by James Enge
“I couldn’t tell,” Morlock said. “I’m no adept at dragonspells.”
“Few are,” Tyr acknowledged, “save the dragons themselves. I must say for myself that I don’t understand this guile business. Or those collars: our dragonlore says nothing of them. But the dragonlore is not what it was: we have striven to forget what we no longer needed to know.”
The other two dwarves and Morlock seemed embarrassed, reluctant to explain. Because of himself, Earno realized. So he explained to the Eldest that the guile was what the dragons of the Blackthorn Range had for a tribe or a clan. Each guile had a varying number of members and was invariably led by a powerful male, the master of the guile, who wore a collar of office.
“I understand that well enough,” the Eldest answered patiently. “That’s the point, isn’t it? Since they all wear collars—”
For a moment the remark did not penetrate. Then they all turned with renewed interest toward the Eldest.
“You saw them, Eldest Tyr?” Deor asked.
“Not every one. Don’t be a fool. But the three dragons who attacked the High Hall of the East all wore collars. You must have seen them.”
Earno closed his eyes and tried to remember, but all he could call to mind was the small black silhouette of the Eldest against a bank of fire-bright windows.
“Our view was maybe not so uncluttered as yours, yedhra,” said Morlock, with his peculiar half-smile. “Could you describe the collars?”
“Some sort of metal,” said the Eldest, disgruntled and pleased. “I could sketch them, I suppose. But I don’t need to. Yonder dragon has one. Vetrtheorn, Deor—go, bring the collar and lay it at the feet of our rokhleni.”
Vetr looked reluctant. “Two of the five gate-keepers live,” he said, after a moment. “Despoiling the rokh—it is their right.”
“Yes,” agreed Tyr, “but they lie in the Healing Chambers where we will, I guess, be standing their vigil in a few days.”
Vetr continued to argue, more fluently, in Dwarvish.
Tyr lifted his free hand in a commanding gesture, and his son fell silent. “Vetr!” Tyr said. “Be at peace. Those-who-watch do not forbid what is needful. Bring me the collar, that I may see it.”
Vetr lowered his head in submission. He and Deor hurried away up the slope where the fallen dragon lay. Soon they returned, bearing between them a long heavy chain. The links were as long as a man’s arm and as wide as a dwarf’s body. The chain was made of iron, and looked to Earno to be the sort of thing that might be used to seal a harbor. But it was partially covered with red gold, as if it had been dipped in precious metal like dye. Deor and Vetr had severed a link to remove the collar; in another place it looked as if two loose ends had been fused together by draconic heat.
Earno examined the chain very carefully, down on one knee at the feet of the rokhleni. When he glanced up he saw that the others’ eyes were upon him, as if they were awaiting his verdict.
“It is very unlike the collar of Kellander Rukh, whom I slew,” Earno said slowly. “It is cruder. And yet . . . there is a likeness, too; I cannot deny it. It would be very strange if the members of a guile were all permitted to wear such collars.”
“Do you suppose there could be different collars,” Deor suggested, “as for different ranks within the guile?”
When Earno said nothing, Morlock responded, “It seems hard to believe, from what I’ve heard. As if the dragons could form a military cohort . . . How could they cooperate so closely? The guile—from what I’ve heard—is just a group dominated by fear of a single individual.”
“What else is any army, Morlocktheorn?” Deor countered.
“Morlock is more or less correct,” Earno said reluctantly. (He would have said nothing, but the others were turning to him to settle the matter.) “That is the reason the guile invariably scatters when its master is killed.”
“Then. Maybe there is no guile here,” Deor suggested. “Perhaps it is just a group of dragons who have come together to raid the hold.”
Vetr muttered in Dwarvish, then said, “The difference? If they pretend to cooperate . . . they must cooperate to pretend. It would be worse than a guile.”
“Well, if it seems worse let’s drop the notion at once!” Deor replied, laughing. Vetr did not join in or reply.
