A Guile of Dragons

by James Enge

  “You can’t be serious,” she said weakly. “I’m still bleeding.”

  “I’ll find you some healing on the way. But half the Graith are outside, waiting to see us to the border.”

  Borders. Marches. Moors. That lake on the moor where she and Merlin had met . . .

  She told him the name she was giving the boy, and Merlin laughed. “Your family and its Mor-names—Morgause, Morgan, Mordred . . .”

  “It’s what I want. It’s the last thing I’ll give him.”

  “You never know. You may meet again someday. Just a moment while I write a note to my friend.”

  He scribbled something on a sheet of paper and handed it to a thain standing nearby. “You’ll take this to my old friend, won’t you, Thain Maijarra?” he said. “I can’t command you anymore, but I hope you’ll do me the favor.”

  “As soon as you and the lady leave.”

  “You are implacable, young Guardian.”

  “I know my duty. Sir. If you knew yours, mine would be easier today. I don’t enjoy this kind of work.”

  “That is your mistake, young woman. Relish your life to the last bite. Even if it’s bitter, it has a kind of savor if it’s your own.”

  She didn’t answer him at all, and the old wizard turned to help his young trembling wife from her bloody bed of childbirth. They left the room together, hand in hand, not looking back.

  The child remained on the bed. His swaddling clothes were, in fact, smoldering slightly, but he wasn’t distressed by it. The room began to grow dark. The child cried out, giving tentative crowlike coughs. No one came. The child’s crying grew louder and less tentative. The room grew darker. Still no one came.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tyr’s Grasp

  On the one hand . . .

  Tyr syr Theorn’s face was gray as a piece of northern granite, and some people said it was about that expressive. Other Ilk, non-dwarves: they said that. Dwarves knew what each other were feeling well enough without winking and smirking about it. So when the news came to the Northhold that the Graith had arrested Merlin Ambrosius (hero of Tunglskin and harven kin to the Eldest of the Seven Clans under Thrymhaiam, that Merlin), Tyr only needed to say, “I think I’ll take a trip south,” and everyone knew what he meant. Everyone who mattered: those of his blood, both ruthen and harven. They brought weapons: weapons and tools to sell, for the dwarves of Northhold could sell anything of that sort they had made at any price they cared to set in any market in any world within sailing distance. Naturally, they brought weapons. And if they planned to use them, that was their business.

  It would be a fearful treason to draw blades against the Graith. They had been under the Guard for centuries now, and the long peace was welcome, welcome. But even before they were under the Guard, Merlin was their friend. He stood with them against the Dead Corain and their living armies. Merlin was their blood: harven coruthen, chosen-not-given. Those who harmed their blood would pay in blood. Blood for blood. It was their law, their way.

  But Merlin never called on them for help. His trial or whatever it was went on in the Station Chamber of the Graith, and the dwarves cannily bought and sold in the marketplace, and they waited patiently for any sign that Merlin wanted their help, but he never gave it. Maybe he didn’t want to enfold them in his troubles. Maybe he had forgotten them and their loyalty: it was long years since he had walked in their mountains. It didn’t matter. Their loyalty remained and so did they, buying and selling in the marketplace. And waiting.

  Then, in the evening of a certain day, a message came. It was addressed to Gryr syr Theorn, Tyr’s father. Tyr read it.

  My old friend, I am sorry to bring you in the shadow of my troubles.

  Tyr shook his head grimly at this. It was generous, but it wasn’t a dwarvish generosity. Merlin’s troubles were theirs by right, and he was denying them their fair share. Also, he had not bothered to learn (or to remember) that Oldfather Gryr had been dead and standing among those-who-watch for two hundred years. Never mind. He wrote now, and calling one of them by name he called them all. That was the dwarvish way.

  I am sent into exile—justly, I might add, so forego your thoughts of vengeance. But my son has just been born and the Graith allows me to leave him behind and be raised under the Guard. Few, if any, will actually take him into their home, of course. So I thought of you. If you will raise him for me and teach him something of the arts of making, I will be grateful. We must leave him in the birthing chamber in old Tower Ambrose, as the Graith is forcing me to leave the Wardlands this instant. The child’s name is Morlock Ambrosius, as mine is,

  MERLIN AMBROSIUS

  Tyr shook his head again. Grateful? He didn’t understand the word. Merlin’s blood was his blood; that was all. If Merlin didn’t understand that, Tyr sure as Canyon did.

