Chapter 3
FORBIDDEN MAGIC
D
aretor found himself in a great void, as if he had been sucked into the airless realm said to lie between paraworlds. Gasping for air, but finding none, he felt his lungs collapse, the last precious breath hissing from his mouth and nose. He tasted blood, and knew that in a few more seconds he would die. This must be how a fish feels, he thought, when it is ripped from its liquid world and cast upon the deck of a boat. Fa’red had tricked them.
But Daretor did not die. Sound and light and a world of sensation crashed suddenly back into existence. He gasped air, then lay panting. Somebody had thrown the fish back into the sea, thank White Quell!
The new world had its own discomforts. For a start, he was buried in something prickly, and the dust and grit nearly choked him. Daretor tried to move, to work out where he was. Raking a hand through the stuff that surrounded him opened a gap through which sunlight streamed. He blinked. At once he knew where he was: in the middle of a haystack, or something very much like it. Through the hole he could see a grimy cobbled street, and a line of ramshackle shops, their dirty windows reflecting back the scene before them. Looking closely at one of the shopfront windows he realised that the hay was piled on the back of a wagon. A pair of stout farm horses was hitched to the wagon, and several men were gathered nearby.
Before he could see much more the wagon lurched. One of the men, clad in a winter shirt woven of linen and horsehair, climbed into the driver’s seat and stowed his purchases in the back. He flicked the reins and the horses lumbered into a slow clip-clopping walk down the street. It was only then that Daretor realised Jelindel was not with him. He felt around in the hay and whispered her name frantically, but there was no trace of her.
Daretor silently cursed Fa’red for his treachery. The fault was theirs, not Fa’red’s. If one chose to trust a scorpion, whose fault was it when the inevitable sting came? He knew enough about magic to know that Fa’red could not have simultaneously sent them to two very different places; magic did not work like that, though it must be said that most of its workings were a mystery. He did not really trust magic, nor did he consider it honourable. Only a sword was honourable, although a good, honest punch in the face did have elements of honour. Magic was slippery. A little too much like life itself, Daretor thought, mocking himself ruefully.
Brushing aside idle thoughts, Daretor hoped that Jelindel was close by. Her situation might be better or worse than his; he did not know. Resolving to make no bold moves until he knew the lie of the land, he peered through the hole, learning what he could. He yearned for the quiet life that he and Jelindel had discussed not so long ago. Maybe I should learn magic, he concluded. That way I could send other people on adventures.
The wagon turned into a narrow, muddy lane. Daretor squirmed towards the rear of the tray and made another opening for himself. He peered out. There were few people about and those that passed looked downcast. He was about to jump off the wagon when it rumbled to a stop in front of a small inn. The driver climbed down and went inside.
Daretor waited till he was sure nobody was about. Jumping from the tray, he brushed himself down. He wondered whether to head back to the busy street, or enter the inn. Inns are wonderful places to acquire news, but strangers are always viewed with curiosity or suspicion. Still, he needed information more than anything else. He had several gold oriels on him, and some silver argents. Precious metals are good currency in any paraworld, so he would not starve. He entered the inn.
The interior was gloomy. Although it wasn’t a cold day, a fire was burning and by the looks of the smoke-filled room, the flue was choked.
A bar ran along one wall, and a scattering of chairs and tables stood in front of it. Odd looking devices protruded from the walls: small black spheres that gleamed as if polished and composed of many small-faceted hexagons. Daretor tried not to stare at them. He pulled up a chair at a table away from the bar. Half a dozen idle drinkers had looked up when he entered, but most had gone back to their drinks and conversations.
A serving maid approached, but she did not smile or greet him. As he looked up, Daretor noticed a chalkboard on the wall. The writing was in a language he understood. It was Delbrian. He relaxed a little.
‘What be your liking?’ The girl’s accent was thick and guttural.
Fortunately, Daretor could make sense of it. ‘I’ll have the house ale, if you please,’ he said. She looked at him oddly. His own accent was as hard for her to follow as hers was to him.
‘You be a foreigner, then?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘From Skelt.’ He grimaced inside. He had promised himself he would not volunteer information. He was here to learn.
‘I’ve heard of the place. A far-off land, isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ he said. The maid was obviously less travelled than most. He wondered how he might ask where exactly in Delbrias he was, but that was probably a bad idea. Perhaps there were other ways. The woman was not unattractive and she had eyed him twice now. ‘You are a local lass?’ he asked. ‘I have no ear for accents.’
‘Aye, I’m local.’ She fetched his drink and returned. As she leaned down to place it on the table her mouth came close to his ear. ‘I don’t know how you got here, stranger, but you’d best get back the same way. They’ll lock you up soon as look at you. I’ll not be surprised if the priest-guards haven’t already been called.’
Daretor handed her a silver coin and she gave him change. Though it seemed he drank at ease, inside he was in turmoil. What did she mean? In what way did he stand out and what law was he breaking that would warrant imprisonment? Obviously, coming into the inn had been a bad idea.
He drained the tankard and left. He hurried down the side of the building to a rear lane abutting the back of the inn. He had gone only a few steps into the lane when a hand shot out of a doorway and grabbed his coat. He was about to lash out when his assailant hissed: ‘Follow me, if you want to stay free.’
It was the serving maid. Daretor hesitated, but the sound of many feet on the cobbles helped to make up his mind. He ducked into the dark doorway and followed the woman down a corridor and up a creaking flight of stairs. Finally, she led him into a cramped attic space. There was a sleeping pallet on the floor, a few personal effects, a wash basin, a makeshift table and chairs, and a pile of scrolls and pamphlets.
She motioned him to a chair.
‘Are you the courier?’ she asked, panting. Cautiously, she peered through a shuttered window. The laneway had become noisy.
He blinked at her, thinking swiftly. ‘Are you the contact?’ he said in response. She laughed then and moved away from the window. In that moment her face lit up and he saw that she was quite striking. Her eyes sparkled and some colour had come into her cheeks. She sat in a wicker chair and looked at him.
‘You have no idea, do you?’ she asked finally. Her accent seemed to have disappeared.
He decided to give up the pretence. ‘I find myself in an unfortunate situation,’ he said.
‘Go on.’
‘I mean, I didn’t come here by normal means.’
‘I know that, too. You would never have gotten across the border, let alone within the city gates unless you’re a very clever spy. Are you a very clever spy?’
‘Neither spy nor, it would seem, very clever. At least, I’m not clever enough to avoid detection by serving maids.’
‘How then did you arrive?’
‘I was magicked here,’ Daretor said. She sat up straight, seeming uneasy for the first time.
‘Are you a wizard?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I am a simple fighting man, but a wizard sent me here. He is an enemy of ours … of mine. He tricked me, sending me here. I am on a quest and he seeks to thwart me.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Dremari in the Passendof Mountains.’
She stared. ‘That far? Magic can do such a thing over so great a distance?’
‘So it would seem and much more besides. But I am the wrong person to ask.’ He paused, looking at her. ‘Can you tell me why my appearance would cause trouble?’
