VALERIC
by
Peter Robert Scott
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Peter Robert Scott on Smashwords
Valeric
Copyright © 2010 by Peter Robert Scott
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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* * * * *
VALERIC
being the third part of
TALES OF HONOUR
As told by Aspian Savakin in his youth and age,
arranged in four books, entitled:
Nicovar
Castan
Valeric
Aspian
Book Three
The Tales of Valeric
* * * * *
Concerning ignorance
Valeric had a book of tales. It was old and faded and the pages were heavily clawed. It’d had a fine red cover once which was now almost completely mouldered away. Someone had spilled something on it too, and whoever it was hadn’t bothered to mop it off for the inks had run through page after page. Most of the writing was still clear enough, but at one place where the book fell easily open the words were faded almost to nothing, as if they’d been left lying too long in the Sun, It didn’t matter because words were only for reading and Valeric was too young for that. And what was the point of words when there were pictures?
There were so many it took more than the claws of three hands to count them; wonderful pictures, crammed with life. They began with a king, a red king, red like himself, youthful and proud, and dragons of all colours came to him with gifts. But there was one gift he could not have, a beautiful jewel, for it belonged to a white dragon who wore a golden coronet; and although the white dragon gave the king everything but this one gift, including even his coronet, the king still looked enviously at the jewel. And later the white dragon was attacked by other white dragons, one of whom now wore his coronet; and then he stood helplessly before the red king who looked the other way. And afterwards he was attacked by red dragons, but he sank his dagger into one of them. And then a fine black king took the weary white dragon into his palace, and there was food and music. But the red king now stood at the head of his army and there were ships sailing beyond the shore; and then the army marched through a sea of black dragons, all with spears in their hearts, and the crown was falling from the red king’s head as his chariot lurched. And there was a final battle and the red king slew the black king, but was hurt himself, and the white dragon came to visit him as he died, and pinned the jewel to his cloak, and they both wept. And then the white dragon was king, and sat in the red dragon’s chair, and dragons of all colours offered him gifts, but he turned them away with his claw.
Sometimes Valeric would ask his mother to read from the book, and she would look at it very seriously and tell him some of the dragons’ names and explain what it was they were all up to; and sometimes he would ask his father, but his father called the dragons by different names, and when he read the book they were doing different things. And Valeric noticed that neither of his parents ever bothered with the words but just read the pictures like he did, and although their versions were so different Valeric never minded, because it only added to the magic of the tales.
And sometimes there would be other tales, and Valeric wondered whether they too came from books, books that had all rotted away. His mother would speak of the beautiful creature who met a sea monster and fell in love, and how when she was killed the Sun kept her alive with a breath of his own fire; and his father would tell him of Castan, a mighty hecol, who tried to swallow Pennor in one gulp and was killed when it stuck in his throat. There were so many stories that they sometimes got muddled up, but Valeric never complained because it kept them fresh and mystical.
And when his eyes were heavy with slumber and the last story was done his mother would say, ‘You go to sleep now, or Gizzlegob’ll get you,‘; or his father would tell him, ‘The Dragon Amercy captures draggs as won’t get their proper sleep.’ And he’d shut his eyes in the safe knowledge that he was brave enough for any Gizzlegob or Dragon Amercy.
*
His parents forbade him to take the book out of the nest, and he kept it carefully in a hollow by his bed. He seldom went out alone in any case for there were few draggs of his own age in the neighbourhood, and if he did go out it was generally in the company of his father. One day as they were walking near the village a carriage passed them, and Valeric’s father pulled the dragg sharply to attention and made him bow his head. When he looked up again Valeric saw four people in the carriage, looking very like ordinary dragons except they were slimmer and dark green. They didn’t seem to notice either Valeric or his father but just kept smiling and talking amongst themselves. ‘That’s the subilsim and his family,’ said his father with whispered awe; ‘they’s griffins.’
‘Are griffins better than dragons, then?’ asked Valeric.
‘Of course they are, of course they are,’ said his father. ‘The king’s one for a start.’
‘They looked very happy.’
‘They’ve every right to be.’
Then Valeric looked thoughtful and said, ‘But none of the kings in my book are green.’
‘Ah,’ said his father, ‘that was before the calamity. And don’t you go talking about books with griffins so near.’
*
One afternoon the Sun shone so hotly on the nest that Valeric simply couldn’t bear to stay inside, and yet he couldn’t bear to lay down his book either; so he crept out quietly, walked a little way into the woods and sat reading in the shade of a tall tree. Suddenly another shadow fell across the book, and he looked up to see a young griffin standing over him. He gasped and tried to hide his book, but the griffin was gentle and friendly and asked, ‘What have you got there?’
Valeric didn’t bother to lie. ‘It’s my book.’
‘May I see?’ The griffin took the proffered book and glanced through it for a while. ‘Where did you get this?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ answered Valeric truthfully.
The griffin smiled and handed back the book. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Valeric.’
‘Mine’s Lubim. My grandfather is subilsim here.’ Valeric nodded uncomprehendingly, and Lubim continued, ‘I didn’t know dragons could read.’
‘I can read pictures,’ said Valeric. ‘Shall I show you?’ And he read the tale as he imagined it from picture to picture.
The griffin smiled happily at his babbling, and when Valeric was done he took the book from him again. Turning to the first picture he said, ‘Do you see that word at the bottom of the page? Do you know what it says?’
‘No.’
‘It says Refirod. That’s the red dragon’s name.’
Valeric nodded, quite happy to accept this as the truth. ‘I thought his name was Wellow.’
‘Who is Wellow?’
