The Dragon and the Gnarly King

  But what if what Hill did sounded to them just like ordinary speech? Jim remembered hearing once that some people suspected that whales could communicate with each other over long distances, by making sounds in—what was it again?—the subsonic range?—the supersonic? In fact—Jim tried to remember—had not dolphins actually been found to "talk" up into the supersonic range among themselves?

  It was a real possibility, he decided, his spirits suddenly perking up over the chance of it being true. Now if there were just some way to check on it—

  "M'Lord! M'Lord!"

  It was Hob calling him directly, now. Jim lifted his reins to check Gorp and waited for first Dafydd, then the sumpter-horse, to draw level with him. Both Hob and Hill were completely out from under the cover on the horse's back, Hill sitting there staring at him.

  "What is it, Hob?" Jim asked.

  "M'Lord!" said Hob. "It's important! Hill has something he has to tell you!"

  "Well, what's he saying—" Jim broke off suddenly as his thoughts of a moment before returned to him. He turned to speak to Dafydd. "Dafydd," he said, "leave the sumpter-horse with me, would you? Ride up and tell Brian that I want to stop to talk for a moment with Hill, so Brian doesn't get too far ahead of us and we lose him."

  "Certainly, James," said Dafydd, untying the lead-rope of the sumpter-horse from his saddle and passing it to Jim. He rode forward to Brian. But Brian, able to hear clearly in the stillness what had been said, had already halted Blanchard and turned in his saddle. Dafydd joined him, and the two of them sat on their horses, watching and listening.

  Jim turned in his saddle again to face the two Naturals.

  They had halted in a setting that was suddenly, completely Lyonesse as Carolinus had described it. All at once, the land might have been forever moonlit. The light was as adequate as it might have been on a clouded day; but the shadows of the trees, the rocks—their own shadows—were impenetrably black, and where the light fell on rock or tree or ground, what it illuminated seemed silvery-white. Even the upper surfaces of the leaves, on the few trees that caught the light, were bright silver.

  Ignoring all this, Jim turned to the two on the sumpter-horse.

  "Hill," he said to the small man, "I want you to listen to me carefully and do what I ask. Hob, he can understand me all right, can't he, when I speak to him?"

  "Oh, yes, m'Lord," said Hob. "He can understand you perfectly."

  The emphasis on the word "he" had to be entirely unconscious on Hob's part. But it was still an uncomfortable thing for Jim to hear. He pushed the feeling from his mind.

  "Now, Hill," he said again, finding it a little hard to keep his tone of authority in the face of that open, childlike stare, "what I want you to do is, first, to tell me what you have to tell me. Then stop, wait a little bit; and then when I signal you to talk, tell me again. I may have to ask you to tell it three or even four times. Possibly even more. Do you understand?"

  "He doesn't understand," said Hob promptly. "He thinks you're very strange. But, since it's you, he doesn't mind. He'll do just as you say."

  "Good. I want you to listen very closely and do exactly as I tell you," Jim went on, looking directly at Hill. "I'm going to ask you to repeat the words you say over and over again, while I try listening to them in different ways. You may not understand what I mean by that, but if you'll just stop talking when I lift my hand, and not start over again until I put it down, then stop again if I lift it, we'll be all right. Do you understand that?"

  "He says he understands," said Hob.

  "Thank you, Hob," said Jim. "But from now on, don't say anything, just let me listen and see if I can hear him talking for myself."

  It was a matter of finding something he could visualize to focus the magical energy he could call on. He thought of the hearing of a bat—it seemed to him he remembered that bats could hear into the supersonic. He half-closed his eyes and imagined the auditory capability of the bat somehow added to his own hearing, his ears lifting into pointed bat-ears that could move and focus…

  "Go ahead, then, Hill," he said, "tell me what you have to tell me."

  Hill stared at him—and nothing happened.

  For a moment Jim was convinced Hill had either not understood him, or was simply not responding. Then he was sure Hill was doing his own form of talking, and he was still not hearing it.

  Jim raised his hand and thought again. What had he been thinking of earlier? Oh, yes, dolphins and whales—both were possible candidates for supersonic hearing.

