Gordon Dickson - Dragon Knight 07 - The Dragon and the G

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Dickson, Gordon R. - Dragon Knight 07 - The Dragon and the Gnarly King (v1.0) (html)proofed
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The Dragon and the Gnarly
King by Gordon R. Dickson
Chapter One
Heads down!" shouted Jim. "The next man who looks up at the arrows gets taken off the wall!
Pass that along."
He could see heads turning along the catwalk below the embrasures in the curtain wall as the
word was passed. Threatening to take them off the wall was probably the best way of making the
men obey.
He saw a few heads tilt down quickly on this front part of the wall where he himself crouched;
and a second later the wide-bladed war arrows rained down upon them, harmlessly for the most
part on the stone of the embrasures, the catwalk itself, or the open courtyard of the Castle behind
them.
Only one man, sitting crouched on his heels, fell over backward at the impact of an arrow falling
from a considerable height and driving into, if not through, his shoulder.
"You there!" called Jim. "Get down to the Bake-House and have them take that arrow out. Don't
try to do it yourself. Someone—Little Ned, there, I mean Ned Bake-House, help him down the
steps! Give his helmet and spear to someone else and send them back up to the wall."
"Yes, m'Lord!" floated back the voice of Ned Bake-House, the somewhat roly-poly elder brother
of Little Ned, both Castle servants. He ran along the catwalk, crouching, hurrying to obey—
which was only proper, since the Baron, Sir James Eckert, the Lord not only of Malencontri
Castle but of its fairly extensive lands (ninety-eight percent Somerset wilderness though they
were) had given him a command.
It was one of the tenants, rather than one of Jim's handful of men at-arms or even one of the
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Castle servants, who had been hit, thankfully; though to be sure it was really not because he was
looking up. It had just been blind bad luck. But everybody else on the catwalk around the walls
would think he had, which would help the others to keep their heads down as Jim and the veteran
men-at-arms had warned them to do.
But the urge to look was strong. Jim was not without sympathy for those who did lift their heads.
The sight was almost hypnotic. He had needed to fight hard against looking, himself.
On long shots the arrows looked like a cloud of small black matchsticks, rising and rising, until
they abruptly nosed down and began coming back to earth with unbelievable swiftness. Look up
at them as they rose, and you risked an arrow in the face or throat when they fell. Keep your eyes
down, and the three-foot shaft with its two-inch-wide triangular warhead might knock you down;
but it would have to glance off your helmet or lodge in a shoulder. In the second case, at least,
you had a chance of surviving.
The problem was more than getting the servants and tenants to keep their eyes down. The force
threatening Malencontri right now would be a real danger only if allowed to develop into one—if,
for instance, they noticed that the spears and helmets showing above the battlements were on
tenant farmers rather than experienced fighting men.
Unlike the raiding party, led by Sir Peter Carley that had attacked the Castle last winter, these
attackers could not be ignorant of the fact that this was the residence of a magician. Among the
lower classes all was known, when peasants came together—and these hundred and fifty or two
hundred men outside his walls were peasants, probably a remnant of a large peasant march.
Jim remembered, from the history he had known before he came here from the twentieth century,
that there had been a number of such revolts during this fourteenth century, of which the best-
known was that led by Wat Tyler. Tyler's group bad broken up after he was pulled from his
horse, during a confrontation near London, by the Lord Mayor, Sir William Walworth, and
eventually killed.
After every such revolt, many of the peasants who hadn't been killed found themselves unable to
go home. Some held together and began to move about, living off the land.
They were the ones who had nothing to go back to—either they had been put off their tenant land
to begin with, or they were runaway serfs, or they knew they would not be accepted back by their
particular lord, master, or superior. Some had been robbers or outlaws even before. Now
homeless, hunted, and desperate, they no longer put much value on their lives anyway- that might
explain why they were willing to attack the castle of a known magician—and the countryside
generally believed that magicians, like dragons, had hoards—wealth beyond imagining.
For the outlaws and other human flotsam attracted to the group, taking Malencontri would be a
long hope at best. That part of the group would only become a serious threat if a weakness were
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seen in the Castle's defenses. Unless the bitter, wild hatred of the homeless men reached the point
where they stormed the walls simply because it was a castle with people in it like those who had
starved, dispossessed, or even killed them and theirs. For some, death was unimportant if they
could take some fat lordling to Hell with them.
