The Dragon in Lyonesse

by Gordon R. Dickson

  "I am easier doing that," said Dafydd. "Well, then, two weeks past, it fell that I heard from the Drowned Land. Word came to me from my King there, whom you once met, with an urgency to see me now. I went below the waves, accordingly; and we two spoke privily. You must know that among us, those of the Old Blood feel things others do not; and he had not been alone there in feeling a presence—not quite yet upon his Drowned Land itself, but casting a growing shadow toward it; as the shadow of a thundercloud goes before it to darken the landscape."

  "And did you feel that, too, when you were down there?" Angie said.

  Dafydd looked quickly at her.

  "I did that," he said, "from the moment I set foot on that ancient earth. The shadow of it has not left me since. I feel it even here, now, in your Hall."

  He stopped speaking, looking at them.

  Jim's and Angie's eyes went to each other unthinkingly. Jim could have sworn there had been nothing different about the Hall until Dafydd's last word. But now there was; and, gazing at each other, he and Angie each knew the other was also feeling whatever had come into it.

  It was nothing visible or audible. The morning sun still streamed with September brilliance through the narrow windows from the bright sky outside. The freshly laid and kindled fires in the three big fireplaces still threw up their flames, doing their best to warm the overnight chill of the large, empty stone Hall in which they burned; but both Jim and Angie now felt darkness like a weightless finger laid upon them.

  Jim's rebellious inner core, normally sleeping in him, woke suddenly and unexpectedly. He had argued with Angie and scorned his servants for their quickness to believe in things supernatural. But this was different.

  This was an uninvited intrusion into the place that was his and Angie's—ALONE!

  A fury as primeval and instinctive as that of Aargh, the English wolf, bared its teeth within him.

  "Out!" he shouted to the empty air above him, careless of consequences. "Out of my Hall, my home! You've no power under this roof! GO!"

  As he shouted, not even thinking of what the cost might be, in magical energy or life itself, he thrust with all the power of magic he had developed in him against what hung above them—and all at once, beneath the dark rooftrees, there was nothing where it had been. Nothing at all.

  Chapter Two

  For a long moment more, like a wolf filling the entrance of his den, teeth bared and snarling at an enemy, Jim went on staring up at what was no longer there under the shadow of the sharply slanted roof.

  Then he became aware of a taste of blood in his mouth, felt with his tongue against his teeth and found he had bitten it. In spite of himself, he smiled; and, smiling, relaxed. The sudden, all-encompassing fire of rage that had come upon him began to sink, gutter, and die, like the flame of a fireplace log as the last of its burnable substance was consumed. He brought his eyes back to the High Table.

  Angie and Dafydd were looking at him.

  "Go on," he said to Dafydd, a little thickly. His tongue had already begun to swell, but not much. Angie relaxed in her seat.

  Dafydd watched him for a second longer, the archer's face as calm as ever. Then he went on, as if nothing had happened.

  "Of further facts I have none. But my King, like all my people now living apart on deep ocean floor, has spent all his life there and not only feels but reads more—and more correctly—into such feelings as we of the Old Blood have been gifted to sense. He reads the shadow as darkening to the west of our Drowned Land, beyond our borders, where is the fabled, ancient Land of Old Magic—Lyonesse; and it covers that country as far as the cliff-face you and I know, James, that is the beginning of the great underseas mountain which holds the Kingdom of the Gnarly people. There, where just a short time past Carolinus was held prisoner, and from which we carried him and your young ward back to this castle."

  "The cliff-face has an entrance. Maybe the shadow's gone in there, too, where your people can't see or feel it?"

  "No, James. It ends at the cliff with the entrance to that land. It is Lyonesse alone that is cloaked—an action such as the Dark Powers have never shown before, and for reasons known only to them. No doubt those reasons will show themselves in time—after they have truly won Lyonesse—for my King believes that winning still awaits a final test of their strength. Remember, Lyonesse is a land of old and strange magick—it may be older and stranger than even the Dark Powers understand. But reasons do not matter to my cousins beneath the waves, only that this darkness will be next neighbor to them if it succeeds."

