Dragonsight (24 page)

Jelindel nodded. ‘I am to awaken her,’ she said.

Daretor stared from Jelindel to the chieftain. He wanted to add to Zimak’s scepticism and to stop this nonsense, but he held back. They were stuck in this place until Hakat’s machine recharged. Damn all magic to Black Quell’s beard! he thought.

‘If I understand this,’ said the chieftain through Hakat, ‘you are not solely here for our benefit. You have troubles of your own and a perilous journey ahead. Perhaps the queen, once awakened, may counsel you on what lies ahead.’

‘Perhaps,’ agreed Jelindel. ‘When do we start?’

‘Jelli,’ warned Daretor.

She turned to Daretor and took his hands. ‘It’s all right, darling,’ she said. ‘Trust me.’

‘Hie, why do I find that such a hard task?’ Zimak said. No one was listening to him, and Hakat did not translate his words.

The chieftain gave a signal. Trumpets blared and Markul led Jelindel and the others to the courtyard. There, giant camel-like creatures awaited them. At Markul’s urging they mounted and set off for the main gate. The road was lined by cheering people. The crowds gazed with bright, eager faces and eyes full of hope. Daretor felt the burden on them grow. What were these people to him and the others? Strangers. No more or less. They had their problems, but then so did his own group. This was madness. They had their own tasks to perform, their own lives to consider: even now the poison flowed in their veins and took its final course. Each minute they tarried shortened their chances of success in their quest, as well as their lives.

They rode out of the town under a sun so bright that the land shimmered and seemed to be made of shifting images rather than rock and sand. The sand was so dry that puffs of fine dust were thrown up by every footfall.

Daretor’s misgivings grew, even without solid evidence or signs of threat. Like Jelindel, he found that he trusted Markul and his people. Unlike her, however, he did not share their faith in the ancient prophecy. It did not make sense to him, perhaps because he was a simple fighting man, and perhaps because he was tired and wished the adventure over. Hearing prophecies was one thing; being part of them was quite another. He simply wanted to go home.

They journeyed for several hours. How the locals found their way amongst the low wind-blown dunes or recognised one part of the desert from another, Daretor could not tell. To him the landscape was featureless, and as desolate as grief.

Perhaps sensing the unease of their riders, the camel creatures fretted and reared their long necks in an effort to dislodge the bits between their jaws. The drivers merely whipped their flanks with thin bamboo strips, and gave sharp, whistled commands.

They rested during the hottest part of the day. The Kesparii swiftly erected awnings of gaily coloured silk. Everyone, except those on watch, stretched out and drank a beverage made from cactus sap called
huppa,
and slept. The desert folk were experts at brief rests. Markul said they could even sleep for short periods whilst in the saddle. This gave them the ability to travel far and fast, and strike where they wished. Surrounded as they were by fierce enemies, all competing for the scarce resources of the land, such tactics were highly effective.

Sipping his
huppa
and gazing at the desert, Markul’s weather-beaten face revealed little. When he spoke, his voice held a wistfulness that Daretor could not reconcile with the stern visage, or the harsh land that had shaped it.

‘We dream of the ocean,’ Markul said via Hakat. ‘No one in this landlocked country, nor even his great-great-great-grand parents, has seen the great oceans that lie far to the south. Yet in our dreams we hear the waves on the shore and smell the salty spume. My son tells me that only a few days ago he woke from a vision to the sound of seagulls. I had to ask one of the elders what creature this was. He said it was a bird that lived on the shore and whose raucous cry was part of the song of the sea.’ He looked at his companions. ‘Do you think our dreams a strange thing?’

Jelindel shook her head. ‘Not strange,’ she said. ‘A little sad, like the memory of someone we have lost. Yet I would hazard a guess that these dreams have increased of late.’

Markul looked at her sharply. ‘How could you know that?’

‘It fits the prophecy,’ she said. ‘And our coming here.’

‘Are we to make an ocean here then?’ Daretor asked. Markul shrugged and did not answer. Perhaps the subject was too hurtful for him. Daretor did not ask again; instead, he thought about the question he had asked. It seemed to him that in order to find the dragonsight they were destined to heal the ills of others, even as they remained unable to heal their own. He did not understand it, but he felt that the dragonsight had a hand in this. Maybe there was an even larger prophecy that they were a part of, one so vast and inexplicable that they could neither understand it, nor predict the outcome.

