Swin rode in silence almost throughout that day.
Sedro had imposed his will on the other dogs, who now ran behind him obediently. It seemed to Swin that the line the dogs were taking had veered a little to the west; but there was no sun, so direction was hard to be sure of. In the late morning the travellers came to a wretched village, where Melohtar bought such provisions as could be had, knowing that there might not be any more for many miles. And then another curious tendency was apparent: it seemed that Gauriel’s trail lay more and more along the roads, which in this part of the country were long and straight, though few. Dalb and Mithuan, though footsore, kept up with Sedro’s tireless lope, and the horses were able to go faster, and in this way the travellers covered a dozen leagues of the bare countryside. Melohtar, when asked about it later, said that this landscape was not worth describing or remembering. Swin rode on in silence, struggling and arguing within his own mind until a kind of peace, or at least of resignation, descended upon him.
The afternoon was drawing in. The horses were tired now, but still the long straight road stretched on into the north, where new hills or mountains were becoming visible, dark beneath the lowering clouds. And there was a taint in the air, not unlike that of the City, a smell not so much of burning as the aftermath of burning, a hint of stale poison. Swin began to talk. In a long unbroken speech he told Melohtar all about his dream. ‘Now here we are,’ he concluded, ‘travelling into I don’t know what, or why. It’s plain weird.’
‘Very weird indeed.’
‘No, that’s not – oh, never mind. Let’s go back to what I started to ask you yesterday. Why don’t you ever talk about this worm, whom we’re getting nearer and nearer to with every pace we ride?’
‘Good Heavens!’ was Melohtar’s response. He lightly struck himself on the forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘Something’s come back to me now! Another thing we’d clean forgotten about! Let me see, how did it go?
The white wolf will run from her lord
And a red boar will follow the wolf.
The boar will carry an elvish sword.
Swin glanced at the hilts of Heathogrim. ‘I thought the white worm’s going to kill the boar,’ he said.
‘No, no! “The boar will carry an elvish sword/ to slay that worm”! There’s a providence in this, my friend. Whatever may be the meaning of your dream-vision, it was the power of Dru that bound us in our Oath, and the power of Mindir which sent the Eagle’s prophecy – which we’re now fulfilling! We’re on the right path, and Dru is with us!’
‘Do you really believe that?’
‘With all my heart!’
Seeing his friend’s exulting smile, Swin gave a small grunt and a half-smile of his own. ‘Well, good. But tell me more. Tell me about this worm.’
Melohtar’s smile faded. The two jogged on for another five minutes before he spoke again:
‘You’re quite right: you perceive that I am concealing things for you. These are important matters of state, which my office and my allegiance to the Crown forbid me to divulge. Yet I guess that the Oath which we have sworn together must compel a deeper loyalty… Just don’t tell anyone else! Agreed?’
‘Agreed.’
‘All right, so the folk of the City don’t talk much about Fëaruk. I suppose we all know in our hearts that in making us strong he has also ruined us. He has ruined our land: this desolation is all his doing. He has ruined our manhood: for the flower of Thandor was withered in the war and the Years of Attrition, and since then the way of the warrior is misesteemed and despised, with guile and war-artifice exalted above knightly conduct, so that our men have become poor gelded creatures, and children are few among us. He has corrupted our spirit: for now we live only to amass wealth, that the rich merchant may grow yet richer, and the poor folk be dispossessed ever more and more of what they have and at last reduced to servitude. The Treaty of Lhygost, of which you have been told, was a necessary expedient, and no-one has ever been able to show that the Kingdom could have been saved in any other way. Yet it brought shame too, shame and dishonour which have sunk deep into our hearts: into the pith of our bones.’
‘What about the sacrifices?’
‘What sacrifices?’
‘From the tribes of the Foro – the young men and maidens who are taken to be fed to him.’
‘I don’t know where you heard that, Swin, but it doesn’t surprise me. There is the tacit agreement, the silence which you have noticed, but at the same time people do whisper among themselves, of course, and so one hears the most terrific rumours about Fëaruk. But the truth is plainer and uglier. I know this, being Secretary of the King’s Surveyors.’
‘Map-makers?’