‘It is not so much your appearance as the fact that you are a foreigner. That is not a crime here, but it would justify any patrol demanding to see your papers. You would, of course, have none.’
‘How did you know?’
‘The way you talk. All newcomers are placed in detention for months at a time, during which they receive … rather forcible re-education. After that, you would not sound as you do.’
‘Why are they re-educated?’ Daretor asked.
‘To cure them of magic, of course, though many do not survive the cure.’
It was his turn to stare at her.
She shrugged. ‘Magic is forbidden here, unless you are a priest. To work magic is to risk imprisonment and heavy fines. Big magic, of the kind that brought you here, would earn you the death penalty.’
‘Where am I? What is your name?’
‘My name is Elorsa and this is the city of Ishluk.’
His heart thumped, causing his eyes to widen. ‘Southern Gratz? I believed I was in Delbrias. The writing back at the tavern …’
‘Delbrian and Gratzian is similar,’ Elorsa said. ‘No, you are a very long way from there. But I will aid you, if I am able.’
A vast dark shape circled beneath a ragged moon. S’cressling was questing the sky for a scent.
‘I don’t like it,’ said Osric. ‘If they were nearby she would have picked up their scent by now.’
‘Can she actually smell the Sacred One’s blood?’ asked Zimak. He gingerly touched the daubed spot on his forehead.
‘Ordinarily yes. But this is a magical scent. She is questing through layers of space and time, seeking them …’
The dragon banked hard and soared off to the southeast, climbing as she went.
Zimak clutched the sides of his seat. ‘Well, she seems to have found something.’
‘You had better prepare yourself for a long journey, my friend. I do not know where we are going but it will not be a short flight.’
‘We should have roasted that fat pig Fa’red,’ Zimak spat.
Osric frowned. ‘I am sorry if we have misled you, but I don’t think you understand, Zimak. Jelindel was only bluffing. There was little chance of S’cressling killing Fa’red. Not without having possession of the dragonsight beforehand. We need Fa’red to fall back on if we cannot find that which binds us to King Amida.’
Zimak’s face paled. ‘Don’t tell me you need Fa’red alive.’
Osric leaned into the whistling wind. ‘For the time being, until our quest is completed,’ he said. ‘Let us pray we find our companions.’
Prayers were the last thing on Zimak’s mind. The dragon flew on, her great wings beating the night air like vast blankets being shaken out.
Jelindel did not know where she was. Worse, she did not know how she had arrived there. She had materialised inside a closet, accompanied by a great clatter of falling brooms and clanging buckets. Then the door had been thrown open and several shocked faces stared at her.
‘You young scallywag, get outta there!’ cried an outraged woman in scullery garb. She grabbed Jelindel by the ear and hauled her out of the closet. Before Jelindel could gather her wits, the maid had rummaged through her garments and confiscated everything she found.
That had been five minutes ago. She was now sitting at a table. Opposite her was an anxious man in his mid fifties. He wore a neatly cropped white beard. His dark eyes regarded her furtively. He had quickly cleared the kitchen of its staff on his arrival. Had Jelindel been herself, she would have known that the man was actually fearful for her safety, although unable to show it.
‘You will tell me how you came to be in my closet and you will tell me now,’ he demanded, thumping the table. Jelindel flinched.
‘I’m not sure,’ she said, nervous.
‘What is your name? Or are you too addled to tell that much?’
Jelindel frowned. Her frown deepened into puzzlement, then alarm. She looked up from the table. She found her inquisitor difficult to understand, but that didn’t seem too unusual, for there were huge gaps in her memory. ‘I don’t think I know my name,’ she said. ‘What is my name?’
She was so obviously confused that the man’s anger subsided. Judging by her clothes and accent, she was no urchin. ‘Have you taken a bump on the head of late?’ he asked, a little more gently.
Jelindel slowly felt her head. There was a tender spot at the back, and when she pressed on it she winced. Her fingers were smeared with blood.
The man nodded, satisfied. ‘It is as I thought. I am a physician. You are very lucky. I have encountered a case like this before, though not for some years. In my experience, your memory will return given time. However, the Provost will have to be informed. It is most likely you came here by magic, since it is impossible for you to have entered my house by any other means.’
Jelindel stared at him. ‘Do I know magic?’
The man shrugged, then clapped his hands loudly. ‘That is not for me to say. I will speak to the Provost about your amnesia. It is he who will be the final arbiter of this matter.’
A man in house livery dashed in. The doctor instructed him to escort Jelindel to the Office of the Provost.
As Jelindel left, the doctor called out, ‘May White Quell be merciful.’
A moment later, Jelindel and her guard were in a cobbled street, walking past a dingy inn. High above an attic window glowed a friendly yellow light. It was in stark contrast to the din in the streets, where harried soldiers were obviously searching for someone.
Daretor awoke suddenly. He had been dreaming of Jelindel. She was being tortured to death. He woke sweating and shivering, calling out her name. Elorsa loomed above him. She motioned him to be still and closed the door, removing a cloak.
Daretor rubbed the sleep from his eyes. ‘What news?’ he asked. The dream had left him badly shaken.
‘A woman appeared mysteriously in a house not a hundred yards from here. I know the owner. He is a physician, not unkindly. Still, he would have had little choice but to hand her over to the Provost.’ She wrung her hands. ‘His servants, and, well, anyone cannot always be trusted. It would not be worth his life to help her.’
The words alarmed Daretor and he started to his feet. Elorsa waved him back.
‘What does that mean?’ he demanded.
‘She is not in danger, not yet at least. She is suspected of having used magic to get here, but she is very clever. She is pretending to have amnesia, it seems. Also, she is comely, which may sway the Provost when it comes time.’
‘Time?’
‘Time for her hearing. You still do not understand. Magic is a criminal offence here. To practise it, or benefit from it, is illegal. Only the priests may do so.’
‘But how do they enforce such a law?’
‘They have many ways. Wizards from other realms detect the use of magic. And there are also the Watchers.’
‘Who are they?’
‘What are they. Surely you noticed them. They’re black crystals in brackets on the walls in every building and public thoroughfare. They not only detect magic of a certain power, but enhance the priests’ sorcery by some means. While smaller spells may be practised in privacy, no potent magic can be worked here without instant detection.’
‘Yet my friend and I both arrived by magic,’ Daretor said.
‘Yes, but the magic was worked elsewhere. The black crystals cannot detect such things, but you could not leave the same way without a horde of priests following.’
Daretor combed a hand through his hair. Apparently the local priests wanted all the action for themselves. ‘Why are they so afraid of magic?’
‘Why shouldn’t they be? They fear the unpredictable. More than anything, the Provost fears that one day a powerful adept will come and subjugate him.’
‘When I followed you up here you asked me if I was the courier. What did you mean?’
Elorsa gazed at him, biting her lower lip. She seemed to be struggling with a decision. ‘There is a …’ she started haltingly, ‘… a group of people who … who wish to see things as they were in the old days, before the Provost took over. They wish for …’
Her voice trailed off, but Daretor finished for her: ‘The return of magic.’
She nodded.
