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                   Dragon Magic
                               Andre Norton



                              DEDICATION:



                        For Anne McCaffrey and
                           L. Sprague de Camp,
                     two notable tamers of dragons




                                     1



                           HIDDEN TREASURE




   Sig Dortmund kicked at a pile of leaves in the gutter, watched the
crowd at the school bus stop. With just one bus running from this new
development, they picked up the little kids, too. Just a few guys here his
age. Yeah, only three. And this was a double run, to the elementary and to
the middle school--you had to leave a lot earlier in the morning and get
home when it was too late to do anything outside. Swell year this was
going to be! He kicked harder.

  Those three guys, he tried to look them over without them seeing him
do it. Well, he sort of knew the small one. He'd been in social studies with
him last year. What was his name? Artie--Artie Jones. Should he say "Hi,
Artie?"




    Artie Jones chewed on his lower lip. What a jam this was. All the little
kids shoving and yelling. Bet everyone would be good and deaf before they
let them off at elementary. And look what he had to maybe sit with! There
was that big guy--he'd seen him last term, but he was no "big man," that
was for sure. Then take that Chinese kid over by the wall. Mom had heard
all about him. She told them at supper last night. How Mr. Stevens had
been in Vietnam and had gone to Hong Kong on leave. There he ran across
this Kim in an orphanage and wanted to adopt him. The Stevenses had to
wait a long time to bring him over, even had to get their congressman in
on the deal. Didn't look as if he was worth all that bother, did he?

   They said he was bright in school. But of course the Stevenses would
brag about him after taking all that trouble to get him here. Big
deal--jokers like him to ride with!




   Kim Stevens held tightly to his book bag. All the noise and confusion!
He had heard plenty of noise, been caught in crowds of people ever since
he could remember. Hong Kong was so crowded that people lived on top of
people there. But that was different. Those had been his people, he knew
what they were like. Last year here had been so different, too. Father had
driven him to school. Yes, he had felt strange at first, but later there had
been James Fong and Sam Lewis. He glanced once at the tall black boy
leaning against the wall around the old house. But that one acted as if he
were all alone, not even noticing the second graders almost jumping on his
toes.




  Ras was not listening to the noise. He had to concentrate just like
Shaka said--remember and get it right. When they asked him his name he
wasn't to say "George Brown"; he was to say "Ras." Just like his brother
was now Shaka, not Lloyd, named after the Zulu king in Africa, the one
who really gave it to whitey back in the old days. Ras meant "prince";
Shaka let him pick it out himself from the list. Shaka was sure right in the
groove, he wore his hair Afro and everything.

   Dad and Mom did not understand. They were old days, take all the
mean things whitey wants to hand out and keep your mouth shut. Shaka,
he told it like it was now. And Ras wasn't going to let anyone talk him out
of doing just like Shaka said.

   More leaves blew around the comer of the wall, and Sig crackled
through them with a deliberate crunching. Back there was the old house
they were going to tear down. He'd like to go and take a look at it,
anything better than hanging around with a bunch of guys who wouldn't
give you even a look, let alone the time of day. But the bus was coming.




   The day, which had begun sourly, didn't get any better; sometimes they
don't. At four Ras slouched again in the bus seat for the trip back home.
Troublemaker, huh? He'd heard old Keefer talking. Anyway he hadn't told
them anything but Ras. Not his fault Ben Crane spoke up that way.
Ben--he was what Shaka called an "Uncle Tom," smoothing up whitey.
Maybe Shaka could get Ras out of this dumb school into the Afro-studies
one. No one to go around with. He scowled at the seat ahead.

   Kim sat still, his book bag across his knees. Why didn't that boy want to
tell the teacher his name? And what kind of a name was "Ras"? He just
didn't understand anything in this new school. It was too big and they
hurried you all the time. His head ached. He didn't belong here. Dared he
say so to Father, maybe get to go back where he had been before?

    Artie scuffed his feet on the bus floor. Used his eyes and ears all right
today, he had. That Greg Ross was the big man in the class--played
football, a cinch for the student council when they had the election the
homeroom teacher gabbed about. Get into Greg's crowd and you had it
made. Too bad he was too small and light for football. But he'd figure out
some way to make Greg know he was around. No other way to really make
it but be in that gang--outside you were nothing.

   Sig, sitting next to Artie, wondered what he was thinking about. Just
those three guys in his neighborhood. Artie sure wasn't very friendly--it
didn't matter much about the other two. School was too big. You got lost.
Artie had been in social studies and in math. But both times he pushed in
to sit near that Greg Ross, like he was trying to make Ross notice him.
And that Ras--not telling his real name. Get mixed up with a kook like
that and, man, you might be in real trouble.

   That other one--where'd he get a name like Stevens? He was Chinese or
something. Never opened his mouth in the two classes where Sig had seen
him. Acted like he was afraid of his own shadow. Sure going to be some
drag, riding with this bunch all year.

   As the bus swung in to drop them at the corner, Sig noticed something
different. The gates guarding the old house were gone, bushes broken
down inside as if some truck had pulled in and out. He had heard they
were going to tear the house down, make another parking lot there.

   Sig lingered as the first wave of children swept on down the street. It
sure looked spooky in there. He remembered that some old guy had lived
there for a long time. Wouldn't sell the place even when they offered him a
lot of money. He'd been a kook, too, from what Dad said--lived in other
countries digging up old bones and things belonging to people back in
history.

   Last year when their class at the other school had gone on a museum
trip, Miss Collins had shown them things in the Egypt room and the China
room that the old man had given to the city. And when he had died there
had been a long piece about him in the paper. Mom had read it out loud.
She was interested because she knew Mrs. Chandler, who used to go in
and clean house for him once in awhile. He kept some rooms locked up,
though, and she never saw what was in those.

   What had he kept locked up? Treasure, maybe--things he had found in
old tombs and such places. What had happened to them when he died?
Did they take them all to the museum?

   Sig balanced from one foot to the other a pace inside the wall, standing
on the weedy, overgrown drive. He wouldn't like to come here after dark.
But what about those locked rooms? Suppose they were still locked and
everyone had forgotten about them? Suppose you could get inside and
really find--

  A shiver ran up Sig's back. You could find a treasure! Why, then you
could buy a bike, or a real official league baseball and bat--He had a list of
things he dreamed of owning some day. If he had any of those, you bet the
guys would notice him, even in a big school like Anthony Wayne! To find a
treasure!

   Only, a big, dark place like that--Sig didn't want to go poking around in
there alone. It got dark fast now, and they were bussed home so late. He'd
need someone else to go along, but Artie was the only possibility. Suppose
he asked him about it? Told him about the locked rooms and the treasure?
That would wake him up all right, make him know that there were other
people in the world besides Greg Ross. Artie'd really listen to Sig if he had
something like that to say. Just wait until tomorrow!




   However, it was hard to corner Artie long enough to talk to him alone,
as Sig discovered the next day. In the first place Artie was late in reaching
the bus stop, getting in just before the bus pulled out, and so sitting at the
very front. And he was off and away before Sig could catch up with him.
But at homeroom time Sig got him by the arm.

   "Listen"--he made it fast because Artie was pulling against his hold,
looking beyond Sig to where the Ross guy and those fellows he ran around
with were in a huddle--"listen, Artie, I've got to tell you something
important--"

   Now Ross went up to talk to Mr. Evans and Artie relaxed, looked at Sig
as if he had just seen him.

  "What?" His tone was impatient.

  "You know that big old house, the one they are going to tear down, the
one at the corner?"

  "Sure. What's so important about that?"

   Artie was again trying to look around Sig. But Sig planted himself
firmly before the smaller boy, intent on gaining his interest.

   "My mom knows a lady who used to work there. She said that the old
guy who owned it kept some rooms locked up, wouldn't ever let her look in
them. You remember last year when we went to the museum and they
showed us all those old things he gave them--the things out of tombs he
dug up in different places? Maybe he didn't give them all away, maybe
some are still in those locked rooms. Treasure, Artie!"

    "You're crazy. They wouldn't be left there now, not when the whole
house is going to be torn down." But Artie was looking at Sig now, was
listening. "You ought to know that!"

   "I asked Mom this morning. She said nobody had been inside much
since the old guy died. The lawyer said all the things inside were to go to
the Good Will people, but they haven't come yet to haul them away. Mrs.
Chandler has the house keys and nobody's asked for them. So that means
maybe something's still there."

  "If it's all locked up, how are you going to get in?"

    Sig grinned. "There're ways." He was not quite sure what ways, but he
would not tell Artie that. The more he thought about it, the more he was
sure that there was treasure just waiting to be found. And it would not
hurt anyone to take it. The old guy did not have any family. And if it was
all just going to be given to the Good Will--

  "When are you going to do it?" Artie had stopped fidgeting so much,
was listening carefully now.

   "I brought a flashlight. We'd better try today. Don't know when the
Good Will people will come. The gates were taken off yesterday, they must
be getting ready to tear the place down soon. We may not have much
time."

  "All right," Artie agreed just as the bell rang. "After school."

    Artie hurried quickly to the seat just behind Greg Ross. Sig went to his
own place in the back row. As he turned he bumped into Ras. Had he been
listening? Sig frowned down at his math book. The treasure seemed more
real every minute he thought about it. If that Ras had an idea he was
going to muscle in--well, Artie and he would be two against one, so he had
better not try anything, he had just better not!




  Ras sat down. Treasure in the old house? Shaka was always talking
about how they needed money for the Cause, a lot of money. Suppose,
suppose Ras could find this treasure, give it to Shaka. Then he would be
helping out. Treasure in the old house, and those two were going after it
tonight. There was no reason why Ras could not trail along behind them,
see just what they were doing or what they found, no reason at all.




   Sig and Artie slid out of the bus toward the end of the crowd getting
out at the corner that afternoon. They wanted to be the last to leave, and
so stood talking at the break in the wall where the gates had been torn out
until the rest of the children were gone.

   "O.K. to go in now." Artie sounded as impatient as he had earlier. "My
mom will be wondering why I don't get home if she sees the rest of the
kids going by."

    Sig hesitated. Now that the time had actually come he liked his idea a
little less. The bushes grew tall and hung over the drive that was almost
hidden. It had been cloudy all day, though it had not yet rained, and that
made it look very dark in there.

   "Well, are you coming or aren't you? Big talk about treasure. You afraid
or something?" Artie, several paces farther up the drive, turned around.

  "I'm coming, I'm coming, all right?" Sig had the big camping flashlight
out and ready in his hand.

   The drive led around the side of the house to the back, where there
were some other buildings strung out. They looked as if they were all
falling apart. The roof was off the end of one. But the house was in good
condition, even the windows unbroken.

  "Where do we get in at?" Artie asked impatiently.

   There was a door at the side, which turned out to be locked. There was
another in the back, opening off a small, screened-in porch. But the
screening was rusty and had holes in it. Sig pulled at a piece and it tore
right off in his hand. The door there also was locked, but there were two
windows, one on either side.

  "You hold this!" Sig thrust the flashlight into Artie's hand, dropped his
book bag on the porch, and tried the nearer window. He was not going to
let Artie think he was afraid, not when it was his own plan.

   At first the window would not budge; then it moved, but so hard that
Artie had to help him push it up. There was a queer smell from inside. Sig
sniffed and did not like it. But they could enter, and that was what
mattered--he had proved this much to Artie.

   They climbed over the sill and Sig switched on the flashlight, shining it
around.

   "Just a kitchen," Artie said as the light picked up a sink, a very large
stove that did not look much like those they had in the new houses, and a
lot of cupboards.

   "Sure," Sig answered. "What did you think it was going to be? That was
the back porch, so it opens from a kitchen." Somehow the sight of that
ordinary-looking sink and the stove made him feel more at home.

  There were two doors. Artie opened the first to show steps leading
down into the dark. He closed it hurriedly.

  "Basement!"

   "Yeah." Sig was gaining confidence, though he did not want to explore
below. However, he was sure that Mrs. Chandler's locked rooms were not
in the basement.

   The other door gave into a much smaller room, which had glass-doored
cupboards all around it. The glass was heavily coated with dust. Sig
rubbed away a patch to look inside, but he saw nothing there except a lot
of dishes.

   Another door from this room brought them into a big dining room.
Artie sneezed.

   "Sure is dusty. Say, this is a big house. Look at the size of that table.
Could feed our whole family for Thanksgiving and we have about fourteen
people, counting the Grands and all. One guy, living here alone, must have
felt queer with so much room."

  Sig was already ahead into another dim room, where the shades were
pulled down, making it a gloomy cave. The flashlight showed them tables,
chairs, a sofa. Some of the furniture had been covered up with sheets, even
newspapers. Beyond was a hall with two more doors. The first opened on a
room with a big desk and a lot of shelves, a few books still lying on some.
The next one, though, did not open to Sig's tugging. He turned excitedly to
Artie.

  "This is locked! Must be one of those rooms Mrs. Chandler talked
about."

  Artie grabbed the knob in turn, tried to open the door.

   "So it's locked, so now how are you going to get it open? Recite
something to it, maybe, like that guy in the fairy tale I read to my sister
last night." Artie stepped back, threw up his hands as if he were about to
perform some feat of magic, and said in a deep voice, "Open, sesame!"

   "You wait, you just wait!" Sig could not be defeated, not now, not with
Artie grinning at him that way. He ran back to the front room and got a
poker he had seen by the fireplace. But when he brought it back Artie
looked surprised--not only surprised but frightened.

   "Now look here, Sig, you go breaking things up and you'll be in bad
trouble. There were a couple of guys I heard about that got into a house
and broke up stuff. And then they were arrested, and their folks had to go
down to the police station and get them. I don't want any part of breaking
stuff up. It's late, my mom will be wondering where I am. I'm going right
now!"

  "Go on," Sig retorted. "Go on. You won't get any of the treasure."

  "There's no treasure, anyway. And you're just asking for trouble, Sig
Dortmund!"

   Artie turned and ran. For a moment Sig was ready to follow him. Then,
stubbornly, he went back to the door. There was a treasure, he knew there
was. And he would have it all to himself now. Let Artie beat it; Artie was
chicken.

   Sig raised the poker awkwardly, but when he touched the door it just
swung right open. It was not locked, after all. He dropped the poker, to use
the flashlight. There were two windows, but they had shutters closed
tightly across them. Sig had never seen shutters inside a house before.
Usually they were hung for trimming on the outside. In fact, he had not
known they could be closed. There was a table right in the middle of the
room, a chair by it, and nothing else at all. Except a box on the table. Sig
crossed to look at it.

   Velvety dust all over, which he smeared away quickly. Then the
flashlight picked up bright colors, so bright they seemed to glitter. There
was a picture, or rather four pictures, for the top of the box was quartered
into four sections. And the pictures--were pictures of dragons!

  The dragon at the top was a silvery color and it had wings. It was
holding up its clawed forefeet as if it were going to attack. Its red tongue,
which was forked at the end like a snake's, stuck straight out of its mouth,
and its green eyes stared directly at Sig.

   To the left below was a red dragon with a long tail which curled up and
over its back, ending in an arrow point. The right-hand dragon was coiled
up as if asleep, its big head resting on its paws, its eyes closed. It was
yellow. The dragon at the bottom had the queerest of shapes. Its body was
more like an an animal's, with paws in front but hind feet like big bird
claws. Its neck was long and held high, and its head was small, like a
snake's. It was blue in color.

   Sig opened the box and his surprise was complete. It was full to the
brim with parts of a jigsaw puzzle, queer-shaped bits all tumbled together.
Except that they were so brightly colored, they glittered almost as if they
were, indeed, diamonds, emeralds, rubies. Sig ran his fingers through the
jumble of pieces and snatched them away. They had felt--queer! And yet
now he wanted to touch them again.

   He put the lid back on the box and picked it up, holding it close to him.
He could not take it home, there would be too many questions asked. But
he was going to keep it; he had found it after Artie had gone, so Artie had
no claim on it.

   But Artie was right about one thing--it was getting late. He would just
hide this and come back tomorrow to look it over. Also, he had not
explored the rest of the house.

  Hide it--where? There were all those covers in the other room. Suppose
Artie came back on his own or told someone? This was Sig's treasure and
he was going to keep it!

   Sig crossed the hall and slipped the box under one of the sheeting
covers. He left the door of the other room half ajar as he made his way out
of the house. As he hurried down the drive he did not see that shadow
within a shadow by the half-dead lilac bush.



                                      2
                                  FAFNIR



   Sig hung back at the bus stop the next morning, not wanting any
questions from Artie. But when he got on the bus Artie was not there, and
he settled down in a seat a little uneasily. Suppose Artie had told
someone? He tried not to think about what Artie might have done or been
doing. But when Artie was not in first-period class, and didn't show up - in
math, either, Sig's uneasiness grew. He had been dumb, letting Artie in on
the secret at all. Tonight he would get the dragon box out of the house.
Then--

   The rest of the day was disaster added to disaster as far as Sig was
concerned. There was a test in math, to see how well they had
remembered things over vacation. And Sig discovered that he did not even
know what some of the questions meant. Mr. Bevans had never taught
them anything like that back at the Lakemount School.

   And in the cafeteria--well, it was no fun eating alone. Everyone else in
the whole place either was part of a crowd or else had at least one other
guy to sit with. Except kooks like that Stevens kid and that Ras. They sat
alone, but Sig was sure not going to join either one of them. Artie had not
shown up, either, which meant he had not come to school today.

   The afternoon dragged on and on. Sig thought it was never going to
end. But at last he tramped back to his locker, stuck his math book and
his social studies notebook into his book bag, and went for the bus. Five
problems in math--and he still did not understand how you were
supposed to work them. This Mr. Sampson sure was tough, and he
thought you ought to get it right the first time when he scribbled
something on the board and said real fast 'This is..." and "That is..." Then
he would look around and snap "Understand?" But his voice made it plain
that he expected you to say "yes" whether you did or not. And Sig knew he
did not.

   He was no brain, he had always known that. But if he were given time
and someone would go over it with him--well, he had not done too badly
at Lakemount. Only everything had not been such hurry, hurry there as it
was here at Anthony Wayne. He stared glumly out of the window and
wondered if the whole year was going to be this way.




   Ras balanced his big notebook on his knee and watched Sig in short,
stolen glances from time to time. What had the big boy and Artie been
doing in that old house last night? And why had Artie come out in such a
hurry while Sig stayed in? Ras had not told Shaka about it yet. But now he
wondered. Suppose they did something in the house to bring the
police--who would be blamed? Ras nodded. Always the same thing, Shaka
said. When the police looked around for somebody to blame for
something, they picked out a black man first. Should he be bright and stay
away, or should he follow Sig if he went in the house tonight? But why had
Sig stayed last night after Artie came out in such a hurry? Ras had to
know the reason for that. Yes, he would follow Sig if he went in there
again.




   Kim sat with his eyes on his book bag. Inside he felt lost and empty,
almost as bad as he had in Hong Kong after the old woman had died and
left him on his own.

   He had never known whether she was his grandmother or not.
Sometimes she said she was, other times she had yelled mean things at
him, called him a toad-faced nothing. But at least she had known he was
alive. After she died there had been no one, not until he had gone to the
mission one day, tagging behind some other boys hoping for a bowl of
noodles.

  And he had been fed. After that, things changed. First he stayed in the
mission orphanage. Then he met Father, and came to America. But now
he felt alone again, with no one caring at school, as if he, Kim Stevens,
were not even there. Sometimes he felt as if he were invisible, like those
demons the old woman used to frighten him with. What if he could turn
into a demon, one of the red-faced monsters he had seen pictured on a
temple wall? And did it right in class? They would know who he was then!




    Should he go and pick up the dragon box tonight? Sig wondered. He
wished he knew what had happened to Artie, if he had told anyone about
last night. But supposing the Good Will people came soon to take
everything out of the house? Yes, he had better get the box tonight and
find someplace to hide it. But why did he want it so badly? Sig was a little
puzzled about his own feeling. He had never cared much for jigsaw puzzles
before. Well, somehow this was different. And he knew that he had to have
it.

   He would do as they had last night, wait until the kids scattered away
from the bus stop and then go in and get the box. He did not like the idea
of being in the house alone, though. The rooms were so big and dark. And
he had not brought the flashlight.

   There were a lot of clouds, too. He would have to hurry to get home
before the rain started. Or Mom would ask some questions harder to
answer than the math ones were today. Luckily Sig could remember right
where he had left the box, under a piece of sheeting on the seat of a small
couch.

   The bus was taking a lot of time, all those stops to let kids off. Sig
kicked his heels against the floor and wished he could get out and run.
That way he might get there sooner.

   It was so cloudy when the bus finally reached his corner that Sig knew
he dared not try to go to the house. Artie--thinking of Artie gave him a
new plan. It was almost as if someone had told him what to do, step by
step. He was so pleased with his new idea that he did not stop to think
past putting it into action. He made his way straight home.

   As he went through his front door he felt a twinge of uneasiness. What
he was going to tell Mom was not exactly true. But it might be the only
chance for him to get the dragon box. And he had to take it.
  "Mom?" There was no answer to his call. Sig went on to the kitchen.

  On the table was a plate of cookies. As Sig reached for one he saw the
note held down under the edge of the plate. Mom was not here, she had
gone to Aunt Kate's. There would be an hour, maybe more, before Dad got
home. So he would not have to tell the made-up story about taking Artie's
homework to him. He could easily get the box and no one would know.

   Cramming another cookie into his mouth, Sig got his flashlight and
pulled on his slicker. It was already raining. All the better, nobody would
be hanging around to see him go to the house.

   He felt excited at the adventure and now he was glad to be alone. He
bet that Artie, or Greg Ross, even, would be afraid to go into the house by
himself in the dark. But he, Sig Dortmund, was not.

   Many more leaves had piled up in the drive of the old house, and the
rain plastered them to the broken concrete. Sig edged around to the back
porch. It was harder getting the window up without Artie to help him. He
propped it up with a loose brick from the back steps. Then he hurried
across the kitchen, pantry, dark dining room, to the parlor where he had
left the dragon box.

  Only, the sheet cover was flipped back and the box was gone!

    Artie! Sig felt hot with anger. Artie had come and taken it away. His
hand clenched into a fist. He was not going to let Artie get away with this.
It was his box, he had found it after Artie had left. Artie was going to give
it back!

  Sig paused in the hall. How had Artie known about the box?
Maybe--maybe Artie had only pretended to go, had hidden somewhere
and watched him, had planned to take the box as soon as he was gone!
Well, Artie was going to give it back, if Sig had to go to his house to make
him do it.

  But Sig froze. A sound, a scraping sound. It had come from the room
where he had found the box. Artie! Maybe Artie was still here and he
could catch him!

  Sig tiptoed down the hall to the half-open door. Artie could not have
expected Sig or he would have hidden. So Sig could surprise him--
   He paused by the door. The room was lighter than it had been
yesterday. One of the shutters which crossed the window had been opened.
And there he was by the table with the box!

   "Got you!" Sig pressed the button on the flashlight and the ray caught
that figure.

   Only it was not Artie at all. It was that Ras guy. But he did have the
box. Its lid was open and some of the pieces were spilled out on the
tabletop. Of all the nerve!

  "Give me that!" Sig moved quickly. "That's mine! What do you think
you're doing?"

   "Yours?" Ras grinned and Sig did not like that grin, nor the tone of his
voice as he added, "Who gave it to you? Finders keepers."

    "It's mine!" Somehow getting that box into his own hands again
seemed to Sig the most important thing in the world. But before he could
grab it Ras snatched it away, so that a lot of the pieces inside sifted over
the rim and fell out on the dusty tabletop. Their bright colors sparkled as
if they really were jewel stones, so brilliantly they glowed.

   "Yours?" Ras repeated. "I don't think so. I think you found it here and
now you want to steal it. Yeah, steal it! It belongs to whoever owns this
house, not to you. Isn't that true now? You stole it, whitey. Just like your
kind steal a lot of things. My brother, he's got the right of it, whitey. Your
kind aren't any good."

    Ras deliberately shook the box again and a sprinkling of pieces fell over
its edge. Sig cried out and tried to jerk the box out of Ras's hold, but the
other boy eluded him easily. Then Sig threw away the flashlight and
launched himself in a tackle. He was clumsy, but he brought Ras down
and the other dropped the box to defend himself.

    Sig had been in fights before, but this was more real than any of those.
It seemed as if Ras wanted to hurt, and Sig discovered that he wanted to
hurt back. But, though they flailed at each other, few of the blows found
their mark. However, Sig's determined advance did herd Ras into the hall.
Then that hot fury, which had been building in Sig ever since he had
discovered the box missing, boiled over and he jumped at Ras in a blind
rage.
   The other ran, as if something about Sig had suddenly frightened him
so that he just wanted to get away. They crossed the hall, ran through the
dark rooms. In the dining room Sig ran straight into a chair that Ras had
pushed out in his path. He fell, and when he got to his feet again some of
the anger was gone. But he still kept on. When he reached the kitchen Ras
was already at the window, trying to get that stubborn pane up farther.

   Sig sprang and caught handfuls of jacket near the other's shoulders.

   "No you don't!" He tried to pull Ras back, though the boy held fast to
the windowsill.

   Then, outside, there was a vivid stroke of lightning, as startling as if it
had struck the old house. Ras let go his hold, frightened by that flash in his
very face. Sig staggered back from the window, pulling him along.

   Ras jerked and pulled, wriggling free of Sig's hold. But, as if he had
been confused by the lightning, he now headed not back to the window
but across the kitchen to the basement door. And he was gone through
that before Sig could move.

   Sig sat up. When Ras had pulled free he had overbalanced and landed
on the floor. The door banged shut behind Ras. Sig looked around the
kitchen. He had to get the box and pick up all those pieces Ras had
dropped on the table and floor. But if he left the kitchen Ras could get out
and go and tell--or else he would start fighting again for the box.

   Sig got to his feet, sore in all those places which had hit the chair in the
dining room. He limped to the table and began to push it across the dusty
floor. It was big and heavy and hard to move, but at last he got it jammed
against the basement door. Now Ras could just stay down there until he,
Sig, was ready to let him out And he would make him promise some
things first.

   Dimly Sig felt odd, as if this were not he, Sig Dortmund, who made
such plans or did such things. As if something else or someone else had
gotten into his body. But that was silly--it could not happen. No, he was
Sig Dortmund, and he was going to get his box. It was his box! Then he
would settle with Ras.

   He went back to the other room. His flashlight, still turned on, had
rolled back against the wall, the light a path across the floor. Sparkling in
that light were a lot of the jigsaw pieces. The box lay on its side where the
rest of the pieces had spilled out. Sig caught it up hurriedly to make sure
it was not broken. If Ras had hurt it any--!

    But it was all right. He began picking up its contents, restoring them as
fast as he could. They felt smooth, and their colors were so bright. He
cupped a handful, red, green, silver--the silver ones must be for the top
dragon in the picture. And this red--for the red dragon, probably--and the
blue--the yellow. He had gathered up all the pieces on the floor now, using
the flashlight to search carefully, make sure he had not overlooked any.
Some of the bits were pretty small and it would be easy to lose one. He
even got down and crawled around on his hands and knees, stirring up
dust enough to make himself cough. But at last he was sure he had them
all.

  There were more on the table. And how much time did he have? Dad
would be home soon, and if he wasn't there--well, there would be a lot of
questions. He would just sweep the pieces carefully into the box now.

   But when Sig straightened up to do that his hand moved slower and
slower, and he stared at what lay there. He had seen puzzles before, only
this one was different. Three of the sparkling silver pieces were already
stuck together. They must be part of the silver dragon. And here was
another bit. Yes, and it fitted in right there! Sig sat down on the waiting
chair, dumped out the box he had so recently filled, and began to hunt for
silver bits, as if nothing else in the world mattered. Though the room was
dark he did not need any light, because the pieces appeared to have a light
of their own. Not only that, but as he fitted them together and the right
ones touched, the light grew brighter. But to Sig that did not seem in the
least odd.

   Nor was he aware of time passing as his fingers combed through the
piles of pieces to separate all those of silver, toppling the rest back into the
box. For he was now intent on one thing, the putting together of the
dragon. He had to see it complete.

   Touch told him that this puzzle was far thicker than the ones he had
known before, being mounted on wood. The reverse sides of the pieces had
strange black marks across them which could be printing, except they did
not form any word he had ever seen. They were like rows of small,
irregular twigs. And when he looked at them closely they made his eyes
feel queer, and he turned them over again, picture side up, hurriedly.
   Silver bits. Sig checked through the box again, making sure he had
them all, and then he went to work. Sometimes he was lucky and a whole
section went together quickly. Other times he had to hunt and hunt for
one missing piece. Then it might turn out to be not the shape he thought
it would be at all.

   Outside, rain lashed against the windows and walls of the old house.
There were more lightning flashes, and the heavy rumble of thunder. But
Sig no longer noticed the storm. He had the wings of the dragon, its back,
now put together; there was one hind leg ready to join on. Yes, here was
the connecting piece for that.

   The head came last and was the hardest. Some pieces seemed to be
missing and Sig searched with growing uneasiness. He again studied the
picture on the box cover and realized that the dragon was not all silver,
after all.

   It had red eyes and a red tongue, and there were greenish bits here and
there. With haste Sig raked through the box again.

   Red bits, green bits--But there was so much red and green in the box!
Some pieces fell out on the floor and Sig had to get down with the
flashlight to hunt them. But at last he had some which seemed possible.

   He put in a piece with a blazing eye and blaze it did, almost as if it were
watching him! Sig wiped the hand which had fitted in that bit across the
front of his jacket. The piece had a queer feel, almost slippery. He did not
like it. But the fascination of finishing the dragon held him. Now a green
bit which formed a curved horn on the dragon's nose. Yes, and here was
the tongue, or part of it. Again his fingers selected the right pieces as if he
knew just where they lay.

   There it was--no, not quite. When he compared the puzzle to the
dragon of the picture one tiny piece was missing. It was the forked tongue
end, raised and thrust out of the dragon's open mouth like a spear. Why
had he thought of it like that?

   Sig turned over the boxed pieces. Just one tongue tip. Surely it was not
lost! He had to find it.

   Then he saw a piece wrong side up, showing those lines of black sticks
like writing. Sig turned it over and it went neatly into place.
   He leaned back in the chair. The need to get the picture together no
longer drove him. A dragon--a big silver dragon all ready to claw,
bite--and kill.

  A dragon--Fafnir--

   Who--what--was Fafnir? One part of Sig cried that question against a
chill, cold fear. Another part of him knew.

   The dragon coiled, reared. Sig could smell a nasty odor. The coiling
dragon was turning around and around, turning so fast that sparks flew
from its silver scales. Sig could hear a pounding and a loud, clanging
noise.