  He looked at Hill and lowered his hand.

  This time he thought he might have heard something—but then, it could well have been his own imagination; he had felt it rather than heard it. He was on the verge of giving up, when a plain old ordinary commonsense possibility plunked itself down in the forefront of his mind without even being asked.

  What was wrong with him? He had completely forgotten he was in Lyonesse, where his magic might not be able to work. He thought for a moment, looking for a simple test; then he thought of his wedding ring, which did not fit him well and so was left behind at Malencontri. He tried to summon it to him.

  Nothing happened. His magic was not available here.

  So much for using it to give himself more-than-human hearing… wait a minute!

  Dragons, he knew, could hear better than humans, and well into at least the subsonic range—he himself, as a dragon, had once been able to fly at night by picking up a sort of sonar-like image of the dark land below him, as he bellowed with his tremendous dragon voice.

  —And his ability to change to his dragon body, or to parts of it, was not subject to the rules of ordinary magic. It was built into him, like the simple magic some Naturals had—something they could turn on, or off, but not otherwise control. He had before given his human body the hawk-like telescopic vision of his dragon-shape. Dragon-hearing should be just as available to him.

  He made the change, and suddenly heard Hill in the middle of a sentence—Jim had forgotten to move his hand.

  "… 'ee should go that way, I keep telling 'ee!" Hill was saying with absolute, bell-like clarity. Hill's accent, Jim noticed, was not too far different from the accents of the local people in the Shire of Somerset.

  "—I keep telling 'ee that!" Hill went on.

  "I hear you, Hill!" said Jim. "But which way is 'that way'?"

  Hill raised one of his strange long arms, completely covered by its even-longer sleeve. He was pointing with it.

  "Off to our left is where 'ee should go."

  "Why?" said Brian, quick to pick up what was going on. "Ask him why that way?"

  "Why, Hill?" asked Jim.

  " 'ee must!" said Hill stubbornly.

  Jim looked where the arm pointed. It angled upward over the nearer tree-tops, pointing at something in the distance that might be a rocky pile, or the beginning of something farther off, like a mountain range on the horizon.

  It was in the opposite direction from the round silver disk, enormous in size, that was shedding light over them.

  "Can we trust him?" said Brian, frowning. "Carolinus said that this was a Land of magick and deception, and nothing could be trusted."

  "Well, Hill, like us, came in here from outside," said Jim, turning back to look at the small man. To his surprise, tears were stealing down Hill's cheeks.

  " 'ee must!" said Hill again.

  "Can we trust him?" said Brian sharply again. Jim looked at Brian and Dafydd, sitting their horses only a few feet away now. Both had interpreted the pointing arm.

  "I think so," said Jim, touched in spite of himself by the emotion behind Hill's words. "After all, he's only with us by chance, more than anything else; and he didn't know we were coming here."

  He paused to think. "Besides," he said, as it occurred to him, "we don't know where we're going, anyway. So any direction's as good as another. We can keep a sharp lookout; and if it turns out to be dangerous, we can turn back. Also, then we'll know whether to trust Hill or not."

/>   Conscious that Hill would have overheard the last words, and they might have hurt his feelings, Jim turned back to the small man.

  "Actually, I believe I trust him now," he said.

  Hill blinked, but there were no more tears.

  "Do you know where we are?" Jim asked him.

  "Nay," said Hill, shaking his head.

  "You must say m'Lord when you speak to my Lord!" said Hob to him, sharply. "Always say m'Lord when you speak to him!"

  "Quite right!" said Brian, and even Dafydd gave a slight nod in agreement.

  Hill said nothing.

  "Let me hear you say m'Lord to him!" insisted Hob.

  "Nay," said Hill, in Jim's head. Dafydd and Brian, who of course had not heard Hill, waited expectantly.

  "Why won't you say it?" cried Hob.

  " 'ee's not my Lord!" said Hill. The tears were beginning to start again.

  It was ridiculous, Jim thought, but he found himself unreasonably moved by the sight of the small man's crying. It was like seeing a very young child cry because it was completely helpless to do anything else about a situation it was in. "What he calls me doesn't matter. Anyway, let's try the way he suggests for a while."