Earno took no part in the ensuing discussion. The sky in the west was turning a deep radiant blue—the abrupt gloaming of the Wardlands had begun, and the light of the second moon was suddenly pale. Earno saw the red stars circling the black fire-scarred outlines of Thrymhaiam’s peaks rise up and pass over the high crooked horizon to the east. The dragons were retreating over the Haukr.
Many among the dwarves laboring in the ruin of Southgate also noticed the departure. Cries of victory and defiance rose up from the broken stones, pursuing the dragons on their storm-swift wings.
“Now they return to Haukrull,” Tyr said. “If we knew just a little for certain we would know a great deal besides. But we know nothing for certain, except that they are here.”
Tyr’s remark oddly echoed the thoughts whirling in Earno’s mind. Morlock might be a traitor (loyal to his natural father) or he might not. His hostility toward Merlin might be feigned—or it might not. Tyr had testified to that hostility, expressed concern about it. Tyr might be honest . . . or he might not be. Tyr would be inclined to aid Morlock, no matter what, and he clearly held Merlin in high esteem. That last, in a way, argued for his honesty: he did not hesitate to display a bias that might give rise to suspicion. But if he knew the suspicion had already arisen he might display the bias to, paradoxically, allay the suspicion with the appearance of honesty by being honest. Earno might be able to trust them all completely. Or he might not.
In any case, and this was the crux of the matter, Earno had to seem as if he trusted them completely, especially if he did not. Therefore he must do exactly as he would have done if he had been able to trust them. But he would preserve his distrust within him, bury it like treasure in his heart to keep it safe. That way he would do two things while seeming to do one, and at least one of him would be preserved. Yes.
“The course is clear,” he said aloud, and for the first time that night his voice was strong and decisive. The others all turned to him in surprise.
“The course is clear,” he repeated. “I will issue a challenge to the master of the guile. My thain will carry the challenge to Haukrull. Pride, and the need to maintain prestige before his followers, will force the master to accept the challenge, if there is a guile. Also, pride will compel him to respect the embassy of a challenger. And if there is no guile, if this is just a crowd of equals . . .”
“Then,” Morlock said, “I should learn what I can and return as I can.”
“Yes,” Earno agreed. He did not add what they all knew: that, if there was no guile, Morlock would be unlikely to return at all: there would be no master to enforce restraint on the ravenous dragons. But if Morlock did not return, that itself would answer the question they needed to answer.
But (and Earno realized this too late) it would not answer his questions. If Morlock did not return, it might only mean that he had stayed with his natural father’s allies, the dragons, to give Earno the wrong impression. Or it might mean what it seemed to mean. . . .
He began to suspect that, from now on, everything would have two meanings for him—one possibly true, the other certainly false—and he would never have a way of choosing between them. He would have to learn to live with both: betraying the enemy in his friends, befriending the ally in his enemies.
For if Morlock was a traitor, he deserved the treachery this mission would be if he were not a traitor. Similarly, if he was not a traitor, there was no treason: Earno was merely requiring the self-sacrifice Morlock had sworn to give. Earno was satisfied, and would have been completely satisfied, if only it were not so difficult to meet Morlock’s eye. Nevertheless he began to speak aloud the cold clear unambiguous words of his challenge.
Before he was
finished, sunlight struck the smoke still rising from the mountains and the dwarves began to sing.
PART THREE
ENVOY TO DRAGONS
He entered the doors of hell, the deep gates of Dis, the forest shrouded in fear’s shadow.
He stood before the dark gods and the dreadful king—those hearts unable to pity human prayers.
—Vergil, Georgics
CHAPTER TEN
The Deep Roads
In the utter blindness beneath a mountain’s roots, Morlock paused to consider his way.
He had left Thrymhaiam two days ago, an hour after sunlight touched her western slopes. He had gone alone through the Helgrind Gate. It was dark as he crossed the narrow, terribly deep chasm of the Helgrind. But the mist carried only the clean rocky smell of mountain water; there was no taint of venom in it. He reached the high unbarred entrance to the Runhaiar easily, although it was impossible to see in the darkness and fog; his feet knew the way across the shallow Helgrind stream. As a youth he had lived for more than a year beyond the Haukr, working at the Seven Clans’ trading house there. He’d often travelled between Haukrull and Thrymhaiam. That had been a fine and troubling time for Morlock. He wondered what Haukrull looked like now. Almeijn’s words returned to him as he walked through the resounding darkness: The town was there, all ashen, with bodies burning in the streets. . . .