                             SIG CLAWHAND




   There was a cold wind coming from the craigs, cold enough to pierce
swordlike to the very bones under one's smoke-grimed skin. Sig Clawhand
shivered, but still he drew no closer to the warmth of the forge, where
sparks flew like fiery rain and the clang-clang of the smith's hammer made
a noise to deafen watchers. No one watched today, though, by Mimir
Master-Smith's own orders. For it was Sigurd King's-Son who wrought
with that hammer against metal of his own choosing to make a
sword--such a sword as would cut through the armor of Amiliar.

   Sig Clawhand rubbed the twisted fingers which had given him that
hard name against his thin chest. Under the loose coat of shag-wolf hide
he scratched skin so long dusted with charcoal that sometimes he might
be thought more forest troll than true son of man. All had heard much of
the armor of Amiliar, that anyone who strode the land with it on his back,
across his chest, need fear no spear, no sword forged by any mortal man.
And so loudly had those boasts rung across the world that Mimir (who,
men said, was of the old dwarfish blood, of those who had worked metal
for the heroes of Asgard) had frowned and blown out his lips, spoken
harsh words right and left, until all his roof had felt the knife edge of his
tongue.
   Then he had lifted up his voice in turn and sworn that he could in truth
forge a blade to show Amiliar that he was not the first smith in the world,
no, nor perhaps even the second! And the King of the Burgundians had
laid a heavy wager upon the outcome of such a trial.

   But Mimir himself was not busy at that forge, for he had Foresight. And
he had laid it upon Sigurd King's-Son to do this thing. Seven days and
seven nights had Sigurd worked upon the metal, and then he had taken a
blade to the stream which flowed from the foot of the craig. There Mimir
had set a thread of wool afloat and Sigurd had held the blade in the water
so that the thread was current-driven against it--and the thread had been
cleanly cut Then all who labored in the forge shouted aloud. But Sigurd
King's-Son and Mimir had looked into each other's eyes. And Sigurd had
taken back the blade, had broken it into bits, to be once more heated,
shaped, and tried.

   He then tempered it in new-drawn milk. And he also used oatmeal,
which, as all swordsmiths knew, gave strength to metal even as it did to
man. Three days more he worked. Then he took what he had wrought to
the stream and this time he cut with it a ball of wool without disturbing
the winding of its threads.

   Only, again he and Mimir exchanged looks. And Sigurd raised high the
blade above a rock and brought it down with true warrior's brawn of arm
so that it shattered. He then took up the bits and went once more to the
forge. But that had been morn and now it was night dusk. And it was plain
to Sig Clawhand that Sigurd's hammer now fell slower and with less force.
And he saw the droop of Sigurd's shoulders and knew that Mimir strode
back and forth by that spring of water which men said gave great
knowledge to those daring to drink of it.

   The wind blew cold again, and it was the cold of winter instead of,
rightfully, the freshness of spring. So Sig Clawhand bunched together, his
arms about his upthrust knees, making a ball of himself. He longed for the
warmth of the forge side, but he knew better than to seek it now.

   Then he saw two feet standing just at the level of his eyes as he curled
so. Those feet wore the rough-finished hide of journey boots. As he raised
his head slowly, he saw a kirtle of the same color as the sky when a storm
draws near, and the sweep of a gray cloak. Higher still he looked, to a hood
which was blue and which overhung a dark face. And in that face was a
single eye for seeing, the other being covered with a patch of linen stuff.
Yet that one eye saw into Sig so that he wished to run from it, only the
power of that figure held him where he was, shivering even more than
when the icy wind reached him.

   "Go to Sigurd King's-Son and bid him come out. There is one here who
will speak with him."

   Though the stranger's voice was low there was no denying the order it
gave. Sig got to his feet quickly and backed into the forge, fearing to look
away from the eye which held him. Not until he was within the shadow of
that doorway was he free of the bond it had laid upon him. He went to the
anvil where Sigurd stood tall, the fire giving a red light to his face and his
long yellow hair, looped back while he worked with tongs.

   And, though he was indeed the King's son, he wore but the coarse
kirtle, the leathern apron, the straw footgear which were the dress not
even of a master smith but of a common laborer. Yet one looking upon
him, Sig thought--any man with eyes in his head--would know this was
one of kingly blood, worthy to be shield-raised when a crown was offered.

   Sigurd rested the hammer against the edge of the anvil and leaned
forward to see his work. But there was a frown on his tired face as if what
he looked upon pleased him very little. Sig dared then to say, "Master,
there is one at the door who would speak with you."

   The frown was darker yet as Sigurd swung around. Sig retreated a step
or two, even though Sigurd King's-Son was not one to cuff for little reason,
but was kinder than most men Sig had known in his short life.

  "I shall speak with no man until this task--" Sigurd King's-Son's voice
was as hard as the metal he worked upon.

   Then came other words which carried from the doorway. Though they
did not ring as loud as Sigurd's, still one could hear them plainly.

   "With me will you speak, son of Sigmund of the Volsungs!"

   Sigurd King's-Son turned and stared, as did Sig also. Though the night
dusk had come, yet they could plainly see the stranger as if his gray
clothing and blue hood had light woven into them.

   Then Sigurd dropped the hammer and went to face him, and Sig dared
to follow a pace behind. This was as brave a deed as he had ever dared in
his whole lifetime. For this stranger had that about him to make him seem
more fearsome than Mimir.

  The stranger unwrapped the fold of cloak laid about his right arm. He
was carrying in the cloak pieces of dull metal. That is, they seemed dull,
until the light of the forge fell upon them, and then they glittered like the
small jewels Mimir set into the hilt of kings' swords.

   "Son of the Volsungs, take your heritage and use it well!"

   Sigurd King's-Son put forth both his hands and took the shards of
metal from the stranger as if he half feared to touch what he now held, his
hands even shaking a little. Sig could see that the shards were parts of a
broken sword.

   But the stranger was looking now at Sig, so the boy tried to raise his
crooked hand to shield his face. Yet he could not complete that gesture.
Rather, he had to stand under the gaze of that terrible eye.

  "Let the lad lay upon the bellows in this making," said the stranger.
"For there is that in this deed which is beyond the understanding of even
you, Sigurd Volsung."

   With that he was gone, and only the dark lay outside. He might have
sunk into the ground, or taken wing into the night sky. But Sigurd was
already turning back to the forge.

   "Come, Sig!" Never had he said "Clawhand", for which Sig treasured
each word he uttered. "This night we have much to do."

   And they labored the night through, working now not with the metal
from Mimir's store but rather with the broken bits the stranger had
brought. Nor did Sig feel tired from what he had to do, but helped
willingly in all ways as Sigurd ordered.

   In the morning a blade lay ready for the testing. And it seemed to Sig
that it held some of that shimmering light which had been about the
hooded man in the dark. Sigurd's hand fell upon the boy's hunched
shoulder.

   "It is done, and done well to my thinking. We take it now for the
testing."

   He took up the sword and held it a little before him as a man might
hold a torch to light his path. They came into the full light of day and
there Mimir awaited them, the rest of his laborers and those who would
learn of his skill drawn up behind him. And the Master Smith drew a
hissing breath when he looked upon the blade Sigurd carried.

   "So it is wrought again--Balmung, which first came from the All
Father's own forge. You do well to handle it with care, Sigurd King's-Son,
as it once brought those of your own clan and blood to an ill end."

   "Any sword can bring death to a warrior," Sigurd returned, "that is the
reason for its sharp edging. But Balmung, being what it is, may now win
your wager for you. To the testing--"

   That testing was a mighty one, for they loosed upon the stream a whole
tightly bound pack of wool, which tumbled with the current. Sigurd did
not slash with the blade; rather, he stood thigh-deep in the water and held
it merely in the path of the wool pack. But the wool was sliced cleanly
through, so that all marveled.

   Sigurd waded ashore and laid the sword carefully upon a square of fine
cloth Mimir had waiting to receive it. Then he flung wide his arms and
said with a laugh, "It is well said that he who yearns to make a name
among men must toil for it. But it seems I have toiled overlong, master.
Give me leave now to rest."

  For though he was a king's son, yet in this place Sigurd acted always as
one of the commoners who would learn Mimir's craft, and he asked no
more than they in the way of any favor.

   "It is well." Mimir nodded, busied in wrapping up the sword. "Go you
to rest."

   Then Sigurd turned and held out his hand to Sig. The boy had to take it
awkwardly, since his right hand was the clawlike one he never willingly
brought into the light.

   "Here is another who has served valiantly through the night. Come you,
Sig, and take the rest of a good workman." Sigurd's hand was tight upon
his, drawing him on to where the laborers had their sleeping place.
   "Master." Sig dragged back. "It is not well. I am but a hearth boy and
there do I sleep among the ashes. See, I am blackened, not fit for this
place. Master Veliant and the other apprentices will be angry."

   But Sigurd shook his head and continued to lead Sig. "One whom that
stranger has set to laboring in his service need not look beneath the chin
of any man when he speaks. Come now and rest."

   And he made a kind of nest at the foot of his own sleeping place, so that
Sig slept softer than he had for any time in his memory. Thus he became
the shadow of Sigurd King's-Son. And when the other apprentices dared
to speak against him, Sigurd laughed and said that it was plain Sig was a
luck-bringer who should be cherished. Though the others did not like it,
they dared not raise their voices against Sigurd.

   But when they departed for the trial of strength against Amiliar, Sigurd
took Sig apart and spoke to him, saying that the journey was long and it
was best Sig stay at the forge. Sig agreed, though with a heavy heart.

   He counted off the days of their absence, marking them on a smoothed
stretch of earth with a stick. While they were gone he set himself a new
task, that of trying to learn more of the trade so that some day perhaps he
need no longer be only the hearth boy, to be cuffed and driven to the
meanest of tasks. For when Sigurd left, as soon he must now, having
proven his skill by the forging of Balmung, then once more Sig would be as
nothing in this place.

   Each day he worked to raise the heavy hammers, to try to bring them
down accurately on the anvil, and each day he knew despair at his failures.
But he remembered how Sigurd had worked, each time facing failure with
a high head and a will to try again. And it was on the day that Sig first
brought down a medium-weight hammer in a true blow that Mimir and
his people returned.

   They came singing, with oxcarts loaded with the fine stuff which had
been wagered and lost by the Burgundians. They told and retold the tale of
how Amiliar, himself wearing his fine armor, had sat upon a hilltop and
dared Mimir to prove his blade. And of how Mimir had climbed the hill,
standing small indeed before Amiliar because of his dwarf blood. And of
how the sword Balmung had flashed so in the sun that it had dazzled
men's eyes. Then it had fallen and still Amiliar had set there. The
Burgundians had raised the victory shout. But Mimir had reached forward
the very tip of Balmung to touch Amiliar on the shoulder. Then his body
had toppled limply, and all men could see that he had been cut asunder so
cleanly that still he seemed alive, even when he was dead.

   All of them praised Sigurd for the forging of such a sword. But he stood
before them, shaking his head, saying that the art was by the teaching of
Mimir alone--that he was the greatest swordsmith who walked the earth
and the credit was his. Mimir stroked his short beard and looked pleased,
ordering that a feast be made. Thereafter he shared out some of the
plunder from the Burgundians to his household.

   But there were those among his senior apprentices who looked with ill
favor on Sigurd. They whispered among themselves that king's son though
he might be, surely the King liked him little or he would not have sent him
away from the court to labor as a common man at hammer and anvil.
Therefore, there must be some ill hidden in him which the King knew and
other men would learn to their sorrow. While they whispered thus Mimir
went on one of his journeys, taking swords and spearheads and some of
the Burgundian plunder to trade with the southern men who came by ship
over the bitter water.

   He was gone but a day when Veliant, who was seniormost among the
apprentices, came to Sigurd and said, "Charcoal we have, but not enough
for a long season of work. This is the time of year when we must go to the
burners in the forest to renew our supplies. Mimir lets us draw lots to see
who will make this journey. Come while we do so."

   So they all threw bits of stone into a bowl, one such bit being scratched
with Odin's sign. The bowl was given to Wulf, the cookboy, to hold as they
drew without looking. Only Sig had seen Veliant talking with Wulf apart,
and thereafter Wulf seemed troubled. Sig watched the drawing closely,
and it seemed to him that when it came time for Sigurd to close his eyes
and put forth his hand for a stone, Wulf turned and tilted the bowl a little.
But this he could not prove.

   However, it was the marked stone which Sigurd had to show. And
though the others laughed and spoke of luck, Sig was sure that some of
them nodded one to the other and smiled in an odd fashion. They made
much of telling Sigurd that his was a fine journey which they all wished
they might make themselves.

  Sig, being uneasy in mind, crept and listened, and so heard enough to
make him afraid for Sigurd. But as he was so listening, his foot moved
unluckily and a branch cracked beneath him. Then hands were hard on
his shoulders.

   "It is the nithling!" Veliant grinned evilly at him. "How now, brothers,
shall it not be as is fitting--a liege dog to lie in the King's son's grave?
Since he needs must go without horse or real hound to bear him company,
this shall be both! Knock him on the head!"

   Those were the last words Sig heard, for a great burst of pain was in his
skull and then only darkness, a darkness in which not even dreams moved.
Then came pain again and Sig tried to call for help, to move, only to
discover that he could not.

   Afterward there was water on his face and he could see a little, though
that hurt also. It was not until the pain grew less that he knew he was
resting on a bed of charcoal bags, the grit of them against his cheek. He
saw a fire, and by it was Sigurd. He tried to call, but his voice came only as
a thin whisper of sound. But Sigurd turned quickly and came to him. He
brought a drinking horn and in it a liquid of herbs which he gave to Sig
sip by sip.

   Thus Sig learned that they were well into the forest, and that Sigurd
had been half a day on his journey before he discovered his companion,
bloody-headed and trussed into the bale of empty bags loaded on the back
of one of the pack donkeys. Sig warned him of the danger to come, for he
was certain that Veliant thought they went to their deaths.

   "Be assured we shall return," Sigurd answered. "Then there shall be an
accounting between Veliant and me concerning this deed done to you.
What danger can lie ahead for us when this is a journey which has been
made for Mimir's forge many times?"

  "But always before, master," Sig said, "it has been Mimir himself who
went, never one of his men. And there are evil tales of this wood and what
dwells in it."

   Sigurd smiled and put his hand among the tangle of bags. From them
he pulled a bundle wrapped in greased hide. With his meat knife he sawed
through the lashings and stripped away the coverings to show Balmung.

  "I go to no strange place without steel to my hand, forge-comrade. And
with Balmung I think we have little to fear."

   Sig, looking upon the sword, felt his spirits rise. For it was like a torch
in the dark. He was willing to face what lay ahead, telling himself that it
could hardly be worse than certain dreary days behind him.

   Though the way through the forest was narrow and dark, and there was
always the feeling that strange and terrifying beings watched from
shadows and trailed behind them, yet they saw nothing truly to afright
them. At length they came to the center of the wood to find the charcoal
burners. In the open clearing they saw the dwellings of the forest men.
And these men, as dark of skin from ashes and the sap of new-hewn trees
as creatures of the night, snatched up weapons and stood ready to cut the
travelers down. Though Sigurd wore Balmung now openly he did not draw
the blade but rather called out, "Peace between us, forest men. I am of
Mimir's household and I have come to buy from you under the agreement
made by your master and mine."

   But the leader of that wild company grinned as might a great wolf,
showing teeth almost like a beast's fangs, as he answered, "You speak lies,
stranger. When Mimir would deal with us he comes himself. We have our
own place and no one comes into it save when we bid him. Otherwise he
goes to lie beneath the All Father's tree and stares up at its branches with
sightless eyes."

   The men moved in a little, as do a pack of wolves when their quarry
stands at bay. But before the first spear could be thrown, the first sword
thrust, there came another voice: "Be not so quick for bloodshed, my dark
ones. This bold man I would see."

   The voice came from the large hall at the very core of the cluster of
dwellings. The charcoal burners now opened their ranks to form a path for
Sigurd. Sig hesitated, eyeing the forest. He wondered whether they might
reach it in time by running. But with Sigurd before him, he took up the
duty of a shield man, supporting his lord to the death, if that was the fate
laid upon them. Trying to hold himself as straight and proud as Sigurd
King's-Son, he followed after his master.

   They came into the hall of the forest lord and found it to be a rich place.
The high seat at the end was carved and painted, and there were weavings
from the southern people on the walls. The hall was even finer than
Mimics, so that Sig stared about him round-eyed at such splendor. He
thought this must be akin to the King's hall ruled over by Sigurd's father.
But Sigurd looked neither to right nor left; instead he went directly to
stand before the high seat where the forest lord awaited him.

   The forest lord was so small that the seat seemed over-large. One could
hardly see his kirtle above the waist belt, for he had a great fan of beard
reaching to his middle, while the locks on his head were long enough to
mingle and tangle with his beard. Both beard and locks were white,
though the eyes which stared at the travelers from beneath bushy brows
were not those of an old man.

   "Who are you who come so boldly into the place of Regin?" asked the
lord.

   Sigurd made courteous answer, but he did so with the rightful pride of
a king's son. "I am Sigurd, son of Sigmund, of the true line of the
Volsungs. And I come in the service of Mimir Master-Smith, for the
charcoal of your making."

   "Ha, how can this be true speaking? I have not heard before that one of
the Volsung blood serves a smith, be he master or less. Think up a better
tale than that, my would-be hero!"

   'There is no better tale than the truth," returned Sigurd, still with
courtesy, though on his cheek was the flush of a man who has had his
word doubted. "It was my father's will that, since I must someday rule, I
should better know those whom I would rule. Therefore, I should dwell
among them for a space, working with my hands for my bread, even as
they do."

  Regin combed his beard with his fingers and nodded.

  "A wise man, King Sigmund. And have you learned, Sigurd King's-Son,
what it means to earn your bread with your two hands?"

  "For a year have I done so, and Mimir Master-Smith has not yet turned
me from his door as useless."

  "Which is in your favor, King's-Son. Well enough, I accept your tale. Do
you rest this night under my roof while those in my service make ready
your charcoal."
   He did not seem to notice Sig, and for that the boy was glad. He
thought that he would not care to have this lord of the forest watch him
too closely. Sig squatted in the shadows behind Sigurd, who sat in the
guest chair. But his lord did not forget that he was there, for from time to
time he tossed back a round of bread or a bone still heavy with meat, so
that Sig ate as well as the high ones.

  Regin suddenly leaned forward and asked, "Do you travel with a hound,
King's-Son? One you must feed with the best from the table?"

  "No hound, Lord Regin, but one who has been a good trail comrade to
me, though he is young."

  "Summon him forth that I may look upon him," commanded Regin.

   There was no escape. Sig came out of the shadows to stand before
Regin. Though he and Sigurd had washed well in a forest pool, and he had
arranged his poor clothing as best he could, yet still he well knew that he
was as a poor beggar. But he was also for the present a shield man to a
king's son, and so he held himself stiff and straight.

   "A comrade say you, Sigurd King's-Son? Ha! An ill choice! This is a
plucked crow, a starveling, such as any snug-housed man can find whining
for bread outside his door."

  But Sigurd King's-Son came down from the guest seat. As he made
answer he laid his hand on Sig's shoulder. 'This is one I would trust at my
back in an hour of need. What man can ask more than that, Lord Regin?"

    "It would seem that the whelp has more in him than readily meets the
eye. Well enough, keep your hero, King's-Son." Regin laughed in such a
way as made Sig feel hot and clench his good fist. Yet Sigurd's hand still
rested on his shoulder and then drew him forward, so that he no longer
lurked in the shadows but sat on the step of the guest chair in full sight of
all, with his lord's favor plain.

   Venison they ate, and wild honey, and white bread such as Sig had
never seen, and grapes both tart and sweet on the tongue. Afterward they
were led into a small side chamber for sleeping where there was a couch of
myrtle and hemlock woven together cunningly to form a soft bed. Sig
settled at the foot, wrapped in his cloak, but Sigurd stretched out full upon
the boughs and slept.
   When they awoke it was after sunup and Sigurd sat up with a strange
look on his face.

   "This night I did dream," he said in a low voice as if he spoke more to
himself than to Sig. "And it was a dream of power, though I have not the
wit to read it."

   They went into the great hall and there Regin sat once more in the high
seat, as if he had never moved through the long night past. Across his
knees lay the harp of a bard. Now and then he absently plucked a string to
bring forth a singing note. Before the guest seat there were bread, goat
cheese, honey, and horns of barley beer. Regin waved them to sit and eat,
and Sig again took his place on the seat's step.

  "You slept well through the night?" Regin asked as might any ordinary
host.

  "I dreamed," Sigurd answered.

  "And of what did you dream, King's-Son?"

   "That I stood on a mountain peak, among other peaks, though none
higher. And about me flew eagles, while snow lay at my feet. There were
the Norns there--Urd, the Past, was to the east where the sun rises, and
between her fingers she spun thread which glittered as if it were formed of
that very sun.

   "And Verdanda, the Present, was afar in the sea where sky and water
meet. She caught up that thread and wove a web of purple and gold,
richer than any king's wear I have seen. But even as she wove it, Skald, the
dire Future, caught it from her and tore it to shreds, which she cast from
her so that they fell at the cold white feet of yet another who watched. And
she was Hel, who is queen over the dead. It seems to me that this was a
dream which began well but ended ill."

  "In this life many things begin well and end ill," Regin said. "Listen to
one such--" And Regin, old as he was, lifted up his voice and sang.

    His voice was full and strong, and that of a great bard. They listened as
if caught in a witch wife's spell. Also, as he sang, he changed so that his
white hair and beard faded away, and they saw not Regin the forest lord in
that high seat but rather Mimir Master-Smith.
  Then he put down the harp and laughed.

   "Ay, I am Mimir, who was Regin. But that is another tale and the time
had not yet come for the telling of it But it is true that you have great
deeds to do, Sigurd King's-Son. A sword you have, though it was forged
from the shards of another, which was the All Father's gift-but not a kind
one--to your forefather. Now you must gain a horse such as will serve you
as well as steel, perhaps even better."

  "And where do I find such a horse, master?"

  "You go to the north, to the giant Griph, and there ask it of him. On his
pastures run the finest steeds in the world."

  "Well enough." Sigurd nodded, "And this I am to do now?"

  "What time is better?"

   As Sigurd King's-Son prepared to go he shook his head at Sig, who
stood waiting, with no sword at his belt but only the stoutest staff he could
find in his hand.

  "This is no quest for you, youngling."

   "Lord, I do not stay behind. If you will not suffer me to go with you,
then still shall I follow."

  Sigurd looked at him for a long, long moment. Then he nodded again.
"Well enough," he said as he had to Mimir-Regin. "It is in my mind that
we are in some manner bound to the same fate, though why is not clear."

   The way was long and they found night and day, night and day passing
by. Sometimes they went through forests, or over bleak moorlands, or took
steep mountain trails. They came to fine, fair lands and were feasted in
halls and besought by lords to stay awhile, but Sigurd would not.

  This road was not easy and Sig found it very hard indeed. No longer
might he hide away his clawhand, for he needed it to hold onto rocks and
bushes in places where the going was rough. He used it so much that he
sometimes forgot how ill it looked.

  At length they came to a place of snow where there was a hall built of
huge boulders no human could have moved. White were its walls and
within were green pillars which were very cold to the touch, as if they were
carved of ice. There was a high seat made of the mighty teeth of seahorses,
and over it hung a canopy of stone. He who sat there held a carved staff of
ivory and wore a purple mantle, while his white beard hung nearly to the
green floor.

   He was large, so that to him Sigurd was as a small boy. But he smiled
and made them welcome. And they sat down and broke their fast while he
and Sigurd talked of the Midworld from which they had come, of the sky
reaching above them, and of the seas framing the earth. And Sig, rested
and well fed, listened. Nor was he aware of how long that fine, mind-filling
talk lasted.

   But at last Griph struck the tabletop with the point of his staff and
spoke out. "Enough, Sigurd King's-Son. It is music to my ears, your voice,
for it has been long since mortal man has sought me out with news of
Midworld and what chances there. But it is to my mind that you have
come for a reason, and that reason runs on four feet in my pastures. Is
that not so?"

  "Lord Griph, it is so."

  "Thus be it. Go forth to my pastures, King's-Son, and choose wisely, for
upon this may hang your life some day."

   So they went out to the pastures. And there were such horses as Sig had
never seen. Each one was finer than the finest in any king's stable in
Midworld. He wondered how Sigurd could choose. But, even as he thought
thus, a shadow fell across the stone where they stood. And there was a
man.

  Gray were his cloak and kirtle, blue his hood, and he wore a patch over
one eye. But the other saw twice as keenly as any mortal, Sig believed.

  "So, Sigurd Volsung, you have come to find a horse to match the sword
you wear?"

  "Ay, Great One."

  'Then listen. Such choosing takes care. Drive this herd to the river. The
one that takes to the flood and swims over, then returns to you--he is
Greykell and none other can equal him."

  "My thanks to you, Great One."

   But he of the one eye did not smile. "Give thanks later, Sigurd, when the
thread is all spun, the web full woven, and Skald has finished her part in
the matter. That time is yet afar, but it still lies before you."

  Sigurd bowed his head a little. ''What man can change the will of
Skald? I shall do what must be done to the best of my doing."

  "Which is all any man can say. Go you now and take Greykell."

   Once more he was gone as if he had never stood there. But Sig was
wiser now than he had been at the forge. This was surely Odin All-Father
come to take a part in their fate, and so he was also more than a little
frightened.

   It went even as the stranger had said. Sig and Sigurd drove the horses
to the river bank. All refused the flood except one, and he swam across and
on the far shore reared and trumpeted a challenge. Then he returned and
came to Sigurd, nuzzling at the hands held out to him.

   Strong was Greykell, strong enough to carry them both back on the long
journey to Regin's hall in the forest. Once more they feasted, and when
they were done with food and drink Regin-Mimir took up his harp. This
time he sang a tale which cast a heavy spell, for it was fashioned out of his
own memories--a strange, dark story.

   It began in the older days, when the Asakind had walked more often in
the Midworld clothed with men's bodies. So came Odin All-Father, giving
men knowledge and strength, and with him Holnir, who brought cheer
and laughter. Yet with them skulked Loki in a dark cloud of cunning,
deceit, and base thoughts.

   During such a far-faring, Loki, for wicked sport, slew Oddar, who had
taken on the seeming of an otter that he might explore the depths of a
lake. And then he gave the otter's body to Oddar's father, Hreidmar, as a
dreadful jest. Then had Hreidmar called upon his other sons, Fafnir and
Regin, and together they demanded blood ransom in gold, enough to cover
the otter's hide.
    The Asakind cast lots, and Loki was so selected to go for the gold, Odin
and Holnir standing hostage. Loki bargained with the sea queen Ran for
her fine net, and with this in hand he caught fast the dwarf king Andvari,
who had hidden in the scaled skin of a salmon. From Andvari, in return
for his freedom, Loki took the great treasure of the dwarfs. He also tore
from Andvari's own finger a ring in the form of a snake, its tail gripped by
its fangs. Diamonds were the scales of that snake, rubies its eyes.

   Then Andvari cast a mighty spell to curse the treasure and the ring. But
Loki laughed as he bore it away to the hall of Hreidmar. There they spread
out the otter skin, and it became larger and larger, until it covered most of
the floor. On it Loki heaped and leveled the treasure. Yet, when he had
done, there was still a single hair left uncovered, so he must also cast down
upon that the ring, and so with it he cast the curse.

   The Asakind, the blood debt paid, went their way. But Hreidmar,
looking upon the vast treasure, lusted for it. And when he touched the
ring, behold, he became himself just such a serpent as it was in form.
Regin cried out at this sight and fled. But his brother Fafnir drew sword
and killed the serpent, once his father.

   Then, in turn, he looked upon the gold, and he, too, lusted for it so
greatly that it became all the world to him. He bore it off to a far
wasteland and there he spread it out to feast his eyes upon it. Among all
else was a fine helm of gold made like a dragon's head. Fafnir put this on,
and as the ring had made his sire a serpent, so did the helm make of him a
dragon.

   Thus through the years the treasure lay in the waste guarded by the
dragon, Fafnir, who had forgotten he had ever been a man. Not until he
was slain would evil depart from the land. Many had been the men who
had tried to reach the treasure, only to die. Now Sigurd had been chosen
by fate to end the rule of Fafnir.

   Sigurd King's-Son listened and, when Regin sang no more, he spoke.
"So be it, Regin who was Mimir, who was once host to the Asakind. I shall
deal with your dragon brother."

  "But not alone!" Regin was no longer like Mimir now, but different once
again, being gray and wrinkled of skin as if many years of time had
passed. His eyes were not those of mortal man, so that Sig dreaded them
and was glad they were not turned in his direction. "I shall ride with you."
   "And I," Sig said, for he knew that he must. Perhaps Regin did not like
that, for he shot a single disturbing glance at Sig. But he did not dispute
Sig's words openly.

   Seven days they went, until they came to a land broken by great
chasms. There were many tall black boulders, but nothing grew among
them. This way lay twisted at the foot of a mountain up which they must
climb and climb, even though their breath came in gasps and their
strength failed. Sigurd, who was the strongest, ever led the way.

   On the other side of the mountain was a plain, which they looked down
upon at nightfall. Around circles of flickering flames moved a vast, dark
shape which Sig, for one, wanted to see no closer. They descended to the
bank of a river which lay between them and the plain. The water was thick
and dark as if it were not water at all, but an evil slime. And there were
stirrings in it as if hidden, nameless monsters moved below its surface.

   Though it was day by the time they reached the bank of that dark and
threatening stream, no sun warmed the sky. Nor could they see any
clouds, but only a gray light hardly clearer than night dusk. Through that
shone the glow of the cursed treasure. Yet there was that about it which
also beckoned one, made a man wish to seize it piece upon piece.

   Gems lay there, set in crowns of kings long forgotten, bracelets and
necklets, and rings, jewel-hilted swords, blazoned shields, all tumbled
together in heaps. And from one to another of these crawled the guardian
on his ceaseless rounds.

    The dull light, and also a kind of mist which arose from the treasure,
were such that one could not clearly see Fafnir. That he had ever existed in
the form of a man Sig found hard to believe. This creature was as great as
the giant Griph, yet it crawled upon its belly, holding a horned head but a
little above the ground. A long tail dragged behind it and the stumps of
small wings were on its shoulders.

  They could see on the further bank a smoothed rut in the clay leading
down to the water's edge. Perhaps that marked Fafnir's path to drink.

   "Would you swim?" Regin-Mimir squatted on the bank, gazing down
into the water. Now he took his staff and this he pushed into the flood as if
testing for a ford. There was a flurry and a swirling of water. He gave a cry
and jerked back. But what he held now was only half a staff. The rest was
gone, as if sheared off by giant jaws.

  "It would seem," Sigurd said, looking at this grim proof of what lay
beneath the surface, "that swimming is not the answer."

