A Guile of Dragons (25 page)

The senior thain sat behind a long table, flanked by two “lieutenants.” A golden triangle hung around his neck on a light chain. There was a row of green-strapped watch-thains around the wall of the large semicircular room. They were unarmed, but their presence was threatening; probably the threat was intentional. Morlock clenched his teeth.

All in the room had heard the exchange with the door-ward. Some of the subordinates looked concerned, but the senior thain was unruffled.

“Make your report, Thain,” he said briskly. “You're young Ambrosius, aren't you? Go on.”

After a pause, Morlock replied carefully, “I am not under your authority.”

“Never mind that; there's precedent. A number of Lernaion's party have accepted my authority.”

“I was not with Lernaion.” Morlock paused again, then continued reluctantly, “I speak for the summoner Earno.”

For the first time the senior thain looked disturbed. “Nevertheless . . .”

“Put that aside!” Morlock broke in. “Why have you put Guardians in authority over the Guarded? Why have you created badges of rank for your peers? Have you invented oaths of allegiance to go with them?” He saw from the open fear among the watch-thains that this guess had struck home. All these things were violations of the First Decree.

He pressed on, quietly but with increasing anger, “Why have you compelled people in flight from disaster to inhabit this death trap, under pain of starvation? When did you first learn of the invasion of dragons? And why did you fail to raise the alarm throughout the north—throughout the Wardlands?”

His emotion had gotten the upper hand of his breath control; he had to pause to draw in air, then continued. “Answer all of these questions or none of them. I am not your superior. But I go on to Thrymhaiam, where the summoner awaits my return.”

Now the senior thain looked confident, even smug, again. “You won't find that an easy journey. But, although I admit some of my procedures are novel, all that I have done I have done to guard the Guarded. Indeed, if the crisis is of prolonged duration, I hope to—that is, it may be necessary to institute similar reforms throughout the Wardlands. No one is kept here under duress, you see. Those who choose to stay are allowed to present their petitions, in an orderly manner, every fifth day, time permitting. Further, I could hardly have done better than to, well, encourage these townfolk to take refuge in this well-guarded fortress. As a newcomer I think you can hardly appreciate the difficulties involved in organizing a response to an emergency of this magni—”

Morlock felt his anger breaking through its restraints. “The Northtower is not a fortress. It is a farmhouse and a training station. It was built a century after the north came under the Guard and has never faced an enemy—until now.”

“Then how do you explain—”

“I am not here to explain anything. But I tell you that a single dragon in its fury could lay this building's foundations bare to the sky.”

“The tower has protected us so far,” the senior thain insisted. “The dragons do not even dare to attack us!”

“Dragons do not eat flatbread and dried meat. To them it is chicken feed. And this is their henhouse. Like chickens you eat and strut and fight among yourselves and maintain your strictest protocol. And one day, when you are sufficiently fat, the dragons will smash your walls and pluck you, wriggling, from the rubble—”

“Take them out,” said the senior thain in an iron voice. “Put that thain under restraint with the others—for the safety of the Guarded.”

“Out? Out?” Trua muttered. “Out or in, this is land of me and mine. These stones were quarried from Thrymhaiam's sides, and bought or sold they were not ever. This fellow and I have the voice to claim this tower back. Decree of the Graith, you wand-wavers!”

Morlock gripped her by the forearm. “Trua! You are half-right.”

“So much? I think you're getting soft, Elder Brother.”

“I can't speak for Thrymhaiam. But you can reclaim the land for Haukrull. So you must.”

“What? Morlock, I was just talking. Father of yours would forgive me never, if I let them lock you up.”

“Locks are nothing. You must take the provisions from the tower and go into the maijarra woods. Otherwise you'll die.”

“So what? Morlock, I'm tired. The people are tired. Toron my own is dead. So are half of the Women Old. We don't want to fight folks of our own.”

“So what? So what?” Morlock said wearily. “So Toron died like a hero so you could live like a slave?”

Shock lit up Trua's faded features like lightning. They became tense with grief and anger as the shock wore away, finally settling into a look of calm suspicion as she regained control of herself. “Strike me,” she said, “for forgetting you, Elder Brother. You were the trader worst that Thrymhaiam ever sent east of the Haukr. But you got people's attention, and your goods, they sold themselves.”

“Then.”

“Your slang Dwarvish! Toron died in his bed, Morlock, because I was too afraid to go back into the house and warn him. Instead I ran away. Now, though, I am tired of running.”

Morlock shrugged and looked away. The public nature of Trua's confession embarrassed him more than its content. Anyone with any sense would run from a dragon.

“Mind it, don't,” Trua said. “Too long I've let that hobble me. Go back to Thrymhaiam, Morlock; tell them you sold the goods.”

Morlock took this literally as a dismissal. He did not suppose she would ever forgive what he had said to her; he found it hard to see why she should. But there was one more thing he could do before he left. He went to the door of the room and opened it. To the expectant crowd outside he cried in full voice, “Trua of the Women Old has words for witnesses.”

In the moment of silence that followed this traditional call to a Haukrull town meeting Morlock saw that the door-ward had taken off his silver circle of rank. Then the members of the crowd began to well forward through the door, their voices clashing like spears against shields.

