Rogue Dragon

by Avram Davidson

  “I’m afraid, I’m afraid,” the old man said. “I’m so afraid.” He spoke in halting, stifled tones, again his face so close to Jon-Joras’s.

  “Of what, Old Man?”

  “I could be punished. Back there. Ah, back home. Why I came away. Ran. Left me here. Didn’t dare, don’t dare. Afraid,” he wept.

  “Confederation has a twenty-five year statute of limitations,” Jon-Joras reminded him. “And Dondon-oluc and Tiran-lou, both, are confederate-worlds. Surely it must be longer than that, you’ve been here?”

  Bit by bit and scale by scale by flake, he was trying to do a work of repair. Vast holes had been hopelessly eaten away. The Old Man was either determined to have no name or had simply lost that intensely important part of his persona. Nor would he, or, perhaps, nor could he, describe how or when he had come here or who had taken him here—the who being certainly those still supplying, the those in contact with the Kar-chee. It seemed obvious, though, that whoever they were they had taken advantage of his fugitive status. An interpreter was certainly always needed here, the Kar-chee being incapable of articulate human speech. There had been an interpreter here, of course, when the Old Man had first arrived. “The Poor Woman,” he called her. However awful this life-in-death must be to a man, how much more so must it have been to her!—whoever she was or had been. Poor woman, indeed. For some while at any rate they had been some company for each other, she teaching him to understand the Kar-chee “speech” and to reproduce it; and then she had died.

  Longer than twenty-five years that he’d been here? Closer, probably, to fifty!

  “Afraid all changed, on Oluc. Oh, terrible—!”

  “I was there just two years ago. It didn’t seem to be a place of the sort which changes fast. And the soil was still as thick and rich and the trees were still gigantic.” He reached into his memory for such names as he could recall, trees, rivers, towns… the Old Man made dreadful attempts to smile.

  “Afraid of them, still, always. Here.”

  “The Kar-chee?”

  “Of them, too. But most afraid of this?” And again the dreadful terror-whisper. “Suppose they go? The Kar-chee. And take me with them!”

  Enough, indeed, to make the mind of any man, even if young and even if strong and sound, freeze with fear: the Kar-chee departing at long and ancient last for their lairs around the Ring Stars, black and cold and devoid of man and the things which stood between man and madness: this was indeed just cause for fear, to be taken along and to tarry there forever.

  Slowly, simply, repetitiously, firmly, Jon-Joras told the Old Man that he was in close contact with the Confederation Delegate on Prime World, that he was also the Private Man of an important outworld ruler. That, whoever had brought him, the Old Man, here and kept him here, it was not Confederation. And therefore it and they by definition were of lesser power and hence unable to withstand the wishes and directives of Confederation… once Confederation knew.

  “So the thing that must be done is this: I must get to ConfedBase or at least make contact with Delegate Anse, if I can get away from here in time to meet him when he comes to Peramis. In either case, you see, I must get out of here.”

  It was not to be done, it could not be done. The guardian dragons would not allow him to make an escape. They would tear him in pieces. “But,” Jon-Joras protested to the protesting Old Man, “the dragons here obey the Kar-chee, so—”

  Now he was to see the other side of the mirror, and its image was at first to be as obscure as its obverse; for the interpreter knew only of the dragons “here” and of none other. “The dragons,” he said, shaking his head, “are the Kar-chee…”

  Jon-Joras stared. “But that’s what Hue said!”

  “‘Hue’?”

  “Old Man, I don’t understand. I saw a dragon. I saw a Kar-chee. They were not the same. How can you say that they are?” Explanations, though, were not forthcoming. Merely he repeated, They were the same. So another question was asked. “What is the set-up between the Kar-chee—and these other men? The other men do something for the Kar-chee, that is, they do something for you. They bring you food and clothing. But what do the Kar-chee do for the other men?”

