The Dragon At War

by Gordon R. Dickson

  "I'm afraid," said Jim, "my magic's not that good yet. I'm just starting out as a magician. I'm sorry to hear you've been robbed, though—"

  "Most foully and unfairly robbed!" burst out Rrrnlf, suddenly looking very dangerous. "My Lady taken from me!"

  "Your Lady?" said Jim. He tried to imagine a female equivalent of Rnrnlf, but his mind boggled at the idea. "You mean—your wife?"

  "Wife? Never that!" boomed Rrrnlf. "What does a Sea Devil need with a wife? This was a Lady I took from a sunken ship—from the prow of a sunken ship; and was the image of my own lost love. A most fair Lady, with golden hair and a trident in one little hand. She had been fixed to a ship sunk some time past. I broke her free and took her to safety. For the last fifteen hundred years I have gilded and adorned her with gems. But now she is stolen—-and I know by who. It was one of the sea serpents! Aye, a wicked sea serpent, who envied me her; and stole her away when I wasn't there, to keep in his own hoard!"

  Jim's head spun. It was bad enough to try to imagine a female Sea Devil. It was infinitely worse to juggle all the information thrown at him in Rrrnlf's last words. He knew of the existence of sea serpents. The granduncle of the dragon in whose body he had found himself, when he had first landed in this time and world, had told him once of a dragon ancestor who had once slain a sea serpent in single combat.

  He tried to think of the name of both the ancestor and the sea serpent. He found he could not remember any name for the serpent—perhaps he had not been told any—but the name of his dragon ancestor had been Gleingul. According to his dragon granduncle, what Gleingul had done in winning a one-on-one fight with the sea serpent had been something like the equivalent of the original St. George slaying the original dragon.

  Just why Gleingul and the serpent had been fighting had never been explained to him. But if sea serpents were something like undersea dragons, in that they believed in accumulating hoards of gold and gems, what Rrrnlf was saying made sense.

  "I see," he said, after a moment, "but I'm afraid I can't help you. I haven't seen any sea serpents around here—"

  "You have already helped me by giving me the direction of the sea!" said Rrrnlf. "I shall return to my search now; and—fear not—I will find him. Granfer said that for some reason the sea serpents were all headed toward this isle. The one I seek may have sought to hide underground on this island; though they like not fresh water and avoid it by any means. We Sea Devils care not whether water be salt or fresh—or even that we stand in open air as now I do. So, I bid you farewell. I'm in your debt, wee mage. Call on me if ever you need me."

  With that he turned about, stepped back into the lake and strode toward the middle of it, the water swallowing him up vertically as it grew deeper. Jim suddenly thought of something.

  "But how would I find you?" Jim called after him.

  Rrrnlf looked back over his shoulder briefly.

  "Call for me at the seashore!" he boomed back. "Even a wee man should know that much. Send your message by the surf. I shall hear!"

  "But… what if you're on the other side of the world?" called Jim. Living in this fourteenth-century society had taught him to seize on any friendships that came his way. He had no idea how Rrrnlf could ever be useful to him; but it would do no harm to be able to call on him. But the other had already submerged.

  "Wherever in the ocean-sea I am, your words will reach me!" said Rrrnlf, suddenly bobbing up again. "The sea is full of voices and they go on forever. If you call for me I will hear you no matter where I am. Farewell!"

  He disappeared once more under the surface.

  Jim stood staring at the lake until the disturbed water finally smoothed out, leaving no sign that the giant had ever been there. Bemusedly, he turned himself back to his actual size; and went back to gathering a full armful of the blossoms. Then he mounted his war horse, Gorp, who had been standing by, comfortably munching on some of the soft and sweet grass of the lake margin, and rode off toward his castle.

  It took him only a short time to reach it. He frowned as he rode across the open space—kept open for defense purposes—between it and the surrounding trees. There was something of a desolate look about the castle that bothered him. He urged Gorp to a trot; and within a few moments clattered over the logs of the drawbridge and into the courtyard.

