A Dragon-Lover's Treasury of the Fantastic

by Margaret Weis

  I did not flee. I pretend to no nobility of heart. I would have fled had I the power to move, had I been able to get my paralyzed limbs to take me back down the mountain. But I could not. So I hung, shaking and weeping in my terror.

  Alan moved again, hunching his shoulders, gathering his breath to speak. I could barely hear his words about the dragon’s steaming pant.

  “Poeir ti cloake, poeir for strengthū; ti ban faer!”

  His words were soft, quiet, but bore, even to my untutored ears, a power. Through the sting of my tears, through the darkness of my fear, I could see that his sword arm was bent under him in a way that no arm should bend.

  “Poeir ti cloake.” I barely saw his lips move, his eyes were squeezed tightly shut, whether to lock out the sight of the dragon or to lock in his concentration, I did not know.

  “Poeir for strengthū.”

  He asks for strength, I thought, and wondered how I knew. It was the language of magic which he spoke, a language foreign to me, and yet so haunting and familiar. I listened to Alan’s words, repeated them in my heart, and took faint strength from them.

  “Poeir a ban faer…” His voice was ragged and stumbling now.

  Power to banish fear…There was no lessening of the fear in my heart. Poeir ti ban faer, I repeated silently. And there was, faintly, a softening of the terror which had turned my limbs to stone.

  The beast turned its head as I watched, and the flame of its breath passed above us, close enough to scorch.

  “Poeir,” I whispered. “Poeir for strengthu!” Not for me, I begged silently, not for me! For Alan! Not breathing, not thinking of anything but Alan who lay at the feet of Death, I clambered upward, forcing my hands to grasp the crumbly shale, forcing my feet to find grips and hold them. I could barely control my limbs. Fear might have been lessened, but it was not banished. I stood upon the ledge and stumbled toward Alan.

  “Poeir,” I said, hearing my own voice as a weak croaking. Poeir ti ban faer, for strengthu!” The dragon reared back again, beat its wings against the sky, and darted suddenly downward, fangs gleaming in the sharp light of day.

  “Dragon! No! Dragon!” I screamed. I dropped to my knees beside Alan, and he twisted toward me, his face shaped by pain to one I hardly knew.

  “What word, m’lord? What word?”

  “Yield!” he gasped. “Gielden.”

  “Gielden!” I screamed. “Gielden!”

  The dragon paused, its eyes gleaming with dark hatred. Alan grasped my wrist. “A spell, boy. A spell.”

  A spell? I knew no spell! But the words I had heard him use, those which I had repeated, might be shaped into a spell, might they not? I took a long breath. “Bi min poeir, Dragon, gielden!”

  It did not yield, but it drew back. The words arrested its dripping fangs, stilled, for a precious moment, that downward swoop which would have ended Alan’s life. I leaped to my feet, scrambling in and under the enormous foreleg of the beast, running for Alan’s sword. The stench of the dragon rose up and staggered me.

  “Poeir ti ban faer.” This time my chant was supported by Alan’s voice. The ground beneath my feet seemed suddenly less solid, my breath was light in my chest. My head seemed filled with a tightening kind of light and fire. I darted beneath the dragon’s leg, my arm brushing against scales which felt like armor. I snatched up the sword which lay behind the leg of the beast, just below the enormous sweep of its chest. Whirling, I tossed it to Alan who caught it, fumbling, in his left hand.

  Spade-shaped and huge, the dragon’s scaled head lowered, darting in and down toward where I cowered beneath it. Venom and flame dripped from its fangs, huge black eyes glittered and whirled as it sought me.

  “Run, boy!” Alan cried. His voice was cracked with his pain, breaking up. There was an edge of desperate fear there. “Run, boy!”

  But I could not run. Run to where? A dash forward or to either side would bring the dragon’s huge head sweeping after me, fangs bared and seeking the taste of my blood. Where could I run?

  “Poeir ti ban faer,” I whispered. I was light with fear, and frozen with it. But as I spoke the words, I felt a part of me leaving, withdrawing from my body. Even as I realized this, I felt something new enter me, a power and a strange kind of strength which had nothing to do with strength of limb. It was a kind of strength of heart.

