by James Enge
He looked back up at the clouds to see if they brought snow, guessed that they did, but kept on looking. The sky of the Northhold fascinated him. Half-filled with clouds, it seemed deeper and higher than when it was clear. You could measure it then with your eyes, finding it immeasurable. While clear it was just a narrow water-blue dome; when covered with storm clouds (vast, whirling, mountain-sized shapes) you could see how much space the sky enfolded. And, glimpsing a field of blue between parted clouds, you knew its distance was more than you could know.
Morlock exhaled slowly and only then realized he had been holding his breath. He lowered his gaze to the horizon and saw with surprise what looked like smoke over the mountains east of Thrymhaiam.
Earno returned to himself when he heard someone speaking to horses. Shaking loose from a consideration of possible harbor defenses for the southern coast, he realized that the voice had been Morlock’s. For a moment he had thought himself back in Westhold.
“That is western dialect,” he said, when the horses had turned in the required direction.
“Yes,” said Morlock. “The horses understand it, though they have never been west of Kirach Starn. Illion taught me it, when I was guiding him in the north.”
“Ah, Illion.” Earno had thought about Illion a good deal in the last half-month or so, and his possible motives in saddling him with this particular guide. “You know him well?”
“He commended me to the Graith. Otherwise . . . I would not be a Guardian.”
Earno wished he were not. The Graith would be unlikely to banish one of the Guarded for harboring his exiled father; a Guardian was another matter. But Earno did not mention this, of course. Impulsively he asked, “What do you think of the Other Ilk—the Rangans, for instance?”
Morlock considered. “The Rangans have many good metalworkers,” he said, “but . . .”
“Yes?”
“They don’t build well.” Morlock’s expression was unreadable.
The summoner shook his head irritably and resumed his distant thoughts.
He became conscious of the outer world again when the horses left the path for a stone road. He looked at the thain.
“We are very near to Thrymhaiam now,” Morlock remarked. “Look!”
Earno, looking, saw a cluster of snow-topped mountains blotting out the horizon to the north. The stone path led directly into them through the steepening hills. To the right he saw a higher range of mountains, proceeding from the southeast to the north beyond Thrymhaiam. “Is Ranga beyond those?” he asked the thain.
“No,” Morlock replied. “Those we call the Haukr. There is a very ancient settlement in one of the valleys beyond, called Haukrull. The Thains’ Northtower is north of there. Ranga is beyond Thrymhaiam to the north and west; we cannot see it.”
“I have been in mountains before,” Earno remarked, “but none like these.”
“Yes. Northhold is new. They say the Wards are responsible, raising the mountains along the southern border, before we came under the Guard, and disturbing the lands beyond. Now the Wards are on the northern border, and the lands are being disturbed again.”
“It sounds a dangerous place to live,” Earno remarked.
Morlock shrugged. Earno waited, but he said no more.
Presently they came to a high stone gate, set into the base of a steep slope. “We have come to Southgate of Thrymhaiam,” Morlock said.
There were five dwarves sitting at a stone table outside the gate, discussing something with heat but without hostility. One looked up at the sound of the thain’s voice and cried out, “Harven Morlock!”
“Harven Deor,” responded Morlock, smiling.
The dwarves leapt to their feet and rushed to the two Guardians, helping them to dismount (which they evidently considered an act of desperate danger) and greeting their kinsman with voluble and, to Earno, unintelligible words, while Morlock responded in the same language.
“Lar arsamnen san guardiansclef iddornin, Morlocktheorn,” the dwarf called Deor remarked, when the ceremonies were evidently completed.
“What Guardians were those, Deortheorn?” asked Morlock in Wardic, the speech common to the southern holds.
“Hurs?” responded the mystified dwarf, then continued in Wardic, “Ah, yes, I grasp it.” He turned toward Earno. “Summoner, I welcome you to the Deep Halls of Theornn. The companion of our harven kin, you shall have the seat of honor. I beg your leave to bring you to the Eldest of Theorn Clan, first of the Seven Clans under Thrymhaiam.”
