Dragonfang

by Paul Collins

  ‘It would be grand having that sort of power,’ Hargav said, misty-eyed. ‘If anyone tried to bully me I’d just zap them. Like you did to your … friends.’

  ‘Aha,’ Jelindel said. ‘Then perhaps it’s just as well you don’t have such power, isn’t it?’

  The Dragonfang was still being loaded by lantern light when Jelindel and Hargav reached the docks. They had to pitch in and help until the other crew members came straggling back, and the horizon began to glow with the first hint of dawn. Before the sun appeared, they were being drawn clear of the pier by a large rowboat, and soon they were under full sail, well clear of the harbour. Because Jelindel and Hargav were the only crew members who had not been drinking, they had to work the entire day while the others recovered.

  Chapter 8

  THE GREEN MOUNTAINS

  The months on this new world had not been kind to Daretor and Zimak. But in a sense, they were no worse off than they had been when Jelindel betrayed them. They were now dressed in disparate clothing: Daretor wore a loose-fitting fur coat, currently slung across his bronzed shoulders, a wrap of a finer animal fur about his waist, and leather buskins. He carried a broadsword so keen it fairly sang as it sliced the air. Zimak, being the slighter of the two, wore a linen shirt and leggings and ankle boots made from hard leather. Across his chest he had strapped a leather belt from which hung in sheaths four dirks of various style. On Daretor’s insistence, he also wore a sword, although Zimak was more of a street fighter than a swordsman.

  They rode sturdy war-horses, and even had a dozen gold coins between them – mostly won in small towns by Zimak, who threw out his now familiar challenge to anyone foolish enough to take him on in a foot and fist fight. As his Siluvian martial-arts ability gradually returned, his resolve to stay on this world became firmer. This, in turn, hardened the tension between them.

  Since leaving the settlement, they had passed several cities – Daretor’s size and Zimak’s manner usually set them apart from the general populace, and their stay in each city was brief. Besides, Daretor was still on a vendetta.

  They were travelling through a range of low, desert hills, incapable of supporting any growth. Their horses were laden with bags of fodder and waterskins, for there had been no grazing for over a week.

  Zimak talked incessantly. Much of his conversation centred on Jelindel’s betrayal. ‘I still think she bewitched us here deliberately,’ he grumbled yet again. ‘Right down to dumping us in the sky after we’d escaped her first ambush.’

  For want of nothing better to do, Daretor said, ‘I say she mightn’t have wanted us dead. And if she did pull us back to Q’zar and sent us through the paraplane again, then she did it for a good reason.’

  ‘Gah, Daretor. You change your mind with the wind. One moment you’re after Jelindel’s blood, the next you’re blooded to the vixen.’

  ‘The more we know of this place the more open minded we must be. The dragonriders are an oppressive people, and we may have well helped change the course of their future. As for the Matriarch’s retinue, they were as good as dead had we not driven off the raiders.’

  Zimak rolled his left shoulder. He had taken a backhand slash of an axe during the rescue and his entire left side ached during his kick-fist exhibitions.

  ‘Gah, I know, but … being stuck with an honour-bound gorilla is like being stuck at a carnival with no money.’

  Daretor heaved a sigh of resignation. ‘You are a man of little honour, Zimak. We did what we did because it was the right thing to do. Not because we sought to gain from it. How many times must I repeat this?’

  ‘Tell it to my shoulder that’s fairly left its socket,’ Zimak said moodily. He rubbed a hand in circular motions over his shoulder, emphasising his pain. ‘You’re such a boor, Daretor. If there’s gods presiding over this paraworld, I’d like to receive back what I’ve given.’

  Daretor looked skyward and inscribed the circle of White Quell on his chest. ‘If there are gods on this paraworld they would no sooner have you as their disciple than a rabbit would invite a fox to its warren.’

  ‘Then tell me why we’re here,’ said Zimak. They were passing the ruins of a fortress that looked like it had been laid to waste in a long forgotten war.

  ‘Rather than tumbling like a jack rabbit the night we arrived, I spent my time thinking.’

