Dragonlinks

by Paul Collins

  Daretor suddenly broke away and stamped to the edge of the ravine. Peering down, he spat at the body of the linkrider far below.

  ‘I once had skills that I’d gained honourably,’ he shouted furiously into the echoing gap, ‘but one such as you robbed me of them!’

  Zimak stood regretting his words while Jelindel shook the mailshirt on over her head again. Some instinct warned her not to mention that the mailshirt had not been needed for her to return to herself. This way she had a good excuse to wear the mailshirt most of the time, and she was anxious to discreetly explore its properties.

  Jelindel now went to the edge and looked down. She saw the smashed bodies of the linkrider and eagle on an outcropping several hundred feet below.

  ‘All our ropes together could not reach that far,’ said Daretor.

  ‘The skin is flayed from my feet by those rocks, and my arm stopped his knife,’ said Zimak, unprompted.

  ‘I fought off a lion last night,’ Daretor added. Then they both turned to Jelindel.

  ‘Me? Go down there?’ bleated Jelindel. ‘I’ve been hours exploring a paraplane. I’m exhausted. Do you think it’s easy for me, floundering about in all that sparkle and nothingness?’

  They both continued to stare at her.

  ‘All right, then, I’ll go,’ she said finally, bending over to shake off the heavy mailshirt.

  Jelindel slowly edged her way obliquely towards the linkrider’s body. She had had to walk a mile along the edge of the ravine until she could find a shallower incline. Daretor went part of the way with her, but most of the seven-hour approach had to be made alone. Zimak’s encouragement echoed from hundreds of feet above.

  The linkrider’s body had been smashed into a madly contorted shape by the hard, jagged rocks, and feathers from the dead eagle were scattered all around. Blood that had trickled from the linkrider’s mouth was now dry and black, and flies buzzed about lethargically in the cold, thin air. He was wearing the link on the outer finger of his right hand, which was still wrapped around the legs of the eagle. He had been a man in his forties, and his well tanned and lined face suggested a lifetime spent mostly outdoors.

  Jelindel made several attempts to touch the dead skin. Help was far away, and she could not be sure that he would not somehow come back to life.

  When she finally did touch the linkrider’s hand, annoyance soon replaced revulsion. His death-grip was as firm as a smithy’s vice, and she had to work the finger free with her knife. The link came off easily after that, and she tied it to her belt with a piece of thonging. The revulsion returned when she began to search his body for anything else of value.

  Jelindel cut through the body’s robes rather than trying to remove them. There was a purse which she untied and tossed aside, but she found nothing else in the way of crests or papers to identify the linkrider. He had been handsome before falling three hundred feet onto the rocks, and was dressed well and stylishly as a lay pilgrim. His belt seemed to be of soft kid leather, but was wide and thick – too thick. She drew the point of her knife along it and peeled the leather back to reveal a calf leather spine and several strips of folded parchment.

  The writing was in Hamarian, but the style of the script was more like that of Hamatriol or Gratz. Jelindel began to read, and did not notice the time passing until Zimak began calling again.

  ‘Jaelin, are you all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you get the link?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he have any money?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Didn’t count it.’

  ‘Jaelin, what the frickash are you doing down there?’

  ‘Reading.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Well, the bloody library is going to close in half an hour when the sun sets,’ Zimak eventually shouted. ‘Start back now or you’ll be doing the climb by Blanchemoon’s light and with frost on the rocks.’

  She started back, taking the purse and parchments but leaving the linkrider’s body where it had fallen. The path was now more familiar, but sunset soon removed that advantage. Jelindel was drained of energy by her hours in the paraplane, and searching the linkrider’s body had been a harrowing experience. She stumbled continually, cutting her hands every time she fell against rocks made sharp by frost shatter.

  Zimak walked along a path above, keeping her distant company.

  The link was glowing brightly from the mailshirt that Zimak carried, and the orange glow helped to cast light on handholds shadowed by Blanchemoon.

  At last Jelindel reached a place where the top was only sixty feet away and Zimak called for her to stop: Daretor had found their horses nearby, where the linkrider had tied them. Now he was splicing together a length of rope.