“You have my leave readily, Deor syr Theorn,” Earno answered. “Also my leave to respond to your . . . harven kinsman’s question, which you may consider my own.”
They walked together through the stone gateway. Two of the dwarves, without being instructed, led away the horses, and the other two remained to watch the gate . . . and, no doubt, to conclude their argument.
Deor was saying, “We have seen so many senior Guardians in the past season or two that I wonder I lowered myself to speak to such a junior thain. The summoner Lernaion, with five vocates and a passel of thains—”
“An entire passel, Deor?” Morlock asked, smiling one-sidedly.
“—a passel of thains (you can’t embarrass me, harven; I know I speak this tongue better than you do), has been in the Northhold for some months. Setting the Wards, you see. I assumed you knew this, Morlocktheorn.”
“No. But as you say, I am a junior thain.”
“Hmph. Well, by any door, they have passed through Thrymhaiam several times, the last less than two calls ago. They were headed for Northtower, by way of Haukrull.”
The gateway turned into a short tunnel that ended in dimness.
“You know,” said Morlock, his voice falling curiously dead in the narrow tunnel, “I thought I saw smoke in the Haukr mountains as we were riding today.”
“Well, I expect it’s blown east from Ranga. They had a terrible fire there: the whole crop burned, most of the animals killed. The valley is still smoldering.”
Earno found this interesting and disturbing. “Is that common?” he asked.
“Well, it has never happened before,” the dwarf replied. “But it was a very dry summer. It is very bad in Ranga, now; they have some sort of plague. Haukr is helping with food, and of course we’ve cancelled their debts. But you can’t eat metal, so we haven’t been able to do much for them.”
“Deortheorn,” Morlock said, “Ranga’s mining settlement has had no news of this. Word must . . . I should say, perhaps word could be sent to them. . . .”
Morlock had apparently committed some gaffe, and his kin laughed at him for it. “Very well, Elder Brother, I hear and obey—”
“Hear, anyway,” Morlock interrupted him. “They are very short of food, too.”
“Well, the Eldest will have to approve any drudgings of food. It will be a hard winter for the Deep Halls as it is.”
They had entered the dimness at the end of the tunnel, now, and passed into the great terminal of Southgate. From the outside this had seemed an imposing arm of the mountain, impregnable by force. Inside, once his eyes grew used to the light (there were lamps set into the wall at various points, crystalline cylinders full of some pale glowing fluid, but their light did not compare to the open sunlight) Earno saw that the entire arm had been hollowed out to form a vast chamber into which many brightly lit tunnels opened. The walls of the terminal chamber were honeycombed with what appeared to be storerooms. Earno guessed that a great deal of trade came through the Southgate, in given seasons. Now everything seemed to be fastened down for the coming winter, though.
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a battered shield hanging over the bright exit of the gate-tunnel. He thought he could see markings on the shield’s dented surface.
“What is that?” he asked, halting.
Morlock said nothing. Deor, glancing at him, said, “A shield.”
“Yes, of course. But it seems to have some significance. Aren’t those heraldic markings on the surface
?”
“Yes,” said Deor slowly.
“I wasn’t aware that dwarves used them,” Earno remarked.
“We don’t,” Deor replied, smiling.
“It’s a riddle, then?” Earno replied, smiling himself (rather wryly: he had never been good at riddles). “May I take a closer look?”
Deor seemed pleased, but for some reason he looked at Morlock again. The thain’s face was impassive. “Yes, indeed,” said the dwarf at last.
Earno retraced their steps and stood below the shield. It was coated with dust and had taken a severe beating before it was set up for display. In addition the daylight echoing from the gate-tunnel made it difficult to see the shield, in the dimness above the lintel. But the images were broad, in the manner of heraldry. Earno thought he could see a bird in flight . . . a branch sprouting small sharp leaves—or thorns . . . It was a peregrine falcon, in flight above a branch of flowering thorn.
“It is the crest of Ambrosius,” said Earno in dismay.