   Regin-Mimir glanced at him slyly, and Sig liked less and less what he
guessed might lie at the back of those eyes which were no longer a man's
eyes.

   "How then, do you, reach that which you have come to slay?"

   Even as he spoke there came a boat on the river. From whence it came,
and why they had not sighted it before, Sig did not know. It was like one of
the small craft used on lakes by fall-time hunters of wild fowl, and a single
man sat in it, making easy play with the oars. Sig half expected each time
the oars dipped into the water to see them rise again splintered and riven,
yet they remained whole and unscarred.

   The man who used them wore a hood of blue, though his head was bent
so that in this half light they could not see his face. But Sig did not doubt
that there was a patch over one eye on that face. And he shivered a little,
took a tighter grip upon his staff.

   "Hail, Sigurd Volsung!" The stranger brought the boat to the bank and
stepped out of it to face them. Though he did not tie the craft, yet it did
not drift with the current but remained fast

  "Hail, All Father!" This time Sigurd dared give name to the other.
"Being who you are, you know the reason for our coming."

   The one eye seemed to rest not only on Sigurd but on his companions
also. And Sig could not look away. What could they do save as the Norns
decided when Odin All-Father himself took a hand in their future?

   "The reason is known," said the stranger. "No man, no, or Asakind can
turn or alter the weaving of fate and fortune. Since the beginning of this
venture was partly of my doing, so now I must aid in the ending. No
mortal man or Asakind can meet Fafnir in open battle. So thus you must
do: Once a day, close to eventide, Fafnir comes to drink at the river--you
can see the path he has worn over there across the water. Do you dig a pit
there, and put on it a light covering of earth, hiding yourself thereunder.
Then when Fafnir passes above you, stab upward into his softer lower
parts, which is the only place even Balmung can find entrance."

  "For your aid, All Father, are we grateful."

    The stranger shook his head slowly. "For that thanks wait until your
life's ending, Sigurd King's-Son. For good does not always give birth to
good. Sometimes evil comes instead. However, this is your fate and so it
must be. And the plan is the best I can give you."

   He turned then and took a step or two from them and was gone. But
Regin-Mimir scuttled forward and laid hand upon the boat, looking over
his shoulder to say eagerly, "There is but little time to make the trap. Let
us go, Sigurd King's-Son, soon to be Sigurd Fafnir's-Bane."

   So they passed across the river, Sigurd taking one oar, Sig the other.
Regin-Mimir played no part in that rowing, looking ever to the other bank
as if by his eagerness alone he could hasten their progress. They found the
track of the dragon and it was as deep as Sigurd was tall; also its walls
were encrusted with slime that gave off an evil smell to sicken a man. Nor
were there any lack of warnings of what had happened to those who dared
enter Fafnir's land. A skull rolled from Sig's foot as he took an unwary
step. And there lay a sword, its blade half melted away.

   Sigurd leaped down into the center of that noisome way and with
Balmung he hacked at the earth packed down by the dragon's foul weight.
The slimed soil he so loosened he passed up to Sig, who bore it away in a
bag made of his cloak to dump in another place. Again Regin-Mimir took
no part in their labors. Rather, he sat hunched together like a great gray
spider, staring out to that plain where the treasure fires burned and Fafnir
crawled to make sure not a single piece had been taken away.

   At last they were done, for Sigurd could fit himself into the pit he had
hacked out. Then Sig dropped down and spread out his befouled cloak
over Sigurd, over its surface sprinkling the disturbed earth, until he hoped
that it looked as it had before their coming. Then he climbed out once
more and went to Regin-Mimir, touching him on the arm. The Master
Smith seemed to awaken from a dream, for he arose stiffly to go to the
boat. This time he, too, lent his strength to an oar, and they rowed back to
where they had left Greykell and their other horses. Those stood with bent
heads from their great weariness.

  Now there was only the waiting, and Sig found that the worst of all. At
last the dusk, which here was day, became darker so that the treasure fires
burned brighter. As Fafnir's monstrous shadow turned from them to the
river path, Sig gripped his staff so hard that his nails bit into its wood and
his hands ached. To see that great scaled thing slip along the rut its body
had worn in the earth was a fearsome sight. And Sig knew then that he
was of no hero blood to lie now as Sigurd lay, enduring until the time
came for attack.

   The dragon's body slipped on, and now the horned head was very close
to the river. Had Sigurd been smothered, crushed by its passing? Surely he
would have struck before this--!

    But even as Sig's fear swelled, the forepart of the dragon reared high,
and from its throat came such a sound as made the very ground about
them tremble. Its tail lashed and beat upon the earth, driving deep into
the surface any rock it chanced to strike. From a gaping hole in the belly
poured a dark stream of foul liquid. Writhing, Fafnir reached the river,
and now his head went down and he bit at his own wound as if to punish
it for the hurt it caused him.

   Twisting, turning, the dragon fought death, until his great body reared
once too often and he toppled into the water, where wings, great-nailed
limbs, dangerous tail, beat the dark liquid into a stinking froth. Around
him all the water was troubled, as those who lived within its depths
gathered for such a feasting as they had never expected. So a second battle
raged. Sig found he could not watch, but hid his face in his hands, and
tried not to listen either.

   By some good fortune the struggle in the river did not wreck or bear
away their boat. When Sig dared to look, and there was no more
disturbance in the water, he ran to the craft and readied oars.

   "Master!" He called to Regin-Mimir, who sat still upon a rock gazing at
the river with a strange smile on his lips. "Master, we must go to Lord
Sigurd!"

   "Ay." The Master Smith arose and came to take up one of the oars. And
he pulled with a will to match Sig's, as they sent the boat over water.

   Hardly had they touched the shore so torn by the dragon's last struggles
than Sig leaped up it and ran to Fafnir's path. For Sigurd had not come
forth from that hiding place and the boy feared that the worst must have
happened--that in slaying he had also been slain.

   The trenchway was half full of the dark liquid which had gushed from
Fafnir's body, and from it a great stench arose. Sig prepared to plunge
into it, poisonous though it was. However, as he reached the place where
he thought the pit must be, there was movement. And out of that stinking
flow arose he whom they sought, but so bedaubed and encrusted he did
not seem a man. And he staggered and wavered as if wounded.

   Somehow Sig drew his lord forth and wrenched off his own kirtle for
want of a better cleanser to wipe the slime from Sigurd, who was gasping
as if he could not draw enough air into his laboring lungs.

  "Lord, where are your hurts?" Sig worked frantically to clean away the
muck and see how badly the other had suffered.

   But already Sigurd stood straighter and breathed more freely. "No
hurts," he panted. "It was but the stench of the beast and that which
flowed from it. Balmung did well its work. Fafnir is dead, the treasure
freed."

    Again and again he thrust the great sword deep into the ground to
clean its blade. Then with Sig he turned to look over the plain where lay
the piles of riches. Though the dark of night was full upon them, the fires
lit by the dragon's hoard allowed them to see not only what lay there but
the stark land itself.

   And running from one heap to the next was a small, shrunken figure.
Here it plucked a crown and held it high, only to let it clatter back again.
There it swung a glittering necklace as a slinger swings his weapon before
he hurls the stone. Again it kicked at a shield and sent it clanging. Then it
flung forth its arms as if to gather to its shrunken chest all that lay there,
to hold it so forever.

  Regin-Mimir! But where was the wise Master Smith whom Sig had
known for most of his short life? This--this creature was not him.
Regin-Mimir was changed, perhaps not into a dragon, but--

    Suddenly the figure capering among the piles of treasure turned to face
them. And Sig saw lips pull tight against teeth in a grin which was not
that of a man. The figure swooped upon a pile of glitter and came up with
a flashing thing in one hand. Then it ran toward them with a speed
greater than Greykell's gallop.

  "Mine! Mine!" Regin-Mimir screeched as he came. "Mine the treasure.
Death to those who would take it!"

  He took no measures for defense but, wild of eye, rushed at Sigurd. Sig
saw that what he held was a long-bladed dagger, very bright and keen of
edge. But Balmung arose and Sigurd struck.

  The stooped and withered body, which had drawn age more and more
about it as a cloak during these past hours, fell. Yet still the head strained
upward from the hunched shoulders, and out of that twisted mouth came
one last word, flung as a challenge: "Mine!"

  Sig shrank back. Sigurd unfastened his stained and bedraggled cloak
and stooped to throw it over the huddled form.

   "He was a master smith and once a man of honor," he said in a low
voice. "He could not slay his dragon, but was slain thereby."

   "His dragon?"

    "Ay. Greed was his dragon, and it bides here still. So Fafnir shall guard,
though he be dead. The treasure is rightly cursed. Let who dares lift it. But
it is better to leave it here until the end of the world."

   And Sig, watching those pale, ghostly lights burning here like damning
fires, knew this to be the truth.

   So in the end they rode forth from the waste, leaving it all behind them.
On they went to fulfill the weaving of the Norns, living the lives allotted to
them.



                                       3


                                  SIRRUSH-LAU
  "Let it lie as Sigurd Fafnir's-Bane said, let it lie--"

   The words echoed around in the dusty, gloomy room. Sig raised his
head. His hands were before him, gripping the table edge so hard they
ached. He should have been holding a staff--and where was the river--the
mountains--Greykell and the other horses? He shook his head, trying to
throw off the remnants of that dream. Or had it been a dream? So real--so
very real! You did not eat in dreams, or get tired, or feel. Sigurd had been
real, and Mimir, and Fafnir--

   There was Fafnir still before him, silver-bright. Sig raised his hand to
sweep away the pieces of the puzzle he had so painstakingly put
together--the silver dragon. But somehow he could not touch it. It would
be--it would feel--NO!

   He pushed back the chair so hastily it fell with a bang to the floor.
Outside there was a flash of lightning and he knew where he was, though
he was not yet sure just what had happened to him. He only knew that he
wanted to get away--go home--

   Sig ran, out of the room, back to the old kitchen. The rain was beating
in through the open window. But he remembered there was something
else--the table--Ras--

   He hesitated as he reached the window. Least of all did he want another
fight now. But he did not, could not, leave Ras shut in the basement. Sig
dashed for the table against the door, gave it furious jerks with all the
strength he could muster, pulling it farther away from the door. Then he
waited no longer, making for the window, and the rain and dark beyond.

   The overgrown bushes of the unkempt garden caught at him as he
plunged on, by the shortest way, to that outer world he could believe in.
But the other world was a part of him still. He could see in his mind the
forge with Sigurd King's-Son beating out the mighty sword, the forest hall
of Mimir-Regin, the long journey to reach the terrible, blasted land of
Fafnir.

   Treasure! That word, which had always been so exciting, meant
something different now. Fafnir had taken the treasure and turned from
man into monster because of his greed for it. Mimir, who had been
Sigurd's master and good friend--when the treasure had lain before him,
he, too, became a monster, in another way. Then Sigurd had made his
choice, to leave the evil, and so he had gone away a hero.

   Sig went over and over those memories as he ran for home. It must be
awfully late. Dad would be there, he would want to know where Sig had
been. But if he told, no one would believe him! Just as he could not make
up any story, either. Sig Clawhand could not have lied his way out of
trouble. If Dad did ask any questions he would have to tell the part about
going into the old house, finding the puzzle. But telling the rest--that he
could not!

  There was no one home. When he came in the kitchen door he glanced
up at the clock on the shelf, stared at it in disbelief, and then went over to
shake it. Five o'clock--only half an hour--he had only been away half an
hour!

   Still finding that hard to believe, Sig shrugged out of his wet raincoat.
He had beat Dad home after all, and he would not have to tell. But still
tugging at his mind was the thought of Ras.

   He had heard nothing from the basement when he pulled aside the
table he had used to bar the door. What if in the dark down there Ras had
fallen, or been hurt? No one knew he was there, no one but Sig. It would
be Sig's fault if Ras was lying now at the foot of the steps in the dark,
maybe with a broken leg, no one knowing--

   Slowly Sig looked at the clock again, being prodded into doing what he
least wanted: going back to the house, making sure that Ras was all right.
Dad would come for sure if he left now, then Sig would have to explain
everything.

   Ras was tough, he was probably already out of the basement and on the
way home. But if he were not? Sig buttoned up his slicker. He picked up
the note his mother had left, took out his ballpoint, and added a line. At
least Dad would know that he had been home and would be back.

   Not daring to stop, because if he did he might not be able to make
himself go back through the rain and the dark to the house, Sig started
out.
   Ras sat in the dark. He had explored with his hands earlier, knew that
he was on a stairway. What lay below he did not want to know. He had
yelled, that was while he was still angry. Then his anger had gone, as if the
cold from below had frozen it out of him, and he was only afraid. After
that he had called and pounded on the door. But everything was so quiet
that he knew Sig must have walked right out of the house and left him!

  What was it about the box that had upset Sig so? Funny how Ras had
been able to find it so easily, just as if Sig had left a sign pointing to it, the
way his tracks had shown up so plainly in the floor dust and that sheet had
been left pulled crooked with the box just shoved under it.

   Nothing in the box to be excited about--a jigsaw puzzle. Ras had
expected to find something really worthwhile after Sig's talk about hidden
treasure. Ras tried to push aside fear by considering something else. Think
logically, Shaka always said. He sure wished he had told Shaka about this
last night. Only, his brother had been out to a meeting. And when he came
home he and Dad had had a big row. Mom had cried. It had been a mess.
Lots of things were a mess nowadays, with Shaka talking one thing, Dad
another.

   No one knew he was here, no one was going to come looking for him.
He was on his own and he would have to get out by himself. Ras went back
up to the stubborn door, laid the palms of his hands flat against it and
shoved, though that did not seem to do any good. But he did not give up
trying, and that little crack of light now showing around the edge was
better than the dark in the other direction.

   Then he heard the pound of feet running across the old floor boards. He
had been listening so hard for that. Sig--Sig was coming back, and in a
big hurry, from the front of the house. What had he been doing all this
time? It seemed to Ras in the dark that he had been here hours at least.

   He pushed against the door. Sig had to let him out! He couldn't go
away and leave Ras penned up in here, or could he? Just the sort of trick a
whitey would play. Shaka said never to trust--Ras opened his mouth to
yell. But those steps were coming toward the door now. Don't let Sig know
he was ready to call for help--never let him know that! Say nothing, just
jump him when he got the door open.

  Ras heard the grate of the table on the floor, waited for Sig to open the
door. But instead there was a sound, quickly lost in a clap of thunder, of
feet moving off. Ras threw himself at the door. It opened farther than it
had before, then banged against the table again, but now there was a
crack large enough for Ras to squeeze through. A moment later he was in
the kitchen.

    What had Sig been doing all this time in the house? The window was
still propped open, rain coming in. It was late, Ras knew he had better be
getting home. Still his curiosity held him, he had to know what had kept
Sig there. He had a flashlight of his own, smaller than Sig's, but it would
give him light enough. That box of jigsaw pieces, why was it so important?
Had Sig spent all this time finding another hiding place for it?

   Ras went into the front room. No covers were pulled off the furniture.
Most everything looked as if it had not been touched for a long time. He
went on down the hall to the doorway of that other room. There his
flashlight beam picked up the chair, now lying on its side. And the
tabletop was a glitter of color.

   He crossed the room quickly to shine his light directly down on the
table. Queer how bright it looked. But there were only pieces of a jigsaw,
part of them put together to make a silver dragon. Was that what Sig had
been doing here? Why in the world would he sit in this dark room and put
together part of an old puzzle, shutting Ras up while he worked on it, as if
it were some big secret?

  Odd looking--Ras had seen a lot of puzzles, but none so bright as this
one. And that dragon, when you looked right at him he seemed to move.
Only, you could not be sure you saw him do that, you only felt so.

   This was the puzzle Sig had fought him for. Yet he had gone now and
left it lying here. Ras put out his hand, intending to sweep it all into the
waiting box. It would serve Sig right if he took it home with him.

  Only, he discovered that he could not touch those pieces, move them.
Abruptly he turned and went out of the room. Let it stay right there, then.
Who wanted that old puzzle, anyway? It wasn't worth anything.

   Ras hurried through the house and climbed out of the window. He was
halfway down the drive when he saw Sig pass under the street light on his
way back. Ras pushed into the bushes. Was he coming back for his
precious puzzle?
    As Sig went straight to the window and crawled through, Ras dodged
along behind, watching. He was up on the porch as soon as Sig was inside.
Now he could see the other's flashlight beam illuminating the basement
door. Sig had laid the light on top of the table as he tugged and pulled at
it. Then he disappeared through the basement door. He must have gone a
ways down the stair. But he was not going to find what he hunted for.

  Ras ran for home. Let whitey stay there and hunt--do him good. But
why had Sig come back--to fight again? Ras was puzzled.

   Luck was with him, he was able to get in and up to his room without
being seen. Shaka's voice, and Mom's, came from the front of the house.
Mom sounded upset, as she was a lot lately when Shaka talked about what
his protest crowd planned. Ever since Shaka had dropped out of college
Mom had taken it hard. Just as she took it hard when Shaka stopped
going to church and spoke mean about what the preacher was trying to do
with the Head Start classes.

   Ras sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at the posters Shaka
had given him for the wall. One had a big black fist raised against a red
background and a lot of foreign words printed under it. Shaka said that
was Swahili, their own language, and they ought to learn how to speak it.
It was being taught now in the Afro-studies school Shaka had helped to
start.

   But Ras hardly saw that familiar black and red now, just as the voices
from below were a meaningless murmur. What he continued to think
about was the puzzle laid out on the table, that silver dragon which had
seemed to move when you were not looking at it squarely, but was firmly
fixed when you did.

  There had been four dragons pictured on the lid of the box, he now
remembered. A red one, a yellow one, and a blue. The blue one--once he
had thought of it Ras could not get it out of his mind. Yet he had no clear
mental picture of it at all--just the bright blue color.

  Sig had gone down in the cellar on his return, to see where Ras was, he
was sure of that. But would he also take away the puzzle? Suddenly Ras
was uneasy. What was the matter? That puzzle, it was not important.
But--he did not want Sig to take it! He, Ras, wanted to see it again!

  Tomorrow was Friday, and after school Mom was going to pick him up
and go and get some new shoes. There was no getting out of that.
Saturday morning--it was going to be a long time until Saturday morning,
that was for sure.

    A loud banging of the door broke through his plans. Shaka was going
out. He always banged that door when he was angry. Now Mom would be
upset all evening, and Dad, when he came home, would be worse than
Mom, because he got really sore at Shaka. Ras shook his head and stood
up to put away his jacket. He wished there was not all this arguing, but
the things Shaka said did make sense. Look at Dad, he worked hard all his
life, never got better jobs--just because he was black. Nowadays people
did not have to take it, no, they did not. Yet here was Dad saying it was
wrong to do anything against the law. Shaka said as long as there were
two laws, one for whitey and one for the black man, then the black man
had to do something about it.

  "George?" That was Mom from the foot of the stairs.

  "Yes, I'm here," he answered in a hurry. No use trying the "Ras"
business on Mom or Dad.

   "You have a half hour for homework before supper." She was always
counting off time that way. And when Dad came home and upstairs to
clean up for supper, he would look in to see what books Ras had brought
home.

   They wanted him to get on the honor list, go to college. But Shaka
said--Ras moved the school books around on the desk Dad had fitted up
for him. It sure was hard in the family nowadays. When he listened to Dad
it made sense, and when he listened to Shaka it made sense, too--only
what they said were two different things.

   He shuffled through the pages in his notebook, not really looking for his
assignment but thinking again about that puzzle and the silver dragon Sig
had put together. Why had Sig started working it right there? You would
think he would have taken it home.

   Ras sighed. Too many questions, and he seldom found answers which
seemed to suit anyone, even himself. He wondered what Sig would say or
do when they met at the bus stop in the morning. If Sig tried to start
anything--just let him look out! Ras had him to thank for that dark, cold
wait on the basement stairs, and that was something he would not forget
in a hurry.

   Ras was so interested in what Sig would do that he managed to get to
the bus stop earlier than usual the next morning. The Chinese kid, Kim
Stevens, again was up against the wall, as if he needed something behind
him. He had his book bag between his feet and was reading a paperback
book. Always had his nose in a book, that one. And Artie Jones was
holding a new football, smacking it back and forth between his hands. He
was whistling, paying no attention to Kim. But Sig was not to be seen.
Yes--here he came, almost running, his windbreaker unzipped, his cap so
far back on his head it was almost falling off.

   Sig stared straight at Ras, a queer expression on his face. And he
slowed to a walk, then glanced quickly away. The bus was coming as Sig
halted beside Artie and started talking in a fast gabble. They waded in
through the crowd of little kids. Kim had his finger between the pages of
his book to mark his place. He went on reading as soon as they sat down,
as if Ras, sharing his seat, were invisible. Artie, across the aisle, was
talking about the football. Ras had Artie sized up as a big talker. He ran
after the Ross gang, not that they wanted him.

   Ras slipped lower in his seat and thought. He had his plans made for
Saturday. There were his regular house jobs, sure. One of those was to go
down to the laundromat. He could set the clothes washing there and then
beat it for awhile. The laundry was only two blocks over from the old
house--and there he could see about the puzzle.

   He did not know why he wanted to look at it, but somehow he knew
that he had to. Though, of course, if Sig had already taken it he certainly
would never see it again.

   The next day it worked out smoothly enough. Ras got the laundry down
and in the washer. He now had twenty-five minutes, and if he ran both
ways he ought to have plenty of time to get to the house and back. As he
hurried along he watched for Sig. Down the block Artie was kicking his
football around. There was no one near the wall and Ras dodged in,
making his way as quickly as possible behind the bushes.

   He waited and watched for a long minute before he went up on the
porch, struggled with the window, propping it up with the same brick Sig
had used. Once inside he stood and listened. There were faint sounds from
without, but quiet within.
   With as little noise as possible, Ras crept through the rooms, down the
hall to the room with the table. A bar of light coming through the open
inner shutter fell squarely on the table and chair.

  The puzzle was still there, Sig had not taken it. And it was exactly as
Ras had seen it last, the silver dragon coiled and rearing in a way which
made it look alive.

    Somehow Ras found himself sitting down, studying the partly
completed puzzle. He knew what he had to do--put together some more of
it. He picked up the lid of the box, traced with his fingertip the bisecting
lines which divided it into four parts--the silver dragon at the top, the red
dragon to his left, the gold-yellow one to his right, and the queer blue one,
very unlike the other three, far more stiff and strange looking, at the
bottom. Then he was pushing out of the way the reds and the yellows,
concentrating on gathering all the blue ones in a heap.

   And he forgot, as he hurried over that sorting, time or where he was, or
anything but the need to fit one piece to another, and the next to that, and
to that. The blue dragon now had one leg, back haunches--now two
hind-feet with their birdlike claws, a tail, long and thin, held up at a stiff
angle to match the long, snaky neck at the other end. Now--here was part
of a paw--why did the thing have paws like a lion in front and bird claws
at the back? Yes, that was the other leg! No--rather a part of the neck. Ras
paused to study the picture on the box more carefully.

  The head had a curled bit like a mane, and a cone-shaped horn halfway
down the creature's nose. He had the head nearly done. Some more bits of
upper neck--

   As he picked and chose, fitted and discarded, Ras knew a growing
excitement. There was something about this strange picture that he knew,
had seen before; only, he could not remember when or where. He frowned
as he hunted for the section that would unite head with body. Suddenly he
closed his eyes, trying to think of the whole thing as a picture and not a
puzzle. Where had he seen it? Something Shaka had shown him? A picture
in a book? Memory stirred very faintly.

   All done now but one piece of clawed paw. Ras hesitated, trying again
to remember how--when--where--This must be the right piece, but it was
upside down. Those queer marks on the back looked like little wedges set
in a broken pattern.
   He remembered! Writing! He had seen that writing in a history
book--Sumerian writing! Those wedges were made on clay with a stick
and then baked so that the blocks of clay were books! Ras was surprised at
the clearness with which it came back to his mind now. Carefully he
detached two of the pieces he had fitted in earlier and turned them over.
Each piece had some of the wedge writing, though each was different. The
Sumerians had lived a very long time ago. What would their writing be
doing here on the back of the puzzle?

  It had something to do with the dragon, he was sure of that. Bricks!
Yes, bricks! He suddenly saw the picture his mind had been seeking--a
wall and on it this queer shape made of colored bricks.

   "Sirrush-Lau!"

   Ras started, looked around the many-shadowed room. Who had said
that? He--he must have! But how--why?

    Sirrush-Lau. He stared down at the creature now complete. That was
its name. And it blazed up at him fiercely as if brilliantly lighted by a hot
sun.



                           PRINCE SHERKARER




   The sun blazed, so strongly that the brick pavement of the wharf was
oven-hot. Yet inside himself Sherkarer shivered with cold. But to let these
pale-faced barbarians know that he had ever been touched by fear--! He
stared straight ahead, his head as proudly high as he could hold it: he,
who was of the blood of Nubian Piankhay, Lord of the Two Lands,
Pharaoh of Egypt, a slave in this place of towering walls and strange,
bearded men.

   He need only glance at his own wrist to see the blue tattoo marks
braceleting his dark brown arm--the coiled Serpent with the lion head of
the great god Apedemek--to remember how it had been. How long ago?
One day wove into the next and the next. First only a blurred misery of
pain, which had fogged his mind after the war ax had smashed against his
skull at the taking of Napata, City of Kings. Later, when his wits had
returned to him, he had found himself a war captive, sold as a slave. Ah,
that was a drinking of bitterness!

   There is no medicine to cure hatred, and he hated hotly those who had
taken but not killed him at Napata, as well as the trader who had bought
him, and those jostling around him now. He might not yet wear the
lion-claw scars of a warrior across his cheeks, but he had fought in the
defense, his bow well drawn until the arrows failed and the Egyptian
forces broke in, those Egyptians who hated all the men of Nubia since the
days Piankhay had shown them to be only shadow men in battle and had
taken their throne.

   The Nubians had held that throne, too, until generations later, Pharaoh
Tanwetamani had at last been driven south once more, but not by
Egyptians! No, it had taken the Assyrian war host to do that. This time,
along with the Egyptians who had stormed Napata were mainly
barbarians, white-skinned sea rovers, clanless men who had taken service
in the north.

   Not that they had found the men of Napata, or Meroë, easy meat.
Sherkarer's lips flattened against his teeth in a silent snarl. Ay, they had
paid a full price for the sacking of the city. Though to remember that did
not ease his heart now, since he was not among those who had managed
to retreat farther south to Meroë.

   He had no bow, no sword hung in a shoulder sling ready for his
drawing, no ax to hand. He was as those men on the wharf stripped to
breechclouts, working to haul up the largest piece of cargo in the ship
which had come up river at early dawn. That cargo--Sherkarer shivered.

   He knew the wild hunters of the marshes south of Meroë. Had he not,
from the time he stood upon his two feet and ran about his mother's
courtyards, heard the strange tales they could spin? For his mother was
Bartare, Princess of Mero ë, grand-daughter to the Candace, the
Queen-Mother. At her court gathered all those who came and went into
far lands, that she might hear what they had to tell and report it to
Napata.

   In those days, merchants from the caravans to the gulf ports, men out
of the south where there were many strange and almost unbelievable
things, told their stories and the scribes wrote them down. So the marsh
hunters had talked of the lau--the demon-monster of the
swamplands--until at last the Candace had decreed that this thing be
captured and brought to her that she might make an offering of it to
Apedemek. And Pharaoh Asopleta, her Son by the Favor of Amun, gave his
seal to that order.

   When the Great Voice speaks, men obey. It had taken a full year and
twenty days more. Men died in ways the survivors would not speak of save
in whispers, looking over their shoulders to the right and left as they did
so. Finally the lau was brought caged to Meroë. Those who saw it knew
that it could only be a demon, for no normal beast would have had such an
appearance. Yet it had been netted by men, put in a cage, carried north.
So who could doubt the courage of any man out of Nubia?

   Sherkarer, looking now upon that cage set on rollers, that curtained
cage, wondered what those about him would think if the matting screen
about it should suddenly fall and they could see what manner of creature
they transported. He wished that would happen, for he was sure he would
see all this company flee.

   He thought again of the past, the days at court, before his enslavement.
He remembered well how the lau had been sent from Meroë to the palace
of the Candace at Napata. And Sherkarer had gone with the party
guarding it. His mother had wished to bring him so to the attention of the
Great Lady, thus to take the first step along the road of her future favor.
He had pleased the Candace, though the lau had not. For she straightway
ordered it covered again after she looked upon it, taken away to the
temple of Apedemek. But the priests there had not slain it, but carefully
tended it, planning to make its sacrifice the center of the great midyear
ceremonies. Only, before that time had arrived, the Egyptians and the
barbarian mercenaries had struck.

   After the taking of Napata, which he could not remember to the end,
Sherkarer had found himself part of the booty along with the lau. Why the
monster had been preserved, he did not know. It was a thing of ill omen.
Look how Napata had fared after it was brought to that city, and how
those who had borne it north had suffered.

  Sherkarer was captive; the rest, he thought, were all dead. Again
Sherkarer snarled.

  But the lau and the Sherkarer had been bought by the merchant
Cha-paz and now they were both in this city of white-skinned,
crocodile-souled barbarians. Had the lion-god Apedemek disliked the
monster so much that he arranged this defeat for his own people so that it
might be gone from his temple?

   If so, was Sherkarer cursed because he had helped to take the monster
to Napata? Yet he had only acted under orders, and those the orders of the
Great One, Daughter of Apedemek, Lioness of the Land.

  His lips moved now, though he did not speak aloud, in that prayer he
had heard each morning at sunrise:



"Thou are greeted, Apedemek, Lord of Napata
Splendid God, at the head of Nubia.
Lion of the South, strong of arm.
Great God, who comes to him and calls.
Who is a companion for men and women,
Who will not be hindered in heaven nor earth."




  "You, black one, down!"

   That ever-ready lash curled about Sherkarer's shoulders, shocking him
into awareness of what was going on about him. The slaves who had been
dragging the curtained lau cage were lying face down on the wharf. Other
men, free-born, had fallen to their knees, their arms crossed over their
breasts, their heads bowed. There was the sound of horns. A procession
was coming.

  The lash licked painfully at Sherkarer's shoulders.

  "Down, slave. You do not look upon the Great King's Chamberlain!"

   Sherkarer knelt. It was that or be beaten senseless, as he had discovered
the first time his captors had had their will of him.

   There was a saying of the peasants--the rat cannot call the cat to
account. But it was also true that if the moon moves but slowly, still it
crosses the city. Who holds the whip today may not curl his fingers about
its butt tomorrow.

   Kneel he would, but they could not force him to measure his body on
the bricks with those laboring slaves. And perhaps they dared not extract
full punishment for his stubbornness in the presence of the lord who came,
for he did not feel the whip again.