‘Mapping, and exploring, and prospecting: finding out the resources of the Kingdom. These are the things we do. Have you ever heard of ligond?’
‘Oil of the rocks? Yes.’
‘It’s found in wells and pools of great underground caverns. It is a dirty liquid, as black as tar, and it stinks. But by boiling it, and then regathering its steam as a dew, our skilled men of the Aulendili can clean it and make it fine: a light golden liquor that burns more fiercely than pine-resin. They guessed that this refined liquor would prove delicious to the worm, and so it proved. He drank up the barrels of it that the King’s servants left for him to find; he drank more and more, until he craved it continually and could not forbear from drinking it. This gave King Kedrahil his advantage, as it was judged, for the worm could by no other means obtain this oil for himself; and so he was ready to treat for peace, and to be bound by laws, in return for the abundant supplies, that we still provide, of his favourite poison.
‘For poison it certianly is. He belched and broke wind of a ghastly stench; he shat forth a slime that has poisoned the cape of Forograst, where he lives, so that no men can live near him for long. Only the hardy Dwarves can abide him. Whereby, no doubt, the rumours first arose: for many young men, apprentices of the Aulendili, died of his venom in the first few years after the treaty was signed. Now only the Mute Dwarves serve him, cleaning his living-quarters and bringing him his meat – for he consumes many beeves daily besides his drink. And the more skilled Dwarves work with him: they journey from their habitations in Kibilgathol at the end of the Black Mountains, to the straits of Forograst, which used to be frozen for eight months of the year but which never freeze now; and they cross the straits in their cargo-boats and rafts, bringing the precious metals which they have mined, and Fëaruk makes for them a flame of fierce heat and magical potency, by which they are enabled to make their treasures and toys, their weapons and instruments, all kinds of intricate things; and these artefacts are a great source of our wealth, as I have explained to you. Behold, then, the source of our wonderful prosperity: the exhalations of a venemous worm.
‘As you see, I greatly regret that this noble and ancient Kingdom, which Targil founded and Kedral renewed, should have been brought to such a pass. But few feel as I do. Most of our commons and our so-called nobility are content to share in the lucre even if they shrink from acknowledging its begetter. Yet had they that knowledge which is at present shared by only a few, the King having commanded it to be kept secret, they would perhaps be less complacent. For a hundred and sixteen years have now passed since Fëaruk first tasted that liquor, and the century of his continuous drinking has had two consequences. First, that he has grown to an enormous size and strength; second, that the oil-fields and wells in the regions of Orogor and Beraid Moreithel have now almost run dry. This lack has been anticipated, and for years the King has been sending out explorers, throughout the length and breadth of Athenor, and beyond, in order to discover new sources. For this reason, surveying has become an important office of government, into which I myself was recruited two years ago. In an unlucky hour I came across some old maps, supposed to have been drawn by the Elves of Onduial; and the name Ninniachlo caught my attention. The place lies in the angle of the southern range of the Nurn Mountains, where it is said that the Elves used to dwell, and the spur of the Rediath, the lesser range that juts out from them. Ninniachlo – go on, then –’
‘Rainbow fen?’ said Swin.
‘Correct! A combination of Middle and Old-Elvish forms. It suggests, does it not, the play of oily colours on a marsh? That part of the world – it’s about forty leagues south-east of Kingsdemesne – has never been within Thandor’s sphere of influence, even though Oresgal’s advisers declare that we have sufficient title, based on the limits of the old kingdom, Athenor, to re-annex it. I passed the clue on to the Surveyors, who were desperate for any hint, and they sent a band down there, and that expedition did indeed strike oil. And I myself unfortunately came to the King’s attention; for the Surveyors needed someone to keep their books and maps in order. Then last year we sent more bands of explorers all round the south-east, while the Ninniachlo camp was to be strengthened as a base for further explorations, across the Rediath and into the land beyond, that has never been penetrated by Men at all – which is no doubt the reason for the fantastic tales that are told about it. If they find more oil-fields there, it will be opened up of course. And then in the further course of time it will be all fouled and devastated. Such is progress.’
‘You don’t like what you’re doing,’ said Swin.