‘Is magic such a wonderful thing, then?’ he asked.
‘You do not understand. A bad king may be removed by magic. Tyranny is a difficult enterprise when many great mages and wizards inhabit your realm. It may not be an easy or quick cure, but it is a road back to freedom.’
Daretor sighed. ‘I never thought of it like that,’ he said. ‘But then, tyrants like the Preceptor employ Adept 12s to ward off opposing magic. It usually boils down to who has the most powerful adept in their employ.’
‘Better that than what we have now,’ Elorsa said bitterly.
‘One tyrant or the next, it’s all much of a muchness,’ Daretor said. ‘But now, tell me of the woman who mysteriously appeared. Where is she being held?’
S’cressling streaked through the night, into the next day, then on into night again, moving across many lands. She flew over high mountains, deserts, and great, fertile flood plains. She soared above the homelands of men, and of creatures that were not men. Sometimes attack spells flashed as starbursts around them, but most were content to let the huge creature pass as long as it did not turn upon them. Not once did S’cressling stop for food. On her back, Zimak and Osric were near the end of their supplies.
‘I never knew this much land existed,’ Zimak moaned. His fingers seemed frozen to the saddle straps, and his entire body felt stiff as a sun-bleached carcass.
Osric was too miserable to move, even though he was used to riding dragons. ‘Land is infinite,’ was all he said.
Kagan, Head Priest of Ishluk and Provost Marshal of the Realm, gazed through lowered eyes at the captive standing before him. That she was very beautiful was indisputable. That she was beautiful and dangerous remained to be ascertained.
‘The physician who found you,’ said Kagan, ‘believes the memory loss is genuine, rather than a clever ploy to cloak your true intentions.’
‘Why would I lie?’ Jelindel asked.
‘Why indeed? Why does anybody lie? Perhaps you lie because you know your peril.’
‘But I am innocent of any wrongdoing. What is it that I am supposed to have done?’
The Provost’s eyes narrowed in momentary doubt. ‘You have used magic.’
‘I have? Perhaps I am a victim of magic.’
Kagan steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them. ‘And perhaps you are a cunning witchling sent here by our enemies. How can one tell?’
‘Don’t you have some kind of test?’ Jelindel asked.
‘Possibly.’ Kagan was beginning to think the physician was right. The girl did not act like the usual captives. Indeed, she did not seem to have any idea of the peril she was in. It was actually quite refreshing, he found. Whatever the matter, it put him in a good mood. Unfortunately, not good enough to spare her and miss the opportunity of impressing on the townspeople the need for constant vigilance against the practice of dark magic – dark magic being any type of sorcery not sanctioned by him. Furthermore, the pretty ones, as with virgins, made better sacrifices. For some reason, the commoners identified more with the winsome unfortunates, and even got quite emotional at times. Beauty was usually associated with nobility, after all. Finally, he sat back and glanced at the men stationed either side of Jelindel.
‘I have made my decision,’ he said. ‘For the crime of illegal entry into our realm you are hereby condemned to a lifetime of slavery.’
‘But I have done nothing,’ Jelindel said, incredulous.
‘And for the crime of Manifestation of Magic, that lifetime will be sadly short.’ He flicked another look at his guards. ‘Take her to the dungeons to await execution.’
Daretor walked the busy street, keeping out of the path of wagons and the main flow of foot traffic. He wore a brown nondescript cloak, rustic tunic, and leggings. His face was hooded. Thus dressed, he blended with the noonday crowd. Some twenty yards ahead, moving at a steady pace, was Elorsa. She had a basket over one arm. On her way to the markets, or so anyone would think to look at her.
And look they did. Not just at her but all who passed. ‘They’ were the Provost’s priests. Robed in an austere regimental style with tasselled mitres, they hovered on most street corners and were subtly intimidating to religious people. They carried swords, and staffs of power. Handpicked, they all had thin cruel faces and the eyes of hawks.
Elorsa had schooled Daretor as best she could in the ways and manners of the Ishlukians. Submissiveness, never one of Daretor’s strongest features, seemed the predominant trait, along with open-eyed guile. She had also worked on his accent and taught him some common phrases, which gave a clue to the grammar of the streets. In a stroke of irony, it seemed to Daretor that being in Zimak’s body was a blessing in disguise. His bigger frame would have drawn attention, for these people were smaller in stature than most Q’zarans.
Nonetheless, it was a big risk. Daretor had never heard of the expression ‘police state’ but he was now deep in the middle of one.
‘Stupidity is your best weapon,’ Elorsa had told him. ‘When in doubt, act dull-witted. Never try to argue or, White Quell forbid, try to prove you’re right. If you can act the part of a simpleton, so much the better.’
‘It’s a shame my companion Zimak is not here,’ he said.
With Elorsa’s words firmly in mind, Daretor made his way along the street, always keeping the serving maid in sight and staying the same distance to the rear. The people they passed seemed gloomy and downcast. Few looked up or dared to meet his eyes. Elorsa had told him that betrayal had become a way of life in Ishluk, and many made their living from the sale of information.
Ahead Elorsa swung into a side street. Daretor followed, passing shops of a slightly higher standard. Even the clientele here appeared more prosperous. There were even outdoor eateries, and once he actually heard laughter.
‘I shall be glad to leave this forsaken place,’ he muttered.
A fox-faced passer-by shot him a look. Their eyes met for a second, then the man looked away. Daretor cursed himself for a fool. He should not have looked.
Elorsa changed her basket from one arm to the other. That was the signal. As Daretor reached the spot where she had done this, he casually glanced to his left and saw, built far back from the road and behind a high wall, a severe-looking building topped by turrets patrolled by armed priests. This was the Provost’s citadel. If Elorsa’s information was right, Jelindel was being held behind its walls.
Daretor glanced toward Elorsa and paused. She had stopped to look in a shop window. His breath quickened. It was the sign for danger. Trying not to betray his alarm, he casually looked around.
The fox-faced man was talking to a pair of priests and pointing in Daretor’s direction. The priests looked up. They could not see Daretor’s eyes beneath the cowl, but there was no doubt who they were talking about. They started in his direction – not running, but walking like hounds on the scent.
Daretor looked quickly about. The citadel was to his left. Ahead was a long line of shops and no cross street for nearly three hundred yards, not even an alleyway. He started to sweat. Elorsa was still peering in the shop window but there was nothing she could do to help.
He crossed the street to a recessed area marked by the signs and pennants of butchered animals. It was filled with stalls covered in garishly coloured awnings, each one with a carved and decorated pole that, no doubt, identified the stall’s owner. Ducking between the nearest stalls he lost himself amongst the noisy vendors. The ground was covered in blood-stained sawdust and flies buzzed thickly in the air. Great slabs of raw meat hung from hooks attached to movable rigs, or lay on chopping slabs. Broad-shouldered bearded men in thick bloody aprons wielded heavy meat cleavers, while apprentices sawed doggedly at stubborn bone and sinew. Customers shouted demands for particular cuts. The place was a bedlam that suited Daretor’s needs.