   The Nubian had learned enough of his owner's tongue during the long
trip from Napata to understand most of what was said to him. But the
rush of chanted words he heard now was a meaningless gabble. First came
a guard of soldiers, walking stiffly in their overlapping scale armor, their
curled beards forming a second breastplate across their chests.

   Then followed a chariot with a driver and a passenger, and youthful
men in rich dress flanking it on foot. Sherkarer peered sideways to see,
though his head was bowed. There were two plumed fans held behind the
man who rode in the chariot.

   But he was no fine figure of a warrior. Rather, he was small and fat, so
that his bloated stomach was thrust out before him to make a mound of
his rich robe. His beard had been carefully curled and shone with oil, as
did the long ringlets which fell to touch his shoulders, held in order by a
broad gold band. His robe was yellow, the shawl-like cloak over it red,
fastened upon one shoulder with a brooch which flashed gem-fire.

  "A hundred lives to the favored of the King!" Sherkarer was now able to
understand that. "May Ashpezaa, Favored of Mardek, live long!"

   The guardsmen spread out in a line as the chariot came to a halt, and
the young men who had walked on foot beside it gathered in a close knot.
Ashpezaa, the Chamberlain, made no move, but his driver raised a whip to
beckon imperiously.

   The merchant Cha-paz hunkered forward on his knees, not rising to his
feet. The courtiers made way for him as he so crawled to one side of the
chariot, where the driver gave some order.

   Cha-paz backed away in the same awkward fashion, to make a gesture
of his own to the man who was overseeing the slave laborers. On his hands
and knees the overseer went to the side of the covered cage and loosed the
ties of the matting screen, his efforts matched by those of the
second-in-command on the other side of the shrouded box.
   The matting creaked, wrinkled in pleats, as they drew it aside. There
was a strong whiff of the evil odor of the lau, and a strange noise as
daylight reached into the cage, for the lau was a night creature and
resented both light and heat.

   That shadowy form moved, rattled the cage, as a horn-nosed head
struck against the thrice-reinforced bars. Cries of alarm arose from the
slaves, startled from their abject abasement before the official. And the
guards swung up their stabbing spears at the ready, as if they feared the
monster would break free.

   Even the lord shifted his position as he stared at what he could see of
the captive. Then, at a second sign from the driver, the matting fell back
into place and was knotted down. Cha-paz once again was summoned
closer.

   This time Ashpezaa spoke, though he did not turn his head to look at
the man waiting so humbly. Then the merchant squirmed away in a hurry,
saving himself from being trampled on as the chariot, guards, and
followers started off.

   Those withdrew toward the city, for this was the wharf which served
the temple. That much Sherkarer already knew. In this land the temple
had its own merchants to buy and sell afar, and its buildings sprawled as
wide as any Nubian town of good size.

   Now the whips of the overseers cracked once more and the cage on its
rollers began to edge on at a very slow pace. Sherkarer got to his feet.
Between his ankles was a bar of bronze to keep him hobbled, just as his
hands were joined by a loop of rope.

  "You, offspring of a braying jackal"--the lash, used by an expert, flicked
him between shoulders already tender from such attentions--"go!"

   Thus urged, he joined the line of march, though ahead of the unwieldy
cage. Its stench gathered force in the heat, setting a cloud of evil odor
about them. Cha-paz, on his feet now, strode with pride and importance
as if he had never groveled before the official. Boxes and coffers, some of
which Sherkarer recognized as part of the loot from Napata, were being
carried by other slaves. A gilded statue wearing Amun-Ra's ram head, and
a decorated chest--these could only have come from the palace of the
Pharaoh.
   The slaves who bore this loot were not Nubians. Sherkarer was the only
one, and for that he was as humbled as if he had crawled on his belly
before the white skins. He, of the Royal House, one wearing the Serpent, a
slave to such as these! He was as one of the lions of the temple of
Apedemek held by the triumphant enemy.

   Sherkarer was startled at his thoughts. How dared he, one who had
failed the Great God, who had not died bravely in battle but had come
under the slave yoke, compare himself to the servants of Apedemek?
Thoughts such as these might bring upon him the greater wrath of the
Lion One! More words from the morning hymn came to him:



"The one who hurls his hot breath against the enemy
In this his name of great power.
The one who punishes all crimes committed against him-"




  Those of Napata must have committed some great crime or Apedemek
would not have turned his face from them.

   The blaze of the sun, the pain in his shoulders where the whip had
scored, his own hopeless fate, combined to make Sherkarer sick and dizzy,
so that now and then he stumbled. Still he fought to keep on his feet, to
march proudly as became a prince of Nubia in the hands of these
barbarians.

   As he went Sherkarer took less and less notice of his surroundings,
until, at last, he was shoved into a room so dark that when the door was
closed he could not see. No longer having to display pride, the captive fell
to his knees and then lay upon the floor, staring up into the pressing dark.
The walls must be thick, it was so cool here.

    He wondered dully what would become of him now, whether he would
end as one of the laborers who unloaded the ships. The slaves in Meroë,
Napata--he had never considered them as people. They labored in the
fields, or helped herd the cattle, or fetched and carried in the houses. But
they had just been there, not of as much interest to their owners as a good
hunting dog or a fine horse.
   Had those slaves--the Egyptians taken in earlier wars, the wild black
men from the south, the handful of captured mercenaries (strange, with
fair hair and light eyes)--had they hated his people as he hated his present
captors?

   Far away was Napata, even farther Meroë. Perhaps he would never see
them again, would be forced to live out his years in this hot, flat land. He
closed his eyes and willed fiercely not to feel tears gather in them. He was
Sherkarer, eldest son of the princess Bartare, of the blood of the great
conqueror Piankhay, Pharaoh of the Two Lands, a noble of Nubia. But all
that made no difference now. He was not a man grown, he was a boy who
had not yet fronted a lion to be killed by his spear--and he was very much
afraid.

   He started out of a half-doze of misery as the door scraped open and
the brightness of sunshine cut across the floor. A young man stood there
and Sherkarer had to look at him under a shielding hand against the glare
which hurt his eyes. He was no guard, he did not even have a knife in the
folds of the soft sash around his waist.

   On his cheeks was the beginning of a soft, curling beard, and his hair
hung to his shoulders after the custom of these people--an unclean
custom, for all men knew that it was better to shave head and body, and so
keep fresher in the heat. The visitor was light of skin, too, lighter than an
Egyptian. On his upper arms, between elbow and shoulder, he wore broad
bands of silver. His sandals had colored toe and tie thongs, and his robe
was blue, the sash woven of stripes, blue, green, yellow, with fringes at its
ends.

   Sherkarer rubbed one hand about the tattooed Serpent on his wrist, his
one remaining sign of what he was, for his body was only scantily covered
with a slave's waist-cloth. He stared defiantly up at the young man in that
rich dress. What was he doing here?

    "I am named Daniel." The young man spoke slowly, a little too loud, as
if by that tone he could make a stupid stranger understand. Sherkarer did
not resent his tone; he was too busy wondering if that odd name was really
a name or some title among these barbarians. Did the newcomer expect
him to throw himself on the floor and crawl?

  The young man had turned, was taking a bowl and a jug from someone
behind him who was too much in the glare of the courtyard for the
Nubian to see. With these in his hands he came farther into the room,
holding them out to Sherkarer.

   "This is good." Again he spoke slowly, distinctly. "Eat and drink,
brother."

   The Nubian made no move to accept what was offered. "I am not your
brother." He shaped the words with care, they were so different from
either the Egyptian of the court or the Kushite tongue of the commoners.
"I am Sherkarer, of the House of Piankhay!"

  "Of Piankhay I have heard," the young man said. "He was king in Egypt
once--"

  "Pharaoh of the Two Lands! As his kinsman is now in Napata, in
Meroë, in Nubia." Then he remembered only too well that in Napata there
was now only death left.

   "In Babylon there is only the Great King, Nebuchadnezzar," Daniel
answered. Though once in Jerusalem there was Jehoiakim of Judah, and
then Zedekiah, who is now blind and captive here, to be mocked by the
Great King. Kings are not always blessed with good fortune by Jehovah.
But why do we speak of kings gone, brother? You must hunger and thirst,
and this food is good. I have stood where you stand in this dark hour, and
yet I still live. By the Lord God's favor, I have suffered no great ill, and have
even won to some authority."

   Sherkarer listened. Whether he could believe was another matter. It
seemed that this Daniel meant good, and there was a deep hunger in him
which made him tremble a little when he looked at the food. Still, he did
not reach for the bowl, but looked searchingly at Daniel.

   "Why do you come to me?"

   "Because you are one taken from his home by war, even as I was.
And--" He hesitated, and then spoke what Sherkarer thought to be the
truth. "They say that you came with the dragon that has been given to the
priests of Bel, and that you know much of it."

   Sherkarer now took the food. He could more readily believe that it was
brought in payment for information than because this stranger had
merely shown general good will.
    "I know of the lau," he answered shortly, determined that what he did
not know he would invent, this being his only weapon against the city and
its people.

   "Lau--" Daniel repeated. "So do you call it in your tongue? Here they
name it 'sirrush'--dragon. Men liken it to those demons seen only in evil
dreams. Though there is an old, old tale that once such did abide in the
river marshes, known to the priests of Bel, but that was in the far past.

   "Now that Cha-paz has brought this sirrush-lau to the temple, it is
taken to be a mighty omen in favor of Bel. It will give his priests even
greater power--"

   Sherkarer had been busy spooning the stew in the bowl into his mouth.
It was good, far better fare than any he had had since the fall of Napata.
But he was listening, too, for it is through the eyes and ears that one
learns. A spiderweb of facts can tie up the lion of action; not to know is
bad, not to strive to know is worse.

   "Soon comes the time," Daniel was continuing, "when the great king
Nebuchadnezzar himself must surrender all power to Marduk-Bel for a
day, receiving it back only if the god chooses. To bring forth the
sirrush-lau at such a ceremony will give the priests even more control."

   "You speak of these priests and their god," Sherkarer interrupted, "as if
they were not your priests, or your god."

  The young man smiled. "There may be the chains of slavery on your
wrists, brother, but no bonds lie upon your mind. No, all within Babylon
know that I do not bow knee to Marduk-Bel, but serve the true God."

  "Apedemek?" Sherkarer did not believe him.

   Daniel shook his head. "The Lord God Jehovah, who made strong
covenant with my people. We bow not in the temples of idols and false
gods. And even here the Great King has listened to our words and has
begun to seek for greater light than he can find on these cursed altars. But
with the coming of this monster Marduk-Bel's priests wax stronger."

    "The teeth smile, but what lies in the heart?" Sherkarer returned. "I eat
by your favor, stranger, but wood may remain ten years in the river and
still not become a crocodile. I do not see that I should take up sword in
your war. What matters it to me what god this king calls upon?"

   Still Daniel smiled. "You are weary and all is strange to you, even as it
was when they brought us from Judea into Babylon. Perhaps I have been
in too great haste in this matter. But you, even more than Cha-paz, know
the nature of this sirrush. And the priests"--he lost his smile now, wearing
the grim face of a warrior--"talk of giving a man as sacrifice to it. Do you
not think that the first such offering might be you?"

   "Thunder is not yet rain." Sherkarer tried to keep his voice steady.
Some things he did know about the lau, and it could be that these priests
could carry out such a sacrifice, though perhaps not just in the manner
they intended. He was tired, and more than a little afraid. It was hard to
play the warrior. Only let this stranger go so he could rest!

   Then it was almost as if Daniel could read the thoughts in the Nubian's
aching head, for he picked up the empty bowl, though he did not take the
jug.

   "Think on what I have said, brother. Time grows short. If you know
anything concerning the sirrush which would be of aid in time of danger,
you will do well to speak of it. The priests are the enemies of all who are
not as they judge Bel's true sons. Times before have they tried to finish me,
but by the power which lies in Jehovah's hand they have not triumphed.
Nay, it has been made plain to all that Bel is the lesser. So now the priests
look afield for aught they can summon to impress upon those here the
greatness of their god. This dragon, they think, can be used thus. I have
the favor of the Great King at present, but such is short-lived, and one
must make the most of it while it lasts."

   He went out, leaving the door a little open. Sherkarer could see the
shadow of a guard standing there. Not that he could hope to escape with
the hobbles upon him. Raising the jug, he drank. It was thin, sour, barley
beer and he made a face over it, though it was good to have something to
wet his dry throat. He fingered the tattoo of Apedemek's sign on his wrist.
This Daniel with all his talk of strange gods--It was plain that though he
walked free in this mighty temple he was not one with those who held it,
but also a captive from another land, though he had won to some favor
with the King.

  That such favor could be fleeting he did not have to warn Sherkarer. In
Nubia that was also true. Men rose by the smiles of the Pharaoh and the
Candace, or fell by their frowns. This Daniel, he must be a brave man to do
as he was doing, to come into the house of his enemies, seek out a captive
there to ask for help in the undoing of those same enemies--for he was
sure now that that had been Daniel's purpose.

   A man with too much ambition does not sleep in peace--was that it?
Was Daniel moved by ambition? Sherkarer closed his eyes. He had been
an unscarred boy when he went to Napata, now he looked back at those
days as if they were years away. Though he did not wear the marks of the
lion claws on his face, he was now a man, and one who needed to use all
his wits in order to live.

   Was life as a slave worth the living? Better it would be to face the lau
after all--if the lau still lived. Cha-paz had had a hard enough time
keeping the creature breathing during the journey. Water it needed, and
the green stuff to fill its belly. For though the creature looked like an eater
of man and beast, it did not mouth meat. However, it would
kill--horribly--even the hippopotamus or the lion were it angered.

    Its strong hind legs were clawed with talons like a bird's, its shorter
forearms were able to rend and tear. The lashing tail could sweep a man,
or horse, or lion, off his feet. The long neck supported a serpentlike head,
frilled as a lizard's, but with a horn on the tip of the nose, which it used for
rooting out the swamp plants it craved. Kept too much in the sun, or too
hot, it became feeble and near to dying. When they had taken it to Napata
they had had to wet down the reed mats hung about its cage. It appeared
that in the day's heat it was used to taking to the water, coming forth only
at night.

   Cha-paz had been in Napata before the Egyptians had come. Sherkarer
suspected that when the merchant came out of hiding to bid for the spoil
looted by the mercenaries, he had acted as a spy. It was not the first time
that the King of Kings, the lord of Babylon, had reached greedy fingers
into Nubia. But before, when his own army had marched that way, they
had found the journey such that not even a remnant of them had been left
to cross into Rush.

   It was Cha-paz who had prevented the slaying of the lau by the enemy's
archers, who had been ready to shoot it as a demon. He must have given a
small fortune to bring it hither. Likewise, he had sought out Sherkarer
among the captives when he learned that the monster had been brought to
Napata by the men of Meroë, and that the boy was the only one left of that
band.

   So far had the Nubian traced his way into the past when another visitor
arrived. This time it was Cha-paz himself, flanked by two of his overseers.

   Sherkarer was given no explanation as he was brought forth from the
room and taken across the courtyard into another building, where other
slaves took charge of him, wrenching away his waistcloth, standing him on
a runneled square of tile, pouring jars of water over his thin body, rubbing
him with oil and sand. Then they threw him a single short garment,
waist-belted with a strip of scarlet cloth.

   During the journey from Nubia his hair had grown into a short, fuzzy
bristle on his shaven head, but they did not offer him the comfort of a
fresh shaving. And certainly he had no wig of ceremony.

   He was taken forth and shown to Cha-paz, who walked about him,
staring him up and down as if he were not alive, or a man, but a thing of
the merchant's own creation. The Nubian balled his fingers into a fist, but
willed himself as best he could to give no sign of the hate within him.

    "Listen, you." The merchant took a stand directly before Sherkarer. "It
is said that the heart of a god is as far away as the center of heaven. Even
farther will you find the mercy of him you are to serve here, if you disobey.
I could have left you to be eaten by the vultures now feasting in Napata.
For if you think that the soldiers of the true Pharaoh would have allowed
you who wear that mark"--he pointed to the tattoo--"to live long you are
stupid. That you are not dead is by my choice, and that you continue to
live is also by my will. You live for but one reason: you helped bring the
sirrush to Napata, and so you know more of it than any man still living.
What you know you shall tell us, and the keepers of the sirrush shall you
serve."

   So Sherkarer became a part of the temple of Marduk-Bel, attached to
the three priests chosen to attend the sirrush. And he used his new
position as best he could.

   The temple was like a city in itself, with many courtyards and
buildings. The rich inner chapel was overlaid with gold, wherein stood the
images of Marduk and his wife, Saparatum (together with smaller statues
of their attendants), with no sparing of either precious metal or jewels.
But into that room only the Great King and the highest ranking of the
priests might enter.

   In one of the courtyards those in command of the sirrush partially
roofed over a pool with a matting of daily-refreshed reeds and vines. There
they housed their dragon, bringing vegetation to tempt the monster. But it
was sluggish and showed only faint interest in its surroundings. Sherkarer,
to. preserve his image of one expert on dragon matters, squatted on the
border of the pool, though the foul odor of the creature made him sick, for
hours at a time, as if it were important that he keep strict vigil.

   Twice he had seen the young man Daniel, though they had not spoken
together again. But he learned from the slaves how much he was hated by
the priests. It was true that he had been a war captive, even as Sherkarer,
coming from a small country to the west. It had been the whim of
Ashpezaa, the Vizir, to select certain of the fairest of the captive children
to be raised in his service. And among those Daniel was the leader.

   Strange tales were told of him: that he had been put into the den of the
King's lions, after those had been kept hungry, yet none had touched him.
He had challenged the priests and had proved that no god came at night
to touch the sacrifice left on the altar; rather, it was taken away by men
who left plain tracks in the ashes Daniel had caused to be strewn secretly
before the altar.

   Now Nebuchadnezzar, the Great King, listened to Daniel and his talk of
a single God who held all power. And therefore the priests sought a way of
pulling him down.

    Several times the High Priest himself, as great a power within this
sprawling temple town as the King was without, sent his chief scribe to
look upon the sirrush and talk privately with its keepers. Sherkarer did not
doubt they were hatching some plan in which the dragon was to play a
part. But he was well aware now that upon the sirrush depended his own
life. He had no value to his captors except that he knew, or rather
pretended to know, more about the monster than they did.

   And he was a prisoner indeed in the compound which housed it, for
there were always guards by the single gate. No one came or went save
that he carried a tablet impressed with the High Priest's seal.

   It was on the tenth day after Sherkarer had been taken to the temple
that one of the slaves, come to clear away the withered vegetation of the
pool screen and bring a new supply, appeared to stumble to one knee by
Sherkarer. Something small flew from his hand, came to a stop beside the
Nubian's sandal. When the man did not move to reach for it, Sherkarer set
his foot upon it. After the slave was gone he stooped as if to tighten the
ankle thong of his footwear, and his fingers closed upon what the other
had lost.

   His heart gave such a leap as he looked upon what lay cupped in his
palm, yet he was afraid he might have betrayed himself. Yet, as he hastily
looked around, there was no one near save the slave laborers, and the
temple overseer was watching only them.

   A precious thing out of the past, a part of what must have been the loot
of Napata--a lapis scarab bearing the name of Piankhay himself. Why?
Were there more Nubians here in Babylon? Men who had heard of
Sherkarer, though he did not know of them? If so, they must also be
slaves--yet they had taken the risk of trying to reach him.

   He saw that the same slave who had dropped the scarab was returning.
There was no chance to question him. The man had scooped up an
armload of the rotting stuff, and as he passed Sherkarer a whisp of it
shifted out of his load.

   The Nubian kicked it to one side, wondering how he could discover
what he must know from the messenger. Then he saw that one of the reeds
was fresher, greener, than the rest--and had marks upon it. He kicked at it
again, sending it from the side of the pool into some shade, and went there
to sit cross-legged, watching the workmen as he had done many times
before. His hands closed upon that piece of reed; he began to twist it idly
this way and that.

    All the while he was straining to read those marks. At last he made out
a few signs. They were rudely scratched, written as if someone who knew
only a little court Egyptian had made them. That did not mean that a
fellow Nubian could not have written them. Very few except court scribes
could any longer write so with ease.

  "Midday--west wall--water channel--" He thought that was the
message.

   There was a water channel at the foot of the left wall, a pipe laid down
through which the water of the pool could be drained if necessary. At
midday the courtyard would be near-deserted, since all sensible men
sought the cool and shade of the thick-walled inner rooms. Sherkarer
found himself swallowing; moisture filled his mouth as well as standing in
beads upon his forehead and upper lip and making the palms of his hands
slippery.

   Escape--surely this must mean escape! And though he had seen no
chance for that, perhaps others had been more fortunate. Who could they
be? Some of the guard who had survived the storming of the Candace's
palace, even some of her nobles? Those who knew his high birth might be
willing to risk much for him. It could even be, if the Pharaoh had not
reached the safety of Meroë, that Sherkarer's own family now ruled Nubia.
Such speculations made him restless, so that he could not sit and wait, but
arose and walked around the edge of the pool. The waters were murky,
evil-smelling, as always, and the sir-rush-lau had sunk to the bottom,
seeking a hiding place from the light which struck in while the matting
was being replaced.

   The Nubian tried to measure by the shadows how much time it might
be before his appointed meeting. He fought down his excitement and he
was lucky in that there was no senior priest on duty. The others were so
used to his daily inspection of the pool, which he made last as long as
possible to suggest his special knowledge, that they no longer watched
him.

   He ate alone, as usual, for here he was neither slave laborer nor
freeman. So he drew his ration of barley-meal porridge, radishes, a few
figs, and today an onion. These he ate very quickly, hardly able to choke
down the mouthfuls.

   Midday--and the courtyard was empty. Sherkarer walked to the pool,
appearing to check on the new matting roof. He could hear from beyond
the wall the trumpeting of an ill-tempered elephant. The sound carried
well, since the usual hum of the temple and the city had died away. A swift
glance told him he was unobserved as he came to the drain, squatting
down there to look as if he suspected some trouble with the water supply.

  "You are there?" A voice came hollowly out of the ground.

   But the three words were enough to disappoint the Nubian. No
countryman of his would speak so; his own hard-learned knowledge of this
language carried with it an accent, and he was sure that the same would
be true of any Nubian.

   "I am here," he answered, wanting to solve the mystery of who had sent
a royal scarab, pricked a message on a reed.

   There was a grunt, as if whoever lay there was trying to shift position in
cramped quarters. Then the other spoke again. "Have you thought of the
words of Daniel, Nubian?"

  Daniel! Was that court intriguer still trying to draw him into some plot
against the priests?

   "He who asks questions cannot avoid answers in turn"--Sherkarer
repeated a country saying as he tried to think fast. "Who are you who hide
in the ground to speak of Daniel?"

    "One who is his ears and sometimes his mouth, when there is need for
it, Nubian." But the voice was impatient now. "I ask again--have you
thought upon his words?"

  "Why should I, hidden one? One who runs alone cannot be outrun by
another. I live because the sirrush lives, and they believe that I know that
which keeps it so."

  "Would you then choose to remain here as a slave to a stinking monster
when you could be free and on the trail back to your own country?"

  "Restless feet may carry one into a snake pit--"

   "I have no time to trade wise sayings with you, Nubian! This is an offer,
take it or throw it away. Support Daniel that he may win the full favor of
the King, or else remain as you are until your monster dies and you have
no longer a place here. Daniel forgets not those who stand with him--and
the might of the Great King's seal reaches across the world. He can win
your freedom and an open road to your own land."

   "If he can do this," retorted Sherkarer, "then why has he not done so for
himself? He said with his own mouth that he is captive here. One
falsehood spoils a thousand truths, hole lurker!"

   "There is laid upon Daniel a task, set by the Lord God Jehovah--that he
abide here to soften the heart of the Great King toward our people. He
chooses Babylon to serve." The voice sounded so much in earnest that the
Nubian's doubt was shaken.

   "A man can promise the world, yet when the time comes he may be
unable to give even a pinch of dust. You would dangle the hope of freedom
and Meroë before me as one coaxes a donkey with a bunch of fine
grass--yet the eating of that grass may never come."

   "How long will your monster live, Nubian? Measure your own life-span
by its! If it dies here, will the priests let the blame rest upon them? Not
when they have a slave to name."

   That was a hard truth which hit home as might a well-aimed arrow.
The creature was sluggish and had been showing less and less activity
lately. It could well be that the thing would not live long here. And of
course he would get the blame when it died. His own efforts to be
considered an expert on the care of the sirrush would stand against him
then.

  "What does Daniel want of me?" he asked. There was no harm in
knowing that much.

   "Tell him what the creature feeds upon most readily. He has challenged
the priests, that he may slay the dragon by his will alone, using no sword,
or spear, or arrow--And he has but two days in which to make ready. Does
the creature attack men?"

   "If it is angered, yes. And it can slay, easily and in a horrible fashion.
Two days ago it was alarmed by the braying of a donkey that brought in
the guards' beer. It tore the poor beast to pieces."

   "Can the priests incite it to such behavior?"

   "They might." Sherkarer was not sure how, but he believed that the
priests would make a challenge from Daniel an excuse to do their utmost
to see that he died as the result of his folly.

   "Then--what does it feed upon most readily? Can you find a bit of
that?"

  'There is a reed root which it seeks out first among that offered it. I do
not know the name but--"
   "Get a handful of it. Have it ready tomorrow and lay it in the matting to
be taken away. On the next day, in the morning, when the fodder is
brought, there will be in it a ball with those roots fixed to its outer part.
See that this is ready near the top of the creature's food pile."

   "And if I do?" But there was no answer, though Sherkarer took the
chance of lying flat and calling softly through the grating of the drain.
Whoever had been there was now gone. He went back to his own quarters
to think.

    The unseen person had promised much. But it all depended upon ifs--if
he was able to supply a sample of root, if Daniel could use it in some way,
if Sherkarer could survive the fury of the priests should Daniel actually
slay the beast; if Daniel kept his promise and, winning the king's favor,
remembered the Nubian. If and if and if--

   On the other hand, if the sirrush died, then he could look forward only
to certain death, and probably not an easy one. Sherkarer thought that on
either hand he faced a dark future. But it was better perhaps to do as
Daniel's man suggested. What one hopes for is always better than what
one has.

   So he followed orders, seeing that a handful of root went out with the
discarded matting. He was glad he had done so when at night the sirrush
only nibbled a little of what was offered it.

  "The beast ails." The chief priest in the compound turned on Sherkarer
and there was a harsh note in his voice. "What is the matter with it?"

   "It is still tired from that long journey when it had not the proper food
or water," Sherkarer hurried to say. "Now that it is here it will speedily
become well again."

   "It had better, black face, or else you shall find what is done to those
who ill serve Marduk-Bel. And tomorrow--" He hesitated and then added,
"Tomorrow it must be ready to take vengeance upon an enemy of our God.
It must come forth from the water and strike down him who denies the
will of Marduk. How can this be done?"

   "If men stand at the other end of the pool"--Sherkarer had already
given some thought to this, for any plan Daniel might have would surely
fail if the beast continued to sulk under the surface of the water--"and
strike the water with poles, then it will come into this shallow end. Also
this must be done in the evening, for it hates the day as you know. And
most of the torches must be kept at the far end."

   He was trying to remember the story of how the thing had been
captured in the first place. He was sure it had been driven into the pit
cage in this fashion.

  "It shall be done." The priest nodded to the scribe waiting for orders.

   The next morning Sherkarer found the ball of reeds in one of the
baskets of vegetation. From it came the smell of pitch and fat, and small
hairs stuck out among the reeds, so that he rolled it in a second covering
and laid it just under the surface of the food pile. The rest of the day he
clung to patience, a hundred times ready to go and knock away that ball,
sure that he could not trust Daniel or his plans; and a hundred times he
remained where he was because he had that thin thread of hope.

   When the dusk came those making this trial came, and with them the
Great King himself. They set a throne for him so that he was raised high
above his guards and courtiers. The High Priest had a lesser throne to his
right, while a row of guards made a wall between them and the pool.
Sherkarer was crowded back against the wall, but he had kicked together
a pile of reeds and stood high enough on the unstable footing to be able to
see.

   The matting roof was torn away, and then the priest who had charge of
the sirrush made a gesture. There was a beating of drums and a calling of
rams' horns, while slaves with poles struck the water of the pool, two rows
of torches behind them.

    The water became covered with a murky froth raised by their efforts.
Then the head of the sirrush rose on its snake neck. It gave a honking cry,
louder than Sherkarer had ever heard before, and its head darted back
and forth as might that of a serpent preparing to strike. Then it turned
away from those tormenting it by curdling the water. Since the other end
of the pool was shallow it arose, standing now upon its powerful hind legs,
its forepaws curled a little against its belly, its head forward.

   A man came up on the steps before the Great King, and though the
torchers here were but few Sherkarer saw he was Daniel. As he came the
King's hand rose in a signal, and at that moment all the clamor made by
the horns, the drums, the beating of the water, was stilled, so that Daniel's
voice could be heard as it carried clearly across the courtyard.

   "Oh, King, live forever! I have come to judgment with your god. As I
have said, I carry no weapon--" He spread his hands wide that all men
could see they were empty. "Yet shall I slay this beast even as if I thrust
him through with the blade of the King's own sword. And I shall slay him
through the power of the Lord God Jehovah, who has willed me to come
hither, into this place of false gods."

  There was a stir among the priests, a murmur, but again the King's
hand brought silence.

   Then Daniel turned and went to the poolside. The beast was taller than
two such men as it reared, awaiting him. And now even the angry swaying
of its head was stilled. Sherkarer drew a deep breath, his eyes on its tail,
waiting for the betraying quiver which would mean that that scaled and
terrible lash would strike down this defenseless man.

   Yet Daniel walked as one without fear, his hands up, palms outward.
And from his lips came words the Nubian could not understand. But he
guessed that the other called upon this God of his in his own tongue. The
words rolled as a chant of a priest. Upon hearing them the priests of
Marduk-Bel moved as if they would rush this outlander who so profaned
their temple.

  Now it was the High Priest who raised his hand to quiet them.
Sherkarer tensed, for he thought he saw a quiver run along the beast's tail.

   Still it did not move and the Nubian began to believe that Daniel was
weaving a spell with that chant, was holding the monster so. Then, still
speaking, Daniel picked up a handful of the reed roots. These he bunched
together into a ball and tossed into the air. The monster's jaws gaped,
caught that mass of vegetation, crunched it.

   Sherkarer was frozen with amazement. That the creature would eat so
at Daniel's offering he could hardly believe, even though he had seen it
with his own eyes.

  A second time Daniel fed the sirrush with a tossed bundle of roots.
Around him no man moved or made a sign. So still was the whole
company that the Nubian could hear the breathing of the men beside him.
   For the third time Daniel took up a ball of food. This time Sherkarer
was sure it was that which he had hidden among the roots at Daniel's
bidding. And for the third time the monster accepted the offering,
crunched, and swallowed.