Valeric smiled and shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
Then Lubim sat beside him on the ground and read aloud as much of the tale as was decipherable, and although some of it was as Valeric had imagined it, he heard for the first time the written truth about Miredot and Refirod. And for the first time too he heard the names of the tribes, nordragon, ildragon, afdragon, jadragon and wendragon, and he tried to fix the names inside his head along with their proper colours. And he learned the black king’s name too, Osio, and he learned the name of the land he came from. He would’ve dearly liked to hear the tale all over again as soon as it was finished, but he didn’t dare to ask. Instead he asked the name of each word at the bottom of each picture and he scrabbled as many of them into his memory as he could. At last the griffin rose to go and said, ‘I shouldn’t let the lorks see you reading that.’ Valeric thanked him kindly and the griffin went on his way.
That night as his mother read to him from the tales he could’ve said to her, ‘You’re wrong, that’s Miredot, and that is Osio, and that is his palace in distant Fagran where Miredot took sanctuary, and that is the Battle of Berel where Osio and Refirod were killed.’ But instead he listened to his mother’s tale and although he knew it to be wrong he loved it none the less.
*
He began with the word Refirod. There were two letters the same in it and two sounds the same, so he knew how the letter R was meant to sound. And he knew what the letter D must sound like too because it was the last letter and the last sound. And in the word Fagran, which he knew, the first sound and the first letter were the same as one in the middle of Refirod. And there was Miredot which he knew, and Osio, and Berel. And so it went on, each letter and sound compared and checked against another, until Valeric could make the complete sounds of some of the simple words, even though he had no idea of their meaning. He never let his parents catch him at his study for he felt uneasy about it, almost guilty; and he spent his time more and more in the nearby woods with his beloved book.
Then one day it happened: a wyvern with fat, pink hands snatched him up and carried him to the subilsim’s house and dumped him, book and all, before the mighty griffin. ’ What’s the matter here?’
‘A common dragg, caught reading,’ said the wyvern.
‘Reading?’
‘There’s the evidence.’
The subilsim looked at Valeric solemnly. ‘Have you been reading?’
‘Yes,’ admitted the frightened dragg.
‘And can you read well?’
Valeric was perplexed. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Show me,’ said the griffin with a gentle smile.
Valeric went to him uncertainly with the book and searched for a word he knew. ‘Raft,’ he said slowly and deliberately.
‘Very good,’ said the subilsim taking the book. ‘And do you know what a raft is?’ Valeric shook his head. ‘That’s a raft,’ said the griffin pointing to a flat boat in among Refirod’s departing fleet. ‘Did somebody tell you this word?’
Valeric shook his head proudly. ‘I read it. Myself.’
‘And can you read all the words?’
Again he shook his head, but not so proudly.
‘Somebody must’ve told you some of the words,’ said the griffin. ‘Who was it?’
Valeric looked at him in alarm. ‘Are you the sub... subil... ?’
‘Subilsim, yes.’
‘Nobody told me,’ he said, ‘nobody.’
‘Well, it doesn’t matter,’ said the subilsim, and he placed the book on a high shelf. ‘You run along now.’
‘But my book,’ said Valeric, ‘I want my book.’
‘It’s best to leave that with me,’ said the subilsim. ‘I’ll take good care of it.’
‘But I want it.’
‘I know, but there’s a law you see which says that dragons can’t have books. If the king found out you’d been reading he’d be very, very angry. So you just run along.’
‘I don’t care if he is angry. I want my book.’
‘The lork will take you home now. Run along.’ And Valeric was carried crying from the chamber.
*
He crept from his bed that night while his parents slept and made his way through the silent township towards the subilsim’s house. He’d managed to find his way back into the great room and had almost retrieved his book by the time he was caught. This time the subilsim was much less friendly, and he shook a warning claw beneath Valeric’s nose. He was kept in the subilsim’s house that night and in the morning he was placed in the town stocks after the holes had been made especially smaller for his little feet. Nobody pelted him, but when his parents came rushing into the square and he saw his mother burst into tears and cover her face, he could’ve died of shame. He’d no idea there were as many people in the world as passed him by that day, and they were all asking, ‘Who is he?’, ‘What’s he done?’, ‘Reading?’, ‘My!’
His father beat him half-heartedly and made him promise never to be so disobedient again before he was once more allowed out of the nest, and that was the end of the matter. He pined for a while as if a window out onto the world had suddenly been shut off from him, but after a time his good humour returned and he began to make friends among the other draggs. But there was still something in his nature which led him along solitary paths.
*
‘Amercy, master gentlekyn.’
Valeric looked up in astonishment, and there was a dragon with bright red teeth. ‘Who... who are you?’
‘Dragon Amercy, if you please.’ The stranger’s laugh seemed to fill the whole glade.
Valeric turned and tried to run, but the Dragon Amercy was too swift for him and whichever way he turned there he was again. ‘Get out of my way.’ cried Valeric.
‘Your way is my way now, tender fellow. Let’s be off, shall us?’
Valeric’s voice quavered fearfully. ‘Are you going to eat me?’
‘Not I,’ said the Dragon Amercy with a smile, ‘not I.’ He was taller than any dragon Valeric had ever seen and he wore a black leather cap fringed with three layers of white teeth which rattled and tapped as he ran. He picked up the dragg beneath his arm and sped with him through the woods until they’d run so far that Valeric was afraid they’d fall off the edge of the world. But still they ran until they came to a place which Valeric supposed was the edge of the world, for cliffs dropped sheer away towards a great plain below. From here the Dragon Amercy flew, gliding over the unseen winds to the far horizon of the plain. But as each horizon came near another grew in its place and still they flew on and on. Valeric wondered if the country below was Fagran perhaps, and whether this was the land where all the battles had been fought, and even in his fear his mind opened to the great wonder of the world.
And so they travelled throughout that entire day and into the evening, and when the stars were beginning to show brilliantly above they came to a forest whose high trees blotted everything into blackness. Valeric was miserable and afraid, but he was hungry too and that seemed somehow worse than either misery or fear. They seemed to enter a closed place and the Dragon Amercy dropped him abruptly to the ground. Then a lamp was lit and held towards him, and Valeric tried to distinguish the figures in the darkness beyond. He could hear someone chortling breathily, almost without sound, and then he heard a voice say, ‘Very nice, very nice indeed.’