  The courtyard was apparently empty. His original feeling of uneasiness became a full-blown foreboding. He dismounted hastily from Gorp and started toward the front door of the castle. Instantly he was almost knocked off his feet by being—for all practical purposes—tackled around the knees. He looked down and saw the agonized face of the castle blacksmith who was still embracing his knees in the powerful grip of his sleeveless, burn-scarred arms.

  "My Lord!" cried the blacksmith, who had finally become aware of what was going on since he had seen the guard running for the castle and shouting about a witch-kettle. "Go not in! The castle is held in a thrall by a witch-kettle! We are all doomed if you are caught in that thralldom, too! Stand out here in safety and counter that evil with your magic. Otherwise we are all destroyed forevermore!"

  "Don't be sil—" began Jim; then he remembered just in time that the word "silly" had a different meaning in the middle ages. It meant "innocent" or "blessed"—which was not what he meant at the moment. He decided that the best way out of this situation was the direct, or medieval, method.

  "Unhand, dog!" he snapped, in his best baronial manner. "Do you think I fear thralldom by any witch-device?"

  "You… d—don't?" stammered the blacksmith.

  "Absolutely not!" said Jim. "Now, stay here and I'll take care of the matter."

  The blacksmith's arms fell away from around his knees and the expression on his face changed to one of hope as Jim stalked off.

  About halfway to the castle door, however, a first small doubt began to nibble at Jim. This was a world where nothing could be taken for granted; and magic was very much a part of it. Perhaps there actually were such things as witch-kettles? Perhaps they could indeed hold people in thrall… ?

  He shrugged the thought off. He was angry with himself for even thinking it. After all, he reminded himself, he was a magician, if only a C rated one.

  He strode forward and in through the doorway into the Great Hall, continuing on toward the high table at the Hall's far end.

  Within, the walls were crowded with the castle's servitors. But they were all deathly silent; and all pressed as far back against the sides of the hall as they could get. On the high table there was indeed a kettle, that appeared to be steaming; and also—although he could hardly believe it—singing with that steam in a breathy little voice that nonetheless carried its melody, at least, clearly through the hall.

  Standing motionless, looking down at it with the tip of her right forefinger most uncharacteristically in her mouth, was his wife, the Lady Angela.

  No more than those pressed against the wall all around them, did she move or make a sound.

  Chapter Three

  Jim broke into a run toward the high table. No one had seemed to notice his presence until now, but now he felt as if all eyes were on him. He was almost to the kettle now, anyway.

  The Lady Angela turned at the sound of his running feet. She took the tip of her finger from her mouth and stared at him as if he was a ghost. He vaulted up to the level of the high table and enfolded her in his arms.

  "Angie!" he said.

  For a moment she did nothing; then she enclosed him in her own arms and kissed him fiercely.

  "Jim!" she said. "Oh, Jim!"

  They hung together for a few moments; and then Jim felt himself pushed away from her, with her hands on his chest. A dark frown was gathering over her eyes.

  "And just where have you been all this time—" she began.

  Hastily, he shoved the flowers, which he had been unconsciously carrying all this time in his left hand, into her arms.

  "For you!" he said.

  "Jim, I don't care—" She broke off again and looked down a
t the flowers. After a second she took a long deep sniff at them. "Oh, Jim—" She broke off with an entirely different note in her voice. She lowered her head and sniffed deeply again at the flowers, then she put her arms around him once again, hugging him to her.

  "Damn you!" she whispered in his ear; then kissed him again, both angrily and lovingly. Then they both let go and stood back from each other.

  "But are you all right?" demanded Jim. "Your finger was in your mouth—"

  "Oh, I burned it on this kettle," said Angie vexedly. "I couldn't believe that it was boiling with no heat under it, so I touched. Stupid thing to do! But Jim—how does it happen you turn up at just this moment? Did you use magic, or something?"

  "Not to get here at just this moment," said Jim. "Why is getting here at just this moment so important?"

  "Because the kettle just got here, too, and it wants to talk to you!"

  "The kettle?" Jim stared from her to the utensil, steaming and singing away on the table. "A kettle wants to talk to me?"