  I took the deepest breath I could in the dragon-reek, glanced at Alan who was climbing slowly to his feet. His face was white and strained with fear and pain. He hefted the sword in his left hand, not his sword hand for that arm was broken and dangling at a sickening angle.

  “Poeir,” he gasped.

  “Poeir,” I said after him. “Poeir for strengthū!” The dragon’s head was snaking closer, weaving back and forth now, seeking me and the best way to snatch at me.

  I am too near his leg, I realized, for him to risk a clear attack. Aye, and if I was behind the leg…I did not waste time on the thought, but darted behind the huge trunk of the foreleg. In the shadow of his leg and chest, I could hear the rumble of the bellow of rage which was working its way from the cavern of its throat. “Strike, m’lord! Strike now!”

  He did not need me to direct his stroke. There is a place just under the jaw, a tender and vulnerable place where the scales of a dragon’s armor do not quite overlap. It was that place Alan struck, thrusting his sword in with all the strength his left arm possessed.

  He cried aloud, whether from pain or triumph, I could not tell. The stink around us grew and doubled. Black blood, hissing and steaming as it felt the cool touch of the air, ran down the dragon’s neck.

  “Get out, boy!” And as he needed no instruction from me to strike, I needed no warning from him to flee. The air was filled with the death screams, screams which rose higher and louder, filling the air until they were not so much sounds as feelings, not so much heard with the ears but felt in every part of my body and mind.

  Out from under the bulk of the monster, crouching as close to the ledge of the cliff as I dared, I watched Alan follow up his advantage and strike again and again until the thing, its throat torn, its jugular in bloody shreds, reared a last time, blotting out the sun with the immensity of its bulk, and fell.

  That fall, that crashing weight, sent me sprawling face downward, retching from the death-stench. I looked up, wiped dirt and sickness from my mouth, and saw Alan wiping his sword upon his cloak.

  He stood, weaving upon legs which seemed about to fail him, caught his balance and looked back at me.

  “Heorte-cild,” he said, his eyes bright in his pain-drawn face. “Heorte-cild.”

  Heart’s child. The word’s were soft upon my heart. He staggered, stumbled once, and went into the dragon’s cave. Heart’s child. I do not know how long he was there, or what he did, for the thing that I called strength of heart had left me. My legs gave out and my sight grew dark. I fainted.

  He told me he was angry, over and over, as he wiped my face clean. He told me he would dismiss me, for he had no need of a servant who could not follow orders. I knew he did not mean it, for his ministrations were tender and his eyes belied all of his words. I helped him down the mountain when we were both steadier, leaving behind us the reek and stink of the dead monster.

  We did not find our horses until we were nearly a mile from the dragon’s mount. When we did, I tore the spare shirt in my pack into strips to bind Alan’s arm and form a rude sling. I helped him to mount carefully and led his horse while riding my own.

  I told him that it was a miracle that the animals had not died from fear. He told me it was a miracle that I had not died from my own stupidity—and what did I think I was about disobeying his explicit orders? Had we both been killed, who would have gone to the King?

  Alan looked at me then, and shook his head. “You do not understand.”

  “That is certain, m’lord. What did you seek in the dragon’s lair?”

  He smiled then and reached inside his cloak. He withdrew a small object, no larger than an egg. From
what I could see of it, it was a jewel, blue in color, and brilliant. But it did not seem valuable enough, as lovely as it was, to risk his life in the taking. He saw my judgment in my eyes.

  “No, it does not look like much, does it?”

  “It is beautiful. But no, I cannot think it worth your life, m’lord.”

  Alan laughed. “I assure you, boy, it is. I assure you that it would be worth the lives of a regiment to recover.”

  “But what is it, m’lord?”

  “What?” He tucked the jewel back inside his cloak and pretended surprise at my question. “Could you, the great sorcerer that you are, not be aware of what I carry?”

  “I am no sorcerer, m’lord,” I answered, knowing even then that my words could not be true. “I only tried to help.”

  He softened, then. “Aye, you are boy. And help you did.”

