A Guile of Dragons by James Enge Page A

Earno in dismay.
    â€œYes,” said Deor, with unmistakable pride. “It was Merlin’s shield. He carried it through the night of Tunglskin . . . that is, he carried it to the combat at the Hill of Storms. (You know First Merlin’s Song , of course.) After his victory he came here for healing and rest. The shield was his gift to Oldfather Lyrn, who was then Eldest of Theorn Clan. Oldfather Lyrn decreed that it be held here in honor until . . . until it is needed again.”
    Earno was conscious of Morlock’s gray eyes, almost luminous in the dimness, fixed on him. “A fitting honor,” Earno said stiffly, “for a famous deed.”
    Deor laughed good-naturedly and said something in Dwarvish. “I beg your pardon, Summoner Earno,” he added. “I can see that you are going to prosper in these halls.”
    He led the summoner and the still-silent thain away, across the shadowy chamber of the Southgate terminal. He passed into one of the bright tunnels issuing from the far wall, and they followed him.

    Deor led them through a maze of tunnels, deeper and higher as they walked. Earno seemed to feel the weight of stone accumulating above them—an oppressive feeling, and one hard to separate from the shock of seeing the Ambrose crest in this unexpected place. But, for all his mood, he had to admit that the stone hallways were large, well-lit by the flameless lamps, and well-aired. They met many dwarves on their journey, who greeted them courteously but did not delay them.
    Finally they arrived at a large wooden door, at the top of a long flight of staircases. Outside it a very young (and beardless) dwarf was in waiting.
    Morlock turned abruptly to Deor and took him by the shoulder. He went down on one knee unself-consciously, apparently to meet the dwarf’s eye. “Deortheorn,” he said, “a drudging must be sent to the Rangan settlement by Tunglskin, equal at least to the value of the two horses we were riding. I say this not as my father’s son or your harven kin, but friend to friend. Do you understand?”
    â€œI can guess,” Deor said quietly. His mouth twisted behind his beard, as if he would have preferred to speak in Dwarvish. But after looking directly at the cuts and bruises on Morlock’s face he said flatly, “If it were not for Ranga’s trouble we would pay them in blood.”
    â€œNo. It is better this way.”
    â€œWell. Because it’s you that’s asking. There is a group of Westhold traders in the Kirach Starn. I will send one of my mother’s cousins to buy from them with my own treasure.”
    â€œI will repay.”
    â€œYou. Will. Not. But you might help me with my gems. I’m not growing them well, lately, and no one grows them like you.”
    â€œAgreed.”
    â€œThen.”
    Morlock stood up and the dwarf-lad (or lass?) opened the door. Deor entered first, and Morlock stood back, allowing the summoner to pass ahead of him. Earno heard Morlock enter and shut the wooden door behind him.
    The room was in sharp contrast to the halls they had travelled through. The walls were faced with white marble, the ceiling was covered with incised panels, and in the wall a deep-set window had been driven through the mountainside. Beside the window sat an old dwarf in a polished, intricately carven chair of dark wood. He seemed to be shorter than Deor (who was over four feet tall). But his shoulders were broader and his hands looked as if they could crush stone. His hair fell to his shoulders, and his beard flowed over his chest; both were iron gray. His eyes, too, were gray, a darker and earthier color than Morlock’s. Here was, clearly, the Eldest of Clan Theorn, first of the Seven Clans under Thrymhaiam. Earno supposed he had outlived five centuries. Beside him on a table was a small oil lamp, whose flame provided the only light in the little room. But the Eldest was not looking at the room.