   But this time the root ball held that poisonous offering prepared by
Daniel's people, so it was as if the lau had swallowed one of the torches. It
arched backward, giving voice in deep bellows. The tail lashed and fell,
lashed and fell, whipping the water again into froth, yet not reaching any
enemy, for all pressed quickly away from the rim of the pool. Then, with
an effort they could see, it tried to reach Daniel, who had not retreated
more than a step or two. Instead it collapsed, to writhe and kick, its
horned serpent head resting on the poolside. And so it died.

  Then Daniel turned to face the Great King.

   "Oh, King, live forever"--he gave the ceremonious salute. "Is it not as I
have promised? With the aid of the Lord God Jehovah, this evil monster,
which was servant to the priests of darkness, is dead. Yet I did not draw
steel against it, only fed it its natural food."

  And the Great King reached forth his scepter of state so that Daniel
could set his fingertips to it. There was a sigh throughout the company,
and men suddenly found their voices, speaking one to the other in awe and
wonder of what they had seen. But the priests gathered together in a tight
knot about the throne of their chief, and their faces were flushed with
anger.

   Sherkarer flattened himself against the wall, trying to hide behind the
courtiers. He had done this thing for Daniel, and now--what reason was
there for the other to remember a Nubian captive? Let him be left to the
priests and they would undoubtedly wreak upon him their hatred for this
stranger who had so demeaned their god.

   A hand fell upon his shoulder, and he swung about, ready to fight, if
without any chance, against the man who held him so. But the low voice in
his ear he had heard before, out of the drain.

  "Throw this about you, walk beside me, but hurry not." The other had
one of the richly fringed shawls which the nobles used as cloaks, and he
pulled it quickly about Sherkarer.
  Thus, as one of the Great King's household the Nubian left that
well-guarded courtyard, the temple itself. And he followed in the train of
courtiers back across the river to the western side, where stood the newly
built palace, to be lost in the maze of servant quarters there.

  It was a day and a night before Daniel came to him. But in his hand
was a hard-baked clay tablet he gave to the Nubian.

   "Take care--this bears the Great King's seal print. Now, at the wharf is
the ship of the merchant Balzar.

  Also there is this--" And he took from the folds of his sash a small bag.
"This holds pieces of trade silver, enough, I hope, to get you home."

   Sherkarer weighed the bag in one hand, the King's passport in the
other, his keys to freedom. He asked a last question. "How was it that you
knew the lau would eat what you offered it?"

  "Did I not say I was bearing witness to the power of the Lord God
Jehovah? It was by His will the beast ate."

   The Nubian tucked the bag of silver into the front of the plain short
robe his guide had supplied.

   "Your God is a mighty one, but he has also done another thing. He
brought me to be your servant when I had no wish to be so. In that much
will I also bear witness to His might. I wish you well, Daniel, but I am glad
that I shall do it distantly. You and your God together are such as might
bring down a kingdom if it be your will."

   "Not my will, but His," Daniel corrected him. "And perhaps that shall
also happen."

   And later, in Meroë of the south, Sherkarer heard the tale of how
Babylon the mighty had been taken, wall and tower, palace and temple, by
the Persians, and he wondered whether Daniel and his God had had a
hand in that.



                                      4
                              PENDRAGON




   Has was not looking at the sirrush-lau writhing at the poolside. He saw
instead the flat picture of a queer creature as it might have been drawn by
men who had heard the monster described but had not seen it in all its
horrible might. His hand lay so that the fingers touched the edge of the
puzzle, but he saw no blue tattoo marks forming a bracelet about his
wrist. Drawing a deep breath, he pushed back from the table.

  Had it all been a dream? But it was far too real. Why, he had been
hungry, and tired, and frightened--he could remember every detail of the
adventure as if it were all true. He was Sherkarer of Meroë, not George
Brown of Sedgwick Manor!

   What if he had not listened to Daniel or helped in the plan to defeat the
priests of Marduk-Bel? What if the sirrush-lau had died naturally and they
had blamed him for it? Ras shivered. He knew he had chosen rightly, for
him, and for Daniel, too. He remembered that Daniel was in the Bible, but
he did not remember the dragon story.

  Ras looked for the last time at the blue dragon fitted firmly together.
He did not in the least want to finish the rest of the puzzle. Somehow he
could not bring himself to even touch it now.

   Time! He had forgotten all about time! The clothes at the
laundromat--Mom waiting for them! How long had he been here? In his
dream it had been days--days! Only it could not really have been that long.
Frightened now, he ran back through the dusty rooms, the old floorboards
creaking under him as he went. He pushed out of the window, letting it
bang down behind him, and ran down the rutted, leaf-filled drive. Ras
reached the laundromat puffing and went straight to the right machine.

   "Better watch it, son." Mr. Reese was standing there. "Your wash was
done about ten minutes ago. Other people waiting to use these, you ought
to stay right here."

   "Sorry," Ras said breathlessly. He jerked out his basket, unloaded the
clothes to take them to the dryers at the other end, trying to keep his mind
on what he was doing,

  Mr. Reese followed along behind. "No running off this time, boy. You
keep your eyes on this and empty it as soon as it's done, mind. Too many
people waiting on Saturday's to tie up machines needlessly."

  "Yes, sir," Ras mumbled as he pushed the damp wash in as fast as he
could, then hunted for the change to feed into the dryer. The laundromat
was crowded, not only with ladies but with men and boys, too.

   Ras caught sight of a familiar face, Sig Dortmund. Sig was leaning
against the wall and he had a book in his hand, not a paperback or a
comic but a real book. It was from the library, Ras thought, for it had a
protective plastic jacket on. And as Sig turned a little to let by a lady with
two big bags of wash, Ras saw that jacket more clearly. There was a
picture of a man with long yellow hair over his shoulders in braids. He had
a big hammer raised high in one hand, and in the other was a sword laid
out on a narrow rest, as if he were ready to pound it with the hammer.

   Sig was so intent upon his book that he did not look up as Ras edged
closer.

  Story of Sigurd--Ras read the title.

    Though he had not spoken the words aloud, Sig suddenly looked up as
if he had heard. He looked at Ras and flushed.

  "Hi." His voice sounded as if he were not sure he ought to talk to Ras.
Then he added in a rush of words, "I went back, to let you out. I didn't
want you to have to stay down there. Only, you were gone."

   Ras nodded. "I know, I saw you go... Listen." He moved closer so that he
could ask his questions without anyone overhearing him. "You put
together the silver dragon, didn't you? Well, when you did--did anything
queer happen then?"

   For a moment he thought that Sig was not going to answer. The other
boy looked away, at the dryer as if he must check it, then at the book he
held. Ras, uneasy, was ready to move off again, when Sig spoke. "Yeah.
Something happened."

  "You--you went to Babylon--and Daniel was there?" Ras asked.
  Sig stared at him in open surprise. "Babylon? Daniel? You're crazy,
man. I went with Sigurd, to help kill Fafnir--for the treasure. Sigurd killed
him. But then he wouldn't take the treasure, he said it made a man go
bad. It did Mimir, and he was Sigurd's friend before. So that must have
been true."

  Now it was Ras's turn to be bewildered. "Sigurd," he repeated.
"But--that's the book you're reading."

   "I didn't even know there was a book about it--until I saw this when we
had library period yesterday. But it's wrong in some parts: Sig Clawhand
isn't in the story at all. And he was part of it. I know because I was him--I
was!" He looked at Ras as if challenging him to deny that.

  "And you put the silver dragon together," Ras said slowly. "So you had
one story. I put the blue one together, and I had another story--they were
not the same at all."

   "The blue one!" Sig no longer held the book open with his- finger
between the pages to keep his place. He gave all his attention to Ras. "You
did the blue one--and then you had an adventure. Where?" His demand
was sharp and eager.

   Ras hesitated. The adventure was so real, so much a part of his
memory, that he almost did not want to share it. But there was the
mystery of what had happened to both of them. Perhaps if they compared
stories they could discover what was in the puzzle which made them see
and feel--If Sig had seen and felt as he, Ras, had done.

  "I was in a war--in Africa, I think." He made it as simple as possible.
"And there was this big thing out of the swamps. My people called it 'lau,'
but the priests of Babylon called it 'sirrush.' A merchant took it and me to
Babylon. And there the temple priests made me help take care of it."
Swiftly he outlined his adventure.

   When he had finished Sig looked thoughtful. "Daniel's in the Bible, so
he was real, once. But I don't remember hearing that dragon story before.
Listen, on Monday, why don't you go to the library as I did, see if you can
find a book about it? I know about Egypt; heck, we studied all about
that--pyramids, mummies--last year. But I never heard of this Meroë'
place, or Nap--Napata"--he stumbled over the strange name. "But if you
could find it written down, it might prove it was all true. There's a part in
this book, at the front"--Sig turned the pages hurriedly--"where it says
that maybe there was a real Sigurd. Only, after he was dead people added
a lot of extra things to the story, because he was a hero they liked to talk
about. So now he's more like a made-up person. Only, he wasn't! I know!"
Sig's chin was up. He looked at Ras as if he dared him to question that.

  "Daniel was real and so was Sherkarer. Even if I can't find him in any
book," Ras said. "But I'm going to look--"

  This your wash, boy?" A lady with a scarf tied over bumps of curlers
pushed up to Sig.

   "Yes, ma'am." Sig shoved his book under his belt and hurried to empty
the dryer, while the lady gave impatient little snorts to urge him along.
Ras went to check on his machine, not wanting Mr. Reese to speak to him
again. As he left, Sig looked up.

  "See you--"

  "Sure," Ras returned.

   There were still ten minutes to go on the dryer. He saw Sig bag his
wash and go out. But before he left he looked at Ras and gave a little salute
with his hand. Ras stirred from one foot to another impatiently.

   Sig had found a book written about his adventure. Was there one about
Ras's, too? When he got home he would write down all the names he could
remember. And he would get the Bible and read the part about Daniel.
Though he was sure that if there were a dragon he would remember from
having heard it in Sunday school. Daniel in the lions' den, that was a story
he had heard several times when he was a little kid. And Sherkarer had
heard the slaves talk about it in Babylon.

   And if Napata and Meroë weren't in the Bible, then maybe he could
find them in a history book. He had never tried looking up things, except
what he had to do for school. But this was different, more exciting,
because he had been a part of it. Shaka was always talking about Africa
and how people said black men didn't have any real history, but they had.
Did one of those leaflets and books Shaka was always getting have
something about

  Meroë and the black Pharaohs like Piankhay and--Ras was impatient
to get home and look at his brother's library. Suddenly it was taking
forever to get the drying done.

   Another thought crossed Ras's mind. Sig had put together the silver
dragon, and he had done the blue one. But there were two more, the red
and the gold ones. What adventures could they have with them?

   When Ras returned home Mom was not in the kitchen doing the usual
Saturday morning baking (Mom liked to make her own cakes--from
scratch, she said--not use mixes except when she was in a big hurry).
Instead she sat in the living room and she was crying. Dad stood at the
window, his back to the room, his hands in his pockets. The very set of his
shoulders said he was good and mad.

   "He's of age," Dad was saying as Ras came in. "And he's so set in this
madness that you can't argue with him! But I won't have that kind of
lawless talk in this house--understand, Louise?"

   Mom did not answer, she just went on crying. And Ras felt sick to his
stomach, as he always did when Mom got so upset. Neither one of them
looked at him when he came in with the clean laundry, and he was more
uneasy than ever. It was as if they had forgotten all about him. Finally he
had to say something.

  "Got the clothes back, Mom."

   But it was Dad who turned to look at him. "George!" His voice showed
that he was really upset, and it looked as though it was Ras who had upset
him this time. The boy tried to think of what he had done. The old
house--the puzzle--that must be it! And he had no excuse, either. He felt
sicker than ever.

   "I understand you have been refusing to answer to your proper name at
school." Dad crossed the room to stand over him.

  Ras was so surprised at the accusation, which was so far from what he
expected, that he had no quick answer.

   "Your brother is both foolish and stubborn," Dad continued. "I am not
going to have you copy him, understand! Your name is George Brown and
nothing else--no African mumbo-jumbo! And he is Lloyd Brown. If I catch
you repeating any of his dangerous and stupid remarks, I'll see that you
don't do it again. Your brother has just about broken your mother's heart.
You look at her--look at her good, boy! Do you want her to cry like that
over you? Do you?" Dad's voice was close to a roar.

  "No--no, sir," Ras found an answer. What had Shaka--Lloyd--done?

    "You had better remember that! Your brother has chosen his own way.
He's left this house and he is not coming back as long as he talks the kind
of treasonable rubbish he spouted out this morning! I served my
country"--Dad ran his hands over his face and then rubbed his forehead
as if he had a bad ache behind it--"I did not want to go in the army, very
few men do. But there was a war on and I believed in what we were
fighting for. I'm not an African--I'm an American, and I'm proud of
it--proud, do you understand! And I'm not going to have treason talked in
this house! I only hope Lloyd will come to his senses in time. He has a good
brain, why doesn't he use it?"

   Dad went back to the window. Mom wiped her eyes on a tissue from
her apron pocket. "He's a good boy underneath all that foolishness, Evan.
He'll come back, I know he will. I--well, it just surprised me so, his saying
he was going to live with that awful Ali man. I guess I was shaken up. But I
know it will all come out all right--Lloyd's a good boy."

   Dad made some kind of a noise and Mom got up and went to stand
beside him, her hand on his shoulder. Ras swallowed, picked up the
laundry bag. So Shaka had left as he had threatened to do. Ras had seen
Ali once--a thin man with a little pointed beard and a quick, angry want
of talking. He was the one who had started Shaka reading all the African
books.

   Those books! Had Shaka taken them with him? Ras left the clothes in
the hall and slipped upstairs. Shaka's room was bare, except that his
closet door was open and hanging inside was his good suit, the one he
hardly ever wore any more. There was a drawer pulled crookedly out of the
bureau, but it was empty. And there were light places on the wall where
his posters had been. Yes, the bookshelf was bare.

   Ras sat down on the edge of the bed. That sick feeling which had
started at seeing Mom cry was worse. Shaka had gone. Dad said he was
wrong, stupid. But when his brother had talked about what he believed, he
could make you believe it, too. Or almost--because Dad's arguments were
just as strong. It was like Sherkarer's belief in Apedemek and Daniel's in
the Lord God Jehovah.

   But Ras knew one thing: Sherkarer had gained his freedom because he
had trusted in a man of another religion and race. They had worked
together to destroy the sirrush-lau; neither could have done it alone.
Working together--Like Sig and he. Last time, in the old house, they had
fought and Sig had locked him in the basement. But today they had had
something in common.

  Now he wanted to see Sig again--talk about those two other dragons.
And it was easier to think about that than about Shaka and what was
happening here at home.




   Artie Jones kicked the football so that it hit the curb and bounced back.
He picked it up, saw its new brown side was already scuffed. He had done
that himself, just fooling around with it. What was the use of having a
football if you didn't have any guys to play with? Nobody lived around here
but that kook Kim Stevens, and Sig Dortmund, and that Ras guy. He did
not want to get hooked up with them, not when there were smooth guys
like Greg Ross and his gang around. He had hoped they would suggest
kicking when he took his ball to school yesterday. But they had been so
busy talking about how they were all going to the Senior High game this
afternoon that they had not heard him say he had a new ball or even
looked his way when he got it out of the locker to show them.

  Greg's dad was taking them in the station wagon, and they sure would
have a groovy time. Artie had stood there, hoping, just a little, that Greg
would turn around and ask him to go, too.

   Nothing much to do around here--never was. He could go down to the
movies. But he'd seen the picture they had this week. And the TV was at
the repair shop. If he hung around home Mom would ask about doing
homework. He sure was not going to spend Saturday doing that!

   There was Sig heading to the corner in a hurry. If they played ball here,
though, Sig would expect to hang around with him at school, too. Then
Artie might never get a chance to be one of Greg's gang. Only, it sure was
lonesome. Halfheartedly Artie began to walk down the block after Sig.
   Sig did not look in his direction at all. Was he going back to the old
house? Suppose he was? It was a spooky place but exciting. Had Sig found
something in that locked room? Artie had not asked him. Now he
wondered. But Sig was waiting there at the corner. Not for Artie, he never
turned around to see him. No, he was waving at someone on the other side
of the street. Why, it was that dopey kid who wouldn't tell his right name.
What was Sig doing with him?

   Artie trailed half a block behind the other two, who had joined forces.
Yes, they were heading for the old house. They had stopped by the wall,
were looking around. Moved by an impulse he did not understand, Artie
crouched down behind a rubbish can., It did not hide him very well, but
he guessed they did not see him, for they were going on in. Suddenly he
was determined to follow them. If Sig had found something he should have
told Artie, not that dope! After all, Artie had been with him that first time.
Maybe Sig thought Artie was too chicken because he had not stayed. Well,
he would go in behind them, see what they had found, then let them know
he'd watched them. That would show Sig!

   He watched Sig climb through the window, Ras slipping in after him.
Artie, still holding the football, followed. They had a flashlight, he did not.
But today there was enough light for him to find his way. He heard the
murmur of their voices, but not their words.

   They had gone right to the room Sig had wanted to open that first time.
Artie slipped along the wall of the hall as quietly as he could, trying to
hear.

   "Heads takes the red--that fair?" Sig asked.

   "Right!"

  There was a moment of silence and then Sig said, with disappointment,
"Tails. Well, are you going to try?"

   There was another period of quiet and then Artie heard Ras say in a
very excited voice, "You saw that, didn't you? It--it moved right away from
my fingers!"

   "Let me try!" Sig sounded impatient.

   "See? It does that for you, too!"
   "Let's try the yellow one then."

  Red what? Yellow what? Artie was so curious he almost went to the
doorway to see.

   "It's no good," Sig said. "That first time, the pieces went together as if
they wanted to, like I was hardly working at it. Was it the same for you?"

   "Yes. But now it won't. See, I can't even hold a piece, it slips right away
from me. Sig, do you suppose that means we are not going to be able to
finish it?"

   "But why not? What good is it only half done? There is no reason--"

  'There might be one we don't know. I--I think we ought to leave it alone
now, Sig, I really do."

   "It's darn queer. Maybe it's just today, maybe if we came back some
other time--"

  "Maybe, Sig, but somehow I don't think so. And don't you feel queer
now, as if we shouldn't be here at all? I didn't feel that way before."

  There was a long moment of quiet and then Sig answered, "Yeah. I
wasn't going to say that, you might think I was a kook or something.
But--let's get out of here--right now!"

   Artie was confused. Somehow he did not want to face them at this
moment. He looked around a little wildly, tugged open the nearest door,
and swung into a closet, keeping his hand on the doorknob and the door
open a crack. He did not even see them go by, but he heard their footsteps
echoing through the big rooms. When it was quiet again he came out,
determined to see what was in the room, what this red-yellow thing might
be.

   At first glance he saw nothing at all but a table and a chair. Then the
light from the window showed him color on the table, which drew him
closer.

   The football dropped from his loosened grasp and he was not even
aware he had lost it. A puzzle--a jigsaw puzzle! Why had Sig and Ras been
so excited about a stupid old puzzle? There was a box there, too, with a lot
of pieces in it. Some were turned up to show brilliant red or gleaming
gold. There were a few red pieces lying by themselves to one side. How
they glowed!

   He could see the picture on the lid of the box, with a big silver dragon
at the top and a queer blue one at the bottom, just like the finished two on
the table. Then there were two more, a red dragon on the left and a gold
one on the right. He hardly looked at the gold one. It was the red which
caught his full attention.

   It was--it looked so real! Artie put out a finger and touched one of the
red pieces. It moved a little and--why, it actually seemed to snap into
place beside another, interlocking smoothly. But Sig and Ras, they had
talked as if they couldn't get the pieces together at all! What did they
mean--this was easy!

   One of the pieces was lying face down and there was black writing on it,
the letters thick and blocky. "R-e-x--Rex," Artie spelled out.

  Uncle Jim had had a dog named Rex once, he said it meant "king" in
Latin.

    Artie nipped the piece over. Yes, it went in here. Say, this was smooth.
He began to sort out the rest of the red pieces. Why, he could do this, even
if Ras and Sig could not. This went here, and that there--Forgetting
everything else, Artie settled down in the chair.

    Red dragon, a red dragon up against a blue sky--Pendragon! That was
it, he knew it as well as if someone standing at his elbow had told
him--the Pendragon!



                        ARTOS, SON OF MARIUS




   It was harvest time and most of the war host were scattered, out in the
fields where the barley stood high and ready for the cutting and the grain
was as golden as the sun was hot. A good harvest, as all had hoped, for it
had been a bad year earlier with the cold, and there had been scant
gleanings from a too-wet summer last year. Men had gone with empty
bellies through the last of that cold and had sown grain they would joyfully
have crammed by fistfuls into their mouths and chewed raw, even as they
threw it into the waiting earth.

  Not only in Britain had hunger pinched, but over-water, too. So that all
men knew the winged-helmed invaders were on the prowl, and a coast
watch had to be kept even though the men were needed in the fields.

   Artos smeared the back of his hand across his forehead and tried not to
wince as he straightened his aching back. Field work was harder than the
training in the war band, though he had not had too much of that yet, just
enough to prove how much he had yet to learn. He glanced now to where
his shield mates were strung out in a straggling line along the field. It did
not matter if one's father was Marius, troop commander under the
Dragon himself. A man was matched against his own deeds, not by what
his father, or his father's father, had done before him.

   Artos had been named for the High King, Caesar of Britain, but he took
his turn in the fields all the same. Just as he suffered the hard knocks of
the wooden training sword when he was awkward or unlucky, or stupid
enough not to be able to defend himself against Drusus' attack. Drusus
was old now, but he could remember seeing the last of the Legions go
down to the sea, taking the might of Rome with them, leaving Britain
open to the sea wolves.

   The High King had ridden north five days ago, to visit the posts
manned against the Scots and the painted men in the north. And he had
taken most of the Companions with him. Modred ruled here in Venta.

   Artos scowled and kicked at a clod so that it crumbled under the toe of
his boot. It was the High King (though Father always called him Caesar)
who held Britain together. He had been just an army officer at first, but he
had been loyal to Aurelianus, whom the real Caesar overseas had made
Count of Britain. They had called Artos "Pendragon" and "Dux Bellorum"
(Commander of Battles). Artos shaped the words though he did not speak
them aloud; they had a ring to them. Men did not speak the true Latin of
the empire any more, but added British words to everyday speech. Marius,
like the High King, believed they should remember the past, and one way
of doing that was to keep the language of men who had lived in cities and
known the old lost days of peace.
   For years now life had been only fighting. Men kept swords ever to
hand, listened always for the roar of war horns. It was do that, live armed,
or die under a Saxon ax--or worse, live a Saxon slave. The cities the
Romans had built were mostly destroyed. Saxons hated cities and, when
they could, reduced them to ruins. But Venta was where a Roman
governor had once lived, and there were hill forts from the old days, which
the King's men had rebuilt, forts which had once sheltered men from
attack long before the coming of the Roman Legions.

   Modred did not believe in keeping to the old ways. He smiled sneeringly
behind backs--yes, and even to the faces of such as Marius and others of
Caesar's men who wore short hair, went shaved of cheek and chin, carried
the old Roman shields and armor. His men said openly now that it was
better to forget Rome, to make peace with the Winged Helms, maybe even
to give them some coast lands and swear blood-brother oaths with them,
rather than fight forever.

   Modred spoke only the British tongue, pretended not to understand
Latin. He feasted the petty kings and chieftains of the north and the
tribes. Marius, and the others like him, watched Modred with care. But
many of the younger men treated Modred with deference, listened to him.

  Artos bent back to his work. He hated the field more with every hour he
was forced to spend in it. Why could he not have ridden north with
Caesar's guard, with his father? He swung the harvest knife as if it were a
sword, cutting the stalks raggedly. The furrows were endless and the sun
hot, the day long.

   One of the house slaves brought around the leather bottle of vinegar
and water, and Artos drank his share. It was then that he saw the riders
on the sea road. Their vividly colored cloaks were bright, thrown well back
on their shoulders; in this heat they must be wearing them only for show.
There was no mistaking Prince Modred as their leader.

   Artos watched as they passed. But he was startled to see what the
Prince wore about his arm just below the edge of his summer tunic's short
sleeve. He would take oath that it was the Dragon armlet of the High King!
But only Caesar, Artos Pendragon, had a right to that, and he had worn it
himself when he had ridden out of Venta.

  And Modred was not even the High King's heir by right, though men
whispered that by some chance in the past he was truly the King's own
son. But he was unlike Caesar in every way.

   For Artos Pendragon was as tall as one of the forest trees, or so he
looked among lesser men. And his hair, though he was now nigh an old
man, was still the color of that rich gold which comes from the Western
Isle. He wore his hair short and he shaved as did the Romans, which made
him look younger than his years.

   Whereas Modred was a good handsbreadth or more shorter, and dark
of hair, the locks curling to his shoulders. Also he had wings of mustache
curving on either side of his thin-lipped mouth, so that he looked as any of
the tribal kings. He wore also their brightly colored clothes, cloaks woven
in checkered patterns of green, red, and yellow, with like tunics and
breeches, wide belts of soft leather studded with gold, a jeweled dagger,
and a long sword.

   Artos watched the party move on until they were hidden in the dust
cloud. He longed to be ahorse and riding with them. No man could deny
that Modred was a good fighter, and now he had been chosen by Caesar
himself to hold Venta. He commanded all the forces except the
Companions, who remained here, and the school for their sons, both of
which were under the orders of Kai.

   At the thought of Kai, Artos bent to work again, his shoulders hunching
as if he already felt the sting of a willow switch laid smartly across them.
Kai was a fighter, one of whom Marius thoroughly approved. You never
won more than a grunt of half-satisfaction from Kai. But a grunt from that
battle-scarred warrior was perhaps equal to half a Roman Triumph. Artos
grinned. But still he remembered that armlet shining on Modred's darkly
tanned arm and it cast a small seed of uneasiness into his mind.

   It was his turn that night to wait upon the high table, bring in the
drinking horns, set out the spoons and table knives. Modred's chair
remained empty, as did two others, those of his close officers. Only Kai
and Archais (who had come from overseas and was much learned in the
healing of wounds) and Paulus, the priest, were there.

   Artos listened to their talk, but there was little new to hear. Paulus was
old and thought of little but the Church, and he disliked Archais, as he
made very plain, because the healer did not believe what Paulus taught.
But this the priest could not say openly, because the High King had long
since made it plain that what god a man chose to serve privately was his
own business. This made the priests angry and they muttered a great deal,
though there was naught they could do. However, lately they had been very
bold about the need for peace, and Modred had those among them who
talked so--too much, Marius said.

   When the thin beer of the past year had been poured and the platters
taken from the table, Archais spoke: "Our Lord Modred rides so far
abroad that he cannot return for the evening meal?"

   Kai shrugged. "That is his affair," he replied shortly. But the tone in his
voice made Artos listen closely.

   "The Winged Helms have been reported offshore. That fisherman from
Deepdene reported sighting at least ten ships. It must be a raider with
reputation to bring such a fleet. One thinks of Thorkiel--"

    "No, no." Paulus shook his head. "Thorkiel would not dare. Did not our
Lord King give him so grievous a beating yesteryear as to send him in fast
flight?"

   'These Winged Helms," growled Kai, "are like ants, Father. One can
stamp out a scurry of them here, another there, yet there are always ants,
and no end to them! They are only quiet when they are dead, but that
takes a deal of doing. Good fighters they are, with their berserkers and
their shield walls. Our Lord King knows the way to deal with them. Men
sometimes laughed straight to his face in the beginning. But he went
ahead with it, by Aurelianus' favor. He got horses, big ones--mostly before
that we had just ponies, nothing to mount a grown man. And he found
how to make armor for them and for their riders. He did not gather a big
army such as is hard to feed and easy to ambush--even the Legions
learned that there were newer and better ways of fighting, good as they
had been in their time.

   "No, he took the horse companies and he was here, there, riding hard.
We were so much in the saddle in those days that we got hard skin on our
bottoms like calluses on the hands. And where the Saxons came, there we
were--before they could expect it. Yes, the horse and the Companions
cleared the land and kept it cleared.

   "I remember the day they brought him the Dragon banner. It was new,
a queer strange thing. Let the wind catch it rightly and it snapped out like
a great red worm, its claws reaching for you. With that over a man's head,
he got heart in him. Yes, we had the Dragon--'til it was cut to pieces.
Seeing it seemed to send the heathen wild, and they would aim spears at it
every time. But we just got us another, and another--all made the same.
When the war horns call, the Dragon answers them!"

   Artos knew the banner. There was a small one like it that flew from the
watchtower of Venta when the High King was here and was carried with
him when he traveled. But the big Dragon was kept safe until needed for
battle. They called Caesar "Pendragon"--even just Dragon. And some of
the people who did not know much actually thought he had a real dragon
to help him in battle.

  "But for all your valiant efforts, still these Winged Helms come,"
Archais observed.

   'They come and they die." Kai pushed away from the table. "Always
they come--it is a way of life."

   "But need it be?" Paulus' voice sounded thin, almost like a whisper after
Kai's deep-chested tones. "There is a way to keep peace and all men living
in fellowship."

  Kai laughed. "Cry 'pax' to a Winged Helm who has just beaten in your
door, Father--one who has his ax ready to cut you down. There is only one
pax for such."

   His head swung to Artos, who had been very still and thought he was
forgotten. "Youngling, get to your bed. Before cock's crow you'll be needed
in the field again. With luck we'll be able to get in the rest of the barley
before nightfall."

   "With God's grace," Paulus corrected him. But Kai paid no attention to
the priest as he stretched wide his hard-muscled arms.

  Only, Artos was never to work in that barley field again. And it all came
about because of the need for a drink of water.

   He was tired enough to sleep soundly, but he roused out of a confused
dream which afterward he could never remember; only, it left him feeling
afraid. He sat up on the pallet which was his bed, feeling thirsty. Around
him was the heavy, even breathing of the other sleepers. A thin sliver of
moonlight shone in the hall without.
  Once this maze of rooms, hallways, courtyards, had been the home and
headquarters of a Roman governor. Now it was a rather badly kept palace,
which few living within had ever totally explored.

    The nearest water was in the great hall and Artos debated going after
it. He ran a dry tongue over cracked lips and thought that he must. He
had worn his breeches and leggings to bed, he had been so tired, and he
did not wait now to pick up his tunic as he padded across the chamber,
careful to avoid the pallets of the others.

   In the hall the moonlight came through the window. There was another
source of light, too, a dim glow in another chamber. Artos was curious.
Who could be there? It was well away from any place where the guard
were on watch duty. That curiosity sent him to see, creeping up with
caution toward the half-open door.