They had no siege engines, but a number were certain to be unemployed men-at-arms, with some
training, and able to build scaling ladders; with them they could put more men over the curtain
wall at one time than Jim, with his dozen armsmen plus perhaps forty untrained servants, could
throw back.
This was another reason to keep their heads down, so that only spearpoints and steel helmets
should show above the stone. But the issue of a helmet and spear to the servants and tenants had
aroused a misplaced enthusiasm for a fight in many who had seldom been close to a battle.
"M'Lord?"
Jim stood up, backed from the battlements, and turned.
"Oh, it's you, John," he said, getting an unpleasant jolt at seeing the tall, stocky, middle-aged man
who was his Steward, the head of all his servants. John's duty was not on the battlements. It was
anywhere in the Castle, overseeing matters there. Alarm stirred. "Why are you here?"
"M'Lord!" said John, in a deep, portentous voice. "Boomps!"
"Oh, those!" said Jim. They had been having mysterious noises in the Castle starting about the
time the first of the peasants at the gate began to drift into this part of Somerset. He himself had
been the one to name the noise, vastly underestimating the superstition of those who worked for
him and regretting it later. The name came from an old Scottish prayer he had found while
writing a research paper for graduate school, hundreds of years in the future:
"From Ghoulits and Ghostits and lang-leggetty Betsties,
and Things that go boomp in the Night,
Good Lord deliver us!"
The word had fitted too exactly the sound of the noise, and the Castle's people had seized upon it
immediately. Naturally, a Lord and knight who was also a magickian would know the safe name
for such a thing—"Naming calls," went the popular lore. The people were happy to have a name
to call the noises by that would not somehow conjure up the things causing them.
A faint paleness showed on John's large, clean-shaven face. As he saw it, he had come with
terrible news. News that deserved some alarm in the hearer.
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Unlike Jim and Angie (the Lady Angela), he and the other servants were terrified by the boomps
in the walls. The Castle people outdid each other in trying to imagine the horribleness of
whatever was causing the noise, and most were certain that something was coming to eat them
alive, one by one. Now John had come, bringing desperate news that, as he saw it, deserved a
reaction, even under siege conditions. But, it was plain that after Jim's response he felt both
helpless and hopeless.
—And Jim could not afford to have his chief servant losing all heart. The whole servant cadre
would see that he had, and disintegrate.
"John, there's no need to worry, now. We'll take care of the boomps, and they won't hurt anyone
in the meantime."
He had reassured all the servants repeatedly; but reassurances did not help. He was supposed to
act, not talk. That was what lords, knights, magicians, and other strong people were for. Only
those who could not act, talked.
"Who heard it this time?" he asked.
"Meg and Beth both heard it," said John, faintly, "just now. They were in the Still-Room, and
they heard it in the wall right beside them; and others just outside the Still-Room heard. They two
screamed, and then fainted— dead away. They were carried to the Serving Room, where they are
being fanned and given sommat to drink."
Jim reflected for a moment.
The walls of Malencontri, like those of most large stone castles, were everywhere from three to
twenty feet through, thickening as they went down toward the base, to carry the weight above
them—and the Still-Room where the beer was brewed was on the ground floor. Plenty of
thickness there for Something to be tunneling through; provided, of course, It could tunnel
noiselessly, except for an occasional boomp.
"Never mind, now," Jim said, suddenly weary. "The boomps have been only in the walls so far.
They won't be coming out; and I'll take care of them as soon as I have time. I give you my word
as a magician on it."
A faint smile, an equally faint gleam of hope lit up John's face. A knight's word could be counted
on—a magickian's must be twice as unbreakable.
"Yes, m'Lord." John started to turn toward the nearest steps down to the courtyard.
"Oh, and you can tell Beth and Meg I'm sorry they had to be right next to the boomp, but we can
be pretty sure now no one'll hear it in the Still-Room, since it's never sounded twice in the same
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place."
"Yes, my Lord." It was the ultimate submission. When no stranger of rank was present it was the
habit, and privilege, of the Malencontri people to slur the two words of Jim's formal address
together in familiar fashion. Only when visiting gentry were present—or in moments of great
stress—did they answer as John had just done. But Jim looked at the Steward sharply. The pale
cast was gone from John's face, and there was a touch in his voice of an almost consoling tone.
But John turned and went; and Jim put him out of mind, having other things to concern him. The
fuss about the latest boomp had given him an idea for dealing with the besiegers.
