Guile of Dragons, A

by James Enge

  Morlock lay in the dark among the ruined timbers of a burned building. A few stray fumes floated upward in the darkness, until they were brilliantly lanced by the crossed light of the major moons. But it wasn't the building smoldering; it was him.

  He tried to remember things but could not. Had he delivered the challenge? He remembered the sound of his own voice screaming hatred or defiance, then the rush of flames that swept him off his feet. . . . Had that been Saijok Mahr? Or Vild Kharum? Then he had to ask himself: who is Vild Kharum?

  The master of the guile, he answered himself immediately. It seemed as if he had known this for a long while, but he couldn't remember when he had learned it. He had not known the name that morning (which morning?) when he stepped into the light and Haukrull vale. He remembered walking slowly up the valley . . . after that it became confused. He didn't want to remember. There was something horrible in those events, something he refused to remember.

  He clenched his teeth and retook the journey step by step.

  At first it was as if nothing had changed in the valley. He saw scattered maijarra trees in bloom. There were blackirons and brightirons, the ashen glow of the brightirons radiant amid the unpolished ebony of their darker cousins. There was even a line of rare coppers, crookedly following a vein of ore, their leaves alive with unearthly colors in the autumnal light.

  “Maijarra are weeds,” the Eldest Tyr had told him long ago, “and enough of them can ruin a mountain, plowing through the underpinnings for veins of metal.”

  “They’re pretty weeds, though,” Morlock had remarked, to which the Eldest responded with an incredulous grunt.

  There was a maijarra forest along the northern edge of Haukrull vale where the Eldest’s statement was proved literally true: maijarra roots had dug into the fabric of the range and collapsed an entire mountain. The Other Ilk in Haukrull were always taking up a campaign to exterminate the maijarra in Haukrull, as the Seven Clans long ago had done on Thrymhaiam. They had not advanced very far, however. A mature maijarra is very difficult to kill.

  Topping a rise, Morlock saw for the first time evidence of the dragons in Haukrull. In the deep depression between two outflung arms of Mount Gramer he saw a long, torn, burned space, dead black against the dying gold of the grass. He advanced cautiously down the slope, but he was sure the ruin had been wreaked some time ago: there was no smoke, no flower of steam opening in the air, no feeling of heat from the jagged black earthen scar as he approached it.

  Before he had reached it (it sprawled unavoidable across his northward path) he saw more signs of the dragons. A hole had been blown out of Gramer’s side, so that the two arms of the mountain formed a sort of sunken road leading to this door. And it was a door: great slabs of stone formed the threshold, doorposts, and lintel. The door was large enough to admit a giant—or a dragon. He had to think of Saijok Mahr, dwelling in the depths of the Runhaiar, and he guessed this was the entrance to his den. He would have gone no nearer, but he saw there was writing on the doorposts.

  He went halfheartedly, reluctantly, expecting at any moment the appearance of Saijok’s flaming wolflike head in the dark doorway. The air flowing from it carried a poisonous stench. But it was cool; the poison had been exhaled long ago. There was no dragon near, or so he guessed. Holding an edge of his cape over his mouth to screen out the poison, he went forward.

  The left-hand doorpost was covered with carven words and crudely executed reliefs. The right-hand post bore nothing but a crooked line of runic letters, too far up for Morlock to be able to distinguish them. But much of the writing on the other post Morlock found to be readable. The lettering was Dwarvish, and so, too, was much of the language, though of a strange and archaic kind. The script was thick with non-Dwarvish words, also. Some of these he recognized; others he did not. There was the word kharum, for instance: the Anhikh word for “ruler of a city” or “king.” Yet it always appeared, in the inscriptions, beside another word, vild, which Morlock did not recognize.

  In the bright empty morning, he stood before the written stone and read it through. The inscription told of a battle between Saijok Mahr and this vild kharum who, from the reliefs, was also a dragon. The battle had been interrupted, according to the reliefs, by a horde of batlike creatures. Although the inscription at this point became unreadable, Morlock guessed that the bats represented lesser dragons, allies or servants of the vild kharum. In contrast, the blankness of the right-hand stone now seemed more than a little ominous—as if it represented a yet-unwritten revenge against the vild kharum and its allies.

