Wardragon (32 page)

‘So, you think I made a bad decision? Is Kaleton the worm in the apple?’

‘Without doubt, but such worms can be a great delicacy if candied in sugar and eaten with a chilled white wine.’

The Wardragon heard the news that night. A human commander might have killed the messenger of such bad tidings, through sheer rage, but the Wardragon merely calculated what to do next, as it had when the first rumours of Jelindel’s miraculous resurrection had reached it.

It considered its current forces. The Farvenu, now decimated, were being replenished, though at a fraction of their previous numbers. Those that had survived this day stirred in their dreamless sleep, their sleek black and red wings quivering. Questionable allies now that they had tasted defeat, it conceded. It briefly dwelt on its space fleet, warships, legions of soldiers and powerful adepts such as Fa’red. Combined, it was a formidable army. Provided it could keep rein on it.

The Wardragon stared at Ras.

>DID KALETON SPEAK TO YOU OF HIS INTENTION?<<<

‘No, m’lord,’ said Ras, as imperturbable as ever.

The Wardragon wondered how it could have made a miscalculation of such magnitude. It had known Kaleton was disaffected, and that he had resentments, but the act of defection seemed beyond him.

> BRING FA’RED TO ME AT ONCE<<<

The archmage appeared presently, looking vaguely annoyed at having been woken. On the other hand, his eyes seemed suspiciously alert, thought the Wardragon. Almost as if he had expected to be summoned at this hour.

The Wardragon explained what had happened, carefully studying the mage’s face for any pre-knowledge of these events. But Fa’red did not even pretend surprise, which was itself a tactic of deception. Instead he pointed out that he had warned of the man’s unreliability several times.

>AND I IGNORED YOUR WARNINGS. SINCE YOU ARE HERE NOW, WE WILL CONSIDER TOMORROW’S TACTICS. KALETON’S BETRAYAL DOESN’T CHANGE OUR PLANS OVERLY, EVEN IF THE ENEMY NOW KNOWS THEM<<<

‘As you wish, m’lord.’

The Wardragon was satisfied. It had sensed the signs of treachery in the adept’s demeanour. Fa’red had known of Kaleton’s plan, perhaps had even aided him. Well, he would be dealt with in due course; for now the Wardragon needed him – needed his loathsome magical abilities, and the forces whose loyalties he commanded.

Dawn arrived too soon for the defenders of D’loom. The sight that met their eyes as the sun rose over the distant Garrical Mountains was sufficient to drive many to despair. The Wardragon’s forces had been restored, even somewhat increased, if that were possible. Daretor looked out over the plain without betraying any emotion. Beside him stood Osric and Zimak.

‘Welcome to the end of days,’ said Zimak. ‘I’ve stood on such a precipice before, and am still here to observe it,’ Osric said as he munched on some bread and cheese.

‘What about setting your dragons onto them before they reach the walls?’ asked Zimak.

‘They will have some counter for the dragons if they are parading their infantry and cavalry about in plain sight,’ warned Daretor. ‘Remember, Fa’red momentarily took away their fire yesterday. Had it not been for the failure of the thundercasts at a crucial point in the battle …’

A great gong-like sound suddenly reverberated across the battlefield. One of the Wardragon’s battalions surged forward. Bells rang throughout the city, warning everyone that battle was about to be joined yet again. Osric bade his friends goodbye and sprinted to the nearest watchtower, where S’cressling was perched. He scrambled onto her back, and she flapped into the air. Meanwhile, Daretor and Zimak hurried to their respective cavalry squads, then rode out through the main gate and took up positions before the largest of the breaches. Many of the smaller gaps had been repaired with rubble during the night.

Daretor steadied his horse and pondered their dilemma. If the dragons can contain the flying machines; if Jelindel can fend off whatever necromancy Fa’red throws at them; if half the opposing infantry abruptly drops dead or flees – then we might have a chance, he thought. Might, he emphasised.

Battle was engaged at five minutes after the seventh hour, with the sun in the eyes of the defenders. Still, arrows poured down onto the attackers, and siege engines flung huge flaming bags of oil to burst within their ranks. D’loom had many more arrows and bolts than could be fired, but the opposing army had sheer numbers.

