The Dragonbone Chair

by Tad Williams

  Sunrise had come while he slept, inconspicuous behind the blanket of clouds, just a smear of pinkish gray light across the sky. Looking back from the hillside perch it was difficult to tell where the sky left off and the misty plains began. The world seemed a murky and unformed place this morning.

  “I saw fires in the night, while you were sleeping,” the troll said, startling Simon out of his reverie.

  “Fires? Where?”

  Binabik pointed with his left hand, southward along the plain. “Back there. Do not be worrying, I think they are a far way off. It is quite the possibility they have nothing to do with us.”

  “I suppose so.” Simon squinted into the gray distance. “Do you think it might be Isgrimnur and his Rimmersgarders?”

  “It is doubtful.”

  Simon turned to look at the little man. “But you said they would get away! That they’d survive…”

  The troll gave him an exasperated look. “If you would wait, you would hear. I am sure they survived, but they were traveling north, and I am doubting they would turn back. Those fires were farther toward south, as though…”

  “…As though they were traveling up from Erkynland,” Simon finished.

  “Yes!” Binabik said, a little testily. “But it could be they are traders, or pilgrims…” He looked around. “Where has Qantaqa now gone to?”

  Simon grimaced. He knew a dodge when he saw one. “Very well. It could be anything…but you were the one counseling speed yesterday. Are we to wait so we can see first hand if these are merchants or…or diggers?” The joke felt more than a little sour. The last word had not tasted good in his mouth.

  “Not being stupid is important,” Binabik grunted in disgust. “Boghanik—the Bukken—light no fires. They hate things that are bright. And no, we will not be waiting for these fire builders to reach us. We are heading back to the forest, as I was telling you.” He gestured back over his head. “On the hill’s far side we will be within sight of it.”

  The brush crackled behind them, and troll and boy jumped in surprise. It was only Qantaqa, traversing erratically down the hillside, nose held tight to the ground. When she reached their campsite, she butted Binabik’s arm until he scratched her head. “Qantaqa has a cheerful mood, hmmm?” The troll smiled, showing his yellow teeth. “Since we have the advantage of a day with heavy clouds, which will be covering the smoke of a campfire, I am thinking we can at least have a decent meal before we again take to our feet. Are you in favor?”

  Simon tried to make his expression a serious one. “I…suppose I could eat something…if I must,” he said. “If you really think it’s important…”

  Binabik stared, trying to decide if Simon actually disapproved of breakfast, and the boy felt laughter trying to bubble free.

  Why am I acting like a mooncalf? he wondered. We’re in terrible danger, and it won’t get any better soon.

  Binabik’s puzzled look was finally too much, and the laughter burst forth.

  Well, he answered himself, a person can’t worry all the time.

  Simon sighed, contented, and allowed Qantaqa to take the few remaining bits of squirrel meat from his fingers. He marveled at the delicacy the wolf could exhibit with those great jaws and gleaming teeth.

  The fire was a small one, since the troll did not believe in unnecessary risks. A thin stream of smoke curled sinuously in the wind sliding along the hillside.

  Binabik was reading Morgenes’ manuscript, which he had unwrapped with Simon’s permission. “It is my hope you understand,” the troll said without looking up, “that you will not be trying that with any other wolf beside my friend Qantaqa.”

  “Of course not. It’s amazing how tame she is.”

  “Not tame.” Binabik was emphatic. “She has a bond of honor with me, and it is including those who are my friends.”

  “Honor?” Simon asked lazily.

  “I am sure you know that term, much as it is bandied about in southern lands. Honor. Are you thinking such a thing cannot exist between troll and beast?” Binabik glanced over, then went back to leafing through the manuscript.

  “Oh, I don’t think much about anything these days,” Simon said airily, leaning forward to scratch Qantaqa’s deep-furred chin. “I’m just trying to keep my head down and reach Naglimund.”

  “You are making a gross evasion,” Binabik muttered, but did not pursue the subject. For a while there was no sound on the hillside but the riffling of parchment. The morning sun climbed up through the sky.