  I caught his meaning and shook my head again. Hope was balanced against fear. I could feel in memory the terrible feeling of draining and filling, that feeling that something I knew nothing about was lending strength to me. I shivered and told him that I only provided the distraction that he needed to kill the beast. But he did not agree.

  “There is power in you, boy. The discovery was painful. Aye, I know that. But by its discovery, you have saved others such pain.”

  Alan reached out his good hand and lifted my chin, his eyes finding mine and holding them. There was, in his own eyes, a light of satisfaction. But when he spoke his words were wry and amused. “I recognized you, boy, when I first saw you. It took time, though, for you to recognize yourself.”

  “And the jewel, m’lord?” I turned the subject purposely, not wanting to dwell upon the power and the things it took in exchange.

  His hand dropped to the place where the jewel lay within his cloak. “A key, boy. A simple key.”

  “To what, m’lord?”

  “Why to a treasure, of course.”

  I shook my head again. “It seems part of a treasure, not a key.”

  “Still, it is a key. It lay in legend as long as it lay in that dragon’s hoard. Some said it was real, some said it was a fable.”

  “What does it do?”

  He laughed aloud at that. Silently, he removed the jewel from its place of safety. “Put out your hand, boy.”

  Slowly I did. He dropped the jewel into my palm. It was cool and hard. But even as I thought it so, it began to gleam and grow warm. It took, quickly, the warmth of a living thing, and I knew that it should not have garnered the warmth of my own body that fast. Startled, I looked up.

  “It is warm, m’lord. And see how it glows!”

  Alan smiled, but it was not a smile of amusement, more one of gratification. He reached for the jewel again and let it sit, for a moment, in his own hand. It lost none of its glow.

  “This might have told you something many months ago, boy, had we had it then.”

  “What, m’lord?”

  “That you have the power. That you will make a good student.”

  “Student. What will I study?”

  “Much. And it may be that you will teach us, as well. We are a much-maligned brotherhood, those of us with the power. Tricksters, conjurers, dabblers in evil they call us.” He laughed and it was a bitter sound. “But that will change.”

  “How?”

  “With the help of the King. We will found an Order, an Order not of sorcerers and tricksters, but of men skilled in magic and of men who would seek the power to be found in truth.”

  “It is the King’s will?”

  “Aye, so it is. It is his mission you have saved, boy, as well as my own life. You will find us both grateful. They will call us tricksters no more, boy. They will call us wise men. Wizards.”

  Alan shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, and I knew that his arm pained him despite the bandage and sling that I had rigged. He gestured with his good hand and we stopped. He reached across the necks of our horses and placed his hand upon my shoulder. “You will be welcomed, boy, by the King.”

  “M’lord?”

  “Aye, you will be. You will study hard, and you will someday make a fine wizard, boy.”

  I stared at him. There was weariness in his voice and no prophecy. He spoke his words not in faith but from some sure knowledge. I, a wizard? I, part of a respected Order? I wondered what lay ahead to transform a thief and a servant into a wizard. But if he did not speak in faith, it was I who accepted in faith and in love.

  That day I was content to simply travel with him. It took us more than a month of journeying to reach the court of the King. During that time we stopped in the villages and towns, listened to the gossip, and he healed. His great treasure he kept ever close to him, never letting it go from the safety of its place in his cloak.

  It was upon that stone that our Order was founded. But it was not upon that stone that my own faith was founded. The base of my faith was Alan. I saw not, in those days, the founding of Orders. I saw only the beginning of a new place for me. And glimmering and new to me, I caught, through his eyes, and soon through my own, glimpses of my own soul: the soul I had feared he would take, the soul he had given me.

  Many have come after me, many have loved him as I did, for ever did he inspire the love of those souls he sought to uncover. I have watched, in wonder and joy, as he brought, one by one, slowly and carefully, the many boys into our Order who gave to it its strength and respected status. For me, however, those who came later were merely repetitions of the miracle that visited me that long-ago day.

  For I, once a thief, lately a servant, was, that day, a Wizard’s Boy.

  A HISS OF DRAGON

  Gregory Benford & Marc Laidlaw

  “Incoming dragon!” Leopold yelled, and ducked to the left. I went right.