“Yes,” said Deor, with unmistakable pride. “It was Merlin’s shield. He carried it through the night of Tunglskin . . . that is, he carried it to the combat at the Hill of Storms. (You know First Merlin’s Song, of course.) After his victory he came here for healing and rest. The shield was his gift to Oldfather Lyrn, who was then Eldest of Theorn Clan. Oldfather Lyrn decreed that it be held here in honor until . . . until it is needed again.”
Earno was conscious of Morlock’s gray eyes, almost luminous in the dimness, fixed on him. “A fitting honor,” Earno said stiffly, “for a famous deed.”
Deor laughed good-naturedly and said something in Dwarvish. “I beg your pardon, Summoner Earno,” he added. “I can see that you are going to prosper in these halls.”
He led the summoner and the still-silent thain away, across the shadowy chamber of the Southgate terminal. He passed into one of the bright tunnels issuing from the far wall, and they followed him.
Deor led them through a maze of tunnels, deeper and higher as they walked. Earno seemed to feel the weight of stone accumulating above them—an oppressive feeling, and one hard to separate from the shock of seeing the Ambrose crest in this unexpected place. But, for all his mood, he had to admit that the stone hallways were large, well-lit by the flameless lamps, and well-aired. They met many dwarves on their journey, who greeted them courteously but did not delay them.
Finally they arrived at a large wooden door, at the top of a long flight of staircases. Outside it a very young (and beardless) dwarf was in waiting.
Morlock turned abruptly to Deor and took him by the shoulder. He went down on one knee unself-consciously, apparently to meet the dwarf’s eye. “Deortheorn,” he said, “a drudging must be sent to the Rangan settlement by Tunglskin, equal at least to the value of the two horses we were riding. I say this not as my father’s son or your harven kin, but friend to friend. Do you understand?”
“I can guess,” Deor said quietly. His mouth twisted behind his beard, as if he would have preferred to speak in Dwarvish. But after looking directly at the cuts and bruises on Morlock’s face he said flatly, “If it were not for Ranga’s trouble we would pay them in blood.”
“No. It is better this way.”
“Well. Because it’s you that’s asking. There is a group of Westhold traders in the Kirach Starn. I will send one of my mother’s cousins to buy from them with my own treasure.”
“I will repay.”
“You. Will. Not. But you might help me with my gems. I’m not growing them well, lately, and no one grows them like you.”
“Agreed.”
“Then.”
Morlock stood up and the dwarf-lad (or lass?) opened the door. Deor entered first, and Morlock stood back, allowing the summoner to pass ahead of him. Earno heard Morlock enter and shut the wooden door behind him.
The room was in sharp contrast to the halls they had travelled through. The walls were faced with white marble, the ceiling was covered with incised panels, and in the wall a deep-set window had been driven through the mountainside. Beside the window sat an old dwarf in a polished, intricately carven chair of dark wood. He seemed to be shorter than Deor (who was over four feet tall). But his shoulders were broader and his hands looked as if they could crush stone. His hair fell to his shoulders, and his beard flowed over his chest; both were iron gray. His eyes, too, were gray, a darker and earthier color than Morlock’s. Here was, clearly, the Eldest of Clan Theorn, first of the Seven Clans under Thrymhaiam. Earno supposed he had outlived five centuries. Beside him on a table was a small oil lamp, whose flame provided the only light in the little room. But the Eldest was not looking at the room. Even after they had entered he kept gazing resolutely at the blue twilight deepening outside his window. From a heavy silver chain around his neck hung a pendant stone: a blood-colored gem scarred by a deep golden flaw.
“Tyr, Eldest of Clan Theorn,” Deor said formally, “I bring you guests, a summoner and a thain of the Graith of Guardians.”
“Deor, great-grandson of my mother’s brother,” Tyr replied without moving his head, “how shall I thank you for such a service? Word has preceded you, though, and I am prepared. Wait outside.”
The younger dwarf left.
“Thain Morlock,” said the ancient dwarf, not removing his gaze from the window, “when you last left Thrymhaiam you forswore all authority and seniority in our clans, not by our custom but in accord with the First Decree of your Graith. Now! Shall I receive you as kin or as guest? Choose.”
