Dragonlinks Read Free Page B

chainmail was broken up and some links sold as holy relics, as I recall reading.’
    â€˜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 –’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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, thenremoved 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.
    â€˜How odd. Now that I am wearing it, the coldness is gone.’
    â€˜That is because the cold is really not cold but … a subtle property. I cannot explain it.’
    â€˜Why not?’ demanded the Preceptor. ‘I order that you do.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜I was not aiming for that eye,’ he muttered.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Well, Preceptor?’ asked his guest.
    â€˜So what?’ he said with slow sarcasm. ‘Any good fair-ground conjurer could do as well.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜What you feel is something of yourself being absorbed and stored.’
    â€˜What? Is it stealing life-essence from me?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜You say there are