purse, it did not help someone who wanted to be a famous hero.

Zimak stripped off his clothes and tossed them to the princess. Then he donned the guard’s clothing and pulled down the helmet grille. With Andrella in his clothes, and wearing the cloak and hood, anyone would think they were a guard escorting a prisoner.

‘Now give me the guard’s knife,’ Andrella said, holding out her hand.

‘His knife?’ Zimak said, warily. ‘But why?’

‘Do you want your distraction or not?’ She fluttered her fingers impatiently. ‘Quick now. Time is short.’

Zimak smacked the knife into Andrella’s palm, then escorted her up the worn stairs and past the posts and checkpoints. As they made their way to the temple, the guards grew more numerous. But nobody challenged them. They knew that the prisoner was being taken to an even more secure area.

‘Daretor and the prince will be alone in the great chamber during the body swapping. Both will be strapped into the double chair,’ said Andrella, as they climbed the steps to the temple.

‘How will I know if it’s too late?’ asked Zimak.

‘Purple lightning will be playing all around the inside of the dome before the transfer. If there is no lightning, but there is a strong smell of ozone, you will know you are too late. Listen for a hissing and crackling. That means that the charge is still building up, so you may have a minute or so more.’

Still Zimak worried. He looked at Andrella. Her expressionless face, shadowed by the cowl, gave nothing away. At that moment he had never been so unsure of himself. ‘How will I get past the guards?’

‘There are no guards for the great chamber. Would anyone have a guard to stop people leaping into the flames when someone is being burned at the stake? Aiyee!’ she suddenly yelped, but gritted her teeth to quell a further outburst. Then forcibly she said, ‘Anyone standing on the floor of the chamber when the aura of purple lightning finally discharges will have his soul torn from his body.’

Zimak glanced up the stairs. They seemed almost certain to lead him to his death. ‘Is that another way of saying he will die?’

‘You are so perceptive, Zimak,’ she said.

Zimak forgave her the sarcasm, but it suddenly reminded him of Jelindel and her numerous deceits. The possibility that he was having second thoughts about his plan didn’t occur to him. He drew up, alarm tingling through him. ‘How do you know so much if you’re a princess from another kingdom?’

Andrella didn’t falter. ‘Memory traces,’ she seethed. ‘I hate them. The Matriarch has killed many times in her bid for immortality. All the voices are inside my head, muffled by the Matriarch’s thoughts and memories, but nonetheless there. Screaming at me, tormenting me. Begging me to seek revenge on the demon that stole their lives.’ She snorted. ‘No surrogate lives past the month after transition – I do what I am about to do because I could not endure four weeks of these incessant voices. And Bazite will be avenged this day.’

Zimak’s skin crawled at the iciness in her words. But, despite his reservations, he couldn’t stop now. Daretor had something he desperately wanted. And saving the swordsman was the only way he could get it.

He escorted Andrella to a vast antechamber behind the columns of the temple. There were ranks of guards and priests standing silently, and before them was Modar, the high priest. He beckoned for who he thought was Zimak to approach. Andrella stepped forward, and Zimak marched smartly to one side, past a row of guards. He was almost behind a curtain when Modar pushed back the hood on Andrella’s head. A knife flashed in the Bazitian princess’s hand and slashed across the old priest’s throat.

‘For Bazite!’ she screamed.

Modar gurgled blood and staggered backwards with Andrella upon him. Her knife plunged three more times into his chest before he hit the ground, gagging.

With bedlam breaking out behind him, Zimak hurried along a corridor that Andrella had described to him. The distant sizzling and spitting, indicating that the transference was in progress, was now a continuous roar. Suddenly he emerged into the immense circular chamber lined with troughs of lightning fish. Purple discharges played all about the stone walls, troughs and dome, like luminous, animate tapestries. In the centre of the slate floor was the double chair, with Daretor and Prince Ulad strapped in back to back.

Drawing his sword, Zimak sprinted across the floor as fast as his armour allowed.

‘Get out of here, you idiot!’ screamed Prince Ulad, as Zimak stopped before him.

‘Nine hundred years is more than enough for any demon!’ shouted Zimak as he plunged his sword into the prince’s chest. The man’s eyes bulged, uncomprehending.

‘Zimak, is that you?’ Daretor said. He struggled to turn his head, but it was held in place by a metal skull casing. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Sit still, I’ll have you free in a moment,’ Zimak replied, lifting the prince’s still twitching body from the straps. Prince Ulad’s body flopped to the floor.

‘What do you mean? We’re about to have a vision of Q’zar.’ Daretor kicked at his leg straps and writhed in the seat. ‘You’ve gone too far this time, Zimak.’

‘No, it’s a trick,’ replied Zimak, throwing off his helmet. Taking the prince’s place, he sat back-to-back with Daretor.

‘Why don’t you unstrap me?’ called Daretor. ‘We’ll talk about this. Man to man.’

‘The prince isn’t dead, he’s grabbed me,’ said Zimak, looking impassively at the prince’s dead body. He noisily strapped in one arm, and shook the cumbersome chair as though a fight were in full progress. Clutching the armrest with his free hand, he tensed, waiting for the pain Princess Andrella had described.

‘Zimak,’ Daretor snarled.

Zimak felt himself wrenched around with unimaginable violence as a thunderclap echoed in his ears. Daretor and Zimak swooned. The entire scene before Zimak’s eyes turned to purple. He shook his head. He was sitting strapped to the chair and, as sight returned to his eyes, he saw that he was not wearing armour.

‘Daretor, can you hear me?’ he called. The crackling had stopped, and the smell of ozone hung heavy in the air.

‘My body,’ croaked Daretor in Zimak’s voice.

‘Hurry, unstrap me,’ snapped Zimak, urgently. ‘Put on that helmet and pull down the grille. You have to pretend that you are a guard.’

‘We’re – each other!’ cried Daretor. He stared at his impossibly small hands, his withered legs, trying to understand what had happened.

‘Snap out of it, Daretor. Any moment the guards and courtiers will be swarming in here and they will expect to find the prince in your body. Say nothing. I shall explain everything to them. You will be a hero.’

‘I’m already a hero,’ Daretor spluttered. ‘A famous hero –’

‘I can hear footsteps. You have one hand free, don’t you? Get beside me and start undoing these dummart straps.’ Zimak clasped the armrests and wriggled frantically.

Daretor unstrapped his bound hand, ducked from the skullcap and climbed to his feet. His legs wobbled like jelly at first and he steadied himself against an armrest.

‘Hurry,’ Zimak called.

Daretor felt his way around the dual chair and stared down at his former body. Then, uncertainly, at Prince Ulad’s corpse. How Zimak had managed this trick was beyond Daretor, but he had enough sense to do as he was told – for now. By the time the first of the guards, courtiers and nobles came running into the chamber, Zimak’s right arm was free and Daretor had covered his face with the helmet.

‘Prince Ulad,’ cried the temple centurion, not entirely sure who he was addressing. ‘You!’ he now shouted at Daretor. ‘What are you doing in here?’

‘Leave him alone, this guard saved my life,’ called Zimak, as Daretor unstrapped his left arm.

‘I – Your Majesty, I don’t understand,’ said the centurion, going down on one knee. He stared at Prince Ulad’s corpse.

‘Some idiot didn’t strap down my old body tightly enough. As soon as the transfer was completed this carrion slipped free of the straps and tried to strangle me.’ He kicked Ulad’s body. ‘The guard ran in and slew him.’

‘He did?’ the centurion said, doubtfully.

‘Don’t stand there gawping, man,’ Zimak snapped. ‘Do you doubt what I say?’

The centurion’s face blanched. ‘He shall receive the highest medal of recommendation,’ he said. ‘And a promotion, of course.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Zimak said, waving away the centurion’s helping hand as he stepped out of the seat. ‘In fact, I want him in my personal guard from now on. Always by my side. You hear?’

The centurion slapped his chest in salute. ‘I hear and obey, Your Majesty.’

By now, Zimak was standing unaided. He stretched and felt Daretor’s strength flowing through him. ‘By all the gods I shall enjoy being in this body,’ he said with absolute sincerity.

‘Your Majesty, there has been a tragedy,’ the centurion went on. ‘The high priest Modar was killed by the Bazitian princess.’

‘Oh, indeed?’ exclaimed Zimak. ‘Well, take me to her.’

‘Alas, the little vixen was cut down by the guards before they realised who she was.’ The centurion glanced uncertainly at Daretor. ‘The warrior’s lackey, Zimak, has also escaped the dungeons. But we do not know where he is.’

‘Have him found, post a reward. Do a search of the city. Go.’ Zimak snapped Daretor’s fingers. ‘Chamberlain. Escort myself and this excellent guard back to the palace, then fetch my consort. I wish to have a completely private meeting with her, if you catch my meaning.’

The chamberlain bowed deeply, but with the trace of a grin on his lips.

‘Your loyal guard seems fatigued,’ Chamberlain Cravek said to Zimak.

‘He has been in great danger. His soul was nearly torn from his body by the dying energies of the transfer.’

‘Ah, of course. Well then, he can rest as you and your consort are becoming better acquainted with your new bodies.’

‘He is in for a long rest in that case,’ laughed Zimak, to Daretor’s dismay.

Daretor and Zimak were left alone in a large palace bedchamber while the royal consort was fetched. Zimak took off the clothes that he was wearing and changed into a pair of black silk trousers and a dark red singlet that showed off Daretor’s pectorals to great effect.

‘Prince Ulad was well prepared for his new body,’ he said, looking at Daretor with mirth in his eyes.

‘You did this on purpose,’ snarled Daretor. Raising the grille on his helmet, he glared at Zimak with Zimak’s own eyes.

‘I had no choice,’ Zimak replied. ‘The discharge of energies was about to happen. And if we had been running across the floor when that happened, our souls would have been torn from our bodies.’

‘They were torn from our bodies. And look where they ended up.’ Daretor grabbed Zimak by the arm and spun him around. He would have hit him, but not only was Zimak twice his size, he could never bring himself to hit his own body. White Quell, he would have that body back.

Zimak easily shrugged off Daretor’s hand and returned his glare. ‘I mean unless we were right out of the chamber they would have been torn out and flung into the afterlife. The double chair was the only safe place,’ he said, dismissively.

‘It was worth trying to run,’ insisted Daretor. ‘Anything would have been better than being in this weasel’s body.’

‘Go easy,’ Zimak said. ‘If I were a girl I’d think you’re a handsome little devil –’

‘You really did do this deliberately!’ shouted Daretor.

‘You could think that, yes,’ conceded Zimak. ‘Just imagine: we could have run for it, and maybe escaped the chamber. The guards would have stopped us at once, and back in the chamber was the prince’s body and outside its doors the dead priest.’

Daretor fought hard to control his temper. ‘Then tell me, why did you kill them?’

‘I only killed the prince. But, in answer to your question,’ Zimak said slowly, as though talking to a simpleton, ‘with your plan we would have been subdued, the priest would have stopped the buildup of energies, and you would have been taken right back for another try at transferring souls. This way I have the guise of the prince, you are safe, and soon we can find some excuse to have the temple set up for another transference of souls. I shall say, oh, that your body is too big and clumsy. As my loyal guard, you shall volunteer to swap me your wonderful little body. I shall still be treated as Prince Ulad, and all will be well.’

Daretor lashed out and grabbed Zimak by his singlet. ‘This will never work. I hate being you.’

‘Gah, Daretor, unhand me.’ He waited for Daretor to release him, although he could have easily swatted his hand away. ‘Do you think I like being trapped inside your body any more than you want to be trapped in mine?’ He picked up a sweet cake and popped it into his mouth. He could eat and drink forever and still not satisfy this enormous frame. ‘Your body is strong, but it’s not fast. No, it’s not that much fun for me.’

‘Liar,’ Daretor spat. He glared at Zimak. ‘This is the body of a Lycellian snake-mouse, Zimak. A sleek little thing to be sure, but it has no power and no finesse. I want my body back.’

Zimak winced. ‘Sit down, Daretor. You don’t know how foolish you look, standing there stamping your foot like an impudent child.’

Daretor slumped into a chair. ‘These are a heartless people with no honour. There’s no telling how many innocent people have died by their hands.’

‘You’re exaggerating,’ Zimak argued lazily. ‘Besides, since when have you been shy of bloodshed? You fought alongside Longrical as a mercenary. Everyone knows that bloody Hamarian campaign took the lives of countless thousands. He started a civil war and slew his own Queen. Took to her head with an axe in public, from what I heard. It took five strikes. Very messy. Even the crowd was disgusted, and crowds usually like a rollicking execution.’

‘She was both a despot and a murderess,’ Daretor seethed. ‘Speak not of which you know little or nothing. We have been used by these people like pawns in a chess game. Now we have stepped off the board and made them our pawns.’ He stood up and leaned across the table. His hands were trembling. ‘You stepped off the board in my body, Zimak.’ He smashed his hand down upon a table.

‘Steady,’ Zimak said, lying down on a pile of huge cushions. ‘That’s my hand you’re knocking about.’

Daretor let go of the hand he was nursing. ‘Mark my words, I intend to have my body back.’

There was a soft knock at the door.

‘Enter!’ Zimak boomed with Daretor’s voice. He motioned Daretor to lower the grille on his helmet. ‘Quiet, now. This will be tricky.’

The royal consort Premiel was shown in by Chamberlain Cravek. Zimak dismissed him, and Daretor pushed the doors shut.

‘My lord –’ began Premiel.

‘There is a little problem,’ said Zimak, getting lazily to his feet. He couldn’t help but stare in open admiration at Andrella’s statuesque body. A pity it now had the mind of a venomous snake.

‘I know, the Bazitian princess killed Modar, and was in turn slain. Now when a letter arrives from her family, we shall have nobody to advise us how to reply.’

‘Your husband is also dead,’ said Zimak.

Premiel blinked. Zimak held her stare until she glanced over her shoulder at Daretor, who was standing guard at the doors, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. She returned her attention to Zimak.

‘I intend to replace Prince Ulad,’ said Zimak. ‘You will help me to reign in his stead.’

Premiel folded her arms and skirted the table, placing herself as far away from Zimak and Daretor as she could. ‘If this is one of your foul tricks, Ulad, speak up now.’ She eased closer to a table knife. It was nothing more than a fruit carver, but she had become a deadly opponent over the centuries. And she was dying to try out her new body.

Zimak followed her gaze. ‘Don’t even think about it, Premiel. Daretor would have you sliced in two before it left your hand.’

‘There appears to be nothing in this for me,’ she said, easing back from the knife. ‘I can reign by myself now. Guards!’ The doors burst open and six palace guards strode in. Premiel pointed at Daretor and Zimak. ‘Kill these imposters.’

The guards hesitated, but drew their weapons. Zimak folded his arms. Daretor drew his sword. One of the guards advanced on Zimak and Daretor stepped between them. The guard lunged at Daretor who parried, then swung up at the guard’s face. He parried too, stepping back and batting hard at Daretor’s blade, nearly knocking it out of his hand. Three other guards began to circle them. Zimak picked up a heavy brass stand. It was five feet long. He swung it at the two guards who were rushing him. It smashed aside their swords, thudded into their armour, and lifted them from the ground.

Daretor closed with his opponent, swung him around and into the blade of the fourth guard. Dropping the body, he faced the remaining guard who backed away.

‘What are you waiting for?’ bellowed Premiel. ‘Attack! Fetch more guards.’ She lunged for the table knife and Zimak struck down at her hand, pinning it to the table.

Zimak waved his free hand in the air and laughed. ‘There, there, my dear, all went as planned.’ He gave an exaggerated wink.

Everyone stood still.

‘Those two are loyal,’ said Daretor, quickly catching on and gesturing to the two guards who had not moved.

‘You who attacked,’ said Zimak. ‘Consider yourselves slaves, and lucky to be alive.’ He waved at the bleeding guard at Daretor’s feet with the brass stand. ‘Except for you, of course, you will need rather a lot of sewing back together before you go anywhere.’

‘That was just a test of our loyalty?’ asked one of the guards, standing near the open doors.

‘Very perceptive of you,’ said Zimak, turning to Premiel. ‘Very good act, my dear, you could have been in theatre. Never too late, of course.’

Premiel looked about in confusion, her mouth hanging open. She nodded, then remembered to close her mouth.

‘Escort these not entirely reliable folk to the shift captain, but confiscate their weapons first,’ said Daretor.

The guards looked nervously at Zimak.

‘He is the most trusted guard of my inner chamber,’ Zimak declared. ‘Obey him as you would obey me. Now go. Drag that out with you and close the door as you go.’

The guards withdrew, dragging the wounded guard with them and leaving a trail of blood. They closed the doors behind them.

‘You appear to have won,’ said Premiel, her shoulders sagging. ‘What do you want to do with me?’

‘Oh, reign with you at my side and in my bed – with your willing consent, of course. Lady Premiel, your former husband was to have lived in this body, and lived with you. What would be so very different about living with me?’

Premiel arched her eyebrows. ‘Ulad had the mind of an old man,’ she declared. ‘The prospect of life with you appeals … I feel younger already.’

‘You ought to, you have stolen the body of an eighteen-year-old princess,’ said Daretor, sourly.

Premiel sneered at Daretor. ‘Who is this little man?’ she asked Zimak.

‘Daretor, in Zimak’s body,’ said Daretor, raising the grille on his helmet, and giving an angry flourish.

Premiel stared at him for a moment, a smile spreading over her face. She began to laugh, pointing from Daretor to Zimak, and back again.

‘You, the serious one, in that body,’ she managed, barely keeping her bubbling voice under control. She walked toward Zimak, her hips swaying from side to side, and ran her fingers through her long, unbound hair. ‘And you – Princess Andrella said you have the lovemaking drive of a rabbit who has been taking swimming lessons in a vat of love potion,’ she said, stopping before Zimak. ‘And now you have the boring one’s absolutely stupendous body. Why did you not tell me you had swapped bodies before I called the guards?’

‘He likes surprises,’ suggested Daretor.

‘Oh, yes, and I am sure you were very surprised when you found yourself in that particular body,’ she said, batting her eyelashes at Daretor.

‘Now then, Daretor. As my most trusted guard, I think you should guard the doors of my inner chamber,’ declared Zimak. ‘From the outside, of course.’

Daretor glared at them, then lowered the visor of his helmet. He snatched up the clothing that Zimak had removed.

‘I shall save my clothes until I have the right body to wear them on,’ he said, coldly. He strode purposefully to the doors, wrenched them open, and then slammed them behind him.

‘I do suspect he is not entirely happy with his lot in life,’ said Premiel, as she and Zimak wrapped their arms around each other.

‘I don’t suspect it,’ he replied.

‘No?’

‘Oh, no. I am absolutely certain of it.’ They toppled on to the divan clutching one another.

Outside the doors, Daretor bundled up his clothes. He stiffened at Premiel’s sudden raucous laughter and the silence that followed.

‘You are right, Lady Premiel,’ he said, glancing at the doors. ‘In a way, nothing at all has changed.’

He drew the sword, executed several parries and a couple of standard slashes, then sheathed it again.

‘What is more, I took my martial skills with me to this body,’ he said, glancing stonily at the doors. ‘Lady Fortune seems to have decided to show a little mercy at last, Zimak. I shall be curious to see what she decides to do with you.’

Chapter 11

THE LIBRARY OF HAZARIA

The port of Hazaria had a very unfortunate name. In Old Braven, ‘ha’ meant next, and ‘Zaria’ meant port. Hence Zaria was the port, and Hazaria the next port. On the other hand, Old Braven was a dead language, which meant that Zaria and Hazaria were simply two place names for most people. Jelindel, however, did know a little Old Braven, and smiled to see that they were going to Next Port after Port.

The Dragonfang docked without incident, and began the business of unloading and soliciting for new cargo. The work was largely done by evening. As expected, the crew went straight to a tavern. The captain went there too, for he was also in the mood for carousing.

It was past nightfall and the crew of the Dragonfang was in full swing at the tavern. They had feasted on roasted pig that, even now, was turning on a spit over a roaring fire. Captain Porterby was holding forth to a group of Hazarian fishermen who seemed to revel in tales of piracy on the high seas, especially when the proposed victims won out. With each telling of their daring escape, the captain embellished the story with yet another outlandish lie. Jelindel smiled. The captain’s current soliloquy had him in a duel to the death with the privateer’s captain. Having dispatched the pirate after a lengthy duel, he rallied his men around him and together they routed the bloodthirsty pirates.

A battle ensued, which left six of the eight privateers burning and awash with blood, and the other two floundering. The crew, having lost a mere five stout fellows, then commandeered the pirates’ fastest ship, the infamous Dragonfang, and mercifully spared the privateers, marooning them on a barren island.

If Captain Porterby’s crew minded his taking credit for their lucky escape, they didn’t show it. In fact, many of them cheered him on, reminding him of further great deeds he had obviously forgotten to relate.

It wasn’t long before a rough seaman who fancied himself as a bard began a song about the Dark Empress and its crew of bravos. This, in turn, led to the more lewd sea shanties that even managed to bring a blush to Jelindel’s face.

She swallowed the last of her limewater. Time to go. It was Larachel’s absence that worried her. The man had been coerced by the crew into joining them for a celebratory drink. Earlier, he had been the toast of the crew for his quick wits in thwarting the privateers.

The moment they had docked, Larachel had set off to notify his clients that their orders had arrived. By mid-afternoon the derricks had removed the Zarian merchandise, so that the crew had the night free. This made Larachel quite a hero with the tired and thirsty men.

The Dragonfang was due to leave on the first tide at the seventh hour.

Larachel seemed to vanish and reappear very easily, and people like that worried Jelindel. She felt that she was the only person on the ship who had a right to be sneaky. But she was reasonably sure that Larachel had no interest in her, so if he wanted to be sneaky, that was none of her business. Even so …

Larachel would have to wait, Jelindel decided. She slipped out of the tavern in the middle of a song led by the captain himself. For the first time the crew had a very fast ship, quite a lot of money and, more to the point, a reputation for fighting prowess. In a sense, the reputation was justified. They had taken on a privateer fleet with a fearsome reputation, annihilated a swag of privateers, and stolen the flagship itself.

Captain Porterby’s outlandish tales notwithstanding, the story was that they had taken on the entire privateer fleet and sunk most of it in a battle that saw the Dark Empress floundering, but which had ended with the capture of the Dragonfang. Of course, anyone expecting to sail through the Tanglesea Islands and find no privateers was in for a shock. But anyone who believed what a tavern full of drunken sailors told them probably deserved to have their vessel plundered.

Hargav was still in the tavern, drinking with the others and learning their songs. He would be safe enough, even if he was liable to be very sick the next morning.

Jelindel had business of a very different nature in the port, and she did not want an audience. She glanced around to ensure no one was following. The streets were almost empty, for it was the hour of supper, and comfortingly dark. Dogs yipped and barked as she passed, but nobody paid her any attention. She did not look drunk, so the town’s roughnecks left her alone, and the watchmen had no interest in a sober sailor.

The Hazarian Order of the Penitents’ Library was a stone building left over from a much earlier, more prosperous, time. It was to this building that Jelindel headed. The port had been burned on eleven separate occasions in the past few hundred years, but the library had survived every time. It was housed in an ancient castle around which Hazaria had spread. Raiders and rioters found the houses and shops easy enough to loot and burn, but the library required serious fighting. And the fact that it housed only books made it hardly worth the effort to the uneducated. Jelindel had heard of the library through Kelricka, who had spoken highly of the collection. Tonight she had a reference question she could not put to a librarian during business hours. She wanted to know more about the pentacle gem stones.

Jelindel admired the ancient bluestone walls for a moment. Before her was probably one of the oldest collections of books in the world, and since nobody was working late she would have it all to herself. The library’s steep shingled roof and spires, its turrets and gables and stained glass windows crowded the night sky.

Many architectural examples of this era had long since perished in the dark days that saw houses of learning destroyed. Few of the great library collections survived for more than a century or two. Wars and sieges tended to see them looted and burned, but due to the diligence of the custodians many books survived. The librarians hid the rare and valuable books until more enlightened times. But when the librarians died unexpectedly, something common in wartime, the hidden collections tended to remain hidden indefinitely.

A mood of melancholy settled over Jelindel. It was her dream to discover such a collection and donate it to the Temple of Verity.

The wrought iron gates were locked, rather than guarded. That meant that there would probably be no guard nearby. She climbed the rough stone wall, finding handholds where weathering had stripped mortar from the joints. Once over the wall and walkway, she picked the padlock that secured the bolt on the inside of the gates, but left it hanging.

Jelindel kept to the shadows and skirted the base of the towering walls. Above, the belfry of the chapel cast a singular block of shadow across the lit square. The full argent Reculemoon was not ideal for Jelindel’s purposes, but it did provide a clear view of the grounds. She saw a column of hooded penitents snaking along a path toward a distant hall. Somewhere close, another group was singing a psalm. The library was locked for the night, which was good. All she had to do was get in, and she would be alone.

She shimmied up a terracotta drainpipe and tried a dormer window. She wasn’t surprised to find it locked. Heretics, vandals and common thieves were forever breaking into libraries. There was no shortage of collectors, Adepts and rival libraries that paid handsomely for rare books.

These thoughts reminded her of something. She slowed her breathing and emptied her mind. There were charms against entry, which she easily re-routed. Few thieves knew much magic. With her dirk she slipped the bolt and quickly slid over the sill and into the dormer. She quickly scanned the grounds for interlopers but saw none. Shutting the leadlight window, she stepped into the room. It was not the room that housed the collection, but some sort of cataloguing office. There were other intruder charms on the way to the reading room, but they were easily neutralised.

Jelindel lit a tallow candle stub from the dying embers in a grate and set herself up at a desk. She took a deep breath and savoured the scent of ancient books. She had been at sea too long, and faced too many dangers to fully immerse herself in her favourite pursuit – that of learning.

The collection was well maintained, judging by the absence of dust. Jelindel ran a finger along the ribbed spines and selected a heavy tome called Magic Rites of the Tanglesea Islands. With time so short, Jelindel would not have normally chosen such a parochial title, but this might be a one-off chance to assess such a book. Collections such as this were closely guarded and only accredited scholars were allowed access. If only accredited scholars could view the books, how was one to become a scholar without access to the great works?

Mostly skimming her choices, Jelindel made sure to return each book to its allotted spot. An out-of-place book could cause alarm, and the last thing she wanted was for the colleges to tighten their security. There would be future occasions on which she would want to break in again and study.

The next few hours passed quickly. Jelindel only allowed herself to skim-read a first chapter before committing a half-hour to reading the book. She had no quill or parchment so did not take notes – the latter would have slowed her down, in any case. She was seeking very general overviews, along with some highly specific data.

It wasn’t till the college bells chimed the third hour past midnight that Jelindel closed The Book of Alchemorum, and sighed with contentment. She could easily sit here until the following year and perhaps the rest of her life, but fate had chosen another path for her. She ran her fingers lovingly over the book. It had to be one of the oldest in existence – its pages of cured human skin had browned with time, and its bronze casing was becoming tarnished, yet it was otherwise in pristine condition. Was this the original, or a copy? Providing D’rudar’s words had been copied verbatim, she supposed it didn’t really matter.

The laws governing the magic of Se’lest D’rudar had been painstakingly laid out – itself an unusual break from practice. Most black-art practitioners took an apprentice who continued their work should they meet with an unfortunate accident. Although Jelindel hadn’t been able to decipher some of the text, she knew it to be among the most advanced supernatural learnings that she had ever held.

On impulse, Jelindel returned to a chapter she had had difficulty with. Chapter ten discussed the pentacle gems. Jelindel squirmed with frustration. How could these pentacle gems be so powerful? According to D’rudar’s biographer, he had in his time challenged and defeated every High Adept that he could locate. With each death he acquired that Adept’s powerful slave spirits. Jelindel had had some experience with the former, and knew they were paraplane entities that enhanced a mage’s power. When a mage is killed the entities exit the dead body and may enter that of the victor. Instead of becoming their master, as was his right by conquest, D’rudar had bound the entities to rare gems by means of ancient bloodletting rituals. Thus invested with mortal and immortal blood, the Master Adept named the gems ‘the pentacles’. These were, in turn, used to power a machine that could – Jelindel struggled to translate the ancient language – open gates to ‘nameless paraworlds with wondrous accuracy’, and bring forth ‘unimaginable beings in great quantities’.

Had D’rudar succeeded in breaching the fabric between worlds? Certainly Q’zar had once been inhabited by numerous beasts, not least of which were the infamous dragons of the Algon Mountains. Was D’rudar responsible for unleashing the myriad beasts chronicled in The History of Q’zar?

Jelindel sat back and pondered. Any really skilled Adept could journey to at least some of the paraworlds. In fact, she had done so herself with the aid of the off-world mailshirt.

The words ‘great quantities’ were the problem. Travel between paraworlds was like swimming. You could do it yourself if you knew how, but doing it while loaded down with more than one other person was near impossible. This ‘machine’ that D’rudar had engineered could definitely open up some very serious issues, along with paraworlds. And then why would anyone wish to open the gates to horrific creatures unless they had complete power to command them? The words ‘nameless paraworlds with wondrous accuracy’ were also contentious. It was not easy to navigate between paraworlds with any accuracy unless you had the truename of the world.

Puzzled, Jelindel replaced the book. Her candle had long since died, and she had been reading by Reculemoon’s silvery beams through the leadlight window. Chiming bells marked the fourth hour. She lingered by the book. She should really take it. Hazarian scholars probably didn’t even know what they had in their collection. Jelindel reached up for the book, but somehow her hand couldn’t quite touch it again.

She pulled back her hand and cocked her head quizzically. Was there a security charm in place that detected intent and had remained undetected? Or was it her conscience telling her to leave the book alone? Ever one to rely on her good sense and instinct, she decided not to try again. She would have to burn an offering to White Quell in gratitude for his guidance.

Jelindel looked about to make sure everything else was as she had found it. Satisfied, she headed for the door, but approaching footsteps forced her to detour down an aisle and hide behind a bookshelf. She heard the door latch lift and fall. Nothing happened for a moment, and then the door swung open. She crouched down and peered between the books. A man was standing in the doorway. He was short and plump, and wore voluminous scholar’s robes. His face held at first surprise, and then wariness.

His demeanour confirmed Jelindel’s earlier suspicion. Entry to the library had been too easy. She wove a measured cloaking spell. Not a moment too soon, as it happened. The scholar had already sent out a questing spell. When it found no living being, he seemed to relax. Nonetheless, he moved as quietly as he could toward the table that Jelindel had occupied. With no need for secrecy, he lit an oil lamp.

Woven in haste, Jelindel’s cloaking spell collapsed with a loud pop. The noise resonated in the quiet of the night. The scholar jumped in surprise, then ran to the back of the library. Jelindel rushed for the door. Already the thief-bell was ringing stridently. Somewhere behind her, Jelindel heard tinkling glass, then someone’s voice yelling, ‘Stop! Thief!’

So. She hadn’t been alone after all.

Footsteps and cries of alarm seemed to come from everywhere, and in a way this was to Jelindel’s advantage. Amid the commotion, her own footsteps went unnoticed. She took the stairs four at a time. Although she stumbled twice, and nearly twisted her ankle, she swung into the room with the dormer, bolted the door, and made for the window with all speed. She slid a few feet down the drainpipe, then jumped the rest of the way, her fall cushioned by a flowerbed.

‘He’s over there!’ a guard cried.

Then another, full of insensate rage: ‘He’s still in here, you fools.’

A glance up told her someone was sliding down the drainpipe. She pushed off. The library was part of a temple complex, and the complex had guards. Generally the guards existed to keep the less disciplined members of the order inside. Searching for intruders was not their specialty. The gatehouse was still unattended as she approached, but a guard was checking the padlock.

He held aloft a flaring rushlight. ‘It’s not locked,’ he called to someone on the wall.

‘Someone’s about, then,’ responded the wall guard.

To Jelindel’s surprise, the guard ran off in search of the intruder. She hurried to the gate, slid the bolt back, and dashed through. Whoever had been on the wall began to shout that the thief was escaping. He flung his spear, but Jelindel was already in the shadows, and the spear disappeared into the night.

Late revellers had dashed for cover at the first sound of the temple’s thief-bell. The town’s night watch was known to arrest everyone in sight during a pursuit, hoping to capture their quarry by chance. On the other hand, this meant that there was nobody around to notice one small sailor in a hurry. Jelindel did not run headlong, but kept to the shadows and slunk along.

Back at the Dragonfang, the lone officer on duty gave her an intense stare by the light of his lantern. The thief-bell was a distant clangour. ‘Fleeing a night watchman?’ he asked.

‘Fleeing a husband,’ muttered Jelindel, spreading her open hands and spinning around to show that she carried no loot.

‘Ah ha, so that’s why you stay sober in ports, you little devil.’ The duty officer gave a toothless grin. ‘Down below with you – quick about it.’

Reputations are made thus, Jelindel thought fatalistically. Now it would be rumoured that first navigator Jaelin was, in fact, a clever thief or an adulterer, rather than a runaway novice from a Nerrissian monastery.

Jelindel was still awake when Hargav arrived. He stank of beer and vomit, and took an unusually long time to find his way into the tiny locker that was his bunk. He tried to sing a verse of some song about a sailor, a squire, and a girl with a piece of string, was silent for a minute or so, then began snoring.

Above him, Jelindel smiled in spite of herself. She lay awake for a long time thinking about pentacle gems, lindraks, privateers, and machines that opened bridges to paraworlds.

Chapter 12

CHICKEN RUN, BAT FLIGHT

Fa’red was not the sort of wizard who muttered arcane spells over foul-smelling cauldrons in dark cellars. Although he was a very inventive man, his ideas far exceeded his ability to carry them out personally. As such, he had learned to delegate work.

A year earlier, over a tankard of ale at the local tavern, he had suggested the idea of a living house to Masonnerry the Artificer. A house that lived off sunlight and water, repaired itself, cleaned itself, kept itself at a pleasant temperature all year around, and ate kitchen scraps.

Over the next few days they discussed the spells required, planted a few dozen seedlings that had been subjected to a very heavy barrage of formative spells, then watered them with a fluid that Masonnerry had brewed in a foul-smelling cauldron in a very dark cellar.

