Dragonlinks (21 page)

‘So, a real dragon,' said Daretor. ‘I've always thought that they existed.'

‘They're real,' replied Jelindel; ‘it's just that they don't come as big as this one any more. This thing was alive when all this land was below water. Perhaps something killed it as it flew over that ancient sea.'

‘Something killed
that
?' exclaimed Zimak.

‘There are toothmarks down the side of the skull – can you see them there?'

Zimak certainly could. ‘Maybe it was a huge sea serpent,' he said with relief. ‘I'm glad that these all lived long ago.'

‘I thought you didn't believe that this land was once covered in water,' said Daretor. ‘By your reasoning, dragons might still live hereabouts.'

Zimak glanced about with renewed unease. ‘Jaelin,
do
they still live here?'

‘Smaller dragons do, yes. They sleep disguised as mountain peaks. Have you seen any likely ones?'

Zimak paid a lot more attention to the mountains after that, so much so that he was looking up as they came upon the first magnificent view of the Valley of Clouds. It was spread out before them like a great beast of mist stirring languidly in its sleep but not quite waking.

‘There's something strange about this,' began Zimak.

‘There's been something strange about nearly everything you've come across since leaving D'loom,' sighed Jelindel.

‘Aye, but this place is stranger, and I don't like it.'

‘You didn't like the estuary's floating hamlets, the edge of Dragonfrost Plain or Chasmgyle Gorge and you probably don't like my experiments with magic, either. For all that, you're still alive.'

Bare rock gave way to tough, stubborn spear grass, and the air warmed from near freezing to something like a cool, misty morning in the tropics. The unnatural hush was evident at once, as if birds, sheep and insects had never known this place. There was no wind to disturb the dew-beaded spear grass.

‘It's like those beautiful misty mornings in D'loom,' said Jelindel as they rode.

‘It's early afternoon,' replied Zimak nervously.

Their horses seemed to share Zimak's unease, and they whickered nervously as they walked. The place gave the odd impression of being bleak but fertile, for they were soon among low trees and could see sheep grazing on a cover of soft, damp grass.

Jelindel took a scroll from her robes and unrolled it as she rode. It was a guide for merchants and pilgrims, one of several that she had bought for a few coppers near Chasm -gyle, and would sell again when they left the region.

‘“The Valley of Clouds is a fertile place deep in the Passendof Mountains”,' Jelindel read. ‘“The mists that shroud it for 415 of the year's 420 days are not at all deep, although quite dense. Thus it is a warm, damp, but fertile place, where sheep and cattle graze on the rich grasses, to produce fine hides, wool, cured meat and cheese. There is one easy entrance at the north-eastern end, and a more difficult trail at the other where wagons may not easily pass. There is a large town named Fontimark at the centre, and some smaller hamlets. It is governed by a Federation of Squires, and defended by a militia of pikemen and archers”.'

A squat stone structure seemed to coalesce out of the mist before them, and Jelindel translated ‘Fontimark Federation of Squires' on the signpost before it.

Two guards in damp, rusty armour walked out to meet them, and Jelindel dismounted to speak with them. Their dialect was thick but discernible Baltorian, and she presently established that an access-and-grazing permit could be bought for thirty coppers if she also bribed them with two Skeltian argents.

She returned to her horse with the three tokens while the guards creaked their way back to the stone wallfort. The gates squealed open and they rode through.

‘Easily defensible,' remarked Daretor. ‘A wall and a fort here, and the mountains take care of the rest.'

‘Effective as a trap, too,' Zimak pointed out.

The valley was quite a contrast to the dry, cold mountains
of the weeks past, and they soon stopped to graze their horses. The place was a fertile but ghostly arcadia.

‘Few people visit this place,' said Jelindel. ‘The geographer back at Almeriy was not even sure if the place really existed. I had to check his books myself. The place supplies the remote mountain garrisons and mines in this area, and has its own mule caravans.'

‘If few people have heard of it, maybe it's because they don't let travellers out once they are within the gates,' Zimak speculated.