  "Yes! Don't you hear it?" demanded Angie. "Listen!"

  Jim listened.

  The kettle was still singing away in its breathy little voice; and up close, as Jim was now, he found its singing made recognizable words. The song was a brief refrain, but repeated over and over again.

  This is an emergency.

  Fetch Jim Eckert here to me.

  He is needed desperately!

  Fetch Jim Eckert here to me!

  Jim blinked as the kettle went back to its first line and began to sing the quatrain all over again. He listened to it halfway through again before he came out of his daze.

  "I'm here!" he told the kettle. "This is Jim Eckert. I'm here. What do you want to tell me?"

  The kettle immediately switched its song.

  It sang:

  Carolinus needs you, Jim,

  You must swiftly rescue him!

  He is sick, in living hell—

  From nurses who would make him well!

  Two "wisewomen," from Hill Farm

  Not really wise, but strong of arm.

  Dose and poultice him to death.

  Haste, before his final breath!

  Rescue Carolinus!

  Rescue Carolinus!

  Rescue Caro—

  "All right! All right, I've got the message!" snapped Jim; since it seemed the kettle was prepared to go on singing "Rescue Carolinus!" indefinitely.

  The kettle fell silent. A small puff of white steam did manage to escape from its spout after he had spoken—but it was absolutely noiseless. The kettle's copper sides seemed to gleam at him in apology, but also in mute reproach. Inexplicably, Jim felt guilty for his outburst at it.

  "Sorry," he said aloud, without thinking.

  "You idiot!" Angie hugged him once more, affectionately. "It's only a kettle. It doesn't understand an apology."

  "I suppose you're right." There was a cold feeling in the pit of Jim's stomach. "But evidently Carolinus is sick and being mistreated by these people who think they're helping him get well—as I can well believe could happen in this particular here and now. I'll have to go to him right away."

  "We'll both go to him right away!" said Angie. "And didn't the kettle sing something about these women being strong of arm? I think we better take a few men-at-arms along with us. Theoluf!"

  Jim's squire detached himself from the wall and came forward.

  "Yes, m'Lady? M'Lord?" he asked. He was a most unusual-looking squire, having been one of Jim's men-at-arms until he had been promoted to this new rank. Above the half-coat of armor he wore on his upper body, his dark face under its slightly graying shock of hair—though he was probably no more than in his early thirties—and the scar on his face made him look as if he had been around for years.

  "Pick out eight of the men-at-arms; and you and they come along with us," commanded Angie. "Also see to the horses and all other preparations for the trip. We'll leave immediately."

  She looked past him.

  "Solange!" she called.

  The castle cook, a tall woman well into her forties and about fifty pounds overweight—although a lot of that looked as if it might be muscle—also came forward from the wall. She was a bit on the stout side to be curtsying; but she gave a sort of a bob.

  "Yes, m'Lady?"

  "See food is made up for the men's saddle bags and for m'Lord and myself," said Angie. "In my absence you are in charge of the inside servants. Yves? Yves Mortain! Oh, there you are. As chief man-at-arms, you'll be in command of the castle while we're gone. You both understand?"

  "Yes, m'Lady," said Yves. With Solange, he turned away. She was not from France, in spite of her name, but actually from the island of Guernsey.

  "One moment!" snapped Angie. "Who do we have that knows something about these two sisters from what was it—Hill Farm?"

  "Margot might," said Solange, turning back. "She comes from near there, m'Lady."

  "Margot!" called Angie. But it seemed that Margot was not among those in the Hall. "Solange, have her fetched at once and sent to us!"

  "Right away, m'Lady," said Solange.

  Margot made an appearance within a few moments after Solange disappeared through the doorway back into the keep and its ground-floor kitchen. Apparently she had been back there at some duty or other when the kettle came in, and had prudently stayed out of sight.

  "Yes, m'Lady," she said, curtsying. She also was tall, but narrow, with a wide mouth and graying blonde hair.

  "What do you know about two sisters who act as nurses and help sick people—for a fee undoubtedly—from a place called Hill Farm?"