Fa’red had visited Fowler the Foul next. Fowler lived in a house made of woven chicken feathers. While the featherdown mattresses were supremely comfortable, and the goosedown cushions positively caressed those who sat in them, the place stank of wet feathers when it rained.

While the two wizards dined on fried chicken, Fa’red called for a raw chicken leg. Holding it up, he pulled at a tendon so that the claws of the dead bird contracted, grasping a knife.

‘Have you ever considered the idea of a pair of chicken legs that are ten feet high?’ Fa’red asked.

‘I – oh. Well, not really. What possible use would they have – apart from doing the walking for a twenty-foot chicken?’

‘Could you create such a thing?’

‘Well, yes. Some very arduous incantations over a suitably fertilised egg soaked in some very potent liquid at body temperature would do it. Of course, I would need a dark cellar and a cauldron, and the smell would be positively foul. But it could be done.’

‘And if you just wanted the legs?’ suggested Fa’red.

‘Oh, much easier. You just grow the legs out of the sides of a large fermentation barrel – all breweries have them. You just add water and digestive fluids, then start shovelling in chicken feed. Mind you, a vast amount of chicken feed would be needed, and the cost could be prohibitive.’

‘Just say I was to supply the chicken feed, the fluids, and one very large brewery barrel: could you do it?’

‘Sir, have you not been listening? Of course I can; it is just that I have never done it before. Come to think of it, I rather like the idea of strutting around the town on such an apparatus. My wife would probably appreciate using it for going to the market. Oh, and what a grand entrance I could make at the forty-third congress of the Chicken Wizards Fellowship later this year. I tell you what – supply me with two barrels and twice as much chicken feed, and I shall grow a spare one for you.’

‘And what about a correspondingly large pair of chicken wings?’ asked Fa’red, without trying to look eager.

‘Oh, I could grow them, but they would be no good at all for flying. Big problems with the lift-to-weight ratio when you get as big as that. It’s a matter of feather strength, too. I wrote a paper on it, once. I have a copy here, somewhere, written on feather-fibre paper.’

That night, as Fa’red soaked in a bathtub at a nearby inn, trying to get the smell of chicken out of his skin and hair, he came across an interesting footnote in Fowler’s paper on very large chicken wings.

With skin wings, there is a higher limit to the size that can be lifted for flight. This is the case with dragons, of course, and these remarkable creatures supplement the lift and thrust of their skin, bone and ligament wings by using magic to cancel out as much as nine parts in ten of their weight.

Next on the list was Belforrey the Bat Man. He lived three weeks away by coach. As Fa’red made the journey, he took extensive notes and calculations. Thus, by the time he reached his destination, he had a complete set of specifications ready.

Fa’red showed him the plans and specifications for what he wanted.

‘Well, yes, I could grow you a set of bat wings that could move the weight that you require to be airborne. A fruit bat’s wings would be best, enlarged and strengthened by magical means,’ Belforrey said. They were seated inside a tower.

‘You see, Fa’red, the wings have to be strong as well as light if you want to fly. It would be easy to grow very light wings that could not even support their own weight. Or very sturdy wings that could not push down enough air to get even, well, my weight off the ground. But strong and light together takes skill, brilliance, flair, even artistry.’ He wandered over to the window to admire the belfry on the adjacent tower. For some reason, he had caused a belfry to be built on each of his thirteen towers.

‘But can it be done?’ said Fa’red.

‘Of course. I have flair and artistry. You take a fruit bat pup from its mother’s pouch, and soak it in some foul-smelling gunk brewed in a dark cellar. I would have to hire one of those, of course – I only have belfries in this castle. This kills the bat pup but allows the wings to grow to a virtually unlimited size. Of course, there is the matter of feeding. You would need a very large vat, the type that breweries use.’

‘Perhaps filled with digestive fluids and chicken feed?’ suggested Fa’red.

‘Oh no, you can’t grow bats on chicken feed. You need fruit, or at least fruit peelings, selected kitchen scraps. It would be expensive, but you would get a very nice set of wings. To tell the truth, I rather fancy myself with such a set of wings. One could put a saddle on the barrel, and steer it with a pair of reins and some pedals and levers. Launching could be a problem though. You would need ten-foot-tall legs to reach take-off speed.’

‘Oh, very impractical,’ said Fa’red.

‘But wait. I could have my peasants build a stretch of perfectly level ground a mile long and fifty feet wide. Then I could put wheels on the barrel and get into the air.’

‘You could call it an airstrip,’ Fa’red said, thinking of a diabolical paraworld he had visited once.

‘What?’ said Belforrey. ‘Oh yes, very clever, Fa’red.’

‘Of course, you could not go anywhere,’ Fa’red pointed out. ‘No road on the entire continent is straight for more than a hundred yards or so, and they tend to be crowded with peasants, carts, armies on the march, and nobles in coaches.’

‘No problem for me. I will only take off and land here, at my castle. Mind you, there is the question of range.’

‘Range?’

‘Oh, yes. The wings would get hungry after all the exertion of flying. You would need to feed them after an hour. And purge the waste material in the barrel, too. Of course, you would be dead by then. So there’s no point.’

‘Dead? From one hour of flying?’

‘Wind chill, my good sir, wind chill. Even wearing long underwear under leather trousers, fleecy leather boots, and a leather coat, you would be dead of wind chill. Go outside, for example. The air is cool, but there is no wind. Now imagine that cool air as a gale. Imagine sitting in that gale, perfectly still. The heat loss would be incredible. I’ve done experiments. I’ve sat on top of a tower during a gale, and, my word, it gets cold. Add rain or snow, and the time you can endure drops even further.’

Fa’red had taken this into account, but he was not about to let on. ‘So, for example, a flight from D’loom to Mordicar would be impossible?’

‘Well, not impossible, just cumbersome and very uncomfortable. Map, map, where is a map? Maps are like handmaidens, they seem to know when you want them, and hide. Not that I have any handmaidens, of course. They don’t like the bats, you know. Ah, found it.’

Belforrey unrolled the map on the floor. Fa’red knelt down beside him and held down one end.

‘The far north is about three hundred miles,’ said Belforrey. ‘Travelling at about sixty miles to the hour, that would be five hours. Allow another hour for headwinds, and you need six hours. That would have your wings dead from hunger six times over. It would also have you dead of exposure about seven times. It’s all right if you were a cat with nine lives. But, even so, it’s a high price to pay for an admittedly fast trip. Of course, you could build seven airstrips along the way.’

‘Very impractical,’ said Fa’red.

‘Take off from D’loom, then incline a little southeast to fly over the Garrical Mountains – catch the updrafts, you see. You would need a strip on Dragonfrost Plain. Very cold and high, but quite flat, so easy work. Another strip near the Marisa River, another at Hez’ar, a third near the Serpentire River. Yes, nice flat flood plain there. Oh dear, a forest where the next strip should be. Trees to clear, stumps to dig out, that will take time. Mordicar, well, it is on a coastal plain so –’

‘But, as I said before, quite impractical.’

‘Yes, but only for long journeys. In terms of bringing a little joy to the heart of a jaded ruler, a short flight on a warm day would be perfect. A joy flight, if you like. Is the Preceptor at all jaded?’

‘Almost all the time,’ replied Fa’red.

‘In that case, I could grow two sets of wings, in return for raw materials and costs: the hire of a dark cellar, building an airstrip here, ingredients for gunk, about thirty tons of fruit, a couple of large beer barrels, lightweight carriage wheels, acids to mix digestive juices. Yes, that will be all that is needed.’

‘Seems cheap at the price,’ said Fa’red. ‘I shall draw up a contract and make some appropriations against the Preceptor’s military research budget.’

Getting everything together was no easy matter. The ten-foot high chicken legs were ready first. Next, Fa’red rode back to Belforrey’s castle for flying lessons. With him came a blacksmith, carpenter, and several wagon loads of tools and materials.

Belforrey was already flying his own wheeled and winged beer barrel. With the aid of two saddles, the wizard gave Fa’red flying lessons, while the blacksmith and carpenter worked on the other two barrels. They joined them together using several iron bands, and incorporated both sets of controlling levers, reins and pedals into a single set around a saddle at the front end. An enormous chicken’s bottom, tail, and tailfeathers protruded from the back of the barrel for waste disposal.

Being a little uncertain of his capabilities and not anxious for a stray rock to complicate matters, Fa’red decided to use Belforrey’s airstrip for the first take off. As a special bonus, Fowler added a long, scrawny neck and beak to the barrel on legs. ‘It’s a warning for others to get out of the way,’ he said. Fa’red’s carpenter built a special tunnel through the winged barrel to accommodate the neck, and it proved to be a good idea. Some sort of warning was going to be needed to clear birds from the airstrip during take off. Belforrey had found this to his cost when he hit a crow during one of his test flights – at fifty-miles-per-hour, even a crow can pack a punch.

A tug at the lever marked WARNING activated the huge beak, and sent a mighty ‘BUK BUK BUKCAW’ thundering down the airstrip. Every bird within a radius of a mile was startled into the air. Once they had flown clear, Fa’red pressed the RUN pedal with his right foot and the FLAP pedal with his left. The gigach’at, as Fa’red called it, lumbered down the airstrip, slowly flapping its wings as it ran. Every foot fall caused a mighty thud. Belforrey’s peasant crew cheered and threw their hats in the air as Fa’red thundered past. The wind buffeted his face as the speed increased. Then he pressed the BUK BUK BUKCAW lever for the sheer exhilaration of the moment – and the thundering stopped. He was in the air.

Fa’red took his foot off the right pedal and placed it on the flight footrest. Then he threw a lever marked TRAILING AND LOCK. Beneath him, the huge chicken legs stopped their running motion, bent back, and locked up, so that they trailed behind the barrel. Fowler had been confused about why Fa’red wanted this feature. But, since Fa’red was paying, he did not press the matter.

Using the reins, Fa’red banked the giga-ch’at, and climbed in a circle. An hour glass on a pole was set at his eye level. An orange line showed how much time remained before the wings became hungry. Another hour glass near his waist showed the level at which they would begin to starve.

Fa’red was wearing thick clothing. Even so, he noted that the air rushing past certainly made him feel cold very quickly. He tried taking his foot off the left pedal and gliding, catching thermals rising from nearby mountains and being lifted higher without any effort. He went as far as trying a few stall recoveries, and even a brief powered dive.

At last the sand approached the orange line, and Fa’red began to drop height. A smoky fire beside the airstrip showed the direction of the wind, and Fa’red brought the giga-ch’at around to face into the wind as he landed. He unlocked the legs, pressed the right pedal to get them running at their maximum speed, then took his foot off the left pedal to stop the wings flapping. The thud thud thud of the clawed feet announced that they were in contact with the ground again. Fa’red eased back on the right pedal as the speed dropped. He walked the giga-ch’at back to Belforrey and his ground crew, triumph glowing on his face. He even pressed the BUK BUK BUKCAW lever so that his strange animal-bird-machine could share in the glorious moment. He pressed the ROOSTING lever, and the legs folded at the knees.

‘A few minor adjustments, but otherwise perfect,’ Fa’red announced, dismounting.

‘I must commission a pair of legs like that,’ said Belforrey, excitedly.

‘It allows one to land in any reasonably flat terrain,’ said Fa’red. ‘I can give you the name of a good chicken wizard.’

Belforrey had not seen the last of Fa’red’s innovations. A second saddle was now added behind Fa’red’s, this one facing backwards. Bags of fruit and juices were added to iron hangers, followed by leather pouches of digestive juice mix. Finally, the carpenter and smithy added a special feature to the giga-ch’at. Fa’red and a small boy climbed into the saddles.

‘Now then, lad, tell me what you are to do,’ Fa’red called over his shoulder.

‘At the word “Shit”, I pull the lever marked SHIT. This releases the sludge at the bottom of the barrel. At the word “Feed” I slide open the hatch marked FEED ME, and empty a bag of chopped fruit into it.’

‘Good lad, I am sure I can count on you,’ said Fa’red. ‘Well now, time to take off. And this time I might try the giga-ch’at over unlevelled ground.’

‘But the wind chill,’ warned Belforrey.

‘The air is colder at night, when your bats do all their flying,’ laughed Fa’red. ‘I intend to fly during the day, when the air is warmer. Goodbye now, and thank you again, Belforrey.’

The flight to D’loom took two hours. Fa’red was a little cold when he landed at his estate, but not desperately so.

The living house had been delivered in a soil-filled wagon. As Fa’red inspected it he noted with satisfaction that it was appropriately streamlined, with holes added at the sides for the wings. Masonerry had also included a small window with thick glass-like material.

With the aid of a crane, the organic house was lowered onto the giga-ch’at, and boards were forced apart to fit the wings through the sides. Walking the device-beast around, Fa’red thought it was a little heavier, but the legs coped quite well.

After a short test, Fa’red walked the creature to a patch of newly turned and watered soil. Here he folded the legs and the wings. The house put down roots when Fa’red pulled the ROOTS lever, and leafy branches sprouted from the roof when the FOLIAGE lever was activated.

‘Finished, and just in time,’ said Fa’red, admiring what had only been a vision in his mind a year before.

The following day, Fa’red stood before his castle as the Preceptor arrived. Along the winding path, beyond the boundary of Fa’red’s estate, waited his escort of elite lancers. There were six hundred armed men, fifty wagons containing tents, supplies, drinking water, gold for trading, several warrior wizards for fighting off magical attacks, several cooks, a dozen washer women, five physicians, and even a carpenter’s wagon with a supply of wood for repairing other wagons and any bridges that happened to be down.

‘Well, time to go,’ said the Preceptor, looking down from his horse. ‘You appear ill prepared for our journey.’

Fa’red held up a small bag.

‘I fear this will be a long campaign, mage,’ the Preceptor said, darkly.

‘Not so long, Preceptor.’

The Preceptor’s horse whickered, mirroring its rider’s growing impatience. ‘Is it a magical bag that has its bottom in some other world, and which can take a ton of luggage while weighing no more than a few pounds?’ the Preceptor said.

‘No. It’s an ordinary bag, containing a bottle of wine, two slices of pork pie, several magical amulets, and some ancient scrolls with important spells.’

‘The journey to Mordicar is five hundred miles. That will take two weeks of strenuous riding. Three if my not entirely loyal subjects in the conquered territories destroy the bridges, and longer if they decide to attack. I would advise you to pack a little more luggage, strap on a weapon, and saddle your sturdiest horse.’

Fa’red gestured in the direction of a small shed that had branches and leaves growing out of its roof. Behind it was what appeared to be quite a large tent, which had been partly collapsed without the poles having been removed.

‘I call it an airliner,’ Fa’red announced proudly. ‘It flies through the air in a straight line, you see. Mordicar is only three hundred miles away as the magalel flies.’

‘That would be all very well if I were a magalel, but I happen to be a head of state with six hundred warriors and a very large entourage. Very little of that will fit into your “airliner”.’

‘But, my lord, how much of all that do you really require? I mean, when you walk into the temple at Mordicar, what will you need?’

‘Just what is in my saddlebags, I suppose. And the pentacle gem. Not to mention an army at my back when we reach Mordicar.’

‘Ah,’ Fa’red said. ‘I’ve had a battalion of your finest lancers rerouted from their duties in Passendof. So far as Bravenhurst is concerned, they are on training exercises.’

‘You presume too much, mage. Now, as for the other matter, Fa’red, my patience is thin-edged.’

‘Well then, Preceptor, I don’t think I can get you there for lunch, but I have packed what might be termed an in-flight meal, ha ha. Catchy name, don’t you think? Unstrap your saddlebags, then watch.’

Fa’red walked the Preceptor to his airliner. He opened the door to the shed, went inside, and closed it behind him. The Preceptor unstrapped his saddlebags and sat with them over one arm, but did not dismount. A minute later the branches began to be absorbed into the roof. Then the sides pulled up out of the ground and, abruptly, the shed stood up. This came as a shock to the Preceptor, who was not used to sheds that could seemingly stand up of their own accord. The tent behind the shed now began to spread out into two enormous wings that spanned at least five dozen feet. Finally, the shed turned on ten-foot legs with sixty-foot wings and appeared to stare at the Preceptor through a single, square glass eye. It began to lumber in his direction.

While the Preceptor was fairly broad-minded about peculiar, and occasionally quite intimidating, magical things, his horse was not. It had been trained to cope with things like being charged at by horses carrying men encased in armour and waving long and deadly weapons, carnivorous animals, deserts, flooded rivers, forest fires, and even ships in raging storms, but the airliner was considerably more than it could cope with. It attempted to turn and flee. The Preceptor wrenched its head back around with the reins. The horse reared, but failed to throw the Preceptor. It then put its head between its forelegs and bucked. The Preceptor rode the frenzied horse till it steadied.

Angered, the Preceptor raised his head in time to see a giant chicken’s foot come down beside him. He noted that the legs were bending and that the shed was descending. It stopped about a foot from the ground, then Fa’red opened the door.

‘The airliner at your service, Preceptor,’ Fa’red declared.

The Preceptor was offered assistance by a youth who introduced himself as Coster, the flight engineer. He pulled his arm away from Coster’s helping hand and glared at Fa’red. Then he walked over to the shed door, beside which stood a girl.

‘My name is Linnet,’ she said. ‘I’m the flight hostess. Have a nice flight.’

The Preceptor stepped into the shed, which smelled like a fruit market. Sacks, bags, and one enormous barrel filled the space. Up near the square window, two saddles had been strapped to the barrel. There were smaller square windows to either side of the second saddle.

‘Welcome aboard, Preceptor,’ said Fa’red. ‘Just climb into the saddle behind me.’

‘What trickery is this?’ the Preceptor demanded. Behind him, Linnet locked and bolted the door.

‘Magery, yes, trickery, no, Preceptor. My airliner has already made five flights, one of them in the complete, operational configuration.’

‘Would you please get into the saddle, Preceptor?’ said Linnet.

‘Have you flown in this contraption?’ the Preceptor demanded of Linnet.

‘Yes, Preceptor, only this morning.’

‘Very well,’ the Preceptor grunted. ‘You try my patience, Fa’red.’ Warily, he put a leg over the barrel.

Linnet showed him how to use the safety straps. ‘The handles on the walls to either side of your saddle are to hold on to when taking off and landing, or in rough weather.’

‘Rough weather?’ asked the Preceptor, apprehensively. ‘Fa’red, you’ve gone too far!’

‘Oh, but this is a very nice day,’ wheedled Fa’red.

The Preceptor turned and saw that the flight hostess was already astride her own saddle. She strapped herself in and gripped the handles to either side of her. Behind her Coster was also in position.

‘Are you ready, Preceptor?’ asked Fa’red, holding up the reins.

‘My saddlebags!’ exclaimed the Preceptor, hoping that he might have left them outside.

‘Strapped over the barrel behind you, Preceptor,’ called the cheery flight hostess.

The airliner began to walk with an unsettling, rolling gait. Looking past Fa’red, the Preceptor saw that the beast-device was facing the royal escort. Through the side windows he saw the enormous wings beginning to flap ponderously. Suddenly the airliner bellowed a mighty BUK BUK BUKCAW, causing the horsemen to scatter.

‘Perhaps a more dignified warning sound would be appropriate,’ suggested the Preceptor. ‘A trumpet fanfare, or the roar of some great predator?’

‘Later, please, Preceptor. We could have a major malfunction unless I really concentrate on this operation.’

‘Major malfunction?’

‘Come to a very abrupt stop, Preceptor,’ called Coster.

The Preceptor looked through a side window. The ground seemed to be moving past unnaturally fast. The shed shook with each mighty footfall, the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of the wings sounded like the panting of an exhausted dragon – then the thudding of the feet stopped.

‘Is this a major malfunction?’ asked the Preceptor, his hands forming a death grip on the pommel before him.

‘No, Preceptor. We are in the air,’ called Fa’red, without turning. ‘Just locking the legs back into flight position.’

The Preceptor looked out the window to the right. Half the view was filled with the base of a mighty wing, the other half was a diorama of miniature trees, cattle, houses and hills. His stomach churned as they flew over the Preceptor’s assembled army, now scattering as though some aerial predator were about to attack.

The Preceptor closed his eyes. Oddly enough this made him feel better. Normally, not being able to see in times of danger would have been terrifying, but the view outside was so disturbing that the Preceptor could not bear to look.

Minutes passed. The great whooshing of the wings ceased. The Preceptor opened his eyes and glanced about fearfully.

‘The wings,’ he whispered, hoarsely. ‘What’s happened to the wings?’

‘I have found an updraft at the boundary of Dragonfrost and the Garrical Mountains, Preceptor,’ said Fa’red, turning around. He looked quite relaxed.

‘Updraft?’ asked the Preceptor, uncomprehending.

‘A draft going upwards, like that which goes up a chimney above a fire. It lifts us without wearying the wings.’

They were at least a mile high, perhaps even higher, yet it was as if the Preceptor were standing on a carpet woven in the form of a map. He had to remind himself that he was flying amid the clouds. Stupefied, he was almost beyond fear.

‘The Garrical Mountains are off to our right,’ said Fa’red. ‘We will soon be over the border and above Baltoria.’

‘Baltoria?’ exclaimed the Preceptor. ‘But that is a hundred miles by road, a journey of four or five days.’

‘Ah, but we are travelling in a straight line, Preceptor. It is a mere sixty miles for us, and we are travelling at a rate of sixty or seventy miles per hour.’

‘Your art knows no bounds,’ breathed the Preceptor.

‘Captain, sir,’ called Coster from the rear of the shed. ‘Cleared to shit.’

‘Proceed,’ Fa’red called back.

The Preceptor glared at Coster. ‘Can you not wait?’

‘It is for the wings and legs,’ explained Fa’red. ‘They eat in a strange way that I cannot describe without a prolonged lecture. The flight engineer purges the rather foul dregs at the bottom of the barrel, then adds a few sacks of chopped fruit and digestive juices to feed the wings.’

‘Cleared to feed,’ called Coster.

‘Proceed.’

The Preceptor turned to watch Coster open a hatch in front of Linnet. He emptied several sacks of chopped fruit and vegetable scraps into the barrel.

‘We are just a little south of a straight line between D’loom and Mordicar, Preceptor. The airliner will shit and feed again near the Marisa River, the city of Hez’ar, the Serpentire River, and over a forest on the approach to Mordicar.’

‘Hez’ar? There is a particularly rebellious and troublesome prince ruling that city,’ said the Preceptor.

‘Well, we could fly low over his palace during the act of venting, Preceptor.’

The flight hostess heated Fa’red’s two slices of pork pie over a tiny charcoal stove as they passed over the Marisa River. Fa’red and the Preceptor ate and shared the bottle of wine as they sat in their saddles. The toilet arrangements for the passengers were considerably more primitive than those for the wings and legs. Indeed, there would have been no arrangements had Linnet not thought to bring a potty aboard. This was used at the rear of the shed, while she held up her cloak as a modesty screen. The contents were emptied out while the flight engineer held the door open against the slipstream.

Hez’ar was near the halfway point in their flight. As they flew over the palace, the Preceptor insisted on working the release handle for the airliner’s purges. Once they had dumped the muck, Fa’red brought the airliner in low over the palace again, to show the Preceptor the cloisters. He laughed hysterically at the marble splattered with dark matter, and the people shaking their fists skywards. It was only after five return passes that the novelty of the sight wore off, and the Preceptor allowed Fa’red to steer for Mordicar again.

‘We spent a third of an hour circling the city,’ explained Fa’red, as the wings laboured to gain height again.

‘Your point? We are going so much faster than the poor fools on the roads that it does not matter.’

‘Not so, Preceptor. We only have a reserve of fruit, scraps and digestive juices to keep us in the air for a total of six hours. The trip is five hours under ideal conditions. We have wasted a third of an hour at Hez’ar, and now we are burning up precious reserves of wing food to gain height again. That will cost us, at least, another quarter hour in wing food.’

‘Leaving us half an hour of reserve, nearly.’

‘In perfect conditions, Preceptor.’

‘But conditions are perfect, Fa’red.’

‘They are here, Preceptor, but look up ahead.’

Through the inclined glass square at the front of the flying shed, the Preceptor saw what appeared to be a distant mountain range. It had a dark colour about it.

‘Mountains, Fa’red. You appear to be off course. There should be no mountains there.’

‘Thunderclouds, Preceptor. I have watched thunderstorms many times, seeking to broaden my knowledge of the non-magical world. The winds within a thunderstorm move the clouds very fast, and there is a great deal of lightning.’

‘I see,’ replied the Preceptor, detecting signs of panic from Coster and Linnet. ‘I suggest that we land while the weather is fine,’ he declared.

‘We are over rebel territory, Preceptor, and you have just been shitting all over the palace of the rebel prince. Even if we were over loyalist lands, what would your reaction be if you saw a shed with wings sixty feet across drop out of the sky and come running up to your camp on ten-foot-high chicken legs?’

The Preceptor tried to visualise the scene. ‘You’re right. A volley of armour-piercing crossbow bolts, followed by a volley of fire arrows.’

‘Quite so, Preceptor. The walls of the airliner are very thin because they have to be light enough for the wings to carry them. Crossbow bolts would pass right through. The shed is alive. But, although it is built of enchanted wood, it is still wood, and wood burns.’

‘Understood,’ the Preceptor grated.

‘I’m glad that you now appreciate our problem, Preceptor. I took the liberty of sending a few homing pigeons ahead to Mordicar, explaining that people need not panic if they see a shed with massive wings landing on thundering legs.’

‘By Black Quell’s beard! Did you see that flash of lightning?’

‘I did, Preceptor.’

‘What would happen if one such as that hit us?’

‘It is currently a mile and a half down, Preceptor.’

‘But – another one! No cloud has a right to move so fast. So, this is why birds fly for cover when a storm is coming. The Duke of Mordicar’s people had better know that if they shoot at something looking like this I shall have my men slaughter every man, woman and – why are those clouds green?’

‘Green clouds are a sign of hail, Preceptor.’

Seething at his unaccustomed impotence, the Preceptor sat back in his saddle. The clouds loomed ever closer.

‘Attention all crew and passengers,’ cried Fa’red. ‘We are soon to be flung about violently by the winds. Please secure all loose items, fasten your safety straps, grip your handholds, and pray to some god that tends to be nice to you more often than not.’

After a few preliminary bumps the Preceptor decided that perhaps the thunderstorm was not as serious as Fa’red had imagined. After all, Fa’red had only ever watched them; he had never actually flown through one. The airliner was bigger than any bird, after all, and – a wrenching twist threw the airliner sideways. It was some time before Fa’red worked out how to correct the craft again. After several more violent lurches, they suddenly dropped like a stone.

‘The wings are torn off!’ screamed Linnet.

Before closing his eyes, the Preceptor noted that a loose, empty fruit sack appeared to be floating weightlessly beside him. The sack dropped as if the shed had smashed into the ground, but it was soon apparent that they were still flying.

Coster’s feverish prayers and Linnet’s occasional shriek strengthened the Preceptor’s resolve to keep his mouth shut, and his eyes open. If there were an afterlife, he wanted to follow Fa’red into it and wreak vengeance upon the man. Outside the window, treetops streamed past, partly shrouded by hail. Then the airliner started climbing again.

‘Are we doomed?’ The Preceptor’s voice shook despite his efforts to steady it.

‘A downdraft, I think,’ said Fa’red. ‘It’s like an updraft, only down. Nothing to concern yourself with, Preceptor.’

The terrors of the storm began to take their toll. The Preceptor’s slice of pork pie began to sit badly on his stomach. It was with a perverse sort of satisfaction that he managed to throw up just as the storm put the airliner into a nose dive, covering Fa’red’s back with puke. Moments later they were pointed straight up again, and the mess was dripping back onto the Preceptor.

Gradually the violent wrenches graduated to firm wrenches, then heavy bumps, before dwindling to mild bumps.

‘Permission to unstrap, shit and feed, Captain?’ called the flight engineer.

‘Proceed. I’ll try to hold the thing steady.’

The timer was not the only guide to the strength of the wings. The flight engineer purged the barrel, but before he fed the wings he scooped up what was left with a long ladle. What he saw did not please him. The Preceptor watched as Coster emptied the remaining fruit, scraps and digestive juices into the barrel. After locking the hatch, he made his way towards Fa’red.

‘Sorry to report, sir, that the wings are doing poorly. They used up far more fruit fighting the storm than we had to give. I put in what was left, but I can’t say how long that will last.’

‘I can see the edge of the Bravenhurst grasslands down there,’ said Fa’red. ‘That means about fifty miles to go until we reach Mordicar. Go back and monitor the wing roots through the access hatch. Check for sweat and body temperature.’

The flight engineer reported that the wings were not just hungry, they were tired as well. Under his hand, the great muscles were bunching up with the beginnings of cramp. As Linnet did her best to clean up Fa’red’s back and the Preceptor’s front of puke, Fa’red locked the wings to let them rest in a long glide.

‘Should they not be flapping?’ asked the Preceptor, glancing through his portal.

‘They need a rest,’ said Fa’red. ‘And I need to get enough strength back into them to flap as we come in for a landing.’

‘But you just said that there were fifty miles to go.’

‘There are, but I have decided to take a chance and land. We can run along on the legs, perhaps all the way to Mordicar.’

‘We have plenty of chicken feed, Captain,’ called Coster from the back.

Fa’red unlocked the chicken legs and set them running. He strained to see through the glass square, and wished that he had some external wiper to clear away the rain. They were flying over rough, undulating fields when the chicken feet began to thud on the ground. They stumbled several times, but Fa’red managed to provide some support by flapping the wings briefly. Then they were on the ground, and travelling no faster than a horse at a canter. Fa’red steered the airliner onto a low hill to get his bearings – and they went through what turned out to be the roof of the headquarters of a regional cavalry garrison. Survivors of the calamity scattered in shock.

The airliner struggled out of the wreckage, and Fa’red set the controls to run as fast as the legs could manage. Unfortunately, due to the legs being cold and cramped, this was not significantly different to the speed of a galloping horse. The airliner ran through the local town, wings held high and flapping occasionally, while about thirty cavalrymen rode in pursuit.

According to a signpost that zipped past, Mordicar was only thirty miles away. Fa’red eased the organic contraption into the air again, but the wings were almost spent. Although they were now fast enough to leave the cavalry behind, the wings were incapable of lifting them more than a hundred feet off the ground.

The light rain cleared at last and Fa’red caught sight of a long, low wall in the distance. He instructed everyone to strap in and hold onto their pommels. The Preceptor had already established a firm grip on his pommel during the thunderstorm, and had no intention of letting go.

Fa’red selected a level, ploughed field, then set the legs running early to warm them up before they had to bear a load. They touched down but the cold, weary legs stumbled and slipped on the rough surface. The airliner fell, tumbled end over end, and came to rest in the stagnant waters of the Duke of Mordicar’s palace moat.

Slowly, Fa’red folded back the exhausted and bruised wings. Next, he engaged the shaking legs and waded out of the moat. Folding the legs, he allowed the shed to set roots at the edge of the moat.

The Preceptor took a deep breath and managed to smile. ‘A novelty invention at best, Fa’red. I’ll not be ordering a …’

‘Squadron?’ Fa’red suggested. ‘A pity. Once I have its minor faults ironed out, I think the airliner could well be a mighty fighting machine. And, of course, a great time saver. We left at the tenth hour of the morning, and we are now at the fifth hour of the afternoon. A wonder of magical and mundane engineering, would you not agree?’

‘But where is the Passendof battalion?’

‘We will send word for them at your command, your Majesty.’

‘Do it now,’ said the Preceptor.

‘It will require exquisite timing, Preceptor. If a battalion of your lancers crosses the border it will be deemed an act of war.’

‘Yes, but in the meantime I am in enemy territory without an armed man at my back. And the whole point of this obscenely dangerous flight across the continent –’

‘I have, of course, considered this,’ Fa’red interrupted. ‘Apart from myself, I have several special agents who have infiltrated the Duke’s palace. At my command they shall declare themselves and be your personal guards …’

His voice trailed away under the Preceptor’s glare.

‘The door,’ said the Preceptor.

Linnet held it open for him, then remembered Fa’red’s training.

‘Thank you for choosing to fly with the Fa’red Airline between D’loom and Mordicar, rather than taking the hard and horrible road option. We hope that you will – mind the step!’

The Preceptor missed the rung and fell flat on his face. He recovered quickly, avoiding anyone but Linnet seeing his fall.

A hesitant guard carrying a spear walked slowly from the nearest gatehouse. Presently he reached hailing distance.

‘An unusual mode of transport,’ he said. ‘And it looks all banged up.’

‘A quaint expression, Preceptor,’ said Fa’red, brushing dirt from his shoulders. ‘Isn’t that what they do to impudent commoners? Usually with metal spikes through hands and feet.’

The guard’s smirk vanished. ‘Sorry, Preceptor, thought you was a servant. We was told to expect you, and the chickenliner.’

‘Airliner,’ Fa’red corrected. ‘Have twenty bags of chopped fruit and ten bags of chicken feed brought here, along with some other materials that Flight Engineer Coster will tell you about. We need the airliner ready to take the Preceptor back to D’loom as soon as the need arises.’

‘We shall have words on that count,’ the Preceptor said. He accepted his saddlebags from Linnet, and shakily set off for the palace drawbridge.

‘So did you enjoy your journey, Preceptor?’ asked the guard, trying to be diplomatic.

‘About as much as you would enjoy being boiled in oil,’ replied the Preceptor. ‘A fate which you can avoid by keeping your mouth shut.’

Fa’red winced. ‘I had hoped the Preceptor would have enjoyed his flight,’ he said to his cabin crew.

‘He was sick,’ Coster said. ‘All over the side of the barrel.’

‘Sort of … air sickness,’ Linnet said, with the annoyance of someone whose job it was to clean up the mess.

‘And all down the back of my coat and saddle,’ said Fa’red. ‘The pair of you would be best to forget that moment of weakness in the Preceptor’s life.’

‘Forget what?’ asked Coster. Looking up at the airliner, he said, ‘Where did you get the unusual words for this machine and its operation?’

