Chapter

21

Jelindel stood in the deserted centre of the square, teeth jammed together and heart racing. As soon as she retaliated, her presence would be recognised. She was so small, and the dragon craft was so big.

‘Jelindel, get under cover!’ shouted Kelricka from somewhere behind her.

The words somehow broke the mesmerising effect of the dragon craft. Jelindel slowly raised the heavy thundercast in both hands, aimed at a place just behind what might have been the mouth of the dragon and squeezed the trigger bar.

A blast rocked the mighty flying weapon, but although fragments rained down into the market, the damage did not appear to be serious.

It turned like a ponderous bird of prey.

Jelindel fired again, but a cone of red tracery formed around the dragon craft. It fired back, but Jelindel had set the shielding option in her thundercast. A cone of red tracery formed about her as well, and an ellipse of molten ground formed on the ground beyond its protection.

The reek of burning was in her nostrils. A deep rumble interlaced with the screams of the villagers pierced her ears. Village archers fired arrows up at the dragon craft, but they flashed into smoke before reaching its surface.

A hot wind whipped about Jelindel, flinging her unbound hair into her face. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead but evaporated even as they ran down her skin. She wanted to drop to one knee, but that might seem a sign of weakness and she was determined not to show that.

The beam from the ship snapped off as suddenly as it had appeared, but the cone remained until Jelindel also ceased firing.

For a moment there was no sound other than the rumble from the dragon craft’s interior.

‘Puny GVG cannot stand against Korok’s warship,’ a deafening but familiar voice boomed down. The voice was Korok’s, but it was as if a mighty volcano was now talking in broken Skeltian.

‘I know about this weapon, Korok,’ Jelindel shouted back. ‘The shield utility absorbs the power from your own thunderbolts. It can last as long as you shoot at me.’

‘Maybe so, but Korok can kill all those around unless you give mailshirt.’

‘What is it to you?’

‘Mailshirt is control. Mailshirt is knowledge. Mailshirt is lost sciences and skills from ancients. Find mailshirt, find lost links, Korok will have power to rule stars. You have mailshirt and Korok’s link. Give both.’

‘Korok, hear me. The mailshirt has but one link missing now. I know where that last link is hidden. That’s tempting, isn’t it? The whole mailshirt.’

There was a pause that betrayed Korok’s interest.

‘You lying.’

‘No. We can deal. I want revenge on the King of Skelt for the death of my family. Give me this, and I shall give you the final link.’

‘You lying,’ he said again, but his voice held less conviction.

‘Why not check the truth of my words, Korok? Just as our spellvendors can cast truth charms, so must one of the crew of your dragon craft be able to glean when a person is lying or telling the truth.’

‘Hah, have no crew. This craft needs only com – but wait, yes, Korok can tell if one such as you is lying. Wait for moment.’

The dragon craft dropped lower, and another booming voice replaced that of Korok.

‘Speak your statement,’ it said with a flat, metallic resonance, like that of the thundercast.

Jelindel shouted back as loudly and rapidly as she could.

‘Hear me, Systems Control: authorisation code Prime Override 96-haz-zega-1874! Cancel Korok’s trainee pilot option.’

‘What? No, stop!’ screeched Korok.

‘CONFIRMED, CANCELLING TRAINEE CONTROL OPTION,’ boomed the deep, flat voice from the dragon craft.

A hatch suddenly opened on the underside, and Korok’s head emerged.

‘Now, at my command,’ began Jelindel.

‘No, no!’ Korok screamed through the open hatch. ‘Korok make deal. Korok and you use warcraft to overthrow Preceptor in single hour. Please! You avenge your family, you be Queen of all Skelt, of continent, of entire world!’

Too late for deals, thought Jelindel. She took a deep breath and shouted to the ship again. ‘Ascend to five thousand miles at full inertial acceleration, then execute autodestruct sequence.’

‘No! No!’ screamed Korok.

‘Provide authorisation code,’ boomed the craft’s voice.

‘6998-zega-prinkiv-tol!’ Jelindel shouted back.

