Dragonfang

by Paul Collins

  Still Zimak worried. He looked at Andrella. Her expressionless face, shadowed by the cowl, gave nothing away. At that moment he had never been so unsure of himself. ‘How will I get past the guards?’

  ‘There are no guards for the great chamber. Would anyone have a guard to stop people leaping into the flames when someone is being burned at the stake? Aiyee!’ she suddenly yelped, but gritted her teeth to quell a further outburst. Then forcibly she said, ‘Anyone standing on the floor of the chamber when the aura of purple lightning finally discharges will have his soul torn from his body.’

  Zimak glanced up the stairs. They seemed almost certain to lead him to his death. ‘Is that another way of saying he will die?’

  ‘You are so perceptive, Zimak,’ she said.

  Zimak forgave her the sarcasm, but it suddenly reminded him of Jelindel and her numerous deceits. The possibility that he was having second thoughts about his plan didn’t occur to him. He drew up, alarm tingling through him. ‘How do you know so much if you’re a princess from another kingdom?’

  Andrella didn’t falter. ‘Memory traces,’ she seethed. ‘I hate them. The Matriarch has killed many times in her bid for immortality. All the voices are inside my head, muffled by the Matriarch’s thoughts and memories, but nonetheless there. Screaming at me, tormenting me. Begging me to seek revenge on the demon that stole their lives.’ She snorted. ‘No surrogate lives past the month after transition – I do what I am about to do because I could not endure four weeks of these incessant voices. And Bazite will be avenged this day.’

  Zimak’s skin crawled at the iciness in her words. But, despite his reservations, he couldn’t stop now. Daretor had something he desperately wanted. And saving the swordsman was the only way he could get it.

  He escorted Andrella to a vast antechamber behind the columns of the temple. There were ranks of guards and priests standing silently, and before them was Modar, the high priest. He beckoned for who he thought was Zimak to approach. Andrella stepped forward, and Zimak marched smartly to one side, past a row of guards. He was almost behind a curtain when Modar pushed back the hood on Andrella’s head. A knife flashed in the Bazitian princess’s hand and slashed across the old priest’s throat.

  ‘For Bazite!’ she screamed.

  Modar gurgled blood and staggered backwards with Andrella upon him. Her knife plunged three more times into his chest before he hit the ground, gagging.

  With bedlam breaking out behind him, Zimak hurried along a corridor that Andrella had described to him. The distant sizzling and spitting, indicating that the transference was in progress, was now a continuous roar. Suddenly he emerged into the immense circular chamber lined with troughs of lightning fish. Purple discharges played all about the stone walls, troughs and dome, like luminous, animate tapestries. In the centre of the slate floor was the double chair, with Daretor and Prince Ulad strapped in back to back.

  Drawing his sword, Zimak sprinted across the floor as fast as his armour allowed.

  ‘Get out of here, you idiot!’ screamed Prince Ulad, as Zimak stopped before him.

  ‘Nine hundred years is more than enough for any demon!’ shouted Zimak as he plunged his sword into the prince’s chest. The man’s eyes bulged, uncomprehending.

  ‘Zimak, is that you?’ Daretor said. He struggled to turn his head, but it was held in place by a metal skull casing. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Sit still, I’ll have you free in a moment,’ Zimak replied, lifting the prince’s still twitching body from the straps. Prince Ulad’s body flopped to the floor.

  ‘What do you mean? We’re about to have a vision of Q’zar.’ Daretor kicked at his leg straps and writhed in the seat. ‘You’ve gone too far this time, Zimak.’

  ‘No, it’s a trick,’ replied Zimak, throwing off his helmet. Taking the prince’s place, he sat back-to-back with Daretor.

  ‘Why don’t you unstrap me?’ called Daretor. ‘We’ll talk about this. Man to man.’

  ‘The prince isn’t dead, he’s grabbed me,’ said Zimak, looking impassively at the prince’s dead body. He noisily strapped in one arm, and shook the cumbersome chair as though a fight were in full progress. Clutching the armrest with his free hand, he tensed, waiting for the pain Princess Andrella had described.

  ‘Zimak,’ Daretor snarled.

  Zimak felt himself wrenched around with unimaginable violence as a thunderclap echoed in his ears. Daretor and Zimak swooned. The entire scene before Zimak’s eyes turned to purple. He shook his head. He was sitting strapped to the chair and, as sight returned to his eyes, he saw that he was not wearing armour.

