Dragonsight (13 page)

When the water boiled, Jelindel poured the tea, handing the first cup to Thaddeus, and the second to Zimak. Thaddeus did not scold her again. He seemed satisfied with the brew.

They drank in silence, savouring the tea. Then Thaddeus spoke. ‘Tea made by another’s hand is always nicer than one’s own. Why is that?’ he wondered. ‘What is it that you think you seek, Jelindel dek Mediesar?’

Jelindel put down her cup. The old man’s question suggested that he knew what she was seeking, and that she did not. ‘The Stone People,’ she said uncertainly.

Thaddeus gazed at her. ‘They are a solitary race that relish isolation. Why do you seek them?’

Jelindel wondered how much to tell the mage. She decided that any attempt to hold back the truth would be foolish. Besides, in all probability Thaddeus already knew the answer.

Jelindel explained their quest in more detail than she had given Leot and the other townsfolk.

When she finished, Thaddeus sat back and regarded her appraisingly. ‘So the Dragons of Q’zar have returned, and you have come to the heart of Dragon’s Breath to seek the heart of the dragon.’

Jelindel drew a lengthy breath. She had not thought of it like that, but now that it was laid out before her, she saw the true significance of their quest. Was it possible that she and the others were fulfilling an ancient prophecy? Had they been brought together to restore the dragonsight to the Sacred One, thereby bringing the dragons back to Q’zar?

She started to ask a question, but Thaddeus held up a hand. ‘There are no coincidences,’ he said, ‘and the naming of things and places, and people too, is no accident.’

‘Then this was foretold?’

‘To those who can read the ancient riddles, which they called “foretelling”, yes.’

‘Well, what’s supposed to happen?’ asked Zimak.

Thaddeus lifted his eyes and gazed at him as he might a recalcitrant child. ‘Impatient, aren’t we?’ he said. ‘If you were supposed to know what happens before it happens, then you would know already, would you not?’

Zimak was about to reply but a sharp glance from Jelindel cautioned him.

Thaddeus tilted his head as though listening for something. ‘You must go shortly,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘Things come.’

Jelindel finished her tea. There was much of Lady Forturian in Thaddeus. If the old man said leave, then he had good reason. Still, she needed to ask questions. ‘What things? Where?’

The old man clucked his tongue as though Jelindel were dimwitted. ‘Out of the storm, girl. Dreadful things. The others will need you.’

Jelindel placed the china cup on its saucer and sat back. ‘Can you help us?’

Thaddeus pursed his thin lips in thought. ‘My time is nigh,’ he said simply.

‘And the Stone People?’

‘The legend of a story of a myth, so old it makes mountains seem young.’

‘They do exist,’ Jelindel hedged. ‘We were told they are in the Hazgar Mountains.’

‘You are mistaken,’ Thaddeus said. ‘But if you had not come here then you would never have found them.’

‘That does not follow the rules of logic,’ said Jelindel.

Zimak grew impatient with the old man’s riddles. He must have made a derisory sound because Thaddeus remarked over his shoulder, ‘Curb your fretting, tadpole, or the frog of your future will fail to croak.’

Zimak stared at him, confused.

Thaddeus gave Jelindel a toothless smile. ‘The Stone People dwell far underground in some hold nigh inaccessible to mortal man. Beneath mountains they live, that is known. That they live beneath a city built by men is not.’

Where better to hide from inquisitive men than right beneath their very noses. ‘Which city, Thaddeus?’ Jelindel asked.

‘I do not know. In the language spoken by men before they came to Q’zar, the city was called Hadirr.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Jelindel said. ‘Before men came to Q’zar? Weren’t men always here?’

‘No, only the dragons and the Stone People. Some say a rift occurred between paraworlds and men poured through into Q’zar. Others say a great battle took place between wizards and a portal opened. Indeed, some believe the Dragon’s Breath is where the portal first touched down and anchored itself.’

‘Then Hadirr
is a word in the language of another paraworld?’

‘So I would fathom. Now you must go. You are needed. I shall be along when I am prepared.’

Outside, Zimak hugged himself against the cold and scowled. ‘A complete charlatan,’ he said. ‘He wouldn’t last five seconds in the Charm Vendors’ Guild.’

‘Zimak, if you can’t make considered judgements, don’t make them at all.’

