Dragonsight (2 page)

Chapter 1

AMBUSHED

S

ome two hundred miles to the west of Dragonfrost, D’loom, the chief seaport of Skelt, had experienced a kind of rebirth. In both tavern and royal court it was hotly debated whether this was a cause for celebration or curses. In the days since the Preceptor’s armies had been broken and scattered, the lands had fallen into anarchy. The ancient roads, once protected by royal decree backed up by garrisons of soldiers, were now largely abandoned to brigands, hunting unwary victims.

Navigating the sea lanes had become as precarious, yet D’loom had prospered. When pirates returned to wreak havoc on the trading ships, they had chosen the port of D’loom as their headquarters, giving the city and its ships a type of immunity. Naturally this immunity came at a price, or more accurately, a percentage.

The son of the former king knew a good thing when it clutched him by the throat and held a dagger to his heart. He offered the pirates haven, and a tenth of all taxes. Because even ordinary pickpockets and second-storey thieves thought twice before risking the wrath of the pirates, a kind of law and order had descended on D’loom. The port city actually prospered, while other cities fell into decline.

Jelindel dek Mediesar was a young woman whose face was etched by fine lines, proof that she had endured war, terror, and generally dangerous living. She was sitting in a tavern, thinking about D’loom’s sudden prosperity, and how some occupations flourish no matter what the circumstances. She was an archmage-warrior, an occupation unique for a woman. To add to her achievements, she was also an intelligent archmage-warrior, and this gave her considerable advantage over the competition.

Daretor, a rather introspective master swordsman, lounged beside her. Through a series of misfortunes, he had run foul of a former companion called Zimak, a thief. Daretor currently inhabited Zimak’s diminutive body, while Zimak strode inside Daretor’s magnificently muscled frame. Many months had passed since the body-swap. Fortunately for Daretor, Zimak’s body had been amicable to hard work and exercise. Now feeling more comfortable in Zimak’s body, the swordsman nonetheless suffered spells of depression whenever he pondered the fate of his own body in the hands of the mead-guzzling Zimak.

A grizzled, gaunt man sat before the pair, dickering for their services. His name was Theroc, and he was from Yuledan. He claimed the town was under attack by aerial beasts that came at night, plucking citizens from the streets. The town, already plundered regularly by brigands from the nearby mountains, was on the point of collapse. None dared leave their homes, for fear of the airborne predators that came at night, and the brigands that came by day. Fear was stamped across Theroc’s features. His eyes darted at any noise and he would not sit with his back to window or door.

‘We will pay you whatever you ask,’ he was saying, ‘if only you come quickly. If not, I fear Yuledan will have only ghosts for citizens.’

Daretor leaned forward, staring at the ground. ‘You say nobody has seen these beasts?’ he said, concentrating on Theroc’s words rather than his face.

‘I say none has seen them and lived,’ Theroc replied. ‘Here, this is half of what we can pay.’

He pushed a heavy pouch across the table; it clinked with the dull sound of gold oriels.

Daretor hefted it, then peered inside. He nodded at Jelindel.

‘Expect us in three days,’ she said.

Theroc sighed with relief. ‘I will send a message,’ he said, seizing Jelindel’s hand and kissing it fervently before rising.

Theroc nodded awkwardly at Daretor. Jelindel noted that as he left the tavern he glanced nervously skyward before hurrying along the street. He ran doubled over, shoulders hunched, as if fearing an attack from above.

Jelindel grinned at Daretor, tapping the bag of gold coins. ‘This and its companion could keep us in comfort for some time,’ she commented.

‘Have you any idea what the sky beasts might be?’ he asked.

‘No, but things that fly are very vulnerable. They must be light if they are to fly. Consequently, they can’t have heavy scales, and will be easily wounded. From all accounts, you had no problems with the bat-wing warriors in the Forest of Castles.’

‘That said, the Preceptor’s deadmoon assassins very nearly killed you,’ Daretor pointed out.

‘But I am still alive, and they are not. If it flies, it can be easily hurt.’

Jelindel watched Daretor for a time. He seemed more introspective than usual.

‘You’re thinking about the fliers from the Forest of Castles,’ she stated, rather than asked.

Daretor sucked noisily at a sliver of meat caught between his teeth. ‘Their wing devices could but carry their own weight. They could never have snatched up victims and flown off with them.’

Jelindel tucked the purse safely away. ‘Well, it looks as though we’re still partners. Your vow to hang up your sword and join a monastery was short-lived.’

Daretor snorted. ‘I said nothing about joining a monastery. Besides, why should I be a scholar when I have you to do the thinking?’

‘Good point, Daretor darling. Keep that thought and we’ll live happily ever after.’

An hour later they were strolling up Fish Street, aiming to book passage for themselves and three horses on one of the great caravans that provided the only safe long-distance transportation for passengers and cargo. The sheer size of the caravans deterred any attacking force smaller than an army.