He grimaced as he squeezed between two stalls swimming in blood and entrails. Moving to the rear of one stall, he darted into a forest of hanging carcasses, shedding his cloak and hood in one quick movement. He came suddenly on a butcher who scowled at him.
‘Sorry,’ said Daretor, and snapped a short left hook that connected with the man’s jaw. The butcher floundered, then went down. Daretor removed the man’s apron, donned it quickly, then smeared blood on his arms and face. He rolled the unconscious man beneath the stall, picked up the slab of meat he had been carrying, and slung it over his own shoulder.
Then, brash as Zimak, he strolled back into the street. Daretor saw two or three other men dressed in aprons also carrying great chunks of meat. He followed them, deliberately bumping into Elorsa who was still hanging around the shop window.
‘My pardon, lady,’ he said. She started to respond then stared at him. She immediately looked away and hurried up the street. Daretor followed.
An hour later they were in a basement facing a fresh-faced youth with features similar to Elorsa. His name was Alin and he was a co-conspirator, it seemed.
‘Why should you help me?’ Daretor wanted to know. ‘I have little to offer, except a few gold coins.’
Alin laughed. ‘And a side of venison! Keep your coins, friend. Any enemy of the Provost is a friend of mine.’
‘Why don’t you simply leave the city?’
The youth shrugged. ‘I am one of the few romantics left,’ he said. ‘And all good revolutions need a romantic or two, otherwise they become rather grim affairs, don’t you think?’
Daretor was not particularly romantic, but he could not help liking the youth. If the Provost’s priests had drained the spirit of the city, here at least was one they had missed. ‘I don’t have much experience with revolutions,’ he said simply.
‘I see,’ Alin replied, glancing at his sister with the faintest smile. ‘Your friend is to be executed tomorrow morning,’ he continued, becoming suddenly serious. ‘It has been posted about the city. There will be a big crowd. If we are to free her, it must be done this night.’
‘How many men do you have at your disposal?’ Daretor asked.
‘You need not worry on that count,’ Alin replied before his sister could say anything.
‘You have a plan?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Alin. ‘Tell me more about this Jelindel.’
At that moment Jelindel was hunched on a straw pallet in an ill-lit cell deep within the citadel. A tray of untouched food sat nearby. In a guard station opposite her cell, two priests sat playing some kind of card game that involved gambling with yellow pebbles. Their muttered exclamations were driving her to distraction.
Feeling thirsty, she started to fetch the water jug near the cell door. As she did so, the jug leapt into the air and flew across the room towards her. She cried out and ducked. The jug smashed into the wall, showering her with water and pottery fragments.
The priest-guards looked up. One of them, a surly fellow with a hare lip, lumbered to his feet and crossed to the iron bars.
‘Throwin’ things about ain’t gonna do you no good,’ he grated. He turned to his overweight companion. ‘’Aving a tantrum, she is,’ he said. They both laughed. The guard shambled back to the table. Over his shoulder he called out, ‘Don’t let’s hear another peep out of you, or me and my friend here will come in there and pay you a nice long visit!’ They guffawed again.
Jelindel wasn’t paying them any attention. She was staring at the ceramic shards scattered across her bed and the wet patch on the single threadbare blanket.
The jug had flown across the room unaided. She could not have been mistaken. Was it possible the bump on the head had caused some kind of hallucination, like a waking dream? She actually wished she could speak to the physician in whose house she had materialised.
There was another possibility, however. A more intriguing one.
Magic.
Was it possible that she had worked magic, the very crime for which she was to be executed on the morn?
Did that make her a magician? Or a witch? She didn’t feel like a witch, though admittedly she wasn’t sure what a witch felt like.
She looked over at the guards. They had gone back to their card game and were paying her no heed. She glanced over the floor, then picked up a small chunk of pottery.
Taking a deep breath, she slowly stretched out her hand, and willed the pottery shard to come to her.
Nothing happened.
She tried again and kept trying until sweat stood out on her brow. Still nothing happened. She slumped back against the wall and exhaled, almost panting. Perhaps she wasn’t a witch after all. She was oddly disappointed. But that still left a big question: how did a bump on the head cause a sturdy jug to fly?
Upon that question she thought long and hard.
Daretor’s head for heights was being sorely tested. His mouth filled with saliva and he experienced a lurching sensation in his stomach as he gazed at the ground some fifty feet below. He was on a ledge halfway up the side of a building, inching along with his face to the stone wall and his back to airy emptiness. He could feel the cool night air prickling his skin, which was already slick with sweat and, he had to admit, the stink of fear. He told himself that there was no shame in favouring the solid earth. If White Quell had meant for man or woman to fly, she would have given them wings.
He reached the end of the building. Now came the tricky bit. He had to round the corner. Unfortunately the ledge, up to now reasonably wide, smooth and unadorned, became somewhat ornate. It rose up like a wave out of which mermaids and fish protruded as if riding surf. This left little space for feet, and the sloping backside of the wave was slippery with night dew. Or perhaps, like him, the cold stone was sweating.
He was wondering what to do when an arm came around the edge and an impatient voice asked, ‘What are you waiting for?’
‘Wings,’ he replied tartly.
‘Wings we don’t have. My strong arm we do. Grab it and hold on.’ It was Alin. They were at one of three structures next to the detention building, which was barely a stone’s throw away, looming some twenty feet higher against the night sky. Elorsa looked over impatiently.
Daretor gripped Alin’s arm. Taking a deep breath, he placed his foot on the stone wave and twisted round the corner. He slipped. Stifling a cry, he felt himself toppling, and slid off the ledge altogether. Then he was hanging in midair, still held by Alin. He looked up. Alin, visibly straining, managed a thin smile. His other arm was hooked through an open window, otherwise both of them would be bloody corpses on the flagstones below.
‘Well caught,’ Daretor gasped.
‘I strongly suggest you get back up here, before my arm is wrenched out of its socket.’
Daretor managed to wedge the toe of his boot into the gap between two stone slabs. A moment later, now thankful to the craftsmanship of the design for its plentiful handholds, Daretor was back on the ledge.
From there they moved quickly to a spot adjacent to the roof of the detention building, but they were still two storeys below their destination.
Daretor checked the street and signalled Alin, who quickly threw a knotted rope up to the top of a balcony parapet. Its hooked, padded end caught. Moving rapidly, Alin scaled the rope and hauled himself over the parapet. Elorsa scrambled up next, moving with the agility of a cat. Daretor followed.
Once over the parapet, they forced the embrasured window, and hurried to the thick oak door on the far side of the room. Beyond the door was a locked grille that barred the top of a stairwell. Years spent travelling with Zimak came to Daretor’s aid. Picking simple locks had been child’s play for the little thief, and even Daretor had learned some of his skills. With the aid of two dirks he had the grille unlocked within seconds.
‘A man of many talents,’ Alin said in admiration.
They passed inside, moving softly in the leather slippers Alin had brought. The stairwell was unguarded, at least until they reached the ground floor.
Peering over the banister, they saw two priest-guards squatting by the main entrance. They were too far away to be caught by surprise. They were so close to the entrance that they could have easily escaped to warn others.