The lamp was put on a table and then others were lit from it and placed around the room. Soon Valeric could see the Dragon Amercy standing by the table and smiling down at him, and then gradually he began to make out the other creature too. He seemed to be a dragon except that his head was so hideously swollen that his eyes almost disappeared within great folds of flesh. He too wore a leather cap, decorated with tiny skulls which tinkled together almost like bells. He seemed much older than the Dragon Amercy, and his hands were crippled and wasted. He dragged his tail heavily as he walked and it swished cloudily over the dusty floor.
‘Where did you find it?’
‘Linchurton.’
‘You’ve carried it so far? What age would you say it was?’
‘Looks about four to me.’
‘Yes, I think you’re right.’
Valeric was angered by this impersonal talk, and looking straight into the older dragon’s squidgy eye he demanded, ‘Who are you?’
The old dragon inclined his head admiringly. ‘Full o’ pep. That’s good.’
‘Who are you?’ insisted Valeric.
The dragon chuckled wheezily again. ‘My name is Gizzlegob,’ he said. ‘What’s yours?’
Valeric felt the blood rush icily from his face and it was some moments before he could stammeringly reply, ‘Valeric.’
‘Well, Valeric, how old are you exactly?’
‘Four.’
‘You were right,’ said Gizzlegob to the Dragon Amercy. ‘Excellent.’
‘What’s excellent about it?’ asked Valeric bravely.
Gizzlegob laughed softly, and sang: ‘A dragg not eaten before it’s five might as well be left alive, but up until the age of four they’re just as tasty cooked or raw.’
Valeric’s heart almost gave out with fright. ‘You’re not real,’ he said at last, ‘you’re only a tale.’
‘I’m real enough,’ said Gizzlegob, ‘you’ll see.’ He nodded in satisfaction and then clapped the Dragon Amercy on the shoulder. ‘I’ll start on him in the morning. Just a wing or two at first and keep the rest for dinner. Might even stretch to a bit of broth. Thanks again.’ The Dragon Amercy left the room and Gizzlegob stood peering at the dragg.
Valeric’s voice was choking with fear, but he said defiantly, ‘You’d better not eat me!’
‘Oh? And why is that?’ asked Gizzlegob.
‘Because... ’ he searched desperately for some sort of reason, ‘... because I can read!’
‘Well I never, so can I. That makes two of us. All the tastier for a bit of reading.’
‘I’m six,’ said Valeric desperately. ‘I’m too old to be eaten, really.’
‘Did you pick up your lies from books?’ asked Gizzlegob severely. ‘Now you just rest. I don’t want you getting all agitated, it’ll only make you stringy. We’ll meet again in the morning.’ And with that he picked Valeric up from the floor and thrust him into a cage set halfway up on the wall, locked the door and left the room in utter darkness.
*
The light of dawn made little difference to the gloom in Gizzlegob’s lair for the windows were all tightly hung with coarse curtaining. Valeric was tense and chill. In the dark he’d been waiting for the nightmare to end, expecting it to end, but now in the meagre light his dread was reconfirmed.
All of a sudden somebody entered the room and drew back the curtains. It was a dumpy little dragon, almost a dwarf, and at first he didn’t see Valeric in his cage. But when he did catch sight of him he smiled and sucked his teeth.
‘Who are you?’ asked Valeric.
‘I’m Potnod,’ said the little dragon. ‘You’re breakfast, I suppose?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, I think you are,’ said Potnod cheerfully. ‘Wonder how his worship wants you done? Poached possibly, or grilled. Did he say?’
Valeric shook his head in terror.
‘Ah well, I’ll wait till he comes down.’ And with that Potnod started humming tunelessly to himself as he prepared the fire and hung a great pan of water over it to boil.
Later Gizzlegob came in looking tired and grumpy. ‘My teeth are on edge,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I could manage him raw after all. Give him fifteen minutes in the pan.’ And without so much as glancing at Valeric he departed.
‘Fifteen minutes?’ said Potnod to himself. ‘Boil all the goodness away in that time. I don’t know!’ And he picked up a pair of tongs and came towards the cage.
‘If you let me go I’ll give you something,’ said Valeric.
‘What?’ asked Potnod cheerfully.
Valeric had no very clear idea. ‘A book,’ he said.
‘What good’s a book to me? Can’t eat a book.’
‘Please don’t let him eat me,’ said Valeric.
‘Nothing I can do about it young sir. Orders is orders.’ And he opened the cage and reached in with the tongs.
Valeric burst out of the cage so suddenly that Potnod dropped his tongs in astonishment. By the time he’d retrieved them Valeric was hovering beyond his reach among the roof timbers with his teeth and claws bared.
‘It’s no good you acting up,’ said Potnod. ‘Even if I can’t reach you his worship will, so you may as well come down at once.’ Valeric only hissed in reply. ‘There’s no escape, young sir,’ said Potnod. ‘The doors is locked and the windows is all barred. Climb into the pot like a good dragg. Let’s keep things pleasant.’
Valeric looked around him desperately and his wings began to ache with fear. He looked at the windows and doors and saw they were bolted and barred as Potnod had said; he looked at the roof and saw it was stoutly made; he looked back at Potnod who was trying to beckon him towards the boiling pan; and he looked at the smoke and steam billowing up the chimney.
The chimney...
He flew up it so fast he had no time to gasp for air before he was in the clear daylight above the lair, and he sped as quickly as he could into the depths of the forest. He crept into the undergrowth and lay there not daring to move, and a little later he heard the babble of raised voices searching nearby. ‘You simpleton! You lack-brained scullipan! How could you let him escape? Even if we find him he’ll have flown all the best fat off him by now.’
Potnod was crawlingly apologetic. ‘I’m sure he flew in this direction, your worship. Let’s search for a little longer.’
‘What’s the point? He’s gone now. Good as dead. No way he’ll find the road to Linchurton. What a waste!’