‘Indeed not. I can almost feel the black slime on my hands. But what alternative is there, either for me or for the Kingdom? Meanwhile I am becoming increasingly anxious about the Ninniachlo party. Hrem, their commander, is a good man, but there’s been no word from them since last year. If that land is inhabited, and the natives are hostile, and have slain them, I shall grieve; but worse, I shall expect another cruel war to be waged, such as almost destroyed the little folk of the Demesne. If those natives are defeated, they will be miserably crushed. This I know.’
‘But the dragon?’ said Swin after a pause.
‘What more would you have?’
‘Oh, questions like, how respectful is he towards visitors? Are we likely to bump into him? And if we do, what is the correct form of address? Things like that. But…maybe they’ll have to be postponed again.’
He pointed forward as he spoke, and Melohtar peered forward through the gloom. The road had become a paved street, each paving-stone an identical rectangle; and still it stretched away into the distance, a narrowing stripe in the dark featureless plain. Far ahead, beyond the hills, the Black Mountains could now be discerned, extending to left and to right along the horizon. But there was a small twinkling of red flames like torches on the road, and Swin’s eyes had distinguished a multitude of small dark figures. ‘We’re being met,’ he said.
‘They won’t be dangerous,’ said Melohtar. ‘Look, Sedro and the other two aren’t bothered at all. I’d trust his instincts anywhere.’
The horses’ hooves clip-clopped on the hard pavement. The sound was clear but unresonant, pressed in by the dull heavy air as if within the confines of a draped room. The red lights were five in number, and the crowd of dark figures seemed slowly to spill or swarm outwards from a middle point.
‘I wonder what the time is,’ said Melohtar. ‘It shouldn’t be as dark as this yet, should it?’
‘Perhaps it’ll lighten up again,’ said Swin. ‘This is the right path, and Dru is protecting us. You said that, didn’t you?’
‘I did. By the way, since you asked, I’ve heard that he’s a very vain dragon. He prefers to be addressed as “Your Almightiness”.’
The figures were Dwarves, marching together with good discipline. Each one carried shield and spear, and wore a similar breast-plate and ridged helmet. The helmets were all cast in the form of a dragon’s head; the shields were all white, without any device, and seemed to gleam faintly. The Dwarves were arranged in a square formation with one red light carried at each corner and one at the centre. Twelve abreast they came on, and the road resounded with the tramp and stamp of their iron shoes.
Stirnelach shied at them, shaking his head; Swin gently reined Colwine in, and the two horses stood still. A great Dwarf, a leader, was advancing ahead of the squadron. In the midst of the squadron a litter was borne by six or eight of the Dwarves. It contained a seated figure. Gleams of light fell across it from the swaying torch or lantern, but not enough to reveal whether this person was human, dwarvish or some other kind of creature. Now the leader was only twenty yards away. His helmet bore a crest of white spikes, and the figure of a white dragon rampant shone dimly on the grey oblong of his shield. A coiled whip was thrust into his belt. His dark eyes were expressionless, his black beard tightly knotted. He halted at one side of the road, raised his spear high and then clashed it against his shield. As the dwarf-soldiers came on they divided into two streams that flowed smoothly, though very noisily past on each side. Having passed the two horsemen the streams reunited. The Captain shouted a single word of command; his whip cracked loudly and every dwarf stood motionless.
Swin and Melohtar were in the middle of a hollow square, four deep on every side. With them were the occupant of the litter, the Dwarves who bore the litter and the Dwarf who carried the middle light, upheld on a pole like a standard. The light was not a torch, as Melohtar had at first supposed, but a great lamp with a powerful wick and a mantle of red glass. It gave a clear, threatening light. The hunched, hooded figure now stirred and turned. It threw back the hood to reveal a countenance that was somewhat priestlike, with a fringe of hair, a heavy cheek and underlip, and large bags under the eyes.
‘I believe I have the pleasure,’ the Man began in a hoarse deep voice; he cleared his throat, coughed, coughed more deeply and had to start again. ‘I believe I have the pleasure of addressing Lord Melohtar? And Mr. Gumasson?’
‘Certainly!’ said Melohtar with a broad smile. ‘Lord Tirmo the wormwarden – hi there! This meeting’s an honour to our journey.’