  ‘Daretor, can you hear me?’ he called. The crackling had stopped, and the smell of ozone hung heavy in the air.

  ‘My body,’ croaked Daretor in Zimak’s voice.

  ‘Hurry, unstrap me,’ snapped Zimak, urgently. ‘Put on that helmet and pull down the grille. You have to pretend that you are a guard.’

  ‘We’re – each other!’ cried Daretor. He stared at his impossibly small hands, his withered legs, trying to understand what had happened.

  ‘Snap out of it, Daretor. Any moment the guards and courtiers will be swarming in here and they will expect to find the prince in your body. Say nothing. I shall explain everything to them. You will be a hero.’

  ‘I’m already a hero,’ Daretor spluttered. ‘A famous hero –’

  ‘I can hear footsteps. You have one hand free, don’t you? Get beside me and start undoing these dummart straps.’ Zimak clasped the armrests and wriggled frantically.

  Daretor unstrapped his bound hand, ducked from the skullcap and climbed to his feet. His legs wobbled like jelly at first and he steadied himself against an armrest.

  ‘Hurry,’ Zimak called.

  Daretor felt his way around the dual chair and stared down at his former body. Then, uncertainly, at Prince Ulad’s corpse. How Zimak had managed this trick was beyond Daretor, but he had enough sense to do as he was told – for now. By the time the first of the guards, courtiers and nobles came running into the chamber, Zimak’s right arm was free and Daretor had covered his face with the helmet.

  ‘Prince Ulad,’ cried the temple centurion, not entirely sure who he was addressing. ‘You!’ he now shouted at Daretor. ‘What are you doing in here?’

  ‘Leave him alone, this guard saved my life,’ called Zimak, as Daretor unstrapped his left arm.

  ‘I – Your Majesty, I don’t understand,’ said the centurion, going down on one knee. He stared at Prince Ulad’s corpse.

  ‘Some idiot didn’t strap down my old body tightly enough. As soon as the transfer was completed this carrion slipped free of the straps and tried to strangle me.’ He kicked Ulad’s body. ‘The guard ran in and slew him.’

  ‘He did?’ the centurion said, doubtfully.

  ‘Don’t stand there gawping, man,’ Zimak snapped. ‘Do you doubt what I say?’

  The centurion’s face blanched. ‘He shall receive the highest medal of recommendation,’ he said. ‘And a promotion, of course.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Zimak said, waving away the centurion’s helping hand as he stepped out of the seat. ‘In fact, I want him in my personal guard from now on. Always by my side. You hear?’

  The centurion slapped his chest in salute. ‘I hear and obey, Your Majesty.’

  By now, Zimak was standing unaided. He stretched and felt Daretor’s strength flowing through him. ‘By all the gods I shall enjoy being in this body,’ he said with absolute sincerity.

  ‘Your Majesty, there has been a tragedy,’ the centurion went on. ‘The high priest Modar was killed by the Bazitian princess.’

  ‘Oh, indeed?’ exclaimed Zimak. ‘Well, take me to her.’

  ‘Alas, the little vixen was cut down by the guards before they realised who she was.’ The centurion glanced uncertainly at Daretor. ‘The warrior’s lackey, Zimak, has also escaped the dungeons. But we do not know where he is.’

  ‘Have him found, post a reward. Do a search of the city. Go.’ Zi
mak snapped Daretor’s fingers. ‘Chamberlain. Escort myself and this excellent guard back to the palace, then fetch my consort. I wish to have a completely private meeting with her, if you catch my meaning.’

  The chamberlain bowed deeply, but with the trace of a grin on his lips.

  ‘Your loyal guard seems fatigued,’ Chamberlain Cravek said to Zimak.

  ‘He has been in great danger. His soul was nearly torn from his body by the dying energies of the transfer.’

  ‘Ah, of course. Well then, he can rest as you and your consort are becoming better acquainted with your new bodies.’

  ‘He is in for a long rest in that case,’ laughed Zimak, to Daretor’s dismay.

  Daretor and Zimak were left alone in a large palace bedchamber while the royal consort was fetched. Zimak took off the clothes that he was wearing and changed into a pair of black silk trousers and a dark red singlet that showed off Daretor’s pectorals to great effect.

