"Come over here," said Resalintas, opening the room's second door and showing the younger priest through. "This is where I keep my favourite pieces."

     The second room was larger than the first, and looked as though it had originally been designed as a gymnasium. One end of it still had a collection of granite weight lifting and exercising apparatus, which Drake was willing to bet were well used, but the other end contained some of the strangest looking objects he'd ever seen, many of which looked nothing like weapons at all, although they might have made pretty good clubs. The room was dominated, however, by a huge lance, larger than any other he'd ever seen, that hung a foot below the ceiling. It must once have been an impressive weapon, being made out of some kind of silvery metal and decorated by the head of a dragon where the shaft met the handle, but now it was in a bad way, apparently being badly corroded, its entire surface covered by a strange white, powdery substance.

     "This is the pride of my collection," said Resalintas. "It's a lance designed to be used from the back of a dragon. It was given to me by my good friend Elmias Pastin, who's now head of extra-planar studies in Lexandria University. He spends a lot of time in other universes, exploring and carrying out various research projects and, knowing of my fondness for exotic weapons, he occasionally brings one back for me. He said that this one was particularly hard to come by."

     "I suppose that's why it's in less than perfect condition," said Drake tactfully. "It was probably too difficult to get one in mint condition."

     "No, not at all," replied Resalintas, however. "It was in perfect condition when he first presented it to me. The trouble is that it's a holy weapon, forged with the aid of one of the local Gods who has almost no power in our own universe. Removed from His influence, His power is slowly fading from it, and as it does so it's gradually reverting back into its constituent materials. I estimate that it has only another ten years or so before it disintegrates completely. It's already too weak to be used in combat. The slightest bit of stress would snap it like rotten wood."

     "What a pity," said Drake. He gazed at the lance, trying to imagine what it must have been like when still new and full of power, and wondering whether it had ever been used in combat. A dragon cavalry! What a fascinating concept! On Tharia, dragons only occasionally took part in human conflicts, when it involved issues that affected them as well, and they only rarely allowed people on their backs, and then only as passengers.

     Leaving the lance, he went to a wall on which some strange objects were mounted. He stopped before a pair of crossed belts, each of which held an object in a holster, objects that seemed designed to be held in one hand. At a nod from the Captain he lifted one down and felt the weight of it. A metal tube pointed forward l handgrip, and between them was a trigger, similar to the trigger of a crossbow. Drake guessed that some kind of projectile was shot out from the tube, but he couldn't see how it was propelled. There were no strings or elastic strips of wood such as a crossbow possessed to store energy. A spring, concealed somewhere inside, he decided. Perhaps this revolving barrel with grooves in it was turned to wind it up, but if so the spring was broken in this one. The barrel turned far too freely, with efficient sounding oiled clicks.

     "That's a revolver," said Resalintas. "A fascinating and very powerful weapon that can kill a man stone dead from fifty yards away. It shoots pellets of lead at great speed down this tube, propelled by a charge contained in small metal capsules." He indicated a pair of belts hanging above the revolvers. Each belt had dozens of small pouches along its length, most of them empty, but five of them held small metal cylinders about an inch long, rounded at one end.

      "This was also given to me by Elmias, as were most of the other weapons on this wall. He said he got it on a very strange world, a rather disturbing place. A world affected by some kind of decay. He couldn't describe it any better than that. There was magic in that world, but a strange kind of it that he couldn't use. It's lucky he still had enough of his own magic left in his body to get back or he would have been stranded there for the rest of his life. He told me that many dimension hopping wizards who go missing have probably been stranded like that on worlds with no usable magic of their own, unable to find the power to get back."

     "Does it still work?" asked Drake, admiring the gun.

     "Yes, and I put them to good use back in the Third Shadowwar." He took the other revolver down and weighed it in his hand. "It's amazing how good they make you feel, how natural they feel against your hips. As if you were born to wear them. There's a terrible danger that goes with them, though. They're far too easy to use."

     "Too easy to use?" asked Drake in confusion.

     Resalintas nodded. "A sword takes years of hard work to learn. In learning to use the sword, you have to learn control, discipline. Self discipline, the hardest kind. This, though..." He held it at arms length, aiming it at a spot on the opposite wall. "You point it, you pull the trigger and a man falls dead. A child can use it, without any effort or practice. A child can kill the mightiest warrior without having to learn any discipline, any self control. Can you imagine the danger of an angry, undisciplined child possessing a weapon like this? And it's so seductive..." He gazed at the weapon, then placed it reluctantly back in its holster.

     "It's not a warrior's weapon, except in direst need. So long as only trained warriors have access to them I suppose they're safe enough, but in any case we only have these five charge cylinders left. These belts were full of them when he brought them back, but each one can only be used once. I sent a couple off to the alchemists of Alka-Zarum, hoping they could duplicate the black powder that seems to be the source of their power. They seemed to be making good progress, but then four of them died at once, apparently from strokes, and after that none of the others would have anything to do with it. They said that the Gods had killed them as a warning that the black powder was evil. Rubbish, of course. If it was evil, Our Lord would have warned me, but there's no arguing with trogs."

     "I don't suppose the wizard Elmias would be willing to go back to get some more," said Drake.

     "No," said Resalintas. "He says it's much too dangerous. Apparently, everyone there carries such weapons, and they're quite willing to use them. Also, he's scared he'll be stranded next time."

