Dragonsight (15 page)

She uttered a binding spell that shot out in all directions and bound the mouths of every man and woman there. Speechless, they clutched and clawed at their mouths, staring at her in fear.

Jelindel stood at the front of the hall and addressed them. ‘As you can see,’ she said, ‘if I wished to harm you I could do so without the help of dragons. Since you prefer shouting to listening, you must stay mute until I have had my say. After that, you can decide as you wish.’ She gave an account of the return of the dragons to Q’zar, the evil King Amida and his vizier, Rakeem, and the fact that the dragons were enslaved by the very object she and her companions sought.

Finally, Jelindel asked Daretor for the purse of gold oriels that Theroc had given them. ‘I hereby return the better part of your fee,’ she announced. ‘That which I have taken, was spent in a good cause. I need no gold to persuade me to stop Amida and Rakeem and so free all lands from the predations of the dragon-riders. I offer to teach your mages such spells as may be useful here. The weakness of the dragons is their riders, and it is they who must be bound or blinded.’

She withdrew the binding spell and a soft gasp swept through the room. Oddly enough, now that they could talk again, the people seemed loath to do so. Daretor leaned close to Jelindel’s ear and whispered, ‘I shall remember that one for when we have a clutch of noisy children.’

Jelindel gave him a sidelong glance. ‘No child of mine will ever behave like this lot.’

‘So say all women before bearing children,’ Daretor replied, shaking his head.

Theroc stood, averting his eyes apprehensively, as if he expected to be struck down at any moment. ‘Archmage, let me apologise again for the reception you were given. Our excuse is that we have lived under great fear for so long that we can no longer tell friend from foe.’

Jelindel told him it was she who must apologise, and related how they had been waylaid. ‘Not only have we arrived late, but on, of all things, a dragon.’ Her tone suggested that it was a joke, and nervous laughter rippled around the hall.

All that day and the next, Jelindel worked with Yuledan’s mages, teaching them intricate, powerful spells to use against the dragonriders. Daretor and Zimak helped reorganise the conventional defences of the town. In all these things Osric was the chief consultant. Only he truly knew the ways of the dragons and their riders; only he fully understood the dragons’ aerial manoeuvring capabilities, the reach and power of their fire, and even some ways to turn aside the fire without harming the dragons. It soon became apparent, however, that Yuledan’s citizens really did not care if the enslaved dragons were hurt or not. Too many of their number had been eaten for any sort of sympathy to be possible.

During this time the swaggering Zimak wooed many young maidens, who were delighted to meet a man who flew on the back of a dragon. The way he told it, dragonriding was much more dangerous and exciting than it actually was; and that only entranced the girls all the more.

As Jelindel worked with the local mages, she questioned them about the origins of human language on Q’zar, asking if they knew of a city that was once called Hadirr. As she feared, they knew less than she did. She told the others that they must reach D’loom as soon as possible for her to research the libraries. If that proved fruitless, then she would seek other sources, such as Lady Forturian, and the Library of Hazaria. The problem was that time was a commodity they could ill afford.

Their last night in Yuledan was as bitterly cold as any desert night can be. A sharp chill wind swept the sand like a giant broom. There were no clouds, just the stars, highlights on a sky of black crystal. Jelindel and Daretor were on the roof of Theroc’s house. They had eaten and had brought a bottle of honeymead wine with them. They were still flushed from food and fire, and did not feel the cold at first.

Jelindel stood for a long time looking up at the stars. Specmoon was in the sky, yellow and pockmarked with grey craters. Daretor came up behind and put his arms around her, kissing her neck.

‘Hmn,’ she said. ‘You have an hour to stop doing that.’

‘I’ll take as long as I need,’ Daretor whispered, nibbling her neck. ‘Or have you forgotten how to enjoy yourself?’

She giggled. ‘We haven’t had much time to ourselves, have we? We seem to stumble from one calamity to the next.’

‘Or are pushed.’

‘Yes. I have been thinking that,’ Jelindel mused, almost to herself. ‘So far, Fa’red has called the tunes.’

‘And we dance to them.’

‘Well, then, we must make our own music.’

‘I know what you told Zimak,’ Daretor said, ‘but I feel that you intend to search out other paraworlds if necessary.’

Jelindel sighed, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘If it comes to that,’ she said, ‘then we have little choice. It will not be other paraworld
s
, Daretor, just one, if we can find it. And even then there’s no guarantee that the first language of Q’zar is still spoken there, or remembered.’

Overhead, something blotted out the stars. Instantly, from the other side of town, a bell rang out. Another joined in, then another.

A shepherd shivered in his sleep. Only half waking, he dragged more furs across his body. Nearby, in a hollow, dozens of sheep stood or sat in a tight clump, eternally wary of the night, as if ancient memories plagued their waking sleep.

Tonight the memories were justified.

A terrified bleating woke the shepherd. He jumped to his feet, wiping sleep from his eyes. Stumbling to the hollow, he held his staff before him like a weapon. Then he instinctively ducked as a dozen dark shapes flew low overhead.

He looked up and froze. The shapes were enormous bat-shaped creatures whose vast wings clutched the air and hurled it at the ground, where it shook the trees and raised the dust of the arid earth. In moments the shepherd was engulfed in swirling dust. He could see nothing, which was bad, but he could still hear, and that was worse.

Above the rush and tumble of the wind, the creaking acacia trees, and the bleating of the sheep, he heard the roar of night creatures and their daemonic riders, dwindling in the distance. He rose to his knees and gave thanks to all the gods he had ever worshipped for his deliverance.

Seen from high above, the desert glowed softly in the light of Specmoon. The swirling dust resembled a boiling river that appeared in the wake of the dragon squadron, stretching out far behind them, pointing like an arrow back to the heart of Dragonfrost.

On the lead dragon, the pilot sat in his saddle and surveyed the moonlit landscape ahead. He had made this trip several times already and despite the horrors that lay ahead for Yuledan, and the part he would unwillingly play in them, he was not unmoved by the awesome beauty of the desert at night or of the grandeur of sailing above it on a creature as ancient as the hills themselves. The dragonrider was not a poet. He was a fighting man who was resigned to the necessity of what he did. He had the sense to keep such thoughts to himself, however. Behind him flew his command, marked by the heavy throb of their beating wings. Woe betide the citizens of Yuledan, he thought, trying to feel detached from what he was about to do.

Below, armed men and women poured onto the streets; a clamour swept through the town. As Jelindel had instructed, no lights burned. She noted that her orders were being followed. Good discipline had developed in the village under the scourge of the attacks. From high above, one of the watch cried out:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daretor looked suspiciously around the tavern.

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

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

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

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