  ‘I would’ve too,’ Zimak said with a smirk, ‘but I was stuck with the Matriarch. I was not inclined to think of much more than ways to escape.’

  ‘Well I have begun to make some sense of this world.’

  ‘It’s about time you told me what we’re doing,’ Zimak spat. ‘And no more of dummart stuff like “Go your own way if you don’t like it.” I want the truth.’

  ‘You won’t like it,’ Daretor replied. At Zimak’s defiant stance, he added, ‘From what the Matriarch said, I think there is a magical stone circle in a city near here.’

  ‘That’s nice. But I’m not a wizard in search of employment, and I have no use for a magical stone circle.’

  ‘It is a magical stone circle that could get us home.’

  ‘You and your dummart home.’ Zimak’s tone was weary. ‘This world is wonderful. We’re twice as strong here. Daretor – we’re something on this world.’

  ‘Three times as strong,’ said Daretor.

  ‘We have become legends. The girls fling themselves at me on the rare occasions when we get anywhere near a town or city. You could be the greatest warrior in the history of this place, yet all you want to do is leave.’

  ‘I would rather have revenge than greatness,’ Daretor said, emphatically. ‘Besides, if Jelindel really does use the mailshirt to rule Q’zar, we must defeat her.’

  ‘I’d like to see Jelindel broiled over a slow fire,’ Zimak vowed. ‘But not if it means leaving this world. In a sense, she did us a favour by sending us here.’

  ‘If you like the place so much,’ Daretor said, ‘just turn around and go back to the last city.’

  ‘I knew you’d say that. You know I can’t. I have lost some of my fighting skills, something about this world leached them away from me. They’re slowly coming back, but, if not for being stronger –’

  ‘Strange that my sword work remains unchanged.’ Daretor’s eyes blazed with silent accusation.

  ‘Some trick of Jelindel’s,’ Zimak said, hollowly. ‘She never liked me.’

  ‘You do nothing but complain about her. You should be even more anxious than me to avenge yourself.’

  ‘Look, Daretor, it’s been eight days since the last town. Supplies will last for another eight, which means we can still go back if we turn around right now.’

  ‘You are free to return whenever you wish,’ said Daretor, sounding as if he was all in favour of Zimak leaving.

  ‘Hie, Daretor, we’re blood brothers. Together we can make a difference here. We’ve already changed the course of this world’s future by inspiring little Osric’s people to defy the rule of the dragonriders. And White Quell only knows what we’ve started by saving the Matriarch from certain death.’

  Daretor closed his eyes for a moment, willing patience. ‘If you stay with me, then you must assist me to get back to Q’zar.’

  The landscape continued to be all granite outcrops, dry gullies, and occasional ruins of forts and castles. Although Daretor had an inkling that not all the Matriarch had said was true, it certainly appeared as though a scourge was upon the land.

  ‘Eight days travel, she said, then you come to a range of green mountains,’ grumbled Zimak. ‘What if she banished us to a desert that takes a hundred days to cross, and told us to take supplies for sixteen?’

  ‘Then I shall return and be revenged upon her.’

  ‘You won’t be alive to seek revenge, you great big ox!’ Zimak snapped.

  ‘I must do as I see fit,’ Daretor insisted.

  ‘You’re driven by this dummart revenge. There’s more to life than revenge and honour. Like women, money, wine, fine clothes, power, and, er
, women.’

  ‘Then go seek them, Zimak.’ Daretor turned in his saddle. ‘If you ride hard you’ll be cuddled up to that tavern girl – the one with the flaming red hair – inside the week. That town would suit you. Of course, when the locals finally realise you’re not of this world, and you win your bouts by unfair advantage, you might need to seek another town. News will travel that an incorrigible off-worlder is deceiving everyone and soon there will be a price on your head. As there is back on Q’zar. Great strength is no protection against a hail of arrows.’

  Zimak swiped at an insect. The damnable things were twice the size of Q’zaran midges, and their bite was slightly venomous. ‘That’s unfair. Tactics win over brute strength every time. Back on Q’zar I fought many powerful men. I beat them fair and square.’

  ‘Yes … with martial ability I have not seen displayed here.’

