Dragonfang

by Paul Collins

  ‘That reminds me of something,’ Jelindel said, anxiously. ‘But finish your tale first.’

  Daretor shrugged off his unease. No one could have manifested as perfect a copy of Jelindel as this. ‘Some ancients regenerate their bodies when the old ones wear out. They decided that they wanted our bodies – outlanders are prized here. They were thwarted, but at a high price – for everyone except Zimak, at any rate. Two of the ancients are dead – a woman survived. Zimak is the monarch of these lands right now.’

  ‘King Zimak.’ Jelindel shook her head.

  Daretor scoffed at her confusion. ‘Are you telling me that you are not Queen Jelindel back on Q’zar?’

  Jelindel’s eyebrow rose.

  ‘The mailshirt,’ Daretor said. ‘Tell me you did not send us here so you could rule the world.’

  ‘I destroyed the mailshirt,’ Jelindel reiterated.

  ‘A likely story.’

  ‘But a true one,’ Jelindel said. ‘It had a dark life source. One that sought a surrogate to rule.’ She paused. ‘We don’t really have time for this right now.’

  He waved her away. ‘Look at me. I have my own troubles.’

  ‘Your own is a very unlikely story,’ Jelindel began.

  ‘I have proof that you could never refute,’ Daretor said as the picked up a tunic. ‘But first, what is involved in getting the three of us back to Q’zar?’

  ‘A simple procedure, involving a small, blue jewel. Once started it cannot be stopped, so make sure that you have whatever you want to take before I initiate it.’

  ‘Lies,’ he laughed, derisively. ‘We arrived here naked, only living bodies can be transported.’

  ‘After I stunned the two of you with the thundercast, I had you stripped to create that impression. It seemed like a good enough reason for why Zimak’s ring was absent. Under unusual circumstances, an undirected jump can singe your hair a little. Was your hair singed?’

  ‘It was, now that you mention it. I never … on second thought, perhaps there is sense in what you say,’ Daretor said as he buckled on his sword belt and picked up his helmet. ‘You arrived here with all your clothes on, after all. Why is your hair not singed?’

  ‘Because I did things properly.’

  ‘That tells me a lot.’

  ‘Well, do five years of schoolwork, plus a year specialising in Applied Enchantment and Creative Wizardry, and then come back and demand an explanation. Actually, do all that and you will not need to ask.’

  Daretor silently fumed. He wanted so much to believe in her. ‘All right, all right,’ he said dismissively, waving his hand. ‘You tend to the magic and I’ll swing the sword. When can we leave?’

  ‘Before we go anywhere, I need to know if you have told anyone Q’zar’s truename.’

  ‘No one will follow us back home, if that is what you’re worried about. So no, we kept that a secret – this much we learned from you.’ He collected his sword and strode to the door, flinging it open. He searched the corridor, then beckoned for her to follow.

  Jelindel suddenly began to have doubts. The man before her looked like Zimak, but talked like Daretor. No, that was not entirely true. He looked like a Zimak who had been exercising frantically in order to look like Daretor. There was limited scope for this, as Zimak was eighteen inches shorter than Daretor, yet Zimak had never bothered to work hard at building his muscles. Jelindel’s impressions of what was meant to be began to waver alarmingly.

  ‘Do you wish to see convincing proof that Zimak now lives in my body?’ asked the little man before her.

  ‘Well – I, yes. But if you are, indeed Daretor, then you know about the dragonlink that Zimak once wore –’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, I have a far worse fate planned for him now. But come, I wish you to meet someone.’

  ‘As in someone with Daretor’s body?’ asked Jelindel, suspiciously.

  ‘No, it is someone who has been getting very little attention from Daretor’s body for at least a week, if not longer.’

  At that instant the sphere between worlds collapsed with a loud blast, vanishing.

  Daretor stumbled backwards as the sound waves cracked the air. Jelindel tumbled to the ground and groaned. Lady Forturian had been wrong. The power of the drone gems lasted for only minutes, not hours. The full horror of this knowledge was quickly dawning on Jelindel.

  Daretor led Jelindel outside. A short distance along the corridor they found four guards checking the rooms.

  ‘Did you hear a clap of thunder just now?’ demanded a centurion. He looked dubiously at Jelindel, as did his men.