Almeijn. At the thought of her he stopped moving. He had long ago learned to walk in the dark of the Runhaiar without fear, and his reflexes had found the Pilgrims’ Way to Haukrull almost without seeking it. But they had played him false after all. He had an idea about Almeijn, and to pursue it he must take a different route through the darkness. He had to find not the familiar road that the Guardians must have taken to Haukrull, but the mysterious path on which Almeijn had returned alone.
As he stopped he realized he did not know exactly where he was. If he gave it some thought he might have reasoned it out (he had not been moving wholly unconsciously), but there was no need. He walked back to the last junction of tunnels he’d passed, trailing his right hand along the wall a little higher than his shoulders. Presently he found what he wanted: a pattern of warmth and coolness inscribed in the smooth stone. He moved his hands over the pattern, and as he did the pattern took shape in his mind. The shapes were not precisely intelligible, an apparently arbitrary mixture of abstract swirls and slanting lines. There was a similar pattern in every tunnel at every junction in the sprawling extent of the Runhaiar. They had obviously been placed by the Runhaiar’s builders as signposts. Although they recorded no known language, experienced guides could make some sense of them.
Morlock could not read the signs as well as some of his harven kin, but he was no novice. The pattern under his hands told him clearly that the High Arches (a major landmark on the Pilgrims’ Way to Haukrull) were at the far end of the tunnel where he stood. It also told him that the Drowned Arches (a vast, partly underwater chamber) were to the south of him. Morlock had never been to the Drowned Arches, but it was the only place in the Runhaiar where water ran. He guessed that Almeijn’s path had led there, or near there. She’d said, There was water.
He stepped out of the tunnel; the echoes of his footsteps and the motion of the air told him he was in a junction-chamber between three or more tunnels. He turned to the one immediately on his left. Stepping inside it, he breathed deeply. He’d hoped that the air would be moister or warmer than normal. It was the usual air of the Deep Roads, though: dry, cool, stale. But the way led south and (he found, advancing a few steps) downward. He walked onward into the dark.
Much later, Morlock paused in an open area between tunnels. He regretted now that he had never visited the Drowned Arches; he felt lost in the darkness. The patterns on the walls were strange; he could not tell if he had come too far or not far enough. If he had taken a wrong turn he doubted he could even retrace his steps. Certainly he had never even heard of a place like this.
He cleared his throat and called out, to judge the chamber’s size. On impulse he used his clan name. “Theorn!” There was no echo.
He took three steps and called out again. He waited a few seconds and called out a third time. Finally he heard an answering Theorn!, but with so strange and muffled a sound he didn’t know what to make of it.
Walking farther he reached the wall of the chamber. He reached out and touched it; the stone was crusted with dry filth. Morlock drew his fingers along the surface vertically, tracing out a flat arcing rib carved out of the stone wall. Less than a hand’s-breadth away on either side his hands encountered others. This was like the walls of the High Arches, except that those were clean. . . . Moving his hands vertically along the wall he found a level, higher than his head, where the filth ceased. It was an old water line. Plainly, he stood in what had been the Drowned Arches.
“There was water,” said Morlock, consciously echoing Almeijn as he walked about the chamber. “Where is it now?”
The floor of the chamber (which seemed to be oval) angled sharply down toward its the long end.
Where did it go? asked the echo.
The water must have sunk down the angling floor as it receded. Perhaps there was a passage down that way, through which Almeijn might have passed. But Morlock doubted there was any water; he’d sensed no moisture in the air from the moment he’d entered. In fact . . .