‘When I was recovering from the burns that blight my body, I spent time in a great physician’s castle in some strange paraworld. They had entertainment boxes above each bed. They showed pictures and made sounds, like a little theatre with a stage. That is where I got the idea. More than that is not your place to know.’

Chapter 13

THE BOOK OF ALCHEMORUM

Jelindel woke to the sound of a commotion on the docks. The night’s adventures had been a strain, and she felt stiff and sore. She staggered up the stairs and shielded her eyes against daylight. The tide had not yet turned. The guard was still stationed at the end of the gangplank.

‘Are you sure you didn’t steal anything from that outraged husband last night?’ he asked. It was near the end of a twelve-hour shift, and his earlier joviality had thinned.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Jelindel.

‘The Senior Constable and his men arrived about a quarter hour ago. When I asked what was going on, the guard down there said a very rare and dangerous book had been stolen. Did you take it?’

‘Don’t be daft. I’ve never seen a book smaller than twelve inches high. Was I carrying anything as big as that?’

At that point the Senior Constable and a squad of ten guardsmen approached the ship and demanded to see the captain. A very sick-looking Captain Porterby came out, wearing his night-smock. He had a few words with the Senior Constable, and then approached the duty watch officer.

‘Best get everyone above decks,’ he muttered. ‘Some rare book’s been stolen.’

‘What does it look like?’ asked Jelindel.

‘Look like? Two covers, pages in between – how am I to know? Magic,’ he said. Captain Porterby was fast becoming flustered, the complete antithesis to the debonair captain of last night’s stories who had single-handedly routed a fleet of blackguards. ‘Forget the book, Jaelin. The constabulary seems to think that we have a master thief on board. Perhaps two – but definitely one.’

‘No more so than the town itself,’ Jelindel said good-naturedly.

The officer rang the ship’s bell. After some minutes the nineteen crew and one of the passengers were on deck. It surprised Jaelin that Larachel was already back on board. He was standing with his hands behind his back near the beakhead. Most passengers came aboard at the last moment and left the minute that the ship docked.

Satisfied he had the crew’s full attention, Captain Porterby nodded curtly to the first mate. Henrik Ju’shron stepped aside and beckoned the Senior Constable and his men up the gangplank. Although Hazarian law extended five leagues beyond the shoreline, it was still politic to request permission to board visiting merchant craft. And Henrik Ju’shron was a stickler when it came to protocol.

The Senior Constable wasted no time. ‘All right, men. You know what to do.’

His squad scattered about the Dragonfang like sniffer dogs on the scent.

While five guards searched the Dragonfang, the other five interrogated the crew. They asked whether anyone had seen a book twelve inches by ten, and three inches thick. Quite clearly nobody was carrying it. Presently the other guards returned from searching below deck.

‘Found nothin’, but someone’s thrown up in a locker,’ the sergeant reported.

‘You were told to look for a book, not vomit,’ grated the Senior Constable. He turned to the assembled crew. ‘It appears someone broke into the library of the Order of Penitents last night,’ he declared, hoping someone in his captive audience would give himself away. ‘One of the temple guards claims to have seen a sailor fleeing – and he may have had an accomplice.’ The silence lasted ten heartbeats. ‘Also stolen, from the library vault, no less, was an heirloom held in safe keeping for the estate of Se’lest D’rudar. It is no coincidence that both artifacts are connected to D’rudar.’

‘I say,’ Captain Porterby protested. ‘The tide. We must leave on the –’

The crewmen looked as if they wished the captain would keep his voice down. After another quarter hour, a High Adept came aboard and set spells to seek out the book, if it was nearby. He found nothing, which was no surprise. Spells did not work very well on water.

If Jelindel had been the Senior Constable’s mage, she would have ordered the Dragonfang into dry dock. Luckily for the thief, or thieves, she corrected herself, the Adept thought too highly of himself to be worried about the effects of water on magic.

‘No book aboard,’ he reported authoritatively.

The Senior Constable swept the crew with a withering glare. ‘And the pentacle gem?’

‘Not a trace. It’s powerful, and would stand out more surely than the book. They are not of this world. Even ground into powder they retain potency. Someone who had merely held such a gem would be touched by its influence for over a year.’

A book and an heirloom – a pentacle gem, Jelindel thought. There was only one book in that library that she herself would have taken, and that was The Book of Alchemorum. The thieves must have been in the library as she crept in. What could they have seen? Nothing incriminating, she decided.

She thought of the ship’s crew. Not one had displayed any knowledge of magic. And the thieves must have employed some potent magic to counter the book’s protection spell, and those of the library. They must have also entered the building from the rear, since the spells on the dormer had been intact. Take away the crew, and that almost definitely left the trade envoy, Larachel. But who could have been his accomplice, if there had been two thieves?

The Senior Constable’s Adept wove a spell and uttered something in a foreign tongue. His dry, colourless lips parted wide and Jelindel saw a sparkling sphere flow from his mouth. It solidified above his head and swept the gathered crew, combing its icy fingers among them in search of magic.

Jelindel stifled a yawn. The Adept was becoming desperate now. Anyone with even moderate ability would have already drawn a powerful Asniclian symbol and a holy circle to avoid detection.

‘We’re wasting our time,’ the Adept said, glancing over the crewmen again. ‘Neither the book nor the gem are here.’

The remaining passengers had arrived by now, standing with their trunks by the gangplank. They too were searched, but nothing was found. Hoping to avoid the possibility of someone smuggling the stolen goods aboard now that the ship had been cleared, the Senior Constable ordered the Dragonfang to leave at once. The gangplank was drawn and the hawsers were thrown off the bollards. Hungover men crawled about in the rigging and loosened the sails as a rowboat pulled the Dragonfang clear of the pier. With full-bellied sails they were soon heading north at a good speed.

Jelindel was in the chartroom, plotting a course to Sezel, the next port on their schedule. There Larachel was to sell a shipment of barrels containing exotic pickled fruit. Captain Porterby entered the chartroom, properly dressed and looking a little less flustered.

‘Damnable business, don’t you think, Jaelin?’ he muttered, sitting down.

‘Only if word spreads that we not only have a cargo worth thousands of gold oriels, which we’ll have on board at journey’s end, but our cargo also includes The Book of Alchemorum and a valuable heirloom.’

Captain Porterby looked up. ‘Black Quell you say! I hadn’t thought of the money side. I suppose it would make sense to let us sell the cargo and then waylay us on the voyage back home. Sensible thing to do, I should suspect.’ He frowned. ‘As for the stolen items – is there anything you wish to tell me about them?’

Jelindel blinked. ‘Why should I know anything? The Senior Constable’s mage could find no trace of either on board.’

‘I’m told you returned after the fourth hour this morning, while the thief-bell was ringing. You were out of breath and very relieved to be back aboard, by all accounts. And at no stage did anyone mention the stolen book’s title.’

‘Ah,’ Jelindel said. ‘Good point. But I should make clear that I had no room to hide a book, nor did I have anything on me when I returned from shore leave. But Larachel …’

Captain Porterby waved her on.

‘Was he with you?’ Jelindel asked.

‘Er … no. Can’t say when he left, but he was in the tavern early on. And he was here this morning. The watch officer didn’t see him come aboard though.’

‘That’s significant.’

‘But nothing was found aboard.’

‘That’s significant too.’

The captain felt as if his youngest officer had just told him something significant, but he could not work out what it was. Not wanting to appear foolish, he winked at Jelindel in a conspiratorial manner. ‘Jaelin, the man could be a dark horse at that. I daresay he was in a lady’s quarters with any luck.’ He chortled at the thought.

Jelindel smiled wanly.

‘And come to that, Jaelin, where were you?’ he asked, wagging an accusatory finger.

‘I must confess that I left at the twenty-third hour. But I assure you that I am no thief.’

‘As I am sure Larachel would also claim,’ the captain said. ‘All our futures rest on the man, Jaelin. I hope he’s not a thieving scoundrel. It’s bad enough that the crew seem to respect him. There’s something uncanny about that, I must say.’

‘He has a way with men, yes,’ Jelindel mused. ‘Anyone who lessens their workload is bound to be popular. Nonetheless, I would double the guard on the money chest, Captain. Also, if the book was stolen by one of us, I would lay a year’s wages that it is on board. As for the gem, it could well be around someone’s neck.’

‘Pray to White Quell they will both remain hidden till we return to D’loom, Jaelin. Then Black Quell may have them for all I care.’ He patted the salt-stained armrest. ‘Well, no matter. We are away from Hazaria and after this trip, I dare say I shall never set sail again.’ He pushed himself up from his chair and left.

‘No amount of money would stop me from adventuring, Captain,’ Jelindel whispered.

Once the course was plotted, Jelindel went out on deck. Hargav was there, polishing brasswork.

‘Jaelin,’ he said mutinously, ‘polishing these dummart things is a waste of time. They dull overnight and have to be repolished. What is the point?’

‘To have them looking good in time for dinner. Did you clean out your locker bunk? The smell was pretty bad, you know.’

‘Yes, yes, it’s scrubbed clean.’

Jelindel slapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m pleased with the progress you’re making, Hargav. Just put more venom into it when you swear.’ She laughed at the boy’s scowl. ‘As for why you really polish, swab and perform seemingly meaningless chores – it’s to teach you your place. We all have our place, even the captain. One man popping out of place on a ship is like a gearwheel popping out of place in some great temple clock: both ship and clock cease to run smoothly.’

‘I can’t imagine you ever swabbing decks and polishing dummart fittings,’ Hargav said, plaintively.

Jelindel thought back to the Great Temple of Verity, and the mindless chores the sisters had set the initiates. ‘I have had my share of humility and boring chores,’ she said. ‘It’s what deckhands do, Hargav. They scrub decks, learn about the rigging and everything else about seamanship, and if they’re smart, they work their way up.’

‘Like you,’ Hargav sighed.

Jelindel gave a half smile. ‘Hargav, I was never a deckhand.’

‘I thought that I’d be out wenching in every port, carousing, learning swordsmanship.’ He flapped the polishing rag. ‘You can’t do damage with a piece of cloth.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ Jelindel said. ‘You can garrot a man with such a piece of cloth. Even a rolled up scroll can be a lethal weapon in the right hands.’

Hargav put more effort into his polishing when Henrik Ju’shron passed by. The first mate grunted approvingly and walked on.

When he was out of earshot, Hargav said, ‘What was all that about back in port? Why all the fuss about a dummart book?’

Jelindel leaned against the gunwale. Seaspray whipped and stung her face but she didn’t move. ‘The Book of Alchemorum is no ordinary book, Hargav. It is unique, and tells of an Adept 15’s life work and certain necromantic rites. It contains information that, in the wrong hands, can wreak havoc in the world.’

‘What sort of havoc?’ asked Hargav. He admired his handiwork, but already the salt air had dulled spots of the bitt’s hood. He rubbed it furiously, silently daring spume to touch it again.

‘The book is like a sword. In the hands of someone untrained, little harm would be done. But if it falls into the hands of a person who can bring out its full potential, well, that could unleash the sort of power that could bring down not only empires, but the entire world.’

Hargav quickly got up and moved to the next bitt. He smeared it with polish and began rubbing. Looking up from his task, he said, ‘If this book is so dangerous, how was it so easily stolen?’

The wind snatched at Hargav’s words and Jelindel moved closer. ‘Who’s to tell it was easily stolen? For all we know, there might have been a great fight. Lives may have been lost. It’s not something a Senior Constable would discuss with the likes of a ship’s captain and his scabby crew.’

‘I’m surprised it was not destroyed if it can bring down empires,’ Hargav said, reasonably.

‘Please never let me hear you speak of destroying knowledge ever again,’ Jelindel replied. ‘Whether good or bad, knowledge should never be lost. Power that can destroy empires can also be used to save the world.’ She looked down at the bitt Hargav had just polished. ‘You’ve missed a few patches of green, here, here, and here.’

Jelindel returned to her cabin. Hargav’s attitude was depressingly common. Destroy that which you don’t understand and it will no longer be there to annoy you. She stretched out on her bunk. So what had happened to the pentacle gem and The Book of Alchemorum? The guards had searched the physical places, and the Adept had checked for the gem’s aura. Both found nothing. On the other hand, because water weakens magic, the Adept would have had to be within a yard of the gem to detect it on the Dragonfang.

The book discussed the power of five pentacle gems when brought together at a ringstone circle. One gem had now been stolen from the Order of Penitents. That meant someone was collecting them, and perhaps gathering them together. The same individual, possibly, also had D’rudar’s book of pentacle gem applications, which meant that someone was building a bridge between the paraworlds. Perhaps the thief, or thieves, planned to destroy the book and gems to ensure no such travel was ever undertaken. Whatever the motives, a paraworld bridge could be of great use to Jelindel in finding Daretor and Zimak.

________________________

At Sezel, the crewmen heaved on the hawsers, and the Dragonfang drifted gently into the stanchions. Captain Porterby went ashore. Within minutes he returned with bad news. A local Duke had rebelled against the imperial government of Bravenhurst; and the little city was known to be full of his sympathisers. The Duke opposed the spreading influence of the Preceptor, and had declared his stand against him. He had won several skirmishes with imperial troops, so now the governor had imposed martial law.

‘There is a military curfew,’ Captain Porterby explained, holding up his hands for silence as he stood before the crew. ‘Sezel is considered to be under siege. The city gates are locked, but the port is still open. We can trade and load cargo, but water and supplies are not available. On the other hand, we stocked up in Hazaria, so there will be no problem with sailing on to Mordicar.’

‘So can the men go ashore then, Captain?’ asked Henrik.

‘The curfew means you must be off the streets between dusk and dawn. If you were to spend the night in some inn, and do your eating and drinking there, it would be a day’s supplies saved, so I would encourage you to do just that. Just don’t get arrested, or we shall sail without you.’ The captain’s voice lowered. ‘We’ll not stop here longer than absolutely necessary. The Duke must be a complete and utter fool if he thinks he stands a rat’s chance of defeating the Preceptor’s army.’

Either a complete fool or someone who has an ace up his sleeve, Jelindel thought. No amount of battlements in a port city would be sufficient against an enemy whose warships are unparalleled in strength and number. Coming into the harbour she had noticed giant cannons facing seaward, but due to their size they were fixed. Once inside their guard, Sezel would fall. And fall heavily, since the Preceptor torched any city that did not surrender to him.

Although it was not part of her job, Jelindel helped with the unloading of the cargo. The sooner this job was done, the sooner she could investigate the Duke.

‘Can’t understand why you do it,’ Hargav said, hefting a crate out of the way. ‘You’re an officer.’

‘Keeps me in the men’s goodwill,’ she replied. ‘Goodwill at sea can be the difference between life and death.’

‘You’re fair enough on the men, though,’ Hargav said, hauling on a rope. ‘They respect you.’

‘Grudgingly perhaps,’ Jelindel conceded. ‘But there will always be distinctions between officers and crew. One way or another, I have butted heads with almost every man on board.’ She smiled at Hargav’s surprise. ‘You’re not the only cabin boy I have saved from the rowdies. Speaking of which, are you going ashore?’

‘Jaelin, they say there’s nothing in town that’s not aboard. I’ve not a coin left of my pay for six-month, so I’ll not be playing cards or skitterjacks.’

Jelindel tried to hide the smile that lifted the corners of her lips. ‘Skitterjacks. And I suppose they used five dice and not four?’

Hargav shrugged. ‘How many dice should there be?’

‘Four as a rule. Five if there’s a light touch in the circle. Look out for that next time. Better still, don’t gamble.’

‘And stay away from alcohol,’ Hargav mimicked Jelindel’s earlier warning. ‘It was asking for limewater that got me dunked in the bilgewater again,’ he said, miserably.

‘It was the crew that did that, not the limewater,’ Jelindel said.

She turned to stifle laughter and looked over at Larachel, who was also manhandling the shipment. He was a shrewd man.

If Jelindel had learnt one thing while at sea, it was that everyone pulled their weight. It paid to be one of the crew, and not some pompous softie like the previous navigator. It was also the only fitness training she managed to fit in. The shipment of barrels was not large, although delicacies such as pickled fruit and spiced vegetables fetched a hefty price in a city that was virtually under siege.

The work did not take as long as it had when they were aboard the Dark Empress. By evening the ship was manned only by Captain Porterby, Henrik Ju’shron, and Hargav.

Hargav had decided to build goodwill with the rest of the crew by volunteering to be on the overnight watch rather than going ashore to carouse. The crew took over a tavern within sight of the ship, and Hargav could hear their singing from the quarterdeck. Jelindel was assumed to be with them. In truth she had gone ashore and done what she did best: she vanished.

Hargav looked out over the port in the moonlight. Sezel was like any number of minor seaports. Fifteen or so ships of varying size were scattered about the harbour or were berthed at the wharf. The local fishermen were busy, though, putting to sea for the night, while others returned. With the city gates closed, the demand for fish had soared. The piers were not covered by the curfew, and were full of men and women filleting, gutting and salting the catches of the night in the warm tropical air.

Anyone seeing the lone watchman staring desultorily towards shore, would have seen a young boy, unsure of himself, longing to be with his comrades. However, looks can be deceiving.

Hargav was staring intently at a fortified palace built into the cliff face that shadowed the port. He was assessing ways of safely approaching the palace without being seen, and ways of leaving without being caught. Purely speculatively, of course. Hargav did not intend to leave the ship.

Every now and then, an observer would have also seen the young night watchman listlessly walk the decks, casting looks at the town, as though he wished to be enjoying its hospitality. This is exactly what Hargav wanted people to think.

Chapter 14

LADY FORTURIAN

Jelindel saw few signs that Sezel was under siege. The battlements should have been fully manned, the livestock rounded up from the fields and penned within the city and the outlying farmers should have been crowding the streets, begging for food and shelter. The town should be in total chaos as Sezelian troops fought to maintain order. Instead, the city looked prosperous, its inhabitants only slightly troubled by the increased presence of the army, and only mildly put out by the curfew.

As a stranger, Jelindel would have normally aroused suspicion in a town under martial law. In times of strife outsiders were usually kept under scrutiny, and often imprisoned until whatever calamity had struck was under control. The fact that she was allowed to roam the streets without the slightest discomfort meant that there was more to Sezel’s apparent dilemma than met the eye.

Jelindel had wanted to keep an eye on Larachel, but her priority here was to follow a dream. She wanted to visit Lady Forturian, a friend of Madame Dione. The trade envoy would have to wait.

She stopped at the crest of a hill overlooking the ragged northern coastline. The sleek Dragonfang stood out among the other vessels tied up at the docklands. She gave the sea a cursory glance. She was not expecting to see their pursuers, but felt uneasy about the possibility nonetheless. It was then that she realised how far she had travelled in such a short time.

Puzzled, she resumed her trek up the winding gravel path that she intuitively knew led to her destination. How she knew where the spiritualist lived did not concern her – magic had its own nefarious devices. What did puzzle her was the speed with which she was making the journey. She turned around again and frowned. The docklands were now beyond eyesight, and the coastline was pencil-fine on the horizon. She looked at the sun and realised with a start that it marked more time than was possible during her short sojourn. By the time she reached the broken wall surrounding Lady Forturian’s palatial grounds, she could almost see the sun moving. An atmospheric condition peculiar to the equator or something more arcane? She shrugged and stepped past the open wrought-iron gate.

The town’s curfew bell began to ring as she was knocking on the spiritualist’s door. A bolt rattled, the door opened slightly, and an ageless female face peered out. Despite the apparent timidity of the woman’s behaviour, there was no doubt in Jelindel’s mind that this was a very powerful woman. The guard spells surrounding the place were so complex that Jelindel failed to recognise most of them, although she was only too well aware of their presence. She didn’t bother protecting herself from them. It would have been pointless.

‘Ah, Jelindel, do come in, if you can,’ said Lady Forturian, gently.

Getting inside was not easy. Piles of books, papers, scrolls, stuffed animals and crystals jammed the interior, and the doors to the rooms leading off the corridor were packed solid with yet more books. Lady Forturian wore gaudy, gauzy clothes, and was very thin. Her age could have been anywhere between seventy and ninety – in appearance. However, Jelindel knew not to judge age by appearance.

Lady Forturian led Jelindel up a rickety ladder. They went through a hole in the ceiling, across a book-jammed attic, through a tiny kitchen, and out onto a flat area of the roof. Before them spread a view of the darkening docks. The bloated sun was sinking beyond the horizon.

Jelindel noted that a tea service for two was already laid out.

‘You knew I was coming?’ she asked.

‘Part of the job,’ the woman replied. ‘Now, I expect you will want to read The Book of Alchemorum.’ Lady Forturian’s no-nonsense attitude was comforting after the last few weeks of deceit and subterfuge. ‘There’s a copy on your chair.’

Startled, Jelindel looked down, her mind faltering for a moment for she had not expected to ever see the book again. ‘You – I – but – this is a rare and priceless book. It was stolen in Hazaria, and the constables were practically tearing the city apart to find it.’

‘Oh, that. Yes, so I’ve heard,’ said Lady Forturian. ‘That copy has water damage to several pages, moderate bookworm damage, and some very ill-informed scribblings in the margins by some Adept of a century or two ago. My copy is slightly singed on the back cover, but is otherwise intact. And fear not for the stolen book, Jelindel – it’s not in safe hands, but it most definitely will be cared for.’

Jelindel picked up The Book of Alchemorum and squinted at the text in the fading light. Lady Forturian was right. This copy was even better preserved.

‘You can have a lantern and a spare room for your studies,’ Lady Forturian went on. ‘I’ve got some scraps of old scrolls if you want to make notes, and a writing kit. There’s a bed, table and chair in there. Oh, and about seven thousand books.’

‘Thank you. You’re most gracious.’ Jelindel paused, stumbling over her thoughts. ‘You could buy a grand mansion with the worth of this book,’ she said.

‘With the contents of this house I could buy a medium-sized city,’ Lady Forturian said off-handedly. ‘But why buy a mansion or a city? Books are far more interesting.’

She poured the herbal tea. Jelindel recognised the aroma of rosehip and lemon.

Lady Forturian set down the pot and looked up. ‘Someone is building a paraworlds bridge,’ she said in her direct manner.

‘I worked that out for myself,’ said Jelindel. ‘It’s dangerous,’ she added, lamely. Despite the coldness of the encroaching night, the air on the verandah seemed moderate. The trees were gently rustling, yet no wind spilled onto the decking.

Lady Forturian passed Jelindel a cup. ‘Well, interesting rather than dangerous. And not as dangerous as forming a bridge without a ringstone and the necessary rites.’

Jelindel frowned. ‘I’m unfamiliar with how the pentacle gems can be used in such a manner.’

Lady Forturian’s eyes sparkled. ‘Oh, I’ll show you how. But it’s a bit like tossing dice. The numbers are stacked against you. What comes through an unprotected portal could be your worst nightmare or a pleasant dream. Open the floodgates to the paraworlds and you are more likely to be drowned than borne aloft.’ She shrugged. ‘But what of it if you’re about to die anyway. Oh, look, a thief.’

Jelindel froze, then slipped her knife free of its scabbard. A dark figure was squatting on a thick limb of a gumgut pine. Lady Forturian did not seem at all concerned. In fact, she kept her hand outstretched, waiting for Jelindel to take her cup.

Jelindel obliged, deciding that the woman knew something that she did not. The thief sailed acrobatically to another limb and, using his momentum, flipped an incredible twelve feet to the verandah decking. By now, Jelindel was on her feet and in front of Lady Forturian, her knife held out. Almost as inexplicably as the thief’s presence, crackling white energy opened like a window and engulfed the man. He uttered an anguished oath, then disappeared as the energy aperture closed with a curt snap.

Jelindel spun around, knife poised. The only men capable of disappearing like that were lindraks, deadmoons or High Adepts – all lethal adversaries. Lady Forturian coughed politely.

‘Uh – what happened?’ asked Jelindel. She sheathed her knife self-consciously.

‘He jumped, oh, about a thousand years into the future.’ Lady Forturian sipped from her cup. ‘I do like a hot cup of tea.’

At Jelindel’s stunned silence, the older woman said, ‘Don’t worry, dear girl. There’s no way back, you know. Have you ever heard of causality paradoxes? I have a book on the subject somewhere.’

‘The future?’ exclaimed Jelindel. ‘Like with D’rudar’s pentacle gems?’

‘Oh, yes. Although his engine is rather archaic compared to the natural causality paradox. Do drink up, Jelindel. Your tea must be lukewarm. This house is bounded by a well in time – the exact spot on Q’zar where the ley lines intersect. Anyone trying to trespass without the truename of this exact spot, will be sent a long way away. It’s more humane than keeping a security demon. Besides, demons are not good company around books; they breathe fire. They fart fire as well.

‘So, apart from the book, what can I do for you?’

Jelindel had met Lady Forturian at Madame Dione’s cottage, two voyages ago. They got along very well, except that Lady Forturian tended to boast of an impossibly large collection of magical books. Almost as a challenge, Jelindel had asked if she could visit her some time. Lady Forturian had written out her address without the slightest hesitation and offered her an open invitation.

‘Have you heard of the dragonlinks mailshirt?’ Jelindel asked.

‘Oh, yes,’ Lady Forturian said. ‘The individual links could be worn as enchanted rings. They sucked the fighting ability out of the wearer when they were removed, and transferred it to the next wearer. A self-replicating piece of misery by all accounts.’

‘Yes, but did you know – ?’

‘Six links were missing from the mailshirt. Last year three free-booting adventurers found the missing links, reassembled the mailshirt, and then began to fight about how it was to be used. It had immense powers, you know. Far more than the pentacle gems – although they are more useful in different ways.’

‘Well that is right too, but –’

‘One man was a champion swordsman by the name of Daretor, and the other a common thief called Zimak. The third was a young warlock named Jayen, who by remarkable luck defeated far more Senior Adepts. Jayen easily defeated his colleagues, and banished them to some distant paraworld. As luck would have it, Jayen was the one who thought the dragonlinks ought to be destroyed, and he did so. Pity, I would have liked to put it on the wall in here. It’s the only safe place for it, you know.’

‘You have both Jayen’s gender and name wrong,’ said Jelindel, gaining some satisfaction from knowing something that Lady Forturian did not.

‘How very interesting. Can you substantiate it?’ Lady Forturian asked with great interest.

‘Well, yes, sort of. Your “Jayen” was me. Only I went under the pseudonym of Jaelin.’

Lady Forturian was not vain about what she knew. She just liked to know everything. Thus when someone knew more about a subject then she did, she opened a jar of her best biscuits, made another cup of tea, and got them talking. Such an occasion rarely occurred.

Jelindel had wanted to talk, but there had been no sufficiently safe audience. Until now.

‘We faced a lot together,’ Jelindel said, waving a wheat biscuit for emphasis. ‘In the months we were together we came to depend on each other and work as a very tight team. Even though we probably did not like each other very much.’

‘So you don’t even care for these characters, Daretor and Zimak, yet you wish to rescue them from their distant world?’ Lady Forturian chuckled. ‘I do not read my guests’ minds, Jelindel. Simple deduction is the basis of all logic. You disposed of your former allies, and now feel guilt at your seeming treachery.’

‘Call me a fool if you like.’ Jelindel finished her second cup of tea and declined a third.

‘You’re a fool.’

‘What would you do?’

‘Leave them there. It’s bound to be an interesting life for men such as them. Place an exotic among the masses and it can go two ways. Either the masses cut down that which they cannot possibly better, or the masses bow in homage to something so obviously greater than they.’ She grinned mischievously. ‘I have a suspicion your Daretor and Zimak will fit into the latter category.’

‘But they were born here.’

‘I was born in Skelt, yet don’t feel inclined to go back there. But do go on. All this intrigues me.’

‘We fought linkriders, the Preceptor’s army, lindraks and deadmoon assassins, potent wizards, angry farmers and paraworld monsters. I was alone and on the streets after my family was murdered. I was making a living as a scribe, then I fell in with them. Zimak was light of finger, and a Siluvian black-band master at kick-fist. That came from wearing a dragonlink, of course.

‘Daretor was a huge and superlative swordsman, who had lost his sword skills to another dragonlink. Thus he hated all dragon links and despised those who wore them. He had vowed to destroy them. He put honour before all else, including commonsense. It was his obsession that forced my hand. Had he not been so damnably honourable, I wouldn’t have worried about Zimak having his kick-fist skills thanks to a dragonlink ring. Daretor, on the other hand, might have killed Zimak.’

‘Is this bad?’ asked Lady Forturian.

A well of despair washed over Jelindel. For all she knew, she had killed them. There was no guarantee that the pair had landed anywhere. They were probably trapped in some paraplane, drifting endlessly with no anchor. ‘Oh, you just need to know them, I can’t explain,’ she said, miserably.

‘Hmm. But what do you want?’ Lady Forturian asked, offering Jelindel another biscuit.

‘To be graded an Adept 10, to have a nice position somewhere, doing experimental magic. To be an adventurer and discover the world for myself. To be free.’

‘Get the first, and you can have the rest – in moderation,’ Lady Forturian said. ‘No one is truly “free”, Jelindel. An Adept 15 is as bound to his duties as his inferiors. More so, I suspect, for there is always someone wanting to topple you from your high perch. A fact I learnt from D’rudar’s teachings. But an Adept 10’s accreditation is not too lofty a goal for one so able.’

‘Settling down long enough to get the first is a problem. It would need three months of serious study.’

Lady Forturian’s eyes flickered. ‘Are three months such a burden if they lead you to your goal?’

Jelindel bit her lower lip. ‘There is a large reward on my head – three hundred gold oriels now. The last attempt on my life was a few weeks ago in D’loom. I had intended to travel on a passenger vessel, and leave the continent for a while. But it was too late. I fled on the first ship to leave port.’

‘How very interesting.’ Lady Forturian steepled her fingers and regarded Jelindel. ‘Well, perhaps I can help. I want your story – or at least the part concerning how the dragonlinks mailshirt was put back together, then destroyed. Everything. Names, places, spells, charms, monsters, and whatever pictures you can draw as well. Spend three months helping me to transcribe your story in the mornings, and in the afternoons I shall tutor you for your Adept 10 grading. Then I can give you the tests and if you pass, accredit you.’

Jelindel gaped. ‘That seems a very unfair bargain for you. No story I could possibly tell would repay such a fee.’

‘On the contrary, my dear child. Your rendering of the mailshirt story will give me the only book in the world with a full and authentic account of that adventure. I shall call it Dragonlinks. I will be the envy of every skald across the land. What do you say? My certificates are highly regarded.’

‘I am tempted, but staying here for three months is out of the question. I think I know who’s collecting the pentacles, and he’s on the Dragonfang. It sails at daybreak and the tide waits for nobody.’

‘It waits for me,’ Lady Forturian said, carelessly.

‘I know it’s very generous of you and – what do you mean?’

‘My dear child, I can make this house stand still in time.’

It was morning, and Jelindel was getting ready to leave. The house looked considerably more tidy and better organised than when she had arrived three months ago. Outside the front door, only a single night had passed. Jelindel was now an accredited Adept 10. She had spent months studying the magic of paraworlds travel, minor properties of questing spells, slowing her pulse rate to around 60 for inner calm and focusing power, and other sundry abilities in keeping with her new rank.

It seemed to her that the more she learnt the less she knew. Lady Forturian had hinted at a great many specialised areas of magery: weatherworkers, firemakers, earthmovers, shapeshifters, conjurers of illusion and reality. They were in the realms of High Adepts, those attaining Adept 12 accreditation and above. There were darklings, too. Those who studied the arts without teachers, a dangerous practice, although, as Lady Forturian pointed out, Jelindel herself had been such a novice. Most darklings, however, erred to the more arcane brotherhood of magery. These were the wild cards that upset the balance between good and evil.

Jelindel felt no different from the Jelindel who had walked through the door three months ago. Yet she knew, like a bird about to leave the nest for the first time, that everything was about to change.

She was washing her face when Lady Forturian approached with a small amberwood box. She opened it to reveal three pentacle gems. Jelindel recognised them instantly: water, air and fire: moonstone, sapphire and ruby.

Jelindel had told herself on numerous occasions over the past months that nothing Lady Forturian did ought to surprise her. Still, she stared at the gems with disbelief.

No larger than Jelindel’s thumbnail, the gems were small enough to be mistaken for pendants. They were rough-edged and multi-faceted, every cut reflecting a distorted image. The closed pentagram was minutely etched on each of them. They were shimmering as though some hidden but powerful magical source fuelled them.

Jelindel realised that she was holding her breath. She let it out slowly. How odd that, like the dragonlinks, these pentacle gems also glowed when brought together. Was it a property of all magical artifacts that they responded in this manner, as though gaining strength in numbers? There was no discernible power emanating from the gems. Yet Jelindel knew that, used wisely, they were more powerful than any bauble the charm vendors sold at market places.

‘Would you like to borrow one?’ Lady Forturian asked, casually.

‘I – I – I couldn’t,’ gasped Jelindel, mesmerised by the sparkling gems on their bed of black velvet. Even as she said it, her hand reached out and picked one. It was warm to the touch, like living tissue.

‘Nonsense,’ Lady Forturian said. ‘You will, because in return I expect you to bring me the other gems and leave them here, where they can be kept out of the hands of fools, charlatans, and members of the aristocracy. There is an Adept in Mordicar, our Duke’s brother as it happens, who has two – the spirit and an earth, I believe. He has mounted them in a very precisely measured ringstone circle. He needs three more. The Preceptor of Skelt – or is he now Emperor? – it’s hard to keep up with such men’s follies, is travelling to join him with a gem of his own – an air, I believe. A freelance agent is bringing him another, and yours will make five. Use the one in your hand to arrange a meeting with him, then steal the other four.

‘I have something else for you.’ Lady Forturian took a pouch from her robes and emptied a dozen blue, teardrop gems into Jelindel’s hand. They were the size of pearls and as smooth. ‘These are drones.’

‘I used one once. They look too pretty to be called drones.’ Jelindel scooped up the gems and returned them to their pouch before pocketing it. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Say nothing,’ Lady Forturian said. ‘They were invented in some paraworld, but I studied one and learned to grow my own. They can be used to store power, even though they cannot generate it themselves. Set up a bridge to a paraworld with the pentacle gems, then replace the gems with these. They will hold the bridge intact for a few hours while the power slowly drains away. Then they will collapse, but by then you will have escaped, is that not so?’