‘More likely it is that nobody has a reason to visit this place,' Daretor guessed. ‘If they take their produce to the markets then nobody
needs
to come here.'

‘What's that?' gasped Zimak.

‘A cow,' replied Daretor.

‘It has four horns!'

‘Some cows have four horns, some goats even have six,' Jelindel said impatiently.

‘You ever seen 'em?'

‘I read about them in the
Beastiarium Univocar
.'

Zimak continued to sulk. ‘We might as well close our eyes as we ride in here,' he complained. ‘Remember, the mailshirt glows continually for us because our link has not been bound in, yet the linkrider in this place will see his own link begin to glow as we approach.' He turned to Daretor. ‘If you hadn't tossed Jabez Thull's forge tools into the Marisa River, we'd not be at this disadvantage.'

‘We're not entirely defenceless,' Jelindel countered. ‘Daretor, ride beside me and reach over to hold me up. I'm going to send my vision to a paraplane.'

She spoke a word that made her body go limp in the saddle, but Daretor held her upright by the arm.

The glow of enchantment nodes sparkled all around her, but they were concentrated in the town ahead.

‘There's a lot of protection and guard spells here,' she reported. ‘It's strong and well-maintained magic, but very little else. There are fertility and medical charms only here and there. There is no evidence of any aggressive spells, though. I can see one really well-defended place. It's quite prominent.

‘Out in the fields there are charms scattered almost at random. Perhaps even the cattle are protected. I can see the mailshirt and the loose link in my pouch but nothing in the town – no, it's there!'

‘A dragonlink?' cried Daretor.

‘Yes, I'm certain of it. Magical nodes stand out distinctly, but the links are not quite magical. They appear as a sort of distortion in the blackness. It's a feeling, rather than something you can see. My touch as well as my sight can project a long way on this paraplane.'

She came back to herself, and rode unsteadily for a while as her senses readjusted to where they really were.

‘Why didn't you tell me you could do that?' demanded Zimak.

‘I told you enough for you to deduce it,' Jelindel said calmly. ‘Is it my fault that your mind is lazy when it comes to conjuring ideas?'

They arrived before the town gates as the mist around them began to darken with evening. There was a stable nearby, so they left their horses there and carried their packs through the gates and into the town.

People were going about their business, but everything was still hushed as if the folk were frightened of attracting the attention of something huge and horrible.

‘We need to find a market and an inn,' said Zimak.

‘There's an inn,' Daretor said, pointing to a sign bearing a green bull with four horns.

‘Ah, good,' Zimak replied. He turned to face Jelindel. ‘Will you come to the market with me after we drop our packs?'

‘And be part of that tasteless ritual of sweaty muscles that you want to put on in every village that we visit?' she replied with distaste. ‘Not likely. Besides, what about that rib you broke a few weeks ago, and the gash in your arm?'

Zimak held up his arm to display a well-healed scar. ‘I'm fit to take on a lindrak now. These yokels are strong but they don't know how to fight – hie, I can get a local physician to vouch that I'm carrying a broken rib. That should improve the betting. Come on, Jaelin, please help me. I can't speak their language.'

‘Then I shall write out your spiel and you can read it. As I remember, it goes: ‘Your attention please. I am Zimak, champion of the Hamarian and Skeltian fighting squares in Siluvian kick-fist at age fourteen. What man among you will meet my challenge to last a single round for ten silver argents against a stake of ten?''

‘I'll look a fool reading it.'

‘You'll look educated,' said Daretor.

‘That's right – smart is alluring,' added Jelindel. ‘You're always complaining that girls prefer my brains to your body. You may return tonight with a girl as well as a fatter purse.'

The Green Bull was a small place that was clearly better used to serving drinks than accommodating travellers. The landlord cleared firewood out of a back room and set
a boy to sweeping the place clean while Jelindel bargained on the price.

They did not expect to find a fire blazing in the hearthroom. In spite of the warm air outside, the place was full of townsfolk enjoying the heat. It was dry heat, quite pleasant for folk who lived their lives in dampness.