The craft slammed the open hatch shut, trapping Korok inside, then the huge mass of metallic glitter rotated smoothly and shot straight up into the sky.

The sudden silence was washed by echoes of the dragon craft’s rumbling engines, and the only evidence that it had been there at all was the fires and damage. False memories from the link that Jelindel wore on one of her toes gave her a new warning.

‘Don’t look up!’ she shouted. ‘Everyone turn to the ground and close your eyes! Don’t look up or you’ll go blind!’

Suddenly an intense light blazed brilliantly white from horizon to horizon as the dragon craft destroyed itself. Even the light reflected back from the ground was so intense that it dazzled those foolish enough to have their eyes open. It faded quickly and the sky was again blue overhead.

Jelindel flopped down to the dust while the villagers heaped sand onto the molted ellipse surrounding her. She was carried over the sand bridge by the blacksmith, who set her down on the shrinestone steps.

Those villagers who were not smothering fires or tending the wounded gathered around Jelindel so quickly that Daretor and Zimak had to push their way through.

‘That was fantastic!’ shouted Zimak, embracing her. ‘You faced that dragon alone, you shot it, you used its magic name to drive it away. Jaelin – Jelindel, you’re the greatest Adept who ever lived.’

‘Nobody but you could have done it,’ said Daretor clapping her on the shoulder.

They pulled away as the mayor made his way through the crowd and thanked her with tears in his eyes. ‘Mage Auditor, you saved our village and our lives!’ he cried.

Everyone else now came swirling about her with their personal thanks. Gemoti held up his hands after several minutes, and tried to clear a space around Jelindel.

‘Ease back now, folks, the poor girl’s getting a worse battering from ye all than she got from the dragon.’

A circle began to clear around Jelindel as the people dispersed to clear up the mess. Only her companions, and Kelricka and Gemoti remained standing at the base of the steps.

‘How did you know all that strange language?’ Daretor asked as she sat resting, her back against the shrinestone steps. Jelindel noted the slight, familiar frown of suspicion on his face as she tapped at the studs on the thundercast.

‘Because I am wearing Korok’s link on my toe,’ said Jelindel as she pointed the thundercast at Daretor and shot him.

The villagers who were still nearby screamed and flung themselves to the ground as the tall, well-muscled warrior collapsed, as limp as a feather pillow.

‘Jaelin! Why did you do that?’ cried Zimak, aghast.

‘Because I know who has the last link,’ Jelindel replied sadly, turning the thundercast towards him.

‘Bawdykin!’ Zimak cursed, then he tried to leap for her.

Jelindel shot him in mid-air. He crashed heavily to the steps and tumbled down to the ground.

Jelindel descended the shrinestone steps. Unsteadily she beckoned Gemoti to come over.

‘Hurry, we don’t have much time,’ she said, her voice quavering. ‘Get some men together and take these two over to your shop.’

Once they had reached the smithy Jelindel slipped Zimak’s lead ring from his finger. A bright glow of orange was coming from the inner surface. She peeled the lead casing away with her knife.

‘The last dragonlink,’ said Kelricka, nodding her head in understanding. ‘But was it necessary to kill them both?’

‘They are still alive,’ Jelindel said, sounding more weary than ever. ‘Now help me prop Zimak up beside the anvil.’

‘What are you doing?’ asked Gemoti, bewildered.

‘Repairing a dream.’

Jelindel curled Zimak’s hand around the chisel and pressed it down on the link as it lay on the anvil. She took the hammer from the blacksmith and struck the chisel, square and hard. Blue tracery crawled about Zimak’s fist for a few moments, then dispersed.

‘What will you do when they revive?’ asked Kelricka. ‘They will not be well disposed to you.’

‘Daretor hates anyone who would use another’s fighting skills through one of the dragonlinks. His idea of honour blinds him to all other need or necessity. If he wakes up here, he will know that both of the people that he trusted most in the entire world have betrayed him, and have been as dishonourable as his worst enemies – in his eyes, at least. I used a dragonlink to defeat Korok, but Zimak was using one all the time that he was with us. Daretor would … gah, it doesn’t even bear thinking about.’