  ‘Indeed I did,’ said Daretor. ‘Out of a clear sky as well. That is a very bad sign.’

  ‘A bad sign?’ the centurion queried. His narrowed eyes didn’t leave Jelindel.

  ‘Thunder out of a clear sky means that a king is about to die,’ continued Daretor. ‘Leave off this searching now, and take us to the queen. This person with me is, ah …’ He stared at Jelindel, who was dressed as a sailor and did not look particularly female. ‘My friend here is a famous prophet who has an announcement for the ears of the queen and nobody else.’

  The centurion hesitated.

  ‘Move,’ Daretor said, striding forward. ‘Or have you forgotten that I am Prince Ulad’s personal guard?’

  The centurion’s face paled. He thumped his chest with a closed fist. ‘All right, men, to her Majesty’s chambers, at once.’

  Queen Premiel’s audience chamber was about what Jelindel expected: rich hangings on the walls, thick, richly patterned carpet on the floors, high, arched windows of leadlight and coloured glass, an elevated throne, and several massive trunks bound with iron. Premiel was sitting on the throne when Jelindel and Daretor entered. Light streamed in from the window behind her, and she was being fawned over by several handmaidens. Four guards were stationed around the room.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said when she saw Daretor. She sighed elaborately. ‘Can’t this wait? I have matters of state to consider before –’

  ‘I must have an audience with you, now,’ said Daretor, urgently. ‘Just you, me, and my prophet.’

  The queen closed her mouth slowly. The little man would pay for his impudence later. ‘Very well, the rest of you, out!’ she ordered. She clapped her hands to emphasise her authority.

  The doors boomed shut behind Jelindel, announcing that it was safe to talk. The queen descended from her throne. To Jelindel she looked like a strikingly attractive twenty year old. But her manner gave Jelindel pause for thought. The poise with which she carried her body spoke of total arrogance and confidence, traits that were usually learned over years.

  ‘Well, what orders does my King have for me now?’ Premiel asked, haughtily. ‘Surely he has not grown weary of that pile of naked slave girls that he wallows amid all day. The man’s simply insatiable.’

  ‘Some of them wear jewellery,’ said Daretor.

  ‘Indeed, and it is my jewellery,’ retorted the Queen.

  ‘And it can be yours again,’ Daretor said. ‘How would you like to be rid of your monarch and rule alone?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ The Queen looked from Daretor to Jelindel. ‘If you are trying to lure me into some assassination plot and betray me, then turn around and walk straight out again …’

  ‘Oh, nothing so crass,’ said Daretor. ‘Allow me to introduce Jaelin, an agent of the, ah, justice system from your new monarch’s homeland.’

  Daretor gestured to Jelindel who decided that a bow was appropriate for the occasion. She only gave a half bow, befitting a male’s subservience.

  ‘Justice system?’ asked the Queen, sneering at Jelindel. ‘He looks and smells more like a felon than a lawman.’ She waved away Daretor’s intended response. ‘It matters not. As for my brutish companion – is he something of a criminal?’

  ‘He is required to face punishment in our homeworld,’ said Jelindel, flatly. Her mind was trying to visualise Zimak in Daretor’s body, sprawling amid a mass of naked female flesh and oc
casional items of jewellery.

  ‘Well, you are welcome to try to extract him. But bear in mind that the palace guards have decided that he is the person from whom they will take their orders. Besides, I thought you were his loyal friend – the man he would never have leave his side?’ She laughed at some hidden joke.

  ‘Oh, no, I am a member of the same justice system that Jaelin represents. I am a mere minion, an agent of unimpressive magical powers. It was my job to stay near Zimak until Jaelin could catch up.’

  The Queen’s face lost its smile. ‘Such a devoted lawman you must be, to allow your body to be swapped with his.’

  ‘I would do anything in the cause of honour and justice. Now, I would like your help in getting Zimak into the temple and strapped into the double chair where souls are transferred. Before I leave here, I would like to be me again, in my rightful body.’

  ‘And do you think you can keep him sitting there for fifty years?’ asked the Queen.

  ‘I – what?’