If there were left in them any of the superstition the servants were now showing, a magickian
could still seem to be a fearsome opponent. Many among them might no longer care what
happened to them; but the fear of something other than human, instilled in them from birth, might
override even their desperation and hatred. If, for instance, something equal to the boomps
sounded from the woods around them…
"Theoluf!" he shouted.
"Yes, m'Lord?" came the prompt answer of his squire from behind him— everybody was coming
up behind him today, for some reason.
"Take over—I'm going out. Keep a runner beside you at all times to send with any necessary
message to the Lady Angela."
"Yes, m'Lord."
"I'm going to fly out of the Castle." Jim's emphasis on the word "fly" meant that he would be
changing shape. "Watch and tell me what those outside do. If any run off into the woods"—
Malencontri, like all castles, was surrounded by an area cleared of trees and shrubs, so attackers
would have to come out into the open—"looking as if they're deserting, be ready to tell me how
many and where. Stand away from me."
Theoluf and the nearest men backed off to give him room for a much larger body, and Jim
changed into his alternate shape as a very large, very fierce-looking dragon. He dived over the
battlements and down upon the men below.
The desperation and hatred of those men might have made them immune to the paralyzing fear of
the supernatural and magical that had been fed them as children; but it had done nothing to dull
their survival instincts. They scattered out of the line of Jim's apparent attack like chickens under
the dive of a hawk on their yard.
Jim, of course, had no intention of attacking even one of them—lingering to fight here, once they
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had recovered their wits, would be sure death even for the strongest of dragons. So he pulled out
of his dive at the last minute— making a fine noise as his wings caught the air like a parachute-
and he began to explode skyward on their full climbing power.
That power was considerable. He went almost straight up, like a fighter plane of his own later
century; but it was necessarily limited by the energy stored in him. He was like an opera singer
who could hold a high note for an amazing length of time, but when his physical limit was
reached, no more was possible.
Still, that much took him up until he was a small airborne shape in the sky over their heads.
Breathless, he extended his massive wings, tilted them to the flow of the air current he had just
passed through, and, like a latter-period sailplane, began his effortless soaring.
He had ended up soaring westward, toward Castle Smythe, home of his closest friend—and literal
life-saver on occasion in this bloodstained fourteenth century—Sir Brian Neville-Smythe. He had
been worried abut Brian lately: Brian had been preoccupied with the recent growth in Royal
taxes. He was hardly alone in his feelings. But while such as the Earl of Oxford were powerful
enough to talk so about them in public, and get away with it, Brian and those he spoke to were
not.
Jim put it out of his mind. One worry at a time.
He glanced down and saw that, although the attackers had not been scared off, they had
withdrawn from the walls and clustered in a tight group that seemed to be arguing among
themselves, faces occasionally flashing upward, like table plates being dried in bright sunlight.
Good. They could watch him apparently heading off to the west and wonder. Where was he going
and why? What might he bring back?
Actually, his line of travel was not straight west, but the beginning of a circle that would swing
him around Malencontri at a distance of a mile or so. Dragons, like most large birds of prey, had
near-telescopic distance vision. He could keep the Castle and its attackers in sight without being
suspected, while he tried to figure out some way to handle the situation.
It was too bad he couldn't think of a way for boomps to sound in the earth around where the
peasants stood. At the very least that should scare off half of them—
"M'Lord!" roared a distant voice, completely ruining his train of thought. "M'Lord! Oh, m'Lord!"
Jim gritted his teeth, refusing to look toward the voice. It was far too low-pitched—about that of
a good operatic basso hitting a baritone note—and far too high off the ground, to be any but the
one possible source of interruption he had completely forgotten could reach him here in mid-air.
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"M'Lord, m'Lord!" This time, the voice rose half an octave, to an anxious pitch.
Jim sighed, and looked back over his shoulder. Sure enough, there, less than two hundred yards
distant and soaring along on a river of air coming to meet his, was another dragon. A young, half-
grown dragon. Past any doubt, one of the younger generation of the Cliffside Dragons, his
imagination pumped full of lurid renditions of Jim's adventures. The pumper being Secoh, the
feisty little mere-dragon who had been with Jim, Brian, Dafydd ap Hywel, Aargh, and Smrgol—
granduncle of Corbash, whose dragon body Jim had been in—when they had all won their
famous battle with the Dark Powers at the Loathly Tower.
