Dragonlinks (3 page)

I
t was during the first month of 2128 that the Preceptor of Skelt received his mysterious guest. His visitor had somehow skirted official channels and had arrived unannounced. The Preceptor would see that heads would roll for this imposition. However, for now he would attend to the stranger.

The dragonlink lay on a cushion of green velvet between the Preceptor and his guest. It had a bright, silvery sheen sprinkled with highlights of colour, and was larger than most chainmail links. It might have been an ornamental ring, yet it was still slightly small as rings went.

The guest hall of the Preceptor's fortress was lit by four terracotta lamps on lipshelves, and by a single candle on a brass stand beside the dinner table. Unseasonable rain and a cold south wind battered the walls, tiles and shutters of the heavily built fortress.

The Preceptor rested his elbows on the table, staring at the link, and deep in thought, but occasionally glaring up at his guest. The Preceptor had a severe, angular face, and although his skin had a scholar's pallor he was dressed in campaign tunic, trail mantle and field boots. He went to some lengths to cultivate his image of scholar-warrior, and he liked to boast that he was always dressed for war – even when studying or eating.

At last he leaned forward, bent over the link of chainmail and peered at it even more closely.

‘So
this
is why you want me to send the cream of my lancers to almost certain death,' he said sharply.

‘It is one of thirty thousand reasons,' replied his guest.

‘There is writing etched on its surface,' the Preceptor said, squinting. ‘Such fine, delicate script … the scribe could only have been an enchanted mouse. What does it say?'

‘I do not know,' his guest replied without a trace of apology. ‘Look carefully and you will see patterns of colour as well. They are part of the writing.'

The Preceptor sat back and frowned at his guest, but the man was not intimidated. He had traceries of blue flickering about his lips, almost as if there were vast energies within him, waiting to overflow. At first glance the huge visitor seemed like some burly barbarian chief dressed in a noble's finery. For all that he talked in a smooth, understated voice, rather like a scholar, a priest.

The Preceptor reached out and brushed the link's surface with the back of his index finger, then snatched his hand back with a gasp.

‘Cold! It's as cold as ice – colder,' he said, losing his composure for a moment.

‘There is nothing to fear, Preceptor,' said the guest. ‘That which you perceive as cold is just a minor property of the dragonlink.'

‘Dragonlink,' echoed the Preceptor. ‘It is a potent word for a potent device, one that fell to earth with a so-called god.'

This information was a closely guarded secret even in scholarly circles – considered by many as heresy – but the Preceptor was a scholar as well as a warrior. He was not a scholar who chased dry facts in dusty libraries, however, and he applied the wisdom of scholarship to the practice of war. He had been given the title Preceptor by the King himself.

Exactly one thousand years ago there had been a great war in the firmament – or so the story went – and one of the vanquished gods had fallen to earth. As befitted a god, his weapons and devices were beyond human comprehension and the impact of his dead dragon-steed had created the circular lake in Hamaria known as Skyfall. It was more than a mile in diameter. The very year was named 1128 After Skyfall by zealots. The vanquished god had fallen with his dragon-steed, and his body had landed ten miles from the crater.

‘You say “so-called god”,' prompted the visitor. ‘Do you not believe the legends and scriptures?' Seeing the Preceptor's darkening face, he added, ‘Come, a man of your learning has ingress to the most guarded libraries in the land.'

‘And you?'

The visitor smiled thinly. ‘I have my ways.'

‘The “god” was probably some yokel hit by rocks thrown out of Skyfall. Many thousands of others were
killed too, but just because this one had green blood he was hailed as a dead god. Someone probably pumped green dye into his veins so that the local village would be known as the gravesite of a god. A temple was actually built there, too. I've seen the ruins.'

‘He was found still wearing his chainmail.'

‘And that I also know. That's why it is such a stupid legend. Why would gods bother with mere chainmail when their preferred weapons are thunderbolts and comets? The chainmail was broken up and some links sold as holy relics, as I recall reading.'