“Eldest,” said Morlock defiantly, “I am a Guardian and subject to the rigors of the First Decree. But Theorn is my clan, and no other. I claim from you the rights of kin, which neither you nor the Graith can deny me here.”
Finally the old dwarf looked into the room. He did not smile, but he seemed pleased. “You will find it rougher than usual in the bachelors’ warren, Morlocktheorn,” he said. “But tonight you will sit at my table. This is because the summoner, who must sit there, is your guest. Also: because it is my will, which neither you nor the Graith can deny me here.”
“Harven, I never would.”
“Harven, you—your memory is short. Go with Deor now, my son, and let him see to your needs.”
Morlock bowed and left.
Earno was briefly annoyed that Morlock obeyed the Eldest’s command without so much as a glance at Earno. But the annoyance was swallowed by a vaster feeling of surprise. The Eldest had called Morlock “my son.” It might be just a manner of speech, but such a casual use of a kinship term seemed unlikely among this kin-obsessed people. What was it Tyr had called Deor? Great-grandson of my mother’s brother. It was less a term of address than a pocket genealogy, but perhaps the dwarves made little distinction between the two.
He turned to the Eldest with a question on his lips, but he found himself speechless as he encountered the old dwarf’s angry glare.
“No, don’t trouble to introduce yourself, Summoner. I know you as well as I need to. And if anyone but my youngest son had brought you here I would have had the gate thrown shut in your face.”
That answered Earno’s question, at any rate: Morlock was clearly the foster son of the Eldest himself. That put the Arbiter’s comments to Morlock, back at the Rangan colony, about “your father” in an ambiguous light. But he had no time to think of these things now.
“I can’t guest here under these terms,” Earno said, and would have continued.
“Yet you will,” the Eldest forestalled him grimly. “You can reach no settlement in a day’s walk, you have no provisions or steeds, and in simple fact, I will not allow you to leave.”
“You are an imposing host,” Earno observed, confident in his ability to leave if he chose. “But we have horses.”
“They are not yours,” the Eldest shouted. “I know the Ranga breed, horses and lower animals, too well.”
Then Earno understood the Eldest’s puzzling attitude, at least in part. Somehow Tyr had heard of the events at the Rangan colony. He was sim
ply venting his anger at Earno—whom, however, he seemed to resent for other reasons as well.
“I’ve promised not to speak of this matter to you, Tyr syr Theorn,” Earno said. “But I can at least say that Morlock has a plan for settling it which may meet with your approval.”
“Eh. Morlock always has ideas. You have not seen how badly some of them work out.” The dwarf’s gray hand went to the red stone on his chest, then fell away. “Don’t mistake me; he’s clever, my youngest son. But he will never be wise. This idea he had of joining your Graith—look what has happened there. I could not believe my eyes when I saw the thains in Lernaion’s escort, with their silken cloaks, their soft manners and their hard words. May my son never be like them! But still: what has he gotten for his faithful service but rags on his shoulders and bruises on his face? To say nothing of the shame of serving the enemy of his ruthen father.”
“Ruthen?”
“Given. Natural-born. However you say it. I mean old Ambrosius, of course.”
“He is honored in these halls,” said Earno, remembering the shield at Southgate.
“Except by Morlock, who defends the Graith (and you), greatly to his own disgrace. Oh, I grant him his integrity. But I disagree with his choice. And in any case it does not look well. His ruthen father . . .”
“The north is one of the Wardlands, now. When Merlin impaired the Guard, he betrayed the north as well.”
“Well, you must be content with your victory, as we must be with our dissent. The end of this matter is that you are welcome here, Summoner, even if you are disliked.” Tyr paused, as if steeling himself to something. “Moreover, since you may need to return many times, as your peer Lernaion has, you should know that you will always be welcome here, with or without my youngest son. But if you had come, this time, without him— it would have been otherwise!”
“You’re not very generous.”
“I might have been, had my son been better treated in your service.”
“He is not in my service—”
“Put that aside! He is under obedience to you. Hereabouts, that means you have obligations to him.”