Down on the battlefield, where the great breaches stood like huge v-shaped invitations to the enemy, the fighting was at its bloodiest. Here in the thick of things fought Daretor, Zimak and Lukor. Here also fought Kaleton, and Daretor grudgingly noted that the Wardragon’s former aide was a formidable fighter and accounted himself well, seeming to care little for his own life. Indeed, the man fought with such a contained white-lipped fury that Daretor wondered whether some inner rage drove him.

During all this, Jelindel strode back and forth along the battlements, watching and waiting. For a time the forces of the two sides fought in balance, with neither gaining an advantage. Then Fa’red struck.

The first Jelindel knew of his presence was when the hair on the back of her neck stood up. It was a familiar feeling; it meant great magic was being brewed nearby, and would shortly be unleashed. Jelindel prepared herself as best she could, but when the attack came she almost overlooked it.

The only disquieting note in the combat below was a few startled cries from the ranks of the enemy. Amidst so much shouting, screaming and cursing, and the deafening clash of sword and shield, it was a wonder that she heard the odd signs of alarm, but there it was, a hint of terror that seemed to have little to do with the grim business of battle.

It came from several points, and at each of these a number of attackers would unfathomably stagger and stumble about, yelling as they did so and staring down at their feet, as though an earthquake was shaking the ground.

Jelindel’s intake of breath was sharp.

As she watched, the unbalancing of attacker and defender increased, as if the ground had started moving. And moving it was, with
purpose
, directly towards the city walls. One of the dragons – indeed, the Sacred One himself, saw it too and swooped, spitting flame. A large crater was vaporised and what was revealed made Jelindel recoil.

Beneath the ground was a creature she had only read of in ancient books: a
troll
.

Twenty feet long, and made of what looked like slabs of stone, it literally swam through the earth, setting up the ripple that had caused those above to spill about like skittles.

There was a score of them. Realising they had been discovered, they emerged from the ground, shaking off sand, attackers and defenders alike. Jelindel knew they could not have entered the city underground. Powerful magic guarded the siting of city foundations on Q’zar, but their enormous strength and ferocity would scatter the defenders. Then they could literally rip the walls apart by hand. Arrows and swords had no effect upon them.

Jelindel could destroy the creatures, but this was undoubtedly part of Fa’red’s plan. It would drain her of magic, weakening her. Yet if the trolls were not stopped, D’loom would surely fall. For it was here, in D’loom, that Q’zar’s magical ley lines met, and it was the old seat of power for the dragons – a fitting place for the Wardragon to lay waste.

The trolls pounded towards the city walls, roaring and striking aside dozens of the defenders with each swing of their mighty arms. When the nearest reached the wall, it began tearing it apart. Burning oil stopped it briefly, but it soon returned to the attack; then the others were also at the wall. The noise of destruction was deafening. The Sacred One destroyed a few, but he was only one dragon and he could not be everywhere at once. Another dragon swooped too low, trying to claw one of the trolls, and was clubbed from the sky then set upon by half a dozen of the monstrous creatures.

Damn Fa’red to Black Quell’s pit, Jelindel thought. He left her little choice but to retaliate.

Then, as if on cue, hundreds of small squat creatures boiled out of the base of the city wall, literally flowing out of the very stone itself. At first Jelindel stared, unable to comprehend what she was seeing. Stone People! The ancient brethren of the dragons.

As she watched, they fell upon the nearest troll, returning it to the stone from which it had been fashioned. The creature began to bellow hoarsely. Others were also ‘breached’. Their limbs began to fall off, and they literally came apart, still screaming. In no time at all, the trolls were no more. The Stone People then turned their attention to the attackers and a great roar of encouragement rose from the throats of the defenders.

A stone man emerged from the paving of the battlements where Jelindel stood. It was Enok, whom she had met once before. He gave her a small bow.

‘Archmage. We have come, having been called. Late, but hopefully not too late. It is a long way from our home and we do not travel above ground.’

‘Oh, you are welcome, Enok, never more so than now.’

‘Our seers told us long ago of this battle, but we did not know the when and where, only the what.’

‘The what?’

