The Dragon in Lyonesse

"The Witch Queen, Morgan le Fay," said Brian. "She must have brought them."

  "She shouldn't have the power to do that without help from the land above."

  "James, you told me plainly that Agatha Falon was a witch."

  "I didn't. I told you only that others said it. And Kineteté denied it, saying Agatha had only tried to learn Witchery and found it required more than she wanted to give it, in lifetime study and effort. But it's possible she picked up a bit of their art before giving up," said Jim.

  But even as he said this, a thought came to him that he told himself he should have had before. A name or title could mean different things, depending on who said it. If someone had asked Kineteté, as little as a year before, whether he, Jim, was a Magickian, she would undoubtedly have snapped that he was nothing of the kind—yet! But by that time he actually had learned a number of things in the Art.

  Still, by Kineteté's standards he would not have been qualified for the title.

  But Jim had assumed from Kineteté's response to him that Agatha had left the witch-seminary without really learning anything. That might not have been true. There was the instance of the Witch-Gate, for example.

  He stood, thinking a moment longer. Had Kineteté known about the invasion force in the Borderland, when he told her that he, Brian, and Dafydd were going to the Drowned Land and Lyonesse?

  "Maybe there's a way to find out," he said, more to himself than the others. He turned to Brian. "It would mean leaving you for a little while."

  "I am hardly a child to be watched and guarded, James."

  "Of course not, Brian. I didn't mean that. I meant—anyway, we've yet to hear from King Pellinore about how the other Originals felt when he spoke to them."

  They all turned to face the towering man, who now stood looking down on them like some iron statue from an earlier age—iron face, iron hands, as well as iron armor.

  "I spoke to no more than twenty of the Originals, if that many. I did not keep count. They were the ones who should be told first. The word will spread. They think on you, Sir James, as like to Merlin in that you must be able to see the future; and therefore pray you to name who will lead them to battle. It is sad…"

  The iron face softened for just a moment.

  "… but the younger ones are not like us, desire what they may. They will wish to fight also, of course. But they are not of the mold of we of older days."

  "We met a younger Sir Dinedan, our first time through Lyonesse," said Brian, "and I had the honor of encountering him with lances. But he had the misfortune to swoon just as both our spears were about to touch. I gathered from what he said that it was a family weakness."

  "If so, I do not know of it," said Pellinore. "The Original Sir Dinedan has never given sign of any such swooning. He is a Knight of good heart and strength, though perhaps oversudden in his decisions. No, this is the sort of change that has crept into our children and their children. I thank Heaven that the two sons of my own body, Sir Percival and Sir Lamorack of Wales, were of an age to belong to the Round Table while it still existed—and showed no such weakness whatsoever."

  He broke off suddenly, looking at Jim.

  "But Sir James," he went on, "you have not told me who you choose to lead we who are the Original Knights. You must come with me and name him to them."

  Jim was thinking fast. If neither the trees nor the Old Magic was going to be of help, then he needed to get busy on his own. The first thing was to find out what the Dark Powers had in the way of ogres, Worms, Harpies and such. He had no time to go and talk to Knights right now. What if he had to name himself as that leader, to go ahead and have to try to counter what magic he could?

  "Look," he said to Pellinore, "I've got reasons for not wanting to announce my choice of someone to lead them right away. Magic is involved in this; and I've got to find out how powerful it is, first. I'd rather you just told them the name of the leader is something to be revealed hereafter. For now, only tell them that no common man shall lead them."

  Pellinore looked grimly at him.

  "Indeed, that promise could be a better one," he said. "For, providing all other virtues be equal, it is always best that he who leads is a king. But since I myself am a king, and I would not have it thought that I had, in some way, unseemly put myself forward, it should be you, Sir James, when the time comes, who tells them who it will be. Horse!"

  But even as the tall white horse was still nodding his way around the corner of the house to come to Pellinore, the QB cried out.