  He was disturbed that these creatures, who clearly hated each other as much as or more than they hated the rest of the world, should use a language so clearly akin to that of his own people. Perhaps they had stolen it: clearly they were all born thieves and marauders, taking what they were unable to make. This could be true for words, he supposed, as well as anything made from silver or gold. Perhaps it could.

  He turned back to the inscription for a moment. Studying the runes, he found them crookedly carved. The reliefs were indeed coarsely imagined and poorly executed. But he was convinced that the work had been done by tools held in hands: he could see the marks where a hammer had missed its stroke, where a chisel had gone astray. The tools might have been obtained in Haukrull, but he did not think any of the Other Ilk had done the carving; it was too inept and outlandish. He thought of the manlike beast that drifted dead in the dragon’s pool. But how had such an outlandish creature come into the Wardlands? Astride a dragon’s back?

  Buried in thought he climbed the long hill before him. Before he reached its height he heard a loud roar and the rasp of wings on the air. A shadow fell between him and the sun.

  There were three of them: a mud-colored dragon with a collar of iron and two great golden dragons with bronze collars. When they fell on him he raised his cape as a token and cried out that he had an embassy to the master of the guile. Each one flew over him, and they landed forming a triangle around him. The wind from their wingbeats knocked him to the ground, but he leapt up again and demanded that they take him to their master.

  And they did. The mud-colored dragon was sent ahead as a messenger while the two great golden worms walked on either side of Morlock. Somehow he expected them to be as graceless on the ground as they were lithe in the air, but it wasn’t so. He was always conscious of their weight as they strode beside him, yet it was not because they lumbered. They were agile, glittering, silent and swift. The earth shuddered beneath their feet when they walked, but he felt his own footfalls were louder than theirs. It was his own gasps that broke the silence as he struggled to keep pace with them.

  They passed by the Pilgrims’ Gate to the Runhaiar, where Lernaion and his companions had walked, but in his exertions Morlock failed to notice anything that would have confirmed or disproved Almeijn’s story. They passed by the town Haukrull—as ruined as Almeijn had described it, or worse. He saw that there were dozens of open fires in the upper valley even now.

  Morlock had just noticed this when the dragon on his left turned and spoke its first words to him.

  Go through the guile, it said, in Wardic. Vild Kharum you will know by the Triple Collar that he wears, and that he lies upon the hoard.

  Then both dragons leapt into the air. Their wingbeats struck Morlock off his feet again. He watched them trail arcs of smoke through the evening sky and settle down in the upper valley, adding two more fires to the many (fifty? a hundred?) already burning there.

  He got to his feet and walked on. He took his time. He didn’t suppose the dragons would be patient, but he had walked all day at a bitter pace; he must not arrive out of breath. Shallow breath means a broken message, went the thain’s axiom; he must deliver the challenge.

  Walking into the fields afire with the guile of dragons, he found the air increasingly thick with smoke, steam, and the taste of venom. The sound of the dragons’ massed breathing was like the earth sighing in the Firehills of the northwest: not loud, or
itself dangerous, but an omen of sudden dangers.

  He heard them speaking with each other as he walked among them. At first the harsh resonant words were so much noise to him. But as he advanced he realized he could understand bits and pieces. Their spoken language was also a kind of Dwarvish, even more outlandish and corrupt than the script on Saijok Mahr’s doorpost. In the language of his harven kin, Morlock heard the dragons making wagers for his bones.

  I will take the left leg from Kharum.

  Not. Not.

  Stake me! I have twenty; give me twenty.

  Not. The bone for the gold, only.

  I will show you the bone and take your gold.

  Done. But it will not be.

  Morlock walked on, wondering. This was not what he had imagined a guile to be. He had never really imagined one, he realized, except as a submissive band of acolytes following their master. The flight of batlike creatures on Saijok’s doorpost was hardly less lifelike than the image in Morlock’s mind.