  “Here,” Binabik said at last, “listen, now. Ah, Daughter of the Mountains, but I am missing Morgenes more just from reading his words. Do you know of Nearulagh, Simon?”

  “Certainly. Where King John beat the Nabbanai. There’s a gate at the castle all covered with carvings of it.”

  “You are right. So then, here Morgenes is writing of the Battle of Nearulagh, where John was first meeting the famous Sir Camaris. May I read to you?”

  Simon suppressed a twinge of jealousy. The doctor had not intended that his manuscript be for Simon and no one else, he reminded himself.

  “ ‘…So after Ardrivis’ decision—a brave one, some said, arrogant said others—to meet this upstart northern king in the flat plain of the Meadow Thrithing before Lake Myrme, proved a disaster. Ardrivis pulled the bulk of his troops back into the Onestrine Pass, a narrow way between the mountain lakes Eadne and Clodu…’ ”

  “What Morgenes speaks of,” Binabik explained, “is that Ardrivis, the Imperator of Nabban, did not believe Prester John could come against him with great force, so far from Erkynland. But the Perdruinese islanders, who were always being in the Nabbanai shadow, made secret treaty with John and helped to supply his forces. King John cut Ardrivis’ legions in ribbons near the Meadow Thrithing, a thing unsuspected as possible by the proud Nabbanai. Do you see?”

  “I think so.” Simon was not sure, but he had heard enough ballads about Nearulagh to recognize most of the names. “Read some more.”

  “I shall do so. Let me only be finding the part I wanted to read for you…” He scanned down the page. “Ho!”

  “ ‘…And so, as the sun sank behind Mount Onestris, the last sun for eight thousand dead and dying men, young Camaris, whose father Benidrivis-sá Vinitta had taken the Imperator’s Staff from his dying brother Ardrivis only an hour before, led a charge of five hundred horse, the remainder of the Imperial Guard, in quest of vengeance…’ ”

  “Binabik?” Simon interrupted.

  “Yes?”

  “Who took what from which?”

  Binabik laughed. “Forgive me. It is a net full of names to capture at once, is it not? Ardrivis was the last Imperator of Nabban, although his empire was no larger, you are seeing, than what is the duchy of Nabban today. Ardrivis fell out with Prester John, likely because Ardrivis knew that John had designs on a united Osten Ard, and that eventually there would have to be conflict. In any way, I will not bore you with all the fighting, but this was their last battle, as you know. Ardrivis the Imperator was killed by an arrow, and his brother Benidrivis became the new Imperator…for the rest of that day, only, ending with Nabban’s surrendering. Camaris was the son of Benidrivis—and being young, too, perhaps fifteen years—and so for that afternoon he was the last prince of Nabban, as songs are sometimes calling him…understood, now?”

  “Better. It was all those ‘arises’ and ‘ivises’ that left me behind for a moment.” Binabik picked up the parchment and continued reading.

  “ ‘Now, with the coming of Camaris onto the field, the tired armies of Erkynland were much distraught. The young prince’s troops were not fresh, but Camaris himself was a whirlwind, a storm of death, and the sword Thorn that his dying uncle had given him was like a fork of dark lightning. Even at that late moment, the records say, the forces of Erkynland might have been routed, but Prester John came onto the field, Bright-Nail clutched in his gauntleted fist, and cut a path through the Nabbanai Imperial Guard until he was face to face with the gallant Camar
is.’ ”

  “This is the part I wanted you especially to hear,” Binabik said as he leafed forward to the next sheet.

  “This is very good,” Simon said. “Will Prester John cleave him in twain?” “Ridiculous!” snorted the troll. “How, then, would they come to be the fastest and most famous of friends?—‘cleave him in twain’!” He resumed.

  “ ‘The ballads say that they fought all day and into the night, but I doubt greatly that was so. Certainly they fought a long while, but doubtless the twilight and darkness had nearly arrived anyway, and it only seemed to some of the tired observers that these two great men had battled all the day long…’ ”

  “What thinking your Morgenes does!” Binabik chortled.

