James Enge - This Crooked Way

"Is this it?" Thend called over to Morlock. The prisoners were hung in a line, with Thend and Morlock on either end. The werewolf was next to Morlock and the Khroi was next to Thend.

"No," Morlock said. "I suppose the dragons are settling which one of them gets which one of us, along with our stuff." At this, Thend noticed that their packs and weapons had been brought along by the guards and left off to the side of the Giving Field.

There was a long period while Thend wondered how the dragons would decide these important issues. A fight? A contest? A vote? Some combination of these? Should he hope that it would take a long time or no time at all?

Meanwhile Morlock was looking at the leather thong binding his hands, at the packs, at the Dragon who watched him grimly without ever looking away.

"Do you think you can unhook yourself from that thing?" Thend called over.

"No," said the crooked man. "Not with our friend watching. And listening."

This last was a mild rebuke, Thend realized. The dragon was not an animal; it might be able to understand them. If Thend had a good idea, he should probably keep it to himself and hope that Morlock had it, too. Unfortunately, Thend had no more ideas, good or bad.

"Thend," Morlock said presently, "I'm sorry."

Thend was embarrassed. He should never have blamed Morlock, even as a stupid joke. "It's all right," he said. "I know it's not really your fault."

"Not about that," Morlock said, but he didn't say what he was apologizing about. Which meant he couldn't. Which meant it was an Idea. And he was apologizing because it might end up getting Thend killed, even if it got Morlock free.

Thend thought carefully about his response. He didn't want to die, but if Morlock got away maybe there was something he could do to save Thend's family. That was tough luck for Thend, of course, but it wasn't like his chances looked good at the moment anyway. He couldn't say anything to discourage Morlock from whatever crazy plan he'd come up with, and he couldn't say anything to suggest to the dragon that there was a crazy plan.

"It's still all right," Thend said at last. "I understand." And he hoped Morlock had understood him as well as he had understood Morlock. (If he had.)

Morlock said something, but not to Thend and not anything Thend understood. He looked straight into the dragon's dimly burning eyes and said it: in Dragonish, Thend guessed, or some language the dragon understood.

Thend was right. What Morlock said was, "Hey, Smoky! What's taking your masters so long?"

The dragon snarled, a long low rumbling, like stones grinding together under the earth, and said, "I have no master but Math Valone, kharum of my guile."

"You actually answer to that insect?" Morlock asked. "He told you to stay here and keep your murky eyes on us?"

"No!" the dragon snapped. After some long bitter moments of silence he added, "My guile-mates asked me to wait here and watch you."

"Oh," said Morlock distantly. "I see. I think."

The dragon lashed his tail in a catlike gesture of irritation and looked with glowing disfavor at Morlock.

"It is a position of considerable trust," the dragon insisted.

"I'm sure they can trust you, Smoky," the crooked man replied generously. "I'm sure you'd never even think of taking something that was theirs."

There were several barbs to this insult: that the dragon wouldn't have the courage or cunning to steal from his guile-mates, that the prizes were unequivocally theirs not his, and "Smoky," which implied that the dragon's fire was not as bright and hot as a dragon's fire should be.

"Don't call me `Smoky'!" the dragon snarled.

"Do you prefer `Three-Claw'?" the hanging man asked, with an appearance of civility. "Your leg might grow back in time, but I see that you're a dragon of, well, of a certain age and perhaps you don't expect to live much-"

"My name is Gjyrning," the dragon hissed. "Use it when you address me or die."

"I'll die anyway," Morlock pointed out. "But I'm not worried: you can be …trusted. Remember, Smoky?"

The dragon smiled-not a gesture of amusement or friendliness in a dragon-and said nothing. Venomous dark smoke leaked out between the terrible green-black teeth.

"Gjyrning …Gjyrning …" the crooked man said, as if thinking aloud. "Doesn't that mean `puff of lightly warm steam'? I seem to remember-"

The dragon barked, "It means 'mourning-suffering―death'!"

"So you knew how your career would end from the beginning," the crooked man said, almost as if he were impressed. "I wish more dragons would pick suitable names. I captured a dragon once outside of Thrymhaiam whose name meant, so he claimed, `World-shaking-conflagration-of-eternalflames,' but his fire wasn't hot enough to kindle dry leaves. It was too much trouble to kill him, so I gave him to the Elder of Theorn Clan as a gift. The dwarves used him as a beast of burden. They could `trust' him, too, because every time he tried to steal something they would beat him with sticks and he'd squeak out some smoke at either end. He soon learned his place. They called him Squeaky. That's a fine name for an elderly blue dragon whose fire is not as hot as he thinks it is, don't you think?"

Gjyrning, an elderly blue dragon whose fire was not as hot as it had been, lumbered across the open field, his jaws streaming fire and smoke. But his stump was clearly troubling him; he kept putting his weight on it, as if the right claw-foot were there, and stumbling. He halted about twenty (human) paces from the stakes and visibly brought himself under control.

"That's right!" said the horrible crooked man with the offensive manner. "They've trained you well; you can be trusted. No one can say you don't know when your fire's faded, when it's time to give up fighting and blowing flame rings and just settle down and call yourself Squeaky-"

The dragon lurched forward, his narrow chest doubling in size.

Thend couldn't understand what Morlock and the dragon were saying to each other, but he could tell from Morlock's harsh jeering tone that he was baiting the dragon, trying to provoke a rage. When he saw the dragon swell up he knew he should close his eyes and hold his breath: dragons breathe venom as well as fire. But if these were the last few minutes of his life he decided he didn't want to spend them staring at the inside of his eyelids. (He had tried that without much success earlier, anyway.)

The dragon roared out a blast of flame at Morlock. The red torrent carried him backward and Thend could see him dimly, a crooked darkness in a sheath of flames. Then he disappeared and the dragon stopped roaring.

There was a dark fog of smoke and steam and venom about the post where Morlock had been hanging. The dragon peered through it with his dimly glowing eyes, trying to find Morlock's body.

The crooked man had rolled off to one side after the flames burned through his bonds, and he wasn't dead yet, Thend was relieved to see. He knew that Morlock's strange blood protected him from fire, but he hadn't been sure the crooked man could suffer the roar of an angry dragon and live.

Morlock called out hoarsely, "Tyrfing!"

The accursed blade flew from its sheath bound to Morlock's pack; glittering, it shot through the smoke-laden air to the hand of the man who had made it. The dim blue dragon leapt back in surprise as it flew past. Then he lunged forward at Morlock, his one remaining foreclaw stretched out.

Morlock was already running forward. He dodged under the dragon's wolflike jaw as it descended and ran on past the dragon's left foreleg. The dragon turned to swipe at him with his right foreclaw-and missed, forgetting that his right foreleg was a stump. Morlock dashed on, raising the monochrome crystalline blade over his head with both hands.

Thend wondered where Morlock would strike. He had heard, in songs and tales, that dragons had numerous weak spots and hollows in their chests where a determined warrior might strike a deathblow, could he only get near enough.