‘I’ve met considerable charm vendors,’ Zimak said. ‘Got to know some of them quite well, in fact. There was one in the D’loom marketplace that –’

Jelindel stopped. Zimak ran into her outstretched hand. ‘I am not remotely interested in your conquests,’ she said coldly. ‘If you directed as much focus to the problem at hand as you do on your sordid past, then we would fare much better.’

Zimak brushed her hand from his chest. ‘All right. Since you believe everything you hear, Hadirr seems to be in another paraworld. How many paraworlds are there?’

‘How many grains of sand are there?’

Zimak slapped his forehead. ‘Gah. The only thing between us and slow death by poison is the little matter of a billion billion paraworlds.’

They continued walking. ‘You’re so negative,’ said Jelindel.

Zimak came to a complete stop. Jelindel kept going. He stared after her. Him? Negative? That was
so
unfair. He hurried to catch up. ‘Someone around here has to make sense of all the scud that goes on …’

Leot and his militia were at the inn as Jelindel arrived. She was followed by Zimak, who was still arguing his case. She pushed her way to the front.

‘Creatures will be coming out of the snow,’ she said.

‘Surprise, surprise,’ Zimak said dolefully.

‘What manner of creatures?’ Uthven asked, ignoring Zimak. His mood had changed, Jelindel noted. No longer affable, his face was ruddy and shone with perspiration. A quick sign from Daretor indicated there had been some argument.

‘Who can say? Bring axe and steel and pike. Light fires at all points about the town’s edge. Gather the archers, and find pitch for the arrows. Have you stocks of the dark oil that burns?’

‘We do. We distil it into spirits for the lamps.’

‘Dig a trench on the north-west side of town and fill it with the oil. The brunt of the attack will come from that direction,’ Jelindel said. When no one made a move she snapped, ‘To attack us from any other front would be madness – they’d have no cover. Get moving if you still want your town to be standing in the morning.’

Leot and Uthven shouted orders. Men and women scurried to carry out Jelindel’s commands.

Left alone in the inn, Daretor and Osric related how several of the locals blamed their current plight on Jelindel’s arrival. Some had even suggested running her out of town, or handing her over to whoever had released the storm.

Daretor said that the situation hung on Leot’s word. Uthven sided with Leot, so long as Daretor could prove that Jelindel could best Fa’red. At that point, Osric had stepped forward to confirm that the archmage was a traveller between paraworlds, and that he himself came from one such paraworld.

That had set everyone arguing and exclaiming. Uthven had challenged Osric to prove his story. Without hesitating, Osric unsheathed his keen blade and slit his palm. From it oozed a yellow substance the consistency of blood. He had then held up his hand for everyone to see.

‘A charm vendor’s trick,’ someone scoffed, but he was hushed quickly enough.

‘You could say all this is getting out of hand,’ Zimak quipped, and everyone groaned.

Some time later, a commotion started outside. Sarat burst in, breathless. His face was deathly white. ‘Things …’ he said, his voice a croak. ‘
Things
…’

Jelindel and Daretor rushed outside, followed by a reluctant Zimak. They followed Sarat to the outskirts of town where the youth pointed into the storm.

Huge shapes were standing still as stone, shadows inside the swirling chaos of the storm. ‘Snow trolls,’ Jelindel said tonelessly.

As if the naming of them brought them to life the monsters surged forward. Smaller, swifter shapes moved at their sides.

‘Wolves,’ said Daretor. ‘Will your barrier stay them?’

Jelindel chewed a nail, uncharacteristically indecisive. ‘I fear not, else Fa’red wouldn’t have bothered sending them.’

True enough, the first wolf leapt through Jelindel’s shield. Daretor met the beast on its second bound. His sword flashed and the predator tumbled to the ground. It was a wolf as might be painted by an artist who had never seen a wolf, and had only read about them. It was long and lean in the body, but misshapen, with hind legs like those of a hare, and claws resembling five-inch scimitars.

More deformed wolves sprang out of the storm. Daretor and Zimak’s swords cut and slashed, never stopping. Many other fighters also gave a good account of themselves. Jelindel bound several wolves with magic, making them easy targets for the younger and less experienced fighters, but she found that her magic was to some degree repelled, as if the creatures were protected by powerful charms.