  “Vetrtheorn,” he said, calling his eldest son to him. “I have an errand in the city. Band our folk together and pack up everything; we leave for the north when I return.”

  Vetrtheorn never spoke two words where none would do, so he nodded. Tyr, who would have enjoyed a conversation every now and then with one of his sons, shrugged and walked away into town.

  Tower Ambrose was dark and empty when Tyr reached it. For centuries its retainers had been dwindling; Merlin seemed determined to be the last of the Ambrosii, and he had spent much of his life roaming the face of the world or strange byways in the Sea of Worlds. Now those last few retainers had fled, their loyalty blasted by the decree of Merlin’s exile. Tyr spat into the street, ritually cursing their unknown names. Loyalty that was conditional, that could be broken by ill fortune or ill fame, was mere treason-in-waiting as far as Tyr was concerned.

  Tyr had never been in the birthing chamber of Tower Ambrose. He took a coldlight from a pocket in his left sleeve and tapped it against a wall to activate the lumen. By its cold grayish light he proceeded to search the tower room by room.

  He was well into the fourth story before he found Morlock at last. He almost missed the child, who had fallen asleep among the blankets. But there was smoke and the scent of blood in the room, and Tyr remembered what his father had told him about the blood of Ambrose: that it was latent with fire. Coming near the childbed, Tyr saw the still shape of the child. On his first approach Tyr thought it might be dead. But then the child opened his eyes in the gray light and croaked wearily.

  “Well, then, youngling!” said Tyr. “You’ve had a long day, no doubt, and I see you’re tired. Hungry and thirsty, too, I guess. God Creator. What do babies of your Other Ilk eat, I wonder?” He thought about the provisions they had back at their lodgings: travel-food mostly—flatbread, smoked landfish, gnurr-sausage. That would never do. Maybe they could buy some milk in the city? He believed Other Ilk children ate milk, or perhaps it was cheese. He would get some of both and see what worked.

  In the meantime there was a bottle of water handy, so Tyr soaked a twisted cloth in the water and offered it to the child. The baby seized the cloth in his long strong fingers and eagerly squeezed the water into his mouth.

  “That’s the boy!” remarked Tyr approvingly. “Canyon keep us, have you got teeth in there, already? And hair all over your head like a rug. Either everything I knew about babies is wrong, or you’re an odd one.” The dwarf offered his new son another rag drenched in water and watched him drink.

  “Well, little Morlocktheorn, harven coruthen, we had better go meet your brothers. They’ll be surprised and glad to know you, I’ve no doubt. I am myself.” He tucked the coldlight into a buttonhole of his jacket, picked up the baby, and twirled him into a blanket. The baby squawked with surprise and dismay, but didn’t otherwise complain. Tyr guessed that the boy and Vetrtheorn were destined to have some long, mostly silent conversations: here Tyr was acquiring another taciturn son in his garrulous old age.

  When he turned to go, he saw that they were not alone. A tall red-cloaked figure stood in the door: long ice-white hair falling past her shoulders, ice-white scars seaming her face, ice-blu
e eyes stabbing at Tyr through the shadows.

  “You’d be the vocate Noreê, I guess,” Tyr said. “I greet you.”

  “Give me that child, whoever you are.”

  “Who I am is Tyr syr Theorn, Eldest of the Seven Elders under Thrymhaiam. This child is my son harven coruthen, chosen-not-given. I do not unchoose my children.”

  “That child is an Ambrosius, and I will see them expunged from this realm. The old one is gone; Earno will see him over the border. When I realized the child was left behind I came for it. Give it to me.”

  “No.”

  “You say you know who I am. Then you know I do what I set out to do.”

  “A noble deed, then—the death of a child.”

  “For the safety of this realm I would kill armies of children.”

  “Then the Canyon take you and your realm, madam.”

  She took a step into the room. “It’s the child that must go to the canyon at the world’s dark heart, and you will join it there if you don’t surrender it to me.”