  ‘Daretor, we have been over all this.’ Zimak swiped the air. ‘We go over it every day. You demand I confess, I say there is nothing to confess.’

  ‘Tell the truth, now. Did you have a dragonlink hidden in that lead ring?’

  ‘And this is today’s NO! I did not.’

  Zimak had never actually seen the dragonlink he was wearing, yet his fighting skills did indeed stem from its power. The link had been encased in a lead ring scavenged from a corpse. Incredible fighting skills had suddenly descended on him from nowhere. Eventually he had concluded that the lead ring was responsible. It was some time later that he realised it might be some enchantment inside the lead.

  ‘I was a street fighter even before the lead ring was given to me,’ Zimak said, smoothly. ‘I learned to fight very quickly. My teacher was astounded. People said I had great natural ability.’

  ‘So you keep saying. You might have unwittingly been wearing a dragonlink,’ said Daretor, choosing his words carefully.

  ‘How could I ever know?’ countered Zimak.

  ‘How could I know what you knew?’ replied Daretor.

  ‘Was I ever false in any other way? Besides, you know I trained under a Siluvian black-band master.’

  Daretor didn’t look convinced. ‘Tell me that story again.’

  ‘I used to run dangerous errands for an old master who was living in exile in D’loom. He saw that I had aptitude and, in return for the errands, he taught me for four years before he croaked.’

  Daretor did not reply. Instead, he rode along thinking for some time. He was a huge and powerful man, and did not look to be quick of wit. He was, in fact, quite intelligent, especially in logic. Daretor thought things through and tried to be fair, even when the answers that he arrived at were not to his liking. Had Zimak known he was wearing a dragonlink? Zimak claimed no one in D’loom knew of his master for his life depended on anonymity. A likely story, but …

  Had Jelindel known about Zimak’s deceit? When they were thrown across worlds, everything they had been wearing stayed behind in Q’zar. It might have been the only way Jelindel could get her hands on Zimak’s dragonlink.

  There was no point in discussing any of this with Zimak. He would only get plausible reasons as to why the little thief was innocent. On the other hand, Jelindel now possessed all the dragonlinks and the completed mailshirt. What had she done with them? Had she used their power to become the most powerful Adept in the land? Did she rule Q’zar? Daretor had to return. Perhaps it was his destiny to save the world from her.

  They rode through a narrow gap between two granite columns, then reined in together. Before them stretched a vast, dry riverbed of rounded, green stones.

  Zimak caught his breath. ‘Look.’

  Daretor casually pulled out his farsight. The less travelled Zimak was often prone to cries of exultation and naive excitement.

  The greenish-blue sky was marred by a wind tunnel that tore along the horizon. It gathered dust, shaping it like a dirk, so that the ground crunched like hardpacked snow rather than cracking like good Q’zaran sand.

  What Daretor saw made him sit up on his horse.

  Through the dying heat waves, he saw a mountain range so high and spiny that it blotted out the stars. It reminded him of a giant dragon whose bones had been picked dry and its skeletal remains left to bleach beneath the merciless sun.

  ‘You don’t suppose that range was once a real dragon, do you?’ Zimak said, uneasily.

  Daretor stifled a yawn. ‘Probably not. We’ve seen no evidence of such monsters,’ he said.

  ‘Thank White Quell for that,’ Zimak said. ‘Speaking of dragons, we haven’t seen a shred of the dragonriders.’

  ‘According to the Matriarch, they keep firm boundaries. This is where the griffiads live.’

  ‘Griffiads?’ Zimak scanned the horizon for any movement. ‘Did she say they’re anything like dragons? I mean, griffins back home were quite like them and just as dangerous.’

  Daretor frowned. ‘Nothing like them, from memory. They’re smaller, for a start.’ He looked at the sky as though seeking signs of the flying beasts.

  Zimak followed his gaze and once more found himself studying the mountain range. ‘It looks like a sculpted dragon, or maybe it’s a griffiad.’ His voice was almost awed, as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. ‘Like gods have moulded it from sand and fused it together,’ he added.