Kelricka clasped her hands together in alarm. ‘At least you can defend yourself. When Zimak wakes up he will be without his fighting skills. Daretor may kill him.’

‘Not so. I used a special technique to split the dragon -link. Zimak will keep a measure of his abilities for some weeks, and if he works hard he will be able to keep some of them forever. I learned the trick from a … a friend that I met in the Valley of Clouds. I kept it secret, confident there would be just such a day as this. Now then, Kelricka and Gemoti, strip everything from them.’

‘What?’ they chorused.

‘Remove their clothes and weapons. Everything!’

‘But why?’ asked Kelricka.

‘To make them think that nothing but living flesh was able to go with them on their journey. Hurry.’

Jelindel finally reached up to the fine chains at her neck and snapped one. She drew out a blue teardrop shape and stared at it for a moment before putting it in Daretor’s hand.

‘What is the journey? Where are you sending them?’ asked Kelricka.

‘I don’t know,’ Jelindel said as she draped Zimak’s arm across Daretor’s back. ‘The weight is all wrong, so – I don’t know.’

‘Weight?’

Jelindel spoke a word, and Daretor was slowly swathed in blue tendrils that originated at his hand and spread to the rest of his body, then down Zimak’s arm to encase him as well. The pair began to fade within the cocoon of writhing blue lines.

‘Move back,’ Jelindel commanded the blacksmith and priestess, and they pressed against the wall as Jelindel stood with her hands clasped together. The writhing mass of blue suddenly vanished with a loud blast. All that remained was a little pile of blue powder on the floor of the smithy.

‘What did you do?’ asked Kelricka as Jelindel scuffed the blue powder with her boot.

‘The blue jewel was given to me by – well, you would not believe who it was. The device could have transported me to another world, but it is destroyed in the process. Daretor and Zimak are in a paraworld now, and can never return. Ever.’

‘You make it sound like death,’ said Kelricka softly and quietly.

‘It’s as final as death, but not death. Daretor will awake thinking that Zimak is the one friend who never betrayed him, and Zimak will retain his kick-fist skills if he practises them henceforth. Meantime, I am safe from Daretor’s wrath, even if his hate for me burns in some unimaginably distant place.’

Zimak stirred, and beside him Daretor groaned. They were lying on rubble in the half-light of morning or evening, he could not tell which.

In the distance were the sounds of tuneless singing and coarse laughter, interspersed with an occasional scream. Up in the sky was a huge banded moon in a greenish-blue haze. None of the stars or constellations were familiar.

‘Zimak, is that you?’ asked Daretor.

‘Aye, but – my clothes! Everything’s gone.’

Daretor sat up, warily looking about him. ‘Damn that traitorous little bitch Jelindel!’ he spat, enraged. ‘Damn her to Black Quell’s pit, aye and below it too. She’s magicked us to another world and kept the mailshirt for herself. She was probably scheming to do it all along.’ He glanced down at himself. ‘It seems that clothes and weapons cannot be sent to this particular paraworld.’

No ring, thought Zimak in dismay. ‘We, ah, we do seem to be in a new world, indeed,’ he said in almost a whisper.

‘Damn you, Jelindel!’ Daretor shouted at the sky. ‘Damn your learning, there’s no honour in it!’

‘What a strange place,’ said Zimak as the echoes of Daretor’s shout died away. ‘These ruins are smoking! They must have been only recently razed – White Quell save us, there are bodies everywhere!’

There were at least a dozen dead men where Zimak was pointing. Daretor made his way over the rubble to examine them.

‘All have their hands tied, and have been clubbed to death. It’s a dishonourable way to die. They should never have surrendered. They should have died fighting.’

‘They wear strange, fine robes,’ said Zimak as he joined Daretor. ‘We should take a set each to wear. We need warmth more than they ever will again.’

One of the bigger bodies was nearly Daretor’s size, while Zimak had his choice of the rest. Their sandals were a flexible design that strapped on easily.

‘I can’t help but worry about these robes,’ Daretor said, experimentally hefting a wooden beam that he had pulled from the rubble.

‘Why is that?’