  ‘The high priest, Modar, is dead. We had an arrangement with him, an arrangement that has lasted many centuries. He gets swapped into a younger body when we do, and in return he makes the magical processes work. They are very complex processes – in fact, he was forty by the time he made his original discovery, and ninety by the time he developed the skills to perform the very complex and difficult rites to make the lightning fish generate their purple fires. It will take an intelligent and promising novice fifty years to develop the skills to replace Modar. All of his notes are in that trunk.’

  The trunk she was pointing at hinted at a life time’s worth of reading material.

  ‘Fifty years,’ muttered Daretor between clenched teeth. ‘I’d not be surprised if that weasel Zimak planned his assassination. What will my body look like after fifty years of gluttony, debauchery, and lust?’

  ‘Unattractive, at best?’ suggested Jelindel.

  ‘And meantime the filthy swine gets fifty years of very pleasant living. It does seem like cutting off my nose to spite my face … but who needs a nose?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked Jelindel.

  ‘Your highness, Queen Premiel, would you be willing to part with a hundred gold crowns, and a dozen or so gems of passable worth in order to remove Zimak from the throne?’

  The Queen contemplated the offer. ‘Ah … it is a lot, but in exchange for a kingdom it is very little.’

  She went to a trunk, withdrew a ring of keys from her robes, and unlocked the heavy padlock. From within the trunk she scooped up a handful of gold coins. They were about the diameter of a fingernail, but were quite thick. Daretor opened his purse and held it out. She counted a hundred coins. The items of jewellery that he chose surprised the queen. They were relatively small and tasteful, and fitted into his purse easily.

  ‘What is wrong with the expensive pieces?’ she asked, ‘or are they too garish for your fine outlandish taste?’

  Daretor ignored the sarcasm. ‘I want to be able to dispose of them for a fair profit, but without drawing undue attention. I shall also want a cloak with a cowl for my associate here.’

  The Queen went to another trunk and took out a deep-black cloak, which had a bluish sheen about it. The hood did not hide Jelindel’s face, but its shadow made it impossible to recognise her features. Daretor stood back and regarded her with satisfaction, then turned to the Queen.

  ‘Now come with us, we have a King to remove.’

  Zimak was in one of the sun chambers on the other side of the palace, and the walk there took over ten minutes.

  ‘When the three of us, Jaelin, Zimak and myself are together, and in the clear, I want you to say a magical incantation,’ Daretor told the Queen as they walked.

  ‘You will have a royal time of it getting him clear of all those girls,’ she replied. ‘The man indulges the fantasies of a dozen men and still he is never satisfied.’

  Jelindel tightened her jaws and cheeks to dampen her smile.

  ‘You must say “Zarabastllim, tar psylertien”,’ said Daretor, ignoring her.

  ‘What do the words mean?’ the Queen asked, suspiciously.

  ‘Nothing, I just made them up.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘It will make you look like a potent sorceress, and nobody will challenge you when Zimak is gone. After that, you must slowly reform the slave economy in your realm, so that in ten years’ time it is abolished. At the end of that ten years, Jaelin and I shall come back and check on you. If you have not made substantial progress, at the very least, you will be magicked out of your bed one night and taken to our world for trial.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed the Queen. ‘Your laws are those of another realm. They cannot possibly hold sway here.’

  ‘And if you are within that realm, they will apply to you. Think about it. Freed slaves make good and loyal citizens, and fight a lot harder in defence of the kingdom.’

  ‘Ten years? I cannot do it!’

  Daretor stopped, holding up his purse. Jelindel and the Queen stopped, too. Daretor stared at the purse, then as though making up his mind, he thrust it forward. ‘Then we just might let Zimak reign here for a while longer. Take back your gold and baubles –’

  The Queen shook her head violently. ‘No. Keep it all. Just get rid of him. I shall do what I can.’

  Queen Premiel went ahead, leaving Daretor and Jelindel within hailing distance.

  ‘Daretor, I can’t do it,’ hissed Jelindel. ‘I can’t fetch her away in ten years. Travel between worlds is incredibly hard, and this one has a particularly high energy barrier.’

  ‘She does not need to know that,’ replied Daretor. ‘If the deceitful wench keeps even half of the bargain, our time here will have been worth it.’

