The Dragon, the Earl ,and the Troll

by Gordon R. Dickson

  Brian did not stir.

  "Yes," said Jim, more loudly, nudging again, "his eyes are opening now!"

  Brian's eyes opened wide abruptly.

  "James!" he said in a hearty voice—too hearty a voice. "What happened?"

  "You fell into a swoon," said Jim. "Can you get to your feet? I will assist you."

  He reached down and caught Brian's arm, just in time to stop Brian, who was about to spring to his feet with his usual vigor and liveliness.

  "Slowly…" he hissed under his breath into Brian's ear.

  Brian took the hint and allowed himself to be helped to his feet.

  "He must be let blood immediately!" said a voice just behind Jim's right shoulder. He turned and saw Sir Harimore Kilinsworth, the knight who had had the verbal encounter with Brian when Jim had been with him in the upper room of the hall on their first day at the castle.

  "Oh, I don't think that's necessary—" Jim began hastily.

  "Sir James!" Sir Harimore twirled the almost nonexistent end of one of his mustaches. "You are a magician, as all know; but of a knight in a swound, I venture to say you may not know what is best. A good bloodletting—"

  "Proud sinners, one and all!" thundered the Bishop's voice from behind Jim. "Stand back for a Lord of the Church! And you, Sir Harimore, medicine yourself and care for your own mortal soul before you venture to make suggestions for a knight who may have been vouchsafed a Holy Vision!"

  He came around Jim to face Brian.

  "What do you remember seeing, Sir Brian?" he demanded.

  "I—I—" stammered Brian, completely thrown off his pace by a situation in which he either had to perform the impossible task of lying to a Bishop, or explain to everyone around him that he had merely been putting on an act.

  "It may be he can't remember right away," put in Jim hastily. "Perhaps he needs peace and quiet—and some time in which to recollect what he saw—if indeed he can recollect it at all before it is lost."

  "It must not be lost!" trumpeted the Bishop. He glared at Brian. "When were you last shriven?"

  "This morning, in fact, my Lord," said Brian. "I had planned to go to confession before the last mass of Advent at midnight, but what with one thing and another—"

  "This morning! Excellent!" said the Bishop. "And you have done your penance?"

  "Yes, my Lord. I—"

  "Good! Very good," said the Bishop. "A clean soul—we can hope."

  He wheeled on Jim.

  "Sir James! I believe you are best suited for this duty. See to it that Sir Brian is conveyed to his own quarters and there ensured peace and quiet in which to recollect. On this Holy Day, to have one present here gifted with a Holy Vision is too precious a thing to risk losing. Therefore I make you responsible—and I will remind you, Sir James, of the covenant under which Holy Church has permitted such as yourself with those certain arts known as Magick; and which puts you under the command of the Church at any time deemed necessary by one of authority like myself. It is my command to you that you ensure that Sir Brian has every chance to recall his vision."

  "Yes, my Lord," said Jim. "If I might have the help of a couple of servants to help me support or even carry him to his room—"

  "You shall have them," said the Bishop. "Stand back, all the rest of you. You there—put down that ewer and come over here; and you with the pastry, put it down immediately and come here."

  Two of the servitors going about their duty around the tables, clearly interested in what was happening around Sir Brian but not daring to interrupt their ordinary tasks, happily did so now and came at a run to join Jim and Brian, Geronde and Angie.

  "Should we carry you, Sir Brian?" Jim asked him. "Or with help, would you rather walk upstairs to your quarters?"

  "I can walk," said Brian hastily. He added, with an attempt at a somewhat fainter voice, "I may be a bit unsteady; but with a servant on each side of me—"

  "Did I not say stand back!" said the Bishop in full pulpit voice; and the crowd of guests parted before the little party with Brian in their midst as the Red Sea had parted for the Israelites to let them escape from the pursuing charioteers of the Pharaoh of Egypt.

  Chapter 12

  Brian was understandably upset when he got back to his room and realized that while Geronde and Angie could return to the banquet, he scarcely could; considering the Bishop's injunction that he rest and recover his vision.

  "I'm sorry about this," Jim told him. "I don't know how to make it up to you, Brian. But I will, I promise you. I will."