  "Oh that'd be Elly and Eldra, m'Lady," said Margot. "They were the only two children of old Tom Eldred, who was the biggest and strongest man around the neighborhood. Both Elly and Eldra took after him—looked like him, I mean, m'Lady. As a result no man would have them for fear of being beaten by his wife; instead of the other way around. Young Tom Davely even left home and ran off, when Eldred told him he was going to take Elly to wife whether he liked it or not—"

  "Thank you, Margot," said Angie, decisively, for Margot had dropped into a comfortable, confidential tone which seemed to threaten a complete history of her neighborhood. "That tells us all we need to know. You can get back to whatever you were doing, now."

  She turned to Jim.

  "I've got a few other arrangements to make, to be sure the castle doesn't fall apart while I'm gone," she said to Jim. "You'd better take a fresh horse. Even if you've ridden him easily, Gorp's been carrying you for some days now, I imagine."

  "You're right," said Jim. "I'll go take care of that right now."

  He and Angie went off in opposite directions, Jim to make his way back out the front of the Great Hall, from which the servants were rapidly dispersing, under the sensible servant doctrine that if those in authority couldn't see them, they were much less likely to be put to work.

  In less than half an hour the expedition to rescue Carolinus was on horseback and on its way. Jim and Angie rode first, with Theoluf and eight of his best men-at-arms behind them. The kettle had been left, looking a little forlorn, the only occupant of the Great Hall. Servants were normally passing to and fro through that large space; but the feeling that the kettle might after all still have something of witchery about it was enough to make them keep their distance.

  Jim and Angie were busily comparing notes. Her part consisted of bringing him up to date on affairs around the castle. But she listened closely as he told her about the Sea Devil; and then to his earlier adventures up near the Scottish border. These involved the Hollow Men (who were a form of ghost) and the Borderers, those Northumbrian knights and others of authority who lived next to the Scottish border, and—last but not least—the Little Men.

  She had been fascinated that the Little Men had taken to Dafydd, which was why they had wanted him to act as their leader; and Jim ended up very nearly telling her that on which Dafydd had sworn him to silence—the fact that the bowman had been relat
ed to an ancient royalty that the Little Men remembered, even if no one else did.

  "I'd tell you the whole story, but I promised Dafydd," said Jim finally.

  "That's all right," said Angie. "I know there are some things you can't tell me. As long as it's nothing to do with your own health and safety, I don't worry about it. Do you think the Little Men could be what's left of the Picts who were there when the Romans built the wall?"

  "I don't know. We could ask Dafydd; but I promised to forget his connection with them—so I don't like to go asking him questions."

  He reached across from his horse, took her hand and squeezed it. They looked into each other's eyes.

  "You're marvelous, you know that?" said Jim.

  "Of course I know it," said Angie lightly. She gave Jim's hand an extra squeeze and let it go. They went back to riding side by side in perfectly decorous fashion.

  The Tinkling Water, which was the place of Carolinus's residence, was not far away, and they were there before they had run out of things to tell each other. Its pool, turf and trees, at least, were unchanged.

  It had always been in a peacefully empty, open circle of grass surrounded by tall elms. The grass had always been close and lush without any sign of a weed in it. It had been like a carpet surrounding the pool and small, peaked-roofed house that Jim knew from experience had only two rooms—one upstairs and one down.

  The front door was approached by a gravel path that was always magically raked, up to its single step to the entrance. Beside the path was the small, round pool of beautifully blue water, from the exact center of which a jet spouted some four or five feet into the air, before breaking into drops and falling back into the pool with a tinkling sound that was very much like that of the wind gently clashing some oriental glass chimes. It was this particular element that gave the location the name of The Tinkling Water.

  In Jim's opinion it had always been a very beautiful place. But it was not a beautiful place now.

  The reason for this was some thirty to forty people who were now camped around the cottage. Their tattered shelters—it would have been flattering them to call them tents—were scattered over the lush, green lawn. Litter was everywhere; and the people themselves—mainly men, but with some women and a few children—were more dirty and ragged than usual, even for the fourteenth century.