Morlock made his way through the crowd around the door and down the suddenly empty hallway. The refectory was in the basement, he knew; he had often travelled between here and the Lonetower. The stairway leading down was full of voices, some of them very angry now, but he met no one as he descended.

Morlock had a bad night. He drank a good deal of water—his throat burned with an incredible thirst—but when food was brought to him he found he could eat almost nothing. He drank some broth, but even that felt like stone in his stomach, and finally came back up glistening dark with venom. After vomiting he felt better, but he decided against eating again. He bedded down in the storeroom with the provisioner's blessing. His sleep was troubled with ugly dreams, but he awoke only once, when Trua's people came to take charge of the stores.

Awareness took hold as he recognized the provisioner's sweaty face hanging over him, like a ceiling tile about to fall.

“Morlock, tell them!” he pleaded obscurely.

Morlock propped himself up on one elbow and looked around blearily. The small room was full of townfolk. At least he recognized some of them from the old days in Haukrull; none wore thainish gray.

“They've come to take me away,” the provisioner said. “I had no rank. I gave out the rations as I was told. I'm just a provisioner.”

“What is it?” Morlock asked, of no one in particular.

“Trua Old has reclaimed the Northtower for Haukrull and Thrymhaiam,” said one, a woman in a brown cloak. “All stores raised on Haukrull land revert to the care of the Women Old. One of us will take over here. Meanwhile, the Women Old wish to speak with all the thains.”

Morlock began to sit up. “Except you,” the woman in brown said hastily. Morlock was perversely tempted to insist. But he was very tired, and equally reluctant to identify with these renegades.

“Go with them, Rhume,” he said. “Trua Old won't let you be hurt. Remember me to her. . . .”

He must have slept then; he remembered nothing else. The next morning the townwoman in charge of the storerooms willingly issued him a change of clothes and a water bottle. She was more reluctant to surrender a thain's cloak, but Morlock pressed the point and she gave in.

Later that morning Trua met Morlock at the tower door. She was wearing the senior thain's golden triangle.

“Spoils of the hunt,” she said curtly, when she noticed Morlock glancing at it. “So you're going to Thrymhaiam really?”

Morlock nodded.

“As walks go, a longish,” she remarked.

It was, perhaps, a full day's walk. Morlock suspected, however, that she was referring to the fact that every step of the way was over open ground. Or did she simply mean it would take the rest of his life to complete it? He grunted.

“Stop that. Talk to me, you convert to dwarfhood.”

Morlock laughed. “I'll tell those who wait in Thrymhaiam about you, Old.”

“You'll live so long; likely it's not. I think we should send the Watchmaster of yours instead still.”

“Watchmaster of mine he's not.”

“Mock me, then. Who taught you to talk like a souther?”

“Yesterday you said I talk like a dwarf.”

“You do so. A dwarf souther.”

Morlock shrugged, half smiling. His smile faded rapidly, and he said, “I'm going now, Old.”

She stepped forward and embraced him quickly. “Bye, Morlock Thain. I guess we'll be dead soon both. But it's better to die like this—giving in, not ever.”

“Good-bye, Old,” he said into her thin gray hair. “Take to the woods. We'll come for you from Thrymhaiam.”

“Fool. Go, now, or are you waiting for dark?”

Morlock turned and walked out the open doorway. It was a radiant forenoon; he could not believe the sky held anything but clean light and white clouds. Yet it did, of course. He circled around the tower and, as soon as he reached the stubbly fields on the west side, began to run.

It would have been wiser to wait until nightfall. But it would not have been much wiser, since dragons could see well enough at night. And any waiting was dangerous; the longer he waited the harder it would be to leave. Soon he would be calling himself by a new title and organizing a response to a crisis of this magnitude. . . .

The high fields were golden still in the noonday sun. But the ground had a hardness to it. Fall was ending in the Northhold. There were storm clouds building on the southern horizon; Morlock knew winter was in them.

On the western horizon, gemlike and clear in the distance, he saw the High Gates of Thrymhaiam. They stood above the Coriam Lakes, source of the stream that ran through Helgrind chasm. There was a footpath from the cliff-edge of these high fields down to the cold blue lakes of Coriam. Morlock rarely had occasion to take that path, but he knew it well enough by sight. He'd stood many a watch at the High Gate. Visitors never came that way, so the watch often made their way down to the lakes to swim or to catch the occasional surreptitious fish. (Very surreptitious Morlock had always found them, anyway, but he wasn't much of an angler.)

A rumbling sound, like slow-building thunder, reached him from the south. He threw himself down in the golden stubble, watching and listening breathlessly. The ground was cold, giving the lie to the dreamlike warmth of the golden fields. Likewise the innocent blue-white sky could be pierced at any moment by the red fire of dragons. They must be watching this way, to make certain their captives in the Northtower did not escape to Thrymhaiam. Still, as Morlock lay on the ground he realized they had not seen him yet. Slowly he got to his feet and continued his run westward.

He reached the border of the fields that the thains of Northtower kept under cultivation. He ran on into the narrow mountain meadows. The going seemed slow, and Morlock soon found himself out of breath. He continued walking when he could no longer run, then ran again when he had swallowed some water and caught his breath. Sprinting and walking in turn he watched the western horizon open up and grow closer.