spun to face what first seemed a man standing beside the doorway. The figure’s
only movement was the flicker of the lampflame over its metallic lustre. The
Cirdonian moved closer and prodded the empty torso. It was a racked suit of
mail, topped by a slot-fronted helmet.
Samlor scratched at a link of the armour, urged by a suspicion that he did not
consciously credit even as he attempted to prove it. The tightly-woven rings
appeared to be of verdigrised copper, but the edge of Samlor’s knife could not
even mar the apparent corrosion. ‘Blood and balls,’ the caravan-master swore
under his breath. –
He was touching one of the two famed suits of armour forged by the sorcerer
Hast-ra-kodi in the fire of a burning diamond. Forged with the help of two
demons, legend had it; and if that was open to doubt by a modern rationalist,
there could be no doubt at all that the indestructible armour had clothed heroes
for three of the five ages of the world.
Then, twelve hundred years ago, the twin brothers Harash and Hakkad had donned
the mail and marched against the wizard-prince Sterl. A storm overtook the
expedition in the mountains; and in the clear light of dawn, all had disappeared
– armour, brothers, and the three thousand men of their armament. Some said the
earth had gaped; others, that everything had been swallowed by the still-wider
jaws of airy monsters whose teeth flashed in the lightning and whose backs
arched high as the thunderheads. Whatever the cause, the armour had vanished in
that night. The reappearance of one of the suits in this underground room gave