Alin considered their dilemma. ‘What to do,’ he thought aloud. ‘Elorsa?’
Elorsa unbuttoned her tunic until her cleavage was displayed.
‘No, wait,’ Daretor said. He was contemplating the walls. ‘I have seen no magic Watchers on these stairs,’ he said.
‘They do not watch their own,’ said Elorsa with a soft snort of derision.
‘Good,’ said Daretor. ‘I’m going to try something. Be ready. I don’t know if it’ll work or for how long.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Alin gazed at him, puzzled.
‘Jelindel has taught me many things, even some I have little aptitude for. We shall see how much of a student I really am.’ He concentrated on his conjuring. One false word, even an odd intonation, could have disastrous consequences. That much he had learned.
Muttering beneath his breath, as if chanting to himself, he started: ‘Vec-akine! … Vac-kine! …’
Alin and Elorsa exchanged a look that plainly said they had misjudged the foreigner. An error that could prove a dangerous liability.
‘Vec-takine!’ Daretor said triumphantly.
Just as Alin decided to do something about Daretor’s apparent madness, a flickering blue light gathered about Daretor’s lips. His brow beaded with sweat and he seemed to be under a great exertion.
Suddenly, the blue light leapt through the air and bound the two priest-guards in writhing cords. They fell to the floor, unable to move or call for help.
Daretor slumped heavily, spent. ‘Quickly,’ he gasped.
Alin and Elorsa did not hesitate. They hurled themselves down the remaining stairs at the guards, clubbing them unconscious. Seconds later the blue light unravelled and sped back to Daretor.
Alin bound and gagged the two men and dragged them to a cellar. Elorsa returned to the exhausted Daretor. She helped him to his feet and draped one of his arms across her shoulders. Together they stumbled down to the foyer. They found Alin by a small storeroom beneath the staircase.
Feeling somewhat safer here, Alin gave the group a moment’s respite. Daretor was squatting on the floor, breathing heavily.
‘A simple enough binding word …’ he said. ‘But it’s how you say it that counts.’
Alin and Elorsa stared at him, partly in awe, partly out of fear. ‘Was that … was that magic?’ Elorsa asked, hardly daring to say the word.
Daretor nodded. ‘Simple stuff. First year apprentice level. Had no idea … it was so … exhausting…. I’m not a natural …’
Alin clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. ‘I thought it was amazing. The priests don’t like to use magic in front of us. They’re afraid we might learn how to use it.’
‘Or might want to,’ said Elorsa, her eyes gleaming.
‘Are you ready to go on?’ Alin asked Daretor.
Daretor climbed laboriously to his feet.
Jelindel was trying to sleep. She was scared. She was going to die at daybreak and she hardly understood why. It was like being accused of a crime that you thought you might have committed but couldn’t actually remember doing.
It didn’t seem fair. If only she could remember something about the past. It might explain how she came to be in this predicament.
At some point she must have slumbered, because she found herself in the middle of an uneasy dream. She was flying swiftly through a dark, unnatural plane in which globes trailing silken thread were harassing her. A noise woke her. She sat up, blinking.
Everything seemed normal at first, then she realised that the priest-guards were lying on the floor, unconscious. The table was upturned and the cards scattered.
Standing in the shadows, looking exceedingly wary, she spied three shadows. One of them stooped low, snatched up a set of keys, and crossed to her cell. A slim but muscular man stood there, smiling.
She stared back. ‘Have you come to rescue me?’ she asked.
‘I have,’ said Daretor. ‘Make no noise, and do everything precisely as you’re told.’
He unlocked the door and eased it open. Then he embraced her and pressed his lips to hers. Her eyes opened wide. Maybe this was the local reward for rescuing somebody, she thought. She shrugged mentally and returned the kiss, since she was clearly being rescued and owed the stranger a debt.
One of the others hissed at them. ‘There’s plenty of time for that later.’
It was a woman’s voice. She sounded irritated. Jelindel pulled back from the embrace.
The man handed her a sword. She wasn’t sure she liked weapons but it did feel familiar. She swung it experimentally.
‘Are you well?’ the man said, concerned.
‘I am now,’ Jelindel said.
Daretor took her hand and led her from the cell. They pattered up a short flight of steps, turned left, and raced to the end of a dark corridor. Here they paused, checking that the way ahead was clear.
Alin gave a signal. They darted across yet another corridor, into a courtyard.
They had almost reached the other side when, somewhere behind them, a bell began clanging.
‘Time to move,’ said Elorsa.
‘We have to make the stairwell before we’re seen,’ said Daretor.
They raced down a corridor, spun into the next and came to a stop. Half a dozen priest-guards pounded into view. Someone was blowing a hitch-pitched whistle.
‘At them,’ yelled Daretor. He and Alin sprang towards the priests, and two went down almost at once. Elorsa engaged another while Jelindel watched. The sword in her hand seemed of little use. But she did manage to dispatch one of the priests who backed into her by whacking him hard on the head with the flat of the sword. He dropped like a stone, and she felt quite pleased with herself. At this point, a larger group of priest-guards appeared behind them.
‘Stop them,’ Daretor yelled at Jelindel.
She stared at him. ‘Stop them how?’
‘You know. Magic. A binding word. Anything!’
‘I thought that was illegal here.’
Daretor turned frantically to their pursuers. ‘Do you want to be executed?’
‘Good point. There’s only one small problem.’
During the exchange, the priests were advancing cautiously. Daretor and his companions were backing away slowly. With six of their brethren already on the ground, the priest-guards chose to exercise caution.
Elorsa’s jaw set tightly. ‘What exactly is the problem?’
Jelindel shrugged apologetically. ‘I … ah … don’t know any magic.’
‘What?’ asked Alin.
Elorsa looked suspicious and annoyed.
Daretor glanced at Jelindel. ‘Then we’re done for,’ he said, noting the blank look on her face. ‘You really did lose your memory. It wasn’t a trick.’
Jelindel shook her head. Daretor started to say something when the priests attacked with a loud cry. The delay had been calculated. With further yells from behind, a band of more than twenty priest-guards charged from the far side of the courtyard.
Daretor pushed Jelindel behind him. ‘Vec-vec-,’ He paused, trying to remember the intonation. Vec-’
He felt a hand on his shoulder. ‘I remember a word that begins like that,’ Jelindel said.
Before Daretor could engage with the foremost priest-guards, Jelindel said, ‘Vec-takine!’
Blue flickering light appeared on her lips. She waved her hand at the charging priests and blue light flashed across the space, binding every one of them. They fell to the floor, stunned and frightened.
The priests rushing from the opposite direction stopped, amazed and not a little alarmed.
Nobody was as amazed as Jelindel herself, however. ‘By all the gods, did I do that?’ she asked.
There was no time for Alin and Elorsa to marvel at Jelindel’s power. They skirted the bound priests and made for the turret doors. Moments later they reached the stairwell and pounded up. Two floors from the rooftop, Alin paused to place a package on one of the landings. He caught up with the others as they reached the balcony. From there they scrambled across the scalloped roof to the adjacent building. From behind them came a loud explosion and a flash of light. Then great clouds of smoke billowed from the shattered upper floors of the citadel.