  "Oh, I don't blame you, James," said Brian. "I played my part too well, that is the trouble. But I could perish up here for want of company, food and drink."

  "I will stay with you," said Geronde. "Indeed, it would be expected of me."

  "I can stay too, if you want," said Angie. "I'm not all that interested in the dinner, to tell you the truth."

  "Oh no, Angela," said Geronde. "You go back. It'll be expected. Also you can tell all at the high table that he fell into a deep sleep, that I'm watching over him, and we have hopes that when he wakes he will remember the vision, unless he has lost it forever."

  "Right," said Angie. She brightened. "Come to think of it, I can also tell them Brian said he had the feeling that the vision was some kind of lesson or message to him; and it might not return to him until some time in the future, when its lesson applies to some particular moment that's then in his life."

  Both Brian and Geronde looked at her uncomfortably.

  "Would you say something like that to the Bishop, Angela?" asked Geronde doubtfully.

  "Certainly!" said Angie. "It could very well be true. In fact, how do we know that Brian actually didn't have a vision, even though he thought he was just acting a part? It could be that our whole scheme to have him act a part was actually intended to let him have an actual vision—which he since has forgotten and won't remember until it fits something that will happen to him in the future, where he has to make a decision."

  "Right!" said Jim suddenly. "Tell me, Brian, did you feel anything different, when you threw yourself over backward and kept your eyes closed on the floor? Do you suppose that perhaps you seemed to act so well because in fact you were actually thrown from your chair and unconscious for a moment—which of course you don't remember now—and something like a vision actually happened?"

  "I did seem to throw myself rather harder than was necessary," said Brian thoughtfully. He rubbed the back of his head. "And I'm not exactly sure how long I lay there, although it seemed but a short time."

  "It occurs to me you actually may have had a vision, Brian; and my asking you to put on an act was a sort of miraculous accident so that you would doubt you actually had the vision and would forget it until the time came when you were to remember it."

  Brian, Geronde—even Angie—stared at him.

  "You think that possible, James?" said Brian, in a hushed voice.

  "Brian," said Jim solemnly, avoiding Angie's eye, "anything is possible."

  Brian crossed himself. So did Geronde and—in that order—Angie and Jim.

  "You see," said Jim, "if that's what happened, the vision may not come back until the proper time arrives for you to remember it; so for now, you can simply go on living and acting as you usually do. Come to think of it, you could go back down after a little while up here and simply say that you have a feeling you were not to speak about it—that way the others at the table should not even question you; and you'd be back at the dinner after all."

  "In especial," said Brian, "I did want to see the reenactment of the great sea battle at Sluys."

  "Brian," said Angie, "Jim is just saying it might have happened that way, not that it did."

  "No," said Brian. "Either I had a vision, but was meant to forget it; or else I did not, in which case I have nothing to tell anyone. I shall say so."

  "Brian—" began Geronde. He held up a hand to stop her.

  "I have made up my mind!" he said firmly. "I shall go back down, and tell my
Lord Bishop, as well as any else, that I have nothing to tell them."

  His firmness relaxed. He smiled at Geronde.

  "And, Geronde," he said, "you shall go with me. You can support me when I tell of my quick recovery. You can be witness for me; that though I might have had a vision in that moment, I cannot remember it now; and feeling a sudden fresh access of happiness and energy, I chose to return to the dinner."

  "Well," said Geronde slowly. "Perhaps…"

  Brian's face suddenly sobered. He turned to Jim.

  "But you, James," he said. "You were planning…"

  "I still am," said Jim, thinking quickly. "You can tell everyone your swoon reminded me of something of vital importance, and I have to go immediately in search of Carolinus."

  "What's Carolinus got to do with all this?" asked Angie.

  "Well, actually it's another matter," said Jim. "But because I need to go, anyway, I can tell him about this much more important matter of Brian possibly having a vision, while I have it fresh in mind. I'm going back to our rooms now, and get dressed to go out. If you want to come along with me, I'll explain as we go."

  "I'll do that," said Angie.

  "Do you realize?" Angie said, as they were going back to their own quarters. "Brian's now begun to believe he really had a vision."

