by Paul Collins
Daretor parried the swing of the first man’s sword with his length of wood and drove his elbow into his face.
Zimak skipped back from his opponent, hands spread and open to show he had no weapons. The warrior lunged and missed as Zimak executed a step-dodge then brought his heel around in a spinning back kick that landed on the man’s hairy jaw. Zimak’s sprained ankle stung with the impact, but not beyond bearing.
Daretor and Zimak stood over their defeated opponents, staring at each other.
‘Good work,’ panted Daretor. ‘We make a better team of two than three, do you not think so?’
Zimak suddenly realised that he had just fought with skills that he had acquired through his disguised dragon -link – yet the link was gone! How? Perhaps the skills of the dragonlink were threaded into his body when it was magicked into the paraworld, leaving the link behind. Yes, the skills of the link could only be lost if it were taken off, but he never actually took it off. Whatever the case, his secret was safe from Daretor forever.
‘We ought to dress as these two,’ Zimak suggested. ‘They seem to be the victors.’
He began to remove the weapons and clothing from the man that he had kicked. The clothing was too large, but it would have to do. Daretor examined the other.
‘Pah! This one has been drinking,’ he said.
‘Mine too. There’s a big revel somewhere close, by what I can hear.’
When they had changed clothes again they climbed a low wall and surveyed the area. Off to one side were the remains of an angular, precisely laid out garden, and within it a crowd of barbarians was gathered around a bonfire.
Three or four women were amid the crowd, but from their cries and screams it was obvious that they were not willing companions of the hairy revellers.
‘Now what?’ asked Zimak.
Daretor did not reply. He just stared out at the revellers around the bonfire.
‘Daretor, you couldn’t be thinking of us two attacking those yahas, could you? There must be a dozen of them, maybe fifteen.’
‘Maybe more,’ echoed Daretor. ‘Remember the trouble we had from the last girl that we fell in with?’
‘These are helpless, and in need,’ rumbled Daretor. ‘This is what I understand, this is a matter of honour.’
Zimak looked down at the blade he had taken from his vanquished opponent. The design was functional yet unlike anything he had ever seen. This is the end, this is the beginning, a voice kept saying in his mind.
Many worlds away Jelindel sat against the village shrinestone steps in the late afternoon sun, watching the villagers try to restore the celebration of the wedding day. They were avoiding her now, confused and fearful of the girl who had destroyed the mighty dragon that had threatened to annihilate their village, yet who had shot her own companions. Even the bodies of the two youths had been enchanted out of existence by her.
To even begin to explain the reason behind her actions was more than Jelindel dared to tell them. There was a curse on the mailshirt, she told them instead, and it had to be destroyed now that it was complete.
Kelricka walked across, climbed the steps and sat down beside her.
‘Damn, but I’m going to miss them, Kelricka,’ Jelindel sighed. ‘I’ll miss Daretor blustering about his honour and wooing skill back into his swordwork as if it were an angry mistress. I’ll even miss Zimak putting on his all-comers’ challenges at every village and showing off to the girls, then confiding his fears to me as we counted the winnings later.’
‘How did you know about Zimak having a dragonlink?’ asked Kelricka as she squeezed her hand.
‘I listen a great deal. In D’loom the stallholders in the marketplace told me that they were amazed how Zimak had been transformed from a cowering boy to king of the market gangs almost overnight.
‘The great master of Siluvian kick-fist, Mir-gish, even unofficially rated Zimak at black band twelve when he visited D’loom. I was there and I spoke to him. Nobody under the age of fifty has ever achieved that ranking.’
‘So, you became suspicious?’
‘More than suspicious, but I kept my thoughts to myself. We all have our secrets, myself especially, so I decided that Zimak would probably tell me when he was ready. When I learned more about the powers of the dragon links I drew the obvious conclusion. His ring was lead but it was big enough to cover a dragonlink on the inside. The lead smothered its aura while allowing his finger to be in contact with it. Flesh also smothers the aura. That’s why he could be so close with the link yet go undetected.’