  Jim could think of nothing to say. Apparently, neither could Angie.

  "I come to you, James," Dafydd went on, "because this is a foe my arrows cannot touch; and my King there is old, older than he looks; and not likely to go on being old forever even though he takes care not to be captured and misused as was Carolinus by the Gnarly King. It is the Drowned Land, not himself, for which he cares, you understand."

  "Of course we understand!" said Angie. "He's worried about what will happen to the Kingdom once he's gone and there's no one capable in charge."

  "Yes," said Dafydd; "and you likewise understand, I can see, James. I know this is none of your care or responsibility. It is only I who bear an obligation and a duty to the Drowned Land."

  "Never mind that. Go on," Jim said.

  The entrance door to the Hall banged open; and, entering sideways because of a large gutted and cleaned stag on his shoulders, there came Brian, wearing his sword and an old mail shirt, but otherwise dressed in somewhat stained and well-worn everyday clothes. He turned to face the dais; and, still carrying the deer, marched down the aisle toward them. A quiver of arrows hung from one hip and the top end of a bowstave poked up between his left shoulder and the carcass.

  "Heigh-ho!" he said cheerfully. "I was just out today, playing with my bow—shooting at rovers, you know—and damme if I didn't get this deer. Dropped him with one shot, as it happens. Well, I had an extra horse with me; but it struck me suddenly it was foolish to carry the meat back to my castle with Malencontri so close. So I thought I might gift it to you, as some small acknowledgment for the excellent dinners and other meals you have fed me here."

  As he said these last words, he heaved the carcass from his shoulders onto the table they were sitting at, splashing wine out of the wine cups and nearly sending some of them, as well as other table settings, off onto the floor. No small feat, thought Jim, since the buck, even eviscerated, could weigh almost as much as Brian did himself.

  It was instantly obvious to those at the table, who knew him, that Brian had been out since dawn or before—hunting on foot, most likely, his hounds all being too old and few for hunting from horseback in a more knightly manner; and that the deer had been taken with deliberate attempt to show he paid at least some of his debts, social or otherwise. It was also intended to show that there was no lack of food at Castle Smythe, which they all knew was not always the case.

  "But now you're here, you'll sit and have a glass of wine, and maybe a bite of something with us, certainly?" said Angie, the quickest to recover.

  "Now, I could never say nay to that!" Brian came around to the side of the dais behind the table, stepped up, and took his bowstave with its loose but ready string off his shoulder to put it aside before sitting down.

  "Sir Brian, of your kindness may I see your bow, and perhaps your arrows as well?"

  "Why—of course," said Brian, handing both over to the seated archer and obviously embarrassed. "Just rough things, of course. Made them myself, with the help of Old Ned at my castle. Nothing to look at really—no real skill or time put into either—"

  "My thanks for your graciousness," said Dafydd, taking them. "It is that I am always learning from the way other men make these to their own purpose. Often I counsel young bowmen to do likewise; but many will not realize that, despite what skill they may have, they can always learn from any man who ever set knife to wood—were it only yesterday for the first time."

  "Hah! Y
es, of course!" said Brian, burying his face in the full wine cup Angie had just passed him. By this time servants were already there, taking away the deer and cleverly rolling up the old cloth with its stains of blood and other fluids, replacing it as it went with a new, clean cloth and extra food. Brian lost no time getting to work on the latter.

  A stroke of luck, thought Jim, watching him. Brian would want to be invited to join any expedition such as Dafydd was proposing; and he had not needed to be messaged to join them here—which reminded Jim it would not hurt to ask Aargh, the English wolf, to keep an eye on the safety of Angie and Malencontri while Jim and the others were gone.

  "By the way," he said to Brian, "you didn't see Aargh while you were out, did you?"

  Brian swallowed.

  "Oh, yes. I always run across him in the woods—or he, me. I had wished to ask him the next time I saw him, if there was a smell to magick. So I did, less than an hour since, and he said there was, in fact an army of different scents; but being a two-legs, even if I could smell any of them, I wouldn't like them. Then he hung his jaw open—you will know, the way he does when he is laughing, but without a sound."

