The Dragon in Lyonesse Page 11

  He had a few moments, at least, in which to think and plan—on second thought, he could take almost as much time as he wanted. The river might run fast but he would be far faster, once in the air. He could fly back to his horses in minutes. The horses—there was still the problem of getting them across the river. No dragon could fly while carrying anything close to the weight of even an adult human. A dragon's powerful muscles could deal bone-breaking blows with his wings, as he himself had done when battling a thirty-foot sea serpent on land; but flying the horses across the river was out of the question.

  So, how to bring them over?

  He did not have time to answer himself. He had been riding the current in the middle of the stream, his eyes watching for a clearing that would allow him to spread his wings and get up into the air. Just at that moment he saw one.

  But it was not the kind of clearing he had in mind. This one had a tent in it, a floating bridge across the river, and a black stallion—to say nothing of a Gorp and a sumpter horse with an identical load roped on its back.

  Clearly—crazy as it seemed—it was the same clearing and he was being carried into it once more. But the heavy trunks of the forest trees were still too close on either side for him to spread his wings at full stretch and literally fly out of the water. Cautiously, with the clearing he had originally left getting closer every second now, he tried half extending his wings; and made a great effort to move himself close to the bank.

  He just managed it, half scrambling, half flying to the side of the river, the same one on which the tent and horses stood, ahead. There, he told himself; that took care of things for the present. He could get back in the river and be carried to the horses when he was ready. But first he wanted to unravel the puzzle of a river that raced in its shallow bed, but ended up going nowhere but back to the same point.

  If he could only get up in the air, he could see the route he had followed and solve that puzzle. He looked around himself at the trees. First, he had to find the clearing he needed, large enough to spread his wings fully. Then, a short burst of his top takeoff speed, and he would be above the treetops.

  Even as he thought this, he made out more than one—in fact, there were three such spaces visible, now that his eyes were above river level—deeper in the forest. He waddled to the nearest, cast a cautious eye upward to make sure the higher branches would not bar an ascent, and launched himself upward on an explosion of energy.

  He did not need to go much higher than the treetops to see the secret of the river—what there was of it. As things like this nearly always turned out to be, there was nothing really marvelous about its galloping rush with no slope to account for it. The fact was, it was no real river at all.

  Clearly, it was no more than a sort of very long, circular ditch. The warmth of the water, and its shallowness, should have been enough to make him suspect what he now saw. His knowledge of how magic could be used now made the whole matter an entirely possible creation. A trench like this could be created by magic—though human hands digging it would be cheaper if you had command of enough hands to do that much work for you.

  Importing the water would take a chunk of magic, of course, but not an impossible amount if there was a lake or river lying not too far off; and he had to guess that Morgan le Fay might have as much magical energy at her disposal as any AAA magician in the world above. Given that, there was only the extra energy required to keep the water circulating whenever someone you wanted stopped reached it. It would still not be cheap to do, but well within the resources of an AAA individual.

  On the other hand, Morgan might not be bound by the magical pattern he was familiar with in the world above. She might have a different kind of magic, and have it to burn; but just be a tightwad with it. Both Carolinus and Kineteté had shown some tightwad tendencies at times; and he had a strong suspicion that Charles Barron, the third of the upper world's only three AAA+ magicians, might show the same tendency, though he had had little to do with him.

  But at any rate, he now knew the river was not the impassible barrier it had seemed to be. The manikin must know, too, of course, but squeezing him for more information would probably just be a waste of time. Chances were he knew nothing useful; and any effort to make him tell would only alert Morgan to the fact Jim was learning things—he was still convinced she was watching him.

  No, the best way was to go back into the river as if he had never escaped it, then climb out, and go on playing the bully knight who was possibly not too bright.

  Jim returned to the river and plunged in, still a dragon. The current snatched him quickly to the clearing; where his own two horses and the manikin stood looking at him, while the black stallion continued ignoring everything.