  Jelindel spent an hour in cold but welcome rest on the rocks. Finally Daretor lowered the end of his rope to Jelindel, who tied it beneath her arms and allowed herself to be raised by one of the horses.

  Zimak had a brushwood fire going by the time she came over the final ledge. She gladly huddled up close to the flames.

  ‘Well, what did you get?’ asked Zimak.

  ‘The link, as you see, and some fascinating parchments –’

  ‘You said he had money.’

  ‘Ah yes. I’ve not opened the purse yet.’

  ‘What? You’re mad! Give it here.’

  As Jelindel handed the heavy purse to Zimak she thought she felt something squirm within the soft leather. But her hands were numb and lacerated from the long climb back and her mind was as chilled and lethargic as her body.

  Zimak fumbled with the drawstrings. There were coins in the purse, so it could not squirm unless –

  ‘Zimak! Drop that!’ Jelindel screamed as he loosed the drawstrings.

  ‘What? You’ll get your share –’

  She spoke a word of binding and blue coils flashed from her mouth to bind Zimak’s hands about the purse. They also bound a long, reptilian head and neck covered in fur, whose needle-sharp fangs hovered just above Zimak’s fingers.

  Jelindel collapsed, a large portion of her already depleted life-force having poured into the coils.

  ‘Jaelin, what the hell is that?’ bellowed Zimak, frantically trying to pull his hands free.

  Daretor came running over, and held Zimak down while he peered at the strange animal.

  ‘A jh’arat, a Lycellian snake-mouse,’ he declared. ‘Warm blooded but venomous and quite intelligent. They are left in purses by some folk to make sure that no thief does any thievery. Death is within minutes.’

  ‘Get it away from me.’

  ‘Jaelin saved your life with his coils, but he also bound the jh’arat to you for many hours to come.’

  ‘Hours? I can’t stay like this for hours. What happens when the coils vanish?’

  ‘We’ll make sure the jh’arat is dead by then. There’s a meltwater stream back yonder. We can drown it for you.’

  Jelindel dozed by the fire while they were gone, and by the time she woke it had become no more than dying coals. The return of her life-force was what had jolted her awake. She sat up and stoked the fire, sending a cloud of red sparks up into the cold night air.

  Footsteps were crunching towards her in the distance, and Daretor and Zimak soon came into sight. Zimak was rubbing his hands together, while Daretor was holding a purse in one hand and something that looked like a yard of thin cord in the other.

  While Zimak warmed his completely numb hands in warm ashes and sand, Daretor and Jelindel examined the jh’arat. It had scales on its belly, but very fine fur elsewhere.

  ‘Had I opened this on the cliff face, it might have bitten me before I could speak a word of binding,’ said Jelindel.

  ‘So?’ Zimak said tersely.

  ‘So too much interest in money might have killed me, as it nearly killed you.’

  ‘We all make mistakes,’ Zimak said hotly. ‘Daretor made one when he threw those tools into the river. He must
have known that the dragonlink needs to be joined into the mailshirt before it will stop glowing. Can we do it? Oh ho, no! We have no tools to split the link or re-join it. How do we tell if another link is nearby if the mailshirt is blazing bright orange every minute of the day? Meantime any other linkrider will see his ring glowing when we approach. We’re blinded, don’t you see?’

  ‘These parchments will help,’ said Jelindel. ‘The linkrider had plans to collect together all the links after he stole the mailshirt. He names the Passendof capital, Dremari, and a place called the Valley of Clouds as having other linkriders. He must have been loitering near Fa’red’s house, studying it for weaknesses when Thull and Daretor did the job for him. It took him a few days to find our trail, but he managed.’

  Jelindel waved the parchment for emphasis. ‘His notes mention that each of us has a price of 1000 silver argents on our heads back in Skelt. Apparently we’ve caused a dozen deaths and committed two acts of arson in D’loom.’

  ‘You mean I’m worth 1000 argents?’ breathed Zimak, genuinely flattered.

