Free Dragonfang by Paul Collins Page A

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