  He made sure he stayed on top of the water, and came bang up against the floating bridge, which stopped him. Happily, it did not break under the impact of his weight, with the push of the current behind him. He used the claws on his upper legs to pull himself along it to the bank where the tent stood.

  The manikin was still staring, standing as if frozen, as Jim climbed up onto solid ground. The sumpter horse, recognizing him in dragon shape, began grazing again. But Gorp, always glad to see him—either as human or as dragon—came heavily toward him.

  Jim changed back into his human shape again, complete with his sword and armor. The manikin stared, then shrank back as Jim gave him a long, steady look. Jim deliberately said nothing more. With as ominous a look on his face as possible, Jim put his left foot into its stirrup and mounted Gorp.

  "Hah!" he said, staring at the manikin. The manikin cowered even more. Without another word, Jim rode off along the river in the direction he had just come from, the sumpter horse following automatically at the end of her tether.

  "Hob?" He glanced back over his shoulder, once he was in the woods out of sight and hearing of the manikin.

  He looked back at the covering over the load on the sumpter horse.

  "Yes, my Lord?" said Hob, emerging from under the cover.

  "You can come back up with me, if you want, now."

  "Yes, m'Lord!" said Hob happily, leaping the distance between the two horses. Jim felt the slight impact of the small body against his shoulder. "What're we going to do now, my Lord?"

  "Ride around the river," said Jim.

  "Around the river?"

  "That's right," said Jim. "We'll have to go a little away from the direct route to the exit you and the smoke found. But we'll come back to it later. Do you think you'll recognize the way out when we cross it again?"

  "Oh, yes, my Lord. But, how do we get over that river?"

  "Never mind that," said Jim. "We're just going to follow the river until you tell me we're in line with the escape spot."

  "The river goes to it? Well, of course, my Lord, if you say so. But—"

  Jim suddenly realized he was taking a mean pleasure from the puzzled note in Hob's voice.

  "It goes around almost in a circle, you see. We just go outside the circle," he said.

  "Oh."

  "Yes."

  "I understand now, my Lord."

  "I was sure you would," said Jim.

  "Of course, my Lord. I'm used to Magick."

  "I was counting on that."

  "Very used to Magick."

  "I know," said Jim. "I know you are."

  They rode on together, Jim's conscience still bothering him slightly; but not enough to make him explain to Hob. Both of them were satisfied, but for distinctly different reasons.

  "And we'll only have to stop a moment to rescue the poor little bird. Then we'll all be free!" said Hob happily.

  Chapter Eleven

  "Bird?" said Jim. "Bird—what bird?"

  "The last of the people I said you'd meet, m'Lord—remember—Oh! There it is, there it is! Through the trees there on our right!" Hob was almost jumping up and down on Jim's shoulder. "This is just where the smoke went, away straight off into those woods, there!"

  "You don't have to shout!"
said Jim sourly. "Particularly when you're right beside my ear!"

  "Oh, beg the grace of your forgiveness, my Lord. But this is it—what you wanted me to watch for."

  "I gathered that much."

  "But the river? We're still beside it. You know, m'Lord, it's strange I don't remember seeing that river when I rode the smoke to the exit—and how can we be past it if we're still going along the same side of it?"

  "Magic," said Jim shortly, not feeling like making any greater explanation. His ear was still ringing.

  "But—"

  "Hob," said Jim, "it doesn't matter. Be still a moment."

  "Yes, my Lord."

  After a moment Hob added, a little timidly, "You're a great Magickian, my Lord."

  "Thanks," said Jim grimly.

  But as he rode on the ringing faded; and it crept in on him that he had been a little hard on Hob. There was indeed a clearing plainly ahead, as Hob had said; and he found he was not looking forward to another talk with the singing dieffenbachia plant—the one that had told Hob he had met Jim had to be the same one he had met at Kineteté's—and what was it doing with a small bird, anyway?