There was the sound of a heavy blow and a politely muffled squeal, and then the searchers moved away.
*
Valeric did find his way back to Linchurton. It took him nearly five days, yet although he was tired and hungry all that time he never gave way to despair. Every so often he’d come across a grove of trees in fruit and eat his fill; and just when his thirst was all but unbearable he’d chance across a stream in the middle of the great plain. Sometimes he’d seem to be going round in circles for he’d recognize landmarks he’d passed some hours before, and sometimes when he was wandering most aimlessly a sudden shriek in the forest would send him scampering back the way he’d come. At the end of the third day he sighted the cliffs ahead of him, and cried for joy. It took him practically the whole of the next morning to climb them, for he was too exhausted now to fly, and once atop he slept for most of the afternoon. Late the next evening he stumbled into Linchurton as if by accident.
The scenes of joy at his return soon blurred in his young mind with the rest of his adventure, and the happiness was a salve to his fear. No one really believed his tale of course, and they put it down to the fault of too much reading, and as time went on Valeric began to doubt the truth of it himself. After a few years it ranked only with the other tales jostling for memory in his head.
*
When Valeric was about twelve he met an elderly hermit in the woods, called Tictako, and when this hermit learned that Valeric had once been able to read, albeit only very simple words, he asked him, ‘Would you like to learn to read properly?’
Valeric replied unhesitatingly, ‘Oh yes!’
‘You know it’s against the law?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘And you still want to learn. Why?’
‘It can’t be a very good law,’ said Valeric, ‘if it stops people doing such a good thing.’
‘Well, you visit me when you can,’ said Tictako, ‘and I’ll teach you what I know. But keep it to yourself, mind, or you’ll have us both in trouble.’
So whenever he could slip away unnoticed Valeric visited Tictako’s cave in the forest, and slowly he began to learn to read. He never dared take his exercises home with him, or even practice writing letters in the dust, so the process was very long and arduous and it was many years before he could read fluently.
At first the books were very simple, and really very dull, and Valeric longed to be able to read proper books, books of tales. But when they did start reading books about ancient times they turned out to be just as dull as the other books, and dealt mainly with grammar or philosophy. But Valeric persisted, and by the time he was in his early twenties he could read almost as well as Tictako himself, and could write quite passably.
Now Tictako gave him tales, and Valeric stayed sometimes for days in the cave reading voraciously. Tictako chose well, leading him through the tales of Aldragon and Nicovar and on through the early darigs. When he reached the tale of Refirod it was only one among so many magical tales, so many thrilling stories, that he thought his head would burst with the wonder of them all. He read and read, visiting the cave more and more often, until he came to the tales of Garafoc.
And there the tales ended. All the heroic events petered out, and for all Valeric knew Garafoc still sat on his gilded throne in Pennor handing down wise words. But when he asked Tictako if this were so his tutor sadly shook his head. ‘Garafoc’s world vanished as if it’d never been,’ said Tictako, ‘and all the books vanished with it.’
‘When did he live?’ asked Valeric.
‘Many years ago.’
‘Did you ever see him?’
‘No. He was dead nearly fifty years before I was born.’
‘And where did his world vanish to?’
‘Into this world, just as you see it now.’ Valeric looked around him at the graceful countryside, unable to comprehend Tictako’s words.
‘Was Garafoc as good as this book says?’
‘He was very good. Too good, some say.’
‘Too good? Is that possible?’
‘It is if it makes other people bad.’
‘And did he make other people bad?’
‘It’s hard to say,’ said Tictako.
Next day Valeric visited the cave again, but Tictako was not there to greet him. Inside all the books were stacked as usual, but even though Valeric went there frequently over the years Tictako never returned.
*
Valeric grew handsome and strong and he held his head high among the dragons, and as he read and re-read all the tales in the cave he asked himself how it had come to pass that the great race of nordragons who’d furnished the world with so many darigs should now be lower than the lowest griffin. What crimes had been committed in Garafoc’s time to put them so much in the Sun’s displeasure? The griffins that he met were amiable, though he met few of course, and the subilsim’s grandson always nodded to him as he passed. There were no eruptions in the world, life was pleasant and undemanding, and although there were whispers among the older dragons concerning the dark days, Valeric sensed no strength of discontent. He led a normal village life, married a plain and cheerful drahen and kept his reading to himself; yet the feeling grew in him, stronger with each passing year, that there was some disorder in the world, some justice that was under siege.
His wife, Allys, hatched him a draheen first whom they named Elind, and their second child was a dragg, named Affio. He told his children tales just as his parents had told him, but these tales were true, and the dragons in them had really lived and breathed. And his children would beg for just one more tale, and just one more, exactly as he had done, until finally their eyes shut of their own accord.
‘Grandma tells us to go to sleep,’ said Affio. ‘She says if we ask for too many stories Gizzlegob’ll get us.’
Valeric smiled and said, ‘You listen to your grandma.’
*
Then, when Affio was four, his playmates ran screaming through the streets one day up to Valeric’s nest. ‘He’s gone,’ they cried, ‘he’s gone!’
‘Who’s gone?’ asked Valeric.
‘Affio. A dragon came, with big red teeth, and carried him away!’
Valeric felt a stabbing chill run through him and settle within his belly. ‘Tell me - this dragon with the red teeth - tell me exactly what he was like.’ And as the children described him the coldness spread within him until he could hardly breathe for dread. He ran wildly into the woods with no hope in his heart and searched desperately for a long-forgotten way, and then he sat on the forest floor and cried half in anguish, half in rage.
There was a pipwing hovering just before his face, looking directly into his eyes. It was chirping frantically, and darting backwards through the air towards a path between the trees. Again and again it darted, always returning to hover just in front of his nose, and Valeric in his crazed mind began to think the pipwing was trying to tell him something.
He rose and the pipwing rose too and flew a little further along the path, and as Valeric followed so the pipwing led him further and further away. Valeric quickened his pace and the bird did too, until the dragon was chasing at full tilt through the forest and the pipwing was scooting ahead of him between the trees.