  He paused to wash down another mouthful of food with a generous swallow of wine.

  "The curious matter is," he went on, "that I have grown so used to the beast that what I would consider as a fighting insult from any other creature, thing or man, passes by me like a summer breeze, hardly noticed. But why should he be so sour and grim always? Do you know, James? Dafydd?"

  "I think it comes from the life he has to live," answered Jim. "It's kill or be killed for him."

  "Why, but so it is for us—" Brian broke off abruptly. "Forgive me, James. Such contention is not seemly. I must tell you how pleased I am to see you and Angela. And Dafydd, whom I had not expected to find here."

  "The fact is," said Jim, "there's a problem that Dafydd has suddenly found; and I believe he meant to speak not only to me about it, but you as well."

  "Ah?" said Brian, setting down his wine cup and looking all at once at Dafydd with concern and curiosity. "What is that, Dafydd?"

  Not only Dafydd, but all of them told him.

  "Another chance at the Dark Powers!" said Brian when they were all finished. "What merry news!"

  However, he did not sound as if it was merry news. His voice was flat. Jim, Angie, and Dafydd looked at him.

  "You need not be concerned about it, Brian," said Dafydd gently, omitting the Sir before Brian's name—something he did much less often with that knight than he did with Jim, and only in the most informal of moments. "I do not ask your help."

  "But I would be happy to give it!" cried Brian. "If only it wasn't for this damn wedding—I mean, if it wasn't for Geronde's damn father—I mean, if it wasn't for the unfortunate situation of my father-in-law, right now, poor gentleman."

  Jim tried to unravel this tangle of words, and ended by choosing the least damnable of them all.

  "Would I be impertinent"—he was finally beginning to pick up some of the fourteenth-century verbal courtesies—"if I inquired what that unfortunate situation might be?"

  "Oh, now it seems he owes money. An old debt, money he had long forgotten about. But his creditor, having learned Sir Geoffrey is back in England, threatens fire, brimstone, hanging, drawing and quartering if he is not paid back immediately. Geronde and I knew nothing of it until he suddenly confessed all, showing us a letter from the man."

  "But he had this enormous palace and everything when you found him in the Holy Land," said Angie. "Didn't he manage to bring anything home with him?"

  "None of it was his, you may remember," said Brian. "No, he came back to Malvern with Geronde and the rest of us, as penniless as a canting friar."

  "And now that he has Malvern this creditor expects him to pay up?"

  "Worse than that," said Brian. "He took it directly to a Justice of Assize, seeking an immediate payment from Malvern's movable wealth and valuables, which would ruin everything that Geronde has done to work it up in the years since her father went off to that so-called Crusade—to say nothing of leaving it all but empty of servants, empty indeed of cattle, horse, and tools of all sorts as well as stripping Geronde herself of all possessions except two dresses and a few other womanly necessities."

  Jim and Dafydd were studiously silent. Angie was asking questions far more personal than either of them would have asked, even in a private one-on-one conversation; but they were eager to hear the answers. The rule amongst gentlemen worthy of the name was to perhaps hint at the knowledge wanted, but otherwise wait until it came voluntarily. But Brian seemed relieved to talk; and they were more than willing to listen.

  "We can't let that happen—" Angie was looking at Jim. But it was Brian who interrupted her.

  "No, no," he said. "It's all right. Quite all right. I took care of it. I put up a bond to the court for the debt."

  Jim was ready to interrupt on his own, and slow Angie down on this personal questioning. He was all but certain she was about to go far beyond what was considered permissible between even the closest of old male friends in this society. If Brian really wanted to tell them, he should say so before she went any further. But she was too fast for Jim.

  "Not your bride-price you earned from the Earl of Cumberland—"

  "No, no," said Brian. "Geronde has that and would not give it if they dug up Malvern and carried its very stones away to settle the debt. No, I put as surety to the court some—some of my own property."