   He passed the shut door of Kai's chamber. Beyond it were two empty
rooms, usually occupied by men who were now riding north with the King.
That left only the arms room. But why--?

   Artos edged his way along, close to the wall. He could hear a very faint
murmur of voices, sounds of men moving about. He reached the place
where the door swung out, shielded himself behind it to peer through the
crack.

   Modred--there was no mistaking the young man who sat at the table
where the armorer kept his supply lists. But beyond him were three men
wearing the scale armor of the Companions--young men. Artos knew two
of them by name as clansmen who had been recruited a couple of years
ago. The third was Argwain, who prided himself on being blood-kin of
Modred through one of the complicated clan reckonings.

   Artos could not believe what he saw. They had opened the dragon chest.
Its lock was broken--Kai had the keeping of the key. And now they were
pulling out the coils of the Red Dragon, folding the banner with more
haste than care, to cram into a bag Argwain held ready. Torchlight glinted
on Modred's arm as he changed position. Artos saw his guess proven true.
That was a king's royal arm ring, twin to the one Caesar wore.

  The Dragon, the armlet, Modred--How those fitted together the boy did
not know. But there was evil here, like black smoke curling from a fire.
  "--to the west. Show him this and bid him land where the four torches
move right to left before full moonrise." Modred was speaking.

   "You." The Prince turned then to Argwain. "Take the signal to
Maegwin, to Caldor. We shall so cut the land apart before they can drag
themselves out of their fields and take up sword to front us. And with
that"--he nodded to the bagged Dragon banner--"and such news as we
can proclaim, there will be few swords left to them. Men shall not be sure
what is true or false until it is too late!"

  "No man can say that you do not plan well, Lord King," Argwain
nodded.

  'This has been long in planning, but now we act. Let us go."

   Artos had only time to push away from the door, dodge into one of
those empty rooms. He stood in the gloom within, his heart pounding,
rubbing sweating palms against his breeches, trying to make sense of
what he had heard.

   Modred had the armlet and the banner, and Argwain had called him
king. He spoke of torches to signal a landing. And this talk of
peace-making with the Winged Helms--their ships reported offshore--All
made so ugly a pattern that Artos could not believe it added up as he
feared. He must tell Kai!

   The men were surely gone from the arms room now. He crossed the hall
to the closed door of the commander's chamber, pushing it open only wide
enough for him to slip through. The moon shone through a window to
show a low bedstead, and he could hear the rumbling snore of the sleeper
who lay there. Artos laid a hand on the man's bare shoulder.

   Kai had the warrior's trick of waking instantly, his wits alert, and as he
raised himself on his elbows Artos crouched by the bed, spilling out what
he had seen and heard. There was a muffled exclamation from Kai, and he
sat fully up, his feet meeting the floor with a thud.

    "What this may mean," he said, "is not to be judged hastily. But that
the High King must know goes without arguing." He rubbed fist against
fist, and in the moonlight Artos could see the scowl on his face.

  "Listen, you," he spoke then directly to the boy. "This must not be done
openly. A known messenger riding forth would give away that they had
been discovered, if he were not also followed and cut down."

  "I ride light and I ride as Marius taught," Artos dared to say.

   "Ay, and the High King lies at the hill camp near Fenters Hold. The
Roman Way runs north to the Wall, and it is cut by a traders' track to the
sea. It is a clear way."

   "And I have ridden part of it," Artos was proud to say. "I went to the
Wall two summers ago when my father held truce meeting with the
Painted People."

   "So you did. Which is another piece of fortune." Kai pulled at his
thumb, turning the circlet there around and around to free it from its long
grip on his flesh. It was a giant's ring to look at, broad and heavy, with a
queerly shaped red stone showing the head of a man with horns. Paulus
said it was evil, but Kai said that it had belonged to his father, and his
father, and that it had come overseas in the far-off days, before the
Legions set foot in Britain.

   He worked it free with an effort. "This is known, boy. Do not take any
horse from the stable here, you would be marked and questioned. Slip into
town and on to the post of the first hill watch. They keep messenger
mounts. Show this and take the road north. Change at any hill fort when
your beast begins to fail. For it is time which draws sword against us in
this matter. Now--let us go."

   Artos slipped from shadow to shadow across the streets of Venta. He
wore a tunic and cloak now, as well as his own sword belted heavy against
him. Marius had traded for that sword two years ago at the meeting with
the Painted People. It was a Legion sword, Marius said, loot from some
long-ago battle along the Wall perhaps. But the blade was good and Artos'
father had haggled for a long time to get it. It was shorter than the swords
the Companions favored, but it was just right for Artos. He had a pouch of
rations, too. And Kai's ring was slung on a thong around his neck for
safekeeping.

    He might have been questioned if he had not had the ring to show
when he reached the hill watch. The horse they brought him--stripped to
a light saddle pad for speed--though undersize in comparison to the
chargers of the Companions, was picked, he knew, for the steady,
mile-eating pace it could keep. And he pounded off along the road,
thankful for the smooth pavement the Legion had built.

   The road ran due north, and though more years than Artos was old had
passed since it had been repaired, it was still good footing. Sun rose, and
midmorn came. He changed mounts at another of the hill forts. The men
here were from one of the tribes, as their plaid tunics made plain. They
rained questions upon Artos as he leaned against the log wall, gulping
down mouthfuls of bread with just enough barley beer to make it
swallow-able. To all he only shook his head and said he was on the High
King's business and the message he carried was not of his understanding.

   Once more, after noon, when the sun was hot and he had to fight
against nodding in the saddle, he changed mounts. This time the watchers
were in a crumbling Roman tower. They wore no armor, nor even the
brilliant dress of the tribes, but rather had tanned hides on their small,
dark bodies marked with blue tattoos. They had bows and arrows, and
they spoke in a soft, clipped speech to one another. But their leader--who
had a cloak of wolf skin in spite of the heat, the wolf's head with its upper
jaw resting on the man's head, dozens of ivory fangs necklaced about his
throat--spoke Latin, though in a strange singsong.

   Though Artos had never seen these people so closely before, he knew
them to be Picts from over the Wall--who served not the land of Britain
but rather one man alone, the High King. For Artos Pendragon had in
some way won their favor and they came to his call.

   Tribesmen, Picts, and a small handful of men who, like Marius, still
called themselves "Roman" with harsh pride--these made up the High
King's army. Among themselves they would have been sword against
sword, knife against arrow. But under Artos Pendragon they were one. His
greatest gift was that he could make a victorious army out of such
normally divided forces.

    Soon after he left the watchtower, Artos swung into the west way. Here
he had to slacken pace, since this was no paved road but a wandering
tract which turned and twisted with rough footing. There were no grain
fields to be seen and here the King's peace was more often broken than
kept.

  The moon was once more up when the boy saw the scarlet leap of
campfires. He slid from his mount, so stiff he could only walk with his
hand laid in support against the shoulder of the stumbling horse. His
throat was dry with dust as he croaked an answer to the sentry. And he
was never quite sure how he came into the High King's chamber.

  "It is young Artos! But what do you here? Call Marius."

  "Lord King." This time Artos managed better than the croak, found a
horn pushed into his hand, and drank some of the bitter beer before he
went on. "Lord King"--he fumbled for Kai's ring--"Legatus Kai has sent
me."

  "To come in such a plight smells of trouble. What manner? Do the
Winged Helms--But then the alarm torches would have flamed across
country to warn us long since. What is it?"

    Then those big, strong hands lay gently on his shoulders, drawing him
closer, supporting him. Artos spilled out word after word of what he had
seen and heard. There were confused voices about him, but they meant
little. Then, somehow, he was lying on a camp pallet, and his father's dark,
clean-shaven face, surmounted by a plumed helm, was close to his. He
knew he had done what he had come to do.

  So the dark time began, and afterward Artos sometimes wondered
what might have happened had some small chance led them in a different
way.

   He was not the only messenger Kai sent, but his forewarning gave the
High King some precious hours, which he used well. Other riders went out
with the warn-call. Harvest time--Modred had chosen the time for his
treachery well.

   As men straggled in, a handful here, a better-disciplined war band
there, they learned that Modred had indeed raised the Red Dragon and
taken a blood oath with the Winged Helms. Ten ships had the fisherman
reported off the coast, but now came tales of twenty, more at sea edging
in. It would be such a bloodletting to come as would crush all the High
King had fought for, unless he could hold the invaders to the coast.

  "But Modred is mad--!" Artos, now his father's trumpeter, watched
Marius bring his bronzed fist down upon the table, setting the drinking
horns shaking with the force of his blow.
   "No, far from mad," the High King replied. "Remember Vortigen?
Modred is of his line, and so sees himself more truly King of Britain than I.
By the reasoning of half the tribes I have no right to this." His hand
twitched forward a fold of the purple cloak draped across the back of his
seat. "Until Aurelianus gave me power I was no more than a man with a
plan and a dream. Though now that seems long ago. However"--now he
spoke more briskly--"no matter how royal Modred deems himself and is
hailed by those deluded enough to believe that this time they can play
Vortigen's game with the Saxons and win, I am not about to let the axes of
the Winged Helms bring down what is left of life and light in this land.

   "Therefore--" He began to talk briskly of men and the movements of an
army, those about him listening carefully. Artos saw his father nod once or
twice, heard an assenting grunt from Gawain, who ordered the left wing
when the Companions charged.

   In the end the High King made a small gesture and the serving men
hastened to fill the drinking horns, not with the usual thin beer but rather
with the strong-smelling mead of the northlands. Then did Artos
Pendragon raise his horn high, get to his feet, the others scrambling up to
join him.

   "Comrades, it may be that this time we go into dark ways. But if that be
so I will say it now--we cannot go in better company! If Modred would buy
the kingship, and the Winged Helms this land, then let the price be high!"

   There was an answering growl as men drank and threw the horns from
them, to roll empty across the table.

   When Artos and his father went back to their own quarters, Marius
stood for a moment eying his son.

  "I would have you ride now to Glendower."

   "No!" For the first time in his life Artos found the courage to say that to
his father, and in spite of the other's deepening frown he hurried on. "Is
this army so great a single sword can be spared?"

  "A boy's sword? You are no man to ride--"

   "And if--if Modred's men come to Glendower? What of our neighbor
Iscar? He has long wanted our lands. You can send me forth only bound
and gagged and under guard!"

   Marius must have read his son's determination, for suddenly he looked
very tired and gave a small shrug. "So be it. But if you stay you are under
my orders."

  Artos drew a deep breath. "That I know."

   Thus he was one of the army that marched south and west. Army? It
was hardly a full troop to begin with, though men continued to gather and
add to the number as they went. More messengers arrived with ill news of
the Saxons pushing inland and of Modred setting up a camp to which
came men of the tribes, swearing blood oaths of loyalty under the stolen
Red Dragon.

  The High King laughed harshly when he was told of this.

   "Blood oaths, is it? Do they remember that in the past such oaths were
also given to me?"

   "But the priests say that they are absolved of them, since they were
given to one who did not hold the true church in reverence," observed
Gawain with a twist of lip. It was well known that he was one who followed
the old gods, and that the High King had many times been urged by the
priests to turn him away for that very reason.

  "Men cannot be absolved from treachery so easily," was all that
Pendragon answered.

  But it seemed that traitor or not, Modred was gathering the greater
host. And only half of it marched under the horse-tail standards of the
Saxons.

   Artos rode as Marius' trumpeter and messenger, always at his father's
back as he cantered alone at the head of the troop. Most of them were of
the old Roman breed. They used the shorter swords of the Legions, and
their faces, overshadowed by the old crested helms, differed from those of
the tribesmen. Their standard was an Eagle, mounted on a pole, its wings
outspread.

  Caius carried it, and his place, too, was behind his commander. Artos
envied him that honor. The war horn bumping at his own hip was not
nearly as fine a symbol as that Eagle.

  There came a time when at last they could see the fires of the enemy
camp. But between lay a swampy, broken land, unfit for horses.

  "Modred has chosen well," Artos heard his father say to the first
Centurion, Remus, as they looked down from a hillock.

  "Traitor though he be, he is still a fighting man. But then he has not yet
met Caesar in battle." There was confidence in Remus' answer.

   They had further additions to their force. Kai came out of Venta with
what was left of the defenders there. Artos saw among them a sprinkling
of his in-training comrades, so the old and the very young had closed
ranks together. Yet no Red Dragon led the van now.

   The High King would not let them use the pinion symbolic of his
rulership. Instead he gave orders that each man break a handful of barley
in stalk from the fields as he marched (so many fields were left without
reapers now) and bind it to his helm in sign that he fought not for any
king's honor but for his own land. So it was that a large tuft was on the
haft of a spear carried behind the High King as he rode, and a twist about
the Eagle carried by Caius.

   That night came a sounding of horns for parley across the broken land,
now well lighted by torches. Then came a band not of fighting men but of
priests, craving speech with the King. They were led by Imfry, one of those
who had argued in the past with Pendragon because he would not give
more power to the church. Yet the High King had ever treated him with
courtesy.

   Of that meeting Artos heard only what his father told later--that the
churchmen urged a truce wherein Modred and the High King might meet
face to face, and perhaps the land escape a bath of blood.

  "What of the Saxons?" Artos asked.

   Marius laughed harshly. "Ay, the Saxons. But the priests are ever
hopeful for the winning of their souls. Their leader, Bareblade, has listened
to Imfry, it seems. Well, Caesar will grant them their truce meeting. That
will gain us more time, which is our greatest need. There is no trusting in
the promises of either Modred or Saxon. Each is to bring an armed
following of ten, but with strict orders not to draw blade for any reason.
To show steel is to break peace."

  "Do you go?" To Artos' relief Marius shook his head.

   "Caesar takes only two of his captains, Kai and Gawain. If it be a trap
he must not lose all of us. And meanwhile, truce or no, we shall be
battle-mounted when they go"

   The sun was well up when the High King and his selected followers rode
out from the lines of his war host. From those other ranks, where the horse
tails of the Winged Helms were insolently planted and the Dragon shaft
stood, came others.

  "Their Dragon sulks," Caius murmured to Artos.

   That was true enough. The red banner was not proudly bellied out in
the wind but hung limp as a tattered rag about its standard. Perhaps it
was an omen that the banner of the High King would come to life for him
alone.

   As the two parties met, the priests to one side chanted a hymn, which
reached the watchers as a faint murmur of sound. The sun grew hotter as
they waited. Now and then someone in the company spoke in a low voice
to his neighbor. But the stamp of a horse because of the flies, the grate of
armor as someone shifted position, broke the silence more noticeably.

  The ground before them was heath, bog in some patches, ill footing for
mounted men. There were some scattered clumps of stunted firs, but
mostly coarse grass, sun-browned until it was near the color of ripe grain.

   Artos saw a flash of light. One of Modred's men had drawn sword, was
stabbing down at the ground. His steel was bare.

   "Truce broke! Truce broke!" The cry began low, but swelled into a roar
as man after man took it up.

  Below was a tangle of men, swords out, clashing--

  "Sound!"

  Artos did not need that order, the war horn was already at his lips. Its
harsh call was lost among other sounds. And then began the charge the
High King had planned, the men of the company shouting "Ave, Caesar!"
as they rode.

   The rest of it was a madness which Artos could never remember except
in small snatches. For he was swallowed up in it, swinging the Roman
sword. There were distorted faces which came into view and vanished,
then once or twice a breathing space when the men of the troop came
together and re-formed, to be sent to charge again.

   Artos saw Caius go down under a Saxon ax and grabbed the Eagle
before it was lost, using its pole to drive against the head of the man who
had killed its bearer, knocking him from his feet so that the horses went
over him. Each time the troop re-formed the lines were thinner, more men
in them were wounded, some clinging to their saddles only by force of will.

   The sky darkened, but yet there was light enough to see about them.
The High King, his Caesar's purple cloak a ragged fringe; his shield, its
garnet-eyed dragon's head half shorn away, still on his arm; and that great
sword about which there were such awesome tales, red in his hand--the
High King, Artos of Britain!

  Fronting him was Prince Modred, all his royal finery spoiled by this
day's foul work.

    "No!" The Prince's voice rose in a great cry, as if to see that the King
still lived was more than he could bear. He rushed forward, his sword
ready. The King prepared to meet his charge.

   Modred struck first at the horse and it reared screaming, while the
Prince dodged those flailing hoofs. Artos Pendragon came out of the
saddle, but he landed badly, stumbling, so that Modred, low like a serpent,
thrust around his shield. His blade caught on the rent rim and he could
not withdraw it quickly for a second stroke. The High King struck in
return, a mighty blow across the other's body where neck met shoulder.
Modred staggered to one side, dead before his body crumpled to the
ground.

   But the High King wavered on a pace or two, until one of the kicking
legs of his dying horse hit him and he, too, fell.

   "Ahhhh"--a moan came from the bloodied and battered men near the
King. Artos lurched out of the saddle, tottered on to pull at the High King,
trying to drag him away from the horse, others elbowed him aside,
unheeding of the enemy, to free their leader.

    Then a shout warned them and they looked up to see Saxons running
toward them. They fought a wild, desperate battle around Pendragon. And
so great was their grief and rage that they paid no heed to wounds. But as
if they were men of iron, who could take no hurt, they cut down the
Winged Helms.

  When that swirl of battle had subsided there remained only five of the
Companions still on their feet. Artos crouched beside the King where he
had tried to shield that body with the hacked and splintered pole of the
Eagle and his own flesh. The standard was shorn of a wing and blood ran
warm from his arm. His fingers were numb, unable longer to grasp a
sword hilt.

   The King stirred and moaned. Somehow they got him out of the press
of the dead, to where he could lie straight on the ground. Artos looked
around, dazed. Kai lay, his sword deep in a Saxon, but his own craggy face
empty of life. Marius? Where was his father? One of those bending over
the fallen king looked up.

  "Artos?"

   The boy could not answer aloud. Using the staff of the Eagle as a
support, he hobbled to where the King lay with those others gathered
around him. It was Marius who said, "This is a grievous wound, but we
must get him into hiding. There is no way yet of telling how this day has
gone. And they would rejoice greatly to set his head on one of their
spears."

   Among them they carried him away. It was hard labor, for he was a
large and heavy man and they were all spent, no man without some
wound. Artos stumbled along in their wake, still leaning on his pole. But as
he circled to the left to avoid a tangle of dead men and horses he came
upon the Royal Standard. The pole had been planted firmly in the earth.
About it the Red Dragon hung limp and lifeless, as if it would serve none
but its true master. Artos could hardly see it in the twilight. He pushed the
broken end of the Eagle shaft into the ground to keep it upright and pulled
at the Dragon's pole. It had been too firmly set to yield to his weak
tugging. At last he went to his knees and dug in the earth with his belt
knife until he could pull it free.

  It was heavy and he had to rest it across his good shoulder. The folds,
smelling of wood smoke, draped about his head. But he brought it with
him, trailing those who carried the King.

  They found a rough little hut, perhaps the shelter of some holy man
who had chosen to dwell in the wilderness alone, as some did nowadays.
Someone had kindled a fire, and by its light they were easing off the King's
armor to examine his wound.

   No man with the true healing knowledge was there. But they had been
long enough at war to know the look of hurts men could take. Marius sat
back on his heels, his face a dark mask. Artos turned away his eyes.

   "Marius?"

   "Caesar!" He bent again over his lord.

   "This is my death hurt--"

   "I have seen men take worse and live."

   "Use such words for a child, Marius. This is the dark road after all. But
truss me up as best you can. I shall hold to life until I know--know how it
fares with Britain. Let me know how went the day--"

  "Be sure you shall!" Marius turned to the others, all wounded. "Sextus,
Calyn, Gondor--see what you can learn!"

   They were the least hurt of that company and they went swiftly.

   "At least that traitor Modred is dead!" Marius spat.

   "All deeds--bring--their--own--reward," the High King said.
"Is--there--aught--to drink?"

   "There is a mere beyond." Marius got to his feet. "It is doubtless
scummed, but it is still water." He pulled off his helmet, crestless where its
plume had been cut away, and went out. Artos leaned the heavy pole of the
banner against the wall, slipped down to sit with his back against the
rough surface. His wound had stopped bleeding, but his arm was still
numb.
   It was a long night, but the King spoke now and then. Sometimes Artos
could hear his words clearly, sometimes they were only a murmur, faint
and faraway. Marius tended his son's wound and bound it with a strip
torn from his cloak, ordering him to sleep if he could.

   Men came, to glance within the hut and look upon the King. Some he
greeted by name, one or two came to kneel beside him for a space. But
they all remained without as a guard about the hut. Slowly news came,
too. Modred's forces had melted away when the story of the Prince's death
reached them. The Saxons had been driven back to the shore by fresh
troops come too late for the real battle. But the war host that had followed
the Caesar of Britain, the Companions of the Red Dragon, had been so
rent and destroyed that it could never ride as an army again.

    When the dawn came, and with it the news that the Saxon host was
taking to ship under the harrying of the new levies, the High King listened
greedily. Then he turned to Marius and spoke, his voice a little stronger, as
if he had been hoarding his strength against this time.

   "I made the war host, and now it is broken. But my name may hold
men together yet awhile so you can gain time. A dream it was, a good
dream--of a Britain united against the dark night of the heathen. We
made it live, if only for a space, but now it dies. Do the best you can,
Gawain, Marius, those like you, to remember the dream in the coming
night. Now, that I may serve dead even as I served living, do not let any
save those in this hut known that I die. But say rather that I go to be
healed, that my wound, though it be deep, is not fatal.

  "We are not far from the river. Get a boat, if you can, and lay me on
some island there, making sure that there be no marking of my grave.
Swear this to me as the last loyal oath I ask of you."

   And together they swore. He did not speak again, but a little later
Marius, leaning over him, laid hand on the King's forehead, rose, and
nodded. Then he came swiftly to the great Dragon banner and slashed at
the cords which bound it to the pole, cutting it also as it lay flat upon the
ground. Into it they laid the High King. When they carried him forth they
said to the waiting guard that they would take him now to the holy men
who lived downriver, who knew the healing arts.

  Marius and Gawain found a boat and put the King in it, Artos crept
behind his father. Sextus rowed and the boat answered well. Then they
were caught in the current and let it bear them along. At last they came to
an island covered with brush and small trees, some of them bearing small,
half-ripe apples. Who had planted them in this wilderness, Artos could not
guess.

   Breaking through the barrier of reeds and brush, Marius, Gawain, and
Sextus carrying the King, they came to an open space in which stood a
small building of rough stone. The carven statue of a woman was just
within its portal, two others, though smaller, standing a little behind her.
That it was a temple of the old days Artos guessed, but honoring what
goddesses, British or Roman, he did not know.

   There before the temple, with the three statues seeming to watch, they
dug into the earth with their swords. Marius' blade broke against a stone
he was trying to lever away. He reached within the roll of the Dragon
banner and drew forth the King's longer and heavier weapon, to hack at
the clay. Meanwhile Artos pushed away the loosened soil the others tossed
out of that cutting.

   It took them a long time, for the swords were unhandy spades, and
Marius and the others sought to make the hole a deep one. Then they
pulled fresh reeds from the shore, and leaves, which, when crushed in their
soil-grimed hands, gave forth clean smells. Artos found a bed of small
flowers by the temple and jerked them up. From these they made the bed
of him who was the last Caesar of Britain. Then, well wrapped in his war
banner, Artos Pendragon, the High King, was laid in his hidden grave.

  They worked long once more to fill in and cover the place. When they
had done and were ready to go, Artos suddenly saw the King's sword lying
where his father had dropped it. That should have been buried, too, in the
hand of its owner.

   He held it out to his father in mute question. Marius took it with a sigh,
ran his hand along the scarred, notched blade.

   "It is too well known. So it must also disappear. For no man would
believe that Caesar would willingly let it go from him."

   He went down to the river bank and whirled it above his head with all
the force left in his tired arms, letting it fly out over the water and splash
into the dark flood. So it was gone, the last tie they had with Artos
Pendragon, Dux Bellorum, Caesar, High King of Britain. And the sun went
down.



                                      5


                            SHUI MIEN LUNG-
                         SLUMBERING DRAGON




   Artie rubbed his eyes with one hand. They smarted with tears, his
cheeks were also wet. But there was no river, no trees, no temple with
three goddesses left to watch over a hidden grave. He blinked and blinked
again. He was not Artos--but Artie, Artie Jones. And he was sitting in a
chair beside a table. A beam of sun shone straight on the bright red
dragon he had pieced together, joined with the silver and the blue ones. It
was the dragon of the banner, the one in which they had wrapped him.
Artie smeared his hand across his face again and sniffed hard.

   He was crying! Like a little kid! But--the dream--it had been so real!
He felt as if he were still on that shore ready to get into the boat, to go
back to the camp of what was left of the army. What had happened
afterward?

   King Arthur--they had read about King Arthur in school. But those had
been stories about knights, and the Round table, and--not like this Arthur
at all! He wanted to know what did happen to Artos, Marius, the rest. Did
anyone ever discover that the High King was dead? Or did they keep on
fighting and hoping that he would come back to lead them? Something in
Artie was firm in the belief that it had really happened, all of it--the
treachery of Modred, the death of Pendragon, the secret burial.

    When he thought of Modred he felt somehow a little ashamed, not of
the Prince but of himself. Artos had envied Modred's men, wanted a little
to be a part of that war band, but Modred had been ready to throw away
all Pendragon had fought for just that he might be himself king.

  Artie frowned--he was thinking about Modred and Artos--sometimes it
was easy to choose the wrong side--just because you wanted to be a part
of something which showed--showed--he wasn't quite sure yet how that
would work out. But now most of all he knew it had all happened once.

   He slipped off the chair and his foot touched the football. It rolled out
into the hall. Artie hurried after it. He did not look again at the red dragon
(he did not have to, he would remember it always). Picking up the ball, he
retraced his way through the house.

   Not until he was in the overgrown garden did Artie think of something
else. Those other two dragons that had been put together--did they have
stories, too? Was that why Sig and Ras had gone there? Maybe they knew
more about Artos--what had happened to him! Artie started on at a trot.
He would hunt up the two boys, find out what they knew.

   He slowed as he came to Sig's house, half hoping he might see the other
boy. But there was no sign of him. Reluctantly Artie moved on. Tomorrow
they were going to the Grands' for dinner, no chance to see Sig. Monday
morning, though, at the bus stop--if he got there a little early and Sig did
too, maybe he could hint around and find out whether Sig had had any
adventure with the other dragons. He wanted to know so badly!

   Never had a weekend passed so slowly for Artie. He ran into trouble
several times when he was thinking about Pendragon and the rest. People
asked him questions and he did not answer. He was glad when Sunday
night came and they were back home. He went to his room, saying he had
homework (he even tried to work some problems in math, read some
history). Only, there kept coming between him and the pages little parts of
the dream. He could feel again the pain in his arm as he watched Marius
and the others hacking at the earth with their swords.

   Artie sighed. One thing he wanted to do was to find out more about
Arthur--his Arthur, not the fairy-tale one. There might be a book at the
library. Artie did not know much about the library. He went there when he
had to get a book for a report, but then he just hunted for the thinnest one
he could find. Greg Ross's crowd had a list of thin books they passed
around, he had seen them doing it.

   Greg Ross--with surprise Artie realized that this was the first time
since Saturday he had thought about Greg. Somehow not being noticed by
Greg's crowd did not matter any more. What did Greg Ross mean to
someone who had been trusted by Kai, who had gone in battle, who
had--Once more Artie relived the exciting parts of his dream. Greg Ross
dwindled pretty small when he thought about him now. It was much more
important to see Sig tomorrow.

   There was only one big boy at the bus stop the next morning--Kim
Stevens. Sighting him, disappointed, Artie slowed to a stop and looked the
other way. Kim was reading again, a book close to his nose. He was always
reading. Maybe that's why he had to wear glasses, he read so much. And
he did not look up or say anything as Artie took a stand to watch down the
street for Sig.

   But when Sig swung into view he had Ras with him. Artie hesitated.
Though he wanted to talk to Sig, he knew that both Sig and Ras had been
in that house fussing around with the puzzle. So, drawing on his courage,
Artie stepped deliberately out in their path.

  "Hi," he said, but that greeting did not come out as confidently as he
meant it to; rather, it was more as if he were afraid they were not going to
answer him.

   Sig stared at him for a moment and Ras scowled. Artie was ready to
call it quits, only his desperate need to know brought out a rush of words.
"Please, you guys, about those dragons--" He had not meant to go at it
just like that, the words seemed to say themselves.

   Now they were looking at him as if they did want to hear what he had
to say.

  "What dragons?" Ras demanded.

  The silver one--the blue one--"

   Sig grabbed Artie by the arm. "What have you been doing? Snooping
around?"

   "Wait!" Ras set a shoulder between Sig and Artie. He was watching
Artie intently.

  "Which one did you make?" he asked in a low voice, hardly above a
whisper.

  Artie answered promptly with the truth. "The red one, Pendragon."
   "Pendragon?" repeated Sig. He lessened the roughness of his hold on
Artie, but he looked more to Ras as he asked, "You know Pendragon?"

   "Pendragon? No, never heard of that before. But then I never heard of
Fafnir or the lau before either. All right, Artie, so you put together the red
dragon, this Pendragon. Then what happened? Give, man!"

   Artie told in a bubble of words which got things rather mixed up so
that his listeners kept interrupting him with questions he answered
impatiently. But he told in detail of the burial of the High King, the
throwing of his sword into the river.

   "Did--did you dream about him, too?" he ended.

  "Not him--" Sig was beginning when the bus came and they climbed in,
hurrying for the long seat at the back where they could crowd in together.

  "I had Fafnir and Sigurd," Sig said under the hum of other voices. "And
Ras had Sirrush-Lau and Daniel. Tell him, Ras."

   Ras's story was much shortened, but he was able to make Artie believe
in his adventure. They continued to compare notes, each adding more
details of his particular dragon venture, sometimes talking all at once.

   'There is still the yellow dragon," Sig said, "I wonder--"

   Ras shook his head. "Won't do us any good to try, you know what
happened before. But I sure would like to know what dragon that is. Not
that we ever shall, now. The wreckers are coming this week and the Good
Will people have to clean the house out. That puzzle will go with the rest of
the stuff."

   "I wish it could be finished. It ought to be!" Sig thumped his fist down
on his big notebook. "I want to know what dragon that is."

   The word "dragon" carried to the seat ahead. Although Kim was
reading he could catch some of their conversation, just as he had also been
aware of their excited words at the bus stop. Now he still held his book
open, but instead of reading he listened with all his might to learn more.

  Even the fact that the three, who had never paid any attention to one
another before, were now so friendly was surprising. They apparently had
become a tightly knit group. Dragons--he thought about dragons.