‘I should expect so,’ Jelindel said, slowly. ‘The paraworld paths are called transition gates, too,’ said Jelindel.

‘Oh, yes. Bind one to yourself, as I have shown you, so that when you go to the paraworld you can return without a bridge. All the power you need to return will be stored within the pentacle gem.’

‘That was how I flung Daretor and Zimak into a paraworld. I used one of these. But the daemon that gave it to me mentioned that they’re dependent on weight ratios. How will I know if I have them right?’

‘When used in conjunction with D’rudar’s engine, their power is enhanced a hundredfold. Just don’t try bringing back more than necessary. The gate will collapse with disastrous effect if it gets overloaded.’

‘I think Daretor and Zimak will be more than I can handle,’ Jelindel said, ruefully.

‘Well then, I have nothing more to tell you in that case. Be off with you, and bring back five pentacle gems when next you visit.’

‘What? You give me the gem just like that? No contact, no bond, just trust?’

‘Jelindel, you have lived with me for three months, while a single evening passed outside. You ought to know what will happen to anyone who crosses me. Would you really like to risk that?’

‘There is no question of my double-crossing you,’ Jelindel said. ‘How long do I have?’

‘Months, years, whatever. Keep them for your own experiments if you like, but make sure that only I get them at the end. Oh, and a neatly written account of both your journeys and your experiments. I must have a full and true account.’

‘The bargain is sealed,’ Jelindel said.

‘Accepted. Oh, a word of caution. If, as we both suspect, there is a pentacle gem on board the Dragonfang, you need a cloaking spell for this one. Otherwise the moment they come within range of one another, they will glow.’

‘I’ll hide it and the drones the moment I get on board.’

Jelindel paused, her hand on the doorknob. Lady Forturian had summoned her here, hadn’t she? She had called to Jelindel in a dream all those weeks ago. And now she had placed into Jelindel’s care a valuable pentacle gem. Not to mention three months of intense tuition and an accreditation. Why?

Lady Forturian placed her hand over Jelindel’s and opened the door. ‘I am not a power unto myself, Jelindel. There are others … like me. We’ve been watching your progress with interest,’ she said kindly. ‘Be true to yourself and have faith in your powers. Enjoy your new self,’ the woman added mysteriously.

Jelindel thanked her and stepped through the door into the real world.

Jelindel closed the door behind her. ‘Enjoy your new self’. What a funny thing to say, she thought. And ‘others’ were watching her. She was still pondering Lady Forturian’s choice of words when all power left her and she staggered against a tree. She caught herself from falling and eased down the trunk to the ground. Everything was different, yet the same. She took a deep breath and almost gagged on the richness of the air. On it she smelt a plethora of flora and fauna. Her body shook with her suddenly heightened senses.

She ducked her head as a bird flew towards her, then swerved away. She had sensed its approach before she had even seen it. And there it was, nesting in a nettleberry bush. It was virtually hidden, yet fully revealed to her suddenly keen eyesight. The bird screeched a warning, protecting its territory. The sound was almost too shrill, and Jelindel found herself instinctively shielding her ears.

She sat testing her senses. Sniffing the air like a hound, she smelt the presence of wild boar in the undergrowth. From further afield she caught a whiff of alarm as a small animal sought refuge from a predator. She strained her ears and heard a flutter of wings, and heard the squeal of a rodent as its life was snuffed out.

And, most miraculous of all, she realised that colours were more vibrant. It was as though everything she had ever seen in the past had been smeared with dust, and now it was wiped clean. She could clearly see the helkro bird that swooped towards her, despite its excellent camouflage.

Warily, Jelindel stood. Her senses were still reeling as her mind worked through what was happening to her. So this was what it was like to be an Adept 10. She thought back to the Adepts she had unwittingly defeated in the past. No wonder they seemed so … omnipotent. Armed with not only magic, but heightened sight, hearing and smell, they could almost predict what their opponents were planning to do before they acted.

It had been pure chance that both Jabez Thull and Longrical had virtually defeated themselves when matched against Jelindel: Jabez’s defences had been weakened by the events leading up to his death, and Longrical’s vast power had been drained by the dragonlinks mailshirt that Jelindel had been wearing beneath her clothes. And Morgat. How she had beaten the Dean still mystified her, although powerful resonances from the mailshirt may have helped, and Morgat had been far too over confident.

On their deaths, their slave spirits had been released, but Jelindel had set them free. If becoming a High Adept meant enslaving beings from paraplanes, perhaps she would never reach past being an Adept 10.

As she made her way back to the port, Jelindel reflected on a great many things. If being an Adept 10 altered her so, then how must an Adept 15 feel? But that line of thinking was wrong, she soon realised. She was an Adept 10 at the behest of a wonderful woman. She had been bestowed with a gift, and she knew that such power was not to be abused.

She slowed her pace while she considered the ramifications of her promotion from an untrained Adept 9 to that of an accredited Adept 10. The latter held responsibilities, which she must fulfil. With this realisation, she dampened her extrasensory powers, reining them in to be released when needed. They heeded her call, slowly at first, then more willingly. Colours dulled, sounds diminished and scents became muted. Her control was ragged, but in time she would fine-tune it.

What a wonderful thing, Jelindel marvelled, as everything fell into place.

The Dragonfang was still at the wharf when Jelindel returned. The crew looked haggard, as if they had been drinking all night – which they had. Hargav waved as she boarded the ship.

‘How was your night, er, on watch?’ asked Jelindel, straining to remember three months back.

‘Quiet,’ grumbled Hargav. ‘The night dragged by really slowly.’

‘You don’t know half of it,’ said Jelindel. She sniffed the air. ‘Jad’s been cooking up a storm, I see,’ she observed. ‘My favourite. Rabbit stew.’

Hargav shook his head. ‘That was two days ago, Jaelin. Jad caught you scraping the bottom of the pan, remember?’ Hargav scrunched up his face in mimicry of the cook. ‘“I see you’re keen on cleaning pots, Jaelin!”’

Jelindel squirmed.

‘You’ll be lucky to get anything out of the galley this morning. It’ll be dry biscuits and water till he’s sober.’

‘Ah,’ Jelindel said, and went below. Alone, she carefully withdrew the pouch containing the drones and the pentacle gem. There were numerous places to hide them in the hold. Once satisfied that not even a Senior Adept could find them, Jelindel made for the galley.

It would take some getting used to the reek of perspiration that permeated the sleeping quarters. Only time would give her full control of deadening her now keen sense of smell. Also, the ship’s noises resounded through her mind like a thousand rough-shod hooves on cobbles. She heard her companions’ murmurings as they turned in their sleep, the grumbling of the men on watch, the ship’s rodents chittering as they fought for a crust of bread or an apple core, each part of the ship’s grinding joints as the Dragonfang prepared to cast off.

Two well-manned rowboats drew alongside and ropes were thrown to the crew. The thick-corded ropes slammed down on the deck like felled masts. Jelindel cupped her ears, barely drowning the sounds.

Studying with Lady Forturian had taught Jelindel that the higher Adepts enjoyed more than heightened senses. Gifted magicians could morph, levitate, replicate themselves, and even reincarnate, retaining all their previous knowledge and skills. Some, like Fa’red, turned to the dark side and worked as assassins and henchmen for megalomaniacs like the Preceptor. While others transcended the mortal world and became gods – and why not, when longevity was merely an academic word? Some, like Lady Forturian, tried to maintain the balance between good and evil. It was a role that Jelindel knew would best suit her.

Jelindel stayed below decks until she felt the Dragonfang’s sails fill and the vessel surge forward. She could only ponder the mysterious ways of Senior Adepts for so long before succumbing to depression. There was too much to learn, and too many variables. Lady Forturian had readily acknowledged that what she knew of the arts would fill a thimble from the dam of magery. And it had taken her four lifetimes to acquire that drop of knowledge …

Chapter 15

PIRACY

Munching a dry biscuit, Jelindel returned to the deck. A stiff wind blew, and she breathed in deeply.

To aft, Jelindel could barely see the misted coast. She realised that without her heightened eyesight, the coastline would have been a thin splodge crawling along the horizon. She practised reining in her power. Sure enough, with a little exertion, the horizon blurred back to what it would look like normally.

Salt spray splashed her face but she didn’t mind. At two days’ travel, Mordicar was their last port of call. A navigator’s job on such routine trips was simple enough. She reported to the bridge on a regular basis, more out of boredom than to check the ship’s bearings.

The days were getting longer and the humidity more intense as they neared the equatorial port. The crew’s tempers would soon be tested, although a certain heat-induced lethargy usually dampened the worst flare-ups.

She eased her back against the gunwale and watched the mainland slip past. Then something to starboard caught her eye. Four sleek clippers with full sails were cutting through the water, heading towards them. There were other vessels about, of course, although these were randomly placed about the sprawling ocean. The clippers, edging closer as she considered them, were in formation, driving forward with purpose. Privateers or marine militiamen, it mattered not. Their quarry was definitely the Dragonfang.

Jelindel shaded her eyes and looked towards the helmsman who seemed oblivious to the potential threat. Certainly, the lookout in the crow’s nest had seen the clippers knifing forward, and at this moment he was shielding his eyes against the sun and looking their way.

Jelindel looked to larboard. The Dragonfang could easily out-distance her pursuers, but all they needed to do was follow their quarry to Mordicar. Unless proven otherwise, nothing would prevent traders from docking at any port, despite being under dubious captaincy and flying obscure colours. The other possibility was that the privateers would simply sink anchor and wait outside the harbour.

Jelindel thought she heard a scream. She looked up through the billowing canvas but saw nothing untoward – until she noticed that the crow’s nest was empty.

She pushed away from the gunwale. Her left hand instinctively crossed to her right hip, but she was not armed. Her weapons were below, wrapped in oilskin. Jelindel glanced starboard – the clippers were within hailing distance now – before making for the foredeck. She found the helmsman’s body slumped with a knife in his back and the wheel tied securely so that the Dragonfang was describing a giant circle.

Jelindel pulled the knife from the corpse and slashed through the rope. The wheel spun crazily and the Dragonfang plunged leeward. Someone fell from the rigging and landed soddenly on the deck. The great wheel spun out of control. With no way to grip it, Jelindel steadied herself against the railing.

‘Vec-takine,’ she whispered. Faint tendrils of blue energy poured from her mouth and enveloped the spinning wheel. The Dragonfang gave a sudden lurch and Jelindel stumbled towards the bowsprit. The wheel stopped spinning as the water-weakened spell gripped it.

Suddenly the Dragonfang slewed sideways as a clipper scraped against it broadside. Grappling hooks careered across the starboard gunwale. The privateers were clinging to the Dragonfang like leeches. Jelindel’s spell broke. She gripped the wheel firmly and watched helplessly as the screaming brigands swung across on rigging.

In desperation, Jelindel spoke another word of binding. The result surprised her almost as much as it did the brigand it enveloped. He was in mid-swing across the water when the blue snare caught him. He dropped like a rock, writhing and struggling to escape the binding spell.

Several privateers faltered when they saw him plummet into the water. At least three of them toppled from the railing and fell overboard as the vessels ground together like colliding behemoths.

Jelindel immediately snared three other brigands who were clambering aboard the Dragonfang. They were weak spells, but they held. Yelps of pain and fear swept the besieged craft. Magic was afoot and it shouldn’t be. Not on the high seas. Wind chanters were sometimes employed by rich merchants, but never by sole traders. The Dragonfang’s crew, encouraged by the unexpected aid, surged forward and met the privateers head on.

Jelindel realised that the grappling hooks were forming a sort of landmass between the vessels. The water they bridged was disabling part of her spells, but not all.

Buoyed by this newly found phenomenon, Jelindel called to the nearest crewman, ‘Keep her steady!’ Before he could answer, she joined in the fray.

Jelindel snared two more men. No more, her exhausted body told her. Any more drainage and she would collapse and fall prey to the first privateer. She collected a cutlass from the bloodied deck. There were traitors aboard, that much was clear. Where was Hargav? She had no time to worry about him now, but she hoped that he was all right. And Larachel?

She swept away the thoughts as she spied two familiar adversaries coming at her. The Hamarian bounty hunters from D’loom. Daretor’s training came to her aid and she strode forward. Her new sharpened instincts told her which of the two was the most nervous and inexperienced fighter. She edged towards him first.

Wary from their previous encounter with her, they moved apart while unclipping their axes. Cutlasses and axes at the ready, they flanked her.

Jelindel remembered the blade she had used to free the wheel. She flung it with all her might. It caught the more experienced Hamarian on her left in the sternum. The man grunted and fell. His colleague was in mid-throw – at this distance there was no escaping the axe – when Larachel seemingly appeared from nowhere and slashed the man’s hand from its wrist. The axe and hand plopped to the deck.

The Hamarian’s howl was cut in half by the envoy’s second strike. The bounty hunter lay twitching beside his dead colleague.

‘Who are you?’ Jelindel said, barely above a whisper. Only lindraks moved as silently and covertly as this one. The very assassins responsible for her family’s death.

But the fight took Larachel away before he could answer. Jelindel had a moment’s respite before a bearded Baltorian lunged at her with a broadsword. Jelindel’s cutlass met it and the blades sang. She feinted, parried, then lunged as her opponent sought balance. The Baltorian grunted in surprise as Jelindel’s blade raked his chest. Clutching his opened chest, the Baltorian dropped his broadsword and reeled back.

Jelindel dropped the cutlass – an unwieldy and clumsy weapon for a person of small stature – and retrieved the sword. She leapt forward with a jab kick. Her foot landed squarely on the pirate’s chest and he toppled overboard.

A cheer went up. Jelindel realised three of the clippers had cast off their grappling lines and were edging away from the starboard. The fourth clipper listed as more and more brigands fled the Dragonfang.

Jelindel turned in time to ward off a vicious sword stab. Her attacker’s left hand drove forward with a dirk, but Jelindel blocked the thrust with a snap of her arm, and locked her opponent’s wrist with her hand. They stared at one another for a moment. With the binding spells still not returned to her, Jelindel was on the point of collapse. The pirate blinked away blood from a massive head wound.

The man’s eyes blazed with anger and Jelindel felt his hand overpower hers. Then her legs weakened and she gave ground. The pirate started pushing down against her wristlock, his blade inches from Jelindel’s exposed neck. He drove home his attack and Jelindel felt a sting as the dagger pierced her skin.

Suddenly, the binding snares from her earlier victims returned to her. The surge of power made her light-headed, but she pushed back at the dagger. Her opponent’s eyes widened in confusion.

Maintaining a grip on the pirate’s right wrist, she clasped his left shoulder and planted her foot in the man’s stomach; she fell back with unexpected speed. The man grunted in surprise as he was lifted off his feet and jettisoned over the railing.

Breathing heavily, Jelindel rose unsteadily to her knees, but it was all over. Another cheer went up as the last privateer was shoved overboard. She found Larachel by her side. Too late to be of any assistance had her opponent driven home his attack, she realised.

‘Fools,’ Larachel said contemptuously amid the crew’s jeering. He helped her up. ‘Those wretches will reach a safe distance and firebomb us till we’re sunk.’

Jelindel looked over at the helmsman. Henrik Ju’Shron had taken over the wheel. The joyous Captain Porterby was rallying the crew. The sails ballooned out and the Dragonfang regained its even keel, sluicing through the water.

‘Not if our luck holds,’ she managed. ‘It’s a wonder they didn’t cripple us with firepots before tackling us.’

Larachel looked at her enquiringly.

‘They’re obviously after something of value, and didn’t want to risk sinking us.’

‘And what they can’t have no one else will,’ said Larachel. ‘I can assure you they’ll scuttle us rather than let us go.’

To give weight to his words a descending whistle of a catapult shot caused everyone to duck their heads. A moment later a great fountain of spume shot from the heaving sea off to larboard. It was followed in rapid succession by two more boulders, whistling down and crashing into the sea not a bowshot from the tacking Dragonfang.

The timbers creaked as the vessel heeled to larboard. Jelindel steadied herself. Already their pursuers were falling behind. ‘Looks as though our luck is holding,’ she said.

Three more massive rocks splashed into the water, but well short of the Dragonfang.

Jelindel stepped around Larachel. ‘You’ll excuse me. I need to attend to things. Have you seen Hargav?’

Larachel pointed aft. ‘Last time I saw the poor fellow he was emptying his stomach overboard. I suspect the sight of so much blood unsettled him.’

Jelindel found Hargav sitting forlornly by the forecastle. She sat beside him and draped an arm around his shoulders. Together they watched the crew throw the last of the corpses of both foe and friend overboard. There was no time for decent burials.

‘It’s not all like this, you know.’ Jelindel ruffled Hargav’s hair.

He lifted his head miserably from his hands. ‘Jaelin, it’s been barely three weeks and we’ve been boarded twice by cutthroats. We’ve been accused of theft by no less than a town’s senior constable, and I’ve been dunked in bilgewater more times than I can remember, and been strung out for a day on the bowsprit. This is the worst time of my life.’

Jelindel shook him playfully. ‘If it’s any consolation, I know exactly how you feel. Come now, we all need to pitch in. An active mind is an occupied mind.’

With five men dead and another four wounded, there would be little rest for the crew of the Dragonfang. But, despite their losses, they soon lost sight of the pursuing clippers. Jelindel’s hope was that they would arrive at Mordicar at least fifteen hours ahead of the privateers. Time enough to conduct their business and leave before their pursuers arrived.

Fortunately for Jelindel, no one had witnessed her snaring the enemy with her binding words. It was hotly rumoured that Larachel was the only man aboard capable of such wizardry, he being the only newcomer. No one openly said this, of course, but Jelindel noticed that the crew now gave Larachel a wide berth. It was not that they feared him. It was just that they would no longer trust him to play an even hand of skitterjacks, and no card game was considered even with an Adept present.

Not an altogether bad thing, Jelindel thought, since the crew’s previous adoration of Larachel would have made it harder to confront him when the time came. And that time would come.

It was her job to get them all safely to Mordicar. And get them safely there she would. In the meantime, she would sleep with one eye open. Someone had murdered the lookout and the helmsman. Captain Porterby and the crew seemed oblivious to the fact, but she saw no point in bringing up the subject. She stood a better chance of finding the traitor by subterfuge, than by openly making accusations.

Chapter 16

THE RINGSTONE

Positioned in a politically stable port of Bravenhurst, Mordicar was a small port city. Judging by the varied craft, including a slave galley, the town was not under martial law. For all intents and purposes, it was enjoying brisk trade. Had a war been imminent, the harbour would have been empty and the docklands deserted.

As soon as the Dragonfang docked, Captain Porterby began purchasing food, water and general supplies. The crew was not free to leave until the ship was cleaned and fresh supplies stowed, but Hargav ran ashore and vanished as soon as they docked.

‘Funny, he didn’t seem unhappy enough to jump ship,’ said Henrik. He was helping Jelindel to roll a barrel of biscuits.

‘Well, yes, he seemed more cheerful than ever for the past day. Maybe he knows a girl in Mordicar.’ Jelindel winced at the transparent lie.

‘It’s his first voyage,’ Henrik snorted. ‘How could he know a girl here? We’re halfway across the continent.’

‘He’s a fast worker, then,’ Jelindel joked.

‘Could be at that,’ Henrik said when he noticed Jelindel’s smile. ‘But I do know one thing. There’s more to that one than meets the eye. Him and that Larachel.’

‘An odd couple,’ Jelindel agreed, slowly. She realised with a start that Henrik’s observations had been jarring. In her loneliness had she allowed Hargav to slip beneath her defenses? Hargav the fast learner. Hargav always questioning, prying. Tumbling thoughts stacked up against one another. She needed to speak to young Hargav the moment he returned. If he returned.

Hargav returned that night with a man aged about fifty. Hargav introduced the man as Augerin, a Skeltian merchant who wished to buy a passage back to D’loom. Captain Porterby thought it a good bargain. The man had little luggage, enough money for the trip, and did not look as if he would eat much. Jelindel’s earlier assertion that the Dragonfang would most certainly come under attack also weighed heavily on the captain’s mind. An extra man on board would not hurt.

As soon as Augerin was safely in his cabin, Jelindel took Hargav aside.

‘Tell me, where is the ringstone circle?’ she asked.

Hargav turned away but Jelindel’s hand caught his shoulder and spun him back.

‘What? I don’t know what you mean, Jaelin – you’re hurting!’

‘Hargav, I can almost smell its essence on you.’ She let go of his shoulder.

‘You’ve been very strange lately, Jaelin. Almost as though you blame me for all the bad luck we’ve had.’ He rubbed his shoulder. ‘I thought we were friends.’

‘I’ve found friends to be a liability,’ Jelindel replied. ‘Never forget your place, Hargav. Now, you have been carrying a rare magical artifact called a pentacle gem. You no longer have it on your person. The Duke of Mordicar is collecting them to power a ringstone circle, so you visited him. He must have taken you to the circle, in order to test your gem, so you obviously know where it is.’

Hargav grinned scornfully. ‘You’re mad. If I had had such a thing, that dummart Senior Constable and his Adept would have discovered it when the ship was searched in Hazaria.’

‘You cloaked it very well, but you forgot that it leaves a residual essence unless one takes precautions. An error that will prove costly. As for the Adept in Hazaria, magical auras are weakened by water. You hid the pentacle gem in your own vomit, assuming that the guardsman would not approach close enough to see it, and the Adept would not get near enough to feel its aura. Very clever, and not a little crude. But then I have kept company with some of the most crude and clever people on the continent so I am awake to things like that. Who is this Augerin?’

Hargav looked like a cornered rat, then his shoulders sagged. ‘My father,’ he muttered.

Several of Jelindel’s deductions fell into place. ‘The Duke was holding him in exchange for the pentacle gem. Yes?’

Hargav nodded gloomily.

‘Your father did not want you to give the gem to the Duke?’

‘No.’

‘But you did it anyway.’

Hargav suddenly seemed much more than a frightened boy on his first sea voyage. Jelindel’s instincts kept her on a knife’s edge.

‘Yes. The Duke only has two other gems, there was no harm in it. With five he can do dangerous things, but he will never get five together.’

‘Besides, Mordicar is half a continent away from D’loom,’ added Jelindel.

‘I never said that.’

‘But you must have thought it. As for never collecting five pentacle gems – you have been misled. Despite what The Book of Alchemorum says, there are more than five pentacle gems. In fact, I know of at least eight in existence.’ Jelindel paused, weighing up her chances of getting a further confession out of Hargav. ‘Where does Larachel fit into all of this?’

Hargav shrugged. ‘He’s a simple envoy, on the make. He doesn’t intend returning to D’loom with the profits from this trip.’

‘That I believe,’ Jelindel said. ‘As for being a “simple envoy”, give me more credit. The pair of you are up to your necks in this. Where is he now? Did he go to the Duke’s palace with you?’

Hargav clenched his teeth.

‘So be it,’ Jelindel said. ‘You’re a foolish boy trying to play a man’s game. Now tell me where the Duke has his ringstone circle. Is it in his palace or not?’

Hargav looked startled when Jelindel’s hand shot out to stop him from turning, even before he had moved.

‘One false move, Hargav. That’s all you have left before I lose my patience. Now talk!’

‘But –’

‘You have your father back, and the Dragonfang sails on the morning tide. Tonight, I have business with the Duke. Where is the ringstone?’

Hargav told Jelindel everything she wanted to know about the ringstone. At the end of their conversation she dwelled on just how much he had known, and how easily he had tricked her and the crew. There were massive holes in his story, but they would need to be filled at a more opportune time. As Captain Porterby was often heard to say, time was of the essence.

Jelindel locked Hargav in a storing compartment. She located Henrik and filled him in on as much as she felt he needed to know. ‘I’ve locked Hargav away for the time being until I get a chance to talk to him properly. I suggest you put a guard on him.’

‘He’s unlikely to go far if his father’s on board,’ Henrik reasoned. ‘What’s he done this time? Stolen extra rations from the galley? I’ve warned him more than –’

‘It’s a lot more serious than that, Henrik. I suspect he’s been in league with others all this time. But I don’t have time to explain. The guard isn’t to prevent escape,’ Jelindel said, distractedly. ‘It’s to prevent his murder. There’s been a rotten apple on board and everything points to Larachel. But then, nothing pointed to Hargav and look where that led us.’

‘I’ll see to the guard,’ Henrik agreed. ‘I doubt any of the crew would like to lock up Larachel, though, Jaelin. There’s been talk, you know.’

‘I suspect there is more to Larachel than any of us could possibly imagine,’ Jelindel said. ‘But don’t worry, you’ll not find Larachel on board anyway.’

Jelindel collected the pentacle gem and the drones and left the Dragonfang at a run.

The Duke of Mordicar’s temple looked more like a fortified villa than a place where arcane rites were likely to be performed. The walls were high and thick enough to slow down a group of cavalry raiders long enough for the Duke’s private guards to man the defences, and light a beacon pyre to signal for help from the garrison at Mordicar.

Jelindel arrived on a hired horse, wearing light but expensive clothes that she had bought in Mordicar an hour earlier. Her tanned skin and sun-bleached hair were not conspicuous in this part of the continent, but she had visited a bathhouse to smooth out the more obvious signs of her recent sea voyage. An introduction was all she needed, but in order to get that she needed to be taken seriously.

Not far from the temple she spied a small house on a pair of enormous chicken legs. A pair of very large wings protruded from the sides of the house. Several men on stepladders beneath the port wing appeared to be working on an enormous splint for a broken bone.

‘Aye then, sound the test warning,’ called one of the men, and a large beak that protruded from the front of the house bellowed BUK BUK BUKCAW! Although Jelindel nearly fell from her horse, the peasants working in the nearby fields did not even look up. The wings began to move up very slowly. They descended again and locked vertically.

‘Not bad. We could take the splint off tomorrow,’ another man called. ‘After that, serious flight testing.’

Flight testing? Jelindel pondered. As she passed by, the enormous chicken legs walked a few yards, then squatted. Branches and leaves began to grow out of the roof. Never get me up in a thing like that, mused Jelindel.

She presented herself as an itinerant Adept at the temple gates, and gave the gatekeeper a scrawled note of introduction. He sent for the steward, who could read, and the steward escorted Jelindel into the cloisters to await her summons. In order to establish his authority, the Duke wanted to keep Jelindel waiting. But the message he had been given contained the words ‘pentacle gem’.

While Jelindel waited she could hear the many sounds of the temple: the tolling of bells, the whispering of leather sandals scuffing the polished tiles as maids hurried about their work, the intermittent conversation of guards unusually alert at their posts. The temple and its adjacent buildings were full to capacity, yet there was an absence of the cooking smells that would indicate a great feast for the newly arrived guests. Rather, she smelt the fear in the air, and the perspiration of visitors unaccustomed to the equatorial humidity. There was an urgency about the place, a sense of nervous anticipation.

Jelindel filled her senses with everything the temple offered, and decided it was an unsavoury place. She felt some relief when her wait proved to be brief.

The Duke of Mordicar entered the antechamber a mere three minutes after her arrival. His attire was rich in mauves and magenta, his boots, of polished brown leather, covered his knees in courtly fashion. And the sword that hung from his waist was definitely not ceremonial.

Despite the warmth outside, the temple’s thick stone walls maintained an even cool temperature inside. Jelindel found herself wishing that she had purchased slightly warmer garments – it seemed the Duke was a stickler for court fashion.

The Duke stood beneath a guttering oil lamp. His coat of arms showed an embroidered snarling dragon’s head complete with fiery breath; not a crest Jelindel recognised.

‘My steward said that you were interested in selling a pentacle gem,’ he said, looking speculatively at Jelindel. ‘If that is true, you are welcome indeed. If false, you will leave here with your feet tied to your horse’s tail, after your horse has been given a good feeding of purgatives.’

‘A highly imaginative punishment,’ Jelindel said, off-handedly. All the same, her stomach tightened at the Duke’s candour. ‘But one that will be unnecessary. No, the word “selling” is the only small bend in the truth,’ she explained. ‘I actually intend to give it to you in return for a small favour.’

The Duke looked at her shrewdly then dismissed his lackeys with a click of his fingers. When the doors closed behind them, he said, ‘So? And what is that?’

‘I must be allowed to use your ringstone circle to get home.’

Doubt registered on the Duke’s face. ‘You – you are not of our world?’ he exclaimed. He stepped closer and peered at her.

It wasn’t the amount of incredulity that Jelindel had expected, but it was enough. ‘Correct.’

‘I cannot see a problem with that, as long as you have a pentacle gem in the first place. May I see it before we continue?’

Jelindel opened her hand to reveal a ruby-coloured pentacle gem. The Duke’s eyes widened, then narrowed just as quickly. ‘It’s a fake.’

It was Jelindel’s turn to feel alarm, but she hid it before it surfaced. ‘It’s not glowing as it should within range of the others,’ she said. ‘A simple cloaking device.’ She ran her fingers over the gem’s surface and mumbled a word of cleansing.

The gem shimmered with a lambent light.

The Duke’s hand twitched in Jelindel’s direction. She closed her fingers over the gem again.

‘Well?’ she asked. ‘Are you satisfied?’

‘If it is genuine, we appear to have a deal – but any carnival spell vendor can make objects glow. There is one way to be certain, of course. Come with me. You have arrived at a most fortuitous time – my other guests are also waiting.’

Jelindel quelled her alarm and smiled. She had hoped to look around before committing herself to the ringstone circle. Although Lady Forturian had instructed her in the ceremony of stone circle rites, it was a different matter altogether to plunge into one without due preparation.

The ringstone was in the open air, in the centre of the temple courtyard. The five stones were neatly chiseled columns. Each one had a little concave in the top and a single emerald stud to mark the exact centre.

Three separate groups of servants escorted the first three pentacle gems from their vaults within the temple. No one person or group was allowed to have access to all three at the same time. A small squad of guards in Skeltian armour carried the box with the fourth gem. The great doors to the courtyard were closed and guards took their positions beside them. The rite could not be interrupted.

‘The fourth pentacle gem belongs to the Preceptor,’ the Duke explained, pleasantly. ‘It is only here on loan, for our mutual benefit.’

Jelindel saw a hawk-faced man watching the proceedings from a distance. He was flanked by a pair of guards. The Preceptor, without a doubt. The man who had quite possibly signed her family’s death warrant. The man, who, with his Adept 12 Fa’red, was the most powerful man on the continent.

The Duke donned a plain black silken robe. His retainer belted the robe, adjusted the cowl and fixed a silver clasp.

‘I take it you have fasted, Jaelin?’ the Duke asked.

‘For three days,’ she lied. Apart from two dry biscuits, she had fasted for six weeks of ‘normal’ time, since the last meal she had eaten at Lady Forturian’s had been lunch in her alternate time.

‘Excellent, excellent,’ the Duke said. ‘Then there shan’t be any mishaps. It’s important the rite be performed according to the rules of such things. Now take your position.’

Jelindel bowed and joined the ceremonial party. She noted that neither the Preceptor nor Fa’red had stepped forward to insert their pentacle gem in the ringstone. Perfect.

They waited while retainers lit consecrated incense candles set in iron sconces. The pungent scent of blackwood and hoop-grass hung in the air. A gong boomed for five sonorous counts. A hushed expectancy washed over Jelindel, as though all her training, the sum total of her experience, had led her to this moment.

One by one, the pentacle gems were ceremoniously lifted from their containers and placed in each stone’s concave. Finally, it was Jelindel’s turn. She took the fire gem between her thumb and forefinger and placed it in the concave of the fifth stone.

She didn’t immediately join the dignitaries and their retainers in the procession. They shuffled three times around the ringstone, each sprinkling salt to purify and protect the space they were about to create. A sombre chanting of the Om mantra rose from the retainers as they drew pentagrams to banish the negative energy. The mantra was one word only, chanted end over end in one monotonous drone. Jelindel moved slowly towards the chanters, but kept within the consecrated circle.

The Duke stood by the north point with his hands held aloft in open supplication, and invoked the elements of fire, air, earth and water. The procession stopped, and drew invoking pentagrams for positive energy.

The chanting rose in crescendo as the core of power strengthened. The air stilled and Jelindel felt a tingling energy run through her. She had read the runes of the portal spell in The Book of Alchemorum, but hearing them invoked in the Duke’s booming voice, the bass chanting and the Duke’s intricate gesticulations, Jelindel realised that the Duke had also been trained in the arts. But had his mentor read correctly the formula hidden within the runes, as Lady Forturian had? Jelindel hoped not.

The Duke thanked the elements in turn and dismissed them, releasing the excess power back into the earth. Trance-like, the chanters now visualised a paraplane portal.

A slight wind hissed throughout the courtyard, whisking the dust into eddying whirlpools that battered and stung the gathering. The closed doors shook on their hinges. Everyone stood their ground. The spell was starting to work. Fine lines of energy were forming a matrix in the centre of the ringstone.

The Duke’s voice rang with unflagging power. The words of enchantment boomed above the now howling wind. ‘Ashstillin!’

Eyes clenched shut against the stinging wind and the brilliance of the portal, the chanters took up the call. ‘Ashstillin!’ echoed between the four walls of the courtyard.

The portal shimmered, faded, then was called back by the powerful incantation. The spherical portal solidified and swallowed the wind like water pouring into a drain.

Magic is a little like fencing. You have to actually do it to learn the subtle aspects. It was stated in The Book of Alchemorum, stolen from the Hazarian library by the Preceptor, that one should stand within the circle and chant certain spells once the last pentacle gem was in place. What the book had failed to mention was that from the instant the gem was placed on the standing stone, the circle would be surrounded by a sphere of unreality. Thus making it absolutely impenetrable.

Now or never, thought Jelindel. She ran to the first column and replaced the pentacle gem with one of Lady Forturian’s drones. Fluctuations in the transference disturbed the portal’s calling, causing the Duke to gasp with alarm. He called to Jelindel to get back.

Ignoring him, Jelindel made it to the second and third columns before the Duke realised his mistake. He ordered his men into the sphere. Several rushed forward but were instantly incinerated.

‘Kill her!’ he screamed at his archers.

The Preceptor’s men saw the Duke’s men stringing their bows. Assuming that the Duke had decided to dispose of the Preceptor now that he had a fifth gem, they charged across the lawn.