  Probably better not to ask Hob. Better to wait and see when they got there—they were already out of sight of the river.

  "You know, Hob," said Jim, to change the subject, "I've been thinking. Even once we're out, I won't know how to start finding Brian, wherever he is now."—If he's still alive, that is, he added silently to himself.

  "I need help. But the only person I know from that first time here is the younger Sir Dinedan. He may be the direct descendent of the knight of that name among the original Knights of the Round Table; but he didn't strike me as someone very useful in a case like this. Then there's the Questing Beast you mentioned back at Malencontri. He seemed to know everybody. But how to find him… ?"

  Jim had ended up talking to himself, almost inaudibly. Nonetheless, his voice in his own ears was enough to cover the sound of Hob beginning to speak. Jim just caught the end of what he was saying.

  "… we could ask them."

  "Who them? What them?" asked Jim.

  "I could ask the trees, m'Lord, as I was saying," Hob told him. "Everything here seems to know the QB; they might even be able to learn from other trees where he is now."

  "How would you ask a tree anything?"

  "Just ask them, my Lord." Hob looked at all the heavy trunks and thick branches about them. "Trees, where is the QB right now?"

  He fell silent. He listened. Jim listened. There was no sound, not even that of a breeze in the branches.

  "They didn't say anything," said Hob, at last.

  "I noticed," Jim said.

  "Maybe it's because they don't know us?" said Hob. "We could have the horses ask them."

  "Horses?"

  "Well, yes, my Lord. We're plainly strangers. But horses are horses—I mean they belong everywhere, if I'm saying it right, m'Lord. But you know what I mean."

  "Yes. But what I meant was—" Jim broke off. There was no point getting into a discussion over it. "Sure. Go ahead, have the horses ask them, then. We've got nothing to lose by trying."

  "Well, actually, m'Lord, I don't know how to ask the horses anything; but I thought you, with your magick…"

  "Me?" said Jim heavily.

  Of course, he might have known Hob's inspiration would have been leading that way. Jim had never talked to a horse in his life—with any hope of being understood, that is. What good could magic—

  The thought came to a sudden halt. Carolinus could talk to animals and be understood; and Jim had gotten the impression that this was at least possible. Carolinus had turned a huge boar into a warhorse capable of carrying a massive troll, magically armored to look like a knight for a joust at the Earl of Somerset's Christmas party.

  That had taken not only shape-changing, but getting the boar to act like a horse, and to know what a horse was supposed to do in a joust. Carolinus had said he talked to the boar. Jim could at least try—but it would have to be nonmagically, to avoid cracking his ward.

  He half closed his eyes and concentrated on thinking like a horse. If he could think in horse-thoughts, then simply visualizing the horse he had picked to talk to as hearing the message that was intended might help… simple words, of course—no horse would see any sense in unnecessary verbiage.

  He thought.

  "Ask trees," he visualized in his best-imagined equivalent of a horse snuffling at his belt in strong hopes of finding there a chunk of fresh, sweet apple, "How find QB?"

  He aimed the question at Gorp. Gorp snorted.

  "What? What?" Gorp's snort wrote itself on the mental slate of his visualization.

  "I said—" Jim was beginning again.

  "Stallions stupid," sniffed the sumpter horse unexpectedly. "I say. You, tree—where QB?"

  Jim neither heard nor visualized an answer this time. But the tips of the lower branches of the tree—a splendid yew—that the sumpter horse's head was pointing at leaned down toward it.

  "Did you hear it say anything?" Jim asked Hob softly.

  Hob shook his head.

  "The carrying horse is still waiting," he said in a whisper. "You know what, m'Lord? It's supposed to help with trees if you hug them."

  "Hug a tree?" Jim turned his head to stare at the hobgoblin. Hob nodded solemnly. "You can't mean that. A horse can't hug a tree."

  Hob twisted his limber body uncomfortably.

  "You can, my Lord."

  "Me?" Jim stared at the tree. "Why not you?"