The priestess looked down at the mailshirt as it lay across the steps. It was now all silvery gleaming highlights with tiny stars of colours. Gemoti made ready some improvised tools and began to put the last links into the mailshirt that very afternoon. Jelindel watched carefully as Korok’s link was split, heated, flattened, heated, looped in and hammered closed again. The mailshirt ceased to glow, then Jelindel opened the locket where she had been keeping Zimak’s link and the glow blazed up again.
Gemoti split the last link and heated it. As he tapped the ends flat Jelindel unfolded her arms and held out her hand for his tongs.
‘I would like to do the last link,’ she said firmly. ‘Alone.’
‘Meanin’ no disrespect, but, ah, do you know how to?’
‘If my skill is not equal to the task, I shall call you back.’
Gemoti and Kelricka left, and Jelindel worked slowly and clumsily at the forge and anvil. After a full half hour she finally called the priestess back in but told Gemoti to remain outside. She had laid the mailshirt out on a bench, and it was no longer glowing.
‘At last, it is complete,’ said Jelindel. ‘How do we dispose of it?’
‘Oh no, you must wear it,’ said Kelricka as if any other suggestion was offensive.
Jelindel had been standing back with her hands on her hips, admiring her handiwork. At Kelricka’s words her arms flopped down and she turned, staring, her eyes wide.
‘What? Are you seriously suggesting that I should put that thing on?’ exclaimed Jelindel. ‘I mean it’s like a loaded crossbow now. It’s not just a mailshirt. It’s dangerous.’
The priestess just nodded solemnly.
‘Why me?’ asked Jelindel.
‘You had the power to seize Korok’s dragon machine and become ruler of more kingdoms and people than I could imagine, yet you chose to destroy it.’
‘The dragon craft could indeed do everything that he promised me, but I could barely comprehend such power, much less use it wisely. It is the same with this thing, only worse.’
‘And that is why only you can wear the mailshirt. Put it on, Jelindel. It is a tool as well as a weapon. It’s complete now, and you will be able to learn all its secrets. Tell us why folk have sought after this thing and its links for so long. It can’t be just for the gaining of specialised skills from people who wear it.’
Jelindel picked up the cold, shimmering metal fabric. Somehow it now felt far, far heavier.
‘I can tell you without putting it on,’ she said. ‘I have done a lot of study over the year past. The Book of Wars holds the teachings of Hawtarnas, who was reputed to have green blood and was probably of the same race as Korok. He wrote “The wardragon dwells in fabric that calls to itself!”’
‘Fabric that calls to itself!’ exclaimed Kelricka. ‘The dragonlinks that are the fabric of the mailshirt. Yet what did he mean by wardragon?’
‘The skills and powers that this thing offers are almost without limit, and can awake the wardragon that dwells in all of us. It would give me the power to set the world right, but that would be “right” as I, Jelindel, think it. What a boring world that would be.’
Kelricka laughed. ‘Oh Jelindel, put it on. Power can corrupt, but it does so slowly. Think of all that you can learn.’
Slowly Jelindel raised the heavy mailshirt. This was knowledge, and thus it was her price. She knew now that she had her price, just as her brother Lutiar – at the thought of Lutiar h
er body convulsed, and the mailshirt fell to her feet.
‘Jelindel! Are you all right?’ gasped Kelricka.
‘Yes – actually, no. The events of this day have been a terrible strain and I feel weak, far too weak to wear the mailshirt just now. You could try wearing it, however.’
Jelindel was stooped and haggard, and so her words were quite convincing.
‘Me? Kelricka’s face betrayed shock, even though she smiled. ‘What sort of joke is that?’
‘You want to tap its knowledge for the sake of scholarship, and you are a far better scholar than me.’
‘I do not have your strength,’ Kelricka replied, staring down at the pile of shining links.
‘If anyone is drained of strength just now it is I,’ replied Jelindel. ‘Besides, I have a feeling that strength is not necessary. Pick it up, and put it on. Come now, quickly, before your fears bind your hands. Come, I’ll help. Sit on the bench and raise your arms.’
Jelindel stood behind Kelricka and held the mailshirt up over her arms. There was a definite change in the feel of the thing as she lowered it; some quality was present that had not been there before the last link had been added.