Alin grinned. ‘We may not have the use of magic here, but we have developed other means of deterring our enemies.’
Using the rooftops, they crossed the city, putting distance between themselves and their pursuers.
Some time later, they returned to the basement where Daretor had first met Alin. They had barely spoken along the way. Now, with doors barred and windows shuttered, Daretor turned to Jelindel.
‘How much do you remember?’ he asked.
‘Falling,’ she said. ‘Then I was in a closet amidst brooms and buckets.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘I had a strange dream that I was flying, that I was high up in the sky. But it was just a dream.’
‘It wasn’t a dream,’ Daretor said. ‘We are on a quest and we were sent here by an old enemy, a powerful sorcerer called Fa’red. He tricked us. Before that we were indeed flying in the sky.’
‘Why doesn’t she remember anything?’ Elorsa asked. Her initial anger had evaporated the moment Jelindel had worked magic.
‘I got a bump on the head,’ said Jelindel. ‘A physician said my memory should come back. Eventually.’
Daretor groaned. ‘I was counting on your abilities to get us out of here. Never mind. You’re safe, and that’s what really matters.’
‘Sorry,’ Jelindel said. She started to speak when she remembered something. ‘When you opened my cell, you kissed me. Are we ? I mean, are you and I … friends?’
Daretor pulled her to him. ‘We are life partners, you and I. Lovers and companions on many adventures, not least this one.’
Jelindel felt oddly secure, wrapped in this man’s arms. ‘So we … ah … do this a lot? Go off having adventures and getting into trouble?’
‘Well, you are a young archmage, a very powerful sorceress, and many wish to hire your services. I have a good sword arm, and so I travel with you.’ He paused, looking into her face. ‘You don’t remember anything?’
‘You’re sort of familiar, but everything is sort of familiar right now. It’s a very unsettling feeling.’ She turned to Elorsa and Alin. ‘Are these people also our companions?’
‘Sit down,’ Elorsa said. ‘There is much to tell, but I fear we have little time.’
Her words proved prophetic for there was a knock at the rear door. Everybody froze. The knock came again. Then it was repeated in a distinct pattern. Alin opened the door and two men entered.
‘Pirin, Jod. Come in, quick.’ Alin peered outside before closing the door.
The newcomers looked at Daretor and Jelindel in evident dislike.
‘Well,’ grumbled Pirin. ‘You have roused the city, make no mistake of that.’
Osric and Zimak peered at the city that lay some ten thousand feet below. S’cressling remained at the same altitude and held a circling pattern. The land was totally unfamiliar, nor did they know how they would be greeted by the locals.
‘Why don’t we just land in the town square and ask?’ said Zimak, impatiently.
‘And what if they’re not the friendly sort?’ Osric demanded.
‘Why shouldn’t they be? Why is everybody so suspicious?’
‘There is treachery everywhere,’ muttered Osric. ‘Particularly in the hearts of women,’ he finished off.
‘They’re not all like Jelindel,’ Zimak said. I like a good wench.’
Osric nodded. After a while, he said, ‘S’cressling knows that Fa’red did not send Jelindel and Daretor to the Stone People. Where this place is I do not know but one thing is certain: Fa’red did not send them here for their good health.’
Zimak gazed glumly at the dimly lit city. It seemed somewhat smaller than D’loom. Judging by the lights, it wasn’t as densely populated either. He was sick of flying, sick of feeling queasy, sick of throwing up over the side of the deck platform. He wanted solid earth beneath his feet and he really didn’t care where it was.
‘Well, what are we going to do then?’
‘We? We’re not doing anything. I’ll ask S’cressling to put down on one of those towers as soon as everybody is asleep and you’re going to reconnoitre.’
‘Me? What about you?’
‘It was your idea to go down there and search for Daretor and Jelindel. Besides, somebody has to look after S’cressling.’
‘Seems to me she looks after herself.’
‘They’re our friends down there,’ Osric said flatly.
‘Gah, I wouldn’t exactly call them friends,’ Zimak snorted. ‘Especially that vixen Jelindel.’
‘She has betrayed you,’ stated Osric.
‘She’s cheated me out of powerful weapons, banished me to a paraworld, abducted me from a harem, robbed me of kinghood, seduced my best friend, and, and – do you want me to continue? I can.’
‘Then why do you seek her company?’ Osric asked. ‘Men are more loyal.’
‘Hie, Osric. Isn’t that the truth? But why do we do a lot of things?’ Zimak said. ‘Why did Daretor and I save you from the Temple Inviolate?’
‘Because without me you couldn’t escape on the back of a dragon.’
Zimak turned in the saddle and glared. ‘Of all the ungrateful wretches! Next time I won’t bother saving you or anyone else.’
‘Well next time is upon us, so make up your mind. In case it has slipped your attention, Rakeem’s poison must surely be working on your body by now.’
‘We’re as good as dead anyway,’ Zimak said. ‘If the poison doesn’t get us, Rakeem will.’
‘Finding the dragonsight is only a portion of your future,’ Osric predicted. ‘Play that part, and another may present itself.’
‘You’re sounding more like a market charm vendor every day,’ Zimak observed. ‘All right, I’ll do things your way.’
‘Good. After we land, you find Daretor and Jelindel then signal me.’
‘Signal you? How?’
‘Improvise. Light a fire.’
‘Hie, easy, as long as there’s a tinder box lying around, along with a pile of hay and faggots stacked for me to light.’
‘Ever the pessimist,’ said Osric, shaking his head. ‘Maybe Jelindel still has the whistle I gave her.’
At a command from Osric, S’cressling banked steeply and descended. Zimak held on tightly and cursed the day, several years ago, when he had left the D’loom markets in search of an enchanted mailshirt.
‘What were you thinking?’ demanded Pirin, pointing angrily at Alin and Elorsa. ‘You have endangered the entire movement.’
Alin was unapologetic. ‘It’s time something happened around here, Pirin. We skulk and hide, and we plot, but we never do anything. It’s only a matter of time before we’re betrayed, and without doing anything.’ At Pirin’s silence, Alin added, ‘Look how many of us are left. We’re dwindling like coins to the Provost’s coffers.’
‘Alin’s right,’ Elorsa added.
‘So you took matters into your own hands?’
‘This woman is a powerful sorceress,’ Alin said. ‘She might even be more powerful than the Provost himself.’
Pirin laughed. ‘If she’s so powerful why did she sit so meekly inside her cell, waiting to be rescued? Why didn’t she just blow the door open and walk out? Tell me that, Alin.’
Elorsa interrupted again. ‘Because she’s lost her memory.’
Pirin peered at Jelindel. ‘Well, isn’t that convenient. A sorceress who can’t remember magic. She’s as much use as a bow without an arrow.’
Daretor stepped between Pirin and Jelindel. ‘You know nothing of what you speak,’ he said. ‘There are few mages in Q’zar who can rival Jelindel dek Mediesar.’
