Dragonfang (9 page)

The other three freebooters were hiding amid the palms near the oasis. They tried to rally and take Daretor and Zimak by surprise, but the fight did not last long. They returned to the camp to find that the women had already tried, sentenced, and executed the prisoners.

‘Little work for lawyers in this world,’ observed Zimak, suddenly nervous about sharing a tent with any of the women.

It took some time to convince the women that Daretor and Zimak were alone, and not part of a larger army. Although they were their saviours, the women seemed loath to fully trust two men who had just defeated the barbarians when their own men – thirty strong – had been annihilated.

The eldest woman introduced herself as Premiel, but she was known among her people as the Matriarch. She knelt before the pair and almost ritualistically offered them anything from the caravan. Her outstretched hands encompassed the entire camp.

‘Yours by feudal right,’ she finished. ‘Is there anything you wish?’

Zimak nodded enthusiastically. He grinned wolfishly at one of the Matriarch’s handmaidens, then realised that the red pattern on her robes was blood. He stopped grinning.

‘We expect nothing in return,’ Daretor said, sharply. ‘Unless in the way of directions. We are homeless men and seek employment.’

‘Homeless, yes,’ said the Matriarch. ‘Mere men, no. But you appear to mean us no harm; in fact you have done us a great service. If you seek work, then travel with us as our royal bodyguard. We can pay well, whether gold or charm is to your taste.’

Daretor’s hand came down firmly on Zimak’s shoulder.

‘Steady,’ Zimak whined, ‘I’ve been injured.’ He rotated his arm. There was nothing like a wound to gain sympathy from women, or so he believed.

‘We need directions, supplies, weapons –’

‘And money,’ added Zimak. ‘And – mummph.’

‘We must really be on our way,’ said Daretor, striking Zimak’s shoulder.

The Matriarch spoke quickly to her people. After a whispered exchange, the Matriarch told Daretor of a city to the north that had been recently besieged. Apparently, the Matriarch and her entourage were seeking refuge in the southern kingdoms. They were fleeing the D’ai, a race of desert dwellers that had been pillaging the land for some time. Unfortunately, mercenaries from fallen keeps had formed lawless bands and were now hunting in packs, a law unto themselves.

‘We are the court women of a small principality. Our noblemen have joined forces to fight off the enemy and my husband Prince Ulad has sent us where we would be safe while they are away,’ the Matriarch finished off.

The Matriarch insisted that Daretor and Zimak stay awhile. She had all but dragged Daretor to the main tent. With two clicks of her fingers she dismissed her handmaiden, a well endowed
woman by the name of Andzu, who all but dragged a grinning Zimak from the tent.

Confronted by the Matriarch, a woman obviously used to getting what she wanted, Daretor felt more nervous than he was when battling the raiders. He could have easily asked that the other women stay. However, he banished the thought when the tent flap was pulled tight and strapped.

‘We’re alone,’ said the Matriarch, arching an eyebrow. She looked at him coyly, with eyes half draped by thickly lacquered lashes.

‘Indeed we are,’ said Daretor.

‘It’s been a long time since I have been with one so obviously strong as you. In fact, I have never been with one such as you.’

‘You may be disappointed,’ said Daretor, struggling to do whatever was vaguely honourable under the circumstances.

‘Disappointed?’ Premiel laughed hoarsely. ‘Your friend is as skinny as a plains dog, but you –’ She ran her highly ornamented and colourful fingernails down the length of Daretor’s arm. She stopped momentarily and puzzled over a gash to his bicep. ‘A gash like this would have any of our men rolling in agony, yet you have not even asked for it to be bound. What are you?’

The Matriarch’s question gave Daretor an idea.

‘I am a machine,’ he said, flatly.

‘I – what?’ exclaimed the Matriarch. ‘A machine, like a windmill?’

‘A machine, like a warship. Do you know warships?’

‘I have travelled to the coastal cities and seen the great oared galley ships.’

‘They are machines of wood powered by slaves. I am a machine powered by little demons. A wizard on another world created me. Zimak travels with me to translate.’

‘Translate? But I can understand you.’

‘That is irrelevant,’ responded Daretor, finding it curiously easy to play the part of a machine. ‘Some human things I cannot understand. I have only existed for a month. Zimak explains things that I do not understand.’