‘There was a lot of bloodshed and thievery before they became “holy relics”, Preceptor. Also, it was not mere chainmail. The vanquished god's mailshirt was an engine, like a watermill or siege catapult. It had quite fantastic powers that we can barely begin to guess at. Those who found the mailshirt soon learned that even isolated links had the most wondrous properties. This link is from that very same mailshirt. Too, for an entire calendar to be based around such a seminal event surely lends credence –'

‘There are many calendars,' the Preceptor said wearily, ‘and the Order of Skyfall's must be the most tenuous.' He realised that he was still rubbing the back of his finger and he quickly folded his arms. He stared at his guest with suspicion, although there was fear in his face as well.

‘If there is nothing to fear, then
you
put it on,' he said, his eyes narrowing.

The visitor shrugged and reached for the dragon link. His hands were so big that he could only fit the link on the outer finger of his left hand. He waggled his fingers in the air before the Preceptor's suspicious gaze, then
removed the link and offered it to him on the palm of his hand.

The pale warlord picked it up, flinching at the coldness of its surface. With his teeth clenched together he slipped it onto the outer finger of his right hand.

‘How odd. Now that I am wearing it, the coldness is gone.'

‘That is because the cold is really not cold but … a subtle property. I cannot explain it.'

‘Why not?' demanded the Preceptor. ‘I order that you do.'

‘I
cannot
, not
will not
. But I can demonstrate.' The big man gestured to a weapons rack. ‘That handsome weapon on the wall, the Hamarian throwing knife. Are you skilled in its use?'

‘No. It was just a gift from a warlord across the border to, ah, seal a pact between us. The sword is my preferred weapon.'

‘That is good, that is ideal. Take it down. Choose a small target and aim for it.'

They both stood up and the Preceptor took the knife from its rack. He held it by the blade for a moment as he scanned the guest hall for a suitable target, then flung it. It thudded squarely into the eye of a wooden gargoyle above the hearth. The surprise was evident in the Preceptor's face, but he tried to disguise it.

‘I was not aiming for that eye,' he muttered.

‘You can lie to me, Preceptor, but not to yourself.'

The Preceptor walked across to the hearth and pulled the knife free, then paced right back to the other side of the guest hall. Again he flung the knife. This time it lodged in the gargoyle's other eye.

He stood with his arms folded to steady his shaking hands. His eyes were again narrowed slits.

‘Well, Preceptor?' asked his guest.

‘So what?' he said with slow sarcasm. ‘Any good fair-ground conjurer could do as well.'

‘Indeed, but could you?'

Slowly the Preceptor extended his hand with fingers spread, gazing at the link. His guest held out his hand for the link, then let it fall to his side as the Preceptor ignored him and walked to the gargoyle. He pulled the knife free again and replaced it on its rack. The wooden face now regarded the room with hollow slits for pupils.

‘All right, then, I believe you,' the Preceptor admitted. He removed the link, then nearly dropped it as the chill returned to its surface. ‘Damn! What causes that coldness in it?'

‘What you feel is something of yourself being absorbed and stored.'

‘What? Is it stealing life-essence from me?'

‘The dragonlinks need to be fed, Preceptor, but their needs are small.'

The Preceptor placed the link on the velvet cushion and stood back, his arms folded again.

‘You say there are other links like this.'

‘Thirty thousand, a whole mailshirt of them. United, the mailshirt is said to repel even magic. I suspect it is a passive entity, but one that absorbs life force.'

‘A prize indeed,' the Preceptor pondered. But nobody could collect the missing links after one thousand years.'

‘You would be surprised. Scholars have well documented amazing feats by certain eminent prophets. The links can be traced via their direct lineage.' He shrugged.
‘One or two have been stolen over a period of time. This has led a trail to the false prophets.' He closed his eyes in thought. ‘But whatever the case, the dragonlinks glow orange when near to each other, so that they can be found easily enough.'

The big man reached into a leather stud pouch at his waist and fiddled with something within. The link on the cushion blazed up with a coppery glow and the Preceptor shrank back at once. Just as quickly it faded away to gleaming silver metal again.

‘This is power beyond magic, Preceptor. This one link has a few amusing properties, but just think of what a mailshirt of thirty thousand links could do. Thirty thousand links, bursting with powers that the tame charmsmiths of your rivals could never match.'