   Kim knew a lot of dragon lore from China. There was the green dragon
of the east; the dragons who rose to the sky in the spring and plunged into
the waters in the fall; Lung, the five-toed dragon, who in the old days
could be pictured only in the royal palace or on the robes of the Emperor;
the heavenly dragons who guarded the mansions of the old gods; spirit
dragons who controlled winds and rain; earth dragons who cleared rivers,
deepened seas; the dragons who guarded hidden treasures.

   Dragons could take on the bodies of men and appear if they wished
among people. He knew the old tales about such dragons and the gifts they
gave those they favored, the evil they could do in return to evil men. Yes,
there were a lot of stories about dragons. But that's all they were--just
stories. What did these three talking behind him now know about
dragons? Now as much as he did. Not that they would ever listen to him.
Suppose he turned around right now and said--

   But that was the last thing he was going to do! Kim hated this bus ride,
he hated this school! He wanted to go back to the old one, where he knew
people. The book he held shook a little, but he continued to use it as a
screen. At least, while he looked as if he were reading, no one was going to
guess how lonely he was each day. Reading made a good cover to hide the
fact that he had no one to talk to, anyway.

   A book for a screen. Screens--the old people in China had used screens
to shut out demons, Sometimes dragons were carved or pictured on them
to frighten the demons. He wished he might summon up a real Chinese
dragon--the best kind. What would people say if, like a Taoist sorcerer, he
came riding to school on one?

   Dragons--but how could there be dragons in that old house? Kim
thought of the few words he had caught clearly, puzzled over them. An
idea sprang into his mind. What if he went there himself to see? But one
did not enter an empty house, it was against the law.

   Only, this house was going to be torn down soon, maybe even this week.
So it was not breaking and entering--or was it? A dragon--dragons--those
boys mentioned more than one in the house. Pictures or carvings, or
maybe a screen. He had heard that the man who once lived there had
traveled all over the world. It could well be that he had brought dragon
pictures back from the East. And Kim wanted to know--he had to know!
   Kim noted that when the bus let them off at the school Artie made no
move to hurry away to where Greg Ross and his friends stood arguing over
Saturday's game. Rather, he stayed with Sig and the boy who called
himself Ras, all three of them still talking excitedly together. Also, when
they were able to ask for library passes in the homeroom period, Kim was
not the only one who put up his hand. The three did the same for the first
time he could remember.

   He watched them in the library, as well as he could when he thought
they would not guess that he was doing so. Sig and Ras appeared to know
what they wanted. But Artie hesitated and then asked a question of the
librarian. She seemed a little surprised and went to the catalog to turn
over cards, leaving the drawer open a fraction when she went on to the
shelves to pick out a book.

   Kim went to the catalog, pulled out the drawer, and looked. There was
an open space and he read the title of the book on the card at that point.
The Lantern Bearers, a book about Roman Britain. He had read it at the
other school. It was good--all about the time when the Legions had to
leave Britain and the people were left to fight the Saxon invaders on their
own. There was a lot in it about the man who was supposed to be the real
King Arthur, not the one with the knights and the Round Table.

   But what had that to do with dragons? And what were Sig and Ras so
interested in? Completely mystified, Kim managed to stand in the
checkout line just behind them, making an effort to see the books each
held.

  Sig had one of hero tales, Ras one on ancient Egypt.

    Artie joined the line immediately behind Kim with his selection. As
they started for the next class the three joined forces again, each showing
his book to the others. But what did Egypt, hero stories, and Roman
Britain have in common? Kim shoved his own absent-minded choice into
his book bag, absorbed more and more by the mystery of this sudden
alliance.

  He thought about it off and on all day, until at last he made up his
mind. The roots of the mystery must certainly he in the old house, and it
had something to do with dragons.

  Much as he had held apart from the boys in this new school (they
looked upon him as a--they called it "kook," as he had heard several
times), this mystery made him suddenly want to actually solve it. Even if
that meant trailing the three, or poking into what they would consider
their business alone.

  He would not have much time, perhaps no longer than today. So he
would try after school, though he still felt queer about going in the old
house. If the boys themselves went back he would go after them.

   But the three did not even glance at the old house as they got off the
bus that afternoon. Instead they went straight on up the street. Sig lived
the closest. Kim followed very slowly, trying to make up his mind for sure.
When they reached Sig's house they went along in with him, still talking.

  Now Kim walked very slowly indeed. Sig's front door opened and
banged shut. They were safe inside. What should he do? He had to make
up his mind quickly, there would not be much time. Mother would wonder
why he was not home if he lingered too long.

   He made his decision and hurried back to the drive which led to the old
house. Though he still had caution enough to pause there and make sure
no one was watching. There were plenty of bushes, you could slip along
behind those.

   The front door had a big board nailed right across it. Where had Sig,
the others, gone in? Must be around back somewhere. Kim plowed
through the piles of leaves toward the rear of the house. He saw the porch
and the muddy tracks across it, leading to the window. That was it. Again
he paused. What was he going to do? He could still go back Only, a second
later he knew that he never could. He had to follow this adventure to the
end.

   Kim struggled to raise the window and then climbed in. Here was a big,
dark room. He had been stupid to come without a flashlight. But to get
one meant going home, and then maybe not being able to get back. There
was light enough to see across the big kitchen, maybe enough in the rest of
the house for him to explore. They had all been here before him. And if
Artie and Sig and Ras could do it, so could Kim Stevens.

  But he did take off his glasses and give them an extra polish with his
handkerchief, as if that could make him see better through the gloom.
There were odd noises, little creaks, sighs, which made him uneasy,
though he knew that they must come from old boards, and maybe rats or
mice, things you find in old houses where no one has lived for some time.

   Kim pushed on through the pantry to the dining room, stopping to look
about there. Nothing here to suggest even the smallest dragon. He thought
the big old furniture was dull and ugly, and there was thick dust
everywhere.

   Nor did the living room, with all the furniture covered with sheets and
newspapers, have anything in it to suggest that anyone had explored here.
No dragon pictures or carvings, though Kim wiped the dust by hand from
a couple of glass-fronted cabinets, to see within some cups and saucers
and small figures of people and animals.

   There was a hall beyond and here were tracks to guide him to the
doorway of another room. The door was ajar and he paused to listen.
Almost he expected to hear movement beyond. He had the strangest
feeling, as if something stood on the other side waiting for him. But after a
moment or two Kim knew it was not dangerous at all, only exciting.

   He opened the door a little wider and slipped inside. There was nothing
there but a table and a chair sitting by it, as if someone had just left. But
light came from one uncovered window and on the table were colors, very
bright colors, glowing almost like small lamps.

   He went closer to those jewel-like colors. A puzzle! He had had one
given to him last Christmas. It had been round, with all kinds of wild
animals on it. They had all helped put it together. Mother had set up a
table in the room just to hold it while they could work on it. And it had
taken a long time to put it together, almost a week.

   Kim picked up the lid of the box to look at the guide picture. Dragons!
Four of them, all different. And three of them had been fitted together
already. Only the golden one was still a spill of pieces on the tabletop. He
examined the picture of it on the cover. It was an imperial dragon--the
five-toed Lung! Now, as he looked at the other three, he saw that they were
not Chinese--especially the strange blue one. But the gold one was just like
those he had seen pictured so many times in Hong Kong.

  A lot of the pieces on the table were upside-down and there were red
markings on them, like the brush strokes of the old-time writing. Kim
poked a few around with a fingertip, and of themselves almost they
snapped together so that a red character was plain. He knew a few of the
old characters--not many--he could not really read much. Though this one
looked strange at first, it made sense.

   Just one character, written in red. Another idea swam into his mind,
though he did not know from where. In the old days the Emperor was
always supposed to write in vermilion, and was not vermilion a kind of red
color? Kim wondered where he had learned that.

  This character--memory he was not sure of supplied a word, or rather
two words: Shui Mien. That meant "sleeping." But how did he know that?
He was sure he had never seen that character before.

   Shui Mien--Lung, added his scrap of memory. Kim was startled, more
than a little afraid. Shui Mien Lung! It was as if someone standing unseen
in the dusty, half-dark room had repeated the words for him. Yet he had
heard nothing--it was as if he heard it in his mind! If you could hear with
your mind!

   Shui Mien Lung--sleeping dragon. No, again that strange mind-voice
corrected him: "Slumbering dragon!"

  What--or rather who--was the slumbering dragon?

   Kim dropped in the chair, and without planning to do so began to sort
out the pieces of the golden dragon, turning over quickly those with the
disturbing word on the back so he could no longer see it. This went here,
that there, a five-clawed foot of an imperial dragon took shape. Then he
had it all except one piece for the head--an eye on it. But the eye was
closed, the dragon slept. Or did he? Was there the smallest hint of a
raising lid? Did the dragon only pretend to sleep?



                               CHIN MU-TI




   The light of the four lamps in the chamber was not enough to reach
into the corners where shadows crouched. Chin Mu-Ti bunked and
blinked again, fighting sleep. It was as if the Minister had forgotten him
altogether and he was not to be dismissed this night to his pallet in the
guards' hall. Though it was a great honor to be sword bearer and page to
Chuko Liang, it was a wearing life, for the great one was ever restless and
seemed never to feel weariness himself.

   His master was looking from the window toward the distant mass of
black hills. Somewhere in those hills Ssuma, Commanding General of Wei,
led some twenty regiments of the enemy. Thinking about them, Mu-Ti felt
a cold chill deep inside him, the marrow of his bones was close to melting.
Ssuma's men were not to be driven lightly away, like autumn leaves by a
wandering wind, nor would they disappear like March snows at the
coming of the sun.

   Once more he blinked sleepily, his eyes upon Chuko Liang's straight
back. In these chambers the First Minister did not wear armor but rather
the robe of a magistrate, his black cap stiff and straight upon his head. He
was a spare man, with almost the leanness of one in famine time, tall as
one of the trees on the distant hillsides.

   Also he was one whose thoughts could not be read upon his face. But
now all men knew what lay before them. And though Chuko Liang was one
who drew ever from the well of wisdom, it was also true that no man may
escape this shadow no matter how fast he runs-even though he be one of
the three great heroes who have sworn a blood oath to the Emperor Liu
Pei.

   Though the Empire of Han had come on evil times and had been carved
apart into thirds, yet all men knew that Liu Pei in truth was the Son of
Heaven, of the House of Han, with the favor of the gods. There could not
be two suns in the sky, let alone three, or three kings over the people.

   Mu-Ti fought sleep with thought. What did they say of heroes? Their
virtues--courage, justice, loyalty, mutual faith, truth, generosity, contempt
for wealth--he listed them one by one in his mind. And, he remembered,
courage itself was of three kinds. Courage in the blood: the face turns red
when angry. Courage in the veins: the face turns blue. But courage of the
spirit was the strongest of all: a man's face did not alter, only his voice
strengthened in power, his eyes grew more piercing and--

   One of the lamps, having exhausted its supply of gourd oil, flickered
out. At the same time a hollow tramping sounded in the outer hall. Mu-Ti
straightened to full attention as Chuko Lian came from the window. His
was not a warrior's face, being thin and pale, with long drooping
mustaches shading his mouth. He was more like a scholar than a man of
action. Yet to the Son of Heaven he was both counseling head and fighting
arm.

  The dragon lies upon the sword; when the blade is raised the dragon
makes war.

   The generals Ma Su and Weng Ping had come in answer to their
commander's midnight summons. They were in armor, their dragon
helmets throwing demonlike shadows upon the walls, the bronze cheek
pieces in the form of tiger's heads half concealing their faces. Ma Su's
round, full jowls sprouted a closely cut fringe beard; his eyes glittered so
that he seemed the war god from some frontier temple come to walk
among men.

   And he tramped ahead of his companion, as he was used to do in most
company, pushing always before his fellow officers, his hand ever lying in
show near the hilt of his sword. He was well read in the arts of war, which
he let no man forget. From him was ever the first comment to come, as if
he lived by the saying that to be heard afar one must beat a gong upon a
hilltop. Yet he was a lucky leader of some skill, who had had his victories,
though perhaps too many dead men paid for their general's reputation.

   Mu-Ti watched him with hostility. It was well no thoughts could be
read as they lay in the mind, or he would be in danger. But that his own
father, Chin Fang, had paid with his life for a reckless sortie ordered by
Ma Su, to no real gain, was graven on the boy's heart. Not that Ma Su
knew or cared. What was a captain of mounted archers to a general of the
forces? That was the measure of the man, for Chuko Liang would not have
risked lives for show, neither would he thereafter have forgotten those who
died.

   "You have summoned us, Excellency?" Ma Su did not even wait for the
Minister to speak, affecting the brusque manners of the soldier so eager in
the service of the Emperor that he came running at summons, to stand
with one foot in the stirrup ready to mount. Had he never heard that the
mouth is sometimes a door leading to disaster?

   Chuko Liang came in two long strides to the table on which still lay the
message that had arrived less than an hour ago and the map he had been
studying thereafter.
   "Ssuma marches through the Hsieh Valley. If he succeeds he may easily
pierce to the heart of Wu. This he must not do. Above all he must not take
the Yangping Pass--" As he spoke the Minister stabbed here and there
with his long forefinger on the surface of the map. He spoke abruptly,
which was unusual--harshly, as if he could so make more quickly known to
those who listened the full danger of what lay ahead.

   If the enemy reach Chiehting, they can block off all our needed supplies.
Then all Shensi will lie open to them. We shall be forced back to
Hanchung. They will cut roads, and with a month's starvation--" He made
a gesture with those hands which seemed more fitted to grasp a writing
brush than the hilt of the sword Mu-Ti now held scabbarded and upright,
resting point down to the floor, its hilt between his palms.

   "Ssuma is no fool: he knows we must at all cost prevent him doing this,
lest our cause be ended here and now. Above all we must hold Chiehting.
But let no man not understand that this is an act in which there is near
ten-tenths of a chance that death waits--"

   "We do not command an army of sword jugglers ready to show their
skill at some festival, Excellency." Ma Su wrapped self-confidence about
him as a thick cloak protecting against winter winds. "Not yet are the
forces of Wu birds trapped in a net, or fish dumped into the cooking pot.
Give me leave to march and Chiehting is as safe as if ten dragons loop
their bodies around its walls!"

   One of the Minister's slim hands rose; his fingers pulled at a drooping
mustache end, rolled the long hairs between thumb and forefinger. Chuko
Liang did not look at his general. Rather, his eyes were still on the map.

   "Dragon begets dragon; battle, battle. Death and life are
predetermined, riches and honor depend upon the will of Heaven. This
city is small, but its value to us now is like the pearl in a sea oyster. You
are deeply read in the rules of war, but strict defense is a different matter
from the clash of swords, the thrust of spears, in open meeting with the
enemy. There is no wall at Chiehting, no natural means of defense to work
behind."

   Ma Su shrugged. "Excellency, since I was a boy I have studied the arts
of war. I am as well learned in those as a scholar in the sayings of the
Revered Masters. Why should this defense be deemed so difficult by you,
who know well what we have done in the past?"
   "Mainly because Ssuma is no common general. Even our own fingers
are of unequal length and strength, and Ssuma is above eight-tenths of a
leader. Also Chang Ho, who commands his van, is a man whose banners
make others tremble, and with good reason."

  "I have faced great leaders before, Excellency. Stout men, not stout
walls, make a well-held city. This much do I wager on what I shall do at
Chiehting--let it so be added to the roll of oaths: if I do not hold fast as
you wish, then let my head be struck from my shoulders!"

   Now Chuko Liang did look straight at him. And there was a hiss of
breath from Weng Ping, who had not spoken.

  "This is no hour for jesting. Keep such words for moments by the wine
bowls--"

   "I do not jest, Excellency. Let my oath be set down with brush and
ink--placed in record, Weng here being witness."

  "Jade and men are both shaped by harsh tools; be not unaware of
sudden changes of fortune."

   "Set it so, Excellency--that Ma Su shall hold Chiehting or else his head
rolls!" There was a hot note in the General's voice, his full cheeks flushed.

   "So will it be done. Now, I give you a legion and a half of men, and
Weng Ping shall march with you. He is to use the care and caution for
which he is known to all and is to camp in the most commanding position
so that the enemy may not steal by. Do not think small of Ssuma, he is the
best the false Emperor has to serve him.

   "When you are so set as to command the road by which the enemy
must travel, then do you draw me a map of your defenses and all the local
places to mark, and this must be sent to me. But above all--change not,
nor add to, nor lessen from, these orders. And that when you go into battle
you may not lack a single fighting man, my page here, Chin Mu-Ti, shall
ride with you to be the map messenger when you have it ready for my
hand."

   To speak is to have it done--" began Ma Su.

   But Chuko Liang held up his hand to silence that formal
acknowledgment of orders received, as he continued; "Northeast of
Chiehting is the city of Liehliucheng, and near to that a hill path. Kao
Hsiang will camp there in a stockade with a legion. If the threat to
Chiehting becomes too great he will move to your assistance. Wu Yen will
bring a troop to the rear of Chiehting as further reinforcements.
Remember, you must take up your post on the most dangerous road to the
Yangping Pass. Do not regard this all as idle talk, or make any move to
spoil the plan."

   "That is understood, Excellency." Ma Su saluted, tramping out of the
chamber, Weng Ping again a stride behind. Mu-Ti had time only to lay the
Minister's sword carefully on the table as he hurried to follow. He went
reluctantly. Though Ma Su was not his commander, yet to be even so
attached to his service for a time was galling, and he hoped he would not
have to ride with him for long. As he left, he saw that Chuko Liang was
again stooped over the map, studying its lines with fixed intensity.

   Wei, Wu, Shu to the south: the Three Kingdoms into which the once
great Empire of Han had split. In the dark days at the end of the dynasty,
Liu Pei, though of the House of Heaven, had been so poor that he had
made and sold sandals to earn food for his mother. Then the three great
heroes--Kuan Yu, Cheng Fei, Chuko Liang--had sworn blood oaths to
uphold him. Ts'ao Ts'ao wore the dragon gown in Wei, and Sun Ch'uan in
the south. Much blood had flowed, many towns had been taken and
burned, men had died in war, women and children had starved in
summer, frozen in winter; yet none of the Three Kingdoms had yielded one
to the other. Truly this was a time when more sorrow than happiness,
more shame than honor, governed the world of men.

   Now, as Mu-Ti rode out through the night with Ma Su and his men, in
the chill of the dark he lost some of his longing for sleep. He was a very
humble member of the Generals' staff, riding at its tail, and so he could
hear the muttering of men grumbling at the need for breaking their
night's rest

   Once, from the dusky ranks of the foot soldiers, came words as the staff
clattered by on horseback. "Ha, what do horsemen know of aching feet?
Does mud care which cloak it bespatters?"

  The guardsman at Mu-Ti's side cracked his whip threateningly at the
unseen speaker. "Three inches of a never-idle tongue may well find itself
shortened by two," he called back, though he must have already been well
past the soldier who had so complained.

   It was well into the following day before they reached the goal set them.
Ma Su and Weng Ping and their men dismounted, ate cold oat cakes, and
drank from saddle bottles. As he ate, Ma Su walked a little apart, staring
about him critically at the looming hills and the road. Mu-Ti, his horse's
reins looped about his wrist, ready to ride at the first command, moved
closer to the two generals than the others. That he wore the First
Minister's badge gave him, he decided, some freedom from the usual
military custom in this company, and he somehow wanted to observe Ma
Su, even as he fought the dragon's breath of hatred every time he looked
upon him. Did he wish the General to fail? A thousand times yes, were it
not that such failure would mean disaster for them all.

   "I do not see why it is thought that Wei will dare to come into this
place," Ma Su commented,

  "His Excellency has had reports from the scouts sent to watch the
march of the enemy. And he is one who thinks twice before he gives orders
once."

   "His Excellency's caution and farsightedness are well known." But there
was a suggestion in Ma Su's tone that he did not altogether mean that
statement to be a compliment. "Look to that hill standing there--look
upon it closely, Weng Ping. It is well wooded, a heaven-created place to
give one advantage over any man advancing along the road. Such a camp
as the war god himself would choose above all others."

   Weng Ping stared dutifully at the hill. Mu-Ti saw that he ran his tongue
over his lower lip before he answered. To be a subordinate to such as Ma
Su meant that the tongue must be guarded. Weng Ping well knew that the
swiftest horse cannot overtake a word once spoken. "Elder brother," he
said finally, "if we leave this road for the hill, and the forces of Ssuma then
surround it, we are lost. Also, it was in the orders given me that I must set
my men to felling trees to build a stockade fort right here."

   Ma Su laughed. "Younger brother, it is easy to see you are not learned
in the superior books of war. There it is stated as one of the major rules
that one must strive to look down upon one's enemy from a higher
position. If they attempt to march past here, I will swear that not even one
of their breastplates shall be returned to him who sent them! Those who
follow that part of themselves which is great are great men; those who
follow that part which is little are little men."

   And now Weng Ping flushed, for there was contempt in Ma Su's voice.
Still he answered, and without any show of heat. "Perhaps that be true,
elder brother. But have you noted that the hill lacks any spring of water
and that the day is hot? If the enemy comes and captures the spring below
those heights, what then? I bow to your superior learning in such matters,
but also I have known thirst and it can move men strangely. Above all, this
is not following our orders. Should we be blown east or west, when it was
told us to do this and not that?"

   "His Worthy Excellency Chuko Liang is not here. What does he know of
this ground save what has been reported to him by scouts, doubtless
ignorant men with no learning in the finer points of warfare? Were he
here, he would agree with me straightway. As for the matter of
water--desperate men fight desperately. Hungry barbarians will breach a
city wall when the odor of prosperity within reaches their nostrils. If they
thirst and must reach water, each man will fight as a hundred. Why do
you, younger brother, presume now to oppose me? Am I not the
commander here, one who has even given a blood pledge to be victor? Do
you think I would risk my head were I not sure this is right and proper?"

  "Give me a part of the force, then, to camp to the west below, that I
may support you if trouble comes."

  "You bark like a fox of ill omen." Ma Su puffed out his lips in a
daunting scowl. "Why should I waste men so foolishly?"

  But even as he spoke thus harshly there was a stir among the men
waiting within bow shot. And their ranks opened to let through a man
who stumbled and wavered as he ran. He wore the coarse clothing of a
countryman, much stained and muddied, as if he had fallen often on soft,
wet ground. He came to his knees before Ma Su, knocking his head
against the earth in deep respect.

   "What seek you here, fellow?" the General demanded.

   "This worthless person brings a message to the Excellent and
Honorable General. The army of the demon-commanded men of Wei is
close. They come as fast as if they were mounted on air-flying dragons!
Already their scouts spy among the near hills, and behind them are as
many as the locusts gathering to eat the crops of those Heaven has chosen
to feel the weight of famine."

   "Then it is time we prepare to meet them. A foot of jade is of no value,
an inch of time is to be prized." The General spoke to those about him, but
he gave no thanks to the one who had brought the warning. Instead he
said directly to Weng Ping in a cold voice, "Since you have found it fit to
question the rules of war, you shall take half a legion and do as you will
with it. But in the hour of victory you must answer for your presumption."

  "Elder brother, at that time I shall not seek to evade any questions
which may be asked of me," Weng Ping answered. He called to his officers
and messengers, ordering those spared to him by Ma Su to be ready to
march. Also he beckoned to Mu-Ti, saying, "It is not forgotten that His
Excellency desires a map to be taken to him. This I shall prepare for you."

   Mu-Ti pushed to the side of the messenger, put a hand on the man's
shoulder. The countryman, still breathing deeply, looked up. And Mu-Ti
knew him, not as the countryman he seemed, but as one he had once seen
at headquarters wearing the armor of a bowman. This was one of the
"eyes and ears" of the forces. Mu-Ti brought out his saddle gourd and put
the vessel in the spy's hands, saying, "Drink, elder brother."

    But even as the other lifted it to his lips, he spoke over its rim. "Empty
is the clear path to Heaven, crowded the dark road to Hell. When the
mantis hunts the locust he forgets the shrike hunts him."

   "Kao Hsiang camps at Liehliucheng with a legion." Mu-Ti could give no
order, but the scout was a shrewd man. That statement would hold
meaning for him.

   He handed back the gourd, nodded, and slipped away.

  Ma Su's forces were already on the march toward the hill. But Mu-Ti,
again in the saddle, followed Weng Ping.

   His much smaller body of troops marched some distance from the hill
where Ma Su's men now labored to cut down trees and build a rude fort.
Then, on the road level, Weng Ping gave orders to do the same. While his
men worked Weng Ping with his own hand copied on bamboo strips
(those meant for the messages of first importance) a map of the country,
marking the positions of his own force and that of Ma Su. He also made a
short report of what the senior General had decided about a battleground.
Then he wound the outer cover about the bundle of strips, sealing it with
his thumb ring.

   He summoned his own scouts and sent them to watch for the coming of
Ssuma and the progress of Ma Su on the hill. But Mu-Ti left before they
did, mounted on a horse selected for strength and speed, riding at a fast
pace back to the headquarters of the army.

   Twice he changed horses, but time moved also, and it was again late at
night when he staggered reeling with weariness into the presence of Chuko
Liang. The Minister took the message packet quickly from Mu-Ti, but he
did not open it until he had ordered food and drink to be brought and had
arranged that the boy himself be seated to have refreshment. He then read
rapidly what Weng Ping had written, and the map he compared to the
larger one still lying open on the table.

  He glanced at Mu-Ti, who was chewing on an oil cake, trying to
appease his inward-clawing hunger without too great loss of manners.

   "From a gabled roof the rolling melon has two choices of descent,
though both lead to disaster. A bad word whispered will echo a hundred
miles. What you have seen and heard, do not repeat."

  Mu-Ti put down the half-eaten cake. "This person is both blind and
dumb, Lord."

   But if he did not wish Mu-Ti to talk, Chuko Liang made no pretense of
trying to spare his higher officers the full extent of possible disaster. And
then those in the chamber saw what they never had seen before--Chuko
Liang displaying anger. For he struck such a blow with his fist on the top
of the table that the strong wood quivered. And he shouted in a voice
which issued hotly from his throat, even as flames might issue from the
maw of a dragon, "Now has Ma Su's ignorance and unworthy pride ruined
the army! It is easy to enroll a thousand soldiers, but where does one find
a good general?"

   The officers in the room looked from one to another, gathering closer to
their commander. And Yang I, who was of the highest rank there, dared to
ask, "What is the dire thing which has happened, Excellency?"

   "By this stupid disobedience of a direct order, perhaps we have already
lost Chiehting, maybe even more. Ma Su wagered his head on this matter.
Well, if he dies not in battle he will soon learn that a flaw in a scepter of
jade may be ground away, but for a flaw in deed nothing can be done!"

  Then Chuko Liang drew a cloak of calm once more around him. His
hand went again to his mustache, twisting the hairs this way and that,
which was always a sign he was in deep thought

  Yang I said then, "I am not too clever, or learned in the classics of war.
But let me now replace Ma Su and perhaps all is not quite lost."

    However, as the Minister nodded agreement, almost absently, and Yang
I prepared to give orders to his men, there came another messenger, the
first of many more.

   Mu-Ti, dismissed at last to the comfort of his hard bed, did not hear
the news which came, each time more dire, to be reported first to the
Minister and then, from mouth to ear, mouth to ear, all through the fort.
But when he was roused at last to attend his lord, he heard the whole of it.
One man can be ordered tongueless, or two, but not six or seven.

   Even as Weng Ping had warned, Ssuma's men surrounded the hill
which Ma Su had chosen to fortify. Ssuma himself had ridden in disguise
to view the station which the men of Wu had taken. But the brightness of
the moonlight had made plain his face so that those in the stockade above
had known him. And at that time Ma Su was reported to have laughed
and said, "If he is well advised by fortune he will not attack us. The
careless rat who chews upon the cats tail must be prepared for lightning."

   Then Ma Su issued orders for his men to watch for a red flag to be
raised at the hill's crown. When they saw that flag they were to attack. But
in the meantime Ssuma's forces drew in closely, and the spring of water
was now in enemy hands. Then another detachment of the forces of Wei
moved on to check Weng Ping.

   When the sun rose again, there was thirst among the men on the hill,
which grew worse during the hottest hours of the day. Yet Ssuma made no
move to attack, rather letting the heat of the sun work for him. And when
at last Ma Su grew impatient and raised the flag, the men did not move
forward. They were so heat-ridden in their armor that many were faint
and fell gasping.

   Ma Su, greatly angered, commanded that the officers in charge of the
companies that had not moved were to be cut down where they stood for
not obeying orders. When three or four had so fallen, the men indeed rose
for a desperate sally downslope. Ssuma's men refused to meet them,
greeting them from afar with a rain of well-aimed bolts from their
crossbows. Then Ma Su ordered his men to withdraw to the stockade and
to defend it until help came. But Weng Ping was so cut off he could not
march to their relief.

   Disorder broke out. Some of the men were angry because of their dead
officers, others were mad for water. Some even surrendered that they
might drink. And later the men of Wei set fire to the wood and brush on
the hillside. Then at last Ma Su was driven to dash to the west, while
Chang Ho, the leader of Ssuma's van, chased him into the camp of Wei
Yen, well to the rear of Chiehting. A roll of signal drums halted that chase
as Wei Yen's men in turn pushed the enemy back toward the city.

   However, there Ssuma and his son had prepared an ambush for Wu
Yen, and Weng Ping moved to save his comrades from being entrapped.
While they fought so, their camps were overrun by fast-moving troops
Ssuma had detached for that purpose, and they were driven back to the
city of Liehliucheng, where Kao Hsiang came to their aid. They proposed a
night attack, and so matters stood for awhile.

   Wu Yen and the other commanders, determined to make sure of
Chiehting, set out by three separate roads. But as they approached that
city a bomb exploded in a brilliant light, drums rolled, and the enemy
appeared demon-wise before them. Then, when Weng Ping reached the
meeting place, they had to abandon their hope of retaking the city. They
could only fight their way back to Liehliucheng, to discover Ssuma's men
again before them.

   Realizing that they were outnumbered as well as outgeneraled, Wu Yen
suggested a retreat to retain the pass at Yangping. Part of Ssuma's army
was pursuing them down the Chi valley, while the other half of the enemy
forces, under Ssuma himself, was heading for Hsieh to capture there the
main supply base and baggage train.

   Thus they had already neared Hsicheng, a town which had another
great depot of stores and which was also the only protection for the road
leading to the important cities of Nanan, T'ienshin, and Aintiny.

  Meanwhile, Mu-Ti, aroused from his slumber, had come back to the
Minister's chamber. There were officers there, messengers coming and
going. But he threaded his way through that throng and took up again the
sword of Chuko Liang, ready to wait on his lord.

   The Minister listened to the flood of ill reports, and now no expression
of anger crossed his face. Nor did he hesitate, but gave swift orders to this
man and that. And his armor bearer brought forward his armor, fitting it
upon him even as he so spoke.