Pirin’s companion, who had said nothing so far, cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps we should discuss this more sensibly.’
Pirin withdrew, but shot his colleague a dark look. The smaller man gazed back, asserting his authority.
The man invited everybody to sit around the table. When they had done so, he introduced himself. ‘I am Jod Ukin. By day I am a banker and merchant. By night I am as you see me now. A dis-reputable plotter and a traitor to my tyrant sovereign, the Provost Marshal of Ishluk.’ He leaned his elbows on the table and looked closely at Jelindel. ‘Are you truly a great mage, one of those we sometimes hear of when news reaches us from afar?’
Jelindel looked uneasy.
‘She is,’ Daretor said, taking her hand.
She looked into his eyes and silently mouthed, ‘I am?’
Jod Ukin regarded them, then looked at Alin and Elorsa. ‘She has demonstrated power?’
They both nodded vigorously. Jod Ukin thought for a long moment then stood up.
‘Let us begin then,’ he declared.
The others stood, not understanding. ‘Begin what?’ asked Pirin.
‘The revolution, of course.’
The word went out. At the sixth hour the next morning cadres of revolutionaries were to strike across the city, taking over key locations. Old men and women who could remember the days before the current regime, and who had once practised magic, were to assemble at strategic places. Jod Ukin doubted they could muster any magic greater than a few weak curses, but every bit would help.
Daretor felt as if he had been caught up in a whirlwind. He was also none too sure that Jelindel would be of much help. He sat with her for some time, relating her own history. While she seemed to remember bits and pieces, it was fragmentary. Her responses to most of the stories was a gasp of amazement and something along the lines of ‘I did that?’
For her part, Jelindel felt like she was listening to somebody else’s life story, one that was fascinating, but in no way hers.
That night they got what sleep they could, but by the fourth hour everyone was gathered and ready. Daretor and Jelindel had agreed to accompany Alin, Elorsa and Jod Ukin to the Provost’s palace. The Provost was, by all accounts, a powerful sorcerer in his own right, and would prove a formidable enemy.
Ten minutes before the sixth hour they were in position. Overhead, the sky was lit by the gibbous Blanchmoon, and piercingly bright stars. On street level, silent forces crept.
‘Not exactly what we bargained for,’ said Daretor, close to Jelindel’s ear. She simply nodded. Daretor had written out as many spells and charms as he could remember, and Jelindel was memorising them. Binding spells and blinding spells would be useful, as well as shield spells that would repel projectiles. There was also a spell that made enemies move in slow motion, making them satisfyingly vulnerable.
Jelindel had grave doubts about her ability to work magic of any kind, let alone useful magic. Jod had placed her with his ‘magic’ contingent. Their job was solely to counter any spells emitting from the Provost’s priest-guards. Jod would take on the Provost. Jelindel looked around. She saw only elderly, frightened men and women. Some even clutched reminder notes, in case they forgot their spells.
Jelindel’s heart lurched. If these people had ever gained paraplane spirits, they had long since relinquished their hold over them. Without spirit-power, their magic would be weak. Jelindel’s eyebrows knitted. How did she know that?
Jod appeared beside her. ‘It’s time,’ he told the elderly bunch. ‘Stay together if you can.’ That said he raced across the deserted marketplace. The others followed. Cane ladders were hoisted up against the boundary wall. Within moments dark-clothed men and women were scaling the ladders. Two garrotted priest-guards lay on their backs, their dead eyes wide with surprise.
Jod waited for his people to clamber over the parapets. He then dropped his hand and everyone climbed down to the palace grounds. A wolfhound yowled in the distance, but it didn’t slow the scurrying figures as they raced towards the imposing building fashioned from white marble.
Several wolfhounds, loping around the side of the palace, started barking, their hackles erect. Jod had given instructions that nobody was to use magic until the last possible moment. An elderly man took fright. Before he could complete a simple warding spell, several bolts struck the beasts. They tumbled in a whining heap, but they had roused the palace guard. Somewhere to the left swords clanged, then someone shrieked. Jod cursed beneath his breath. He had hoped to enter the palace before their presence was discovered.
He readied himself as priest-guards rushed them. Daretor vaulted an ornamental pond and engaged three of them. His sword flashed and whirled. A priest-guard dropped as the blade cut across his face, another clutched his abdomen and went down. The third dropped his sword and raised his hands, then babbled an incantation.
Daretor buckled over as something invisible thumped into him. The next moment he was flung through the air to land twenty yards away. The wind knocked from him, he saw several of the revolutionaries thrown in a similar fashion. Some crashed into stone walls and fell dead, others rolled on the ground.
Then Jod’s sorcerers struck. The promenade became criss-crossed with purple, pink and blue flickering bolts of light. Tightening the grip on his sword, Daretor steadied himself. The fighting was thickest by the main entrance to the palace. Shaking his head to clear it, he made for the colonnaded steps.
Jelindel stood back and chanted spells, aiming them with sweeping gestures of her hands. The strange part of it was that they mostly worked. Blue light flickered out and wrapped itself around its victims, toppling and binding them. She felt giddy with this newfound power. But she became slightly dazed, as though drained. She saw Daretor being thrown across the courtyard, and immediately she cast a binding spell at the throat of his attacker. The priest-guard had not warded himself, no doubt unaware of the power in their attackers. His body twitched in seizure; he clutched at his throat as though he were being strangled, then collapsed. Jelindel walked towards the palace as though mesmerised, almost oblivious to the mayhem.
Daretor took the steps three at a time, once almost tripping over a body. He dispatched the only priest-guard left at the entrance, then entered the grand and richly appointed atrium. Here the fighting had reached fever-pitch. The Provost’s elite guards threw themselves into the frantic, desperate fight, seemingly unafraid of death. They were disturbingly like Fa’red’s deadmoon assassins.
Outside, dawn spread reddish sunlight that spilled through the atrium windows, revealing the carnage. It also revealed a squad of elite guards who had been rushed from the barracks.
Jelindel’s mind cleared, and she tried a spell she had not yet used. The slow-motion spell ensnared the advancing guards, instantly slowing their movements. Against even the ill-trained rebels, they were easy prey. Demoralised, some of the defenders broke ranks and fled. Messengers arrived to report to Jod that the city had been taken, more or less. Jod nodded acknowledgement, but he was aware that their revolt was far from over. The Provost had not shown himself yet.
No sooner had he thought that, than a cry went up. All eyes turned towards a huge archway on the north side. Standing there, dwarfed by the arch, yet somehow filling it with his powerful aura, stood Kagan, the Provost Marshal.
The attackers ceased fighting. The Provost took a step forward and the front ranks crumpled silently to the ground. Those left standing seemed to be the immediate targets of crossbowmen who had appeared from the mansion’s numerous balconies. Jod’s people retaliated with a withering flight of arrows, but they seemed too few and too late to save those under attack.
The Provost waved his hand and half of the second rank went down as though felled by a giant invisible scythe.
Jod Ukin took a deep breath and shouted the spell, ‘Velectumbassius-sui!’