     The two priests spent the next hour or so going through the rest of the collection, one item at a time, Resalintas explaining the function of each one and telling what he knew of the people or beings that had used them while Drake listened avidly. Some of them were almost familiar, such as a magical crossbow with a telescopic sight, a sword made of silver with a wolf's head inscribed on the blade and a collection of throwing knives that, when thrown, would automatically home in on the nearest struldgin, a race of evil beings that had become extinct hundreds of years before. Others, however, were weird beyond comprehension. A long glass rod that produced a beam of apparently harmless light when a command was given. An amorphous blob of metal that didn't seem to do anything at all, and a handweapon similar to the revolvers but larger and much more impressive. It was silver and black, except for the golden emblem of a winged skull on the side.

     “Elmias called this a Bolter,” said Resalintas. “From a place he called the Imperium of Man, as if it was the only one. He said it's exceptionally powerful, but we were never able to put it to the test as it can only be used by its original owner.”

     They finally came to the last item, a hand held flame-thrower, which came from a world very similar to the one from which the revolvers had come. "Thank you for showing me all this," said Drake when the Captain had finished. "It's been a fascinating experience."

     "I'm glad to have had the opportunity to show it to someone," said Resalintas. "But now you'd better get back to your own room and get in some arms practice. You're going to need it where we're going. Report to room 16043 at ten tomorrow morning for an official briefing, and don't forget your report."

     "Yes sir," said Drake. He recognised the change in the Captain's manner. Their brief time as two equals sharing a common interest was over. They were now superior and subordinate again, and woe betide him if he forgot it.

      He saluted smartly, therefore, and left, marching back to his own room, leaving Resalintas alone once more. Now, with no-one to see him, the Captain finally allowed himself the very faintest of smiles. That lad's going to work out very well, he told himself. Very well indeed.

☆☆☆

     Meanwhile, several thousand miles away, in a small castle perched high on a rocky ridge overlooking Lexandria Valley, the wizard Malefactos paused in his work as a sharp pain shot through his chest, doubling him over and forcing a gasp from between his clenched teeth. A servant came running over in concern, supporting him with one arm around his frail shoulders and trying to lead him towards one of the room's comfy padded chairs, but the wizard shrugged him off angrily. "I'm all right!" he insisted. "Get back to your work!" The servant hesitated for a moment, then bowed and left.

     He wasn't all right, he knew. The pains were coming more and more frequently these days, and getting worse. Those fool priests and clerics could do nothing for him, not even the clerics of Caroli, who were supposed to be the best healers in the world. They could cure injuries, illnesses and diseases, but there was nothing they could do when a man's natural span of life had come to an end.

     The trouble was that he had used far too much magic in his youth. He had been a child prodigy, mastering advanced magics years before anyone else his age, and reaching the highest levels of magic use while still a young man. Most wizards never reached the highest levels at all, the levels at which they earned the coveted title of 'Mage', and if they did it was only when they were already old. The trouble with most high level spells, though, was that they aged the wizard with every use, taking years off his life, so that although Malefactos was only fifty eight, he looked more like a man of ninety. He had squandered his life in his glorious youth, carving out an Empire with his magic and ruling over it ruthlessly. Now he was paying the price.

     How he envied the immortal wizards who had lived in an age gone by. They had been able to use as much magic as they liked without suffering any side effects, remaining young and healthy for century after century. He had spent years trying to rediscover the secret of immortality, dedicating his retirement to secret research in the school of Necromancy, the school to which all the immortal wizards had belonged, but in vain. The mortal wizards who had survived the devastating Mage Wars had decided that no wizard could ever again be allowed to grow that powerful. So long as wizards died of old age, magic was self limiting and the general population would tolerate it for the good wizards could do in the community, but if a wizard could live for centuries there was no limit to how powerful he could grow.

     The surviving wizards had ruthlessly cut back the school of Necromancy, therefore. Abolishing most of its spells and destroying every spellbook and scroll in which they appeared, in an effort to ensure that no wizard would ever again rediscover the secret of immortality, and Malefactos was finally forced to admit that they had done their jobs too well. Although Necromancy had been allowed to recover a little in the subsequent centuries, it was still the smallest school of magic, and those who chose to specialise in it were regarded with great suspicion by their fellows.

     Malefactos silently raged inside himself. He had wasted five years of his life in this fruitless quest, time he could have spent on his many other projects and in which he had grown progressively weaker. Now, he could only just barely cast mid level spells, and any attempt to cast a higher level spell would probably kill him instantly. Now there was no more time to waste. He had only a few more months to live, if he was lucky. Weeks if he was not.

     "NO!" he cried aloud. "It cannot end like this!" The servant who had tried to help him before looked up in surprise and concern, but thought it better not to interfere. "My work!" cried Malefactos. There was so much he still had to do! So many unfinished projects, so many uncompleted researches. There had to be a way!

     There was, of course. It was an option that had occurred to him many times before, but which he had avoided so long as immortality had still seemed possible. Now, though, it looked as though he had no other choice. His life was over, he knew that now, but death could still be avoided, perhaps indefinitely. He came to a decision, and hobbled over to his extensive library with renewed energy and purpose.

     The servant watched him go, and noted the change in his master with pleasure and approval. Everything's going to be all right, he thought. He would have been less pleased if he'd known what his master had in mind.