Dragonlinks Read Free Page A

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.
    â€˜So this is why you want me to send the cream of my lancers to almost certain death,’ he said sharply.
    â€˜It is one of thirty thousand reasons,’ replied his guest.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Cold! It’s as cold as ice – colder,’ he said, losing his composure for a moment.
    â€˜There is nothing to fear, Preceptor,’ said the guest. ‘That which you perceive as cold is just a minor property of the dragonlink.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜And you?’
    The visitor smiled thinly. ‘I have my ways.’
    â€˜The “god” was probably some yokel hit by rocks thrown out of Skyfall. Many thousands of others werekilled 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.’
    â€˜He was found still wearing his chainmail.’
    â€˜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