  “ ‘Whatever the truth, they traded blow after blow, clanging and hammering on each other’s armor as the sun sank and the ravens fed. Neither man could gain an upper hand, even though Camaris’ guard had long since been defeated by John’s troop. Still, none of the Erkynlanders dared to interfere.

  By chance at last, Camaris’ horse stepped in a hole, breaking its leg, and fell with a great scream, trapping the prince beneath it. John could have ended it there, and few would have blamed him, but instead—observers uniformly swear—he helped the fallen knight of Nabban out from under his steed, gave him back his sword, and when Camaris proved sound, continued the fight.’ ”

  “Aedon!” breathed Simon, impressed. He had heard the story, of course, but it was a different thing entirely to hear it confirmed in the doctor’s wry, confident words.

  “ ‘So they struggled on and on until Prester John—who was, after all, over twenty years Camaris’ senior—grew weary and stumbled, falling to the ground at the feet of the Prince of Nabban.

  Camaris, moved by the power and honor of his opponent, forewent slaying him and instead held Thorn at John’s gorget and asked him to promise to leave Nabban in peace. John, who had not expected his mercy to be repaid in kind, looked around at the field of Nearulagh, empty but for his own troops, thought for a moment, and then kicked Camaris-sá-Vinitta in the fork of his legs.’ ”

  “No!” said Simon, taken aback; Qantaqa raised a sleepy head at the exclamation. Binabik only grinned and continued to read from Morgenes’ writings.

  “ ‘John then stood in his turn over the sorely wounded Camaris, and told him: “You have many lessons to learn, but you are a brave and noble man, I will do your father and family every courtesy, and take good care of your people. I hope in turn you will learn the first lesson, the one I have given you today, and that is this: Honor is a wonderful thing, but it is a means, not an end. A man who starves with honor does not help his family, a king who falls on his sword with honor does not save his kingdom. ”

  When Camaris recovered, so awed was he by his new king that he was John’s most faithful follower from that day forward…’ ”

  “Why did you read that to me?” Simon said. He felt more than a little insulted by the glee that Binabik had displayed while reading about the foul practices of the greatest hero of Simon’s country…still, they had been Morgenes’ words, and when you thought about them, they made old King John seem more like a real person, and less like a marble statue of Saint Sutrin catching dust on the cathedral facade.

  “It seemed to be interesting,” Binabik smiled impishly, “No, that was not the reason,” he explained quickly as Simon frowned, “truly, I was wanting you to take a point, and I thought Morgenes could do it with more ease than I.

  “You did not want to leave the men of Rimmersgard, and I understand your feeling—it was not, perhaps, the most honorable way of behaving. Neither, however, was it honorable for me to leave my duties unfulfilled in Yiqanuc, but sometimes we must go against honor—or, it is to say, against what is obviously honorable…are you understanding me?”

  “Not particularly,” Simon’s frown turned into a mocking affectionate smile.

  “Ah.” Binabik gave a philosophical shrug. “Ko muhuhok na mik aqa nop, we say in Yiqanuc; ‘When it falls on your head, then you are knowing it is a rock,’ ”

  Simon pondered this stoically as Binabik returned his cooking things to his bag.

  Binabik had certainly been right about one thing. As they crested the hill they could see virtually nothing but the great, dark sweep of Aldheorte stretching inimitably before them—a green and black ocean frozen a moment before its waves crashed at the feet of the hills. Oldheart, however, looked like a sea that the land itself might break against and fail.

  Simon could not help sucking in a deep breath of wonderment. The trees rolled off and away into the distance until the mist swallowed them, as if the forest might somehow pass beyond the very boundaries of the earth.

  Binabik, seeing him staring, said: “Of all times when it is important to be listening to me, this will be it. If we lose each other out there, there may be no finding again.”

  “I was in the forest before, Binabik.”

  “The fringes, only, friend Simon. Now we are going deeply in.”

  “All the way through?”

  “Ha! No, that would take months—a year, who is knowing? But we are going far past her borders, so we must hope we are permitted guests.”