  ‘Prince Ulad was well prepared for his new body,’ he said, looking at Daretor with mirth in his eyes.

  ‘You did this on purpose,’ snarled Daretor. Raising the grille on his helmet, he glared at Zimak with Zimak’s own eyes.

  ‘I had no choice,’ Zimak replied. ‘The discharge of energies was about to happen. And if we had been running across the floor when that happened, our souls would have been torn from our bodies.’

  ‘They were torn from our bodies. And look where they ended up.’ Daretor grabbed Zimak by the arm and spun him around. He would have hit him, but not only was Zimak twice his size, he could never bring himself to hit his own body. White Quell, he would have that body back.

  Zimak easily shrugged off Daretor’s hand and returned his glare. ‘I mean unless we were right out of the chamber they would have been torn out and flung into the afterlife. The double chair was the only safe place,’ he said, dismissively.

  ‘It was worth trying to run,’ insisted Daretor. ‘Anything would have been better than being in this weasel’s body.’

  ‘Go easy,’ Zimak said. ‘If I were a girl I’d think you’re a handsome little devil –’

  ‘You really did do this deliberately!’ shouted Daretor.

  ‘You could think that, yes,’ conceded Zimak. ‘Just imagine: we could have run for it, and maybe escaped the chamber. The guards would have stopped us at once, and back in the chamber was the prince’s body and outside its doors the dead priest.’

  Daretor fought hard to control his temper. ‘Then tell me, why did you kill them?’

  ‘I only killed the prince. But, in answer to your question,’ Zimak said slowly, as though talking to a simpleton, ‘with your plan we would have been subdued, the priest would have stopped the buildup of energies, and you would have been taken right back for another try at transferring souls. This way I have the guise of the prince, you are safe, and soon we can find some excuse to have the temple set up for another transference of souls. I shall say, oh, that your body is too big and clumsy. As my loyal guard, you shall volunteer to swap me your wonderful little body. I shall still be treated as Prince Ulad, and all will be well.’

  Daretor lashed out and grabbed Zimak by his singlet. ‘This will never work. I hate being you.’

  ‘Gah, Daretor, unhand me.’ He waited for Daretor to release him, although he could have easily swatted his hand away. ‘Do you think I like being trapped inside your body any more than you want to be trapped in mine?’ He picked up a sweet cake and popped it into his mouth. He could eat and drink forever and still not satisfy this enormous frame. ‘Your body is strong, but it’s not fast. No, it’s not that much fun for me.’

  ‘Liar,’ Daretor spat. He glared at Zimak. ‘This is the body of a Lycellian snake-mouse, Zimak. A sleek little thing to be sure, but it has no power and no finesse. I want my body back.’

  Zimak winced. ‘Sit down, Daretor. You don’t know how foolish you look, standing there stamping your foot like an impudent child.’

  Daretor slumped into a chair. ‘These are a heartless people with no honour. There’s no telling how many innocent people have died by their hands.’

  ‘You’re exaggerating,’ Zimak argued lazily. ‘Besides, since when have you been shy of bloodshed? You fought alongside Longrical as a mercenary. Everyone knows that bloody Hamarian campaign took the lives of countless thousands. He started a civil war and slew his own Queen. Took to her head with an axe in public, from what I heard. It took five strikes. Very messy. Even the crowd was disgusted, and crowds usually like a rollicking execution.’

  ‘She was both a despot and a murderess,’ Daretor seethed. ‘Speak not of which you know little or nothing. We have been used by these people like pawns in a chess game. Now we have stepped off the board and made them our pawns.’ He stood up and leaned across the table. His hands were trembling. ‘You stepped off the board in my body, Zimak.’ He smashed his hand down upon a table.

  ‘Steady,’ Zimak said, lying down on a pile of huge cushions. ‘That’s my hand you’re knocking about.’

  Daretor let go of the hand he was nursing. ‘Mark my words, I intend to have my body back.’

  There was a soft knock at the door.

  ‘Enter!’ Zimak boomed with Daretor’s voice. He motioned Daretor to lower the grille on his helmet. ‘Quiet, now. This will be tricky.’

  The royal consort Premiel was shown in by Chamberlain Cravek. Zimak dismissed him, and Daretor pushed the doors shut.

  ‘My lord –’ began Premiel.