  "Angie," said Jim, "I don't think we should ask Brian for any more details—"

  "Quite all right, James," said Brian. "As a matter of fact, I went after a deer by intent this morning, to give me an excuse to come and tell you that other debts of honor I have to you might be beyond my power to pay, for now at least. What I put as surety was Smythe Castle and income from its lands, some of which is good crop or pastureland and could be rented out for some value. They're entailed, of course, to my oldest son, when I have one, and his oldest in due time and so on… but I could be excluded from there in my lifetime, or until the rents and other income on the property paid off the debt."

  He paused and coughed, looking away from them all.

  "As it happened," he said, "the Judge of Assize had never viewed Smythe Castle when he took my bond. Neither had the creditor."

  There was a moment of silence while they all thought about this, Brian with obvious satisfaction.

  "I understand now, Brian," said Dafydd, "why you cannot go to Lyonesse with James and myself."

  "Jim—" began Angie, and checked herself abruptly. The three men looked inquiringly at her, but she only looked straight back at them as if one of their number had owned the voice they had just heard.

  "Indeed," went on Dafydd, "there was no intention of imposing on you at any time. It was simply that I thought—and I am sure James did as well—that you would wish at least to be invited."

  "And I could use the exercise, I can tell you!" said Brian. "You have no idea how being involved, day after day, in house-bound problems—"

  He checked himself in turn, looking at his two friends, both of whom were married and each of whom had at least one child under his roof.

  "Well, perhaps you can," he said, taking a long drink from his wine cup by way of putting a period to his words.

  "Does Geronde know about all this?" asked Angie, in spite of Jim's frown.

  "Oh, of course," said Brian, putting down his cup and looking at her with surprise. "That is to say, all but what we have spoken of just now—Dafydd's duty to his family in the Drowned Land, and that I have told him why, regretfully, I must be unhelpful at this moment."

  "Well, I think she should know that, too. We should get her here, or all go to Malvern—whichever works best—so we can talk about this together. She's involved, too."

  "Good idea!" said Jim, suddenly struck with an inspiration. "Why don't you send a pigeon to her right away, Angie; and meanwhile I'll go see if there isn't someone who could help
us decide what to do about Lyonesse."

  "Well," said Angie, "I suppose. But why don't you—"

  "Be back very shortly," said Jim, and, visualizing the destination he had in mind, moved himself magically to it.

  Chapter Three

  Once again, he was in Kineteté's sitting room. It was exactly as he remembered it. As if he had left it only a second before. It was the same cozy-feeling place, all the comfortable overstuffed chairs placed at the same angle with the central carpet, the same warmly shaded lamps, the cheerful red-and-white wallpaper with tiny flowers—and above all the sampler on the wall, worked in green and red thread, that spelled out WHEN THY SHOE IS ON THY FOOT, TREAD UPON THORNS.

  The only difference was a large, floppy-leaved green plant about four feet tall, standing in the middle of the room. Among its leaves was a trumpet-shaped growth that might have resembled a flower if it had not been more obviously a large, furled leaf. The plant could have been taken for a four-foot-high ornamental growth, if only it had been in some kind of pot or planter.

  "Forgive me for thrusting myself upon your attention," it said to him unexpectedly, in a squeaky voice. "I am a Dieffenbachia seguine cantans, a singing plant. Not to be confused with the ordinary Dieffenbacbia seguine, or dumbcane, as it is known in many kingdoms like the one you undoubtedly came from. I used to sing Merlin himself to sleep with a sweet lullaby—and now listen to me."

  It began to squeak and shrill in a completely unbearable fashion; so that it was only by heroic effort that Jim kept from putting his hands over his ears to at least give his sense of hearing some protection.

  It stopped, after what seemed a long time.

  "Yes," said Jim, in the wonderful silence that followed, "that's bad. I take it you're here to get help from the Mage?"

  "Ah, you know the Mage!" The dieffenbachia lowered its squeaky voice suddenly, and its large green leaves dipped shyly. "Would you possibly be a magickian yourself, honored sir?"