Possibly, this young Cliffsider had a message for him. If he did not, he was an unusually brave
immature dragon to approach Jim now, on his own initiative.
He was about two-thirds the size he would become as an adult, certainly no more than sixty or
seventy years old; and his voice had not yet broken— otherwise Jim would have heard it
booming at him from twice the distance.
"It's me—Garnacka, m'Lord!" said the young dragon. He had already transferred to Jim's air
current and been sidling closer, with little pumps of his wings, until he was no more than fifty
feet away. He sailed along side-by-side with Jim for a few minutes of silence, evidently feeling
his name ought to explain everything about his being here.
When Jim said nothing, Garnacka lowered the volume of his voice self-deprecatingly. "Actually,
I'm Garnacka, because I was named after my grandfather. But everybody calls me Acka."
"What do you want, Acka?" asked Jim.
"Well, m'Lord," said Acka, and paused again. He was looking as winning as possible, like a
young dragon about to ask one of his parents for something which he was almost sure would be
answered by a thunderous roar of "Certainly not!" Dragons did not use the same facial
expressions as human beings. Acka's four protruding young fangs were pressed tight back against
the otherwise-closed crocodile-like lips, his eyes were very bright, and his ears were erect,
wiggling slightly at the tips, ingratiatingly. "Pray forgive me for intruding upon you, m'Lord."
Language like that was absolutely unnatural for a dragon. Acka had to have learned it from
Secoh, who in his turn had learned it from the servants, when he came visiting Jim at Malencontri.
"That's all right," said Jim, as pleasantly as he could, but very distinctly. "What… do… you…
want?"
"I just wanted to tell your Lordship," said Acka, "that you can call on me at any time. You don't
need to wait to have Secoh go and find me or any of the other dragons. If you just call or send a
message directly to me, I'll be there right away, before anyone else!"
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"Good. I will," said Jim. "Thank you, Acka. Good-bye."
"Under any circumstances," said Acka, earnestly. "No matter how dangerous it is, you can count
on me. If you can just get me by magick—why don't you do that? It would save time all around."
"I'll think about it," said Jim. "Now, farewell, Ackal"
"Farewell, my Lord," said Acka, sideslipping away regretfully. "Honored to have talked to you…"
Jim watched him go. Acka had dropped to a lower air current but one still running westward. The
Cliffside Eyrie which was Acka's home was in the opposite direction. He was adventuring even
farther than Malencontri—in the middle of the day when most mature dragons would be heading
for the coolness of their tunnels and caves.
Probably, he was showing off how fearless he was. Oh, well, Jim's own route was curving away
from the youngster's, now; and he had no actual authority over Acka anyway. The other would
soon get tired of whatever game he was playing, once Jim was out of sight, and go home.
Now, back to the besieging peasants—a thought occurred that possibly he could use Acka
somehow to give the idea he had gone to get other dragons as reinforcements. No—he had
forgotten the archers. They had been too startled to get off any shots during his brief appearance
in the clearing, but that would not be so again.
A dead Acka looking like a pin cushion, with shafts sticking out all over him, was not something
Jim wanted to explain to the young dragon's family at Cliffside—
He noticed suddenly that the dot that was Acka was now once more growing larger. For some
reason, he was headed back toward Jim. Ten to one he had thought of some reason or excuse for
prolonging the conversation and was coming back to have a further try at it. That should be
stopped before it had a chance to get started.
Jim filled his capacious dragon lungs. Acka was still too far away for his youthful voice to reach
Jim, but with Jim's mature dragon's voice and the younger dragon's acute hearing, Acka should be
able to hear him—putting Jim in the happy situation of being able to send the youngster home
without having to listen to his excuses not to.
"Acka!" he bellowed. "Go home!"
The dot that had just enlarged into a head-on dragon-shape hesitated, bob-bled uncertainly in mid-
air, and shouted something back—that, just as Jim had expected, was unintelligible.
"Go home!" repeated Jim.
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But Acka kept on coming.
"M'Lord! M'Lord…" he was shouting.
"What is it?" said Jim, angrily.
"There are a lot of georges coming down the trail from Castle Smythe toward Malencontril"
Acka's relatively high-pitched voice called back. "A lot of georges, m'Lord!"