  "King! Wait! The trees are speaking to me of an urgent message for Sir James. One comes with it, but does not know how to find Sir James. I must go to meet him; and bring him here, so that he not wander the land of Lyonesse for years."

  "Go, then," said Pellinore. "Let Sir James hear him, but do not delay after. I have said the other Originals must swiftly know the choice of a leader is forechosen, and beyond dispute."

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Whether it was a result of the somewhat testy tone of King Pellinore's last words, or not, would probably never be known; but it was a fact that the QB reappeared in what seemed like a minute and a half after vanishing into the gloom of the surrounding trees at a full lope—a black-and-white leopard blur.

  Having reappeared, however, he came from the trees to them at a more reasonable pace, to let the messenger he had spoken of trot his horse level with him. The messenger was young—surprisingly young, Jim thought, no more than fourteen years old. But he wore the clothing of the Drowned Land leaders, among which Dafydd and his Blues belonged. Also, there was a quiver at his side and an unstrung longbow at his back, stretching from above his head as he sat in the saddle, down to past the horse's withers. A bow Jim would have thought too long for him to pull.

  His face was pale and drawn with fatigue, which gave him the look of being older than his plainly youthful years—and it was only then that Jim realized that he was once more looking at the young King of the Drowned Land—a very worn young king.

  "Your Majesty!" he said, stepping forward to hold the stirrup as the King swung down from his saddle. "I hadn't thought—may I name to you King Pellinore, one of the Originals of the Legends that people this land of Lyonesse. As of course is the Questing Beast, whom you have met already. And Sir Brian you already know, also."

  "Yes," said the boy-King.

  "King Pellinore, may I name to you…" Jim ran out of words and turned to the Drowned Land monarch. "Forgive me, your Majesty, but I'm afraid I was never told the name by which you should be introduced."

  "I am David."

  "… Name to you King David of the Drowned Land. But what brings you, out of all the other people in your land, to me, your Majesty?"

  "I speak for my people," said the young King, lifting his head and squaring his shoulders. "We must have your help without delay, Sir James. Otherwise my people and my land are lost."

  Pellinore said nothing immediately; though the words "without delay" must have triggered a powerful reaction in him. But Jim felt his presence acutely, standing there, towering over both him and the newcomer. Jim's mind raced; and he hurried to speak before Pellinore should.

  "I'm afraid you're asking me that at a bad time," he said, as gently as he could. "I'm not free to leave Lyonesse right at the moment. What's been happening in the Drowned Land? And why did you come, instead of sending someone else, like Dafydd?"

  "Dafydd ap Hywel, like all our best bowmen, is needed to defend our cities, which now hold all who belong to the Drowned Land. Even the people of the fields and forests have fled to them for shelter from the winged monsters."

  "Winged monsters—" For a second, Jim's memory had jumped back to his first encounter with the creatures of the Dark Powers. "Didn't Dafydd call them something other than that?"

  "He did. I do not remember what it was. You are right, he had a name for them. But I had no time to remember it, for the decision was that I must go and get you to save us; for the bite of the monsters is death."


  "He called them Harpies, didn't he?"

  "Yes. That was the name. You know of them?"

  Jim nodded, and the image of them as they had attacked at the Loathly Tower was back in his mind's eye—like it or not. The white, staring faces of women, borne on short, batlike bodies and great, naked-looking wings, their expressions frozen in some form of insanity, swooping down upon him, Brian, and the rest—and Dafydd, coolly shooting down each one that was closest with a single arrow, in the moment they appeared out of the thick, low-lying cloud overhead, level with the top of the tallest ruined spire of the Loathly Tower.

  In the end, his arrows used up, a harpy had gotten though to Dafydd and bitten him; but when Danielle, who was not then his wife, told him she loved him, he had refused to die…

  "I know them," he said, jerking himself back from memory of that time. "They're one of the kinds of creatures the Dark Powers make. But none of us except Dafydd could do anything against them. I'm no archer and never could be one like Dafydd; and it took him to aim and shoot fast enough to keep them from us. Besides, didn't You say your best archers are holding off the Harpies?"