Jelindel knew nothing of the fighting. She ripped a fine chain from around her neck. It held a blue teardrop pendant. A daemon by the name of T’rr’ll had given her two of them.

Said to open transition gates to paraworlds, Jelindel prayed that they did, in fact, work. She then spoke a name-seeking incantation. A side of the blackness surrounding her began to lighten.

‘Ril’kss,’ Jelindel said, repeating T’rr’ll’s spell.

Reality warped in and out of focus as though viewed through a blurred farsight. Jelindel edged towards what appeared to be a mirage bubbling the air around her. A sphere of pulsating energy rippled like a disturbed pond and, with the briefest of hesitation, she stepped through it.

Chapter 17

RESCUE

The fiery sphere opened onto a hall of green and white stone. It was well lit, and very spacious. On the floor was a thick, richly decorated rug, and on the rug was a scatter of bars with stones attached to their ends. A man lay on his back in the centre of the rug. As Jelindel watched, he lifted a bar, keeping his arms straight until they were above his chest. Then he slowly lowered it again. He was wearing only trousers, and she could see that his muscles were well-defined, although not massive. It seemed to her that he was halfway between Daretor’s muscular build and Zimak’s thin frame.

The man sat up, sweat gleaming on his face. Zimak’s face. It was Zimak after a great deal of exercise and careful dieting. A well-trimmed beard covered his chin.

The man noticed the hole that had opened amid the hangings on the wall. Scratching his head, he moved to where a pile of clothes and armour lay. He picked up a sword and backed away slowly to the door.

The sphere held steady. According to Lady Forturian, the bridge between worlds was normally a sphere open at two sides, each end in a different world. This particular one only opened into one, because Jelindel had studied the properties of the gems in more detail than the Duke. This was one of many options available.

Before her, Zimak backed away further, his sword held up and at the ready. Jelindel realised that the blue teardrop had collapsed in her hand. She let the powder fall to the floor, but put the anchor gem into her pouch. Somehow, T’rr’ll’s transition gate pendant had been imprinted with Zimak’s mind. Or, perhaps, Daretor was nearby.

‘So, Zimak, we meet again.’ She winced inwardly. Even to her own ears she sounded too formal.

Daretor stared for a moment. It was Jelindel dressed as a boy again. The last time he had seen her, she had declared her femininity and let loose her hair. What was the little vixen up to now?

‘Jelindel? Or is it Jaelin? What trickery is this?’

‘I’m Jaelin at present,’ she said, folding her arms. ‘No tricks. I’m not even armed.’ Jelindel held her hands out, palms raised. The last time he had seen her she had shot him with a weapon called a thundercast.

Daretor lowered his sword, but said nothing. His face contorted with the effort to understand what his eyes were seeing, and his mind denying. Jelindel/Jaelin returned like some demi god from a miraculous hole in the wall. Surely Zimak and Premiel were teasing him with some cheap conjuring trick.

Jelindel regarded him candidly. It seemed Zimak was either too flabbergasted to speak, or he was so furious with her that he couldn’t speak.

‘Look, I’m sorry about what I did. Things just got out of hand – between your cunning and Daretor’s obsession with honour –’

‘Honour,’ Daretor growled. This was something he did understand. ‘What about your treachery? You banished us here when you got what you wanted. You used us, Jelindel. After all we did for you.’

‘After all you did for me?’ Jelindel echoed, astonished. ‘I saved both of you from Jabez Thull.’

‘And who guarded the “Mage Auditor” every time she pitted herself against unbeatable odds? Longrical. The Valley of Clouds. The King of Skelt. And for what?’ Daretor spoke rapidly, unleashing his frustration.

‘You wanted the mailshirt as much as I did,’ Jelindel threw back.

‘To destroy it,’ Daretor seethed.

‘And that’s just what I did.’

‘Prove it.’

Jelindel shook her head. ‘That’s the Zimak I know. You haven’t changed,’ she said, tightly. How could this have gone so horribly wrong? ‘So, does Daretor know about the dragonlink ring yet?’ she asked.

‘I have no idea what you are saying,’ Daretor replied, warily. He halted just short of the door. If indeed this was a trick, he would not give Zimak and Premiel the satisfaction of seeing him flee the room. But if it was some sort of conjuring act, it was a damnably convincing one.

‘Zimak, take me for what you will, but do not take me for a fool. All your fighting skills came from a dragonlink ring encased in lead. If I had just taken that dragonlink, Daretor would have noticed that your fighting skills had vanished at the same time as your supposedly lead ring.’

The youth Jelindel thought was Zimak nodded slowly. ‘His sword skills were sucked from his body by a dragonlink ring. He has a justifiable hatred of anyone who gets their fighting skills by wearing a ring,’ he said.

‘True,’ Jelindel said, snagging on the word ‘justifiable’. How unlike Zimak to find anything noble to say about Daretor. His time on this paraworld had been well spent. ‘He would have started shouting about honour and chivalry, then he might have killed you. On the other hand, I needed to get all the dragonlinks together in order to destroy the mailshirt, so I made it seem as if I had betrayed both of you by flinging you into this paraworld.’

Daretor glared at her. ‘So what are you really doing with the mailshirt now? Ruling Q’zar?’

‘I told you I destroyed it. Now I need to rescue you and Daretor, and get you both home. It has been difficult. Travel between paraworlds without the mailshirt is not easy. Even more difficult will be explaining to Daretor that I sent you two here because you were wearing a dragonlink.’

Daretor let his guard down. He had suspected Zimak’s treachery from the beginning, but the cunning weasel had always lied his way out of admitting guilt. ‘Actually, explaining that will be easy. Explaining it in such a way that will prevent me from setting upon Zimak and spreading him all over the flood plain more thinly than this carpet is the real trick.’

‘You have the measure of my … dilemma …’ Jelindel’s voice trailed away. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked after a long silence. ‘You are Zimak. Tell me that I’m not wrong.’

‘Thanks to some rather creative wizardry there has been an exchange of bodies,’ said the man with Zimak’s body. ‘I was tricked into using a machine, which was supposed to take me back to Q’zar.’ Daretor froze. Had he just been tricked into giving Premiel’s people the truename of his homeworld?

‘That reminds me of something,’ Jelindel said, anxiously. ‘But finish your tale first.’

Daretor shrugged off his unease. No one could have manifested as perfect a copy of Jelindel as this. ‘Some ancients regenerate their bodies when the old ones wear out. They decided that they wanted our bodies – outlanders are prized here. They were thwarted, but at a high price – for everyone except Zimak, at any rate. Two of the ancients are dead – a woman survived. Zimak is the monarch of these lands right now.’

‘King Zimak.’ Jelindel shook her head.

Daretor scoffed at her confusion. ‘Are you telling me that you are not Queen Jelindel back on Q’zar?’

Jelindel’s eyebrow rose.

‘The mailshirt,’ Daretor said. ‘Tell me you did not send us here so you could rule the world.’

‘I destroyed the mailshirt,’ Jelindel reiterated.

‘A likely story.’

‘But a true one,’ Jelindel said. ‘It had a dark life source. One that sought a surrogate to rule.’ She paused. ‘We don’t really have time for this right now.’

He waved her away. ‘Look at me. I have my own troubles.’

‘Your own is a very unlikely story,’ Jelindel began.

‘I have proof that you could never refute,’ Daretor said as the picked up a tunic. ‘But first, what is involved in getting the three of us back to Q’zar?’

‘A simple procedure, involving a small, blue jewel. Once started it cannot be stopped, so make sure that you have whatever you want to take before I initiate it.’

‘Lies,’ he laughed, derisively. ‘We arrived here naked, only living bodies can be transported.’

‘After I stunned the two of you with the thundercast, I had you stripped to create that impression. It seemed like a good enough reason for why Zimak’s ring was absent. Under unusual circumstances, an undirected jump can singe your hair a little. Was your hair singed?’

‘It was, now that you mention it. I never … on second thought, perhaps there is sense in what you say,’ Daretor said as he buckled on his sword belt and picked up his helmet. ‘You arrived here with all your clothes on, after all. Why is your hair not singed?’

‘Because I did things properly.’

‘That tells me a lot.’

‘Well, do five years of schoolwork, plus a year specialising in Applied Enchantment and Creative Wizardry, and then come back and demand an explanation. Actually, do all that and you will not need to ask.’

Daretor silently fumed. He wanted so much to believe in her. ‘All right, all right,’ he said dismissively, waving his hand. ‘You tend to the magic and I’ll swing the sword. When can we leave?’

‘Before we go anywhere, I need to know if you have told anyone Q’zar’s truename.’

‘No one will follow us back home, if that is what you’re worried about. So no, we kept that a secret – this much we learned from you.’ He collected his sword and strode to the door, flinging it open. He searched the corridor, then beckoned for her to follow.

Jelindel suddenly began to have doubts. The man before her looked like Zimak, but talked like Daretor. No, that was not entirely true. He looked like a Zimak who had been exercising frantically in order to look like Daretor. There was limited scope for this, as Zimak was eighteen inches shorter than Daretor, yet Zimak had never bothered to work hard at building his muscles. Jelindel’s impressions of what was meant to be began to waver alarmingly.

‘Do you wish to see convincing proof that Zimak now lives in my body?’ asked the little man before her.

‘Well – I, yes. But if you are, indeed Daretor, then you know about the dragonlink that Zimak once wore –’

‘Oh, don’t worry, I have a far worse fate planned for him now. But come, I wish you to meet someone.’

‘As in someone with Daretor’s body?’ asked Jelindel, suspiciously.

‘No, it is someone who has been getting very little attention from Daretor’s body for at least a week, if not longer.’

At that instant the sphere between worlds collapsed with a loud blast, vanishing.

Daretor stumbled backwards as the sound waves cracked the air. Jelindel tumbled to the ground and groaned. Lady Forturian had been wrong. The power of the drone gems lasted for only minutes, not hours. The full horror of this knowledge was quickly dawning on Jelindel.

Daretor led Jelindel outside. A short distance along the corridor they found four guards checking the rooms.

‘Did you hear a clap of thunder just now?’ demanded a centurion. He looked dubiously at Jelindel, as did his men.

‘Indeed I did,’ said Daretor. ‘Out of a clear sky as well. That is a very bad sign.’

‘A bad sign?’ the centurion queried. His narrowed eyes didn’t leave Jelindel.

‘Thunder out of a clear sky means that a king is about to die,’ continued Daretor. ‘Leave off this searching now, and take us to the queen. This person with me is, ah …’ He stared at Jelindel, who was dressed as a sailor and did not look particularly female. ‘My friend here is a famous prophet who has an announcement for the ears of the queen and nobody else.’

The centurion hesitated.

‘Move,’ Daretor said, striding forward. ‘Or have you forgotten that I am Prince Ulad’s personal guard?’

The centurion’s face paled. He thumped his chest with a closed fist. ‘All right, men, to her Majesty’s chambers, at once.’

Queen Premiel’s audience chamber was about what Jelindel expected: rich hangings on the walls, thick, richly patterned carpet on the floors, high, arched windows of leadlight and coloured glass, an elevated throne, and several massive trunks bound with iron. Premiel was sitting on the throne when Jelindel and Daretor entered. Light streamed in from the window behind her, and she was being fawned over by several handmaidens. Four guards were stationed around the room.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said when she saw Daretor. She sighed elaborately. ‘Can’t this wait? I have matters of state to consider before –’

‘I must have an audience with you, now,’ said Daretor, urgently. ‘Just you, me, and my prophet.’

The queen closed her mouth slowly. The little man would pay for his impudence later. ‘Very well, the rest of you, out!’ she ordered. She clapped her hands to emphasise her authority.

The doors boomed shut behind Jelindel, announcing that it was safe to talk. The queen descended from her throne. To Jelindel she looked like a strikingly attractive twenty year old. But her manner gave Jelindel pause for thought. The poise with which she carried her body spoke of total arrogance and confidence, traits that were usually learned over years.

‘Well, what orders does my King have for me now?’ Premiel asked, haughtily. ‘Surely he has not grown weary of that pile of naked slave girls that he wallows amid all day. The man’s simply insatiable.’

‘Some of them wear jewellery,’ said Daretor.

‘Indeed, and it is my jewellery,’ retorted the Queen.

‘And it can be yours again,’ Daretor said. ‘How would you like to be rid of your monarch and rule alone?’

‘What do you mean?’ The Queen looked from Daretor to Jelindel. ‘If you are trying to lure me into some assassination plot and betray me, then turn around and walk straight out again …’

‘Oh, nothing so crass,’ said Daretor. ‘Allow me to introduce Jaelin, an agent of the, ah, justice system from your new monarch’s homeland.’

Daretor gestured to Jelindel who decided that a bow was appropriate for the occasion. She only gave a half bow, befitting a male’s subservience.

‘Justice system?’ asked the Queen, sneering at Jelindel. ‘He looks and smells more like a felon than a lawman.’ She waved away Daretor’s intended response. ‘It matters not. As for my brutish companion – is he something of a criminal?’

‘He is required to face punishment in our homeworld,’ said Jelindel, flatly. Her mind was trying to visualise Zimak in Daretor’s body, sprawling amid a mass of naked female flesh and occasional items of jewellery.

‘Well, you are welcome to try to extract him. But bear in mind that the palace guards have decided that he is the person from whom they will take their orders. Besides, I thought you were his loyal friend – the man he would never have leave his side?’ She laughed at some hidden joke.

‘Oh, no, I am a member of the same justice system that Jaelin represents. I am a mere minion, an agent of unimpressive magical powers. It was my job to stay near Zimak until Jaelin could catch up.’

The Queen’s face lost its smile. ‘Such a devoted lawman you must be, to allow your body to be swapped with his.’

‘I would do anything in the cause of honour and justice. Now, I would like your help in getting Zimak into the temple and strapped into the double chair where souls are transferred. Before I leave here, I would like to be me again, in my rightful body.’

‘And do you think you can keep him sitting there for fifty years?’ asked the Queen.

‘I – what?’

‘The high priest, Modar, is dead. We had an arrangement with him, an arrangement that has lasted many centuries. He gets swapped into a younger body when we do, and in return he makes the magical processes work. They are very complex processes – in fact, he was forty by the time he made his original discovery, and ninety by the time he developed the skills to perform the very complex and difficult rites to make the lightning fish generate their purple fires. It will take an intelligent and promising novice fifty years to develop the skills to replace Modar. All of his notes are in that trunk.’

The trunk she was pointing at hinted at a life time’s worth of reading material.

‘Fifty years,’ muttered Daretor between clenched teeth. ‘I’d not be surprised if that weasel Zimak planned his assassination. What will my body look like after fifty years of gluttony, debauchery, and lust?’

‘Unattractive, at best?’ suggested Jelindel.

‘And meantime the filthy swine gets fifty years of very pleasant living. It does seem like cutting off my nose to spite my face … but who needs a nose?’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Jelindel.

‘Your highness, Queen Premiel, would you be willing to part with a hundred gold crowns, and a dozen or so gems of passable worth in order to remove Zimak from the throne?’

The Queen contemplated the offer. ‘Ah … it is a lot, but in exchange for a kingdom it is very little.’

She went to a trunk, withdrew a ring of keys from her robes, and unlocked the heavy padlock. From within the trunk she scooped up a handful of gold coins. They were about the diameter of a fingernail, but were quite thick. Daretor opened his purse and held it out. She counted a hundred coins. The items of jewellery that he chose surprised the queen. They were relatively small and tasteful, and fitted into his purse easily.

‘What is wrong with the expensive pieces?’ she asked, ‘or are they too garish for your fine outlandish taste?’

Daretor ignored the sarcasm. ‘I want to be able to dispose of them for a fair profit, but without drawing undue attention. I shall also want a cloak with a cowl for my associate here.’

The Queen went to another trunk and took out a deep-black cloak, which had a bluish sheen about it. The hood did not hide Jelindel’s face, but its shadow made it impossible to recognise her features. Daretor stood back and regarded her with satisfaction, then turned to the Queen.

‘Now come with us, we have a King to remove.’

Zimak was in one of the sun chambers on the other side of the palace, and the walk there took over ten minutes.

‘When the three of us, Jaelin, Zimak and myself are together, and in the clear, I want you to say a magical incantation,’ Daretor told the Queen as they walked.

‘You will have a royal time of it getting him clear of all those girls,’ she replied. ‘The man indulges the fantasies of a dozen men and still he is never satisfied.’

Jelindel tightened her jaws and cheeks to dampen her smile.

‘You must say “Zarabastllim, tar psylertien”,’ said Daretor, ignoring her.

‘What do the words mean?’ the Queen asked, suspiciously.

‘Nothing, I just made them up.’

‘But –’

‘It will make you look like a potent sorceress, and nobody will challenge you when Zimak is gone. After that, you must slowly reform the slave economy in your realm, so that in ten years’ time it is abolished. At the end of that ten years, Jaelin and I shall come back and check on you. If you have not made substantial progress, at the very least, you will be magicked out of your bed one night and taken to our world for trial.’

‘What?’ exclaimed the Queen. ‘Your laws are those of another realm. They cannot possibly hold sway here.’

‘And if you are within that realm, they will apply to you. Think about it. Freed slaves make good and loyal citizens, and fight a lot harder in defence of the kingdom.’

‘Ten years? I cannot do it!’

Daretor stopped, holding up his purse. Jelindel and the Queen stopped, too. Daretor stared at the purse, then as though making up his mind, he thrust it forward. ‘Then we just might let Zimak reign here for a while longer. Take back your gold and baubles –’

The Queen shook her head violently. ‘No. Keep it all. Just get rid of him. I shall do what I can.’

Queen Premiel went ahead, leaving Daretor and Jelindel within hailing distance.

‘Daretor, I can’t do it,’ hissed Jelindel. ‘I can’t fetch her away in ten years. Travel between worlds is incredibly hard, and this one has a particularly high energy barrier.’

‘She does not need to know that,’ replied Daretor. ‘If the deceitful wench keeps even half of the bargain, our time here will have been worth it.’

Jelindel smacked her head lightly. ‘What am I thinking of? It’s Daretor in Zimak’s body. Anything is possible.’ She shook her head to clear it.

They waited. Heralds and stewards came out of a door at the far end of the corridor, and returned with guards, priests, and several royal advisors. Finally, a herald approached Daretor and Jelindel.

‘Centurion, you may now escort the prophet into the King’s chambers,’ he announced.

They were shown into the sun chamber, which was bright, pleasantly warm, and fairly large. On a dais, a man appearing to be Daretor was lying on a pile of richly embroidered cushions. He was wearing only red silk trousers. The rest of him was uncovered – except for his lower abdominal muscles, that is, which were covered by a layer of fat. A girl was rubbing oil into his chest, while another held the pipe of a water cooler for him. Yet a third held a golden goblet of wine.

Jelindel counted fifteen girls before she gave up counting. The place was otherwise spartan – Daretor having earlier dismissed most of Zimak’s guards.

‘That has to be Zimak,’ Jelindel said, laconically.

‘Ah, my noble centurion of the chamber guard,’ boomed Zimak with Daretor’s deep, powerful voice. ‘My Queen tells me that a prophet has arrived. Show him to me this minute.’

‘As you wish, your Majesty,’ replied Daretor, with a commanding gesture to the hooded Jelindel.

They approached Zimak, and Jelindel bowed in a fawning manner.

‘Well, then, come on,’ Zimak said, impatiently. ‘Tell me of my future.’ He stretched out his hand to Jelindel.

Jelindel grasped his hand and pretended to study the palm.

‘You will die in childbirth,’ she began. ‘Oh, sorry, that must be one of your companions. You want to lose weight without your breasts losing size – oh, my apologies. You are pregnant by the palace guard’s centurion, but you intend to blame it on … no, that cannot be you, your Majesty.’

Eyes furious, Zimak shook off the girls around him and slowly rose to his feet. Even after an extended period of sumptuous living, the man’s body was impressive. He pushed himself up from the cushions.

‘Well, I am clear of the others now,’ he said. ‘See my future.’

Jelindel held out her hand to him but he shied away out of reach.

‘You were not born of this kingdom, or even this world,’ she droned in monotone. ‘You have a finger which is short and crooked, the first phalange of the thumb is heavy, and the second phalange poor … the lower mounts are over-developed and your heart line is short and without branches.’

The expectant hush continued until Zimak looked down at his hand. A smile creased his face. ‘Go on, O Wise One. What does all this mean?’

Jelindel moved closer, staring intently at Zimak’s palm, which he held steady for her. ‘You are passionate, tyrannical, have no sense of honour or duty, and your selfishness is the ruling power of your life.’

Zimak looked pointedly at Daretor. It was, after all, his palm. Zimak’s smile widened.

‘Ah. You will not die in this kingdom.’ Jelindel finally touched Zimak’s hand.

Zimak blinked and stared at the hooded figure. He was clearly impressed. Was the prophet hinting at immortality? Would he live to be older than Ulad?

Jelindel shrieked and tightened her grasp on Zimak’s hand. ‘A star. A star on the mound. There is a strong chance you will be killed in battle, or assassinated!’

‘Where will I die?’ Zimak demanded. It wasn’t too late to return to his own body.

Jelindel looked up. ‘I cannot see clearly.’ She reached out further as though seeking a helping hand to mount the steps. ‘I must touch your other hand – it enhances the power.’

‘I caution against it,’ said Daretor, stepping up to the dais. But Zimak’s personal guard barred him from approaching.

‘You … have the most boring amorous life of anyone I have ever seen,’ announced Jelindel.

Zimak instantly relaxed and roared with laughter. He was quickly joined by everyone in the chamber, except Daretor.

‘A true and accurate prophet indeed,’ said Zimak.

‘If this guard takes hold of your arm,’ Jelindel said, indicating Daretor, ‘I can see into your future through him,’ suggested Jelindel.

‘Well now, that seems safe enough,’ said Zimak. He made an imperious movement with his hand and his guards stepped back. He held out his brawny arm. Daretor gripped it tightly.

‘Ah, yes, ah, yes,’ shouted Jelindel. ‘I see it all, I see where you will die.’

‘Where?’ Despite himself, Zimak was almost frightened.

‘Some alley behind a tavern in Skelt, I should think,’ said Jelindel, displaying a blue teardrop on the palm of her free hand. She closed her fingers over it and spoke the spell given to her by T’rr’ll.

At that moment Queen Premiel swept aside a curtain. She had brought with her a dozen loyal guards. She waved her hands in what she hoped were impressive magical gestures and shouted, ‘Zarabastllim, tar psylertien.’ Blue tendrils boiled over Daretor, Zimak and Jelindel. Suddenly they vanished with a loud blast. Disoriented by the explosion and bright light, every one turned to Premiel for guidance.

It worked, Premiel screamed inwardly. For one hundred gold crowns and some jewellery worth about as much again she had absolute control of the kingdom.

‘He crossed me, he neglected me, and he has paid the price!’ she shouted. Everyone looked convinced. ‘All guards loyal to me, raise your hands.’ Every guard in the room raised his hand. ‘You and you,’ she said, pointing to two guards whose disloyalty stood out clearly in her mind. ‘Congratulations on your appointment as envoys to the barbarian raiders of the plains. You women, I have decided to free you from your bondage as courtesan slaves.’ Seventeen faces brightened with delight. ‘In return you will spend ten years cleaning the palace stables and scrubbing out the guardhouse privies. Get some sensible clothes on and get to work.’

Zimak had not been as prepared as Daretor and Jelindel for what had happened, and he fell to the ground when they materialised. He uttered a high-pitched squeak and exhaled loudly as though the air had been knocked from his lungs. He sat for a moment, eyes wide with disbelief.

Jelindel and Daretor quickly stepped out of the red-hot stone circle and beckoned for Zimak to follow. There were bodies everywhere. The Duke of Mordicar’s villa was in ruins. The garden beds charred and blasted. Heat from the smouldering rocks made Zimak scramble up and hop from one foot to the other.

‘Where am I?’ he shouted. ‘Guards! Guards, attend me!’

‘Keep shouting like that and a great many guards will attend you very quickly,’ called Daretor. ‘If you want to stay alive, however, keep quiet and come with us.’

‘Where am I?’ Zimak wailed. ‘Hey. Wait for me.’

‘You are in a recently razed temple in northern Bravenhurst,’ said Jelindel, ‘and, what is more, we are not meant to be here. Now do you want to be killed or not?’

Zimak followed. He stepped on the line of melted rock and screamed with pain. Then he ran. Jelindel was dressed as a sailor, and Daretor as a palace guard, but Zimak was wearing red silk trousers, a dozen or so rings, and nothing else.

‘Get dressed, Zimak. You look like a whoopsie in those pantaloons.’ Jelindel tossed him the cloak that Queen Premiel had given her.

Zimak hastily wrapped the cloak around himself and began stripping a corpse. In the distance horses were galloping, and people shouting. They were the shouts of a highly organised group planning a hurried but methodical search.

‘There’s been a skirmish since I left,’ Jelindel said. ‘It appears the explosion caused by the paraworld bridge killed the Duke and half his men.’ She examined several burnt bodies, including that of the Duke. He was almost unrecognisable, save for the clothes he had been wearing.

Daretor climbed a mound of blackened rubble banked against a wrecked wall, and peered through a shattered leadlight window. ‘And who’s killing the rest?’ he asked.

Jelindel joined him. In the middle distance she could see the Preceptor’s standard.

‘I see it now,’ Daretor said. ‘It appears they’re laying siege.’

Zimak scrambled up the slope, avoiding several spot fires. ‘Hie, Jelindel. This is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into.’

Jelindel and Daretor turned and in unison said, ‘Zimak, shut up.’

As they spoke the Preceptor’s men began deploying along the eastern battlements, although they stood well back. Men scurried to shore up the defences, but the Preceptor’s battalion easily outnumbered the decimated Mordicarian army.

‘One doesn’t need to be a master strategist to know what’s going to happen here,’ Jelindel said, sombrely. ‘The Preceptor’s short on time – already the Duke’s officers would have sent word to his brother in Sezel. That’s maybe only a two days’ fast ride away – less by sea. The five pentacle gems are in my possession, but the Preceptor doesn’t know that.’

‘Gah,’ Zimak said. ‘You’ve got what you want, as always. Now let’s get out of here before there’s a massacre.’

‘Shut up, Zimak,’ Jelindel hissed. ‘The Preceptor has an Adept 12 called Fa’red, remember? He’s bound to be here somewhere, probing the location for the pentacle gems. It doesn’t matter where we run, he’ll find us. Together, the five gems leave a magical trail too bright for me to cloak completely.’

‘Well, there’s an easy solution,’ Zimak snapped. ‘Leave the dummart pentacle gems here.’

‘Zimak,’ Daretor said. ‘You have the brain of a toad mouse. If the pentacle gems were of no value, Jelindel would not risk our lives for them; furthermore, the Preceptor wouldn’t be halfway across the continent in search of them.’

‘Our lives are not hers to risk,’ Zimak said. ‘But why should you worry, Daretor? You’ve got what you wanted anyway. You’re back home.’

‘Not in my body I’m not, you little toad.’

‘And I’m not in mine,’ Zimak said. ‘Besides, I seem to remember a certain mailshirt that we risked our lives to find, and look what happened to us then.’

‘Jelindel?’ Daretor said.

‘To leave the pentacle gems here would be to open Q’zar to a horde of abominations from other worlds,’ Jelindel explained, patiently. ‘Imagine leaving a key behind that would open unimaginable power. That is what you’re suggesting, Zimak. Now if you can’t come up with something constructive to say –’

‘If either one of you tells me to shut up again,’ Zimak seethed, ‘I won’t be responsible for my actions.’

‘Sorry –’ Jelindel began.

‘Apology accepted,’ Zimak said, brusquely.

‘– it’s just that I find it hard to take you seriously when I think of you wearing those silk pantaloons,’ Jelindel finished.

‘Right,’ Zimak snapped.

‘Look,’ Daretor said, urgently. ‘The Preceptor’s Adept. There’s a black mist sweeping across the battlements. Jelindel do something.’

Fa’red was not visible, although his position at the epicentre of the spreading wave of blackness was easily located. Jelindel promptly remembered Lady Forturian’s lessons. She was a novice Adept 10, about to do battle with an Adept 12. No contest, not without a powerful weapon, like the mailshirt.

Shrill screams rent the air. The blackness swept over the battlements as though feeding on oxygen. Every living being it touched simply vanished, as though devoured. The blackness stretched forward, questing this way and that. It seeped across the ground like a flood of oil.

Jelindel racked her brain for its meaning. Fa’red had unleashed an anomaly. He had opened a floodgate that was causing a paraplane to be sucked into Q’zar like a vacuum. When Jelindel realised this, she caught her breath. It was a highly dangerous spell, for whatever lived in the paraplane, could also get sucked into Q’zar. And predators knew no allegiance to friend or foe. The Preceptor’s men were as much at risk as the Duke’s. Which meant he would hold his force back within Fa’red’s protection for the time being.

The Duke’s men were in full retreat. Several rushed past where Jelindel, Daretor and Zimak crouched. Fear-crazed, the men simply scrabbled past without question.

Daretor and Zimak looked frantically at Jelindel. ‘Is it swallowing everything in its path or simply covering it?’ Daretor asked. ‘Jelindel!’

‘Judging by the screams,’ Jelindel said, anxiously, ‘I’d say it’s swallowing. They call these things shadowlands.’

‘I’m not waiting –’ Zimak said as he shoved away.

Jelindel caught his arm and dragged him back. ‘There’s no running from a shadowland,’ she said. ‘Now just sit tight. There’s something we’re missing here. Why didn’t Fa’red let loose his spell earlier? The Preceptor’s time is short. He needs the pentacle gems urgently, yet only now has Fa’red moved against the Duke’s army.’

She peered across the broken terrain. The Preceptor had a full guard contingent with him – possibly a hundred and fifty lancers of his elite guard, plus retainers and others who could be called upon to bulk up his guard if conflict ensued. That made about one hundred and seventy men. From what she had ascertained, the Duke was dead and the villa was being defended by less than a hundred of his house staff and guards. It was clear in their blackened, stony faces that every last one would be slaughtered.

‘Fire,’ Daretor said, suddenly. ‘A fire beats back a shadow.’

Jelindel clicked her fingers. ‘Daretor. You’re brilliant. Fa’red was probably waiting for the spot fires to ease back. Get moving you two. Feed whatever fires are left. Quick about it. That shadowland has swept half the villa.’

‘And you?’ Daretor said. ‘It’s coming this way – fast.’

‘Move, Daretor,’ Jelindel said, hoarsely. ‘I think I can stop it. Just leave me, now.’

Daretor and Zimak slid back towards the dying fires. Within minutes they were piling every piece of timber they could find on to the embers. Soon, even the remnants of the Duke’s army were joining them, as though there was logic in their actions. The fires blazed and bit back at the darkness, which even now was sending thin tendrils across the clearing.

Jelindel cupped her hands. It was simple enough to create a light source for reading, but another thing entirely to conjure light that could withstand Fa’red’s powerful shadowland. Jelindel spoke the word of light. A gaseous glow nestled in her palms. ‘Actilaral!’ She accentuated the word, and even as she spoke, her body shivered as her life force fed the globe of swirling light. It glowed brighter and enveloped her hands and wrists. She closed her eyes as the globe strengthened and coalesced, pulsing out a brilliance that made her turn away and clench her eyes shut. The light spiralled out of her like a stone thrown in a pond.

Jelindel slipped and slid back down the embankment. After fuelling the spell, her limbs were almost lifeless. She could almost feel the shadowland probing the outer limits of the globe’s ethereal light. Despite her waning strength, she repeated the spell word and the light burst out once more, throwing back the creeping shadows.

‘Gather around the light!’ Jelindel commanded. She was exhausted, but she pushed her weariness aside. ‘Don’t look at it – quickly now.’

A coldness swept over the clearing, bringing with it a keening wind. Some of the Duke’s men and staff fled, screaming from Jelindel’s protective light, others huddled around her, praying for salvation.

Jelindel ordered the Bravens to stand fast. But even as she spoke, she felt the shadowland’s frosty embrace. Don’t fail me, she pleaded. The night sky turned black as the shadowland occluded everything at the light’s borders. It swept and probed the pocket of resistance. Tendrils of stabbing frost pierced the bubble that was now spread out like a dome around the huddled group.

Jelindel felt the ground rise up to meet her but firm hands broke her fall. For a moment her light petered out and a great cry rent the air as the shadowland leapt hungrily forward. But a power flowed into Jelindel and the light blazed with pure white force.

The shadowland screeched as though burnt. Trapped within the sphere of light, it folded in upon itself and collapsed with a thunderclap. Beyond the light, the shadowland howled and fled back across the villa, sweeping over the broken parapets like a turbulent river.

Jelindel dared not open her eyes, but she knew another Adept had stepped forward to lend her strength. Together they fed the light that chased back the retreating shadowland. A gale-force wind rushed past them and then as abruptly as it had started, it was over.

Jelindel struggled to remember what happened to shadowlands that were denied food. Did they turn on their creators? Did they feed on that which called them forth? She hoped so. Fa’red was one Adept that she didn’t want coming after her for revenge.

Jelindel opened her eyes. When they adjusted, she gasped and shook her hand free. ‘Larachel!’

‘Don’t be so surprised,’ he said. His face was no longer well-tanned; rather it was blanched by the strain of maintaining Jelindel’s white light. He let his hand drop. ‘Do you think you could have come this far without my help?’

Jelindel gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Daretor and Zimak had pushed through the Duke’s people and were now at Larachel’s back.

Larachel smiled fleetingly, as though aware of their presence. ‘We should not fight, navigator. Even now I suspect our learned friend the Preceptor is rallying his forces.’ He turned to the Duke’s men. ‘You have three choices as I see them. You can stand and fight – and since this place is now indefensible, I suggest you would all die. You can flee, but I suspect the Preceptor will hunt every last one of you down, as he does anyone who defies his command. Or you can join the Dragonfang and take your chances at sea.’

Fifteen men and five women decided to take him up on the offer. The rest fled the ruins.

‘Larachel,’ Jelindel snapped. ‘There is no time, nor room on the ship for these people.’