  They kept guard. They let no other men through. They—the Kar-chee who were also dragons—destroyed any others who attempted to enter this territory. Why? Ah. Mmm. The muttered, fragmented pieces of comment scarcely deserved to be called information. But here and there and finally some pieces fell into place. The Old Man was terrified to approach the Kar-chee unsummoned. He had never done so, dared not do so now. Did not even know where, in the maze below his level, it laired. But his will-power, positive or negative, had so long ago fallen into complete desuetude that he could not resist Jon-Joras’s mild but insistent pressures.

  They came out blinking into the sunlight and went to the rampart. The dragon presently came into view, glanced at them, paced onward. With hands which trembled at first, but soon fell into habitual and pacifying actions, the Old Man fell to rattling and clicking and rustling his artificial but quite intelligible reproduction of the Kar-chee language. And the dragon paused and looked and it was plain that the dragon listened.

  And then, up from where? No matter. Up from wherever it had been, the Kar-chee came.

  “‘Message. If he the man inquires if we the Kar-chee desire to depart, then he the man understands that we the Kar-chee desire to depart and his the man’s question is no proper question.’”

  “‘Always they the proper men offer future-when to depart we the Kar-chee to the proper place of we the Kar-chee but never from first-when to present-when have they the proper men done so.’”

  “‘If the message of he the man is properly communicated and properly understood, is it that he the man declares that the proper men are not the proper men, but that he the man and his fellows are the proper proper men and that the never-kept promise will in present-when be kept? These the before-when declared being the Overlords?’”

  And Jon-Joras reiterated that those selected by all the worlds and stars of men to run their common affairs were indeed, through him, offering to return the Kar-chee to their Ring Star lairs; and this to be done as near to immediately as could be managed. “Only,” he said, firmly, and reassuringly, “that this man who communicates messages is not to depart with the Kar-chee but is to remain here with us his fellows.” And he emphasized this with gestures and at length he put his arm around the Old Man’s trembling shoulders, and added, “For when the Kar-chee are in their own and proper places they need never and will never communicate with men again, and so will have no need of him.”

  The Kar-chee’s dull eyes showed nothing. And then, in an abrupt and shocking change of pronoun and of phrase, it said, “I must consult with my other self. Await.”

  There was a silence, and a long silence. The Kar-chee above did not move and the dragon below did not move. The Old Man trembled and trembled. The dragon hissed. The Kar-chee lifted its tiny head. Overhead a flyer shot into view. Jon-Joras started, stared.

  “‘He the man is at this present-when to go below and there remain.’”

  Jon-Joras moved as quickly as his legs would let him, and as he ran he called out, “Don’t tell them anything and don’t worry. Don’t worry!”

  He made his way towards the Old Man’s room, but recollection of its dirt and disorder dissuaded him, so he went to wandering in an off-corridor. A wink of light caught his eye as he passed one of the chambers, and he turned to look. It was a mirror, of the quaint hour-glass shape once so popular… how long ago? On his own distant and orderly world, the beta-planet of Moussorgsky Minor, perhaps more than a century ago. Allowing for the lag in time and transport and fashion… here?… who could say how less long ago. Fashionable, yes. But only among women. He entered the room.

  Dust had almost deprived the old mirror of reflective capacity, and dust cloaked and choked everything in here. Yet, despite and underneath the dust, things were all arranged in order. A bed was neatly mad
e. Clothes hung in orderly rows. An antique desk still bore a scripter set with all as it had been left, well-readied to use. It came to Jon-Joras with a shock and pang of pity that here had been the room of the previous interpreter, “the Poor Woman.” He opened the scripter, slowly, delicately, with even a slight touch of fear.

  it should make no difference to me how things will go here, for well or ill, but as this unfortunate young man must probably remain here for his own forever, it’s well that he has learned as much as I can teach him. And now there is no more reason I should delay Death, that importunate suitor, any longer. He does but carry me across this dim horizon, and I hope it will be brighter there.