The information made no sense at all. Georges were what dragons called humans, of course; but
in his somewhat run-down home Sir Brian Neville-Smythe never entertained, and there was no
one… he thought of Brian's recent interests in politics, and a coldness began to form inside him.
"—And they're all on horses!" Acka's voice reached him again.
"On horses?" This made the coldness increase. Only gentry, knights, or men of higher rank rode,
except for the occasional courier or special servant.
"I'll take care of it!" Jim shouted at Acka. "Now you go home. GO HOME!"
Acka stopped shouting, bobbled for another second or two, and then began to dwindle again—
this time in an easterly direction, toward the Cliffside caves. Jim angled himself to the wind, to
head northwest by west, which was roughly how he had to go to overfly the forest trail that was
occasionally dignified by—but didn't deserve—the name of "road" between Malencontri and
Castle Smythe.
He soared along, looking down at the treetops, and waiting for the break in them that would show
him at least a portion of the trail. However, some little time went by, and he did not find it.
Puzzled, he turned at last and headed back in the opposite direction. It seemed impossible that he
could have missed it—or perhaps it wasn't all that impossible, after all.
It was full summer now. The trail was very narrow, and the leafed-out treetops hid most of it
from the air unless you were looking down at the right angle to the ground. Acka must have been
doing just that to spot what he did.
Jim's feeling of alarm began to subside. Probably, he thought, a couple of pack-pedlars with their
donkeys had caught Acka's eaglelike vision. He had just exaggerated.
In any case, whatever the young dragon had seen couldn't have been this far away.
Jim worked back along the line of where the trail should be visible, now headed toward
Malencontri. He knew the trail well, from traveling it on foot—or, more accurately, on
horseback. Except for little twists and turns, to go around an unusually large tree or awkward
clump of bushes, it made a fairly straight line toward the Castle, this close to Malencontri.
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He located it at last—just a glimpse of a narrow, greenish-brown thread between the trees, unused
enough that grass was partially covering it. But no one was in it—he must now be beyond
whoever was approaching Malencontri. He turned once more and began to soar outward again on
a breeze that carried him only about a hundred feet above the treetops. This close to the ground,
he could see the trail clearly; and eventually he did catch sight of some movement up ahead.
He checked his momentum and angled his wings to put himself into a tight circle above the
treetops, so that he could watch and wait for whoever was approaching. They should be putting in
an appearance within minutes— within seconds, if they were on horseback.
Even as he told himself this, there they were. A long line—clearly a knight, leading a very long
double line of men on horseback, all wearing identical red surcoats with a badge on them, over
their armor… Jim adjusted his dragon sight for distance, now seeing like a falcon… this shade of
red was the royal color, and the badge on the breast of the surcoat was the head of a lion—
leopard, it was termed.
These were the English King's men-at-arms, and their line stretched back out of sight among the
trees. Acka had not exaggerated after all.
These were indeed a remarkable sight to be seen coming along the track from Castle Smythe.
There must be thirty or more of them—an unreasonable number, ordinarily, for quiet, peaceful
Somerset on a bright summer day; and the King's costly men-at-arms would not be out here just
to pursue renegade peasants… The man who rode at their head would be their commander, a
knight wearing his own coat of arms on his shield.
The thought occurred that this might be Sir John Chandos, who had visited before—though not
with such an escort. Jim's angled view did not let him make out the coat of arms the knight was
wearing. He made a turn in the air and angled toward the front of the column to get a better view.
Abruptly, he had it.
The knight's coat of arms showed two heraldic hounds attacking a boar.
It was not Chandos, but some other King's officer—in force; and if he and his men were coming
from Castle Smythe—from which Jim had received no message on any such matter—then
anything could be in the wind, and that wind might bode ill for his and Angie's closest friend in
this world, Sir Brian Neville-Smythe.
Jim spiraled upward from the trees—not pumping his wings but riding an updraft, because he did
not want to be heard below, but gaining as much altitude as he could before heading directly for
Malencontri again, as fast as he could fly.
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Dickson,GordonR.-DragonKnight07-TheDragonandtheGnarlyKing(v1.0)(html)proofedScannedbyHighroller.ProofedbyBzx33a.MadeprettierbyuseofEBookDesignGroupStylesheet.TheDragonandtheGnarlyKingbyGordonR.DicksonChapterOneHeadsdown!"shoutedJim."Thenextmanwholooksupatthearrowsgets akenoffthewall!Passthatalong....

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