She did not have long to ponder this as the snow trolls lurched against the shield. It warped as they struggled through it. Pockets of the shield fractured, and sheets of snow spat through the fissures. Seemingly by brute strength, the trolls pushed their way through the bubble.

They were fully sixteen feet tall and seemed to be made of ice, as if someone had hewn slabs of it from some glacier and stacked them atop one another until a troll was fashioned.

Daretor met the first. His blade bit deep and silvery blood spurted from severed arteries. The troll howled and stumbled to its knees. Daretor pulled his sword from the creature’s chest, and slashed its throat, opening a gap. More silvery blood splattered across the troll’s chest. It pitched forward like a felled tree.

Daretor had no respite. More snow trolls appeared, and still more wolves. For all their provincialism, the Ogven militia were acquitting themselves well. The archers wrought havoc among the wolves; their flaming shafts hissing through the air and into the flanks of the beasts, burning those they failed to kill outright.

Jelindel, realising she had extended herself to her magical limits, waded in with her sword, slashing at wolves and trolls. All around her the townspeople were dropping. There seemed no end to the attackers.

A wounded wolf struggled to its feet and lunged at her. She dodged, stumbled. Then Zimak charged the wolf. It changed direction to meet the new adversary, but it was too late. Zimak’s speed took him into the wolf. Beast and human tumbled to the ground, and Zimak’s knife left the wolf twitching in the slush. Zimak rolled from the animal’s back, noting the approach of still more through the bubble.

‘The trench,’ Zimak panted. ‘Light the trench.’

In the mayhem Jelindel had forgotten about the trench. The command passed from mouth to mouth. Then, in opposite directions, torches flared, rose high for a moment as if in salute, then dipped low to the ground. Instantly, two great blazes bloomed and raced towards each other. When they met, a snow troll happened to be stepping across the trench. The conjoined flames erupted into a fireball, engulfing it. The burning creature stumbled against other trolls, embracing one in a desperate grip, and igniting it.

More flaming arrows arced high in the air, raining down on wolf and troll alike, scattering them. Daretor led by example. With Osric at his side, he rallied the townspeople to harass the retreating trolls. They pushed the trolls back to the shimmering wall. At that point the townspeople fell back, as though to touch something magical might be their ruin. No wolves had survived.

Daretor sheathed his sword and returned with Osric. ‘They’ll be back,’ he said. ‘Make no mistake on that count.’

‘You have bizarre creatures indeed on Q’zar,’ Osric said.

‘Says he who rides dragons,’ said Zimak. He was busy kicking sand into the trenches in an effort to quench the fire before refilling them with oil.

While Daretor and Osric joined Zimak, Jelindel consulted Leot and Uthven. ‘How many did we lose?’ she asked.

‘Fifteen good people, killed or wounded,’ Leot said.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jelindel said.

‘And well might you be,’ said Uthven. ‘If you are a powerful sorceress, how is it that those creatures breached your defences?’

Jelindel knew their frustration for her own. There were just too many things she didn’t understand.

‘Well?’ demanded Uthven, watching the bodies of his friends being carted away.

‘Picture a full well,’ Jelindel said. ‘Take a hundred barrels of water from it and the water level goes down. It doesn’t go back up until it is replenished. And so it is with magic.’ She looked at the bubble. ‘To maintain the shield is draining for me. Were I to let it dissolve I would have my full powers restored.’

‘But the creatures broke through your barrier,’ Uthven snapped. ‘What good is it?’

Uthven was towering over Jelindel. Daretor and Zimak were heading their way, and several of the townspeople had stopped to listen.

‘Perhaps you should let the girl speak,’ Leot suggested.

Jelindel took a deep breath. ‘Uthven, I am truly sorry that you have lost friends today, but understand this: were it not for the shield, your entire town would have fallen by now. Your militia would have been fragmented, disorganised and separated by the storm. The trolls and their wolves would have simply gone from building to building, killing everyone.’

‘It makes sense,’ Leot said.

Uthven spat on the ground. ‘None of this makes any sense,’ he said, leaving.

Leot sat while someone dabbed at a cut on his forehead. ‘I apologise for Uthven,’ he said to Jelindel. ‘Ogven’s never lost so many militiamen in one day. Why, even when the Preceptor swept the continent he left our town in peace.’

Jelindel watched the wolves being hitched to horses and dragged across the ground. ‘Your people gave a good account of themselves,’ she said.