  Daretor would have agreed with Zimak, but his mind was elsewhere. Zimak’s naiveté helped to relieve the tension, but it didn’t pay to lose focus. They had been climbing steadily this past day. Their water skins were half empty and the last of their salted meats had been eaten that morning. Since entering the plain they had not seen wildlife or any indication of water. To turn back now would be pure folly. To go forward was to risk not finding an exit from the basin they were in.

  He swept the darkening horizon with the farsight. The land was as barren as Dragonfrost back home, although not as rocky, nor as bitingly cold. It would make sense that game sheltered during the blistering days and ventured out during the cool of the night. Still, the absence of wildlife was unsettling.

  Although the path was little wider than an animal’s track, they saw that it had once been a stream leading out to a largish basin of water. Perhaps centuries of white waters had cut a manageable pass through the desert. Following the path might lead them out of here.

  They dismounted to rest and shift their loads.

  ‘So, the green mountains,’ said Daretor, contemplatively.

  ‘Green mountains,’ echoed Zimak. ‘But they are mountains of green rock, not mountains covered in greenery.’

  ‘They are still green.’ Daretor’s voice was meditative. He had long since learned that not everything was as it first appeared.

  ‘But I was expecting forests and water. What are we going to hunt, eat, drink and burn? The horses eat grass. Rock is not going to be much of a substitute, even if it is the right colour.’

  ‘The Matriarch said there would be green mountains, and there are green mountains in front of us. Come on.’

  Zimak made no further attempt at conversation. Daretor remounted his horse and moved down the dry riverbed to the vast, flat expanse of green pebbles. Zimak hesitated, then followed.

  Moments later Zimak spurred his mount past Daretor. ‘Look!’

  Near the centre were pools of clear water with little fish swimming in them. Tufts of ragged grass grew at the edges.

  ‘A strange place,’ Daretor said, shifting in his saddle. ‘From further up the track I’d have said we were in trouble.’

  ‘You need to be less suspicious, Daretor,’ Zimak said. He reached into the pool and replenished his waterskin.

  Daretor scanned the vast tract of land between them and the mountains. ‘One of us has to do the thinking,’ he mumbled. Then he fell into a brooding silence, which Zimak knew not to interrupt.

  Zimak too fell into a deep melancholy. He would have preferred to stay with the Matriarch’s camel train. But, since it had been stripped of all its men, he knew it to be a fool’s paradise, especially in times of civil un
rest. Since parting company with the Matriarch he and Daretor had narrowly avoided several bands of men and witnessed the sacking of a small settlement from afar. Nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, compared with Q’zar, it had been an uneventful two months. They saw no evidence of, say, the Preceptor’s military machine, destroying everything in its path. And if they had, Daretor would have welcomed it. Action was something he understood.

  Eventually Daretor broke the silence. ‘According to the Matriarch the Forest of Castles should be a little way ahead. Beyond that is the city where the magical stone circle is being built.’

  ‘A forest of castles sounds like a city in itself,’ Zimak pointed out. ‘Maybe I should end my journey there.’

  ‘As you will.’ Daretor spurred his mount. He was surprised by a small tug of disappointment. Although Zimak could be mind-bogglingly annoying, Daretor knew that a part of him would miss his companionship.

  They rode up the bank on the other side. Steadily the basin became pockmarked as though smaller versions of whatever had created Skyfall on Q’zar had fallen from the skies here, too. The indentations were sometimes so deep that Daretor deemed it safer and quicker to detour around them. Others were so huge in diameter that a circuitous route was out of the question.

  ‘What could have made these?’ Zimak said, apprehensively. ‘Footprints made by giants.’

  ‘With huge pommel-like feet,’ Daretor said. ‘More like a giant stilt-walking clown,’ he laughed, going along with Zimak’s imagination. ‘It is said that Skyfall was nothing more than a star falling into the Hamarian desert,’ he added, looking skyward. ‘Perhaps the stars here are not so stable as those above our world.’

  Zimak craned his neck as though a falling rock might hit him on the head at any moment. ‘One thing’s for sure,’ he said, ‘if a rock the size of this crater hit us, we wouldn’t have time to worry about it.’