  ‘Dead or alive, but preferably dead,’ replied Jelindel, pointing to the relevant part of the parchment. ‘We’re officially safe here in Baltoria, but bounty stalkers will be after us and they know no laws.’

  ‘Meantime we need tools to join in the link,’ grumbled Zimak. ‘Every smithy in the entire east half of the continent will have watchers on the alert for three youths trying to get stray links joined into an antique mailshirt.’

  ‘We can keep it muffled under your sheepskin coat,’ said Daretor to Jelindel. ‘Slowly we’ll buy tools, but until they are all assembled we must keep the link and mailshirt safe while looking for the next link.’

  Chapter

  12

  It took five weeks for the trio to reach the part of the Passendof Mountains where their first destination was to be found.

  The craggy peaks and plunging rockfaces were daunting to look at, but the trail was clearly defined and well maintained. Although they probably travelled five miles for every one that a bird would fly, at least the trail was free of bandits and customs posts. As always, the main problem for Jelindel and Zimak was the cold after a lifetime of subtropical D’loom.

  As they approached the pass that was the entrance to the Valley of Clouds, Jelindel stopped and dismounted. She climbed a short way up a rock face and began chipping at the soft sandstone with a knife. After some minutes she came back down with some shells and brown, triangular things.

  ‘What are those?’ asked Daretor.

  ‘Sea shells and shark teeth.’

  ‘What? Up here?’ laughed Zimak. ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘So what are these?’

  ‘Ah, magical amulets, seeded to grow in the rock by some master Adept?’

  Jelindel laughed and packed the shells and teeth into her saddlebags, then mounted again. ‘This place was once under the sea. Perhaps it was raised up as some other continent was drowned.’

  ‘What of it?’ snorted Zimak. ‘Who cares?’

  ‘I care,’ Jelindel retorted. ‘It’s interesting.’

  They entered the pass. Part way along was a skull the size of a peasant’s cottage. The back was still embedded in the sandstone, but the jaws were a little open and displaying teeth the size of a shortsword. Initials and messages were carved into most of the surface by generations of travellers.

  ‘So, a real dragon,’ said Daretor. ‘I’ve always thought that they existed.’

  ‘They’re real,’ replied Jelindel; ‘it’s just that they don’t come as big as this one any more. This thing was alive when all this land was below water. Perhaps something killed it as it flew over that ancient sea.’

  ‘Something killed that?’ exclaimed Zimak.

  ‘There are toothmarks down the side of the skull – can you see them there?’

  Zimak certainly could. ‘Maybe it was a huge sea serpent,’ he said with relief. ‘I’m glad that these all lived long ago.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t believe that this land was once covered in water,’ said Daretor. ‘By your reasoning, dragons might still live hereabouts.’

  Zimak glanced about with renewed unease. ‘Jaelin, do they still live here?’

  ‘Smaller dragons do, yes. They sleep disguised as mountain peaks. Have you seen any likely ones?’

  Zimak paid a lot more attention to the mountains after that, so much so that he was looking up as they came upon the first magnificent view of the Valley of Clouds. It was spread out before them like a great beast of mist stirring languidly in its sleep but not quite waking.

  ‘There’s something strange about this,’ began Zimak.

  ‘There’s been something strange about nearly everything you’ve come across since leaving D’loom,’ sighed Jelindel.

  ‘Aye, but this place is stranger, and I don’t like it.’

  ‘You didn’t like the estuary’s floating hamlets, the edge of Dragonfrost Plain or Chasmgyle Gorge and you probably don’t like my experiments with magic, either. For all that, you’re still alive.’

  Bare rock gave way to tough, stubborn spear grass, and the air warmed from near freezing to something like a cool, misty morning in the tropics. The unnatural hush was evident at once, as if birds, sheep and insects had never known this place. There was no wind to disturb the dew-beaded spear grass.

  ‘It’s like those beautiful misty mornings in D’loom,’ said Jelindel as they rode.

  ‘It’s early afternoon,’ replied Zimak nervously.

  Their horses seemed to share Zimak’s unease, and they whickered nervously as they walked. The place gave the odd impression of being bleak but fertile, for they were soon among low trees and could see sheep grazing on a cover of soft, damp grass.