A girl’s prolonged giggle from nearby could not have come at a worse moment. The Matriarch’s eyelashes lifted despite their weight of lacquer. ‘I see,’ she said, although clearly she did not. ‘So Zimak is your master?’

Daretor smiled despite himself. ‘Zimak is my assistant. Like a groom that tends a war-horse.’

‘Ah, I see. And when you were built, did your creator include any equipment for, ah, amusement?’

‘Such as you speak of would be superfluous. A warship is for fighting, it has no need of luxuries.’

‘Pity. If ever I meet your wizard-creator, I must put in a commission for a luxury version of you. But who commands you? Every ship has a captain. Who is yours?’

‘My creator. He needed to test me. He sent me here, where there is much fighting and injustice. He gave me a mission. I must carry it out with no captain, only Zimak. I can say no more. Now I must go. I need to brief my assistant, then I must close down and let my power demons make repairs.’

Daretor left the Matriarch’s tent, waited for the next giggle, walked to the tent that was its source, seized a male-looking foot protruding from the entrance, and dragged Zimak out. He carried him out of earshot, then dropped him in the sand.

‘Listen and listen carefully,’ said Daretor. ‘This is our story. I am a machine; you are my engineer. I was made a month ago, and sent to this world to be tested. Our lives depend on the Matriarch believing that.’

‘Our lives?’

‘Yes. A wizard created me, a wizard on another world. I am very strong, but have no sexual abilities.’

‘Hie – not far from the truth.’

‘We shall put together more of a story later. Now go, and try to behave with honour.’

‘But the women would think it a dishonour if I did not make merry after rescuing them,’ said Zimak, standing up.

Daretor walked a little behind Zimak as they returned to the camp. By the firelight he saw the handmaiden Andzu beckoning Zimak back to her tent. Then he saw the Matriarch stride over to Zimak, speak to him briefly, and guide him directly to her tent.

‘Machines are not meant to laugh, but sometimes I am tempted,’ he whispered to himself.

Daretor spent a restless night, being bothered by insects that buzzed and sucked blood. In the morning he found a scatter of dead insects around him. Evidently his blood did not agree with them.

After breakfast, the women prepared packs for the two warriors. These were hessian bags filled with a dried spiced meat that Daretor found chewy but digestible, ointment cure-alls said to relieve inflammation and sunstroke, meal biscuits, water skins, a tinder box and something that made Zimak cry out with delight.

‘A farsight!’ he exclaimed. ‘Hie, look, Daretor. Just like Jelindel’s invention, only made from polished brass. Professional, like. How would a smithy make it so round?’

Daretor reached out and plucked it from his hand.

‘Gah, that was given to me.’

‘You would use it to look at the girls. I need it to look out for danger. And Premiel has warned me of the dragonriders.’

Zimak glanced back at the Matriarch. She and her retinue
waved a last farewell. ‘She warned us of many things, including keeping our destination a secret. Why do you suppose she said that?’

Daretor waved languidly and turned his back. ‘She has every right to be cautious. Perhaps her caravan was waylaid on information from her own people. Royal courts are rife with subterfuge.’

‘Not only courts,’ Zimak said. ‘If you think Premiel fell for that dummart “machine” story you fed her, you must have rocks in your head.’

Daretor’s eyebrows rose. ‘You must be right, Zimak. I’m sure she prefers skinny prairie dogs to wolves.’

They reached a settlement a day later. Over a mug of cool beer, Daretor raised an issue that had been niggling him for some time.

‘Jelindel,’ he said.

The tavern was fairly busy, but people kept their distance. Very quickly, Daretor had established a reputation as a monstrously strong thing constructed of clay powered by demons. Even Zimak was looked upon with awe.

‘What about her?’ asked Zimak, taking a drink from his mug.

‘Jelindel,’ said Daretor again.

‘I know the name. What would you like to say about her?’

Daretor stared into his mug.

‘Gah, Daretor, snap out of it. If you want to discuss Jelindel, then do it.’

‘I was thinking about the treacherous vixen.’

‘I’d noticed.’

‘She betrayed us.’

‘If not for those dragonriders, we would’ve been desert kill,’ Zimak reminded him. ‘Betrayal of the worst kind.’

Daretor took another sip of beer. He was unaccustomed to heavy drinking, and morbidity had come upon him.