  "Only the Blues are great with the bow," said the young King. "The other Colors know it from childhood, but without a Blue to captain each guarding force, some Harpies would get through; and those Blues must sleep sometime. But beyond that, Dafydd said to get you. He said that where you go the Dark Powers draw back; you find always some means to drive them away. We must have you with us, Sir James, and speedily! Even the minutes we spend here talking count against us!"

  "He cannot go," said Pellinore, in a deep, hard voice. "He is committed to Lyonesse now. After he is done here, he may help you. Cannot you understand that, bo—" He broke off just in time and substituted the words "—King David?"

  The young King swung about to face Pellinore, and stood looking at him. They regarded each other as a small terrier and a heavy-shouldered mastiff of four times the size might do. Then David turned to Jim.

  "Is this so?" he said.

  "Well, you see…" Jim searched for words that were not there. They would not come. David swung back to face Pellinore.

  "Then I challenge you!" said David. "I will fight you for possession of him."

  Pellinore stared down at him.

  "You are mad," he said. "Your worry for your people has driven all sense out of you. You are still a boy, far too young; and in any case, not a knight."

  David threw his head back.

  "I was knighted by my father on my fifth birthday. After that, like all kings' sons in the Drowned Land, one of my studies was the use of sword and lance. Yield up Sir James or I call you a recreant knight!"

  Pellinore, Jim, and Brian stared at each other. It was unbelievable. Ridiculous—not merely like a terrier and a mastiff, but more like a small puppy squeezing though the bars of a cage in a zoo, to challenge the male lion there.

  In this case, thought Jim, looking at Pellinore, the male lion was looking unusually grim—which baffled Jim until he realized the grimness was part annoyance, part admiration. Brought up in a martial environment, the one thing that was admired was courage—even if it was foolish courage.

  Pellinore could be not without a feeling of kindness toward the boy. But unfortunately he was trapped by what and who he was. As a Knight of the Round Table, let alone as a King, he had been threatened by the one word he could not overlook. A recreant knight was one who was willing to buy his life at any price; and the young King, although he was inexperienced and something like a quarter of a man—in terms of his age and experience—was still old enough to know what he was saying.

  There was no way out for Pellinore. As for the young King—Jim looked at his pale face, his head still held high. There was no way out for him either, now, but to beg mercy from Pellinore. No hope of that.

  "King Pellinore," burst out Brian suddenly, "I beg you accept me as the champion, to do battle for King David—"

  "I will have no champion!" The boy's voice cut across Brian's. "I am a king. I choose to fight. I, myself, and no other for me!"

  "You have neither weapons nor armor," said Pellinore gruffly to David, looking down at his challenger. "I remember when my sons were your age… come along with me. Perhaps some of their armor will fit you."

  He led the boy in through the door of the log building, closing it behind him.

  "Is the child mad?" said Brian to Jim. "Could it be he was bitten by a dying harpy without remembering it, and poisoned just enough to lose his wits?"

  "I don't think so," said Jim. "I think it's a couple of things, working together. One is that it's hard to believe you can die when you're his age. He knows what he's up against, just by looking at King Pellinore; but I wouldn't be surprised if he thought there was a chance for him to get lucky and win. But he's also got guts and a sense of responsibility; and I'd bet he's hoping that if he's killed trying to get me to help his people, I'll be so ashamed and impressed that I'll find some way to get free of Lyonesse and go to their rescue. I give him credit for brains as well as guts."

  "There is something magickal you can do there, then, about the Harpies?"

  "No," said Jim. "That's the thing. There isn't. If I had the use of my magic—" He broke off, lowered his voice, and looked around. No one but the horses—five of them now—was within hearing; and in normal horse fashion, there being nothing else to do at the moment, they were eating grass. "Brian, I've explained to you what a ward is, haven't I?"

  "The magick protection?"