  Tyr backed away as she stepped forward. “You’re wrong to do this,” he said. “Your peers on the Graith of Guardians will be displeased.”

  “When the thing is done, they’ll find a way to live with it. So will you. So will I. Let it go. Give it to me.”

  “Blood for blood is dwarvish law. There is no price for blood. If you want peace in your realm, leave the dwarves alone. We fight for those of our blood, whether given or chosen.”

  “But the child is not of your blood. It is—what do you say? It is of the Other Ilk. Let it go. It must sicken you to be near it.”

  “Like all fanatics, madam, you suffer from the delusion that everyone secretly shares your opinions. You may be sickened and frightened by this child, but I’m not. He’s an ugly little monster, I admit, but look at those hands! He’ll be some kind of maker, if he has half his father’s talent. Anyway, he is my blood, chosen-not-given.”

  “Are you trying to talk me out of this? You can’t talk me out of it. Are you hoping that someone will come to save you? No one is coming to save you. The partisans of the Ambrosii have fled.”

  “No, madam. One remains.”

  “I am Noreê of the Gray Hills. Do you understand? I killed two of the Dark Seven with my own hands, a third with my blade. I will have that child.” She was halfway into the room now, and Tyr stood with his back to the wall, next to the window.

  “No,” he said simply. “You will not.”

  “I think I can take it without killing or maiming you. I would rather do so. It is true that the dwarves would avenge any harm done to you. But not to that thing. Give it to me, or fight for it: I’m done talking.”

  The dwarvish Elder shook his head, reflecting that Noreê, had, as fanatics usually do, overlooked several options, including the one he’d had in mind from the start of this confrontation.

  Tyr jumped through the open window beside him and fell four stories down to the street. He landed on his feet, of course, and the pavement shattered beneath them. But none of his bones broke: he was a dwarf, and he had made his shoes with his own hands.

  The child was crying. He was badly jarred, and it wasn’t impossible that some of his bones were broken: the Other Ilk were strangely fragile. “Listen, young Morlock,” Tyr told the weeping child. “If that’s the worst thing that ever happens to you, count yourself blessed.”

  Morlock’s new father tucked him into his elbow and ran off at a wolf’s pace through the darkness to the edge of the city where his kith were waiting. They would leave for the north instantly. Even Noreê would not dare come as an aggressor to the Northhold. And the child would never leave the north and return to these soft child-killing holds of the south ever again, not if Tyr had anything to say about it. Young Ambrosius could live out a long quiet life among his harven people and all would be well. Tyr believed that. He insisted on it. All would be well.

  On the other hand . . .

  Twelve years later he was still insisting that all would be well, but the insistence had grown a little weary. The night Morlock blew up his workroom, the insistence nearly gave way.

  First there was the explosion itself. Tyr awakened groggily to the sound of glass trumpets and screams. He jumped from his nest as soon as he recognized the call. He hadn’t heard it in hundreds of years, not since he was a child learning the words and songs from his father’s father’s brother, Oldfather Khust. But he had never forgotten it: it meant, Dragons are attacking.

  He threw a blanket around himself, ran out into the halls, and turned down into the corridor vomiting out the loudest noise. There he found Underguide Naeth presiding over a full-blown riot of his kin, screaming, “They’re coming! They’re coming! They’re here!”

  “Naeth, stop that noise and talk to me,” Tyr said. He did not raise his voice, but somehow everyone present heard him and fell silent, waiting for the Eldest’s word. Fear of the ancient enemy was blood-deep in them, but loyalty was their bone.

  “There is a fire, and the inner walls are breaking. That Other Ilk is part of it. I saw him there, basking in the fire like a dragon. I saw him.”

  “Are you speaking of my harven son—your kin, chosen-not-given?”

  “I didn’t choose him. And—”

  “But I did. His ruthen father saved our people from the Dead Corain before your grandfather was born. If you slander his-son-and-mine again, you will pay the price. I have spoken.” Tyr’s right hand clenched into a fist before his chest.

  Naeth bowed his head, abashed at the mention of his grandfather, a dwarf whose sons were all harven coruthen.

