Dragonsight Read online

  Table of Contents

  Unnamed

  Unnamed

  Unnamed

  Unnamed

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Paul Collins was born in England, raised in New Zealand and moved to Australia in 1972. In 1975 he launched Void, a science fiction magazine.

  In 1978, Paul moved from magazine to book publishing, with a series of original Australian science fiction and fantasy novels and anthologies. During this time he published Australia’s first heroic fantasy novels.

  He sold his first professional fantasy story in 1977 to the United States magazine Weirdbook. The best of his short stories have been collected in The Government in Exile (1994). A later collection, Stalking Midnight, was published by cosmos.com.

  His first fantasy novel for younger readers was The Wizard’s Torment. Paul then edited the young adult anthology Dream Weavers, Australia’s first heroic fantasy anthology. This was followed by Fantastic Worlds, and Tales from the Wasteland.

  Together with Michael Pryor, Paul is the co-editor of the highly successful fantasy series, The Quentaris Chronicles; he has also contributed to the series as an author. Paul’s recent works include The Jelindel Chronicles, The Earthborn War trilogy and The World of Grrym trilogy in collaboration with Danny Willis.

  Paul has been the recipient of several awards, notably the inaugural Peter McNamara, the Aurealis, and the William Atheling. He has been short-listed for many others, including the Aurealis and Ditmar awards.

  Paul served time in the commandos, has a black belt in both tae kwon do and ju jitsu, he was a kickboxer, and trained with the Los Angeles Hell Drivers.

  Visit him at www.paulcollins.com.au and www.quentaris.com

  Also by Paul Collins

  Dragonlinks

  Dragonfang

  Wardragon

  Swords of Quentaris

  Slaves of Quentaris

  Dragonlords of Quentaris

  Princess of Shadows

  The Forgotten Prince

  Vampires of Quentaris

  The Spell of Undoing

  The Slightly Skewed Life of Toby Chrysler

  Allira’s Gift (with Danny Willis)

  Lords of Quibbitt (with Danny Willis)

  Morgassa’s Folly (with Danny Willis)

  The Wizard’s Torment

  Cyberskin

  The Earthborn

  The Skyborn

  The Hiveborn

  Sneila

  Metaworlds (ed)

  Dream Weavers (ed)

  Fantastic Worlds (ed)

  The MUP Encyclopaedia of Australian Science Fiction and Fantasy (ed)

  BOOK THREE IN THE JELINDEL CHRONICLES

  Paul Collins

  To Catherine McMullen – #1 reader!

  Published by Ford Street Publishing, an imprint of Hybrid Publishers, PO Box 52, Ormond VIC 3204

  Melbourne Victoria Australia

  Text © Paul Collins 2005

  4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3

  This publication is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced by any process without prior written permission from the publisher. Requests and enquiries concerning reproduction should be addressed to Ford Street Publishing Pty Ltd

  2 Ford Street, Clifton Hill VIC 3068.

  Ford Street website: www.fordstreetpublishing.com

  First published 2005

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Author: Collins, Paul 1954–

  Title: Dragonsight / Paul Collins

  EISBN: 9781925000221

  ISBN: 9781921665073 (pbk.)

  Target Audience: Fantasy – Juvenile fiction

  Dewey Number: A823.3

  Cover design: Grant Gittus

  Map: Marc McBride

  Printed in Australia by

  McPherson’s Printing Group, Maryborough, Victoria

  Prologue

  The monk was deep in contemplation inside the cave mouth when the world began to change. At first the sound was far off, a rumble of distant thunder. Yet it was a vibration that seemed to emanate from the air and ground alike.

  The holy hermit stirred, sensing that something was wrong. He gazed about, blinking away all things otherworldly from his eyes. His meagre possessions – a sheepskin rug, a carrying bag, a pot, a kettle, a small sack of food, and his magical talisman – were where they should have been.

  He turned to look outside. What he saw made him scramble arthritically to his feet. He hurried to the ledge projecting from the mountainside and looked out over Dragonfrost: a vast plateau of crumbling rock and blasting sand storms in the Garrical Mountains. It was devoid of life, scoured clean by the howling winds that had blown unceasingly for thousands of years, eating away stone and rock like rivers of acid.

  A shadow had fallen across Dragonfrost, and from its depths a maelstrom was blowing, the beginnings of a vast, churning tornado. Inside the shadow a great rain of stones and boulders, some as big as houses, and twisting ropes of dirt, fell to earth. The ground erupted in a frenzy of explosions as the boulders rained down, forming craters in the plateau and throwing up enormous swathes of sand and pulverised rock.

  The hermit’s gaze shifted to the sky, searching among the ragged clouds for the source of the attack, but his eyes were rheumy with age. He squinted, trying to make out shapes that were neither cloud nor imagination.

  The sound that had awoken him increased to a throaty roar, as if some beast of unimaginable girth had awoken in the depths of the earth, seeking release. Then he glimpsed it. Something dark and irregular in the cloud-torn sky; the roar increased till it hurt the old hermit’s ears.

  When he saw the cause of the mayhem, he fell to his knees, awed. It filled the sky as far as the eye could see.

  Another world had come to Q’zar. Perhaps it was Reculemoon or Blanchmoon. Or maybe one of the planets, fallen from its lofty orbit, thrown afar by an angry god; perhaps this was the End of Time spoken of in the old myths. The Judgement. The Great Accounting.

  Still the other world fell slowly from the sky. The hermit scrambled for his talisman and muttered charms of ward and safety, and one or two of propitiation, just in case.

  The thunderclaps continued, as though mighty mountains were being ground together, or continents torn apart. The noise buried itself in the old man’s bones, threatening to shatter them. Indeed, the hermit’s teeth were chattering, but whether from the trembling ground or from fear, he could not tell.

  The falling world had reached the hermit’s eye level. He gazed in wonder at the ragged base, from which boulders and rocks and great torrents of dirt still poured like a tumultuous waterfall. In a moment that too had dropped beneath his high-flung eyrie. Next came vast walls of stone, rising for thousands of feet, before levelling off.

  Finally, the new world was lodged deep into the earth below him and he gazed down upon it in disbelief. From his lofty perch he could see it laid out, though the farther side – more than eighty miles away – was lost in a haze: the new world was a vast irregular ovoid, surrounded by sheer barrier mountains within which were many narrow winding canyons, leading towards a gigantic crater some fifty miles across. In the middle of the crater rose a single sharp pinnacle of dark basalt, easily five thousand feet high.

  Perched precariously atop the rocky finger was a forbidding castle, ringed by battlements and festooned with jutting towers and
keeps.

  The hermit frowned, squinting harder. Around the pinnacle, darting and weaving in the air like a swarm of gnats, were myriad creatures, little more than specks from where he stood. He decided that they looked like hundreds of tiny sparks of fire.

  The new world made contact with Q’zar. The sound was ear-shattering. Instantly, enormous dust clouds spurted into the air and rose up on all sides, cloaking it from view, before rushing outwards with thunderous ferocity.

  The hermit paled. He knew that when the walls of sand hit, anything in their path would be blasted out of existence. He stumbled into his cave, gathering handy possessions in haste.

  The cave led deeper into the mountain, and on through to the other side via narrow fissures. He knew he had to bury himself as deep as possible before the scouring sandstorm arrived; worse, he knew even as he shoved his pot and kettle in the sack that a wave of grit was rushing inexorably towards him, hurtling through the air like a tidal wave.

  In all, he had a few minutes. That was all. But he must live; he must carry the message to the world. He believed now that he had been chosen. He must warn the people of all lands that the ancient prophecy had come true.

  The dragons had returned to Q’zar.

  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.’