‘Because they brand us as being among the losers in whatever fight destroyed this place – look out!’

Two heavily bearded, unkempt barbarians had been drawn to the sound of their voices. They cried out in delighted surprise at finding two more survivors and drew curving, weighted swords to attack at once. Reeling drunk and over-confident, they did not recognise Daretor’s confident, defiant stance.

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 her 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 wisdom. 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.’

Jelindel squeezed the trigger bar. The setting was for wide-beam heat, such as would melt without bursting the stone beneath. Within moments the links began to glow red, brightened to yellow, then became white. Finally they melted. Jelindel did not release the trigger bar until the last of the links had flowed down the stone steps as molten metal. A crowd of villagers gathered at a distance to watch and point.

‘It’s just a harmless lump now,’ Jelindel began, but even as she spoke the molten pool began to resolve back into the woven links of a mailshirt.

Kelricka stared with her mouth hanging open, and she made the holy circle in the air before her. Gradually the mailshirt cooled, and Jelindel picked it up on the blade of her shortsword. One link fell free and jingled on the steps. The loose link had not been incorporated, so the metal fabric glowed faintly in the sunlight. The villagers crowded a little closer, fearful yet curious to see what the dangerous sorceress was doing now.

Kelricka sat back down on a cool part of the steps, her fist pressed hard against her lips for a moment. Jelindel peered closely at the most recently reattached links, then dropped the mailshirt and picked up the loose link. It was no longer split.

‘The thing is self-repairing,’ she said glumly. ‘All the rough repair work on the last few links is smooth and seamless now. The loose link was not rejoined; it must need to be properly attached for its place to be known.’

Jelindel kicked at the mailshirt several times. Tears of frustration were glistening on her cheeks.

‘Do what we like with it, the pieces will always call each other back together,’ she concluded.

‘Perhaps we could keep it under guard in the Great Temple,’ suggested Kelricka.

‘It was being guarded closely in Hamatriol but it was still stolen, that much I have learned in my travels. Kelricka, the mailshirt must be hidden if it cannot be destroyed. I am going to have to go into the mountains alone.’

‘Why? What are you going to do?’

‘You will have to trust me, Kelricka. Wait here, if you please. I’ll be gone a day or so, but first I must buy some lead sheeting from Gemoti.’

Leaving the village, Jelindel rode out along a backhill trail for a day and a night. At length she had satisfied herself that nobody was following her, and that she had found the perfect resting place for the mailshirt.

She secured her pony to an outcrop of rock and began to make her way down the side of a canyon to a melt water river. The mailshirt was enclosed in roofing lead in the pack on her back, giving physical weight to the responsibility for its powers. She left the sheet-lead package in a crevice beside the river, substituted a stone in her backpack, then made the arduous climb back up to her pony. After double-checking her written notes she reset the thundercast to full power.

At a quarter mile distance, Jelindel raised the thunder -cast, aimed below a large overhang, glanced down at the crevice that hid the shielded mailshirt, then fired a prolonged, shattering blast. Rock exploded out from the face of the gorge and thunderclap echoes were flung all about Jelindel. Her terrified pony screamed and reared, but she had tied it tightly.

Again she fired through the dust and smoke, and again. She blasted deeper into the rock each time. At last the entire overhang gave way and crashed down into the gorge with an impact that shook the ground beneath Jelindel’s feet. She sat waiting until the dust and smoke began to clear, noting with satisfaction that the river was already pooling into what would soon become a very impressive lake.

Now she disarmed the thundercast and put it away, satisfied. Even an army would take years to dig away the millions of tons of rock that now covered the mailshirt.

She rambled through the mountains for many miles, blasting another four gorges the same way, to further ensure that the trail to the mailshirt was lost. When she finally returned to the village, she had had no sleep for three full days. She practically fell out of the saddle and into the arms of Kelricka and her guards.

‘The mailshirt is beyond the reach of human hands,’ Jelindel reported in a voice slurred by fatigue.

‘Now will you come with me to the Great Temple of Verity to join the novices?’ asked Kelricka.

‘Yes, yes with all my heart,’ mumbled Jelindel. ‘But first I would like just one night’s unbroken sleep.’