  Brian looked shocked.

  "In that case," he said stiffly, "I shall certainly continue to ride ahead. Keep me in sight at all times; and, if by chance you do lose sight of me, call me back at once. I must not go beyond voice-shout."

  They started off again in the new direction, with Brian leading and Jim now riding at the back of the group, next to the sumpter-horse, trying to get Hill to talk to him some more.

  Hill had evidently said all he had to say for the moment. In the end Jim gave up, let the sumpter-horse fall behind, and—since there was more space between the trees, here—rode ahead to be saddle-and-saddle with Dafydd as they went on over the stony ground, which was sparsely thatched with what should have been green. Ahead, the rising ramparts of dark stone now seemed much closer than they had before, as the great silver orb mounted in the sky, seeming to shrink in size as it did.

  The time spent trying to get Hill to talk some more had not been completely lost, however, Jim decided. He was beginning to notice small things. For example, the " 'ee" that he heard from Hill did not stand indiscriminately for "you," "him," or "we." There were little differences of what would have been intonation—if Hill had been talking aloud—that made one " 'ee" into "thee," and, said in a couple of other different ways, could be either "ye," or "we."

  The rise toward which they were headed, when glimpsed through the trees, was turning out not to be as distant as it had seemed. It had grown very much taller in the short time they had been riding toward it—although the tricky light of this black-and-silver land still made it difficult to say how far away it was.

  They had moved into an area that seemed to be older forest. The trees were almost as large, if not as leafy as they were used to seeing back in their old, familiar forests on the surface of the earth under ordinary sunlight; interspersed with them were little glades or open spaces. After close to an hour, Brian unexpectedly halted, lifting his hand to signal them to do likewise

  Jim, Dafydd, and the sumpter-horse—the last always alert for a chance to stop working—stopped immediately. Brian sat where he was on a motionless Blanchard, looking out through the trees before him into a clearing; after a moment he turned and walked Blanchard quietly back to them

  "There is a knight up ahead in that open space," he said in a low voice, when he came level with them.

  "What makes you sure it's a knight?" Jim asked.

  "It can hardly be anyone else," said Brian. "He has the belt, the sword, the spear upright in its socket, and he is in full, if somewhat old-fashioned, armor. Moreover, he sits his mount in knightly fashion; though his saddle is antique and a little strange. Its pommel and cantle are much less than a jouster would wish to have before and behind him at the moment of encounter."

  "What's he doing there, did you notice?" asked Jim.

  "He seems to be merely sitting his horse, deep in thought," said Brian. "Perhaps he is a traveler, pondering which way to take, even as we have been at times. Or perhaps he is trying to remember something he has forgotten to do, and may need to return home for."

  "But there's only one of him?"

  "That's right, James," said Brian. "He is alone. Except for his horse—which in this light I cannot be sure of. It appears black, but it may indeed be a dark brown, or some such. At any rate, it is a destrier, heavy and suitable for a man who is equipped for spear-running."

  "Well, I think we ought to ahead and meet him," said Jim. "Don't you think the same thing, Brian? How about you, Dafydd?"

  "I am no knight," said Dafydd, "and have no opinion."

  "I think by all means we should go forward and speak to him," said Brian. "Such a chance is not to be missed. Perhaps he can put us more surely upon our path; or even give us some news that may raise your heart about your ward."

  "You're right," said Jim.

  Brian turned Blanchard about, and the three of them rode forward side by side. The sumpter-horse shrugged and followed, as its head-rope jerked at its halter, and all together they made their ways up and into the clearing.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The knight was apparently so deep in thought that he did not look up and turn his head in their direction until they were well out into the clearing. Once he did, however, he immediately reined his horse about to face them.

  The visor of his helm was up; and the face it revealed, possibly because of a few spots where the "sunlight" did not touch it—utterly black shadows about his eyes and on either side of his nose—gave him a grim, angry look.

  Brian reined his horse to a stop, and the others stopped with him.

  "Fair sir!" called Brian—there was still a good twenty feet of distance between them and the solitary knight—"We pray pardon for intruding upon your solitude this way. But perhaps you would be kind enough to set some travelers on their proper path?"

