A Guile of Dragons by James Enge Page B

Even after they had entered he kept gazing resolutely at the blue twilight deepening outside his window. From a heavy silver chain around his neck hung a pendant stone: a blood-colored gem scarred by a deep golden flaw.
    â€œTyr, Eldest of Clan Theorn,” Deor said formally, “I bring you guests, a summoner and a thain of the Graith of Guardians.”
    â€œDeor, great-grandson of my mother’s brother,” Tyr replied without moving his head, “how shall I thank you for such a service? Word has preceded you, though, and I am prepared. Wait outside.”
    The younger dwarf left.
    â€œThain Morlock,” said the ancient dwarf, not removing his gaze from the window, “when you last left Thrymhaiam you forswore all authority and seniority in our clans, not by our custom but in accord with the First Decree of your Graith. Now! Shall I receive you as kin or as guest? Choose.”
    â€œEldest,” said Morlock defiantly, “I am a Guardian and subject to the rigors of the First Decree. But Theorn is my clan, and no other. I claim from you the rights of kin, which neither you nor the Graith can deny me here.”
    Finally the old dwarf looked into the room. He did not smile, but he seemed pleased. “You will find it rougher than usual in the bachelors’ warren, Morlocktheorn,” he said. “But tonight you will sit at my table. This is because the summoner, who must sit there, is your guest. Also: because it is my will, which neither you nor the Graith can deny me here.”
    â€œ Harven , I never would.”
    â€œ Harven , you—your memory is short. Go with Deor now, my son, and let him see to your needs.”
    Morlock bowed and left.

    Earno was briefly annoyed that Morlock obeyed the Eldest’s command without so much as a glance at Earno. But the annoyance was swallowed by a vaster feeling of surprise. The Eldest had called Morlock “my son.” It might be just a manner of speech, but such a casual use of a kinship term seemed unlikely among this kin-obsessed people. What was it Tyr had called Deor? Great-grandson of my mother’s brother. It was less a term of address than a pocket genealogy, but perhaps the dwarves made little distinction between the two.
    He turned to the Eldest with a question on his lips, but he found himself speechless as he encountered the old dwarf’s angry glare.
    â€œNo, don’t trouble to introduce yourself, Summoner. I know you as well as I need to. And if anyone but my youngest son had brought you here I would have had the gate thrown shut in your face.”
    That answered Earno’s question, at any rate: Morlock was clearly the foster son of the Eldest himself. That put the Arbiter’s comments to Morlock, back at the Rangan colony, about “your father” in an ambiguous light. But he had no time to think of these things now.
    â€œI can’t guest here under these terms,” Earno said, and would have continued.
    â€œYet you will,” the Eldest forestalled him grimly. “You can reach no settlement in a day’s walk, you have no provisions or steeds, and in simple fact, I will not allow you to leave.”
    â€œYou are an imposing host,” Earno observed, confident in his ability to leave if he chose. “But we have horses.”
    â€œ They are not yours,” the Eldest shouted. “I know the Ranga breed, horses and lower animals, too well.”
    Then Earno understood the Eldest’s puzzling attitude, at least in part. Somehow Tyr had heard of the events at the Rangan colony. He was simply venting his anger at Earno—whom, however, he seemed to resent for other reasons as well.
    â€œI’ve promised not to speak of this matter to you, Tyr syr Theorn,” Earno said. “But I can at least say that Morlock has a plan for settling it which may meet with your approval.”
    â€œEh. Morlock always has ideas. You have not seen how badly some of them work