  ‘There is a little problem,’ said Zimak, getting lazily to his feet. He couldn’t help but stare in open admiration at Andrella’s statuesque body. A pity it now had the mind of a venomous snake.

  ‘I know, the Bazitian princess killed Modar, and was in turn slain. Now when a letter arrives from her family, we shall have nobody to advise us how to reply.’

  ‘Your husband is also dead,’ said Zimak.

  Premiel blinked. Zimak held her stare until she glanced over her shoulder at Daretor, who was standing guard at the doors, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. She returned her attention to Zimak.

  ‘I intend to replace Prince Ulad,’ said Zimak. ‘You will help me to reign in his stead.’

  Premiel folded her arms and skirted the table, placing herself as far away from Zimak and Daretor as she could. ‘If this is one of your foul tricks, Ulad, speak up now.’ She eased closer to a table knife. It was nothing more than a fruit carver, but she had become a deadly opponent over the centuries. And she was dying to try out her new body.

  Zimak followed her gaze. ‘Don’t even think about it, Premiel. Daretor would have you sliced in two before it left your hand.’

  ‘There appears to be nothing in this for me,’ she said, easing back from the knife. ‘I can reign by myself now. Guards!’ The doors burst open and six palace guards strode in. Premiel pointed at Daretor and Zimak. ‘Kill these imposters.’

  The guards hesitated, but drew their weapons. Zimak folded his arms. Daretor drew his sword. One of the guards advanced on Zimak and Daretor stepped between them. The guard lunged at Daretor who parried, then swung up at the guard’s face. He parried too, stepping back and batting hard at Daretor’s blade, nearly knocking it out of his hand. Three other guards began to circle them. Zimak picked up a heavy brass stand. It was five feet long. He swung it at the two guards who were rushing him. It smashed aside their swords, thudded into their armour, and lifted them from the ground.

  Daretor closed with his opponent, swung him around and into the blade of the fourth guard. Dropping the body, he faced the remaining guard who backed away.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ bellowed Premiel. ‘Attack! Fetch more guards.’ She lunged for the table knife and Zimak struck down at her hand, pinning it to the table.

  Zimak waved his free hand in the air and laughed. ‘There, there, my dear, all went as planned.’ He gave an exaggerated wink.

  Everyone stood still.

  ‘Those two are loyal,’ said Daretor, quickly catching on
and gesturing to the two guards who had not moved.

  ‘You who attacked,’ said Zimak. ‘Consider yourselves slaves, and lucky to be alive.’ He waved at the bleeding guard at Daretor’s feet with the brass stand. ‘Except for you, of course, you will need rather a lot of sewing back together before you go anywhere.’

  ‘That was just a test of our loyalty?’ asked one of the guards, standing near the open doors.

  ‘Very perceptive of you,’ said Zimak, turning to Premiel. ‘Very good act, my dear, you could have been in theatre. Never too late, of course.’

  Premiel looked about in confusion, her mouth hanging open. She nodded, then remembered to close her mouth.

  ‘Escort these not entirely reliable folk to the shift captain, but confiscate their weapons first,’ said Daretor.

  The guards looked nervously at Zimak.

  ‘He is the most trusted guard of my inner chamber,’ Zimak declared. ‘Obey him as you would obey me. Now go. Drag that out with you and close the door as you go.’

  The guards withdrew, dragging the wounded guard with them and leaving a trail of blood. They closed the doors behind them.

  ‘You appear to have won,’ said Premiel, her shoulders sagging. ‘What do you want to do with me?’

  ‘Oh, reign with you at my side and in my bed – with your willing consent, of course. Lady Premiel, your former husband was to have lived in this body, and lived with you. What would be so very different about living with me?’

  Premiel arched her eyebrows. ‘Ulad had the mind of an old man,’ she declared. ‘The prospect of life with you appeals … I feel younger already.’

  ‘You ought to, you have stolen the body of an eighteen-year-old princess,’ said Daretor, sourly.

  Premiel sneered at Daretor. ‘Who is this little man?’ she asked Zimak.

  ‘Daretor, in Zimak’s body,’ said Daretor, raising the grille on his helmet, and giving an angry flourish.

  Premiel stared at him for a moment, a smile spreading over her face. She began to laugh, pointing from Daretor to Zimak, and back again.