  "Well," said Jim, "that'll make it all the easier for him to explain to the Bishop."

  "That's not the point," said Angie. "He's just so impressionable. You should be ashamed of yourself!"

  "It doesn't hurt anyone if he thinks the way he does," said Jim.

  "Hah!" said Angie. "Nobody but him!"

  Jim winced internally; they turned down the branching corridor to their own pair of rooms.

  "But enough of Brian and visions," said Angie. "I've got to get back to that high table. What am I supposed to tell people about you?"

  "Just what I told Brian," said Jim. "It's the truth. I'm going to look for Carolinus. He ought to be here, where he's needed. You've noticed he's not around? He wasn't there at dinner yesterday and I haven't seen him, in fact, since just after meeting the troll."

  "I hadn't realized," said Angie. "I'm not out of our rooms much, because of little Robert. You mean he's clear out of the castle?"

  "I'm pretty sure so," said Jim. "That's the thing. I may actually be gone for a day or so if I have to hunt for him. Once out of the castle myself I can use magic to try to chase him down—after I've seen Secoh, that is, and found out what trouble he's announcing."

  "Well, it can't be anything so serious, can it?" she said.

  "Probably not," Jim said. "But I've been uneasy about the fact that Carolinus hasn't turned up lately." He paused.

  "Would Aargh know anything about that?" she asked.

  "I suppose it's possible," Jim said. "If we were back at Malencontri, we could put out a signal. Aargh would see it; he'd howl, and I'd go out to meet him. But there's no way to signal him here at the Earl's. Maybe I can use magic to help find him, if I can't find Carolinus. I really don't understand what Carolinus is doing—is he a guest here, or isn't he?"

  "This really isn't his sort of thing," said Angie.

  "Mine, either," said Jim glumly. "What I'm worried about is that he may know things he hasn't been telling me—he's done that before. At any rate, will you cover for me with the Earl and the other guests? Don't start out by saying that I may be gone for a day or so, but leave it open so that you can expand on that later on if you want."

  "All right," said Angie. They halted just out of earshot of the man-at-arms in front of their door. "I won't bother to come in with you. If Brian and Geronde are going to come back down, I want to be there before they are. I want to make sure Brian talks to the Bishop first—it'll be safer."

  "Yes," said Jim.

  He stood and watched her for a moment as she turned and went back down the corridor, holding the hem of her skirt carefully above the stone floor; then he turned and went into the first of their rooms.

  There was no one there; and when he looked into the next room, Robert was sleeping peacefully in his bed, and his wet nurse was asleep on her pallet on the floor. Angie's serving woman was not in evidence.

  He quietly collected his heavier clothes, his armor and his sword and took them into the other room to dress before the fire there, which had been made up recently, and was blazing away merrily. He put on a number of layers of clothing, with his chain mail shirt under a jupon with his arms painted upon it; belted his sword belt and sword around his waist, put a steel cap on his head over a cushioning skullcap, and covered everything else with a long gray cloak with a hood.

  He was about to go out, when he realized he had forgotten to buckle on his spurs. He would certainly want to take a horse from among those that he now had in the Earl's stables. Once in the woods, he could try magic to transport both him and the horse; but he was unsure of his ability to move around magically if under stress, the way Carolinus moved from place to place in a twinkling; besides, if trouble came at him unexpectedly, then it was better to be up on a horse than on his own two feet.

  For one thing, the horse could take him away from danger a lot faster than his own two feet could.

  He had just buckled on his spurs and turned toward the door, when a voice spoke unexpectedly from behind him in the empty room.

  "My Lord? My Lord, don't go yet!" it said.

  Jim turned sharply about; but the voice had already given the identity of its owner away. Hob-One was perched cross-legged in mid-air above the flames in the fireplace.

  "I've been trying and trying to catch you, my Lord," said Hob-One reproachfully. "But you're never alone!"

  "Do I have to be alone?" contended Jim. "What is it? I've got to be leaving."

  "I mean, for most purposes it wouldn't be dangerous—but you never know. Also, in this case, I don't belong here, of course. When I saw you the first time, I'd had to ask the Earl's kitchen hobgoblin for permission to come and visit you in your room here."