As they cleared the woods the pipwing rose higher into the air and so Valeric rose too, and they glided one after the other over endless meadows and glades. On and on they flew, and towards the end of morning Valeric saw the cliff-tops pass beneath them. They were bellied up on a cushion of air as they crossed the wide plain below.
Now Valeric would have followed the pipwing beyond the edges of the world, and he felt strength enough within himself to do it. They glided easily throughout the afternoon and then the pipwing began to descend towards a forest. It flew low beneath the treetops, and Valeric almost lost sight of it among the million leaves; then it stopped, quite suddenly, in a small tree at the edge of a clearing and began to preen itself fussily. Valeric’s heart leapt, for there in the clearing stood a well-remembered shape, topped by a chimney issuing smoke and steam.
*
He burst in through a window, heedless of the splintering glass and wood, and there were the three of them, Gizzlegob, Potnod and the Dragon Amercy, standing around the table upon which Affio lay motionless. At first Valeric thought his dragg was dead, but when he saw that he still breathed he started forward to rescue him. But the Dragon Amercy had recovered from his surprise, and he drew a knife and held it at Affio’s throat. Valeric stood still.
‘What do you want with us?’ asked Gizzlegob.
He was older and uglier than Valeric recalled even in his worst rememberings. ‘I want my son,’ he cried.
‘I see,’ said Gizzlegob in astonishment. ‘And just how did you find your way here?’
‘I was led here,’ said Valeric. ‘Besides, I’ve been here before.’
‘Oh?’
‘When I was my son’s age. I escaped your scullion and flew through the chimney.’
‘There was a dragg escaped,’ said Gizzlegob. ‘Was that you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, well, well. Potnod bore some blows for that, I’ll tell you. Nice of you to return, though I dare say you’ll be a bit tough now for my old teeth.’ He laughed softly and the other two laughed with him.
‘If you touch my son I’ll kill you,’ said Valeric.
‘Aha? Kill me, eh? Or perhaps you mean to kill all three of us?’
‘If needs be.’
‘Well, what a brave father the morsel has.’
‘What have you done to him?’
‘Oh, simply a sniff of a little preparation I have. We’ve used it to quieten them since you left us so abruptly. Quite harmless, I assure you. And it makes no difference to the taste.’
Valeric started forward angrily, but the Dragon Amercy pushed the blade nearer to Affio’s throat.
Gizzlegob laughed breathily. ‘You know, I’ve a mind to let you have him. What’s one dragg more or less? My diet’s been something too rich for years. Yes, I think I’ll let you have him.’ Valeric looked at the ogre uncertainly. ‘There is just one small thing, however, which I’m sure you won’t mind doing.’
‘What is that?’
‘There’ve been some jobs around the place that we’ve let slacken shamefully. You’ve only to tidy them up for us and you can take your son home when you like. Fair enough?’
‘What jobs?’ asked Valeric suspiciously.
‘The merest chores,’ said Gizzlegob. ‘Five of them all told. Shouldn’t take a dragon of your wits any time at all. Are you game?’
Valeric looked at the Dragon Amercy whose smile was as sharp as his knife, and at the unconscious dragg lying on the table. Then he faced Gizzlegob again. ‘Tell me the tasks,’ he said.
The end of the Tale of Gizzlegob.
* * * * *
Concerning wisdom
‘One task at a time,’ said Gizzlegob, ‘And each task in its time.’ The mid-afternoon Sun shone in long splinters through the broken window, blanching the tiny skulls that hung from his cap and darkening still further his dark eyes. ‘Never overwork a good servant, eh Potnod? A task a day for modest pay is better terms than feeding worms.’ He laid his crooked claw on Affio’s brow, gentle and dangerous. ‘There is a tree,’ he said, ‘grows in a part of this forest that when it was but newly sprung from the earth so angered the lightning god by its beauty that he struck it with his sharpest bolt. The tree was cleft from its high branches to its roots throughout the thick centre of its stem, and yet the spring of life was so strong in it that it lived and grew, though cloven almost in two. It lives still, and bears each autumn two fruit, one upon each side; one fruit is sweet and succulent, for it draws all the goodness of the surrounding earth; the other is sour and poisonous for it is fed by envenomed roots; yet both are ripe and round and appetizing, sweet of smell and firm of touch. Bring me the poisoned fruit before nightfall and your first task will be done.’
‘Where is the tree?’ asked Valeric. ‘The forest is large and I might search many days before finding it.’
‘You might indeed,’ said Gizzlegob, ‘but if you do not find it before tonight further searching would be pointless.’
Valeric glared angrily at him. ‘How shall I know which fruit to choose?’ he asked. ‘Should I not fetch both to be sure?’
‘I shall know the right fruit when I see it,’ said Gizzlegob, ‘and you must fetch only that one. And it is easy enough for you to be sure: you simply have to eat the other; if it is sweet and wholesome you will have chosen well.’
‘And if it is sour?’
Gizzlegob laughed. ‘You will be dead before the taste of it tells on your tongue. Go now. You’ve half an afternoon to find it in, and then you can rest until tomorrow.’ Valeric looked again at his unconscious son and then turned to go, but Gizzlegob’s voice arrested him. ‘There is a griffin sometimes haunts the wood, and he sets guard over the cloven tree. He is so misshapen in body and soul that even his own kind shun him, and he will slay you if you do not slay him first. Do as you will, but bring me the fruit before nightfall, or your son shall die.’
*
He ran through the forest without aim and then flew high above the crowding trees. The forest stretched endlessly towards each far horizon where the hazes of early evening were beginning to gather. Suddenly he felt ridiculous, as if all the world were laughing at him, and he hovered miserably with closed eyes. After a while he circled slowly back to earth and stood with his head bowed.