‘Yes,’ said the other. ‘Word has reached me. But – Swin, is it? Hi.’
‘Hi.’ Swin shook hands in his turn. Tirmo’s hand was cold, his grip strengthless. ‘An honour, my lord, I’m sure. Aren’t you the baron of this part of the realm?’
‘That’s my rank,’ agreed Lord Tirmo with a feeble smile, ‘but my peers look down on me as being of inferior blood. Never mind. I still serve the King as best I may. Now, gentlemen, your quarry has passed into these territories, and I’m afraid she may run into danger of the worm. But I’m commanded to aid you in capturing her, any way I can. His Majesty is of course deeply concerned as well. So if you, my lord, and sir, you’ll come along with me, we’ll be able to get the latest information and make plans.’
‘Excellent!’ said Melohtar, not without relief, and Swin assented.
With an obvious effort, Lord Tirmo called out to the Captain over the heads of the Dwarf-soldiers.The Captain cracked his whip twice and repeated the words in a deep harsh voice, ‘About turn – march!’ Every Dwarf turned round on the spot, and then the whole company moved off the way they had come; but now with Swin and Melohtar enclosed in the square.
‘Very smooth,’ commented Swin mildly. ‘But this is a strong escort for just the two of us.’
Lord Tirmo gave a wheezy laugh and settled down among his cushions. ‘It’s for your own protection, mate!’ he said. ‘Our dragon rarely flies – he’s got so big that it’s hard for him to take off – but if he flies, he flies at night, and then lonely travellers are in great risk! This escort is to keep you from wandering and from being attacked.’
‘And the lanterns?’ Swin inquired.
‘Are a sign to him: our identification. You are five-lamp visitors, which means that this party is highly important.’
‘And where are we going now?’
‘To an inn – well, a hostel really. A dwarf-barracks. But there are rooms for guests. We’ll try to make you comfortable. And there are the lights. Not far now.’
The paved road approached the line of lights: tall white lamps on well-wrought pillars.
‘Of course,’ said Melohtar. ‘That’s Formenand Street, isn’t it? The long road that runs all the way from Lhygost to Dunbury. Below Dunbury it’s called the City Road. You’ve come a long way round, my friend!’
Tramp, stamp, tramp, stamp rang the feet of the escort. The lamps passed by, casting ranked shadows that crept up behind, slowly overtook and then quickly hurried on to disappear before the next ones crept up. The sky was black. The hostel came into view, a grim block of a building with many small windows, all of a size, and only one entrance, small and unimpressive, at the front. The escort opened up their ranks to make a lane, through which the riders followed the litter-bearers up to the porch. A round white light cast a cold glare on the doorstep.
The lodging was bleak, the hostel-keepers unwelcoming, the beds uncomfortable. The smell that had been noticeable all day was stronger inside the building than out of it, as if the cooks were endlessly frying the food in pans of crude oil. In the morning Swin and Melohtar found Lord Tirmo at the breakfast-table, absorbing a large unwholesome-looking meal and the contents of his mailbag at the same time. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said with a frown, ‘no news of your lady just yet. But Fëaruk’s people are out in force and they’re hunting for her. My lord, I advise you, if I may, to return to my headquarters with me. We can co-ordinate the rescue efforts better from there. It’s really the only thing.’
The only thing. Swin said nothing, although the other two went on talking while they ate, for the words had fallen on his ear with finality, like the sentence of a judge. For him it really was the only thing. Melohtar would not return from the north until the quest had either succeeded or manifestly failed. Swin had sworn to continue the quest with him, and he had nothing else to do in any case: it was as if he was blindfolded, his only guidance being the leading of Melohtar’s hand. The only thing.