‘Just sit there while I straighten it and pull your hair free,’ Jelindel said, looping a length of thonging through a link and letting it dangle. She then stepped over the bench and walked around in front of Kelricka. ‘How does it feel?’
Kelricka did not reply at once, but just sat with her hands in her lap. The mailshirt took on a faint violet shimmer. In a way it seemed to be moving, or winking in and out of existence very rapidly. After what were in fact seconds but seemed like hours, she raised her right hand to her face, spread her fingers, rotated her hand, then made a fist and returned it to her lap.
Kelricka tried to speak. Her lips parted and she made a sound between a grunt and a snarl. Her jaw worked, and she began slowly speaking strings of unfamiliar, alien words. Lastly she made as if to stand, teetered for a moment, then sat back down heavily.
She moved her head a trifle and stared at Jelindel.
‘Walking always takes longest,’ said Kelricka. With each word the tone of her voice dropped deeper.
‘Kelricka, what is the matter?’ Jelindel asked, taking a step forward. Kelricka’s hand came up, its palm facing Jelindel.
‘The host body is satisfactory,’ said a commanding voice at least two octaves deeper than Kelricka’s. ‘Who are you?’
Jelindel swallowed, trying to comprehend what sat before her. ‘I am, ah, the Custodian of the Mailshirt,’ she improvised quickly. ‘I … chose your host.’
‘You chose well, Custodian. The mind of a scholar is far more deadly than the brawn of a warrior. Stand back and wait now, while I optimise my control of the host body.’
The truth now shone luridly bright in Jelindel’s mind. The wardragon was not just some scholarly allegory for the temptations of power, it was a real being, a spirit that lived within the mailshirt itself. Only when the thing was complete to the very last link could the wardragon awake and seize control of the body of the wearer, however.
Jelindel watched Kelricka’s arms and legs move under the direction of the wardragon as it accustomised itself to her. It moved her head up and down, turned it to one side as far as it would go, then – Jelindel darted forward.
‘Stop!’ boomed the wardragon, snapping Kelricka’s head around. ‘I ordered you to stay clear.’
Now Jelindel hurriedly drew the thundercast and pointed it squarely at the centre of the priestess’s chest. Kelricka’s lips parted for a booming laugh.
‘Interesting. A remote singularity GVG, as grown by the Gh’viv hatchery. How has it come to be in such an obviously backward world?’
‘No questions, just sit still!’ snapped Jelindel.
The thundercast was shaking in her hand as she fumbled with the settings. It was all bluff, she already suspected that the mailshirt would absorb the weapon’s fire as it absorbed sorcerers’ magic.
‘No answers, Custodian?’ the wardragon replied. ‘Well, I shall find out soon enough as I explore the mind of the host.’
‘Wardragon, I am willing to kill your host to keep you confined,’ Jelindel warned.
‘Indeed? This – is an odd test. Well, fire at me,’ it taunted.
Just as I suspected, it does not fear the thundercast, Jelindel thought. Her eyes narrowed, her aim shifted to the left.
‘You will not make me kill my friend,’ she said. ‘I have set the thundercast to a thin, hot setting. I can slice a few links away from one shoulder and render you harmless again. Kelricka will get no more than a fleshwound.’
Jelindel squeezed the trigger bar, pointing at the shoulder of the priestess. Nothing happened, except for a slight surge in the aura of the mailshirt.
‘Energy weapons are easy to control,’ mocked the wardragon’s voice. ‘My makers were using them when your ancestors were using bones as clubs.’
‘Liar, the thundercast is merely mis-set,’ stammered Jelindel.
Please, please be proud and boastful, Jelindel thought.
‘Oh so? Point to one side and fire.’
Thank you, thought Jelindel with such relief that she nearly spoke the words aloud. Slowly, deliberately, she lowered the thundercast to the left.
‘Here?’ she asked.
‘Yes, your little toy is armed again, and it will work. You can even try to point it back at me if you wish, and if you wished I could then show how I can turn the beam about and burn your arm off at the shoulder. I could even reattach it, such are my powers.’