Silence descended upon the taproom the moment they entered. It was as though a knife had cut through the hubbub. A bullhound lifted its chunky head warily and gave a deep-throated growl at their intrusion. When they ignored it, the hound lowered its head and dozed again. Like the patrons of the inn, it was more astonished than hostile to see strangers in the valley.

It wasn't until the three had dumped their saddle bags upon an oaken table and were seated that the noise of the taproom resumed.

They had arrived late in the afternoon, and the light was still as strong as it ever got in the valley. Daretor went outside to practise rebuilding his swordwork in the wood-yard. Two months after losing his sword skills to the dragonlink, he was again a band 2 or thereabout, but the axe would be his weapon of choice for a long time to come. The wound below his ribs was still painful, a constant reminder that no fighting skill could be gained without the price of hard work.

Jelindel eventually agreed to go with Zimak as far as the marketplace, and there she translated Zimak's wishes to a local boy. When he had finally grasped that Zimak wanted to stage a throw-wrestling tournament that evening, she left him to his own devices.

The local Temple of Verity was a half mile away, and she made her way there through the mists.

A number of religions were tolerated in the valley, and there was even a monument to the Grattocrian Prophet from the lands thousands of miles west across the ocean. It was built of white marble which had attracted thick splashes of deep green moss and slime from the continuous damp.

She walked on to the Temple of Verity. Its tall double doors were closed, which was unusual for a religion that preached the act of welcoming as one of its central tenets.

Jelindel noticed scorch marks and splintering all along the iron-studded oak boards. She knocked loudly, and presently heard the slapping of sandals on stone behind the door. An eyeslit popped open.

‘Yes?' a quavering voice asked from the other side.

‘I am Brother Jaelin.'

‘State your business,' the voice demanded.

‘I wish to use your temple library. I am a scholar in search of books relating to –'

‘The library is closed; it cannot be used. Go! There are two crossbows trained on your heart.'

Jelindel froze, then fought to calm herself.

‘As you wish, I shall go,' she said, turning very slowly and starting down the steps. Five steps down she stopped and slowly turned back. ‘That's an unusually powerful guard spell you have on the doors. I'd say all the brothers of this temple combined must be hard put to maintain it.'

‘Stop, wait!' the monk behind the doors shouted.

There was the rumble and crash of a beam being heaved and dropped, then the doors were flung open. One of the monks of the order's penitent division hurried out of the entrance and down the steps to Jelindel. He wore a tight-fitting leather cowl that showed only his face
and disappeared into his robes. His hands were bare and his feet were sandalled.

‘How did you detect the guard spell?' he asked, rubbing his hands together.

‘It is my work, holy brother,' Jelindel said warily, feeling her way.

‘Then – then are you the one that was sent to us, the senior Adept we have petitioned for all these years?'

‘Perhaps. I am Mage Auditor Jaelin, an Adept in a very new order.' In fact it's five seconds old and there's only one member, Jelindel added to herself.

‘Then our pleas were heard!' the monk exclaimed. He turned and waved the hidden archers away. ‘Come in, Brother Jaelin, come in. Tell us how we may help you rid our valley of this daemonic scourge. I'm Brother Pendram.'

Jelindel's heart began pounding again. What had she managed to plunge into with those few words? She was taken to a hearthroom lined with books and furnished with reading benches. Ten monks had gathered there.

‘Tell me of the daemons in your own words,' Jelindel prompted as Brother Pendram closed and barred the hearthroom door.

‘But you already have our letters and petitions,' quavered an elderly monk with sparse white hair and a long, fresh scar down one cheek.

‘I cannot ask questions of a letter or petition, and I need to know much more than you have written – oh, and I really would like to work in this library.'

Brother Pendram shuffled forward.

‘It began five years ago, Mage Auditor. Cattle were found torn to pieces in the fields, with strange footprints nearby. At first we thought it to be dire bears, but the
daemon-beings avoided our hunters and smashed our traps as if they thought like humans. Then a shepherd was taken, and another. A farmstead was attacked while the farmer was out a-hunting what we still thought were dire bears. His wife and three of his seven children were slashed dead as though fallen into a chaffing mill.'