There was only one way: it was useless to search any longer; he would be better to arm himself and try what force could do. Even if he could not save his son, even if they both died in the attempt, that was better than playing this pointless game. He might even kill one or other of his tormentors before they killed him. There was a sort of honour in that; better than this lackey’s death. His mind turned to weapons: a sharpened staff, a club, or just a claw? He raised his eyes to search.
A young and handsome dragon smiled at him. ‘Good day,’ said the stranger. ‘Are you lost?’
Valeric, though startled, returned the dragon’s smile. ‘Lost,’ he replied, ‘beyond hope.’
‘I am Lyronel,’ said the other dragon, ‘and I live hereabouts. What is it you seek?’
‘The unfindable,’ said Valeric, and he told him the nature of his search.
‘Why,’ said Lyronel, ‘I know the cloven tree. Come, I will lead you there myself. It’s but a short walk along this present path.’
Valeric was amazed and followed without question. As they walked Lyronel asked him the reason for his search and Valeric told him his sad tale. ‘And if I choose right,’ he concluded, ‘that is but the first of five tasks I must perform, and for all I know the simplest of them. I’d all but resolved to put it to the claw, until we met.’
Lyronel shook his head. ‘You might match claws with Potnod,’ he said, ‘for he is small and lag of wit; and you might prevail with Gizzlegob if you can strike before his enchantments bite; but you could never defeat the Dragon Amercy.’
‘You know these cut-throats, then?’ asked Valeric.
‘All creatures in the forest have cause to know them, and to fear them too, the Dragon Amercy in particular.’
‘Is he so dreadful?’
‘He, and all his kind.’
‘There are others?’
‘Many others,’ said Lyronel. ‘I have met seven in my part of the forest alone. They kill for the love of killing and the blood of any creature is sweet to them, even their own. If they are wounded their strength increases, and if they are killed they have only to drink their own blood to live again. They have the gift of guise and it is hopeless to oppose them. You were better to follow Gizzlegob’s commands.’
‘Why do you stay in this dreadful place?’ asked Valeric. ‘Aren’t you afraid?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Lyronel. ‘But as well as perils the forest contains delights. The trees bear sweeter fruit here than in all the rest of Bryggne, and there are birds of every melody and flowers to enchant. I’d rather live in peril here than be king in ruined Pennor.’
And truly as they walked Valeric saw that the forest was wonderful, and its wonder lent him new courage.
*
They came to a greensward where the cloven tree stood shadowed by the high tops of the forest. All around it stood other trees, heavy with fruit, a glade within a glade, and of all the inner glade the cloven tree stood tallest. Its riven trunk was scarred death-white, unhealed by bark, and yet the life still flowed to its flourish of new sprigs. On either side of the cleft it bore a single fruit, each as perfect as the other, heavy and russet-red. ‘There,’ said Lyronel, ‘one task at least is done.’
‘Half done,’ sighed Valeric, ‘for one of these fruit is sweet and the other poison, and I must discover which.’
Lyronel smiled. ‘Have no fear. I shall choose for you.’ He led Valeric to the tree and they studied each fruit in turn. ‘Here,’ said Lyronel, ‘this is the poisoned one.’
‘How can you tell?’ asked Valeric.
‘Observe its stem. There, where the flesh darkens, see where a worm has bored its way into the core, laying a poisoned trail. This is the hecol’s fruit. Eat the other and bear this to Gizzlegob.’ He plucked the healthy fruit, and Valeric took it from him and sniffed its luscious scent. The choice was clear, and yet he hesitated to eat.
‘He’s sense enough to pause at any rate,’ said a voice. Valeric and Lyronel span around, and there stood a griffin in the glade. He was small and grizzled, with wasted arms and cruelly chopped wings. He hobbled forward towards the dragons and answered Lyronel’s high look with a chill stare. ‘Come, let him choose a little longer. It’s a high hazard after all.’
‘I thought you had been slain,’ said Lyronel.
‘There’s plenty enough have tried,’ said the griffin, ‘but most of me is more or less unslain.’ He turned to Valeric and smiled with a candour which surprised him, and then he plucked the other fruit and weighed it in his shrivelled claw. ‘I’ve guarded this tree,’ he said, ‘as the twin image of the hecol and the Sun, in trust for one who could distinguish between them. Are you he?’
‘Slay him,’ said Lyronel, ‘or let me slay him for you. He’s long enough disfigured the world.’
‘Will you let him slay me?’ asked the griffin mildly. ‘He could easily do so, I assure you.’
Valeric was perplexed. ‘Gizzlegob told me I should slay you,’ he said, ‘before you could slay me.’
‘And will you do so?’ The dragon did not answer, and the griffin went on, ‘Will you then eat that fruit?’
‘It seems wholesome enough,’ said Valeric.
‘Wholesome is as wholesome tastes. Seems is only seems. For instance, I am gnarled and lame and must seem loathsome, and pretty Lyronel is young and brave. But were you to crawl into our hearts you would see which of us was most true. There’s a worm crawled into this fruit. Could he have crawled so far if it were poisoned?’
‘Slay him,’ said Lyronel. ‘Open his throat with your claw. Slay him before he slays you.’
‘Why talk of slaying?’ said Valeric. ‘If I am to die one death is enough. And he speaks soundly: how could the worm have lived to crawl so far?’
‘It is the worm that bears the poison, not the fruit,’ said Lyronel. ‘Do not let him deceive you. Eat the wholesome fruit.’
‘I trust I shall,’ said Valeric, ‘but which of them is wholesome?’
Lyronel’s cheeks flushed blood-red with rage. ‘Will you let him fuddle you?’ he cried. ‘Griffins have robbed us of our birthright and disgraced our tribe. They’ve torn down our sacred images and exulted in our shame. And here is a griffin despised even by his own kind. Will you listen to him before me?’
Valeric stared at him in wonder. ‘I will listen to you both,’ he said. ‘What else would you have me do?’
‘Eat this fruit,’ said Lyronel, ‘and take the fruit with the worm to Gizzlegob. Close your ears to the griffin and eat this fruit.’