After the break, which refreshed the visitors far more than they would have thought possible, the squad moved on. The second part of the journey lasted some four hours. By the end Jelindel and the others were not only tired, but saddle sore. The ungainly rhythm of the camel creatures worked muscles in their thighs and backside that they did not realise they had, and set them blazing with pain.

‘Gah, I’m aching all over,’ Zimak complained, dismounting.

Daretor jumped down from his camel as lithely as he could. ‘By all the gods it feels good to be this size,’ he said. At Jelindel’s slanting eyebrow, he added, ‘Just making an observation.’

A hundred yards away stood the entrance to a dry gulch. They rested briefly, ate and drank, then Markul led Jelindel, her companions, and a select group of Kesparii into the gulch.

The walls were of dark rock, unlike most of the exposed and weathered rocks they had seen in the desert. The rift in the land twisted and turned like a crazy serpent, and wound its way for a mile or more before opening out into a vast basin.

In the middle of what appeared to be a dry lake bed stood a small hill composed of stones and bleached bones. Daretor did not like the look of the latter. He wondered if other would-be warriors had been coaxed into trying to fulfil the age-old dream.

Markul pointed at the hill. ‘Queen Ortha sleeps within. “Free her and that which she has drained from this land will be set right”,’ he quoted through Hakat.

Jelindel took a deep breath. ‘I guess that’s my cue.’ She kissed Daretor and looked at the others. Then she encouraged her mount toward the hill. Before it could take five lumbering steps, Markul whistled shrilly. The animal stopped abruptly. Hakat interpreted Markul. ‘The prophecy says the queen is awakened by the five.’

Daretor shrugged. He had been outfitted with a sword and chain mail, as had Zimak and Hakat. QeSu was equipped with a short stabbing spear.

To the others Jelindel said, ‘I was hoping you weren’t involved. I can’t speak for you, but I’m willing to do this. Somehow I think it will benefit our cause.’

Daretor urged his mount forward with his heels, not daring to imitate the Kesparii whistling command.

‘The sooner we get this done and are gone the better,’ said Zimak. Hakat and QeSu, though more uncertain, agreed. Together they set off for the hill. Markul bade them farewell and wished them luck.

They crossed the burning sands to the foot of the hill. It was little more than a high mound, not unlike the burial cairns found in parts of Q’zar. There was no sign of an entrance.

‘Let’s take a look,’ Jelindel suggested. They skirted the base of the hill. Barely a third of the way around, Zimak called out.

‘What’s that?’ He pointed.

Halfway up the side of the mound was a dark cavity. A crude set of steps carved in the side of the slate hill led up to it. With a sense of gloom, Daretor led the way. Pausing at the entrance, he looked at the others.

‘Stay close,’ he said simply.

‘Gah, Daretor, afraid of the dark?’ said Zimak, swatting at an annoying insect.

‘After you,’ Daretor replied, stepping aside.

‘I guess I
am
the biggest,’ Zimak said. He brushed past Daretor and stepped forward. Immediately, he realised that he was not inside a cavern. Indeed, he was not even underground. Above burned the same Kesparii sky, only it was painted a greener hue. Also time seemed to move at a different pace – it was earlier in the day and the moons burned brighter. He gaped at the water lapping his feet. ‘Hie, Daretor, it’s not dark in here at all,’ he called, and then realised that the others had failed to appear behind him. ‘Daretor? Jelindel?’ Fear crept into his voice.

The foursome appeared behind him, seeming to step out of thin air.

‘About time,’ Zimak said, forcing a grin. ‘Take a look at this place, will you? All we have to do is cut a channel through the walls and the ocean can flood back out where it belongs. All that queen and dummart prophecy stuff was nothing but horse dung.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ Jelindel warned. ‘Sound travels far over water.’

They stood on the pinnacle of an island. In all directions, as far as the eye could see, moved a dark and restless ocean. Other islands broke the surface here and there, the shorelines marked by the white surf. Above their heads seagulls wheeled and cried, and fought each other for morsels.

‘We have stepped back in time,’ said Jelindel in wonder.

Zimak pointed. ‘There’s a light.’ They craned their heads and stared. A pearly glow rose behind a sharp ridge several hundred yards away.

‘I think we have to go there,’ Jelindel said, pursing her lips.