They spent the rest of the day gathering supplies. That night they took a comfortable room so that they might have their last good sleep for what would probably be a very long time. Despite the comfortable bed and clean sheets, Jelindel had trouble sleeping.

‘Do you remember what I said on the battlefield after the Preceptor’s army fell?’ she asked Daretor softly.

‘Go to sleep.’

‘Did I say that?’

Daretor stirred, thinking back. ‘Um … you foresaw that anarchy would return to the world. Stands to reason. Remove the means to enforce law and order, and you can kiss law and order goodbye.’

‘I also said that we would have a part to play,’ said Jelindel. ‘A thousand years of darkness lies ahead.’

‘A thousand years,’ muttered Daretor. ‘Why is it always a thousand years? Why not nine hundred and a score years, or eleven hundred?’

‘I am having a premonition about all this, Daretor. In some way that I can’t yet fathom, we’re involved. Our obnoxious ex-comrade Zimak too, I think, wherever he is. I have a feeling that this work in Yuledan will start us on that road.’

‘Don’t mention that thieving wastrel,’ Daretor grumbled. ‘Why do your premonitions always come just as I am trying to get to sleep?’ he wondered. ‘Why not in the morning?’

The next day they arrived early at the caravan grounds. The number of pack animals alone exceeded two thousand, and they were to be escorted by a force the size of a small army. By mutual agreement, Jelindel and Daretor were part of this force.

‘They should be paying us,’ muttered Daretor, as they rode out of the city, ‘not us them.’

They were already covered in dust, and the pace was very slow.

‘We are paying to have the protection of the caravan’s sheer size,’ Jelindel pointed out.

A customs officer rode past. ‘May your journey be prosperous!’ he called out cheerily.

‘There speaks a man who is not going on the journey, yet will grow prosperous on our departure,’ said Daretor.

By late afternoon D’loom was a smudge on the horizon. The caravan was well organised and run with efficiency, but this did not stop Daretor and Jelindel from being covered in dust, chilled by the wind, and abused by the marshal riders.

‘Do you know that I have not had a single thought of ambush all day?’ Jelindel asked.

‘I, on the other hand, have thought of nothing but dust that smells of horse and camel manure,’ replied Daretor.

‘Why have we never travelled this way before?’ Jelindel wanted to know.

‘It’s called poverty,’ Daretor said. ‘P.O.V.E.R.T.Y. People who have no money suffer from it. They have adventures involving ambushes because lone travellers on the open road are easy targets.’

‘Well, we’re not poor anymore and I say this is definitely the way to travel. It’s like being in a large travelling town.’

‘Especially for first-class travellers, who get the wagons with dust mesh screens.’

‘Most especially first class. The largest wagons even have privies.’

‘It would seem you can take the girl out of the countess but not the countess out of the girl.’

Jelindel ignored the remark. ‘It’s sort of romantic, don’t you think?’

‘Romantic?’ Daretor asked. His mind went slightly blank at the thought.

‘Yes, romantic. It’s something we should try once in a while.’ ‘You’re deliberately annoying me because I wanted a good night’s sleep before the journey.’

‘Not true!’ Jelindel snapped, and turned her back.

Caravans are very much like moving towns. By day they are a long, thin line. By night they are a small, compact settlement with markets, defences, homes, workshops, and even taverns. With the caravan stopped for the night, Jelindel toured the market to see what was on offer. Amid the exotic drinks, foods, trinkets, amulets, herbal powders, and weapons, she found a book stall. Few people paid much attention to the stall and its owner, and Jelindel soon learned that the man could not read. Someone had apparently marked the books according to what they thought their value ought to be, but whoever it was did not know much about literature. Significant books with no pictures were reasonably priced, while simple books with nice pictures and good leather covers were expensive. There were books about dark magic with forbidding covers; one in particular was so horrible that it drew Jelindel’s eye. She picked it up reluctantly. It was about Golgora, the paraworld of eternal punishment. ‘The Place of the Damned,’ she said, shuddering. She dropped the book back on the pile, childhood nightmares unpleasantly rising within her. She moved quickly to a stack of geographical books. They seemed safer. One of these took her fancy, and she bought it. The price was low because it contained maps instead of pictures.

Jelindel took the book to her tent, and began poring over it by the light of a candle. Candles were expensive on a caravan because they took up weight that might otherwise be occupied by spices.

Over the course of the next two hours Jelindel merged with the book, peering at the intricate maps, and reading the histories that accompanied each place name. It brought back memories of her childhood home, before it was stormed by the Preceptor’s lindrak assassins. She could not bear to think of her slaughtered family. In those far-off days she had loved maps; the larger and more exotic the better. For hours she would study them, tracing out roads and ancient highways that linked now vanished towns and kingdoms, creating her own imaginary kingdoms and visualising them in her mind.

Daretor returned from sentry duty at the perimeter of the encamped caravan. ‘You’re burning a candle?’ he exclaimed.

‘All the better to see by,’ replied Jelindel.

‘But don’t you know how much they cost?’

‘Well, yes, I paid for it after all.’

‘But you could read by sunlight.’