   Across Mu-Ti's arm again rested the mighty battle sword. It had been a
gift from the Son of Heaven himself, as one could see by the engraving on
the blade when it was drawn. For there reared the five-clawed Lung of the
Emperor. This differed from other dragons, for some trick of the artist's
lines in drawing had partly lidded the huge eyes, so that the scaled
protector seemed about to sleep, or else was but half awakened from some
dream. Thus this blade was known as the "Slumbering Dragon."

    When Mu-Ti brought it forward to the Minister, Chuko Liang, leaving
it still in his page's hold, drew it forth a little from its scabbard and looked
upon the dragon, his face still and set with purpose. "So it has all come to
naught," he observed. "Mine is the fault. And when a fault is known it
must be amended as well as such can be done. Each man follows the path
of destiny, but no two paths are alike. It seems that mine now runs into a
place of evil intent, wasted wisdom, and stupidity."

  Then he called two captains of well-proven ability, Kuan and Chang,
and he told them, Take three companies of men and ride the road to
Wukungshan. If you see the enemy, do not fight, but as you go beat your
war drums, sound the horns of battle, and shout as loudly as might a great
army. If they then retire, do not pursue, but ride directly for the Yangping
Pass."

   And he sent the commander Yang I to put all in the town of Chienko in
order for retreat, gathering up the supplies and men, and the people living
thereabouts who feared the coming of the enemy. Ma Tai and Chang Wei
were to establish a rear guard, setting cunning ambushes along the valley.

   All these orders he gave in a calm voice, as one who had a full year of
time and was not in truth facing death and an end to all his planning. Nor
did he neglect to send other riders to Nanan, T'ienshin, and Aintiny with
the dark news that it might be well for those living there to take the road
to Hanchung.
   He was so calm that those who listened were heartened and armed with
courage in turn, as if they had drunk deep of some stream wherein the war
god himself had spilled his own wine of bravery. Then, with five
companies, Chuko Liang took horse and they rode for Hsicheng to remove
the stores there. For were those supplies to be taken or destroyed, it
indeed would be a fatal blow to all the forces of Wu.

   As they rode thus, Mu-Ti was directly behind his lord, carrying not the
sword, which Chuko Liang had now taken into his own hand, but
displaying the tailed banner of the Commander-in-Chief proudly and
properly, that all might know Chuko Liang was such a leader as went into
danger and not away from it. More messengers came, and always the news
they brought was such as a man would not choose to hear--that Ssuma
was sweeping toward them with a force to darken the country he passed
over.

   No leader of high rank was left with the Minister's own small troop save
Chuko Liang himself, and some civil officials who were not fighting men.
And when they reached the town after a forced march the Minister gave
his orders sharply, right and left, so that men scattered and ran to do his
bidding. Their already small company was halved, so that those men who
were present to move the stores had to sweat and strain, getting them
loaded on oxcarts to be drawn away from the doomed town.

   But Chuko Liang left the scene of their frantic endeavors and himself
climbed to the ramparts near the westward gate to see what lay before
them. There was dust rising in great yellow clouds reaching to the very
sky. Along two roads that dust hung, as if the jaws of a huge pincers were
about to close on Hsieheng, finding the city an easy nut to crack.

   The Minister watched only for a moment or two. Then again he made a
stir with orders, using even Mu-Ti as his messenger. All the banners which
had proclaimed the presence in Hsieheng of the forces of Wu were taken
down as fast as men could pull them loose. The half-moon halberds of
authority were dropped out of sight. And the word went forth through the
whole city that no officer was to show himself, or make a sound, with
death a quick penalty for disobedience.

   Picked men unstrapped their armor, set aside their swords, spears, and
crossbows, and put on the blue coats of peasants, so that they had the look
of simple men. With brooms and cleaning baskets they set out in the
streets to look like men whose business it was to make all tidy. Also, the
foregate was loosed of its bars and pulled fully open, letting any who came
see those streets clearly.

   Meanwhile the Minister went to the gatehouse tower, where Mu-Ti
helped him off with his armor, loosening the buckles and straps. He set
aside the heavy dragon helm and his sword in its red lacquer sheath. In
the place of all such war gear, Chuko Liang drew on an outer robe of gray,
such as a simple Taoist priest might wear, and put on his head a black
cap.

   He summoned one of the youngest scribes, and to him he handed the
pole of a yak-tail standard such as was carried for a magistrate. Mu-Ti,
having put off his own light armor at the Commander's bidding, picked up
the sheathed sword as was his duty.

    Last of all the Minister reached for a lute, which he had sent Mu-Ti
earlier to seek out in the town. He tested its stringing delicately, frowning
a little as he made adjustments to his liking. Lute in hand, he went out on
the parapet above the gate, where two of the soldiers had set a bench. And
there he seated himself, the lute across his knees, the scribe and Mu-Ti
taking their places, one on either side of him as if they were in some
pleasant garden, come to enjoy the quiet of a summer afternoon afar from
the clamor and danger of war.

  Chuko Liang, having tuned the lute to his liking, began to play and sing
one of the songs of Chi Kang:



"I will cast out wisdom and reject learning,
My thoughts shall wander in the great void--
Always repenting of wrongs done--"




   Having finished that song, he began another. Yet never did he sing of
war, but rather of the thoughts men held in times of peace, and those
verses which had been written in quiet places.

   Nor did he show the least interest in what was happening on the roads
leading to the city. To the best of their ability Mu-Ti and the young scribe
tried to copy his calm and lack of interest in their present surroundings.
   What the scribe felt, Mu-Ti did not know. As for himself, he knew an
inner shrinking, awaiting with a dread he fought hard to conceal the
striking of the first crossbow bolts. For now the scouts of the enemy's van
were riding below, though with the wariness of those suspecting ambush.

   Then, having stared for a long moment at the open gates of the town
and at the small party of three on the rampart, the scouts wheeled around
and thundered back at a full gallop the way they had come. Mu-Ti grasped
the sword tighter, as if holding it so, even sheathed, could afford some
defense. But Chuko Liang smiled gently as he finished his song, only to
begin another, this time voicing words in praise of wind-driven clouds.

   Instead of the scouts, a party of officers now returned. And judging by
their rich armor, they were of high rank, though they carried no name
banner. Close to the wall they wheeled around and halted, and there they
sat in their saddles for a period which seemed to Mu-Ti to be very long
indeed. They listened to Chuko Liang as if the light words he sang carried
some dire meaning, yet now he praised leaves driven by the autumn
breeze. Nor did he take any notice of those below, but fixed his gaze well
above their heads, as if they were ghosts without power to be seen.

   Mu-Ti watched them speak to one another. One even rode closer to look
within the gates along that street where men walked and swept in seeming
unconcern.

    That man of Wei rode back to his companions, and now he seemed to
urge some course upon the most richly armored of the party. But at length
the old Bear threw up his hand in a gesture of sharp command and they
all turned to gallop away. The Minister sang on as once more dust arose.
Only this time it signaled the retreat of the force of Wei. Mu-Ti drew a
deep breath of wonder.

   Then Chuko Liang laughed aloud and put aside the lute of clap his
hands, while out of the tower came some of the civil officials who had
ridden with his staff.

  "Excellency, what magic have you wrought?" the eldest dared to ask.
"Did you sing some spell written by the Sages that this was done?"

   Again the Minister laughed. "No magic did I use, younger brother.
Unless knowing a man's way of thought is magic. There is an old saying,
'Beware the Slumbering Dragon, stir him not awake.' Ssuma thought that
he saw here a slumbering dragon, such as that set upon my
sword--caution kept him from waking it. He knows well my reputation for
never doing anything not ten times thought upon, that I play not recklessly
with danger. Thus, when he saw the open gates inviting him into the town,
he suspected an ambush cleverly laid. When he saw me at my ease, playing
upon a lute, my hand reaching for its strings rather than the sword hilt, he
believed I must be so safe that I need not actively defend myself. Now he
will retire, and in so doing he will meet the able Kuan and Chang already
in position to give him a sharp lesson. But--had I been in his place, I
would not have turned aside. He will long have reason to regret this day."

   Then once more the Minister became a man of swift action, giving
orders that the town be speedily cleared of the remainder of the supplies,
and that those and its people be escorted to Hunchung. For he knew that
Ssuma would not be long in returning.

   But the words he had spoken had already passed among the soldiers
and then to the people of the town. So as he rode out among them they
hailed him as "Slumbering Dragon."

   It was later that Ma Su was brought to him. And seeing the
Commander he had disobeyed, the General threw himself down upon the
ground, beating his forehead against the earth, begging mercy. But
though Chuko Liang looked with pity on the humbled man, he said:

   "When Heaven sends calamities it is possible to escape; when one
occasions the calamity himself it is no longer possible to live. It is truly
said that the mouth is a door leading to disaster; no less is it certain that
by impatience and folly may great plans be brought to ruin. If the first
words of an order fail, ten thousand will not then prevail. And no man may
call himself a soldier unless he obeys the order of his leader.

   "You rashly swore victory or your head, pledging this by solemn oath.
Then you threw away victory, being led by the demon of pride to question
the worth of carefully thought out plans. Upon your head now falls the fate
you yourself asked."

   So they dealt with Ma Su even as he had, in his great conceit, suggested
that they do. But Chuko Liang knew him to be a brave man with no
treachery in him, only stupid with pride. So he did not allow the family of
Ma Su to suffer, rather took them into his own household.
   But also, at the first interval when he had time, the Minister gathered
together his senior officers and showed them the report of all that had
happened, which he had written out to be sent to the Son of Heaven. To
this report, which ended with the account of the execution of Ma Su, he
had added these words;

   "He who selects the wrong man for a post of danger is himself in grave
error. This person is no longer fit to be one trusted by the Throne.
Therefore those undeserved honors and awards which have been given in
the past to this unworthy servant, the position he holds, must rightfully be
taken from him. And in addition he must be fittingly punished for the
wrongs he committed in the ill use of power."

   Though his officers protested loudly, Chuko Liang would change none
of these words in which he resigned as First Minister. Thus the report was
sent to be put into the hands of the Emperor.

   At first the Emperor protested. But Chuko Liang held firm in his resolve
and insisted that he was no longer fit for his post, having made such a
fatal error as to select Ma Su as chief commander in the field. The
Emperor honored such honesty, which held by the teachings of older,
more upright days. So, though he took away the post of First Minister, still
he laid upon Chuko Liang the generalship of the army, with as many
rights and duties as he had held before, only the outer honor being
lessened. And all men continued to speak highly of Chuko Liang as a wise
and honorable man.

  And they made the Slumbering Dragon a subject of song, which said to
him:



"Quite open lay the city to the foe,
But Chuko's lute of jasper wonders wrought
It turned aside the legion's onward march
For both leaders guessed the other's thought."



                                     6
                           DUST ON THE TABLE




   "Slumbering dragon"--the words sighed through the dark room
hissingly, as if the dragon himself had spoken them.

   But the dragon slept upon the table, his eyes half shut. He looked just
like the one on Chuko Liang's sword. That had been silver, though,
because it was on a steel blade, whereas this one was the Imperial Yellow,
as it might appear on the Son of Heaven's own banner.

   The Son of Heaven! It was a long, long time since there had been an
Emperor in China. Kim ran his fingertip lightly over the body of the yellow
dragon. The pieces had gone so tightly together he could hardly see or feel
their divisions now. The puzzle was complete.

   Dragons--he studied the silver one coiling at the top, the queer blue one
at the bottom, the red to balance the yellow at the sides. Had they--Sig,
Ras, Artie--also met dragons?

   But Shui Mien Lung held him the longest. Kim could feel again that
weariness that had struck to his very bones when he had ridden with Ma
Su and Weng Ping and then returned with the map and the report. He
also knew again the fear that had dried his mouth, yet made his hands
sweat on the hilt of the sheathed sword as he stood beside the Minister
and watched Ssuma and his officers ride up to the wall.

   You made no excuses, you took the blame for your errors of choice as
well as act. That was what he had learned from Chuko Liang. Whole
sentences the Minister had said came back to him word by word.

   What had Kim been doing these past days since he had moved here,
gone to the new school? When he had felt lost and alone he had made it
the school's fault for being too big, too full of strangers, his parent's fault
for moving--everyone's but his own. No one was going to hunt him out,
beg him, Kim Stevens, to be a friend. He could continue to walk in error,
believing he was right, as Ma Su had done--or he could follow the path of
the Slumbering Dragon.

   Chuko had used his wits and taken triumph out of defeat. There were
different ways to face the future: like Chuko, like Ma Su. And now he knew
which he would try. Suddenly, for a moment or two he was Mu-Ti again,
folding his hands together in a way which seemed right and proper,
bowing his head respectfully to the yellow dragon.

   "A thousand, thousand thanks, Great and Noble One," he said in the
Hong Kong speech he had not used for a long time now. "That you have
kindly shown this unworthy one the rightful path is a great honor. May
this one continue to walk in it hereafter." For the second time he bowed to
the dragon as Chin Mu-Ti would have done.

   Then he took his book bag and started out of the dusky room. How long
had he lived in that dream? An hour--two? Mother would be worried. Kim
had seen her watching him with that shadow in her eyes these past days.
She and Father both had asked him about school, how he liked it. And
several times Mother had suggested that he ask home some school friends
as he used to bring James Fong and Sam Lewis. He had not known just
how to answer without letting her guess how he hated it all. Now, as
Chuko Liang had done, he would face fear. And though he did not play the
lute or sing in the face of the enemy, he would do what he could.

  Kim ran through the dark rooms, climbed out the kitchen window,
shutting it behind him. Then he halted on the porch. The puzzle! If
someone was coming to clear out the house what about the puzzle? It
would be taken away!

    Yet he did not want to go back alone to get it. Sig, Ras, and Artie--they
all had a part of it. He ought to talk to them first, ask what should be
done. Suppose he stopped at Sig's house, they might still be there--Kim
glanced at his wrist watch, a birthday present two months ago. Twenty
minutes to five! But he had gotten off the bus at four fifteen--he had been
here only about half an hour! Days had passed in the dream, half an hour
in real time. Still, twenty to five was later than usual. And now, at all
times, he did not want to worry mother.

   He could see the boys later. Better yet, he thought, suppose he called
them all up, asked them over? If they could come, then they might decide
about the puzzle, maybe collect it from the house together after school
tomorrow. Kim put on an unusual burst of speed, running down the street,
his book bag thumping against his leg, very eager to get to the phone and
make those calls. In one way it would be the first battle in his own private
war, his first chance to prove that he could follow Chuko Liang's example.
   Mother herself was using the phone when Kim came into the house. He
could see her sitting on the edge of the couch, listening. She smiled and
waved, pointing to the kitchen, where he knew there would be cookies and
milk waiting. He hung his jacket and cap in the closet, set his book bag on
the bottom stair, to be taken to his room later. But this time he did not
take his library book out to read while he ate. What he had to think about
was far more exciting than anything he could read, he was sure of that.

   There were two brownies on the snack plate, and the rest of the kitchen
had a good smell. Then he remembered about the bake sale at church.
Mother must have promised to make a lot of things for that. He could see
two covered cake tins and a couple of big pans with foil pinched over their
tops. Nobody could bake like Mother. Kim nibbled around the edge of the
first brownie to make it last.

  "Well"--Mother stood in the kitchen doorway--"how did it go today,
Kim?"

  "All right. Please, could I ask some of the boys over maybe after supper?
They live close--Sig, he's down on Ashford, and Ras and Artie are close--"

  "This is a school night and there's homework, isn't there?"

   He nodded, his mouth was full of brownie, too full to let him answer
politely as he should. Then he swallowed fast.

    "This is special. And it wouldn't take very long." He hesitated, knowing
that Mother would wonder what was so special and why he did not tell her
all about it.

  But she did not ask any questions, which was one of the best things
about Mother.

   "If their parents say they may come, why, yes, Kim. Maybe for a
half-hour or so. But on school nights--"

   "Yes," he agreed. Rules were rules and he had never asked to change
them before. But this was important. Suppose they came to clean out the
old house tomorrow and the puzzle was gone! Could he leave for school
earlier tomorrow without having to say why, get the puzzle safely out on
the way to school? Or if he could not, might one of the others?
    In one bite he ate the rest of the brownie and went to look up phone
numbers, taking them alphabetically so that Ras--George Brown--was
first. With luck Ras himself answered.

   Kim had not thought out ahead of time what to say, and now he
fumbled for the right words. After all, Ras did not know, could not know,
that he had been working the puzzle, too.

   Also, it was not very helpful when he said, This is Kim" to have Ras say,
"Kim who?"

  "Kim Stevens. I wait at the bus stop with you."

  "Sure." But there was such a note of bewilderment in Ras's voice even
now that Kim was discouraged. He could only hurry on and hope for the
best, though he was a little afraid that the other boy would not listen to
him.

   "I know--about the dragons. I--I put together the yellow one this
afternoon!"

   For a long minute there was no answer at all. Kim felt almost as cold
inside as he had on the wall of that long-ago city. Was Ras going to be
angry with him, or even hang up? The silence stretched very long indeed
before the other said, "Something happened to you, didn't it?"

   "Yes! And, Ras, what about it--the you-know-what--if they come to
clear out the house? Could--could you come over after supper and talk
about it? Maybe even if we wait until tomorrow it will be too late."

  "I'll have to ask. What about Sig--Artie?"

  "I'm going to call them."

   Ras went away from the phone to come back with a promise of "after
supper for sure." Kim had been looking up Sig's number in the book, had
his finger under it ready for the second call. And he had luck when he
reached Sig, for Artie was still there, so he got them both and gathered
two more promises.

    When they arrived he was waiting impatiently. Father had the TV on to
listen to the news, and Mother was back on the phone talking about the
bake sale, so he took them straight up to his room. Sig and Artie sat on
the bed, looking about them with open curiosity. Ras had the desk chair,
but Kim stood, eager to begin.

  "You've got a groovy place." Sig studied the shelves up on the wall,
holding the things Father had brought back from Hong Kong and Japan
and Korea. "Hey--look--there's a dragon!"

  He pointed to a wood carving.

  "That's from Taiwan," Kim said impatiently.

   "Looks a lot like the yellow dragon on the box lid." Sig got up and went
to inspect it more closely.

  Kim shook his head. 'The yellow dragon is a Lung, one belonging to the
Emperor."

  "How can you tell?" Artie wanted to know.

   "First, because it is yellow, that's the color that only the Emperor could
wear or use. Then, it had five claws on its feet, that makes it a Lung. But
the one in the puzzle is Shui Mien Lung--that means 'Slumbering Dragon',
and it was not really a dragon but a man--a man who lived in China a long
time ago. He was First Minister and General-in-Chief to the Emperor Liu
Pei, and he had a sword the Emperor had given him with a closed-eyed
dragon engraved on it. Then he did something big and brave and the
people called him Slumbering Dragon--they even made up a song about
him--" Kim talked faster and faster, glad to see he had their full attention
now and that they seemed to believe all he said.

   "A man, not a dragon." Artie nodded. "Mine was, too--Artos
Pendragon--he was a king and he had an important sword. But his dragon
wasn't on the sword, it was a big red banner. When the wind filled it, it
looked like a dragon flying."

   "Mine was a real dragon--or once it had been a man and then it
became a dragon--but it was bad. It had to be killed. They called it Fafnir.
Sigurd King's-son killed it with the sword Balmung. Odin helped him--"
Sig contributed.

  "Sirrush-Lau was real, too," Ras cut in. "It was horrible--like a big
snake mixed up with an alligator, or one of those prehistoric monsters.
The priests of Marduk-Bel kept it in a pool in the temple and they were
going to have it kill Daniel, only he figured out a way to kill it first."

   Kim's head turned from one to the other as he listened eagerly. So he
had been right in his guess that each had had a dragon, as different as the
four pictures on the cover of the box. And he wanted to know more, all of
what had happened to each of them. Pendragon, Fafnir,
Sirrush-Lau--strange names. But probably to Sig, Artie, and Ras "Shui
Mien Lung" sounded just as queer.

  "The puzzle"--he brought them back to the immediate problem.
"What's going to happen to it if they come and take everything out of the
house, maybe tomorrow?"

  "You put the yellow dragon together, finished it this afternoon?" Ras
wanted to know.

   Kim nodded.

   "Then you left it there on the table?"

  "Yes. I thought it was late, that Mother would worry. Then--then I
guess I just never thought of taking it apart. You know, it was so tight I
couldn't even see the cracks marking the pieces, or feel them."

   "We can't go after it tonight." Sig was walking from the bed to door and
back again, as if he could think better when he was on the move. "Not
tonight. At least I couldn't get away to try that. I can't even stay long here,
the folks were talking homework when I left."

   Ras and Artie were nodding in complete agreement.

   "So we'll just have to leave it until after school tomorrow and hope that
they don't come to clear things out before then. But we'll go after it
together--after school--agree on that, you guys?"

   They answered "yes," almost together. Then Sig turned to Kim. "We
want to hear your story, all of it. Maybe we haven't much time tonight, but
tell us what you can."

   So Kim began to talk, trying to make vivid to them the mistake of Ma
Su, the cleverness and courage of Chuko Liang. However, there was a lot
he feared he could not make them understand. When he had done Ras was
leaning forward, staring at Kim, as if he saw not the other boy at all but
rather what he had been describing. And Sig, back on the bed beside
Artie, and Artie himself were spellbound.

   "That Ma Su"--Ras spoke first--"was he ever stupid! Bet his head on
being right and then went out and proved how wrong he was!"

   "I don't understand--really--why Chuko Liang thought he had been
wrong and why he wanted to give up everything," Artie said slowly.
"He--he really beat this Ssuma, didn't he? And did it without fighting, too.
Why did he say he had failed? Oh, I know what you say he said, that he
made a mistake in picking the wrong guy for the job, so he was
responsible. But that's being pretty hard on himself--at least I think so."

   "It was the way they believed, the old Chinese." Kim tried to make it
clear. "They had a code they had to live up to. A lot of men didn't, but the
heroes tried the hardest and sometimes they did."

  "Yes," Sig broke in. "Like Sigurd refusing to touch the treasure even
when he had a right to it, after he killed Fafnir! He knew the treasure
changed the man who took it, as it did Mimir, so he wouldn't touch it."

  "What happened to Sigurd?" Kim demanded.

   "A lot, but I won't have time to tell you tonight," Sig answered.
"Tomorrow--listen, we went to the library today and we got some books.
Me, I got a second one about Sigurd, not exactly the same story--Sig
Clawhand wasn't in it at all. That was me--Sig Clawhand--I was with
Sigurd when he went to kill Fafnir, before that, too. And Ras, he got a
book about Egypt, but there's nothing about Meroë in it, so he has to get
another one and keep on looking. Artie--he got a good one--about the real
Arthur, not the King with the Knights and the Round Table and all that
stuff. Now--maybe you can find out something about this Chuko Liang. If
our heroes are real, then yours must be also!"

  "And when we come home tomorrow we'll all go together and get the
puzzle." Ras stood up.

   Upon that they agreed and the three left. Kim went back to sit down at
his desk and open his book. There was homework waiting. But it was very
hard to concentrate on anything between the covers of a book now. He
wanted to know all Sig could tell him about Fafnir, all Artie could about
Pendragon, all Ras could report of the monster Sirrush-Lau--and to wait
was hard. In fact, he was not sure as he closed his last book that he had
really accomplished very much studying that evening.

   "Those seemed very pleasant boys," Mother commented at breakfast. "I
am so glad you have found some new friends, Kim. Starting in at a new
school as large as Anthony Wayne is hard enough, but to have to do it
alone makes it worse. I know Mrs. Dortmund, and I have seen Mrs. Jones
and Mrs. Brown at P.T.A. meetings. They all live so close"--she did not
finish her sentence, but Kim guessed that she meant she was not worried
so much any more about Kim liking the new house and neighborhood.

   But he was impatient to get to the bus stop, so he hurried faster than
he had in days to get out of the house and down the street.

   "Hey! Wait up, man!" Artie's voice was loud and Kim slowed as the
other came down his walk still zipping up his jacket. They picked up Ras
at the next corner and Sig halfway down the block, arriving at the stop all
together.

   There were no signs of life around the old house. But it was early, only
seven thirty, and if the Good Will came to clean the place out it would
probably be later.

  "I sure wish this was Saturday!" Artie said.

  "Well, it isn't!" Ras answered him. "And we'll just have to hope they
won't get here today."

   "We got about ten minutes maybe," Artie urged. "Why can't we sneak
in and get it now?"

   "With all of these hanging around to see us?" Sig pointed to the little
kids, as well as two mothers who had escorted their own children and were
waiting to see them safely on the bus.

   They agreed gloomily that he was right. So they used the time to fill
Kim in on their own adventures, until he got the accounts rather mixed,
with all the interruptions of one or another who suddenly remembered
something he just had to add, cutting into the middle of somebody else's
story to do it.

   That Tuesday was the second longest school day Kim could
remember--almost as long as the day before had been, when he had
wanted to find out what the other boys were doing in the house. It
dragged so that each period seemed to last about four weary hours. And
when he finally climbed into the homeward-bound bus it was with the
feeling that he had spent about a week cooped up in classrooms and halls.

   He had had three classes with Artie, Sig, and Ras. And Ras and he had
had the same lunch period and so managed to get seats together. But they
dared not say too much about what was uppermost in their minds for fear
someone would overhear. It was a relief to be homeward bound and know
they could get to the puzzle soon.

  But the closer they came to their corner, the more they worried about
what had happened in their day-long absence. Had the Good Will come
and cleaned out the house? Kim really felt quite desperate as the bus
swung around to let them off.

   As one they turned to face the overgrown garden.

   "No trucks here now, anyway." Artie gave a sight of relief.

  "That doesn't mean anything," Ras pointed out. "They could have come
and gone. We won't know until we get inside."

  'Take it easy," Sig warned. "We have to go under cover, behind these
bushes, and keep out of sight. Don't want anyone to see us and ask
questions. But snap to it once we're in!"

   They ran, obeying his instructions, putting a screen of bushes between
them and the open gate. Then they reached the back porch, Sig in the
lead. He pushed up the window to slip inside, Artie nudging him along so
he could follow faster.

   "I don't think they've come yet," Sig heartened them as they entered.
"All the kitchen stuff is still here."

   The same was true in the dining and living rooms. It did not take long
to reach the puzzle room. But Sig stopped short inside the door, and Artie,
Ras, and Kim pushed against him to get in themselves. A moment later
they saw what had halted him.

   There was the table and the chair. But the top of the table was bare.
There was no completed puzzle of shining pieces, no glitter of color. Not
even the box remained. There was nothing but the chair and the table,
and a lot of dust, and a great many spider webs.

   "I--I left it right here." He tapped the tabletop with his finger. Then he
stared down in complete amazement, just as Sig had shown at the door.

   "It's not here now," Sig was saying. But Ras had moved over to Kim and
stood watching him.

  "What is it, man? What's got you bugged?"

   "Dust!" Kim pointed. "Look at all the dust! See, that's where I just
touched--I made a mark. But all the rest--it's thick with dust! How--how
could the puzzle have been here? How could we have shoved all those
pieces around and not brushed the dust away?"

    Ras leaned closer. "Hey, look here, you guys--he's right! There's sure a
lot of dust. And you don't get that much dust, even in an old place like
this, just overnight. Even if someone took the puzzle away last night, there
wouldn't be all this dust on the table. Look, I can even write my name on
it!"

  And with a fingertip he printed G-E-O-R-G-E on the table's surface.

   "But," Artie protested, his voice shrill, "I know it was right there--on
that table! I saw it there--there was the silver dragon, and the blue one,
and the red I worked--and a lot of yellow pieces--and the box--all right
there!" He put down a finger in turn, stirring up more dust.

   "I saw it"--Sig slowly nodded his head--"and so did you, Ras. And Kim
was after us, he worked the last dragon. I know he didn't make up that
story--it fits. A different dragon, but the story was like ours. And we all
know ours were true. But--the puzzle is gone--and the box--and all that
dust--It just doesn't make sense!"

  "Maybe," Kim said--he had been trying to think straight ever since he
had come to the empty table--"maybe we weren't supposed to keep the
puzzle. Maybe it was only meant to be worked once."
  "But why?" Artie asked the question none of them could answer.

   "Who knows?" was the best Ras could say. "Just this--I know what I
saw, though it may be gone now. And I know what I did when I was
Sherkarer of Meroë. Even if the puzzle is gone I am going to remember
that."

  "Yes, and maybe Kim's right," Sig said. "Maybe we each were to have
only one chance at the puzzle, and we had it."

  "But the dust--where did the dust come from?"

  "How do we know? That old guy--the one who used to live here--he got
queer things from all over the world. Maybe there was something extra
queer about the puzzle--"

   "Do you mean magic?" demanded Artie. "Magic--that's silly, nobody
believes in that but little kids."

   "Something like magic," Kim returned firmly. "You've heard of mind
reading, things like that. There was that TV program they showed last
month--the one about people who knew about things happening a long
way off at the same time they were happening. It doesn't need to be the
storybook kind of magic, it could even be a kind of magic, it could even be
a kind of science we don't understand yet. Look here--I'm Chinese, so I
have an adventure back in Chinese history. You, Sig--what country did
your people come from originally?"

  "Granddad was German."

   "So--you have an adventure in Germany. And Ras--he has one in
long-ago Africa, and Artie--did your people come from England?"

  "Wales."

   "Well, Wales is part of old Britain. So we may just be living over things
that happened to our great-great-great--about a thousand times
back--grandfathers. That makes a kind of sense, doesn't it? Anyway, the
puzzle is gone--but Ras is right, we can keep remembering what happened
to us. Maybe that was what was meant to happen, that we could
remember."
  Artie was already on his way to the door. "No use staying here any
more," he said a little too loudly. "I don't like the feel of this place now."

   He only put into words what the others sensed. The room which had
once welcomed them now pushed them out, the house wanted to get rid of
them. They hurried through its rooms to obey an order they had felt
though not heard.

   "I wonder where it went--the puzzle," Sig said.

  "We'll never know " Ras answered. "But I think Kim's onto
something--maybe we did have great-great-greats who did those things
we did. And--I'm sure glad I had a chance to fit together Sirrush-Lau!"

  Even Artie could only nod "yes" to that. He was not sure about what
Kim had said. But--he wished it were true--he liked to think that Artos,
son of Marius, namesake of the High King, was a great-great-great who
had lived somewhere far back in time. Artos was real!

  Sig flexed his hand. It was not pulled into any claw. But he could
remember how it had been once--Sig Clawhand--Sig Dortmund--there
was a tie there, he knew it.

   Kim heard a rustling of the dead leaves through which they were
tramping. But he marched to something else--the drums of Chuko Liang's
small, beleaguered army. He swung his book bag and for an instant or two
he could almost believe its weight to be that of a sword in a red lacquer
sheath.