The next day Jelindel, Kelricka and the three guards set off along the road south. During Jelindel’s absence Kelricka had sewn the robes of a novice for her to wear as they travelled. While the entire village turned out to wave them off and thank them again, nobody bid them hurry back soon.

Unknown to Jelindel and Kelricka, war had been declared between Hamaria and Skelt some days before, and squads of the Preceptor’s mounted militia had been sent deep into Hamarian territory to seize and hold strategic positions.

One such patrol encountered a Verital priestess, her three guards, and a girl wearing the cowl of a novice.

‘Two ladies,’ said the squad captain to the prime lancer. ‘Two ladies alone, ’cept for those painted dolls as like escorts them.’

The guards faced the militiamen bravely, but the numbers were against them. Three of the militiamen raised light crossbows and trained them on the guards.

‘Two priestesses,’ observed the prime lancer. ‘Priestesses be virgins.’

‘Virgins can cure the pox,’ replied the squad captain.

Suddenly exasperated beyond bearing, Jelindel drew the thundercast and fired in a smooth, fluid movement. The squad captain exploded into smoking, bloody gouts of flesh and charred leather and ringmail armour. One of the crossbowmen fired wildly as his horse reared. Another took aim at Jelindel and fired, but hit her rearing horse in the throat. She slid down the animal’s back, dropping to the trail on both feet.

Again she fired, twice, in rapid succession. The two crossbowmen detonated just as their leader had.

The surviving militiamen shrank back, aghast and splattered with shredded, smoking flesh. Even the temple guards drew well back from Jelindel.

‘Now I’ve been having a particularly hard time lately,’ began Jelindel, ‘but luckily the heavens and moons are in such places that improve my mood and your prospects of living.’

None of the surviving militiamen so much as blinked.

‘Dismount, all of you. Take off the saddles and fling them into the gorge. Good, good. Now your clothes and armour – and weapons. Everything! Do it!’

She fired again, this time into the trail. The earth erupted, leaving a small, smoking crater. The militiamen undressed hurriedly and flung their clothing to the rocks hundreds of feet below.

‘Now mount up and ride. You might reach the Dominer Pass in two days with good weather and a lot of luck. The repair crew can minister to you.’

Jelindel took the saddle from her dead horse and put it on the dead squad captain’s mare. The priestess and guards looked on, rather too nervous to even ask if they could help.

‘Was it really necessary to do that?’ Kelricka asked as they began to ride on.

‘Probably not,’ sighed Jelindel as she drew the thundercast and spun it on her finger. ‘I must have selected the wrong setting – blast instead of stun. Without the dragon -link I need my scroll of instructions and it’s packed away in my saddlebags. Besides, would you feel so merciful if they had ravished you, Holy Priestess and friend?’

Kelricka shook her head. ‘As you just said, prob ably not. Now please, put that thing away.’

Jelindel pressed what she thought was the disarming stud. The thundercast’s voice suddenly cheeped out.

‘Intrusion playback option, first instance: ‘Shoot, you damn thing, shoot! Nothing. Accursed trinket. Pah!’

‘That was Zimak’s voice!’ exclaimed Kelricka.

‘Intrusion playback option, second instance:’ declared the thundercast. ‘Gah! Pah! Shoot! I command you to shoot! I – I request you to shoot. Hie! Stupid bauble, it ignores a true warrior and obeys a girl. You try it, Daretor.’

Daretor’s voice followed. ‘Me? Never. That thing has no honour.’

‘And Daretor,’ said Jelindel grimly. ‘At least he had the honour not to try the thundercast … yet he didn’t attempt to stop Zimak. It must mimic what is said when those without authority are trying to use it.’

‘And that is not the only lesson that it teaches,’ Kelricka said.

They rode on, noting how the mountains were giving way to green foothills with distant farmsteads clinging to them. Mostly they rode in silence, lost in contemplation of all that had happened in the days past.

‘So much for trust,’ said Kelricka, voicing her thoughts.

‘Makes me feel better about shooting them,’ replied Jelindel, who had been thinking along much the same lines.