Morlock crouched down and put his hands on the floor. It was coarsely textured and clean, free from watery filth. He guessed that he stood on some vast stone lid, and that the true floor of the chamber lay below. Its angle suggested that it had been lowered from the upper wall by means of its weight. If dwarves had built it there would have been a counterweight system to draw it back into the wall as needed. Morlock leapt toward the upper wall to investigate.
Soon his hands met what they were seeking: a recess in the upper wall almost as broad as himself, which contained a heavy block of stone with a horizontal bar carved out of it. The stone was angled sharply back, away from Morlock. As he ran his fingers over the block in the dark (very carefully, so as to avoid tripping the mechanism) he guessed that the work had been done in haste, but not recently. There was no weathering in the underground corridors of the Runhaiar, of course, but Morlock guessed that long ages had passed since the crumbling surface of the stone had been severed from its native rock.
The design of the lever was so familiar that it made Morlock remember the claims that the dwarves had built the Runhaiar, in the age before the Longest War began. Tyr did not believe the claims (never saying why), and Tyr knew more of his kith’s history than anyone. Yet here was this lever, like many Morlock had seen in Thrymhaiam. But if dwarves had made such a lever to draw back a floor, they certainly would have also made a ledge for the person operating the lever to stand on while the floor moved. Here there was none.
He shrugged. Probably the floor did not recede entirely. He readied himself to shift his footing as the floor drew back up and pulled the heavy stone bar toward himself.
The floor vanished beneath his feet as the massive slab of stone roared its way down into the mountain’s roots. Only Morlock’s reflexes saved him from death—the primitive instinct of a cave-dweller and a stoneworker who is always mindful of the danger in a precariously balanced rock. As soon as he felt his footing give way he let go the stone bar and reached out frantically, as he fell, for the gap out of which the slab had descended. He just caught the ledge with his right hand as he fell past it; the weight of his body hung from four fingers as his feet swung far to the right. He threw his head to the right as well, and the heavy lever-stone hardly grazed his left shoulder as it swung ruinously down. He heard it carried high again, as he desperately halted the swing of his body by applying his boots and his free hand against the slick, ribbed wall. Clenching his teeth he felt the breath of the stone’s passage as it swung down again, drawn by its own weight. It continued to swing back and forth for some time as the grating roar of the descending slab died away in the half-darkness.
And it was a half-darkness, not the absolute blindness he had become accustomed to. In that instant, as his footing gave way, his whole world had changed. Hot steaming air surrounded him; the wall he clung to was slick with moisture; from somewhere beneath him there was a dim source of reddish light. As he hung there gasping he heard the echo speak.
Come down, then, come down. You must come down.
It was no illusion. He could smell the poison in the air, reminding him of Almeijn’s stained hair and haunting spell-lit eyes. The voice kept on speaking, calling him downward, inviting him to enter the den of a dragon.
You cannot go back. There is no other way for you, now. Come forward. Come now.
Morlock took in his surroundings. What the rumbling insidious voice said was untrue. He could go back. He saw that the ledge ran back under a tunnel entrance. . . . It must be the tunnel by which he had entered the Arches. He could edge around, hand over hand, and climb up there—go back the way he had come.
But he had not come here simply to go back. He’d guessed that at least one dragon from the guile had been stationed in the Runhaiar. He was only a thain; he had been sent to carry a message and to gather news. He could go back; he would not.
He looked, then, for ways to go down. The wall was sheer, except for the carven ribs. The drop to some kind of surface was something under twice Morlock’s own height. It gleamed wetly, but the light was dim and the surface seemed dark and motionless; he could not tell if it was water or wet stone. His skin crawled at the thought he might plunge over his head into water that had been stagnant underground for centuries. But it was the only way. He braced his feet for a solid fall, but took a deep breath as if he were diving; then he let his aching fingers relax.
The breath proved unnecessary. The surface splashed as he struck it, but the water was only a foot or two in depth. Morlock slumped against the wall for a few moments, taking deep breaths of the moist sickening air. Then he started as he felt a drop of cool water touch his face. He heard others fall in the water around him. When he concentrated he could see drops falling, red streaks against darkness in the dim light.