Larachel smiled knowingly and looked down at her. ‘Only the bravest of men and women will accept such an offer,’ he whispered. ‘They’re a manageable enough lot,’ he added, impassively. ‘You forget … Jaelin, that we’ve lost eight crew members. How do you propose we handle the Dragonfang without a full crew?’

‘Daretor and Zimak are two good men I trust,’ she replied, coolly.

‘And the privateers who even now must be near?’ Larachel said. ‘We’ll need all the crew, and more besides, by the time this trip is finished.’

A dozen questions flooded Jelindel’s mind. Most of them had to do with why Larachel was helping her. But they would have to wait. At any minute the Preceptor’s men would attack, with or without the backing of his Adept 12.

‘We could have managed,’ she said, soberly. ‘But since these people have decided to place their safety in your hands, you had best lead them. Daretor, Zimak,’ she said curtly, and strode off with them in tow.

The tide would be turning by the time they reached the Dragon fang, and hopefully the crew would have finished loading supplies. Timing was crucial; Jelindel quickened her pace. The Duke’s people hurried after her, and Larachel brought up the rear.

‘What’s been happening since we’ve been gone, Jelindel?’ Zimak demanded.

Jelindel shook her head. Hearing Zimak speaking with Daretor’s voice was going to take some getting used to. ‘Not now, Zimak.’

Daretor moved alongside her. ‘Now is as good a time as any. You’ve put us in grave danger here, and we need to know why.’

‘Not to mention why you magicked us to another world and almost got us killed,’ Zimak put in. He snatched at Jelindel’s arm but she saw his intention even as he thought it. With a deft movement, she eluded his hand.

‘Very well, listen closely,’ Jelindel said. As briefly as she could, she told them most of what had happened since disposing of the mailshirt. By the time they arrived at the chaotic docklands, she was winding up her story. ‘Hargav is still locked up, I hope. The rest you know.’

Daretor glanced at Larachel. ‘I suspect we don’t have the full story,’ he said, ‘but that will do for now.’

‘What happened to the five pentacle gems?’ Zimak asked. He had to yell above the din as crews scrambled for their ships. Already the harbour was filling with craft as people fled the port. One half-manned galley had collided with two other vessels and their crews were fighting.

‘They’re safe, and that’s all you need to know,’ Jelindel said, bluntly.

‘Not when my life hangs in the balance,’ Zimak snorted. He made a strangling noise and said, ‘Gah, look behind us.’

A pall of broiling smoke wafted above the Duke’s ruined temple.

‘The Preceptor’s men are sweeping through the grounds,’ said Jelindel. ‘Some of the remaining guards will be resisting. The Preceptor will soon learn that we are not there, and be on his way to the harbour.’

They boarded the Dragonfang and located Captain Porterby.

‘Cast off, sail now!’ Jelindel cried.

‘What? But the crew. We should wait for the rest of them, Jaelin. And who are all these people?’

‘This says that your crew is now discharged,’ said Daretor slapping a dozen gold crowns from the alien world into the captain’s palm.

‘Look lively!’ Captain Porterby yelled. ‘All hands on deck. Cast off.’

With the tide running, it was only a matter of slipping the moorings, waiting until they were clear of the pier, and running up the sails. Their only obstacle were the milling vessels as they fought to escape the mayhem.

A light wind increased the speed that the current had given them. By the time the Preceptor’s men came running down the pier, they were past the rock-fanged shoal waters of the cape and sailing east. The lights of pursuing ships became visible for a while, but the Dragonfang outclassed them in sheer speed.

Jelindel plotted a course. They would encircle the continent completely, in order to reach D’loom.

‘That’s a daunting risk,’ Captain Porterby said, when Jelindel presented him with a chart. ‘There’s nothing along that coast till we reach Centravian.’

‘As far as risks go, Captain, this one is of no consequence compared to what we’ve chanced on this trip. And the last I heard, the Preceptor hadn’t moved on Centravian, so it’s in neutral hands.’ She stared at the western horizon. ‘With any luck, the privateers will run into the Preceptor’s sloops. They should make quite a mess of each other.’

What happened was not far from what Jelindel predicted. Frustrated by the Dragonfang’s elusiveness, the privateers bombarded the Preceptor’s vessels with firepots, mistaking the Sezelian sloops for local fishermen. By the time they realised their mistake, seven sloops had sunk. Fearing retribution, the privateers broke off and set a course for home. Plunder from the sacking of Mordicar was sure to bring trouble with it eventually.

Chapter 18

THE VOYAGE HOME

A day out from Mordicar, Captain Porterby, in an uncharacteristic display of authority, sent for Jelindel. When she knocked on his door, it was Zimak who opened it and beckoned her in. He took a quick look down the companionway before closing the door.

‘Jaelin,’ Captain Porterby said gravely. ‘It appears all is not what it seems.’

Jelindel looked fleetingly at Daretor and Zimak. How much had they told him? After her own deceit, she could hardly expect them to be loyal, yet … Testing her heightened senses, she knew at once that Daretor had the situation under control. Zimak was giving off frustration mingled with anger and excitement, while the captain was simply confused and saddened.

‘The lads have told me most of the story,’ Captain Porterby continued in the same grave manner, ‘and I must say I find it all very hard to believe.’ He paused. ‘And disappointing, Jaelin. If half of it is true, very disappointing.’

Jelindel’s hopes soared. He was still calling her Jaelin, which meant Daretor and Zimak hadn’t given everything away.

‘I suppose there are the pentacle gems,’ she said, smiling in Zimak’s direction.

‘So you had them all along,’ the captain said. ‘That Zarian Senior Constable –’

‘Was right and wrong,’ Jelindel interrupted. ‘I didn’t obtain any pentacle gems until we reached Hazaria, and I didn’t steal them, either. We already had one on board. I suspect that Hargav and Larachel were the culprits back in Zaria.’

‘Hargav,’ the captain spluttered. ‘He’s a boy.’

‘And a crafty one at that,’ Jelindel said. ‘I was at the library that night, true, but I believe there were also two thieves present. One stole The Book of Alchemorum, the other a pentacle gem. Since we have only two likely suspects on board, the thieves are most likely to be Hargav and Larachel.’

‘Are you suggesting that they’re in league?’ Captain Porterby shook his head. ‘This is all very irregular, I must say.’

‘It seems highly probable,’ Jelindel conceded.

‘But to what end, may I ask?’

‘I’m not sure of Larachel’s motives, but I suspect Hargav needed the pentacle gem to trade for his father.’

‘And where did you say you “found” yours?’ the captain queried.

‘I didn’t.’ Jelindel turned to Daretor and Zimak. ‘That part of the story is personal. However, the pentacle gems have to be returned to a certain lady.’

‘Hmm,’ the captain mumbled. ‘What about the Preceptor? What was his part in all this?’

Jelindel shrugged. ‘One can only assume he is after the pentacle gems.’

‘To what end? Talk sense.’

‘For absolute power – why ever else?’ Jelindel said, bemused by the captain’s confusion. ‘A ringstone powered by five pentacle gems allows travel between paraworlds.’ Before the captain could interrupt, she said, ‘Don’t even ask, Captain. Suffice to say there are other worlds within the space we occupy, and High Adepts can travel between them. But the technique is difficult and imprecise. With D’rudar’s engine, destinations can be pre-ordained, eliminating the risk of winding up in hostile lands.’

‘Like we did,’ Zimak said.

‘Indeed,’ Jelindel said, almost apologetically. ‘The Duke knew how to operate the ringstone engine. The Preceptor merely went along with him, but he had no intention of leaving without all the gems. This would explain why he had such a large guard with him. Either way, the Duke was going to fall – it was simply a matter of when.’

‘And just why would the Preceptor go to so much trouble to travel between these … worlds?’

‘To bring back armies, Captain,’ Jelindel said. ‘His resources are stretched.’ She stepped over to the captain’s chart board. With her index finger she traced out the Preceptor’s expanding territories. ‘The eastern and southern states are all that’s left, according to recent estimations. If he spreads himself any thinner, he’ll expose his flank and that will be the end of his empire. He needs new recruits.’

The captain sat back in his chair, clearly still confused. ‘And why would anyone from another world fight for someone here?’

‘For the same reason as anyone else. Money, plunder, slaves.’ She turned to Zimak. ‘Tell me that you couldn’t have brought back an army on the promise of riches.’

‘I never got the chance,’ Zimak fumed.

‘Point taken,’ Jelindel said. ‘Gathering armies would have been easy. How the Preceptor expected to contain them once he conquered Q’zar is another matter, but not one that obviously concerned him.’

Captain Porterby slapped the table with the flat of his hands. ‘Really, Jaelin, this is all too much. We have a fortune on board that we can’t spend, because there is no safe anchorage or harbour. The states the Preceptor hasn’t conquered yet are probably so full of his damnable spies that we’d be dead within an hour of stepping ashore. I have Hargav and Larachel, two devious characters who, by all accounts, have set us on a course to destruction. And we have the Preceptor and his Adept 12 scouring the seas for us.’

‘There is however a bright side,’ Jelindel said.

‘And what might that be?’ he queried.

‘We have the fastest vessel on the sea and more than a full crew, five pentacle gems that will ensure that no ship will sink us for fear of losing them, and some of the finest fighters on the continent.’ She eyed Daretor. ‘And let’s not forget a chest full of gold oriels.’

Captain Porterby dismissed them and poured himself a brandy with an unsteady hand. His early retirement suddenly looked highly unlikely, or at very best, distant.

Of all the reactions Jelindel might have expected from Hargav’s father, sullen annoyance had to be rather close to the bottom of the list. The man was courteous to everyone, yet he seemed to avoid his son, and when they did speak, Hargav could do nothing right.

Jelindel tried her best to help, mentioning Hargav’s bravery and his quick uptake of seafaring as a career, but it did little good. If anything, it seemed to make matters worse. She thought about it for a while. By all indications the family was an old and noble one. Hargav was Augerin’s only son and destined to be the heir to his title. Yet here he was, enjoying the life of a common sailor.

Not having a family, and not even being a boy, made it a little hard for Jelindel to be an effective counsellor in such matters. But she decided to make an attempt, anyway. She approached Hargav one morning when he was splicing rope on the foredeck.

‘I suppose your father will want you to give up the seafaring life,’ said Jelindel. She sat beside Hargav and picked up a rope end to unravel.

‘You do not have to be very bright to see that,’ replied Hargav.

‘Have you been arguing?’

‘Quite a lot. Has it been so obvious? We did keep our voices down.’

‘I … keep my eyes and ears open. It keeps me alive.’

‘You – you mean you listened in on us?’ gasped Hargav.

‘Not deliberately, but you might have raised your voices more than you intended, and I make it my business to sound out trouble before it gets out of hand.’

‘What did you hear?’

An interesting situation, thought Jelindel. The boy obviously thought she knew more than she did. If she strung him along, she might learn quite a lot.

‘All the usual things that are said in such a situation,’ improvised Jelindel. ‘You are a disgrace to the family, he will never live it down, he did not need rescuing – that sort of thing.’

‘Ah, Jelindel, I suspect you are being discreet by not mentioning all the names that he also called me,’ Hargav sighed. ‘But, please, can you do me a little favour for the rest of the voyage?’

‘Anything, just ask. I would be glad to speak to your father again if –’

‘No. No, not that. Anyway, he would not listen. But please, when we are alone, and out of earshot of others, do call me Hargrellien.’

Hargrellien. A girl’s name. The bottom promptly fell out of Jelindel’s stomach. She opened her mouth, and began to draw a breath to say ‘Oh, that’s nice,’ then decided that those three words were not at all appropriate to the moment.

‘And Jaelin, when I told father that I love you, I really did mean it. It breaks my heart that you had to hear the words in an argument between me and my father, but I assure you they were spoken with all possible tenderness.’

I’ve died and gone to hell, was Jelindel’s initial thought. The words would never do, of course, so there remained the matter of what to say and how to say it.

‘Er … when did you, that is, realise?’

‘Oh, right from our first meeting. You are a true gentleman. None of the men on the ship even approaches you for gallantry, refinement, bravery and courtesy. Were I really a boy, I would want to be exactly like you.’

Were you a boy you might find that a rather extreme length to go to, thought Jelindel.

‘Look … this has come as something of a shock to me,’ she admitted. ‘And, and, and I am going to have to say something that you probably don’t want to hear, but –’

‘Oh, I know you probably don’t love me yet, silly. That is because you have been thinking of me as a boy, but all that is past. When we are alone, and away from prying eyes, I shall take you in my arms and press you against the softness beneath my shirt. You will be truly surprised by what you feel.’

‘Not half as surprised as you will be,’ sighed Jelindel. ‘My real name is Jelindel, and there are breasts under my shirt, too.’

Jelindel gained some respite from the fact that it was now Hargrellien who was dumbfounded. They continued splicing ropes.

The minutes passed, then became an hour. Jelindel looked into the splicing basket and found that it was empty. ‘Well, at least this clarifies things between us,’ she said.

‘One might say that,’ muttered Hargrellien, coiling up her last length of tarry rope. ‘I should have known you were too good to be true.’

‘Hargrellien. That’s a pretty name.’

‘Fat lot of good it does me now.’

‘Well, you won Annatel’s heart. How do you think she will feel when she finds out?’

‘Can’t see what she saw in me,’ muttered Hargrellien, standing up and shrugging.

‘Perhaps it was a young gentleman, a little shy and vulnerable, but full of gallantry, refinement, bravery and courtesy.’

‘You are mocking me.’

‘Never. We are lucky girls, Hargrellien. We have the opportunity to see men looking at women, yet talking to us as other men. It gives one a rather brutal, but honest view of what they really think. Most of the time it is rather depressing, but just occasionally you see someone who really is gallant, refined, brave and courteous.’

‘How often?’

‘Well, I never have, I suppose, but I have met a man who was three out of four – and well, let’s face it, refined people can be so boring.’

‘So what now?’ asked Hargrellien.

‘We could always go down to my cabin, open a bottle of wine, and give the crew a rating for gallantry, refinement, bravery and courtesy.’

‘Only if I can put my father on the list,’ said Hargrellien.

Chapter 19

DRAGON VERSUS DRAGON

The dragon attack came near Centravian, just off the coast. In all the history of naval warfare, there had never been such a strange attack on a ship, and this was in spite of some very strange battles. Jelindel had been asleep at the time, and Hargrellien came looking for her, shouting that a dragon was attacking the ship.

Jelindel arrived on deck in time to see an enormous pair of wings holding up a small shed come sweeping over the Dragonfang. Something small, dark and trailing smoke dropped, hit the foremast and erupted into a blast of flame. Most of the burning oil and fragments of jar fell into the sea, but it was clear what the flying thing was trying to do.

‘A dragon, crapping fire turds!’ Captain Porterby exclaimed.

Jelindel noted that the steersman was not making any effort to evade the attacks. This was because he had abandoned the wheel on the quarterdeck, and vanished down a hatchway. On the other hand, the flying shed was at least ten times faster than the Dragonfang, so evasion was not much of an option. Daretor appeared with the steersman, holding a knife point against the man’s back.

‘Is this man meant to be doing anything important?’ asked Daretor.

‘Get him back to his post on the quarterdeck,’ said the captain. ‘We will steer for the shallows, run the ship aground, then wade to shore and run.’

‘Straight into the arms of the Preceptor’s army,’ said Augerin, pointing, ‘See on the beach.’

‘Well better that than being burned or drowned out here,’ said the captain. ‘What is that thing?’

‘Something of Fa’red’s making, I think,’ Jelindel said. ‘It’s a sort of ship of the air, and rather than a catapult to throw firepots, it just drops them as it flies over the target,’ she concluded.

‘If it is a ship, it can be fought,’ said Daretor, ‘and we have a catapult. Captain, turn out the crewmen who wind the catapult and prime the firepots. I say we fight.’

‘You say we fight?’ demanded Porterby. ‘I’m the captain.’

‘Would you like a mutiny?’ retorted Daretor. ‘I’m willing to provide one. All those who want to jump ship in the two longboats and make for the shore, go! Your fate will be the same as if we surrendered the ship.’

It did not take Captain Porterby long to realise that he had a problem. He had presided over quite a few surrenders, and had escaped more attacks than any other captain afloat. But here he was being offered a chance to lead his men in surrender while others made an attempt to escape. Escape was preferable to surrender, nobody could argue with that.

The captain decided to go for a diplomatic solution.

‘Yours is not the only way to flee,’ he declared, grandly. ‘All right then, we fight, but I want six men standing by each longboat, dousing the timbers to keep them wet and standing ready to launch them if the ship is hit and set afire.

‘Catapult crewmen, place yourself under Daretor’s command. Steersman, do the same. Go ahead, young man, show us what you can do.’

The airliner was flying at the Dragonfang at right angles when it made its attacks from a shallow dive. It was trying to start a fire on the vessel’s deck and rigging. A hit to the hull could easily be extinguished before it burned through the thick wood. As the airliner approached again, it was flying slowly, trying to get a good, steady aim. Daretor aimed the catapult directly at the front window as the thing approached, then realised that he had no idea of its true size. He could not aim accurately because he could not gauge distance. Deciding that any shot was better than no shot, he fired.

The firepot left a thin trail of smoke as it arced through the air, making it visible to whoever was flying the thing. The same individual also panicked, banking so steeply across the bow that the starboard wingtip splashed the waves briefly. No firepot was dropped, either. The Dragonfang’s crew cheered heartily. The airliner now circled the ship several times, keeping a distance. It seemed that the steersman was reluctant to take any damage.

‘It’s as I thought,’ Daretor explained to Jelindel. She was stationed near him with a bucket and wet beating cloth. ‘A wolf can have a leg injured in a fight and still limp away on the other three, but hurt either one of an eagle’s wings and it can’t fly.’

‘An eagle is more frail than a wolf, too,’ agreed Jelindel. ‘Should I tell some of the sailors to get crossbows?’

‘No, no, as soon as that thing hits us, I want everyone ready with buckets and beaters. Sooner or later it will strike us, and I want us to survive those firepots.’

At last the airliner broke off its circling and came at the Dragonfang in a long, shallow dive. This time it came in diagonally, so that the ratlines of the mainmast were in the line of fire of the catapult. It dropped its firepot too late to hit the decks, but by sheer chance the pot of oil, pitch and sulphur hit the foremast and burst into a long tongue of flame. Most of it went into the sea, but splashes of the mixture set the spars, sails and even the top of the foremast alight. The sailors seemed almost relieved to have a threat that they could actually fight. They swarmed up the foremast’s ratlines and into the rigging with their buckets and beaters, ready to fight the flames.

Daretor watched as the airliner circled, assessing what it had done. Were I the steersman in that thing, I would do that again, but drop the pot earlier, thought Daretor. The airliner broke off and came in again at the same trajectory.

‘Quickly, help me turn the catapult!’ he shouted as the winged shape loomed larger and larger on the starboard side.

‘But it’s coming in from starboard,’ said the ratchet winder, who began to turn the weapon anyway.

‘I know that,’ replied Daretor, ‘but there are no ratlines in the way if we shoot at it after it has passed over us.’

The next firepot was dropped high and early. Almost as soon as he caught sight of its trail through the air, Daretor knew that they had the range right this time. He forced himself to ignore the firepot and kept his eye on the airliner. It had begun to flap slowly, but was still flying in a straight line. It passed over the Dragonfang just as the firepot smashed on the starboard foredeck railing, smearing flames across the foredeck’s planking.

Daretor fired. The firepot soared up, then struck the airliner squarely in the large, down-covered backside, just below the tail feathers. Even though it was a soft target, it was sufficiently firm to burst the firepot.

There was a thunderclap-like ‘BUCKAW!’ The airliner banked heavily into a shallow dive, trailing black smoke and flapping its enormous wings. Again the crew of the Dragonfang cheered, even though their own vessel was on fire, too. With Captain Porterby and Jelindel shouting at them in rare agreement, the sailors descended from the rigging and began beating at the flames, smothering them with soaked sails and blankets. Daretor watched as the airliner lowered its legs, ran splashing through the shallows, then folded its legs, immersing its burning behind in the water.

Daretor realised that Captain Porterby was by his side as he stared at the distant shape near the shore.

‘Well done young Daretor,’ exclaimed the captain, glorying in one of his rare experiences of being on the winning side. ‘We showed that overgrown seagull.’

‘My one worry is that it will be back in the air as soon as the fire is out. How is the fire on our foredeck?’

‘Above deck, not too bad, but some of the burning mixture has leaked below and the fires are proving harder to fight. Nearly the entire ship’s complement can barely stop it spreading. It will take at least half an hour to bring it under control.’

Daretor’s eyes didn’t leave the shore where the winged monster was bathing its tail end. ‘In other words, another hit like that will sink the ship,’ he concluded.

‘You’re right, there, lad, but the thing’s firepots are too small to swamp the whole ship with flames. We should have plenty of time to get into the boats.’

‘There!’ cried Daretor, pointing. ‘It’s folding its wings, they’re not going to put it back into the air.’

As Daretor said later, they had really dodged an arrow that time. Whoever had been flying the airliner was obviously reluctant to use it as a weapon, and very frightened about suffering any damage.

‘We were beaten, but we hurt it just enough to break the steersman’s nerve. A veteran warrior would have taken the damage, come around again, and dropped another pot on us before putting its arse in the water.’

‘One day they will put those things into the air with warriors at the helm,’ predicted Jelindel. ‘It will be the end of the warship when that happens.’

‘But that day is not today,’ added Daretor. ‘Today we frightened it off and survived.’

The damage to the Dragonfang did not seem extensive at first. Nevertheless, the crew took days to complete the repairs. A lot of rope needed replacing or cutting and splicing. Meanwhile, so much of the sail had been damaged that they were compelled to patch what had survived, rather than repair it. Wood that had been badly charred was cut away and replaced from the carpenter’s store.

All the while they sailed on, flying as much canvas as was safe. To Daretor’s relief, the weather deteriorated three days after the attack.

Everything on deck was fastened down before the looming waves could wash it away.

‘I cannot believe that Daretor is pleased about weather like this,’ shouted Hargrellien to Jelindel. They were clinging to the salt-hardened rigging, unfurling the storm sails. It was almost impossible to hear above the rain and howling wind.

‘The airliner probably dislikes these conditions even worse than we do,’ Jelindel called out above the squalling wind. ‘I doubt that it’s as solidly built as a ship.’

‘Well, I dislike this weather, too.’ The shrieking rain snatched at Hargrellien’s words.

‘But you’re not a threat to the ship – give that line here, I’ll tie it down.’

‘So he’s forgiven you for banishing him to that paraworld?’

Jelindel clung tightly to a spar and quickly brushed her spume-matted hair from her eyes. She pulled a knot tight.

‘More or less. Having his body swapped with Zimak’s is dwelling a lot more heavily on his mind right now.’

Hargrellien said something, but the canvas was snapping taut then emptying with ominous claps. She bellowed, ‘Whatever the body, he’s a fantastic warrior, and quite a leader, too. He is one of those people you feel confident about following, you know?’

Jelindel scrunched her face against the hurricane-force wind. ‘Hargrellien, do you mean that?’

‘Aye, I do. He put the captain in his place without humiliating him, got the crew on side, then fought off a completely new type of weapon, inventing his strategy as he went. I was all ready to surrender.’

The Dragonfang seemed to stay motionless for one second, then tacked sideways until finally the stern swayed out and a juddering ran the length of the vessel. Jelindel and Hargrellien clung for their lives until the ship righted itself. Still the wind wailed through the rigging, making the ratlines thrum.

‘I thought I felt guilty about my betrayal, but I now wonder if I was not fooling myself. I mean, in a way I really did miss Daretor. I suppose it might be the reason why I brought him back, but now I’m not sure how to tell him. Hargrellien, you’ve seen your sisters courting a lot of boys.’

‘Aye. But can’t this wait?’

‘What would one of them say?’ Jelindel shouted to make herself heard.

‘About what?’

‘About showing she wanted to be more than friendly with a boy.’

‘Jelindel!’ Hargrellin yelled, exasperated. ‘We’re halfway up the dummart rigging of the foremast, in a storm, rain pelting down on us. We’re soaked, freezing, and our hands are so blistered, numb and bleeding that we can hardly hold on to the ropes, yet you want advice on how to seduce Daretor?’

‘Well, it’s an embarrassing subject and this is the first moment we’ve been alone.’

Another loud snap of the sails drowned her words. She crawled closer to Hargrellien and began again. ‘We went on a perilous quest together. Zimak wanted to scamper off to the nearest haystack so he could give me a free tutorial on sexual pleasures, but Daretor was always courteous. He never made a lewd suggestion, and I came to think of him as a sort of strict and protective big brother.

‘Then he was gone, and I started to think of him as more than a brother. Now he’s back, and I have to do something about my feelings this time.’

‘Jelindel, I’m going to be blunt about this, mainly because I’m soaked, freezing, and really anxious to climb down to the deck, get out of the storm, and have my ration of rum. Just say what you’d say to any boyfriend.’

‘I’ve never had a boyfriend, Hargrellien.’

‘I – you haven’t? Even I’ve had a boyfriend. Well, two or three. Four, actually – no, five if you count Dorric, but he was –‘

‘I get the idea,’ snapped Jelindel. ‘So what do I say?’

‘Yes.’

‘Just yes?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Yes generally requires a question first.’

‘Oh, they always ask if they can be your sweetheart, although some put it a bit more crudely, like –’

‘But Daretor’s never asked me anything like that. Goodness knows, he’s had enough chances.’

‘Oh. In that case, you probably have a problem. Can we go below now?’

Chapter 20

HOMECOMING

Circumnavigating the continent turned out to be a reasonably profitable way to go home, as well as being safer than retracing their steps. They picked up cargoes and passengers outside the normal shipping schedules, and by the time they were back in home waters again they had every prospect of landing in D’loom with a large and mostly honest profit.

Altimak was their first port of call in Skelt territory, and they were pleasantly surprised to find that the Dragonfang was not under a detention order. The customs officials searched the vessel carefully, but the crew had already scoured the ship for anything illegal or incriminating, and sold it in Lycellia.

Jelindel also managed to see the voyage through without saying anything more affectionate to Daretor than ‘Just like the old days, travelling with you again.’ Daretor remained on particularly bad terms with Zimak, nagging him continually about the rapid deterioration of his body. Zimak paid him little attention, and neglected his duties aboard ship until his meals were cut off.

‘The home port,’ said Jelindel, leaning on the handrail as D’loom became distinct on the horizon.

‘I should get an entertaining reception,’ said Hargrellien. She did not seem at all happy to be home.

‘Hargrellien, you know it is not as bad as it seems. I spoke to your father about my own, er, gender status. He was quite amused. He even invited me to stay at your family mansion – to help keep an eye on some new contract guards that he intends to hire.’

‘He still doesn’t speak to me.’

‘The man is a warrior. Being rescued by his youngest daughter is probably bad for his pride.’

‘It’s going to be hard to go back to being the youngest daughter. The freedom and excitement of the past months will be hard to give up.’

‘Just remember that only one out of three cabin boys are still alive at thirty. Ships are dangerous. We were lucky to survive any one of our skirmishes.’

‘Will you stay with us – at the mansion?’

‘Until the ship sails again, yes.’

‘Good. It will help me keep my sanity. How are Daretor and Zimak?’

‘Honourable and obnoxious, in that order. Being forced to help sail the ship has toned up Zimak’s physique a bit, but once he hits the D’loom taverns with his two months’ pay, that will not last. Daretor trains and exercises fanatically, and grooms himself well, but he will always be eighteen inches shorter than the body he lost.’

‘Have you talked to him –’

‘No. I couldn’t. Don’t even raise the subject.’

‘I meant have you talked with him about anything? Do you know his plans, his hopes, his dreams?’

Jelindel sighed, then straightened and stretched.

‘We have spoken generally, as we practised sword work. He is now even more obsessed about proving himself a mighty and honourable warrior. Being shorter seems to make all that harder, as far as he is concerned.’

‘Who is he trying to impress? Himself? Everyone else? Is there a girl somewhere?’

‘There were girls in his past, but they tried to make him settle down. Can you imagine him running a tavern, or a farm?’

‘Not really. What is he going to do now?’

‘There is fighting in Baltoria, some rebellion against the Preceptor. He is going there.’

‘To fight for which side?’

‘I doubt he would ride behind the Preceptor’s standard.’

‘It does not sound very hopeful. Has he never said anything at all encouraging? Invited you to get drunk with him, perhaps?’

‘He asks me to train with him all the time, and he did propose that I come with him to Baltoria.’

‘Just you? Not Zimak as well?’

‘Just me.’

‘That could be a hopeful sign. After all, Daretor might be as shy as you in these matters.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Jelindel, I have just spent months listening to sailors boast about their ways with women, then I have seen what they really do and say when in port. Even the roughest of them can be coy when it comes to female company – especially someone they really want to impress.’

Jelindel rubbed her face, then shook her head and stared across at D’loom. She did not look happy.

‘I rather expected a romance would begin with cakes and flowers, rather than an invitation to go to war,’ she admitted.

‘What did you say to him?’ asked Hargrellien.

‘I said I would think about it.’

‘My advice is to say yes.’

Jelindel said, ‘Pah! If only it were that easy.’

‘It is. Only make sure you ride with him for the right reasons.’

Even though the Preceptor was the ruler of Skelt, there were no guards or constables waiting for the Dragonfang when she docked at D’loom. The crew was paid off, and told that they would be sailing on the morning tide in ten days. There were no friends and families waiting as the ship tied up, however. The crew had actually sailed out on the Dark Empress.

Jelindel, Hargrellien, and Augerin found themselves standing on the pier with a bag each, double checking the money they had been paid for their work aboard the Dragonfang.

‘We should go,’ said Hargrellien. ‘Mother and the girls probably think I died when the Dark Empress was captured by the privateers.’

‘Then they can mourn your death for a few minutes more – and stop calling your sisters “the girls”. It sounds like you are their brother,’ snapped Augerin.

Jelindel hefted her travel bag. ‘So we’re ready?’

‘I asked one more person to join us. Ah, Daretor, there you are,’ exclaimed Augerin. ‘We’re all here now, so let us be off.’

‘And what of Zimak?’ Jelindel asked Augerin.

‘He jumped ship the moment the crew was paid off.’ He paused. ‘I beg you not to take offence, but I could never find it in myself to trust that one.’

Jelindel exchanged a smile with Daretor. ‘No offence taken,’ she said.

Once they had reached the narrow streets beyond the docks, Jelindel took Daretor by the arm and dropped back a little.

‘What is going on here?’ she hissed. ‘You said you would be getting a room at the Golden Shark.’

‘Hargav’s father is nervous about security at his mansion,’ Daretor whispered. ‘He wanted a couple of bodyguards, men he can trust to keep an eye on his house guards.’

‘Oh. And you accepted?’

‘Yes. He said the honour and safety of his family was in danger, and that you were helping too.’

Did he accept because of me? wondered Jelindel as they walked. Perhaps there was hope. He was like a closed book with an intriguing title in a locked glass case. How to get the case open? Perhaps sharing the same house in rather more relaxed circumstances would provide opportunities for him to speak of softer things than fighting. Or perhaps it would give her the same opportunities. While they were sparring or practising disarming techniques she could hold his arm a bit longer than usual, give it an affectionate squeeze, and say, ‘Daretor, have you ever considered having a bottle of wine with me in the moonlight, instead of a couple of tankards in the tavern?’ Surely that was the solution. It was a lighthearted way to raise the subject, yet one that Daretor could not misinterpret.

Augerin’s mansion was only a few streets away from where Jelindel’s own family mansion had once stood. They actually passed the walls that she had known as a child, but by now a new house had been built there.

In theory I own the land, but can I be bothered making a claim? Jelindel wondered.

Augerin entered his mansion first, followed by the rest of them. A servant tried to turn them away until Augerin identified himself as the owner of the house. The servant spluttered an apology, then hurried away. Moments later Hargrellien’s mother and nine sisters came sweeping into the room. Augerin and Hargrellien were smothered in a swirl of dresses, curled hair, scents and embroidered handkerchiefs. Presently the fuss died down, and Augerin’s family spread out in a line facing Jelindel and Daretor.

‘Well now, papa, and who are these two handsome young sailors?’ asked Sermilly, the eldest, as the others smiled and fluttered their eyelashes.

‘They’re my friends, Daretor and Jaelin,’ Hargrellien said before her father could open his mouth.

Over the next hour, servants were sent running to the market, the dining hall was decorated with evergreen boughs, seasonal flowers, and scraps of coloured parchment, and lunch became a celebration feast.

Hargrellien refused to change out of her attire, but she did consent to taking a bath and wearing scent. After lunch she thrilled and even frightened her mother and sisters with several bouts of swordplay with Daretor and Jelindel. She ignored a small cut to her shoulder that caused one of her sisters to faint, then she demonstrated her skill at knife throwing, and finished by rolling up her sleeve and flexing her considerably developed biceps. The show broke up into something resembling a party.

Daretor took Hargav’s gender switch revelation in his stride. But he had little time to dwell on Hargrellien’s duplicity, as he soon found himself cornered by Sermilly.

‘And how long have you been a sailor?’ she asked, taking his hand and looking into his eyes.

‘Oh, a few voyages. Not very many at all. I was a mercenary for longer than –’

‘A mercenary,’ squealed Sermilly, widening her eyes and squeezing his hand. ‘A sword for hire. How very dashing and romantic. Have you ever rescued ladies who were in peril from horrible, dangerous outlaws?’

‘I – only two – well, three if you count Jelindel, but she didn’t need much rescuing.’

‘Who is Jelindel?’

‘Er, a friend of Jaelin’s.’

‘I wish you would rescue me. You could carry me to safety in your strong, manly arms.’

‘I – I – I – only if you had fainted –’

‘Oh, but I would have fainted, most valorous Daretor.’

Not far away Jelindel was standing with a goblet of fruit juice, staring at the floor and straining to listen to what Sermilly was saying to Daretor. I’m doomed, she thought sadly. I couldn’t speak rubbish like that even if my life depended on it. I’ve lost him. As soon as the sun is down that trollop will be in his bedroom window faster than –

‘Master Jaelin, I have been waiting for a chance to speak to you alone.’