  "I see," said Jim.

  "Of course," said Hob-One, elevating his snub nose proudly, "since you renamed me, I simply give him orders. After all, he's just an ordinary kitchen hobgoblin. I pointed that out to him."

  "You did?" Jim said, a little startled at the results of his casual renaming of the small Natural.

  "Indeed!" said Hob-One.

  "And he—er—didn't object?"

  " 'Varlet!' I said to him," went on Hob-One. " 'I am Hob-One de Malencontri. I shall be visiting this castle of yours from time to time. Furthermore, I shall not bother to speak to you, unless I have need of you for some reason. If I do, I shall expect you to show the proper respect shown by one being spoken to by his betters!' "

  "I'll be—" Jim caught himself just in time. Damning yourself was not said lightly, here. He went on. "But I have to leave now—"

  "Oh, but my Lord—!" said Hob-One, dropping his air of superiority instantly. "You never did hear my message from Secoh—that dragon, you know—"

  "I know Secoh," said Jim. "Yes. In fact, one of the things I'm about to do is go back to Malencontri now and see him—that is, if he's still there. Is he?"

  "Yes. Yes, indeed, my Lord," said Hob-One. "I heard your John Steward tell your chief server that he could have the men-at-arms put the dragon out of the castle; but he didn't think he should do that, since this dragon was a particular friend of yours. So he just stays there, eating food and drinking wine and getting angrier and angrier at me. He could snap me in half with just a few of his great teeth. He's worse than a troll. Do you know there's a troll underneath this castle?"

  "I've talked to him," said Jim.

  "Oh. Well, you're a great magick Lord knight, with a sword and everything," said Hob-One, "but hobgoblins—even a hobgoblin like me, Hob-One de Malencontri—we can't fight anybody. Our best idea is just to keep out of sight."

  "I understand," said Jim. "However, I'm going to Secoh now; and the sooner I get started, the better. Standing here talking just delays me. If you can g
et there faster than I can, you might tell him I'm coming."

  "Oh, I can," said Hob-One. "I can get there in just a few minutes, riding on the smoke."

  "I see," said Jim. "Well, go ahead and tell him. Goodbye."

  He turned toward the door.

  "How are you going?" asked Hob-One behind him. "You know, my Lord, I could take you with me."

  Jim stopped and turned back.

  "You could?" he said.

  "Oh, yes. That's one of the few things we hobgoblins can do—take people riding on the smoke with us. We generally don't do it, of course. Except, sometimes we take children. They're small like us, and usually they like us; and even if they tell the grown-ups around them afterward, nobody believes them, so it's safe enough. But because you honored me with a name, I'd like to help you, my Lord, if I can. Would you like to ride the smoke back with me?"

  "I was going to take a horse," said Jim, frowning.

  "You've got horses at Malencontri," offered Hob-One timidly.

  This was true, of course. Jim felt a little foolish.

  "All right, then," he said. He looked at the merrily burning fire filling the fireplace. It looked like a rather uncomfortable thing to step over. "How do I go about it?"

  "You just give me your hand, my Lord." Hob-One extended his arm, and Jim took the little brown hand in his own. A moment later he was traveling up the chimney without really knowing how he had gotten started.

  He had expected the chimney to be a sooty, tight, uncomfortable matter to ascend. But this was a medieval chimney—a good deal wider and deeper than those in his twentieth-century experience—and also, some of the Natural magic of the hobgoblin may have been at work; because they whisked upward without even soiling the loose cloak he had put on. They were out of the top of the chimney before he really had time to formulate any thoughts at all.

  Almost immediately, they were drifting over the tops of the leafless trees and the snow-covered ground beneath.

  Jim's first impression was that they were not moving particularly fast; then he changed his mind and decided that they were indeed covering ground at something better than the speed at which he would have been able to fly, in his dragon body. But it was a very quiet, easy speed—even easier than the soaring which was the main part of any dragon's air travels; since, because of a dragon's weight, using wings to keep one aloft was an extremely tiring business. This was almost like traveling in a dream.