  The Triple Chain. I would not wear it.

  Yes: not. As I live, not.

  You claim it? You? You sang a different song at Ghânfell Assembly.

  I claim nothing, not. But I am a master and no member. . . .

  It was almost what Saijok Mahr had said. Morlock saw then that they were indeed all masters. They all wore collars of power. There was no mystery about Saijok now. Clearly he was a rogue who refused to accept the overlordship of Vild Kharum. And there seemed to be many in the guile who were almost as openly rebellious.

  . . . the Softclaws at Thrymhaiam.

  Runshav King, you fear the Little Cousins.

  They killed Gharlan Jarl. I saw them smashing his teeth by the southern gate.

  He was a red. Reds breathe hot, but their bellies are soft.

  Vild is a red.

  I saw his belly bleeding after we had driven off Saijok Mahr.

  Morlock walked on. It was as though he were invisible to these hulking smoke-wrapped figures. He walked though their fires and was not burned. He heard their words and understood them, although they did not know or care. As he approached the pile of treasure on which the master dragon lay, like a red lizard sunning itself in the day’s last light, he understood something else. Earno’s challenge was an error. If the summoner came here he would be taken captive or killed, even if he conquered this Vild Kharum. There was no real master to this guile of masters—not in the sense that Earno knew. These followed a leader, but they would not be dismayed at his fall. Each would welcome its own chance at the Triple Collar.

  The Triple Collar. He saw it now: lead-colored metal hammered into subtle links, wrapped around Vild’s long serpentine neck. He advanced the last few steps toward the master of this guile of masters. The sun was on the crooked eastern horizon; its light faded with Morlock’s every step. But in the light that remained, including the dragons’ own fire, he examined the Triple Collar.

  It was, he saw at once, as different as could be from the collars of the other dragons. Those were badly formed adaptations; some, like that of the dragon slain at Southgate (Gharlan Jarl?), were merely iron chains crudely fused and partly coated with precious metal. But Vild’s collar was no mere chain; its linkages were subtle, and he could see the gleam of etching on its flat dull plates (though whether images or symbols he could not tell). He was certain that no dragon could have made the Triple Collar. But it had been made for a dragon; that was also obvious. By whom? And why?

  He drew to a halt, his head bowed with weariness and frustration. Then he raised it, drew a breath, and opened his mouth, Earno’s death sentence on his lips. He didn’t speak it. Everything seemed so futile. Earno had counted on their unity, and it was their division that would give them victory. It made them seem invincible. All his life he had been taught that division was weakness; it was hard to grasp that it could be a kind of strength as well. But when he saw this, he also saw (madly and irrelevantly) it was the strength that guarded the Wardlands. Division guaranteed that everyone would be strong.

  But the guile of masters was different from this. They were like his ruthen father. They settled for division, but each one dreamed of unity, longing for the unity of its own undisputed dominance. Those dreams of unity were the weakness in their division. The thought lightened Morlock’s heart. He spoke at last. He spoke from his heart to theirs. He was inspired.

  “Masters of the Blackthorn Range!” he cried in the Dwarvish language. His thainish training was not wasted: the upper valley rang with his voice. “I bring a message from your peers and enemies, the Graith of Guardians—”

  The rumble of draconic voices behind him rose to a tumult.

  Silence! the master dragon roared. And silence fell. They might hate him, but still they feared him. Why? It would be worth knowing, but Morlock felt he would never know. He raised his eyes and deliberately met those of Vild Kharum. He saw those red-gold slotted eyes narrow and intensify to fire-bright clarity. Silence, Vild repeated, exerting his power of fascination. The word hung in the steam-thick darkening air, creating the thing it named.