  "That's it. I've got one around me now. I probably should have told you about it after we got away from Northgales, but…" He briefly explained about the ward Kineteté had put around him and that Morgan le Fay had burned her fingers on, trying to strip it from him.

  "… So you see," he wound up, "it's as if I don't have any magic at all, right now. To use it I'd have to open the ward; and I suspect Morgan herself, or someone or something, is ready, just waiting for the moment I crack it open—"

  Jim broke off as the door to the building swung open, and both of them turned towards the sound of its opening. David came out, now in armor and with a sword scabbarded at his side—armor that was somewhat loose for him, but did not fit him badly enough to hamper his movements.

  The suit of chain mail, however, did make him look bigger and more able. Unfortunately, he was followed out by Pellinore; and with his appearance, the illusion of added size and ability about David evaporated.

  "You will have to use your own horse," Pellinore said to the young King. "I have no horses here that will allow anyone but me to ride them. But I will ride the weakest of mine so that there shall be as little difference between us as possible. Horse! Back to where you belong. Tallow!"

  His white horse stopped eating and headed back around the corner of the building, passing as he did so an approaching, somewhat overweight mare, also white, but of a rather strange white—literally, in fact, about the color of tallow wax. Like Horse, she was already saddled and bridled. She grunted agreeably as Pellinore's weight descended onto her back.

  David had already ridden his own horse—it appeared to be gray in the Lyonesse lighting, and was light-weight and bred for speed, rather than strength, as most of the Drowned Land equines seemed to be—some thirty yards off. Now he turned it about to face back the way they had come. He sat it quietly, waiting.

  "This is crazy!" said Jim, suddenly overcome with a feeling of revulsion. "I can't just let the boy be killed like that!"

  Brian's fingers closed like a metal clamp on Jim's arm.

  "You can do nothing," he said. "James, do not open or break, or whatever you do with your ward, over this lad. I would help him, too, if I could. So would Pellinore, if I am any judge of knights—Round Table or not. But there is no way King Pellinore can do otherwise than if the lad was full-grown and skilled. If he does not fight, this boy will become a man someday; and the story will be told of how Pellinore yielded himself to him. What you see is King David's doing and no other.
May God's mercy be upon him."

  He crossed himself as Pellinore touched his spurs lightly to the mare; and the animal, clearly startled by what was perhaps highly unusual treatment, leaped forward. The young King, seeing this, put his own horse into an almost immediate gallop; and had covered more than half the distance between them by the time they met.

  David's spear, correctly balanced loosely in his hand as he and Pellinore neared, was seized tightly only in the moment in which they came together. His actions could have been used as a perfect demonstration of all Brian had tried so hard to teach Jim. The point of David's spear touched Pellinore's shield first by a fraction of a second—touched and slid off the angled shield into air.

  Oh, no! thought Jim. But in that same second, Pellinore lifted his spearpoint away from the center of David's shield, to strike only on its upper edge; and the mare, who in spite of being smaller than Pellinore's white warhorse stood at least three hands taller and weighed proportionately more than David's horse, rode the young King's steed into the ground.

  —And the boy flew from the saddle, to fall heavily to the ground and lie without moving.

  "NO!" This time Jim shouted it, furious at himself for letting this thing happen. He was already running toward David. But there was someone before him. Pellinore was already off his Tallow horse, walking with great strides toward Jim, carrying the small, limp body in his arms.

  "You are magick!" thundered Pellinore, laying the boy at Jim's feet. "He is like Lamorack, my son, at that age. Save him!"

  Jim glared at Pellinore, the fury in him at himself finding in this command an excuse to turn itself on the Round Table Knight. Pellinore's face above him was hard and grim—nothing more.

  But abruptly, what he had said about his son Lamorack got through to Jim, making him realize that Pellinore was perhaps incapable of showing much other emotion—that inside he might be suffering over what he had just done to this boy. Jim turned on Brian, who had run out just behind him.

  "Will you get out of my light, Brian?" he all but shouted, as he knelt beside the unmoving David "How can I see with you throwing your black shadow on him?