‘The court mage of the King of Skelt is an Adept 11. That's more than just a tame charmsmith,' said the Preceptor as he began to pace the floor again, his hands gesturing restlessly as he talked. ‘Over the border the Hamarian Queen has an Adept 14 in her employ, and his powers – gah, my head spins just to think about it! Even my own personal mage Walliach is only an Adept 9, and his cost is more than the wages of all my officers put together.

‘Four years ago the Hamarian warlord Lokribar smashed his queen's army and marched on the capital with an Adept 12 mage looking to his safety. Lokribar was found dead in his tent with a large, green worm's tail wriggling in his navel while its head emerged from his mouth. I had just arrived to form an alliance with Lokribar and his rebels. I actually saw the foul thing. His Adept 12 was a charred mess in the remains of a nearby tent.'

The Preceptor stopped and pulled his robes close about him, shivering at the memory.

‘Your enchanted bauble means little to me, my friend, but side with me against the senior Adepts of monarchs and it shall prove favourable to your cause.'

‘Good, good,' said his guest, nodding. ‘I shall now, ah,
commit
us to a partnership.'

The Preceptor waved his hands in the air. ‘Do what you like. Contracts are easily burned.'

‘Not this contract. Now step back and sit in your chair, Preceptor. Sit very still and, whatever you do, refrain from making any sound.'

The Preceptor's guest raised one hand to his mouth while making a little flourish with the other. His lips moved as he muttered a single word that seemed all consonants. Immediately a writhing ball of blue coils poured out of his mouth like a stream of glowing water. It formed into a quivering globe and hung in mid-air, floating just before the man's face. Within it was something orange-green, something that was all glitter and sharp angles, and that radiated considerable heat.

‘Feed, starving.'

The words were thin and high-pitched, as if scratched out on a badly tuned fiddle. They were felt rather than heard by the petrified Preceptor. His guest seemed more relaxed, now that the thing was outside him.

‘Go to him who bears the truename Walliach. By your own truename, feed at him, then by your own truename go free.'

Another screech. ‘Release.'

‘Not until you are with Walliach. Go.'

The sphere rose until it was past the rafters overhead,
then it seemed to squeeze between the tiles of the roof and was gone.

‘What was that?' gasped the Preceptor.

‘
That
was
very
hungry. Hush now, and listen.'

Moments later, terrified, penetrating screams erupted beyond the walls of the guest hall and echoed throughout the fortress. The screams quickly merged with the shouts of men and the clatter of boots running. The Preceptor made for the door, but his guest seized his arm and said, ‘No.' There was the sound of wood being smashed and splintered, followed by fresh screams and the clang of weapons.

‘Stay here until I declare it safe outside, Preceptor,' the guest warned, releasing the Preceptor's arm.

‘What have you done?' demanded the Preceptor, wide-eyed with alarm.

‘I have provided a seal to our contract. You have just lost an Adept 9 and gained an Adept 12, Preceptor – me. You now depend upon me, but you will find that it is not such a bad thing.'

High above them a much bloated blue globe slipped back between the tiles and descended slowly. The Adept 12 reached out and caressed its surface, and the coils writhed about his hand, then spread up his arm and neck. They crackled about his lips and nostrils for a few heartbeats and slowly dispersed into his body.

Someone began pounding on the door of the Preceptor's guest hall and the Preceptor opened it to admit his battered Captain of the Watch. The officer's helmet was scored with what might have been claw marks. His leather scale armour was charred, and was still smoking in places.

Something had killed the Preceptor's Adept 9, the captain reported; something that had ripped the man
apart and flung the pieces all over the benches and shelves of his alchemorium. A squad of guards had broken down the door and found a swirl of orange-green clinging to a silvery globe with spiked tendrils. It was apparently eating it.

The guardsmen had been foolish enough to try to engage the apparition, but it fought them off with a ruthless, virulent ferocity. The orange-green predator spat fire and clawed through steel with its spiked tendrils; it seemed like a lion defending its kill. Five guards had died before it had completely absorbed the silvery thing, then it suddenly faded into the air itself and was gone, leaving not so much as a wisp of smoke.