But Valeric did not close his ears to the griffin, for he asked him, ‘which fruit would you have me eat?’
The griffin’s tone was gentle enough almost to transfigure his ugliness. ‘Neither,’ he said, ‘until you are sure.’
Valeric peered deeply into his eyes and then turned once more to Lyronel. He held out his hand for the dragon’s fruit and Lyronel gave a smile of triumph as he passed it to him. But then Valeric beckoned for the griffin’s fruit too, and he held them balanced in his claws. ‘I am sure,’ he said at last, and he bit deeply into the griffin’s fruit so that the juice ran sweetly from his jaws.
Lyronel screamed in fury, and his tautened lips revealed his deep red inner teeth. He reared up to Valeric as if to tear his throat, but Valeric was swift to challenge and rebuff him. Yet as Lyronel fell back he drew from within his cloak a deadly knife and sprang once more at Valeric; but as he sprang he screamed and fell, and Valeric saw where an arrow had pierced him to the heart; there stood the griffin, bow in hand, beside the cloven tree.
Valeric was shaken and could only stammer, ‘I am in your debt.’
‘I fear not,’ said the griffin. ‘You have made a deadly enemy, and I have only made him deadlier.’
‘Will he relive?’ asked Valeric.
The griffin nodded. ‘He is a Dragon Amercy - young still, but murderous - and he needs only drink his own blood to live again. See where his blood has splashed upon his tongue. By morning he will again walk the forest, stronger and more deadly than before.’
Valeric nodded. ‘At least I am alive for now,’ he said, ‘and I thank you for that. What is your name?’
‘Rhyff,’ said the griffin. ‘Come to me again when you need a friend.’
*
Valeric raced back to Gizzlegob’s lair and presented the poisoned fruit. The ogre seemed gratified by his success, and led him into the empty cabin, saying, ‘Well, rest now, and see what tomorrow may bring.’
‘Where is my son?’ demanded Valeric.
‘He sleeps safe,’ said Gizzlegob. ‘You shall see him again when the five tasks are done.’
‘Let me see him now.’
‘And have you try to rescue him, and have me slay you for your pains? Better you leave him be.’
‘How can I know he is safe?’ asked Valeric.
‘Fear not,’ said the ogre, ‘my word is somewhat stronger than my teeth.’
* * *
Valeric lay sleeplessly in the great kitchen that night, harrowed by unforgotten shadows. In the morning Gizzlegob came to him once more and, laying the poisoned fruit of the cloven tree on the table before him, said, ‘Make haste, make haste, or else the Sun will set or e’er the day’s begun,’ and he smiled at him indulgently, at which Valeric felt a morbid fear arise. ‘Far to the south,’ said Gizzlegob, ‘where the mountains bulge beneath the forest, there lies a hidden tarn that we call Taralac, and there the waters of many high streams mingle. Below the tarn runs the course of the river Dure which fed this valley in better times; then we had fish and lush pastures for our oor. Now the river bed is almost dry and the water which fed it pours from the tarn’s steep shoulders in wasteful cataracts, flooding the forest sides; and at the place where the river once welled forth there is now a high wall of densely plaited boughs, stemming the flow. It is the wall of a mighty nest extending far below the surface of the lake, and it is the home of a vynx. No mortal eye has seen him, but he grows giant on the water life and the tarn is black with the pitch of his body. No creature which enters those waters may escape from him, for the tarn clings like resin till he devours them. Slay this vynx for me and destroy his nest, and when again the waters of Dure run sweetly through this valley your second task will be done. Away, and see it finished before nightfall.’
‘But how shall I slay such a creature?’ asked Valeric in despair.
‘There are means to hand,’ said Gizzlegob, ‘brought by yourself from the cloven tree, for no creature can eat this fruit and live.’
‘But how may I persuade him to eat the fruit?’ asked Valeric.
Gizzlegob glared disdainfully. ‘Adventure more and question less, and answer hazard with success.’
‘I cannot match your rhymes,’ said Valeric, ‘but I’ll match claws with you if you harm my son.’ His eyes were hot with anger and he left the cabin without further word.
*
He flew southwards to where the mountains rose, following the wide-etched course of the Dure until at last it narrowed and disappeared amongst the trees. From there he ran by the river bed as it shrank dustily towards its source; then suddenly he stopped. It was as Gizzlegob had described it, but darker and more dreadful. The wall rose above a dragon’s height, and all the trees around had been shorn of their lower branches in the making of it. There was a vegetable stench and the ground around was blackened with decay. The wall bulged between two rocky outcrops, and where the river had once flowed handsomely there was now a poor discoloured trickle, scuttling as if in shame between the stones. Valeric flew above the wall and gazed upon the tarn. It brimmed about the waists of the great trees that had once bordered it, and here and there it rushed foamily towards some hidden spout to drench the high forest and wash away the good earth. Within the tarn itself, unseen but deadly, the vynx lay waiting in its dreadful lair.
He felt disheartened. He had found the tarn easily enough but the task of clearing it seemed impossible. He wished he’d sought the griffin for aid and counsel, or at least brought some better weapon than a poisoned fruit. He gripped the pouch about his neck, feeling for the fruit, wondering how he might possibly deliver it.
Then he heard a sound, small and shrill, a sound of terror and dismay, and nearby the bank of the tarn he saw a slight welter in the water like the frenzied buzzing of an insect in a web. He flew closer and lit on the nearby shore, and he saw it was a pipwing, its feathers drenched in the clinging mere, its wings spread wide like a water flower, its high voice trapped in a single, fretful squeal. It was such a pipwing that had led him in pursuit of his son’s captors, that had shown him a path through the forest, and it was a pipwing now calling to him for aid. He flew from the bank and hovered just above the tarn, leaning his claw forward to the tiny bird.