Before Jelindel could respond, another of Hargrellien’s sisters put her arms around her and hugged her tightly.

The girl pulled back slightly and stared Jelindel in the eye, her nose almost touching Jelindel’s. ‘I am Helda and that’s for looking after my sister. Especially for the magnificent fight on the pier when you beat all those sailors who wanted to roughhouse her,’ she said, breathlessly.

Jelindel smiled uncertainly and managed to disentangle herself without causing offence. Recovered from the shock, she squeezed Helda’s shoulders almost affectionately. She realised her mistake and dropped her hands quickly.

Helda stared at her dreamily. ‘I am so surprised by you, your chest is so broad yet your hands are so small … gentle.’

Not half as surprised as you would have been if my breasts had not been bound, thought Jelindel.

Helda seized Jelindel’s hand again.

‘The skin of your palm is all hard and callused, yet the back of your hand is as smooth as a girl’s.’ She looked Jelindel in the face, then ran her fingers down her neck. ‘Did anyone ever tell you what long, soft eyelashes you have?’

‘Ordinarily I don’t allow people this close,’ Jelindel managed.

‘I would love to feel them brushing against my cheeks.’

Jelindel edged away until she felt the wall at her back. ‘You’re most kind, Helda, but I’m a sailor, and you’re a lady. The only girls I keep company with are less than ladies …’

‘Harlots. My goodness. How utterly romantic. What are they like? I have never met one. Would I look alluring dressed as they dress? How do they dress, how do they speak? You must tell me everything!’

Some hours passed and it was with considerable relief that Jelindel and Daretor eventually retired to the guest suite and bolted the door behind them. There were two bedrooms and a bathroom leading off a parlour. Jelindel realised that for the first time since they had met, she was finally alone with Daretor. He dropped his rollpack to the floor and ran his hand across his unshaven face.

‘Thank the gods, I could not have taken much more of Hargav’s, that is, Hargrellien’s sisters,’ he sighed, putting his hands on his hips and grinning at Jelindel.

Does he mean her sisters, or does he mean what the little vixens were doing to him? thought Jelindel. Well, I don’t care. I’ve had fights to the death that were less harrowing than the hours just past.

Before Daretor could react, Jelindel slid her arms around his chest and pressed her lips very firmly against his. He wriggled with surprise for a moment. After what seemed like an eternity, she felt his hands pressing very lightly and tentatively on her back.

‘Sorry, Daretor, sorry, sorry,’ she whispered, pressing her cheek against his. ‘Nine hours of those overdressed little moths fluttering all over you was more than I could take, especially after I had travelled to another world to fetch you back, then sailed around the continent without so much as being able to put a hand on your knee.’

‘I see, I think,’ fumbled Daretor. ‘I – I don’t know what to say.’

‘And if you want me to join the war against the Preceptor with you, I will. Although I feel we’re better off striking him where he least expects to be struck. That is my answer if you’re wondering. Yes. Definitely yes.’

‘Oh, that,’ laughed Daretor. ‘I only suggested it to see if you wanted to stay with me.’

‘You did?’

Daretor smiled with uncertainty.

‘But Daretor, why didn’t you not just say that? You would have saved us being bombarded by those tiresome sisters the entire afternoon and evening.’

Daretor suddenly felt tired. ‘You are a countess, Jelindel. And I am a wanderer. Would that my lot in life had been different, but there it is. Now I’m a wanted man with a price on his head.’ He sagged further. ‘And a diminished man at that.’

‘It’s still you in that frame,’ Jelindel reminded him. ‘As for the price on your head? You forget that I share that particular problem.’

‘These are bad times, Jelindel. And I suspect they will get worse before they get better.’

‘And bad times are to be shared.’

‘If any harm came to you, I would …’

‘Daretor, for all your courage and goodness, I sometimes worry about you. The Preceptor’s war is something we can skirt on our own terms. Q’zar is a large world. And his power doesn’t extend over more than one third of a single continent.’

Daretor pulled her closer. ‘It’s a wonder that you like me in spite of being in Zimak’s body. I have lost everything, yet you still want me.’

They kissed again, and somewhere in the distance a bell rang the hour.

‘We should retire – to separate bedrooms,’ whispered Jelindel. ‘No offence intended.’

Daretor pulled away in shock. ‘Of course. I would always do the honourable –’

‘Mention honour in my presence one more time and I shall seize you by the collar and punch you in the face. Now off to the bathroom with you, and please don’t be too long.’

Daretor picked up his rollpack and heaved it into his bedchamber. Then he went into the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and rubbed his teeth with a cloth. When he opened the door again, Jelindel was standing there with a towel cloth over her shoulder. She looked different in a subtle sort of way, Daretor realised. Then her arms were around him again.

‘This is what I feel like without my breasts bound,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘I know it’s not much to leave you with for the rest of the night, but give me a chance to do some research on how to postpone motherhood, and our nights will become much more entertaining.’

‘Can I help?’ asked Daretor.

‘Only if anything needs to be bought that exceeds my ability to endure embarrassment. For now, good night.’

Daretor tracked Zimak down in the Beer and Bugle on the eighth day back in D’loom.

‘Big guy, noisy, likes showing off his chest, and likes impressing girls?’ said the serving girl, when Daretor gave her a description of the man he was seeking.

‘You appear to have his measure,’ said Daretor, sullenly.

‘Try the third door along, after the tap room. He was asleep last time I looked.’

Zimak was on the floor, asleep on a rug with a blanket draped over him. Daretor entered, looked around, then kicked him lightly in the ribs – it was, after all, still his body. Zimak stirred, blinked, then sat up.

‘Gah, Daretor, watch the merchandise. You have my body looking good,’ he said, yawning.

‘Which is more than I can say for you,’ retorted Daretor.

‘Show some respect, or I may decide to keep being you for a measure longer.’

‘It will take years to strip away the fat and restore my muscles,’ said Daretor, shaking his head. ‘Bags under the eyes, dirty fingernails, and you reek of piss. Don’t you care what you look like?’

‘Yes, but I don’t care much for what you look like. It’s been a treat living as you. I can do what I like with no regard for the consequences.’

‘You seldom worried about consequences before.’

‘Ah, but now you can take the blame. What is the hour?’

‘Approaching evening.’

‘Wonderful, the hour for the night’s revelry approaches.’

‘I find it odd to be in your body after seeing you in mine. You had no great physique, but your body was healthy. No poxes, injuries, or ill effects from the drink and your rather squalid upbringing.’

Zimak got lazily to his feet. ‘Ah, but I was always careful. I had so little to offer, I had to treat what I had with great care. Now that I live as you, it hardly matters. One day, when I see fit, I shall give yourself back to you. Life owes this to me.’

‘When will that day be?’

‘Some day. Maybe some day soon.’

‘Restoration is a lot easier,’ said Daretor. ‘The spirit has an easy time of it, returning to its rightful place. I have been researching it with Jelindel’s help. And the pentacle gems need to be placed somewhere safe. We thought you might put aside your self-indulgence, but I see that we were wrong.’

‘Well then, it’s “we” now, is it?’ He pushed past Daretor and lingered by the door. ‘When I say we are to swap back, we can do so. Meantime, I believe it is time for the first drink of the night.’

Daretor met Jelindel in the market. She was carrying several books in a sling bag.

‘Ah, Daretor, you got my note. Thank you for coming so quickly. We have an appointment to meet Jing.’

‘Who is Jing?’ asked Daretor, warily.

‘Jing is a very helpful person.’

‘Helpful in what way?’

‘You know how babies are made?’

‘You know that I do.’

Jelindel smirked. ‘Well, Jing sells ways of not making them.’

The colour drained from Daretor’s face, and he stopped so suddenly that Jelindel had to turn and walk back to him.

‘Oh, damn, I forgot to rewrite the sentry schedules for the mansion,’ babbled Daretor. ‘I’ll just hurry back and –’

‘You will come with me,’ said Jelindel, taking his arm and leading him in their original direction again.

‘This is not men’s work, Jelindel. Surely you are able –’

‘Stop being a coward. Now we are going to have to pretend that I am a friend, and that I have come along to help you make a purchase to, ah, do the right thing by your lady.’

‘You mean because I am supposedly too embarrassed to make the purchase myself?’

‘Yes.’

‘I won’t have to do any pretending for that part.’

‘Daretor, please tell me that you and I will not be your first time,’ said Jelindel, putting a hand to her forehead in mock alarm.

‘Well, ah, no, I’m shamed to say. There was that dark-haired girl in the Valley of Clouds, you might remember her, and there were several others. At times it was hard not to … keep up appearances. There was Zimak, of course, forever making comments on my manhood.’

‘That’s a relief. Having both of us trying to work out what to do would have been a bit of a farce. Perhaps we have Zimak to thank for that, at least.’

‘You’re not angry?’

‘Well, I knew about that dark-haired girl. Ah, there is the stall of Madame Jing’s Special Potions, Herbs, and Devices.’

‘Madame Jing?’ exclaimed Daretor. ‘Oh, no, I’d rather kill myself. I couldn’t face a lady physician. Not for this. Couldn’t I just wait outside?’

‘Courage, Daretor. Madame Jing is probably eighty, and too shortsighted to recognise you again.’

Madame Jing’s stall was in a small tent that had ‘Scrogman’s Ointments’ painted gaudily over the flap.

The old crone weighed more than Jelindel and Daretor combined, and had a cleavage on display that was the area of a large dinner plate.

‘Zimak, you little devil,’ Madame Jing roared, eyeing Daretor with a keen eye. She attempted to get out of her chair, floundered, and sat back down heavily. Another heaving effort had her swaying on legs the size of mature tree trunks. ‘Have not seen you in ages,’ she exclaimed, throwing her arms around Daretor and almost smothering him in breasts and black, curly hair. ‘Back for another bag of Madame Jing’s special enhancer herbs?’

‘I am afraid you are mistaken, Madame Jing,’ said Jelindel, pointedly. ‘This is Daretor, from Gratz.’

‘Oh, my goodness, I am sorry,’ laughed Madame Jing. She gave Daretor’s biceps a lingering squeeze before releasing her catch.

‘No harm done, most gracious and learned lady,’ replied Daretor, putting on a much stronger Gratzian accent.

‘My goodness, and manners too. You are most obviously not Zimak.’ Her eyes turned misty. ‘Pah! Life is sad, is it not? I always fall for the wrong men.’ She staggered back to her seat and collapsed. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I am Jaelin, Daretor’s friend,’ said Jelindel. ‘Daretor has a sweetheart, and while they are very close, he is reluctant to, ah, get her into an unfortunate condition because of … circumstances. He is also a little shy about such matters, so I have come along to speak for him.’

‘Oh, so? Everyone should have a friend such as you, Jaelin. Well, come over to the charts and samples rack and I shall explain.’

Jelindel went through the scrolls with Madame Jing. Presently she announced that she had something suitable – sheepgut preventatives. They left by the back entrance.

‘Madame Jing pinched my bottom and suggested that I might like a free tutorial on advanced methodologies some night, when I was at a loose end,’ Jelindel muttered. ‘This business of dressing like a boy is starting to be a bit of a strain. She also gave me a free sample bag of – well, perhaps you don’t need to know.

‘Thank you for being present while I consulted Madame Jing. She said that most of the girls who visit her are alone. She also told me a few things about Zimak. He has a fear of diseases, apparently, so he is always careful to, shall we say, keep himself healthy.’

‘More than the little weasel’s doing to my body now,’ grumbled Daretor. ‘Strange, though, I find that being smaller has a curious allure.’

‘Perhaps you found it too easy to hide behind your former muscle and might.’

‘Would you be upset if I remained like this, Jelindel?’

‘Upset? Only if I am not there to see the look on Zimak’s face when you tell him.’

Chapter 21

THE LINDARKS

Dinner seemed to take an unduly long time that night, and it was followed by a concert in which each of Hargrellien’s sisters played or sang their favourite piece. This was followed by cherry wine and cakes, during which the girls flirted with Daretor and Jelindel. Everyone noticed that Hargrellien was not present, but they had other things on their minds, and did not think to ask of her whereabouts. She arrived with her father as everyone was getting ready to retire. Neither of them looked happy.

Daretor and Jelindel bolted the door to their sanctuary, then fell into each other’s arms in their little parlour. After several minutes, Jelindel began to wonder whether Daretor might be trying to postpone something.

‘I’m to my bedroom for some moments,’ Jelindel announced.

She reappeared several minutes later with her hair unbound and brushed out. She was wearing a white shirt, loosely laced, and her breasts were obviously unbound. Her lips were painted with red gloss, and her eyes were lined with black and violet.

‘By White Quell, a girl!’ exclaimed Daretor, bounding to his feet in surprise.

Jelindel put her arms around him. ‘Goodness, a boy,’ she laughed.

Somewhere in the house, screams erupted, and then there came the unmistakable clash of blade on blade. Within the time it took to take two breaths, Jelindel had her sword drawn and was at the door. She shook her head as she put a hand on the bolt. Daretor drew his knife.

Jelindel put her sword down, flung the door open and cartwheeled out into the corridor. A crossbow bolt whizzed between her legs, then Daretor was out with her and flinging his knife at the intruder. The man fell. Jelindel paused to snatch up her sword. Daretor took the crossbow, then they ran for the reception hall.

The scene took some moments to comprehend. Helda was being held by a shadowy black figure who had a knife at her throat. Augerin was being pressed back by two more sword-wielding figures, and another had Sermilly over his shoulder.

Daretor removed the most immediate danger by putting a crossbow bolt through the head of the lindrak holding Helda, then ran to help Augerin. Cut off by Jelindel, the lindrak carrying Sermilly made the mistake of thinking anyone wearing makeup would be easy to brush aside. Jelindel parried his thrust in a rising circle, then thrust the tip of her sword into the lindrak’s throat. He did not release Sermilly, so much as fall dead beneath her weight.

Hargrellien’s mother and other sisters appeared on the upper balcony, their screams adding to the confusion. More lindraks appeared, and Hargrellien stationed herself at the base of the stairs with her sword and a shield from an ancestral armour display.

Jelindel noticed that Augerin was bleeding, that there were seven lindraks fighting, and that all of them were on the reception hall’s floor. Hargrellien was forced back up the stairs by two lindraks. Then Daretor’s knife flew again, and one lindrak tumbled back down the stairs.

Two lindraks tried to bracket Jelindel, but she did the only thing that anyone can do under the circumstances. She executed an almost suicidal jump and half-turn for the nearer lindrak, parrying his sword with a chopping downward sweep, then backhanding the blade into his unprotected throat. The remaining lindrak closed more cautiously, advancing closed-step style with his sword at the guard. Jelindel feinted an attack, disengaged his parry, then slashed his arm as he tried to withdraw. He skipped back, clutching his arm. Jelindel snatched a fallen sword.

Meantime Hargrellien had forced her lindrak opponent down to the base of the stairs. Helda and Sermilly were kneeling with their arms around each other as Jelindel stepped between them and an advancing lindrak. He snatched a fang star from his belt as Jelindel flung her second sword at him, but he leaped straight up and it scythed past beneath him. He flung a fang star, striking Jelindel in the forearm. He was reaching for a second star as Jelindel closed.

Fang stars hurt, but rarely kill. He flung his second star, which she caught on the palm of her hand, then the lindrak was fighting for his life. He parried two cuts to the head, then tried to step into and under Jelindel’s next overhand cut while parrying upwards. Her knee caught him in the face, and her fourth cut went most of the way through his unprotected neck.

Jelindel looked around. Daretor stood uninjured amid the bodies of four lindraks. Hargrellien had somehow killed the second lindrak at the base of the stairs, then dealt a death stroke to another, after one of her sisters had hit him with a vase. Augerin was slumped against a wall, clutching his side.

Jelindel dropped her sword and plucked the fang stars from her hand and forearm. Tossing them aside, she picked up her sword again. Waves of pain from her left arm pounded her nervous system.

‘By all the gods and goddesses, Jaelin’s a girl!’ exclaimed Helda, who was still clinging to Sermilly.

Jelindel slowly raised her bloodied sword and pointed to Daretor. ‘My man,’ she said, emphatically. ‘I hope everyone is now quite clear about that.’ Then she passed out.

The unexpected attack turned out to be the beginning of a long and unpleasant night. Jelindel awoke to find Helda bandaging her arm. Hargrellien and Sermilly were with their mother, tending to Augerin’s more serious wounds. Other sisters had gone for help, or were self-consciously standing about holding swords.

‘Were you but a boy, you would never escape me with your virtue intact,’ said Helda as she worked.

‘What happened before we arrived?’ asked Jelindel. Although her mind was still fogged, she realised how lucky she had been that the fang stars had not been poisoned. They had been ‘sacrifice’ wounds that could have gone horribly wrong.

‘The black-robed warriors, the lindraks, broke in just as the last of us were about to go to bed. Father stopped two of them before he was wounded, then, well, you know what happened to the others. You were so dashing and brave, with your sword flashing and ringing while your hair swirled about unbound. There was blood on your shirt –’

‘Please, Helda. Is Daretor all right?’

‘Yes. He is in the kitchen with the surviving lindrak. He has him tied over a chopping block, and he told my sister Mergel that he was going to do something out of Madame Jing’s third scroll. I do not understand. I thought Madame Jing sold contraceptive potions and devices. Oh! I’m not supposed to know that.’

There was a distant scream.

‘And your contract guards?’ asked Jelindel.

‘All five are dead. Daretor said they were taken by surprise. What are we to do? We’re a house full of girls.’

‘Well I killed several, and I’m a girl,’ Jelindel pointed out.

‘Why can’t the boys in my life be like you?’ sighed Helda.

‘You want a man with breasts?’ asked Jelindel.

‘No, I mean brave, dashing, well mannered, fine of features, educated, and good looking.’

‘Maybe you are keeping company with the wrong sort of boys – and stay away from Daretor.’

Daretor was looking grim when he emerged from the kitchen.

‘He’s still alive, but I doubt he will ever walk in a straight line again,’ he announced. ‘You might need a new soup ladle, icing tube, and pepper grinder, by the way.’

‘Did he say why they attacked our home?’ asked Helda.

‘He did, while he could still talk. They wanted Jelindel.’

‘Who? Oh, you mean Jaelin. But why?’

‘Never mind. Jelindel, can you walk?’

‘Not well, I suspect, but yes.’

‘Then we leave tonight. The Dragonfang sails three hours before dawn.’

‘I heard they have a full crew already.’

‘Then we board as passengers. With us gone, this house will be safe.’

________________________

Daretor and Jelindel’s departure was hasty. Both of them knew that fast decisions were beyond most people, and that the Preceptor would not expect them to vanish straight away.

‘The Preceptor rules the kingdom of Skelt,’ Jelindel explained to Hargrellien as she scrubbed her face and changed back into her ‘Jaelin’ look. ‘This time he tried to take me in secret, without fuss. Next time he will put ten thousand regular troops into the city, seal off the neighbourhood, and start burning houses until he flushes me out.’

‘But where can you go?’ protested Hargrellien. ‘Your left arm is badly hurt; you can’t defend yourself.’

‘Daretor will be with me, and we make a good team. We travel light and fast, and we are good at not being seen. Most times,’ she added. ‘I suspect we have become rather careless. It was too good, too soon.’

‘Will it ever stop, Jelindel? What will bring you peace?’

‘I need to get rid of certain dangerous and destructive little nuisances. They should not be destroyed, but there is a lady who can put them safely out of reach of fools, idiots, and rulers of large empires.’

‘But the Dragonfang is not sailing for Zaria.’

‘We’re talking at cross purposes, Hargrellien. I refer to a different lady than the Dragonfang. There were considerable hours on the last voyage that most know nothing of. This particular “lady” belongs to those hours.

‘How is your father?’ she said, wanting to change the subject.

‘Weak, but recovering. We shall have to send for the Watch soon. How shall we explain all the bodies?’

‘Daretor is even now arranging the bodies of the guards to make it look like they were in the fighting, and that your father was the only survivor.’

‘What about the lindrak in the kitchen?’

‘My knowledge of these assassins tells me that he will be already dead. They carry poison within teeth capsules in case of capture. I’m surprised he held out as long as he did – perhaps he still had hope of escape, although he obviously underestimated his captors.’

‘But the militia,’ Hargrellien insisted.

‘They will be convinced that between your family and the guards, you held them at bay. Especially if you let them do a search of the house. Tell them that you had two guests who were out of the house when the lindraks arrived. Say that they have not yet returned and you suspect that they have been ambushed. Now goodbye Hargrellien, it was a pleasure to sail with you.’

‘You changed my life, Jelindel. You taught me what I could really become.’

‘Trust me, girl, you don’t want to become what I am.’

They embraced, then went to find Daretor.

Jelindel and Daretor were on the Dragonfang and helping to cast off as the city’s murder bell began to peal out through the darkness. Jelindel’s plans of a brief respite were irretrievably lost.

While Daretor helped above decks, she retired to their cabin. It took less than an hour to come to the decision that they must leave the Dragonfang under cover of darkness. By this time the caravel was sluicing north through the water, and the pealing murder bells had long since ceased their clangour.

They had left Zimak behind, although they doubted he would mind. He was now firmly ensconced in D’loom’s most notorious inn, the Flick an’ Tickle. It was rumoured that he conducted Siluvian kick-fist contests, and was a man of some wealth, much admired by ladies of ill repute, including nobility.

Little did Jelindel and Daretor realise, however, that Zimak was bored with his sordid life, and his jealousy of their partnership was way past simmering.

Chapter 22

ALLIES AND ENEMIES

Jelindel and Daretor spent less than six hours aboard the Dragonfang. During that time they prepared for what they were about to do. Unfortunately, no amount of preparation could make up for the fact that neither of them was a good swimmer. And this part of the coast was particularly treacherous.

All was quiet on the deck as Jelindel and Daretor slipped silently overboard and clambered down the rope ladder to the dark water. They dropped into the water with hardly a splash, as the ship crashed through the waves, all on board oblivious to their departure. Jelindel was trailing her left arm, which was wrapped in waxed cloth, but Daretor helped to pull her along as they struck out for the shore. Also strapped to Daretor’s waist was a hessian sling bag, containing their few possessions and the carefully wrapped pentacle gems.

The water was choppy and cold, and occasionally things brushed their legs beneath the surface. Jelindel shuddered each time she was nudged, and tried to rein in her imagination. Daretor had them near the shore within a half hour of leaving the ship. Before they knew it, waves began to break around them and they were borne along to the shallows. They collapsed on the damp-compacted sand and gasped for air. Despite the cold and the discomfort, they lay companionably for some time before Daretor spoke.

‘Are you well?’ he said, between gulps of air.

‘I have felt worse,’ said Jelindel, with the surf swirling around her. ‘Just now I cannot recall when, but I have.’

‘Surely swimming was meant only for fish,’ he wheezed. ‘Lucky the shoals forced the Dragonfang so close to shore.’

‘Luck had nothing to do with it. I used to be navigator, remember?’ She coughed, hugging herself for warmth. ‘Can I have some fresh-baked bread, roast duckling, and hot spiced tea for breakfast? Call me when it’s ready.’

‘How could you think of food at a time like this?’

Jelindel said, ‘White Quell, you’re starting to sound like Zimak.’

Daretor picked up a handful of wet sand and threw it at her.

‘What was that for?’

Daretor glared at her. ‘After all that we have been through, I think you could desist from insulting me.’

‘You know,’ said Jelindel, thoughtfully, ‘I can’t tell if you’re developing a sense of humour or not. And speaking of what we’ve been through, I think it’s about time you called me Jelli.’

Daretor turned away so she could not see his smile. He climbed unsteadily to his feet and headed up the beach, towards the treeline. Exhausted, Jelindel followed. Amongst the trees they found plenty of kindling and soon had a fire going. Daretor immediately stripped off and hung his clothing to dry before the fire.

The last remnants of Jelindel’s modesty prevented her from doing the same, though she compromised by removing her top for drying and keeping one arm discreetly wrapped across her breasts. Daretor snorted and headed into the brush to find breakfast.

He eventually returned with two rangy scut rats, by which time Jelindel was clothed again. He deftly skinned and gutted the animals, spitted them on green wood, and propped them over the fire. Before long, a pungent aroma filled the small clearing. Having eaten, they set off in the direction of the nearest town.

‘The Preceptor will expect us to be on the Dragonfang at Sezel,’ said Jelindel as they walked. ‘If we ride, we can arrive at our destination a lot faster, and nobody will be looking for us.’

‘Why Sezel?’

‘Because there is a house there where powerful artifacts may be left, and from which they can never be removed.’

The nearest town was Argentia, named after the silver coin. Nestled among the foothills of the westernmost flanks of the Algon Mountains, it was a raw mining town, full of smelting furnaces and smithies. It had the rough-and-tumble etiquette common to such places. Jelindel and Daretor knew they would have to keep a low profile. The Preceptor’s spies were everywhere, and strangers inevitably aroused suspicion.

Jelindel took a room at a tavern called The Green Skull. Despite its name, it was reasonably clean and efficiently run by a man with one leg. His giant frame and bulging biceps managed to instill order and civility in his unruly patrons, with only rare recourse to a good slamming together of heads.

Daretor approached the local stable master and enquired after horses. If they were to reach Lady Forturian’s abode in far-off Sezel, and do so before the Preceptor’s men overtook them, they would need fast and tireless mounts.

The stable master scratched his head. ‘I’ve nowt this day but two old nags not worth the cost of carting them to the glue factory. Awful sorry I am. Against my religion, you might say, to turn away honest folk’s custom.’

‘There are no other stables in Argentia?’ Daretor asked, disheartened.

‘None to suit your needs, stranger. From what you say, you’ll be wanting a mount that is fleet of foot, with some endurance. The ideal horse for you and your lady would be a Delbrian Marker and there are few of those about, let me tell you.’

Daretor said, ‘But there are some about?’

‘Oh, aye. You took my meaning right enough. Calabias up at the brewery has a clutch of racing Markers that would make your eyes water. But he’d never part with them. He’d sooner sell you his children.’

‘How fast can his children go?’

The stable master stared at Daretor for a long moment, then burst out laughing, swatting his huge thighs till tears poured down his face. ‘Mister, that’s a good one, that is. You mind me repeatin’ it?’

‘Not at all. Thank you for your time,’ Daretor said, and passed the stable master a few coppers. The man bit into one, testing its authenticity before pocketing them.

Daretor found Calabias in his office, overlooking a training yard in which three of his prize Markers were being put through their paces. Daretor broached the reason for his visit. Calabias stared at him blankly.

‘Let me understand you correctly. You want me to sell you two of my Markers, is that right?’ the man asked.

‘For a reasonable sum, yes.’ Perhaps this was going to be easier than he’d thought.

Calabias pulled a funnel-shaped device connected to a hollow tube that disappeared into a hole in the floor and spoke into it.

‘Briney, get up here,’ he shouted into the funnel. Daretor heard a tinny answering voice. ‘I’ve a fool I want you to throw out on his dummart arse!’

Daretor glared at Calabias. He made to grab the man then remembered whose body he was inhabiting. Calabias sneered at him.

‘Lay one finger on me, and my man will feed you to one of the smelters. Now get out of my sight.’

Daretor turned and left without a word. He met Briney on the way up. The man eyed him suspiciously. Daretor gestured back to Calabias’s office. ‘Better get up there. That mad fool’s giving your boss a wagon load of grief.’

Briney grunted and hurried past.

Back at the tavern, Daretor explained the situation to Jelindel. She stared at him, biting her lower lip.

‘Well, as I see it, our hand is already tipped. Either we come by these horses fairly, or we don’t.’

‘And if we don’t,’ Daretor said, ‘everybody will know it was us. Horse theft is a hanging offence.’

‘Unless,’ said Jelindel, ‘they don’t know the horses are missing.’

Daretor eyed her uneasily. ‘I have a feeling I’m not going to like this.’

‘It’s easy enough,’ Jelindel said, her eyes sparkling with ready humour. ‘You and Jabez Thull pulled off a drunken stupour quite admirably once before.’

That afternoon Jelindel had her wounds salved and bandaged, then she bought provisions for the journey. Meanwhile, Daretor purchased two nags at an exorbitant price from a puzzled stable master and lodged them at the tavern’s barn. To the delight of the locals, he and Jelindel then proceeded to get roaring drunk and almost had to be helped up to their room. Indeed, as Jelindel was not travelling as a boy, several gruff miners made it quite clear that they’d like to help her to her bed, and farther. She managed to decline their assistance without starting any fights.

Once in their room, Daretor and Jelindel suddenly became sober again. Daretor listened at the door to make sure none of the nosy and intoxicated patrons lingered outside. He gave Jelindel the all-clear and made sure the door was bolted.

‘Part of me wants to spend the night here,’ sighed Jelindel softly, luxuriating on the feather-down mattress.

‘Part of me is rather interested, too,’ replied Daretor. ‘The rest of me thinks it is a very bad idea, however.’

Jelindel stretched one more time, then got up. ‘Logic wins every time. One of these days I’m going to do something truly foolish and follow my heart.’

With their few possessions packed, Jelindel opened the south-facing window overlooking an alleyway, and climbed out onto a drainpipe. She rotated her shoulder and stretched her injured arm. Instead of going down, however, she climbed laboriously up to the roof. Daretor followed moments later.

There they waited for several minutes, listening for any sign that they had been observed. They heard nothing but a startled owl. Their impression was that they had not been seen, but that was only an impression.

A few miles away, several tall-masted ships lay at anchor in a cove sheltered from the sea by a low wall of tumbled masonry.

‘The land was not always as it is now,’ Fa’red said, indicating the remnants of an ancient causeway. ‘Yonder Algon Mountains once lay at the bottom of the sea, and many a fine city and its inhabitants reside now where only lobsters and fish visit them.’

‘So you say,’ the Preceptor said. He found it difficult to attend to the mage’s words; his interest being with what was now, rather than with what had been, unless it could be turned to his advantage. ‘What is taking them so long?’ he snapped, surveying the army that was slowly swelling on the damp sand. Long boats plied back and forth to the ships, transferring soldiers and cavalry, and the wagons required to carry supplies.

‘Patience, Preceptor. Rather take them here than in D’loom. The fools have walked right into our hands.’

‘Fa’red. Every minute I feel those wretches slipping further from my grasp, not closer!’

Fa’red laid a tentative hand on the Preceptor’s arm. ‘You need not fear, my lord. Obstacles of many kinds lie in their path, and according to my spy, the girl is injured. You will have the pentacle gems soon enough. Your other army is already moving from Passendof to the Marisa River to cut them off. Many threads are drawing together. And, after all, they are but two.’

The Preceptor scowled. ‘I had her in my grasp, Fa’red. In my grasp!’

‘And you let her go. Yes, you have told me often enough. Though you have never told me why I was not summoned, nor why a senile old truthseer was used instead.’

‘Senile he may have been, but there was still power in him.’ The Preceptor kept his eyes on the shore. After a pause, he said, ‘I see there are leaks in my court. Who told you of the truthseer?’

Fa’red also stared at the shore, where flickering lights dotted the beach like sparkling fireflies. The silence lasted ten seconds.

‘So be it. You will have your secrets, as I will have mine. But mark my words, dear mage, much depends upon the outcome of this venture. I am already sorely overstretched. Amassing this army leaves ten dozen garrisons with barely a cook and a door guard. If something goes wrong, Passendof, Baltoria, and Hamaria will revolt. I am taking a great risk.’

‘From such gambles are great rewards gathered,’ Fa’red answered.

A bell began to toll on the beach.

‘It is begun then,’ the Preceptor said, breathing deeply. ‘To the boats, Fa’red. To the boats.’

Jelindel and Daretor entered Calabias’s stables from the roof, lowering themselves by rope to the straw-strewn floor. Her cloaking spell had worked against the stables’ guard, but the horses were not so easily fooled. One stamped its hoof at the alien smells; another kicked back into the stalls as it spied two shadowy objects appearing from the loft.

Jelindel and Daretor quickly selected the two least spooked Delbrian Markers and saddled them in silent haste.

Once ready, they led the horses to the rear of the stables where a blank wall confronted them. Jelindel climbed on her horse and, with Daretor’s help, lashed herself to the saddle so that she would not fall.

Daretor took the reins of both horses in his hand. ‘I’m ready.’

‘You remember the route?’

‘You do your part and I will do mine.’ He gently rubbed her thigh.

Jelindel smiled fleetingly then spoke a complex charm, inscribing a shape in the air as she did so. She built the spell slowly and carefully and when she was sure it was ready, she uttered the word that activated it. Immediately, she slumped into unconsciousness and would have fallen had it not been for the bindings that held her to the mare.

At the same time, part of the wall vanished, leaving a high arched doorway. Daretor quickly led the two horses through the gaping hole and into a dark alleyway that ran behind Argentia’s close-packed buildings.

The moment he passed through, the spell evaporated with a dull pop and the wall became whole again. But all of Jelindel’s strength did not return at once. She remained groggy and disoriented for some time.

An hour later they were outside the town and riding swiftly on their way. ‘How long will the changing spell hold?’

Jelindel laughed. ‘I’m afraid it’s permanent. I tapped some of the energy of the gems to effect that, rather than my own life-force. Calabias will soon realise that his horses are no better than the stable master’s nags. Yet to others, they will appear to be his Markers.’

‘But they will never win any more races.’

‘That’s true, but the poor things will probably have a brighter future than the rather sticky one they were destined for. Poor racers they may be, but Calabias’s pride will never allow him to destroy them.’

They both laughed and rode on into the darkness.

Two days later they reached the Marisa River, a hundred miles east of Tol. They gazed down at the wide waters from a high bluff: the current was fast and flowing towards Passendof, where they would veer north for the final dash across Bravenhurst to Sezel.

‘Notice anything?’ asked Jelindel.

Daretor looked along the water. ‘No river traffic, except for the Passendof barges. That’s not normal.’

‘Which means the Preceptor’s men control the river upstream and down. How does he keep finding us?’

‘I am open to suggestions,’ Daretor said, gloomily. ‘He’s trying to box us in, and I very much fear he is succeeding. He knows we will make for the north.’

‘Then we must convince him that he is wrong.’

‘Fa’red is with him. He will not be so easily fooled,’ Daretor pointed out.