Jelindel fired – but swept down and sliced away the end of the bench where Kelricka sat possessed by the wardragon. Kelricka toppled, and as she fell Jelindel dropped the thundercast and leaped for her, sending her sprawling again as she tried to get up. Jelindel tried to hold her in a headlock, but Kelricka’s strength had suddenly been magnified to greater than even that of Daretor. The priestess stood up, holding Jelindel above her with one hand.
‘I am master of all weapons, from GVGs to mere muscles,’ began the wardragon as Jelindel reached down and seized the leather thonging that dangled from the mailshirt’s shoulder. She pulled with all her strength.
There was a brilliant flash of violet light. Kelricka collapsed like a ragdoll and Jelindel crashed down on top of her. At once Jelindel rolled clear, but the priestess just lay still. The mailshirt glowed a soft orange, and Jelindel saw that a link dangled from the thonging that was still in her grasp. It was ripped open, and also glowing.
‘Come, we must get that thing off you,’ she said as she crawled over to the priestess.
‘How … how did you stop it?’ groaned the real Kelricka, who had been a helpless witness to what had just happened.
‘I only pressed the ends of the last link together with a little iron clip that I fashioned. I did it so that the link would tear apart easily, and I looped that thonging in as I helped you into the mailshirt. All that I needed to do was get close enough to jerk the thonging and the mailshirt would be incomplete again.’
‘That’s clever,’ Kelricka panted as she sat up. ‘But why?’
‘Would you conjure a god and expect it to behave and cooperate?’ asked Jelindel as she got to her knees. ‘I wouldn’t. I had no clear plan, but one weakened link seemed like a good idea in case … well, just in case.’
Kelricka bent forward while Jelindel peeled off the mailshirt – taking a few strands of the priestess’s hair in her haste. Jelindel lay back against the leg of a workbench, her emotions exhausted by having to fight the unknown a second time in the same day. Kelricka sat quietly on the floor with her chin on her knees. She was aware that it was her unqualified curiosity that had nearly unleashed the wardragon upon their world. The glowing orange mound that was the mailshirt lay on the floor between them.
‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Kelricka.
‘You were not to know.’
‘Your wisdom saved me.’
‘Just commonsense, not wis
dom. I had to learn it to stay alive in the D’loom market.’ Jelindel nudged the mailshirt with her foot. ‘It was probably damaged when its last wearer fell from the sky. This is surely the first time it has been complete in a long time. Whoever tried to repair it probably slipped a link about his finger and discovered its properties, so naturally there was more incentive to take links out than put them back. The memories, the soul, the willpower of what Hawtarnas called “the wardragon” is a live thing within the mailshirt. All that it needs is a wearer to possess.’
Kelricka shivered and hugged her knees. ‘Who would give up their very soul to a wardragon-thing, and why?’ she asked, incredulous.
‘People serve kings without aspiring to be kings,’ said Jelindel. ‘Being host to a wardragon is probably the most intimate way of being a monarch’s servant, and to everyone’s gaze the host is the monarch.’
Kelricka shook her head. ‘I learned something of its powers,’ she admitted. ‘They have no place on this world.’
‘I’ll melt it to slag,’ Jelindel decided.
They went outside and set off for the shrinestone steps where the wedding had been conducted only hours earlier. Gemoti joined them.
‘And, ah, what might ye be doing?’ he asked. ‘Is everything all right? I thought ye might be fighting in there.’
‘We are just making sure that we don’t set your smithy on fire,’ said Kelricka.
They reached the steps. Jelindel took out her thundercast, double-checked the settings against notes she had written down, then aimed it at the mailshirt.
‘The wardragon said your thundercast cannot harm the mailshirt,’ Kelricka pointed out.
‘It said nothing of the sort,’ said Jelindel tersely, flicking a stud. ‘I have seen it absorb magical power, but not the power of this weapon.’
‘But the wardragon –’
‘The wardragon was awake when it robbed the thundercast’s power. Now it is asleep again, so this may be our chance. Pray that I am right, Kelricka.’