  He had no time to reflect on this. Somewhere up above someone was calling his name. It sounded vaguely familiar, and a wild surge of hope brought him almost to the door—Delegate Anse?—Delegate Anse’s voice would not sound familiar, he had heard it only twice and was sure this wasn’t it—Por-Paulo? It was not that voice at all, the thought made a wave of longing for his still-absent king sweep over him, but it was not his voice—a prickle of unease slowed him up and kept him inside. Who had been in the flyer and knew that he was Jon-Joras and knew that he was here? Aëlorix? It was not the Gentleman’s voice, but it might still be that of one of his associates. But why did it sound so familiar?

  Perhaps, though, whoever it was did not know that he was here at all. He might be guessing, trying… trapping. Well. If friend he was, then some delay would little matter. And if he were no friend…

  Jon-Joras flitted through the back of the room and into the next one and thence to the next. The voice seemed to be rather nearer, but he was sure it was still in the main corridor. His intention was to get behind it and have a look at whomever it belonged to.

  “Jon-Joras?”

  “Jon-Jo-o-o-r-as…”

  “Jon-Jor-as … ?”

  If it were a friend, why did he not announce and identify himself?

  He was about to peer with considerable caution out into the corridor, when a voice, and not that voice, said, close by and with disgust, “It sure stinks in here.” Jon-Joras hugged the webby wall.

  “‘Money never stinks,’” a second voice quoted.

  “Freaky vermin,” the first one commented, unappeased. And then, “I always hate coming here…Where is that son of a karche’s egg?”

  The voices ebbed away. Now Jon-Joras did peer out. The two men met the third one, presumably the first one, the one who had been calling, at the turn of the corridor. They shook their heads. There seemed, certainly, something familiar about his stance and movement, as there had been about his voice. But he was friend to these other two, and they were no friends to Jon-Joras. Friends do not come seeking friends with drawn weapons in their hands. And besides—I always hate coming here, one had said. So. These were the “proper men,” the men whose coming was regular and by arrangement, and who had been coming here for decades. At least for decades. Who had provided at least two wretched devils of interpreters. Had allied themselves with the alien Kar-chees and with their murderous dragons. Who?

  I must consult with my other self. What of that, for a conundrum?

  Nothing of that, for now. For now there was only the matter of keeping out of the way. Had the Kar-chee, after consulting with its “other self,” decided not to trust Jon-Joras? Decided to turn the matter over to the familiar, the “proper men”? Certainly it did seem so.

  He came to another slit-window and looked out. There was no one and nothing to be seen. From the slant rays of the declining sun it appeared that he was now on the other side of the castle from where the Kar-chee (was there only one Kar-chee? Did not its curious reference to the “other self” plainly indicate there was at least one other?) and its domestic dragon were. Jon-Joras sighed. Let him but once get off this troubled world, he would take good care never to return to it. Now, how wide was this window?

  It was wide enough.

  There were foot-holds enough, too, and a conveniently canting, slanting tree. He made his way to the ground with no more difficulty than that provided by the constant fear of death, and then he crept into the underbrush like a lizard. He had gotten a good ways off and had raised himself from all fours to that same crouching or rather, stooped, walk, which had stood him in such good stead so early this morning, when a shout came from behind him and a tussock beside him exploded into a gout of dust and earth.

  They had seen him.

  XI

  They kept on coming after him.

  And, after them, came the dragon.

  It was probably futile to try to escape them on foot.

  They were fresh, he was weary. They were armed, he was not. And even if he could outrun them, there was still the dragon to contend with… not the chicken-witted wittold of the settled regions, but the murderously intelligent great beast of The Bosky. Various old bywords went rushing through his mind. If you can’t go across, you must go around. If you can’t go across, you must go across. No, not those. He tried to bring his buttocks even lower than they were, and dragged himself, face first, through something nasty. If you can’t go across, you must go up. Probably there was no such byword at all. Or hadn’t been… till now.

