Wardragon by Paul Collins Page A

the fire and by that time they were almost out of the bane’s wood and all three were blackened.
    Exhausted, they dropped into chairs – untouched by the flames – breathing heavily and eyeing each other uneasily.
    ‘A curious and potent spell,’ Jelindel remarked at last, almost to herself. ‘One that sought out flesh and left inanimate things untouched.’
    ‘Hie, it seems we’re not very popular,’ Zimak said, brushing his blackened tunic.
    ‘The master of understatement,’ Daretor grunted.

    Jelindel set powerful spells of warding and protection about the house. She was in the middle of a bath when Daretor came in. ‘We have a visitor,’ he announced.
    She stood up, dripping water. ‘At this time of the night? Dawn is still two hours away.’ She stepped from the tub and headed for the door.
    ‘Jelli?’
    She stopped and looked back at Daretor.
    ‘What?’
    ‘You might want to put some clothes on.’
    She looked down at herself. ‘Oh.’
    A few minutes later she entered the room where they always met their clients. A hooded man sat at the table, his hands clenched together so tightly that his fingers were white-knuckled. Daretor stood nearby, a hand on the pommel of his sword, poised for action. The man did not seem perturbed by this, but since his face could not be seen it was hard to tell. His head moved slightly as Jelindel entered. She sat down opposite.
    ‘I’m Jelindel dek Mediesar,’ she said and after a pause, added, ‘I would prefer to see the face of the person to whom I’m speaking.’
    The other slowly pushed back his hood, revealing a man in his late thirties or early forties, with prematurely grey hair, rugged good looks that seemed rather haggard right now, and a wolfish grin. Jelindel found herself liking him, though of course that very likely had been the man’s intention. Daretor noted Jelindel’s response, and his face darkened.
    ‘I am called Taggar. I have come from Argentia.’
    Zimak came in with drinks: spiced coffee and boiled milk. A disquiet had settled on the room and everyone seemed buoyed by the pungent smell of coffee.
    ‘You have seen troubles this night,’ said Taggar, sipping his drink.
    Daretor stiffened. ‘What do you know of that?’
    Taggar shrugged. ‘I can smell mage-fire. And your house is heavily protected with wards and charms of some complexity.’
    ‘Which you walked right through,’ Jelindel pointed out, ‘as if they weren’t there.’
    ‘Do you know who attacked you?’
    ‘You did,’ said Zimak bluntly. ‘Don’t take us for fools.’
    ‘It was not I who sought to harm you.’
    ‘You have travelled far,’ said Jelindel, shifting the conversation slightly. ‘Your cloak is journey-stained, your boots have seen heavy use, and the lines around your eyes suggest long periods of squinting … Perhaps from looking for those who might be following you …’
    Taggar laughed. ‘You are perceptive, my lady.’
    ‘Why don’t you tell us your story?’
    Taggar finished his coffee in a gulp and held out the empty cup to Zimak, smiling. ‘Might I trouble you for some more of this most excellent brew?’
    Zimak complied without grace. While he did so Taggar began his tale. As he talked Jelindel watched his face and listened closely to his words, noting places where things were left out, and where phrases were worded cautiously. He’s taking great care not to lie, thought Jelindel.
    Taggar said he was from the mining town of Argentia which nestled in the western foothills of the Algon Mountains. Argentia had always been a frontier type of town: rough folk, rough manners, rough justice. In recent years however, a certain order had come to the place. Those same rough folk had had families, raised children, and their manners mellowed somewhat. More recently the town had been taken over by a large company of men and the mining operations expanded tenfold. A perplexing urgency possessed the newcomers and they worked the miners hard. Over time the