It was another grey day, cold and overcast with very little wind. The fumy smell grew stronger and stronger with every mile the travellers rode. Tramp, stamp, tramp, stamp. The escort had been reduced by half. The chained lamp-posts of Formenand Street marched on and on along one side; the hours wore dully on; the mountains slowly raised their heads as the company crept nearer, and the street began to climb upwards in a long slope. Now there were beds of brown reeds in the plain on both sides, acres of grey-green tidal plants and shallow watercourses winding among them, marked out by boulders and tracks of pebbles. Still the street led on, no longer straight in its course but bending leftwards as it slowly dipped and rose, dipped and rose. The Captain shouted harshly in dwarvish, cracked his whip and then lashed out at the last rank. They cried and grumbled, but the whole company picked up speed. Now they had reached the fissured, broken hills, and now they were on a level with the tops of the hills, and still the street climbed. Beyond the hills another highway was borne on the arches of a mighty viaduct: this, Melohtar said, was the oil-road from Beraid Moreithel. Gradually it approached, striding over the inhospitable shattered rocks and the dreadful crevasses. To Swin, as he contemplated it with awe and dislike, it brought a funny little association: it made him think of the Bridge of Cor Belaimë, in Waltrot’s tale, which Elbo and Bróin and Lego had crossed. He smiled, thinking of Waltrot’s jokes, and tried to remember a few more of them. At last the company came to the street-junction. A long wain was there, low and many-wheeled, carrying seven huge round steel vats, drawn onward at a slow pace by scores if not hundreds of dwarf-slaves. Many drivers were plying their whips on the toiling lines. They turned and saluted as the soldiers went past, and the Captain cracked his whip in answer. Then Formenand Street was clear again, bending into the west; and now on either side the banks ran down more steeply from a narrow verge, and the terrain became yet grimmer, and there was the sea, coming in, the waves gleaming palely among the rubble and boulders far below. And there it was ahead also, the grey level of the horizon scarcely darker than the misty grey of the sky, obscured by drifts of cloud or smoke that – yes, smoke that could be seen rising in thin tufts, in threads and plumes from – from the chimneys of Lhygost, the tall flues and stacks, enormous as they must be, thus to strike the eye across the many miles that still remained. Yes, there was the smoky darkness to which the road inescapably led, the infernal city that was now at last revealed, wolf or no wolf, quest or no quest, as the travellers’ destination. Slowly the cloud-layers of the western sky were lit up with pink and intense crimson, and then, against a narrow strip of tarnished gilt, the enlarged orange-red ball of the sun descended into full view, to be pricked by the thin spikes of the chimney-stacks. The sea became a cloth of mournful purple, shot with bloody flecks and sparkles that died out before they reached the shore. The city was black against the sunset. Suddenly a thin line of white leaped out: not dragon-fire, but the lighting of the street-lamps, which by some magical art were springing into life one after another, the end of the lit line racing towards the company and rushing past. Tirmo gave the order for the lighting of the company’s own lanterns.
But there seemed to be no intention of pushing on towards the city. Swin had no desire to get there any too soon; maybe his reluctance was shared by other members of the company; be that as it might, Tirmo ordered the Captain to stop at the hostel that presently came into view, and Melohtar made no attempt to oppose him. This lodging was as poor as that of the previous night. In some respects it was identically the same. Melohtar tossed and turned on his hard bed, assailed by nightmares. At midnight he heard the sound of hooves and rumbling wheels. He looked out of the window. The night was moonless and starless, the lamps gave forth their white glare and the distant city was lit up with many twinkling sparks, yellow and silver and orange; a glow leaked out of it, staining the northern sky a dead bronze-colour. A coach drew up. It carried four red lamps. The driver opened the coach door. Someone got out and entered the hostel. The person was wrapped up in a dark cloak, but seemed familiar. Melohtar went back to bed, pausing for a moment to look at his friend. There Swin lay, peacefully breathing, his features calm and clear-cut, his red hair glowing faintly in the faint diffused light.
Early next morning a slack-mouthed, chinless servant brought the friends their jugs of warm water, together with their breakfast of stale bread-and-cheese and small beer. The beer had a nasty taste which seemed appropriate to the poor fare. Swin talked about The King’s Head at Tregg. He checked his wallet, which was safely there and full of money given to him by Melohtar. ‘I was more innocent then,’ Swin recalled. ‘An easy mark for the thief, whoever he was.’
Melohtar sighed. ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘but I think we’ve both had to get a bit older.’
They went down to the hall and waited for Tirmo to appear, which he soon did, in the company of another man. The new arrival was stooping, elderly, with a lined face. He wore a black robe with a white fur stole. ‘Hi,’ he said, with no smile.