  As Simon stared down he felt his skin tingle. The dark, silent trees, the shadowy pathways that had never known the sound of a footfall…all the stories of a town and castle-dwelling people were just at the fringes of his imagination, and all too easy to summon,

  But I must go, he told himself. And anyway, I don’t think the forest is evil. It’s just old…very old. And suspicious of strangers or at least it makes me feel that way. But not evil.

  “Let’s go,” he said in his clearest, strongest voice, but as Binabik started down the hill before him Simon made the sign of the Tree on his breast, just to be on the safe side of things.

  They had made their way down the hill and onto the league of grassy downs that sloped to Aldheorte’s edge when Qantaqa suddenly stopped, shaggy head cocked to one side. The sun was high in the sky now, past noon, and much of the ground-hugging mist had burned away. As Simon and the troll walked toward the wolf, who crouched motionless as a gray statue, they looked all around. No movement broke the land’s static undulation on either side.

  Qantaqa whined as they approached and tilted her head to the other side, listening. Binabik gently lowered his shoulder bag to the ground, stilling the quiet clinking of the bones and stones inside, then cocked an ear himself.

  The troll opened his mouth to say something, his hair hanging lank in his eyes, but before he spoke Simon heard it too: a thin, faint noise, rising and falling as though a flight of honking geese were passing leagues overhead, far above the clouds. But it did not seem to come from the sky above—rather, it sounded as though it rolled down the long corridor between the forest and the hills, whether from north or south Simon could not say.

  “What…?” he began to ask. Qantaqa whined again and shook her head, as though she did not like the sound in her ears. The troll raised his small, brown hand and listened a moment more, then shouldered his bag again, beckoning Simon to follow him toward the murky breakfront of the forest.

  “Hounds, I am thinking,” he said. The wolf trotted around them in erratic ovals, moving close and then bounding out again. “I think they are far away, still, south of the hills…upon the Frostmarch. The sooner we are entering the forest, though, the better…”

  “Perhaps,” Simon said, making good time as he strode along beside the little man, who was going at a near-trot, “but they didn’t sound like any hounds that I’ve heard…”

  “That,” Binabik grunted, “is my thought, also…and it is also why we are going quickly as we can.”

  As he thought about what Binabik had said, Simon felt a cold hand clutch his innards.

  “Stop,” he said, and did.

  “What are you doing?” the little man hissed. “They are still far behind, but…”

  “Call Qantaqa.” Simon stood patiently. Binabik stared at him
for a moment, then whistled for the wolf, who was already trotting back.

  “I hope that you will soon explain…” the troll began, but Simon pointed at Qantaqa.

  “Ride her. Go on, now, get up. If we need to hurry, I can run—but your legs are too short.”

  “Simon,” Binabik said, anger crinkling his eyes, “I was running on the slender ridges of Mintahoq when I had only babyyears…”

  “But this is flat ground, and downhill. Please, Binabik, you said we needed to go quickly!”

  The troll stared at him for a moment, then turned and clucked at Qantaqa, who sank to her stomach in the sparse grass. Binabik threw a leg over her broad back and pulled himself into place using the thick fur of her hackles for a pommel. He clucked again and the wolf rose, front feet and then hind, Binabik swaying on her back.

  “Ummu, Qantaqa,” he snapped; she started forward. Simon lengthened his pace and began to lope along beside them. They could hear no sound now beside the noise of their own passage, but the memory of the distant howling made the back of Simon’s neck prickle, and the dark face of Aldheorte look more and more like the welcoming smile of a friend. Binabik leaned low over Qantaqa’s neck, and for a long time would not meet Simon’s eye.

  Side by side they ran down the long slope. At last, as the flat gray sun was tipping down toward the hills behind them, they reached the first line of trees, a cluster of slim birches—pale serving girls ushering visitors into the house of their dark old master.

  Although the downs outside were bright with slanting sunlight, the companions found themselves passing quickly into twilit gloom as the trees rose above them. The soft forest floor cushioned their footfalls, and they ran silently as ghosts through the sparse outer woods. Columns of light speared down through the branches, and the dust of their passage rose behind them to hang sparkling between the shadows.