‘We travelled around a whole continent, collecting the links of an enchanted mailshirt,’ he said. ‘And when we finally got all but one of the links together, Jelindel turned on us and banished us here. She obviously planned on keeping the mailshirt for herself. That thing is the most powerful object on Q’zar. She’s probably using it to rule the world now – if she has the last link.

‘Who would have thought it? She was a powerful enchantress all along. I thought she was a brave girl with a few spells and a good heart. A soul sister.’

‘That’s women for you, Daretor, no constancy at all. Roll ’em and run, that’s what I say.’

‘You would have had to run fairly fast to escape the Matriarch.’

‘You set me up. Is there no end to what you’ll do to avoid getting a leg over? She could well have killed me – the woman was insatiable. I much preferred Andzu –’

‘How are your fighting skills coming along?’ Daretor asked after trying to swallow from the now empty mug. ‘I thought it strange that your fighting skills have waned, while mine remained intact.’

‘Why do you ask?’ said Zimak.

‘Because you are fingering the place where you used to wear a ring. Was that ring a dragonlink?’

Zimak clasped his hands together. ‘My ring was just lead, it was from a beloved admirer.’

‘It was a thick lead ring, thick enough to enclose a dragonlink. Wear a dragonlink and it takes possession of your fighting skills. When you take it off, your fighting skills go with it and are given to the next person to put it on. Everything we were wearing is back in our home world, including your ring, and quite probably your
fighting skills – or at least those of the poor fool whose skills the dragonlink sucked out.

‘Did I ever tell you how much I hate people who steal the fighting skills of others with magical tricks like the dragonlinks?’ asked Daretor, seizing Zimak by the tunic and dragging him halfway across the table.

‘Many, many times,’ said Zimak, weakly.

‘You know how much I hate betrayal?’

‘Lots and lots. It’s another thing we agree on.’

‘Jelindel betrayed me, but she is in another world. Yet I intend to track her down and be avenged. I now suspect that you too have betrayed me, but you are a lot closer.’

‘There is an innocent explanation,’ suggested Zimak.

‘Tell it to me.’

‘My mother gave me that ring –’

‘Do you not mean a beloved admirer?’

‘Er, or, yes, I mean it was a lady who was very close to me and my mother –’

‘Get on with it.’

‘She, ah, gave it to me just as I was taking my first fighting lessons. She said that it was a special ring that gave good luck in fighting. It could be that it was a dragonlink unbeknownst to me. It could be that it was only ever worn by people with no fighting skills, and that some of my hard-learned skills got sponged away when Jelindel blasted us here.’

Zimak grinned feebly.

Daretor scowled, then released him.

‘If it is true, then Jelindel has the last dragonlink, and the enchanted mailshirt really is complete. She will certainly be ruling Q’zar.’

‘Empress Jelindel the First,’ said Zimak, diverting attention
from himself. He raised his mug in a toast. ‘Here’s health to her, and may she long reign over someone else.’

‘
We
are going back and
we
are going to bring her to justice,’ rumbled Daretor. He raised his mug, crumpled it in his hand, and flung it aside. Several drinkers clapped, and three of them threw coins.

‘We?’ asked Zimak, quickly pocketing the coins. ‘We, as in you and me?’

‘You were betrayed as much as I was by that vile enchantress. She banished us to this accursed world –’

‘She banished us to this exceedingly pleasant world, where I’m three times stronger than I was at home, where the women fall over each other to wave their charms at me, and where I’m generally as happy as a pig in shit.’

‘She magicked us up in the sky the second time where we had no hope of surviving.’

Zimak wagged his finger. ‘Tut tut, but we did survive. Maybe Jelindel put us exactly where the dragonriders would be at that precise moment in time.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘Daretor, we are not magicians or wizards. We don’t even have an Adept rating. How can we ever return home?’

‘A sailor does not know how to build a ship, yet he still crosses oceans,’ Daretor said, smugly. ‘I have been asking around, speaking to people. Herbalists, market witches, students of magic, and warriors who travel with caravans to distant cities. There are people within reach who know the sciences of travelling between worlds. We have gold now. We can seek them out.’

‘
You
can;
I’ll
stay here,’ said Zimak, emphatically.

________________________

Two weeks later, they went to a market. It was the mid-afternoon lull in trade and there was little to do. People were looking for diversion.