‘On the contrary, Fa’red is the key to fooling the Preceptor.’

Daretor closed his eyes in mild exasperation. ‘What is going on in that brain of yours now?’

‘A half day’s ride north of here is one of the Preceptor’s garrisons. If they were to spot us heading north and give chase –’

‘They would send a message saying we had been seen making north.’ Daretor smiled for a moment, then shook his head. ‘It will not work. Fa’red is not so simple.’

‘No, he isn’t, and he doesn’t trust the Preceptor’s intelligence. So we will pass the garrison heading north, allow them to give chase, then turn back south as if we are heading for the river again. At that point we will secretly turn north again, but this time we will make sure that only the one who follows us sees …’

Daretor spun around, gazing back the way they had come. ‘Who follows us? I’ve not seen anyone.’

‘Yet one does. I hazard a guess that it is Larachel.’ She shrugged. ‘I wish I could control these … instincts I keep getting. They come and go as they please. No matter. Should he be in the employ of Fa’red, it would make sense. He has the deadmoon aura about him.’

‘So let Fa’red’s own “eyes” give him false report?’

‘Hopefully,’ Jelindel said.

They crossed the river that night. This time even Daretor thought he saw a dark shape break from the farther shore and plunge into the river close to where they themselves had crossed. They did not wait to confirm if they were being followed, but sped north as fast as the Delbrian Markers would carry them.

Midnight found them a mile from the garrison town of Obly. From this point they could see the watch, bearing flaming torches, patrolling the battlements of a dark watchtower which thrust up from the town’s centre like a finger aimed at the sky. Stopping briefly to fortify themselves with food and a brief rest (and to allow their shadow to catch up), they remounted their horses and rode down the sloping road, straight into the main street of Obly.

Almost at once, a patrol spotted them and gave the cry. Soon the town was full of shouting, and lights sprang up in all directions. Jelindel and Daretor did not slow their pace, however, and galloped like the wind through the town and out the other side before any serious opposition could be mounted.

Pursuit was not long in coming, and soon they heard the pounding of many hooves on the road behind them. They veered off the main road and headed east. As they had hoped, their pursuers were too canny to miss their trail in the dark and go astray. Not only did they stay on their trail but they closed the gap considerably.

Bouncing on the back of his galloping mare, Daretor managed to gasp out a question. ‘Was it part of your plan that they catch us and skewer us before we give them the slip, or after, Jelli?’

‘Sarcasm ill becomes you, Daretor,’ she laughed.

They reached a forest and plunged into it. A little way in they encountered a narrow stream. Here they quickly dismounted and, leading their horses by their reins and talking to them gently to quiet their nerves, moved back in the direction they had come.

‘I am betting it is too dark in the forest even for their best trail-finders,’ Jelindel said.

They soon reached the forest edge, though at a point further east from where the road entered it. They were just in time to see their pursuers pass in amongst the dark trees, their horses’ hoof-beats almost immediately muffled.

‘Let’s go,’ Jelindel said. They remounted and moved at a light canter back south again. For over an hour they kept to this course before slowly veering round in a long, slow circle that saw them heading north once more. They stopped several times and, under the cover of her thick cloak, Jelindel checked her map and the tiny inscriptions that provided local information. On one such occasion she expelled a deep sigh of relief.

‘We’re almost there.’

‘Almost where?’ Daretor asked.

‘We’ll come to a wide, fast-flowing river on the farther bank of which a dense forest known as Tanglewood begins. It is a place where even a lindrak would have trouble following us.’ They remounted and urged their tired mounts on. ‘Let’s start inflating the bladders.’

Back in Argentia, Jelindel had purchased several bladders normally used to carry wine. They now filled them with their own laboured breath and tied them with twine. As an added precaution, Jelindel filled the ‘valves’ with fast-acting glue. Moments later they reached the river.

Two large bladders were fitted to each horse, one on each side, and each rider strapped two smaller ones, back and front beneath their shoulders. Thus outfitted they rode into the inky water. Before long the horses were unable to keep their footing and the river swept them southwards into a watery darkness.

‘It is a feint, I tell you,’ the Preceptor said. ‘They move south, back to the river.’

The army moved slowly up the Marisa River, having commandeered several Passendof grain barges for the purpose. Fa’red watched the Preceptor pace the length of the former captain’s cabin before clearing his throat.

‘You do not agree, I take it?’ the Preceptor asked.

Fa’red smiled. ‘Perhaps. There are feints within feints here. The skill is in reading the true intent from the false.’

‘Why state the obvious? If you have better intelligence, bring it out.’

‘Your garrison at Obly saw them heading north, yet turn south they did almost immediately. My own spy followed them as they slowly bent their course northwards again until they reached Tanglewood. There he lost them.’

‘Heading north? And do you think they were unaware that they were being followed?’ asked the Preceptor, icily.

‘On the contrary, Preceptor, I instructed my agent to give himself away …’

‘Ah-ha. Then they knew they were being followed and the strike northwards was a feint indeed.’ The Preceptor smiled, satisfied. ‘They are somewhere on the river ahead of us, concealed on a grain barge. I will have messages sent. The barges will slow down imperceptibly and we will overtake them. Meanwhile, my lancers will be sent down from the Passendof border. We will smash them between two irresistible forces!’

The Preceptor slammed his fist into his palm. A happy man again, he strode from the cabin. Fa’red, on the other hand, did not move. Almost to himself he murmured, ‘A good thing I did not tell him that in all likelihood they knew my agent was supposed to be seen. Ah, feints within feints within feints …’

As it happened, Daretor and Jelindel were concealed on a grain barge some thirty miles northeast of the Preceptor at that very moment. They had floated south for many miles, eventually returning to the Marisa River. Cold and hungry, they risked a fire in a ruined cottage and warmed themselves. This time Jelindel abandoned her modesty and stripped, pretending not to notice Daretor’s occasional sidelong glances. Perhaps she was feeling more comfortable with him, or perhaps she was simply too numb and tired to care.

Before dawn broke they boarded a grain barge when it drew alongside one of the many depots scattered along the banks of the river. Jelindel cast a spell of invisibility that, while it failed to make them truly invisible, had the useful effect of deflecting all eyes away from them. Thus, they could walk amongst many and be seen – or at least remembered – by none. In time, the spell had the effect of weakening Jelindel considerably, forcing them to hurry aboard with Daretor supporting her most of the way.

The hours passed uneventfully, even somewhat pleasantly, since they were able to rest. However, late in the afternoon, the barge began to slow down. Before long they heard the familiar sound of wharfjacks shouting instructions. Soon, the barge thumped into something and then lay still, rocking slightly. They were cinched to bollards, which alarmed Jelindel.

‘We shouldn’t be stopping until tomorrow night. Something is wrong.’ She suddenly jumped up. ‘Come on, we must get off now. It’s some kind of trap.’

Daretor didn’t argue. He had learnt to trust Jelindel’s instincts.

‘I fear,’ Jelindel told him, ‘that we must abandon the horses here. They’ll give us away.’

Daretor was more upset at this than at the sudden move. He had developed a deep respect, and even a love, for his horse. Some time ago he had named it Emisaar, a word which came from an ancient dialect meaning ‘fleet’. He stroked it now and whispered gentle goodbyes into its ear, promising that if he lived through the next few days he would come back and find the mare no matter what. Emisaar’s head bent towards him and she seemed to understand his words.

Daretor turned and left her tethered beside Jelindel’s mount.

Daretor and Jelindel moved cautiously to one of the aft cargo bays and prised open a hatch that opened below the level of the wharf. They climbed out, latched it shut again, and made their way through stinking mud and reeds, moving all the time beneath the wharf. When it was safe to do so, they broke cover and darted into nearby woods.

Larachel was waiting for them.

He stepped out from behind a tree and said, ‘That’s quite far enough.’ He held a squat, ugly device in his hands. Jelindel recognised it as a thundercast – a dragonlord weapon she had recovered in her quest for the mailshirt. It was aimed squarely at them. A noise from behind whipped them around to find Hargrellien standing there. She held a more traditional weapon, but one just as deadly: a lindrak crossbow.

Jelindel sighed. ‘So there were two of you following us.’

‘One can never be sufficiently paranoid,’ said Larachel.

‘Two of you,’ Jelindel repeated. ‘That night on board the Dark Empress.’ She glanced wonderingly at Hargrellien. ‘You freed Larachel and with the aid of the thundercast, you killed the mutineers. Then Larachel pretended to be a mutineer, returned you to the cabin, waited an hour or so, before allowing the passenger, Mistress Sheaghan, to escape. Tying himself up afterwards, of course. And it was you, Hargrellien, who found and untied him.’ She turned back to Larachel.

‘How very clever. Now, if you please –’ Larachel suddenly gulped and clutched his throat as a feathered bolt appeared there. He shot one agonising look of surprise at Hargrellien and collapsed.

Jelindel and Daretor spun round, expecting to feel one of the lethal metal shafts in their backs. But Hargrellien just stood there. After a moment, she lowered the crossbow.

Jelindel eyed the weapon: ‘Don’t tell me you’re letting us go.’

Hargrellien shrugged. ‘The lindrak ranks have been rebuilt in secret by the Preceptor, but they are nowhere nearly as good as the original lindraks. He plans to use them against Fa’red’s deadmoons, should the mage forget his place one day. But I belong to a covert group within the lindrak ranks that believe the pentacle gems will spell disaster for us. With a ringstone gate, mercenaries far deadlier than we can be brought to this world. We will become obsolete overnight. We do not intend to allow this. We even have an alliance with Fa’red.’

‘The complexity of these plots is making my head spin,’ said Daretor. ‘The attack on your home – were they the Preceptor’s lindraks or Fa’red’s deadmoons?’

Hargrellien’s expression remained blank. ‘Lindraks. Our group has been discovered.’ She glanced down at Larachel’s body. ‘Only he knew my history; where to find us. Now, the pentacle gems, Jelindel.’

‘They cannot be easily destroyed,’ Jelindel pointed out, steeling herself against attack.

‘Our ancient lore tells us this. That is why I will assist you to get to Sezel.’

‘What makes you think that I am going there?’

‘You told me. Sezel and Hazaria are the only places where I lost track of you during the voyage. My lindrak faction made some investigations which led to Lady Forturian. You are right, the gems must go to her. Even Fa’red does not have powers like hers.’

‘You speak of history, Hargrellien,’ said Daretor, gesturing at Larachel. ‘What is his?’

‘His name was R’mel. He was the sole survivor of the deadmoons’ attack on Blacklight Castle,’ said Hargrellien.

‘R’mel,’ Jelindel whispered.

Hargrellien nodded. ‘He was among those who killed your family. He rebuilt the lindraks under the Preceptor’s protection. Although he didn’t see the danger in the pentacle gems.’

He didn’t see a lot of things, thought Jelindel. ‘You’re a ruthless lot,’ she said. ‘And I must be slowing down if I didn’t recognise you as something more than a confused girl.’

Hargrellien shrugged. ‘We are taught that things are never as they seem. As for R’mel, he was of the old school, and shall be remembered for rekindling the brotherhood. But have no pity for him. He sought to kill us all rather than lose the pentacle gems. We need to hurry. The Preceptor knows you are here. Even now he is closing the trap.’

The world was filling with shadows as evening came on. Jelindel, Daretor and Hargrellien crouched amongst cloven boulders atop a small hill. Below them, in all directions, the campfires of the Preceptor’s combined armies burned brightly into the distance.

The three fugitives had fled on foot all day, narrowly avoiding the scouts and patrols of the enemy, but in the end there were simply too many of them. Weary, they were no match for the Preceptor’s well-trained legions and his fleet-footed cavalry.

Neatly and effortlessly, they had been herded to this lonely, rocky hilltop from which they could see for miles in every direction.

Daretor paced impatiently back and forth. ‘Why don’t they just attack and get it over with?’ he asked.

Hargrellien shook her head. ‘That is not the Preceptor’s way. He wishes to taunt you with the sight of your failure, and your doom.’

‘He will strike in the morning,’ Jelindel said, tonelessly.

Hargrellien looked thoughtful. ‘I think so, too.’

‘Then I for one will get a good night’s sleep, so that tomorrow I may take as many of them with me as I can.’ Daretor threw himself down upon the ground and fell into an exhausted sleep within moments.

Jelindel envied him in some ways. His simple code of living left little room for doubt: fight for what is right, do not yield to the dark side, and when it is time to die, do so with honour and without regret.

For her, life was more complex. Sometimes she believed she had been too well educated, that a childhood spent illicitly reading had ill-prepared her for the more important things of life: remorse, responsibility, death, love. What can books tell you of these things? she wondered. They must be lived, yet in the very living of them, they change forever, because you are changed.

‘I don’t want to die,’ she said simply, not realising Hargrellien was nearby.

Hargrellien shrugged philosophically. ‘Who does? For all things there is a time of ending. Fa’red has plans that could be of use to us, but I fear that the Preceptor moved too fast this time.’

‘So Fa’red is in league with a lindrak faction?’ asked Jelindel, rubbing her forehead with her good hand.

‘Yes, in fact I am one of his most prized quadruple agents,’ laughed Hargrellien. ‘I may not be a very experienced or well-trained lindrak, but I am fairly small and light. Fa’red gave me some very special training, because … well, he had a plan to snatch the pentacle gems away much earlier. I was more interested in rescuing my father, however. Besides, you had the gems, and so in a sense I was within reach of them. Such a pity, if this is really the end after all we endured.’

‘No, not all things end,’ Jelindel said, thoughtfully. ‘Or at least, there are worlds of beings who do not perish.’ She jumped up. ‘Wake Daretor! We have work to do.’ And she strode off amongst the broken boulders.

The rising sun threw long shadowy fingers across the plain below so that a single man on sentry duty might cast a shadow hundreds of yards long.

On the elevated hilltop, a ring of five chest-high pillars threw out shadows that stretched for miles. The ragged stone mounds resembled the remnants of an ancient sacrificial site.

Daretor stood back to survey their handiwork. His hands were bloodied, as were Jelindel’s and Hargrellien’s. Wearily, he said, ‘This had better work, Jelli. My arms are near to falling off.’

Jelindel nodded. ‘It’s all a matter of weight. Or, to be precise, it’s all a matter of mass.’

‘Mass?’

‘Yes. The more massive the object, or objects, brought through the portal, the more stable must be the ringstone. The power of the paraplane interstices must be anchored in the earth, and anchored well.’

‘Then what good is this child’s version?’ Hargrellien demanded.

‘It’s all a matter of mass,’ Jelindel repeated, and paused long enough to irritate them. ‘The Preceptor thinks big, thinks in terms of gigantic armies of twelve-foot demons pouring through a ringstone portal. The total mass of such a venture is enormous, incalculable. But size isn’t everything.’

Daretor scowled at this last remark, glancing down at Zimak’s body. His eyes shifted slightly, and he faced the terrain below them. ‘Everything or not, you had best get started. They come!’

Jelindel and Hargrellien turned to stare at the plain below. While they had been talking, the Preceptor’s soldiers had formed into their fighting battalions. Now they were advancing across the flat stony earth towards the hilltop.

Even from here, Jelindel could feel not only Fa’red’s protective spells that encompassed the amassed army, but the incantations of the lesser Adepts. He was leaving nothing to chance. Hargrellien had already explained to Jelindel and Daretor that no matter how great the Preceptor’s victory this day, it would probably be Fa’red who claimed the pentacle gems at the day’s end.

Jelindel quickly placed the pentacle gems in the niches they had hollowed out in the tips of the hastily assembled pillars. As she placed the last one, she spoke the portal spell she had read in The Book of Alchemorum. A slight wind sprang up. It gathered about in tiny dust whirls, gathering momentum.

She drove her sword into the ground beside Daretor. ‘I won’t need this where I’m going.’ She wove the symbol of White Quell in the air and strode forward.

‘Ashstillin!’ she cried out. The air seemed to be sliced into a curtain of shimmering ribbons. Jelindel spoke another word, too low for the others to hear: it was the truename of a paraworld.

Jelindel plucked a strand of Daretor’s hair. ‘Stay here,’ she said. Then she brushed the fluctuating curtain aside and disappeared beyond it.

‘I wish she wouldn’t say that,’ Daretor said, drawing his sword to face the oncoming hordes below. Hargrellien moved to his side, loading her crossbow.

‘Where is the thundercast?’ Daretor enquired, seemingly nonchalant.

Hargrellien gestured towards their packs. ‘It will serve you little. Fa’red has developed a way to neutralise its powers unless it’s in an authorised user’s hands. He would not have permitted one of us to carry it otherwise.’

‘Then it’s good old fashioned swords and bows.’ Daretor turned to stare at the still glowing portal field.

Hargrellien followed his gaze. ‘You think she will fail?’

‘I think she will return with help, but I mistrust the kind of help that paraworld demons might provide. Were I a man of lesser appetite for battle, I might find that portal tempting.’

Hargrellien turned back to the advancing soldiers. ‘Give me mortal combat any day, Daretor. Paraplanes are for Senior Adepts or madmen.’

The Preceptor’s soldiers reached the foot of the hill. Impatient archers let fly a salvo of arrows which arced high and fell short, save for a handful that thunked into the ground around Daretor and Hargrellien. Daretor hewed one from the air a second before it struck Hargrellien.

‘My thanks,’ she said, inclining her head by way of salute.

‘They will be in proper range in a minute or two, then I warrant they will see us dance a pretty jig.’

But the archers did not fire another salvo. Instead, the forward battalion charged. The ground shook with the thunder of forty thousand pounding legs. Dust filled the hollow at the base of the hill and, from its turbulent opaque face, an endless stream of soldiers burst forth in their headlong dash up the rocky hillside.

‘Brace yourself!’ Daretor shouted above the noise.

At that moment, behind them, there was a flash of light and Jelindel reappeared. She stumbled as she stepped from the portal and Daretor grasped her by the shoulders. He gazed closely at her. Her hair was longer and she seemed older, if that were possible. Her bandages were gone and her wounds seemed to have vanished.

‘By White Quell’s blood, it’s good to be back,’ she wheezed.

‘Then you must have come from a worse hell,’ Hargrellien mumbled. ‘Did you bring aid? For if not we are all undone this next minute.’

Suddenly, above Jelindel’s head, a swarm of silvery globes whizzed back and forth, humming softly.

‘Do it!’ yelled Jelindel. She snatched up a sword and turned to face the onrushing soldiers.

Daretor’s face was strained as he stepped back from Jelindel. ‘Is this it? Some flying balls?’ He ducked as one passed over his head.

‘Trust me,’ Jelindel said.

Blue threads of power crackled out from the globes and encircled Daretor’s body. His back arched and his mouth gaped open. His limbs were vibrating so fast, they were a blur. In the blink of an eye all the globes shot into his open mouth and disappeared. A spasm went through him, and then he seemed to shake off the episode and stand tall and straight.

As the soldiers came within a hundred yards of their position, they let out a blood-curdling bellow. In that moment, Jelindel spoke a single word and there were two identical Daretors standing side by side, both armed with a sword. An instant later, there were four, then eight, then sixteen. The doubling accelerated exponentially and in another few seconds there were literally thousands of armed Daretors spread across the hilltop. Still more kept appearing until the hilltop was rows deep with copies of the warrior.

In perfect unison the Daretor warriors let out an ear-shattering whoop and together, eerily synchronised, they charged down the hillside. The impact of the two armies coming together shook the ground, then it was drowned out by the myriad cries and screams and the sound of steel hewing through leather and flesh, or clanging against resisting metal.

Most of the battle seemed to take place beneath a mushrooming cloud of dust that thousands upon thousands of feet, caught in the turmoil of battle, stirred to life.

Carrion birds circled above the swirling dust, the setting sun casting their long swooping shadows for miles.

On a faraway mountain flange the Preceptor and his elite personal bodyguard reined in their horses to gaze at the battlefield. The Preceptor seemed a broken man. It was all he could do to sit on his horse and not topple to the ground.

‘All gone,’ he lamented. ‘All gone. How is that possible, Fa’red? My mighty army, finished …’

Fa’red said nothing. He did not allow himself to smile, for he himself was still in shock. The inestimable Countess Jelindel dek Mediesar had once again exceeded his most charitable estimations of her power. Her ability to deceive those around her was incomparable. Far from releasing the paraplane slave spirits, she had indeed stored them. Never before had he seen such a display of power. She had to be at least an Adept 15. Still, he had one more trick up his sleeve, and it didn’t matter to him whether he obtained the gems from the countess or from the Preceptor.

‘Three of them,’ the Preceptor muttered. ‘There were but three of them. And I? Twenty thousand did I throw against them. All gone,’ he said again.

The captain of the bodyguard laid a hand on the Preceptor’s arm. ‘My lord, we must keep moving. When word of this rout spreads across your dominion …’

The Preceptor feebly shook off his hand. ‘I see how this day will fall out. All will rise against me. The hammer that I held over their heads these past few years is no more.’

His head dropped on his chest and the guard captain took the reins of his horse and led him on.

Behind them, Fa’red reined in his horse and waited till the Preceptor’s elite guard had passed. He then swung around and doubled back along the trail at a light canter.

Jelindel found Daretor crouched on the blood-soaked battlefield, his face buried in his hands, and his body wracked by sobs.

She crouched beside him, the strain of the past hours washing over her in dizzying waves. ‘What ails you, are you hurt?’ she said, urgently.

He peered at her over his hands, his sunken eyes wild and haunted. ‘Hurt? Am I hurt? No. I am untouched, though thousands of me died today, and each blow did I feel as if it struck my own flesh. I killed even more. I killed an entire army. No more, never again. Honour, glory, they are merely empty words, used by fools. Never again, never again.’ He stopped, aware of his hysterical babble.

Jelindel stroked his face, brushed a wisp of lank hair from his tormented eyes. ‘You’re scaring me,’ she said.

He almost smiled. In that moment Jelindel relaxed a little, having caught a glimpse of the old Daretor.

‘You must rest now,’ she said. ‘While you do, I need to free our allies. Open your mouth, please.’ She spoke a word as Daretor opened his mouth wide. The silvery globes poured out and swarmed above her head.

‘I thank you,’ Jelindel said. ‘The debt is paid.’

‘We thank thee, true heart. But debts are never paid and we owe you much. We will be watching. Fare thee well.’

The slave spirits, once imprisoned by mighty mages and set free by Jelindel, floated up the hillside and disappeared into the ringstone, though the portal had closed many hours ago.

Daretor watched them go, a look of pure incomprehension on his face. ‘What manner of things are they?’

Jelindel swallowed, moistening her dry throat. ‘Much prized power. They took a great risk coming back here, where their kind are imprisoned for eternity and swapped and stolen by Senior Adepts.’ She kissed her fingers then put them to Daretor’s cheek. ‘What did it feel like to be the most powerful Adept in the world?’

‘A burden, nothing more,’ he said. He dragged a hand across his face. ‘Hargrellien. How did she fare?’

‘She did well. She will stay with us till we get the gems safely to Lady Forturian.’ Jelindel cupped Daretor’s blanched face between her shaking hands. ‘Is your pain easing?’

‘I do not think it will ever pass, nor should it, perhaps. It will be my burden to remember this day for the rest of my life.’

‘I never thought I would see tears in those eyes,’ she said, kindly.

Daretor pulled back and turned away. The entire slope was littered by the dead and wounded. His many likenesses had dissolved when mortal wounds were inflicted upon them. Those left standing at the battle’s end had similarly disappeared when the last of the Preceptor’s men fell. A low moaning was rising from the battleground.

‘I grieve for them …’ he said. His gesture swept the battlefield. ‘So many fathers and sons and brothers and sweethearts shall not return from this day. How much more grief there will be in the world because of me?’

Jelindel gently brought Daretor’s head around to face her. ‘You did not start this.’

‘No, but I finished it. And now much will change. Darker times lie ahead, Jelli. Anarchy and death, and an endless night in which few lights will burn.’ He groaned. ‘But perhaps we can lessen the darkness.’

Jelindel stared worriedly at Daretor’s haunted face. ‘Did you see things … when you were one with the spirits?’

Daretor shook his head. ‘I don’t know what I saw. During the fighting I felt as though I were so huge that I could trample the foe underfoot.’ He winced. ‘Things were laid out before me that no man should ever know.’

‘Oh, Daretor …’

‘Jelindel! Daretor!’ cried Hargrellien from her vantage. ‘Time to lie flat, play dead.’

Daretor fumbled for his bloodied sword. ‘Are they back?’

‘It’s a battle that only she can fight,’ said Jelindel. ‘Lie sprawled and trust her.’

For a long time nothing happened. Through the ground they heard what seemed to be heavy footfalls, as if someone was running. After another ten minutes there were more footfalls.

‘There they are,’ came Hargrellien’s voice. ‘I did not search them after I killed them.’

‘No wounds on their backs,’ came Fa’red’s suspicious voice.

‘I am no alley back stabber, Master.’

‘The girl should be carrying the gems –’ Fa’red stopped, and sniffed the air. ‘I sense foul play –’

Fa’red’s voice stopped suddenly, then his body fell to the ground. Daretor bounded up in time to see Fa’red’s bulk collapse across Jelindel. Hargrellien was standing over the mage.

‘I’ve simply stunned him, but we should kill him while we have the chance,’ she said.

‘No, we agreed on this, Hargrellien,’ Jelindel said. ‘The Preceptor will soon know that Fa’red has been working against him. Fa’red will be seen to have given us much covert assistance. Better to have those two fighting each other, than have one giving us all his attention. Now take us prisoner, as planned. Train your crossbow on us, and don’t forget to load it.’

After several hundred yards they skirted a hill, there to be confronted by a small shed with huge bat wings. The ten-foot chicken legs were fully extended.

Jelindel stayed Daretor’s sword arm. ‘Hargrellien seems to know what she’s doing.’

Daretor loosened his grip on the sword pommel. ‘But do we?’ he wondered.

Hargrellien called in a twittering bird song.

Jelindel’s flesh goosed. She recognised the secret language of the lindraks from the night that her family had been slaughtered by the assassins.

A corresponding call came from the shed on legs.

‘We have them!’ shouted Hargrellien. ‘Coster, fold down the legs.’

Someone waved from the open door, then vanished. Moments later the great legs began to fold, lowering the shed. Coster appeared at the door.

‘Where is the master?’ the flight engineer asked, suspiciously.

Hargrellien shot him with the crossbow, and he fell to the ground. The legs continued to fold until the shed came to rest on the ground.

‘Was there no other way?’ demanded Daretor, clearly shocked as he looked down at Coster’s young body.

‘You should waste no sleep over that one,’ said Hargrellien. ‘He was Fa’red’s youngest, but most deadly deadmoon assassin.’

Daretor’s face registered doubt so Hargrellien pushed the body over with her foot.

Strapped around Coster’s waist was a sheath of throwing knives.

Hargrellien then re-armed the crossbow and stepped back. Daretor instantly reached for his sword but Jelindel pushed down hard on his hand so that they both clamped on to the pommel.

‘Show yourself in there!’ Hargrellien called. ‘Your time is up.’

Linnet, the hostess, appeared in the doorway. She was holding her hands up high.

Hargrellien swiftly brought the crossbow up and pulled the trigger, even as Daretor’s left hand swept it down. The bolt thudded into a chicken leg. The shed shuddered, but stayed aloft.

Hargrellien dropped the crossbow, drew a dirk from her boot and stepped back warily, watching Daretor and Linnet. Jelindel intervened.

‘There’ll be no more killing,’ she ordered. ‘Act like the enemy, and you become the enemy. Become the enemy, and you might as well not fight the enemy. Leave her here, alive, to look after Fa’red.’

Hargrellien lowered her knife. She eyed Jelindel peripherally. Linnet had not moved. But her hands had dropped.

‘You, get out!’ Jelindel called up to Linnet. To Hargrellien she said, ‘We’re partners, agreed? If we were going to kill people on the suspicion of being dangerous, you would have died long ago, Hargrellien.’

Hargrellien watched as Linnet walked past them. It wasn’t long before she broke into a stumbling run and was lost to sight.

‘On that count I would disagree, Jelindel. No one under Fa’red’s personal influence is entirely harmless.’ She walked over to the giant leg and pulled the crossbow bolt free, then the three of them climbed in.

Once inside the forward cabin, Hargrellien sat in the steersman’s saddle and told Daretor to close the door. They felt themselves rising as she straightened the great legs.

‘You can really fly this thing?’ asked Jelindel. She forced herself to release her tight grip on the pommel.

‘As I said, Fa’red gave some lindraks of my rebel faction special training on a mockup of the controls. He called it a flying simulator.’

‘Extremely trusting of him to coach you in its workings,’ Jelindel said, staring at the ground.

‘He thought it would impress us, and that we would depend on him to supply airliners for us to fly. We lindraks like to watch what people are doing, though. When my colleagues saw Fa’red beginning to grow and build the parts for his airliners, they planted spies among the people who were doing the work. We have even acquired – how can I put it? Spare parts, and will one day have our own airliner squadron.’

‘You mean you have never actually flown one of these things?’ demanded Jelindel.

‘Oh, I have had an afternoon on the simulator. It was just before the Preceptor’s lindraks attacked the mansion.’

‘One afternoon?’ asked Jelindel.

‘I know what I’m doing – let me prove it.’

‘I hate that expression,’ said Jelindel.

‘Now stay in those saddles and strap in. The takeoff could be interesting.’ Hargrellien pressed the RUN pedal and the huge legs began to lumber along. When her left foot pressed the FLAP pedal, the wings began beating.

‘You and Daretor will have to feed the wings once we’ve been aloft for a while. There should be sacks of fruit and refuse in the storage bins at the back.’

The takeoff was not at all interesting, and the airliner rose smoothly into the sky. Hargrellien raised the enormous legs, then tugged at the lever which activated a thunderous BUK BUK BUKCAW! of triumph.

‘Sezel in a few hours,’ announced Hargrellien. ‘Care to look out of the windows at the view?’

‘No!’ called Daretor and Jelindel simultaneously.

After Hargrellien levelled out, Daretor began feeding the wings fruit and refuse. Jelindel remained in her seat, recalling that the last time she had travelled at this height had almost been the death of her.

‘What is involved with being a scholar?’ asked Daretor in an attempt to take his mind off their current plight.

‘A very large amount of reading,’ said Jelindel. ‘Are you serious? Daretor the scholar.’

‘It would be nice to have something in common with you. After today, the quiet of the library seems far more appealing than the glory of the battlefield.’

‘Strange to think that it will all be over in just hours,’ said Jelindel. She caught herself at the transparent lie. Their type never knew peace. But they deserved to dream, after all they had been through – at least for the moment.

‘And then we are free, and we can rest in peace,’ said Daretor, equally caught up in Jelindel’s lie. ‘Does Sezel have any really nice inns, I wonder? Quiet inns, with big, soft beds and lindrak-proof doors?’

‘Lady Forturian has a spare room,’ said Jelindel, leaning her head against his. ‘And in all of the world you will not find a more quiet or secure house to spend a night or two. Although time simply drags there.’

‘I’ll never be bored so long as I’m with you,’ Daretor said. ‘Do you think she will mind us staying there?’

‘Oh, we shall have a welcome, Daretor. I am sure of it.’

‘Airliner is a boring name for an airship,’ called Hargrellien from the steers-saddle. ‘I think this ship should be called the Dragonwings.’

‘An apt name,’ Jelindel agreed, snuggling up to Daretor as they banked and caught an updraft.

EPILOGUE

The Dragonwings perched on a roof near Lady Forturian’s house while its passengers made sure that they were welcome. Hargrellien’s first priority was to find a crew member to feed the airliner’s wings. It came as no surprise to anyone that Lady Forturian had such a person on hand.

After they had made their farewells, Hargrellien walked the Dragonwings through the port. Nobody was inclined to oppose it or ask for papers. It managed to hop the city wall after several attempts, then it took a long run along the sand flats, became airborne, and slowly gained height. There was a BUK BUK BUKCAW! of farewells as it passed over Lady Forturian’s house, then it was gone.

Jelindel and Daretor stayed with Lady Forturian for some months, recuperating, although only a day passed on the outside world. The time anomaly was a secret that Jelindel kept from Daretor till they left.

During those months, Hargrellien’s lindrak faction built up the squadron of airliners, and slowly but surely they became the power they once were. Only no ruler held sway over them.

Across the continent, with his core army shattered, the Preceptor found himself facing rebel movements and armies on every side. Before long he was nothing more than a dangerous warlord with a small but efficient army.

Fa’red fared a little better. Within a month he had a dozen new airliners in the skies, dropping firepots on cities whose rulers opposed his will, and spying on armies from above. Several of the rebel movements allied themselves with him. Five months after Jelindel and Daretor had escaped, he gained another, but stranger, ally.

‘Claims to know the Countess Jelindel dek Mediesar and the swordsman Daretor,’ said the guard captain as he stood before Fa’red.

‘And his name?’ asked Fa’red with a faint smile.

‘He says it is Zimak. Big fella, but needs the fat sweated off him.’

‘Then do it,’ said Fa’red. ‘Have him seized and make him sweat. I cannot have the man who was once the closest of allies with Jelindel and Daretor thinking he has something of value to offer me, or he might raise the price of his cooperation.’

‘So you have a use for him, Master?’

‘Oh, yes. If it comes to that, I have a use for all three of them.’

‘Master,’ the guard captain said. He bowed to take his leave. Fa’red gazed out over the verdant Skeltian grasslands. He clasped his hands behind his back and sighed contentedly. Now he had Zimak.

The thief was the weakest of the three, but he could be used to draw them back together. And when that happened, he would be ready and waiting …

Critics rave about Book 1 in The Jelindel Chronicles

Paul Collins

An all-powerful, enchanted mailshirt from the stars.

Six links are missing.

An orphan, a streetwise urchin and a swordsman must find the links before the greatest evil known descends upon Q’zar.

‘… a thrilling and wonderfully imagined quest …’
Isobelle Carmody

‘Dragonlinks is fantasy and adventure at its highest.’
Courier Mail

‘This is quest fantasy at its best. Not to be missed. Highly recommended.’
Reading Time

‘I enjoyed this book immensely. It’s fun, action-packed and contains everything on my favourite fantasy checklist.’
Educare