The way was not easy. The seabed was covered in razor-sharp rocks and jagged stones that could slice open a calf muscle or amputate toes through hard leather soles. As they waded through the shallows, Jelindel suspected that this was part of a test.

She exhorted everyone to hurry. QeSu slipped and caught herself by thrusting out her hand. A sharp stone sliced deep into the palm. She cried out and Hakat rushed to her side. Tears stood in QeSu’s eyes, but she did not complain. Jelindel took her hand and cast a spell. The wound closed over, though it remained tender.

It took them an hour to traverse the relatively small distance. When they finally reached the backlit ridge they gazed down into a natural bowl in the mountain side. The base was as smooth as glass and a milky opalescence filled the air. When they made their way into the bowl, the light gave the impression that they were deep beneath the ocean.

In the centre of the bowl was a raised dais with a stone sarcophagus, covered in strange hieroglyphs. Jelindel cautioned the others to remain behind her. Warily, she approached the coffin. Inside lay a naked woman whose bearing was regal and peaceful. Her dark hair was long and her milky white skin contrasted sharply with her full red lips. The others peered over Jelindel’s shoulder. Zimak seemed particularly spellbound.

Then several things happened at once.

QeSu cried out and pointed, turning swiftly about. In each of the four cardinal points of the compass a vista impressed itself on the air, as if projected onto the pearly glow. Each vista showed a vast battlefield boiling with combatants of every shape and size and kind imaginable. Terrible engines of war were being dragged and pushed through the endless ranks, and brought to bear upon the enemy. In the vista opposite the same engines could be seen from the opponents’ point of view. Similar vistas unfolded on the other two screens. It was as if two great battles were being fought and they could see each from both sides of the front line.

Before anyone could comment on the bizarre display, a warrior representing each of the armies appeared at the four cardinal points. Within seconds of gaining their new bearings, the warriors yelled ferociously and charged. At the same instant Jelindel’s hand flew to her mouth. A jagged gash opened on the belly of the naked queen, as if a sword stroke had sliced her. Queen Ortha screamed, but did not wake. Blood spurted from the wound. Without a doubt it was mortal and she would quickly die if not helped.

‘Stop them!’ Jelindel said, leaning into the sarcophagus.

The others grasped their weapons and rushed forward to meet the charging figures. Even QeSu, whose hand was still sore, joined in the fray. Daretor met his foe head on and dispatched him with a single stroke. Zimak similarly wasted little time, although he was fighting somewhat clumsier due to his excess weight. Hakat had more trouble but he also managed to deal with his opponent. QeSu flung her spear with all her might and skewered her attacker through the chest. She rushed forward and extracted it just as another figure charged her.

Three more warriors appeared and attacked Zimak, Daretor and Hakat.

Meanwhile, Jelindel used her magic to heal the deep gouge in the queen’s stomach. No sooner had she repaired the damage than another wound appeared in the queen’s chest, inches from her heart. No blade was visible, but the queen flinched and cried out in pain. Before Jelindel could even start healing the wound, two more appeared in the woman’s chest, one stabbing right through her left breast.

Jelindel muttered spell after spell and drew her hands over the wounds, sealing them, and reattaching the flesh by magical means. She wiped away the blood with the hem of her robe. All the while she felt her own life ebbing, as she transferred more and more of herself to heal the patient.

The others were battling a bizarre variety of warriors. As soon as one died another appeared, just as the deadly wounds in the body of the queen did not stop. Jelindel realised that each time one of her companions killed an attacker, the queen experienced the warrior’s death.

The conflict seemed endless, for time was not marked by the passage of any sun.

Zimak slashed down, felling his fifteenth victim. He realised that he had fought his way across the arena and was now facing his disoriented opponents the moment they appeared through their paraplane portal. He called out to the others and they followed his lead.

It was a long and wearying battle that often seemed to have no end; it instilled in each a weary despair. Hakat and QeSu had the hardest time, but Zimak’s ruse saved them. As time wore on, the gaps between the attackers lengthened, as if the defenders were somehow winning and getting time on their side. Oddly enough, the exhaustion was not really physical; if it had been they would have died earlier at the hands of a fresh attacker. It was their minds and souls that seemed to slow and stumble, and fill with hopelessness. They continued to fight on and win, though oftentimes by chance and good luck rather than skill. It was as if the fighting was a ritual, or ceremony. Although their new opponents were felled the instant they entered the arena, the defenders grew more weary as the battle lengthened.