  Dragons come in slow and easy. A blimp with wings, this one settled down like a wrinkled brown sky falling. I scrambled over boulders, trying to be inconspicuous and fast at the same time. It didn’t seem like a promising beginning for a new job.

  Leopold and I had been working on the ledge in front of the Dragon’s Lair, stacking berry pods. This Dragon must have flown toward its Lair from the other side of the mountain spire, so our radio tag on him didn’t transmit through all the rock. Usually they’re not so direct. Most Dragons circle their Lairs a few times, checking for scavengers and egg stealers. If they don’t circle, they’re usually too tired. And when they’re tired, they’re irritable. Something told me I didn’t want to be within reach of this one’s throat flame.

  I dropped my berrybag rig and went down the rocks feet first. The boulders were slippery with green moss for about 20 meters below the ledge, so I slid down on them. I tried to keep the falls to under four meters and banged my butt when I missed. I could hear Leopold knocking loose rocks on the other side, moving down toward where our skimmer was parked.

  A shadow fell over me, blotting out Beta’s big yellow disk. The brown bag above thrashed its wings and gave a trumpeting shriek. It had caught sight of the berry bags and knew something was up. Most likely, with its weak eyes, the Dragon thought the bags were eggers—off season, but what do Dragons know about seasons?—and would attack them. That was the optimistic theory. The pessimistic one was that the Dragon had seen one of us. I smacked painfully into a splintered boulder and glanced up. Its underbelly was heaving, turning purple: anger. Not a reassuring sign. Eggers don’t bother Dragons that much.

  Then its wings fanned the air, backward. It drifted off the ledge, hovering. The long neck snaked around, and two nearsighted eyes sought mine. The nose expanded, catching my scent. The Dragon hissed triumphantly.

  Our skimmer was set for a fast takeoff. But it was 200 meters down, on the only wide spot we could find. I made a megaphone of my hands and shouted into the thin mountain mist, “Leopold! Grab air!”

  I jumped down to a long boulder that jutted into space. Below and a little to the left I could make out the skimmer’s shiny wings through the shifting green fog. I sucked in a breath and ran off the end of t
he boulder.

  Dragons are clumsy at level flight, but they can drop like a brick. The only way to beat this one down to the skimmer was by falling most of the way.

  I banked down, arms out. Our gravity is only a third of Earth normal. Even when falling, you have time to think things over. I can do the calculations fast enough—it came out to nine seconds—but getting the count right with a Dragon on your tail is another matter. I ticked the seconds off and then popped the chute. It fanned and filled. The skimmer came rushing up, wind whipped my face. Then my harness jerked me to a halt. I drifted down. I thumped the release and fell free. Above me, a trumpeting bellow. Something was coming in at four o’clock and I turned, snatching for my blaser. Could it be that fast? But it was Leopold, on chute. I sprinted for the skimmer. It was pointed along the best outbound wind, flaps already down, a standard precaution. I belted in, sliding my feet into the pedals. I caught a dank, foul reek of Dragon. More high shrieking, closer. Leopold came running up, panting. He wriggled into the rear seat. A thumping of wings. A ceiling of wrinkled leather. Something hissing overhead.

  Dragons don’t fly, they float. They have a big green hydrogen-filled dome on their backs to give them lift. They make the hydrogen in their stomachs and can dive quickly by venting it out the ass. This one was farting and falling as we zoomed away. I banked, turned to get a look at the huffing brown mountain hooting its anger at us, and grinned.

  “I take back what I said this morning,” Leopold gasped. “You’ll draw full wages and commissions, from the start.”

  I didn’t say anything. I’d just noticed that somewhere back there I had pissed my boots full.

  I covered it pretty well back at the strip. I twisted out of the skimmer and slipped into the maintenance bay. I had extra clothes in my bag, so I slipped on some fresh socks and thongs.

  When I was sure I smelled approximately human, I tromped back out to Leopold. I was damned if I would let my morning’s success be blotted out by an embarrassing accident. It was a hirer’s market these days. My training at crop dusting out in the flat farmlands had given me an edge over the other guys who had applied. I was determined to hang on to this job.