  Jelindel took a scroll from her robes and unrolled it as she rode. It was a guide for merchants and pilgrims, one of several that she had bought for a few coppers near Chasm -gyle, and would sell again when they left the region.

  ‘“The Valley of Clouds is a fertile place deep in the Passendof Mountains”,’ Jelindel read. ‘“The mists that shroud it for 415 of the year’s 420 days are not at all deep, although quite dense. Thus it is a warm, damp, but fertile place, where sheep and cattle graze on the rich grasses, to produce fine hides, wool, cured meat and cheese. There is one easy entrance at the north-eastern end, and a more difficult trail at the other where wagons may not easily pass. There is a large town named Fontimark at the centre, and some smaller hamlets. It is governed by a Federation of Squires, and defended by a militia of pikemen and archers”.’

  A squat stone structure seemed to coalesce out of the mist before them, and Jelindel translated ‘Fontimark Federation of Squires’ on the signpost before it.

  Two guards in damp, rusty armour walked out to meet them, and Jelindel dismounted to speak with them. Their dialect was thick but discernible Baltorian, and she presently established that an access-and-grazing permit could be bought for thirty coppers if she also bribed them with two Skeltian argents.

  She returned to her horse with the three tokens while the guards creaked their way back to the stone wallfort. The gates squealed open and they rode through.

  ‘Easily defensible,’ remarked Daretor. ‘A wall and a fort here, and the mountains take care of the rest.’

  ‘Effective as a trap, too,’ Zimak pointed out.

  The valley was quite a contrast to the dry, cold mountains of the weeks past, and they soon stopped to graze their horses. The place was a fertile but ghostly arcadia.

  ‘Few people visit this place,’ said Jelindel. ‘The geographer back at Almeriy was not even sure if the place really existed. I had to check his books myself. The place supplies the remote mountain garrisons and mines in this area, and has its own mule caravans.’

  ‘If few people have heard of it, maybe it’s because they don’t let travellers out once they are within the gates,’ Zimak speculated.

  ‘More likely it is that nobody has a reason to visit this place,
’ Daretor guessed. ‘If they take their produce to the markets then nobody needs to come here.’

  ‘What’s that?’ gasped Zimak.

  ‘A cow,’ replied Daretor.

  ‘It has four horns!’

  ‘Some cows have four horns, some goats even have six,’ Jelindel said impatiently.

  ‘You ever seen ’em?’

  ‘I read about them in the Beastiarium Univocar.’

  Zimak continued to sulk. ‘We might as well close our eyes as we ride in here,’ he complained. ‘Remember, the mailshirt glows continually for us because our link has not been bound in, yet the linkrider in this place will see his own link begin to glow as we approach.’ He turned to Daretor. ‘If you hadn’t tossed Jabez Thull’s forge tools into the Marisa River, we’d not be at this disadvantage.’

  ‘We’re not entirely defenceless,’ Jelindel countered. ‘Daretor, ride beside me and reach over to hold me up. I’m going to send my vision to a paraplane.’

  She spoke a word that made her body go limp in the saddle, but Daretor held her upright by the arm.

  The glow of enchantment nodes sparkled all around her, but they were concentrated in the town ahead.

  ‘There’s a lot of protection and guard spells here,’ she reported. ‘It’s strong and well-maintained magic, but very little else. There are fertility and medical charms only here and there. There is no evidence of any aggressive spells, though. I can see one really well-defended place. It’s quite prominent.

  ‘Out in the fields there are charms scattered almost at random. Perhaps even the cattle are protected. I can see the mailshirt and the loose link in my pouch but nothing in the town – no, it’s there!’

  ‘A dragonlink?’ cried Daretor.

  ‘Yes, I’m certain of it. Magical nodes stand out distinctly, but the links are not quite magical. They appear as a sort of distortion in the blackness. It’s a feeling, rather than something you can see. My touch as well as my sight can project a long way on this paraplane.’

  She came back to herself, and rode unsteadily for a while as her senses readjusted to where they really were.