With a sound no greater than a gust of summer wind his wings were tangled suddenly together and he fell helpless beside the pipwing in the mere. There were ropes about his wings, weighted with stones, and he struggled free of them only to trap himself more firmly in the lake, till he floated as powerlessly as the pipwing at the command of the heavy current.
As his head was swung towards the shore he saw Lyronel, triumphantly at ease, sober in his exultation. There was no mark of death about him, nor any lessening of the hatred in his eyes. ‘It would have been wiser to have died before,’ he said. ‘Yesterday you would have been dead before you knew it; today you will know the utmost misery of dying, and death itself will be a well-wished haven. You have slain me once, and for that I shall see you slain so that all the deaths of all the dragons since creation will not amount to more than a single pang of your great agony.’
Valeric was dumbfounded. ‘I did not slay you,’ he cried.
‘You and the griffin,’ said Lyronel, ‘twin hecols of our blood! Do you think because I can live again that it is nothing to die? It is worse: the chill of it lingers in my bones and I must staunch its draining agony within my soul. The splash of blood upon my tongue that bred new life in me bred a new torment too, for I have tasted death and I know its terrors, and I know I must answer them when they come again. For you, however long your agony, death will finally acquit you. For me it is here constantly, but unreachable, uncomforting, unforgiving.’ He drew nearer to the shore. ‘Yet it’s not for that alone that I’ll see you slain. You are the fruit of Garafoc’s wisdom, you and all your kind. You mumble obedience to the griffins and bare your heads to base wyverns. You poison the name of dragon in the sight of the stars, and the gods fall from Argironel in shame at it. You conspire in your own disgrace and leave the sword unwrested from vile hands. You have blighted the seed of Aldragon more than pestilence could, more than earthquake, fire, day-dark or all the wars in all the world. You are the destroyer of the race, you and all your comfortable, uninquisitive kind. Well, let this death do service for your undeserving; let you wish you had braved the legions of Abeen or razed the walls of Pennor all alone rather than this. And when death comes at last let you crawl shamefully within it, as the river crawls beneath its bed, and let your best hope be for utter darkness and extinction.’
Valeric felt the waters bearing him slowly towards the vynx’s nest. ‘What death is this?’ he asked fearfully. ‘What death so dreadful?’
‘You will have leisure to learn,’ said Lyronel, ‘like all whom the vynx devours. He draws succour from his victims’ every atom; there’s not the least bristle of the body that isn’t scoured of life, nor the tiniest vestige of being that he does not gnaw and nibble at. And of all the flavours in the world he savours best the taste of pain. He will not kill while there is any new agony with which to spice his food, and he will not eat until his juices run. And all the while you beg for death remember that I could release you as easily as this - ’ He leant forward from the shore towards the now silent pipwing, placing his claw before its beak. The pipwing grabbed the claw and pulled mightily with its tiny strength until it had climbed clear of the black water and was hanging grimly in the midway air. It tried to prise its wings from its body, but they stuck like unopened leaves until Lyronel, tiring of this amusement, shook his claw and sent the pipwing floundering once more towards the mere. ‘Now despair,’ he said. ‘Soon your agony begins, and your screams will sweeten every moment of it.’
And as Valeric gazed up at his tormentor he saw behind him the familiar figure of a griffin, hobbling silently from the shadow of the trees, holding a long spear before him. At the last moment Lyronel turned, and he grabbed the spearhead as it was thrust towards him, but he was too late to save himself. He fell backwards from the shore at the force of the blow and landed belly upwards on his outstretched wings. Then in silence the griffin held his spear at arm’s stretch across the lake and Valeric grabbed it in his jaws and pulled himself heavily through the water. As he neared the shore he stretched his claw towards the half-dead pipwing and dragged it to safety after him. He was hauled clear of the edge, where he lay immobile, hardly able to breathe, and moments later Rhyff carried the tiny pipwing to where Valeric lay and tenderly spread its wings upon the grass; then he helped clean the dragon’s wings, and with water from the clear part of the lake he washed every last taint of pitch from his body. When they had done, and the pipwing too was cleansed and calm, Rhyff and Valeric approached the edge of the tarn and stared down at silent Lyronel. ‘Why do you not cry out?’ asked Valeric. ‘You know what death approaches.’
‘To whom should I cry?’ asked Lyronel flatly. ‘There will be time enough for crying soon.’
‘We cannot watch him die,’ said Valeric, ‘not coldly.’
‘He would have watched you,’ said Rhyff, ‘and relished it.’
‘Well, I cannot,’ said Valeric.
‘Do not seek to save him,’ warned Rhyff, ‘or my spear is for you too. This is one death even a Dragon Amercy cannot escape. Let him feast well on it.’
Valeric called across to Lyronel, ‘If you were free now would you still seek my life?’
The Dragon Amercy craned his long neck high above the water and stared at him contemptuously. ‘If you freed me now,’ he said, ‘I should kill you more readily than before.’
‘Then you must die,’ said Valeric, ‘and I must watch it and be part of your death.’ And he and Rhyff watched silently as Lyronel drifted ever closer to the vynx’s nest. And where the water was blackest Lyronel stopped and the currents flowed thickly past him on either side; and then suddenly he screamed, and Valeric felt compassion like a sickness in his heart. ‘Let me kill him,’ he said to Rhyff. ‘No creature should endure such a death.’
‘Kill him if you will,’ said Rhyff, ‘but you shall not use my spear. He endures no more than he meant for you.’
Again Lyronel screamed, and Valeric flew into the air above him. He took the poisoned fruit from the pouch about his neck and held it towards the Dragon Amercy’s snout. ‘Eat,’ he said. ‘Eat as you would have had me do. It will spare your agony. Eat and die.’
Lyronel’s eyes were stung with tears, but he said, ‘I’d rather bear this agony if only for the agony it gives you than to be killed with kindness.’
‘This is not kindness,’ said Valeric. ‘If you eat the fruit and die, the vynx may die in eating you. I seek his life, not your pain’s ease. Eat, and die.’