  "It might seem stronger… coming from you, my Lord," said Hob, looking down.

  Jim looked at the yew, its branch ends still bent down toward the sumpter horse. The whole process was ridiculous, here in this strange and empty woods. It was unthinkable. Still… if it got results. The sumpter horse went back to cropping on the ground cover.

  Slowly Jim swung down from his saddle. He felt embarrassed even by the eyes of Hob and the horses on him. Thank heaven there were no other humans to see him—particularly some of his friends. They would think him wounded, sick, perhaps insane—or the most laughable object they had ever seen in their lives.

  He could imagine the incident being repeated down the ages on this World: '… and did you ever hear the story of how the magickal and most valorous Dragon Knight fell in love with a tree?' (roars of laughter from those listening; and the speaker urged to tell the story over again several times in succession).

  He stepped over to the yew tree. Close up, it did not seem to have so much of the strange, alien look that the forest had as a whole. He stopped in front of it, hesitated, gritted his teeth, and put his arms around it.

  He hugged it. Actually, though it was not in any sense warm to his touch, and its bark was somewhat rough, the tree also had a strangely friendly feel—as if it and Jim were old acquaintances. It was a well-meaning, good-natured tree, he could feel that now, solid and deep-rooted—

  "Over there," spoke the tree, voicelessly inside him.

  Jim heard a faint rustle overhead and looked up, letting go of the tree trunk in time to see its outermost twigs lifting and withdrawing. He turned back to Hob, now sitting on Gorp's crupper.

  "Over there." he said to the hobgoblin, as he swung himself back up into the saddle. "That's what it said to me."

  Hob nodded; and the sumpter horse gave a snort that could have been agreement.

  "I heard this time, m'Lord," said Hob proudly.

  "And what're those directions supposed to mean?" demanded Jim. "Over where? Over in what direction—and how far?"

  "Can't you tell by magick, m'Lord?"

  "Hob," said Jim, "you're a good friend and I like having you with me. But there's one thing you have to get straight, once and for all. Magic can't do everything… not just any thing you happen to want…" His voice ran down and became thoughtful. "… hmm."

  "Hmm, m'Lord?" echoed Hob.

  It wouldn't hurt to try, Jim was thinking. He could visualize himself in—and transp
ort himself to—a place he did not know only if he could clearly visualize someone he knew as being there. In that case the operative command was—only it wasn't a command; that stage of magic was long behind him—the visualization was of him together with the individual he had thought of, wherever that individual might be. He had a clear, sharp memory of the Questing Beast, from passing through Lyonesse before.

  At any rate, visualization had worked that way in the upper world, for him. Whether it would also work in this magic-laden land—which really seemed to be full of magic, drenched in magic—maybe more magic than reality…"

  No, he decided. He would have to crack open his ward even to do a visualization transfer; and he dared not do that for fear a watching Morgan le Fay might immediately take advantage of his being unprotected.

  Of course, Morgan might have grown tired of watching him by this time—no, not when he still hadn't won free of the Forest Dedale.

  And he still had the dieffenbachia and the bird to pass.

  He swung himself back up onto Gorp.

  "Hob," he said, "you were talking about the singing plant and the little bird right ahead of us there where we can see there's a clearing. But I don't hear anything."

  "No, m'Lord," said Hob. "I don't either."

  Of course, it was just at that minute that they did hear something—the sweet trill of ascending notes from a bird, followed by a saw-edged, high-pitched voice trying to climb the same musical scale.

  "Well, here we go," said Jim; for the sounds came from the clearing just visible through the trees ahead of them. It revealed itself as a very small clearing indeed, but one admitting enough sunlight so that in its center an oak sapling about a dozen feet in height was daring to stretch out its skinny limbs almost parallel to the ground, just like its ancient relatives around it; with small twigs and sparse leaves on them.

  On one of the lower limbs perched the small shape of a bird. Before it stood the Diejjenbacbia cantans.