Free Dragonlinks by Paul Collins Page A

carved into the surface.
    â€˜Most of the gold seems to have rolled off. Look, I can scratch it with my fingernail – this is only lead –’
    â€˜Get away!’ he snapped, slapping at her hand. ‘Look at the mark you left in it.’
    Zimak took out his knife and reached towards the fire. After a few prods the arrowhead came free of the charred wood, and he flicked it onto the stone hearth and picked it up on the blade of his knife.
    â€˜I shall say that this arrowhead was shot into myfather’s grainship by the brigands who sank it, and was embedded in the plank that I, the sole survivor, clung to as I drifted ashore. Although I was a mere boy, I wrenched it free as I knelt on the beach, then I held it aloft and swore to Mighty White Quell that I would one day be avenged on the men who had murdered my family.’
    If only you knew, Jelindel thought to herself, but to Zimak she said, ‘Very touching,’ feigning sympathy. ‘It’s of Skelt design, which probably means that the brigands who fired it were supplied – and possibly financed – by the Preceptor. That may not be the sort of story to tell if you want to get ahead in the Preceptor’s civil militia.’
    Zimak flipped the arrowhead into a puddle of beer on the table, where it hissed angrily, then bubbled for a few moments.
    â€˜Bah, everyone knows that arrowheads are re-used by whoever chances upon them.’ He held up the arrowhead at arm’s length, then took a length of thonging from his pocket and tied it to the base. ‘What about a Skelt arrowhead upon crossed thunderbolts for a crest?’ he said as he slipped the cord about his neck.
    â€˜I thought your story involved a merchant father?’
    â€˜You’re right,’ said Zimak with a frown. ‘Well, maybe a Skelt arrowhead on crossed sheaves of wheat?’
    â€˜Sheaves are the heraldic icon of farmers.’
    â€˜Well, what about – there he is now, descending the stairs!’
    Jelindel did not move her head, but let her eyes alone follow the tall, angular figure who was on the creaking steps. His head was largely obscured by a black cowl, and if not for Zimak’s interest she would not have noticed his passing. His robes had subtle symbols woven into thehems, although Jelindel could not discern them clearly at that distance. A casual sweep of some thin magical aura combed through the room, and Jelindel felt herself shiver, although it was quite warm. As the man turned to walk across to the door she got a clear look at his face.
    â€˜White Quell protect us, I think it’s the mage!’ she said in a hushed voice.
    â€˜I was right!’ Zimak hissed in surprise, as though he was not used to being right. ‘An immortal mage, hundreds of years old.’
    â€˜Or the mortal grandson of a dead mage, around sixty years old,’ Jelindel speculated. ‘There was a resemblance to the woodcut I saw, but no more so than – say – your own face bearing a likeness to your own –’
    â€˜Stop that!’
    â€˜ – dead merchant parents.’
    â€˜Have your own way,’ Zimak said, standing up. ‘Follow me, Jaelin, and you learn.’
    Jelindel hurried after Zimak. When she reached the street she could see him scurrying after the man they knew as Thull.
    Jelindel caught up with Zimak and whispered urgently, ‘What are we doing?’
    â€˜Following him.’
    â€˜What?’ she said incredulously. ‘Why?’
    â€˜This is a real mage, and he’s on a quest for an enchanted mailshirt. If I should be on hand when he needs help, why – he may reward me handsomely. He may even make me an apprentice Adept.’
    â€˜Utter garbage,’ retorted Jelindel.
    Zimak looked wild and eager, as if he were about to fight in a street tournament. ‘The only mage that I’ve everset eyes upon is Fa’red, and even he has given up the practice of enchantment