  He went up and he went up the far side of the twisted old tree. Something had built a nest or a den there once, and it still smelled rotten. Not matter. Such things had ceased to count long ago. He pulled his legs up after him and used the stinging twig-work as a blind to peer through. The men had not seen him, yet. Neither, apparently, had the dragon. It came running along as he had never before seen dragons run: lightly, and on all fours, but as though it ran on its toes and not upon the pads of its feet at all. It made no sound. It made no sound at all that Jon-Joras could hear.

  But the men below had heard something. Or had felt or scented or sensed something. One of them whirled around and cried out. The others on the instant did the same. They scattered. And Jon-Joras in the tree realized a few sudden things. For one, the dragon was not hunting him. For another, the dragon was not hunting for or with the men. And for a third and last, it was hunting against them. It was clear that they knew it, too.

  This hunt was short-lived, for the weapons the men were carrying were not the local model hunt-guns. They had not come loaded for dragon; at least, he knew of no reason why they should have. And in any event this one was not marked and was not even running erect so that they might guess at where its vital spot, where the fatal shot, might be and might be placed. So far as Jon-Joras knew, they had only come loaded for Jon-Joras, and his body rattled in a sudden spasm of fear when he saw one of them level the thick and snub death-weapon and blow the dragon’s head into a mash of blood and brain and bone and pulp that flew all about. And then, then, oh, how horrible! to see the dying dragon, the dragon that should have been dead, still stumbling along, and groping and clutching for its prey while all the while fountains of blood spurted from its broken arteries and torrents of blood poured from its severed veins. It was as though the headless body still remembered what its eyes had seen and still knew where to go and what to do.

  Pounding, now, pawing the stained grasses, it came on, came onward, still came on, while the man it approached scrambled backwards and stumbled backwards as though not daring to turn his head; and the other two retreated, took their stances again, and blew great chasms and abysses into it. Off in the woods another dragon called, briefly, abruptly, cut off in mid-cry. Were all the dragons of The Bosky being massacred? “… in the egg, and out…”? as, even now, this one, its spine exposed and smashed, fell at last to the ground, which shook to receive it. A short moment more the fore-limbs tore at the bloody turf and tried to pull the bleeding mountain of flesh further. There was a spasm, a flurry, and the ravaged hulk lay still.

  The three, shaking their heads, came cautiously together and surveyed their kill. And the other dragon, walking fully erect—walking fully erect!—and again with that curious stride upon the tips of its toes—passed beneath Jon-Joras as he clung
to the tree and peered in numbed more-than-fright through the soiled integuments of the abandoned nest. Beneath him, beyond him, nodules swollen in silent rage, and then it bellowed the rage that made the forest quake as it fell upon them. And ripped and tore. One died where he stood, one fired upwards and vanished into the giant, trap-like mouth even as the limb his shot had shattered dangled and spurted blood; and one fled, shrilling as he ran, and was almost immediately followed down and dragged and torn and trampled. And so ended the last dragon hunt that Jon-Joras was ever to see.

  What happened next was less terrifying, but no less amazing. For the great beast, pushing aside the corpse at its feet, with one of its forepaws seized hold of a branch and transferred it to the wounded limb which grasped it convulsively but held it firm. Then it rooted out another. Then, turning around and around, and looking up and looking down and looking all about it, it began that beating together, that clicking and rustling, which could only have been a deliberate attempt at imitating the methods of the Old Man interpreter. It was capable of no other meaning than a desire to locate Jon-Joras. And a desire to indicate that its desire was not hostile.

  Quaking and trembling, he came down from the tree. The faceted eyes flashed at him. It moved off, he followed, it turned and saw that he followed, and so it turned no more until at last they reached the castle. But he had not followed until, forcing his quivering stomach into obedience, he turned over one of the mangled bodies on the bloody forest floor. Only one, but that one was enough. Jetro Yi. No wonder his voice, his manner, had seemed familiar. Flunky Jetro. He would bow and scrape no more.