  “Can anyone talk sense to me?” Tyr demanded.

  “No,” said a brassy voice. “But I saw it. I can tell you what happened.”

  Tyr’s eyes focused on the downy-bearded dwarf who had spoken. A youngster—perhaps not even thirty. One of his maternal uncle’s great-grandsons: Deor was the child’s name.

  “Tell me then, Deortheorn.”

  The young dwarf bowed, flattered that the Eldest had remembered his name—but not overwhelmed. He started right in talking.

  “Your harven son and Naeth had an argument about a seedstone he was working on. I didn’t understand what they were saying, but I stayed around to listen because he never talks that much about anything, so I figured it must be important. Morlock, I mean: he’s not one to talk. Anyway, Naeth dismissed us to the sleepbenches for the midnight nap, but I noticed Morlock get up and sneak off. I figure he’s going back to work on his seedstone, so after a while I get up and follow him, because, you know.”

  “You like to know things,” Tyr suggested.

  “Right! Anyway. I was spying on him, I guess, so I didn’t want him to know I was spying on him—”

  “That follows.”

  “—so I followed him, but not too close. Back to his workbench he goes, and he’s talking to himself all the time in at least three languages, none of which was ours. He spent some time at his bench—I think he was inscribing something on the seedstone. When all of a sudden it blossomed.”

  “The seedstone blossomed while he was at the workbench.”

  “He was holding it in his hand.”

  “Sustainer.” Tyr was envisioning a funeral and a very difficult letter he would have to write to Morlock’s ruthen parents.

  “It lifts him up—whoosh! like a tidal wave—and smacks him against the wall. There was a lot of fire and smoke. I tried to reach him, but it was too hot.”

  “He’s probably dead anyway.”

  “Oh, he’s not dead. I heard him talking to himself. He said something like, ‘How can I draw a shape without any lines? What if the ur-shape moves like water over time?’ And other stuff I couldn’t understand. Actually, I can’t understand any of that stuff.”

  “Hm.” Neither did Tyr, but there was no point in saying so. “Take me to him, or as near as you can.”

  The young dwarf led the old one deeper into the earth, to a corridor filled with smoke that was slow to dispe
rse. The air was hot, and as they came to the portal of the bachelors’ workroom the blast was like a furnace.

  “Eldest,” said Deor hesitantly.

  Before the youngster could say anything more, Tyr said, “Wait here. If I don’t come out with Morlock soon, go get Vetr and tell him what has happened.”

  “Eldest—”

  “There is a time for talking and a time for doing. I have told you what to do.” Without waiting for a reply, Tyr stepped into the burning room.

  The pattern of the fire was wild—like snakes on the ground, like cracks in the earth. It was not spreading, except in one corner at the back of the room where the walls were crumbling as the fire crept up them, blood-bright ivy. The Eldest sidled along the walls of the chamber and avoided the worst of the fires. It was not as bad as cave-leaping over the lava rivers of the Westway underroads. Tyr had done that often in his reckless youth. Now he was not reckless: he never took a risk without a reason.

  Soon he saw, through the red murk, his harven son hunching over something. He was holding whatever-it-was still on the floor with his feet, working on it with a diamond stylus held in his left hand. His right arm hung at his side, limp as liver-noodles—which the fingers of his right hand, in fact, strongly resembled: liver-noodles that had been smashed with a hammer.

  “Harven Morlock,” Tyr called, when he had approached as close as he could. “Come here. We must leave this place.”

  Morlock shook his head and muttered.

  “There is danger,” Tyr insisted. “The walls are giving way.”

  “I know! I know!” the boy shouted. “Unpatterning doesn’t eat the fire, so I’m rescripting the pattern at the gemstone’s core.”

  “We can take care of that later. Your hand needs tending to, by the look of it.”

  “There is no later. The fire won’t stop unless I stop it. Shut up, won’t you shut up? I have to hold the shifting ur-shapes in my mind!”

  Tyr suspected the boy was irrational, although he found it hard to tell with Other Ilk in general and Morlock in particular. He thought about throwing something to knock the boy out and then dragging him out of there somehow. On the other hand, there was some chance that Morlock, crazy or not, knew what he was doing.