Enok’s eyes gazed back at her, unblinking and unfathomable. ‘The “what” that would happen if the battle were lost. What would pass away forever if victory were not achieved.’

‘Would you pass away, Enok?’

‘Perhaps. And maybe our kin also, the dragons. Cold science would destroy all that magic has wrought. But we did not come to save ourselves. We came to keep our promise, made an age ago to the dragons. Fare thee well, Countess.’

With that Enok turned and melted back into the rock from whence he had come. Jelindel peered over the battlement. The Stone People were scattering the enemy warriors, and annihilating those who tried to stand their ground, but she knew that it would be only a matter of time before the Wardragon brought up his remaining reserves.

Now the enemy began to regroup. The warriors were faster than the Stone People, and could skirt them to attack the breaches in the walls again. Too many defenders were dead, and there were no more to replace them. The city had been bled dry.

Presently a great hush fell upon the field of battle, and all eyes turned to the northern sky. There a dark cloud had appeared, and within moments it resolved into a fleet of flying machines.

Jelindel stiffened. The dragons had lost many of their number, and most of the survivors were injured or exhausted. She had not imagined that the Wardragon had such reserves at its disposal. As she looked away, unable to face the approaching fleet, for some reason her eye picked out one solitary man below on the battlefield. It was Kaleton. She noted with dismay that he was grinning. So, Daretor and the others had been right about him after all. She slumped against the cold stone of the battlements, drained of all hope.

Now she would have no choice.

A number of the machines descended, making great skidding landings that piled up the earth before metal doors which swung out and down, crashing onto the ground. A clamour of feet and cries arose as thousands of warriors raced down the ramps.

Still expressionless, Jelindel watched them charge, shooting with their stun weapons – but something was wrong. Surely they were attacking the wrong side? A moment later she realised these were the Hellholers, arrived at last to seek a reckoning with the Wardragon.

A machine drew level with the battlements. Jelindel found herself gazing at Taggar, who was waving. She gave the victory sign, and he returned it before flying off to join in the battle.

Even as she watched the flying machine recede, a distant, fast-moving cloud resolved itself into a flight of Farvenu. A cry went up as other defenders saw them, and archers scurried from their positions, preparing to protect those on the broken walls as the Farvenu dived. It seemed to Jelindel that no matter where she looked, allies and foe were being butchered wholesale.

But soon the tide of battle turned. The attackers were being cut down and routed, while Taggar’s airships decimated them from above.

The Wardragon was losing.

Jelindel should have expected what happened next, but she was caught by surprise, perhaps because she still hoped to avoid her fate.

As the attacking army fell back and it became clear that defenders would take the field, their roars of defiance dwindled. Shading her eyes from the sun, Jelindel gazed across the battlefield to the faroff tent of the Wardragon. Standing outside the flaps, mailshirt glinting golden in the sun, was the Wardragon itself.

Jelindel watched as it strode onto the field of battle.

A small bolt of lightning exploded from the mailshirt, discharging into the air. More followed and soon a writhing mass of discharges enveloped it, so that it almost looked like a sun – but a sun gone mad …

With a casual wave of his hand, a huge chunk of earth was ripped from the ground and went sailing through the air, taking scores of men and women with it. Another wave, and another chunk was sent skywards.

An airship swooped on the Wardragon, unleashing its thundercast, but from the maelstrom of hellish energy that engulfed it, the Wardragon walked unscathed. A raised hand, and the airship exploded. In quick succession, several more followed.

Then as it advanced towards the city the Wardragon began hurling great blasting bolts of lightning at the defenders, killing scores at a time. The stink of burning flesh filled the air.

It’s just as Daretor said, thought Jelindel. It’s remaking the nightmare.

Jelindel promptly left the battlement. On her way down a crumbling stairway she promoted a grizzled sergeant to captain. ‘Strengthen the breaches there, there, and there,’ she snapped.

Unable to find words, the newly appointed captain rushed to obey her orders.

Sheltered beneath an archway, Jelindel sought out Daretor and Zimak and spotted them not far away, fighting a rear guard action against a wall of attackers. She made her way to them. Those enemy who came too close she dispatched with simple binding spells, so that others could put them to the sword. She knew that shortly she would need every scrap of her power.