  Jelindel smacked her head lightly. ‘What am I thinking of? It’s Daretor in Zimak’s body. Anything is possible.’ She shook her head to clear it.

  They waited. Heralds and stewards came out of a door at the far end of the corridor, and returned with guards, priests, and several royal advisors. Finally, a herald approached Daretor and Jelindel.

  ‘Centurion, you may now escort the prophet into the King’s chambers,’ he announced.

  They were shown into the sun chamber, which was bright, pleasantly warm, and fairly large. On a dais, a man appearing to be Daretor was lying on a pile of richly embroidered cushions. He was wearing only red silk trousers. The rest of him was uncovered – except for his lower abdominal muscles, that is, which were covered by a layer of fat. A girl was rubbing oil into his chest, while another held the pipe of a water cooler for him. Yet a third held a golden goblet of wine.

  Jelindel counted fifteen girls before she gave up counting. The place was otherwise spartan – Daretor having earlier dismissed most of Zimak’s guards.

  ‘That has to be Zimak,’ Jelindel said, laconically.

  ‘Ah, my noble centurion of the chamber guard,’ boomed Zimak with Daretor’s deep, powerful voice. ‘My Queen tells me that a prophet has arrived. Show him to me this minute.’

  ‘As you wish, your Majesty,’ replied Daretor, with a commanding gesture to the hooded Jelindel.

  They approached Zimak, and Jelindel bowed in a fawning manner.

  ‘Well, then, come on,’ Zimak said, impatiently. ‘Tell me of my future.’ He stretched out his hand to Jelindel.

  Jelindel grasped his hand and pretended to study the palm.

  ‘You will die in childbirth,’ she began. ‘Oh, sorry, that must be one of your companions. You want to lose weight without your breasts losing size – oh, my apologies. You are pregnant by the palace guard’s centurion, but you intend to blame it on … no, that cannot be you, your Majesty.’

  Eyes furious, Zimak shook off the girls around him and slowly rose to his feet. Even after an extended period of sumptuous living, the man’s body was impressive. He pushed himself up from the cushions.

  ‘Well, I am clear of the others now,’ he said. ‘See my future.’

  Jelindel held out h
er hand to him but he shied away out of reach.

  ‘You were not born of this kingdom, or even this world,’ she droned in monotone. ‘You have a finger which is short and crooked, the first phalange of the thumb is heavy, and the second phalange poor … the lower mounts are over-developed and your heart line is short and without branches.’

  The expectant hush continued until Zimak looked down at his hand. A smile creased his face. ‘Go on, O Wise One. What does all this mean?’

  Jelindel moved closer, staring intently at Zimak’s palm, which he held steady for her. ‘You are passionate, tyrannical, have no sense of honour or duty, and your selfishness is the ruling power of your life.’

  Zimak looked pointedly at Daretor. It was, after all, his palm. Zimak’s smile widened.

  ‘Ah. You will not die in this kingdom.’ Jelindel finally touched Zimak’s hand.

  Zimak blinked and stared at the hooded figure. He was clearly impressed. Was the prophet hinting at immortality? Would he live to be older than Ulad?

  Jelindel shrieked and tightened her grasp on Zimak’s hand. ‘A star. A star on the mound. There is a strong chance you will be killed in battle, or assassinated!’

  ‘Where will I die?’ Zimak demanded. It wasn’t too late to return to his own body.

  Jelindel looked up. ‘I cannot see clearly.’ She reached out further as though seeking a helping hand to mount the steps. ‘I must touch your other hand – it enhances the power.’

  ‘I caution against it,’ said Daretor, stepping up to the dais. But Zimak’s personal guard barred him from approaching.

  ‘You … have the most boring amorous life of anyone I have ever seen,’ announced Jelindel.

  Zimak instantly relaxed and roared with laughter. He was quickly joined by everyone in the chamber, except Daretor.

  ‘A true and accurate prophet indeed,’ said Zimak.

  ‘If this guard takes hold of your arm,’ Jelindel said, indicating Daretor, ‘I can see into your future through him,’ suggested Jelindel.

  ‘Well now, that seems safe enough,’ said Zimak. He made an imperious movement with his hand and his guards stepped back. He held out his brawny arm. Daretor gripped it tightly.