  Morlock waited, until he was sure every dragon in the guile knew its master was attempting to place a spell on him. He hoped it would fail, as Saijok’s had failed in the Runhaiar. When he knew it had, he raised his voice and cried out, “Go forth from this land, now under the Guard, or prepare to be hunted down one by one for your crimes against the Guarded—”

  He got no further. From the moment the master dragon saw his spell had not taken he began to prepare his answer—an unanswerable one. Vild rose to his crooked hind legs and threw back his wings, drawing air deep into his fiery lungs, the sunken serpentine chest expanding to three times its normal width. Finally the wolflike jaw lowered, and he roared down flame on the thain.

  Morlock’s last word crumbled to an unintelligible scream of defiance as he saw the flames lance forward between Vild’s dark fangs. The flame swept forward and hurled itself about him, carrying him off his feet, throwing him backward. Wrapped in red light and poison, Morlock lost consciousness.

  That was all there was. That was all that was necessary to take him from the Runhaiar to the wreckage of Haukrull, where he now guessed himself to be. He supposed he had fallen among the remains of an outlying house. That was all there was.

  Except . . . (he admitted it reluctantly to himself) there was more. It was impossible, as if he had grown new memories, like mushrooms, as he lay unconscious in the dark. Perhaps they were just dreams. Certainly they were quite strange.

  He remembered standing in a faraway place, having an insane argument with a voice that spoke to him from a cloud of bright unburning flames, demanding recognition. It was as if he had to explain something to the flames. He felt he should explain, but he couldn’t think of what. And every now and then the flames would suggest something but when he eagerly began to respond dismissed his statement imperiously.

  Morlock!

  “Morlock is dead, I think. He was dying when I last saw him—” He felt a sharp stabbing relief that Morlock’s problems were not his own.

  Merlin!

  “There is no Merlin.”

  Ambrosius!

  “From the Unspoken tongues—the surname of a famous family of Eastholders—now extinct.”

  Syr Theorn!

  He knew this name of course. Theornn, in Dwarvish legend, was the eponymous ancestor of the group of clans that excavated and still inhabited Thrymhaiam. It was an easy question to answer; he could have answered without shame. But he didn’t answer. The thought of Thrymhaiam suffused him with guilt. Earno was at Thrymhaiam, and he had failed to deliver his challenge. Worse than failed: had chosen not to. Indeed for reasons that seemed good. But that made it worse than ever: who was he to disregard the commands of the Dragonkiller? He was a worthless thain. Or was that Morlock? Surely it was Morlock who had done that? Still, obscurely, he felt responsible, as if he ought to explain for Morlock who was, after all, surely dead now.

  “Earno . . .”
>
  He was cut off by a burst of wordless anger, more painful than Vild’s fire, dissolving his fragmented sense of identity. What was Earno to him? That fool. He had tried to warn him, but it had done no good ever since that summons to Tychar—

  Shocked by the alien thoughts coursing through his mind (but were they alien? this anger had a familiar feel to it) he was most troubled by the fact that he could not remember the summons to Tychar. The very thought of it was charged with importance, but he did not remember it. He tried to remember and met resistance. He brushed this aside and seized the relevant memories. They rushed down on him, like an avalanche through the bright unburning flames.

  . . . because she was useless: there was a madness in her from her mother.

  He went in underneath the trees, the densely intertwined boughs with their sparse blue-black leaves covering his white mantle with darkness. That made him think (again!) of the day Nimue had betrayed him to Earno. Much had begun and ended on that day!

  For a long time he walked north through the winterwood. From the slope of the rugged ground and occasional glimpses of the dim horizon in clearings, he knew he was coming closer to the Blackthorn Range.

  Finally he came to a clearing where the sky was not visible, only a high dome of dimly glowing white mist. A lake of the same lay before him. He sat down at the edge of the clearing, resting his crooked shoulders against an only slightly more crooked tree trunk. He found his thoughts turning not to Faith, or Ambrosia, or even Nimue, but to his son who—there came a part he did not wish to remember, that he refused to remember.

  His legs gave way and he fell to his knees before the Two Powers.

  “Our war makes the world that you know,” said the white Presence on the black throne. (Torlan? Or Zahkaar?) “Your disbelief is as irrelevant as your belief would be. Our existences do not require your belief.”