Dragonlinks by Paul Collins Page A

old man’s lips, but it vanished even as he turned to stare.For a moment Daretor seemed to tumble like a wind-driven rollerbush. He flailed and struggled in a desperate bid to right himself. The feeling was one of wrestling a mass of cold, strong tentacles in pitch darkness.
    Daretor awoke exhausted, still standing where he had been. Thull waved languidly to him.
    â€˜Wha – what did you do to me?’
    â€˜You were spoiling for a fight. I merely provided you with a harmless outlet for all that anger.’
    â€˜A dream?’
    â€˜No dream, Daretor. Your enemies were real, but not real as you perceive the word. I could have killed you just now, but I need you as a partner. Without you I might regain the mailshirt, and were I to wear it I would be an impressive opponent even though I am an old man. You are the finest swordsman in southern Skelt, however. That champion’s sash beneath your tunic is proof. Were you to wear the mailshirt you would be invincible, and I have need of an invincible warrior.’
    â€˜For what?’ snapped Daretor, his eyes narrowing to black chips.
    â€˜Uh, uh, one thing at a time.’
    Daretor took the link out of his pouch. ‘What proof have you that this link is potent?’ he asked.
    Thull pursed his lips, as if making up his mind about something. ‘Try putting the link on your finger, like a ring.’
    â€˜It’s too small.’
    â€˜Try the minor finger of your left hand.’
    To Daretor’s surprise, he found that the link fitted. He turned his hand about, staring at it with childlike curiosity. It was almost as if it were a little bigger than it had been. He also noticed that it no longer felt cold, yet therewas still an odd tingling sensation about it. Like the grip of death , a voice in his mind warned, but he pushed the thought to one side.
    â€˜Now, have you ever used one of these?’ asked Thull, holding up a sharply pointed dagger with a weighted handle.
    Daretor’s hand immediately dropped to the pommel of his sword again, but Thull remained relaxed. ‘A Hamarian throwing knife, a coward’s weapon,’ Daretor said with contempt.
    â€˜A weapon with which you have no skill,’ Thull hedged.
    â€˜A weapon that holds no interest for me.’
    â€˜Which you cannot use.’
    â€˜I can throw a dirk if I have to,’ Daretor said cautiously, wondering if he could dodge Thull’s knife thrust and draw his own sword in the same movement.
    Thull turned his back without another word and idly paced out twenty steps. With the knife he carved a jagged circle with a dot at the centre on the trunk of a burbank tree. Returning, he handed the throwing knife haft-first to Daretor.
    â€˜Do me the favour of throwing to hit that dot in the circle,’ he said.
    Daretor grunted, hefted the knife, gripped it by the point, then held it high.
    â€˜I’ll be lucky to even hit the trunk. If I miss, your knife might well be lost in those thorn bushes beyond it.’
    â€˜I’ll risk that. Throw.’
    Daretor’s arm swished through the air, and the knife thudded into the trunk, quivering dead centre of the target mark. Daretor grinned with triumph, then forced his lips back into a thin, severe line.
    â€˜A fluke,’ he said, but there was a quaver in his voice.
    â€˜So, try again,’ said Thull wearily. He strode away to the tree and brought back the knife.
    Daretor drew back his hand and flung the knife. Unerringly it spun to hit the inner mark with a heavy thud.
    â€˜An enchanted knife,’ Daretor said, ‘or perhaps an enchanted target.’
    â€˜Then use your own knife and aim anywhere. Choose your own target.’
    Wizardry had always frightened Daretor as a child and now he knew why. When dealing with charmvendors he knew that he was being given something for his money, but he was not sure what else was being taken as well. He reached down and pulled a short hunting knife