The ground rumbled. Even Jod’s people fled the lawn that was now undulating as though an earthquake was gathering momentum. Then something sprang from the ground like water from a fountain. It coalesced into a shimmering body of white light, and then solidified.
‘Slissum-vec-takine!’ Jod incanted, before sagging to the ground. His lifeforce was being drained to sustain the ethereal manifestation.
Jelindel shielded her eyes from the blinding apparition. She had to do something, but what? Jod had put everything into one spell. Somehow she knew this was foolhardy. If the paraplane creature failed him, he would be completely defenceless against the Provost.
The being hovered in indecision. Jelindel took a deep breath. She then focused her mind on the creature, willing it to move. The thing pulsed on the lawn for a moment longer, then skimmed the surface of the grass and reached out for the Provost.
The body of light sought to devour the Provost, but as its outer aura closed in around him, it seemed to diminish. Within seconds it was flowing into the outline of the Provost as though he had inscribed a paraplane black hole around his body, and it was drinking in the light. Moments later, the ruptured lawn was all that remained of Jod’s trump spell. Jelindel walked forward, leaving Jod’s crumpled body behind.
Kagan gazed at her in genuine puzzlement. ‘You? You’re this rabble’s secret weapon?’ he said, mistaking her for the creator of the white apparition. ‘You will rue the day you took up with this lot,’ he concluded.
He waved his hand in a dismissive manner. A tongue of red light jagged across the lawn and struck Jelindel. She was lifted bodily and thrown against a column. She slammed against it and fell forward. A low moan swept the ranks of the attackers. Jod Ukin forced his eyes open and saw the triumphant Kagan. The Provost would kill them all.
‘So we have all the rats in the one basket, do we?’ said Kagan. His lips moved and a deadly red light gathered about him. It began to swirl, spinning faster and faster like a tiny tornado. Suddenly it bellied out towards the remnants of Jod’s rebels. They scattered, but all fell under the might of the whirlwind. The wind increased, throwing them across the grounds.
‘You want to see magic?’ Kagan bellowed above the shrill whirlwind. ‘Then I shall give you magic.’ He raised his arm to cast the deadly vortex. It would cut them down like a storm in a field of corn.
Instead the red vortex imploded, quickly dissipating. The Provost stared about him, stunned. ‘What?’ he gasped. ‘Who dares defy me?’
‘Me,’ said a voice. All fighting ceased. Both sides turned and stared at Jelindel, whose outflung hand was still directed at Kagan. Leaning heavily against the palace wall, she was bleeding from a scalp wound. A moment later she let her right arm fall to her side.
Kagan muttered a word and raised both hands, creating a ball of writhing light between them. His face contorted in fury as he flung it at her. It singed the very air as it passed over the heads of the combatants. The power in it was felt hundreds of yards away. People ducked as the white light passed. None doubted that it would annihilate the wisp of a girl who was its intended victim, yet somehow that did not happen.
Jelindel raised her left hand, palm out, and chanted a ward spell. The ball of sizzling energy hovered in midair. She then clenched her hand and flicked her fingers out. The ball hurtled back at Kagan. His face had barely enough time to display absolute terror before the white light engulfed him.
The people on the lawn shrank back from the spectacle, mostly shielding their eyes against the blinding light. Those who dared look saw Kagan’s body limned by the devouring light, before the flesh was shredded from its bones. Moments later, the Provost’s skeleton fell apart and collapsed.
Jelindel could not comprehend her success. It had seemed to her that Kagan would easily dissolve his own creation and retaliate with such speed that she would be unable to block his counter spell. But at the precise moment she warded off the paraplane entity, the Provost had been distracted by something on the palace roofline.
People were moaning in fear, others dropped their weapons as though they were redundant. Then Jelindel heard, rather than saw, someone running towards her. It was a hooded figure. A man with his hand gripping a long-bladed knife.
‘Jelindel,’ Daretor cried. Jelindel was already turning, but too slowly. She was groggy from the magical battle, and actually stumbled as she turned, starting to fall.
The knife fell from the man’s fingers as he gripped Jelindel’s arm, stopping her fall. At the same time the cowl fell back from his face. Daretor rushed beside him and looked on, dumbstruck.
Jelindel steadied herself. ‘Nice to see you, Zimak. What kept you?’
‘Gah, Jelindel. You know that adage, “As fast as a dragon"? Well, it’s way overrated. Trust me.’
Daretor looked at Jelindel. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. ‘You look rather silly when you get that expression on your face.’
‘Your memory …’ he said.
‘Is back,’ said Jelindel. ‘But I think the cure was worse than the disease.’ She put one hand to her head and shut her eyes against the throbbing pain.
S’cressling was a majestic curiosity. She crouched in the town square, her immense, serrated tail flicking like the tail of a cat watching a mouse. Sensing this, the people kept a respectful distance. Despite the recent display of magic, nothing compared with seeing a giant crimson dragon land in the palace grounds. All of Ishluk knew of the existence of magic, but dragons were simply the stuff of folklore.
‘She rather steals one’s thunder,’ Jelindel was heard to say.
It was two days since the triumph of the revolution. Jelindel had been partially healed by Jod, while Zimak and Osric had been brought up to date on events. The city was in the midst of joyous celebration. Within the first few hours of Provost Kagan’s demise, all the Watchers were torn down and destroyed. The surviving priest-guards were rounded up for trial. They would have to answer accusations of crimes against the people; some would be banished from Ishluk, and others hanged; a few would stay in administrative posts which were needed in the running of the city.
Almost as soon as the city had fallen, Jelindel sent word asking if anyone had heard of the realm of the Stone People. Nobody had come forward at first, but while supplies were being loaded aboard S’cressling, a heavily lined woman hobbled up to them. In her youth, she said, she had heard a tale about people made of living rock. The tale claimed that their realm was deep beneath the Hazgar Mountains, hundreds of miles to the north-east.
The old woman was partially deaf. Jelindel asked several times how the woman wished to be rewarded, but she replied that the Provost’s fall was reward enough.
An hour before noon they climbed aboard the dragon and bid their friends goodbye. Jod Ukin, the new Regent of Ishluk, conferred honorary citizenship on them and made them Stewards of the Realm.
‘A Steward of the Realm has high rank and standing,’ complained Zimak as they prepared to leave. ‘Why are we leaving without enjoying the honour for at least a few weeks?’
‘We’re poisoned, and will die unless we find the dragonsight,’ Daretor reminded him.
‘Gah, Daretor. Do you have to spoil everything?’ muttered Zimak.
Moments later, S’cressling stretched her enormous wings, provoking a collective gasp from the crowd, and causing many to back away frantically. The wings rose then dropped with a noise like a thunderclap, and the dragon sprang into the air. Her wings beat laboriously as she worked to gain height, then she began to catch air currents and ascend in a graceful glide.
From below came a long cheer and much clapping. Jelindel and Daretor waved. When S’cressling reached a height of two thousand feet she veered off to the north-east.
‘That was a costly detour,’ said Jelindel. ‘Best to avoid the like in future.’