  The fierce-looking face of the solitary knight broke into a large smile. He lifted his reins and trotted forward toward them.

  "Certainly! Certainly!" he said, pulling up before them. "Be glad to. Damned lonely out here in all sorts of weather all the time. But have to do it, you know. The Ancestor's about, but you can never tell where he'll show up; so someone has to ride the woods, and since I'm head of the family, there's no choice to it. Give you any aid I can!"

  "That is a great kindness in you, Sir," said Brian. "May I name to you the Baron Sir James Eckert de Bois de Malencontri. I am Sir Brian Neville-Smythe, of a cadet branch of the Nevilles. And this is our Companion, Master Bowman Dafydd ap Hywel."

  "I am honored. You could not have come at a better moment. I was weary of riding about by myself. I am Sir Dinedan."

  "Sir Dinedan?" Brian's voice cracked in a way Jim had never heard before, as he repeated the name. "This meeting is great honor to us, Sir Dinedan. You are most gentle to speak so freely and so friendly to us, who—though we both are knights—are not such as someone like yourself might have heard of."

  "Why, that is true," said Sir Dinedan, "but I would hardly have thought it otherwise. You are clearly not Cornish knights, as I see by your armor and weapons. Also, never have I seen such a magnificent warhorse as the one you ride."

  "I am once more honored," said Brian. "My steed's name is Blanchard of Tours, fair Sir. In a sense, you might say he was my father's gift to me on his deathbed, for it cost nearly all of my patrimony to buy him."

  "I can well believe it," said Sir Dinedan. "But you said that you needed, perhaps, aid from me to set you on your proper way through these woods? I would be failing in my duty to my Ancestor if I did not assist two such courteous knights. Whither are you bound?"

  "As for that," said Brian, "we do not know exactly. We search for the lost ward of Sir James, here, a mere babe who was stolen but recently—we believe, by some of the Faery ilk—and we seek to recover him."

>   Sir Dinedan gave a low whistle.

  "That is no small task," he said. "It is not that the faeries do not abound, but finding them is something else again. You may have a long journey still before you. And there is little I can tell you, as far as the way you should take. If the Ancestor were here, or if you meet him on your way through these woods, he might be more help to you, being closer to such creatures than I am, since I am still alive. And perhaps if I ride along with you some small way, it will increase the chances of your meeting him, since I encounter him more than anyone else, being of the family."

  "Indeed, that is very gentle of you!" said Brian. His voice quavered a little bit, and Jim looked at him in curiosity

  "In that case," Brian went on, "if we are to bear company perhaps you would vouchsafe me the greatest possible favor a man could ask of someone like yourself. While I have had some small success in spear-runnings with other knights in the country from which I come, it is exceeding bold of me to ask. But it would forever be a golden memory for me, should I live, to remember that I had once encountered with a knight of King Arthur's Round Table. Would you consider breaking just a single spear with me?"

  Sir Dinedan stared at him for a moment.

  "I fear, Sir," he said at last, "you are confusing me with the Ancestor. It is true I am Sir Dinedan, but I am Sir Dinedan-of-now. It is the Ancestor who was of that great fellowship of the Table Round. But many generations have passed since then, and the name has remained in the family. I would that you not consider a spear-running with me to have value it does not."

  "You are not the Sir Dinedan who rode with Sir Tristram against the thirty knights of Queen Morgan le Fay, to rescue Sir Lancelot du Lac from them?"

  "I am not," said Sir Dinedan. "As I say, that was my Ancestor, and—by the by—that story has been much distorted by later generations, who have falsely given much of the praise of the encounter to Sir Tristram."

  Brian opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  "Yes," answered Sir Dinedan-of-now. "He, as you know, was also of the Table Round, and a valiant knight. Nevertheless, when word came that thirty knights lay in wait for Sir Lancelot, it was the Ancestor, instead of Sir Tristram, who immediately said that they two must assault and defeat those thirty knights, to save Lancelot. It was Sir Tristram who demurred, saying that adventuring against thirty other knights at once was too much; and that his cousin Sir Lancelot had gotten him into fights like that before, and he had determined never to be drawn into one again."