he knew he must be in the den of the master dragon. Of course: Saijok had moved the hoard from Vild’s seat in the valley to his own cave. Morlock ran a cold eye over the hoard. It was not paltry, but it was nothing to content a dragon. Haukrull was fairly wealthy, as the oldest settlement of Other Ilk in the north. But its accumulated wealth (added to much that must have been stolen in Ranga í Rayal) did not compare with the fame of Thrymhaiam. And Morlock knew that the fame of Thrymhaiam fell short of the facts.
The thought nagged at him, when he wished to think of nothing. Across the echoing treasure-filled cave was a blindingly bright hole: the gate of the dragon’s den, which he had seen from the outside. To his right, as he faced the gate, was the dark mouth of a vast tunnel, from which a fountain of cool steam was rising. With the steam, troubling echoes rose into the light. They grew slightly louder as he listened. Saijok Mahr was approaching.
Without willing it, he backed away from the cavernous tunnel. He tripped over something and fell on a pile of jewels, as sharp as humbler stones. He rolled over and saw what had caused him to fall.
It was a body. It was Tyr’s body. It was not dead. And it was not alone.
They lay in a ragged row, like a rack of silver spears he saw beyond them in the imperfectly ordered hoard. He knew them all. Beyond Tyr, who wore the gray cape of a thain, was Earno. Next to him was Lernaion, like a gray-etched ebony statue in that place, pregnant with violence. Beyond Lernaion was a member of his faction: Rild of the Third Stone, a vocate from Easthold. Beyond him were more vocates, and a line of thains beyond them. He did not need to lift the lids of any of their eyes to know they were in dragonspell: he could see the blood-bright circles of their enchanted eyes through the thin translucent skin of their eyelids. This was the fate Almeijn had died to escape.
From the cave behind him, Morlock heard the sudden full-throated roar of Saijok Mahr.
Plunging into action, Morlock seized Earno and Tyr by their collars and began to haul them toward the bright gate. It stood with its threshold slightly above his line of sight. When he had dragged the two bodies up the glittering slope that led to the gate, he stood still for a moment to catch his breath.
As he paused, he heard something. He heard it not above the other sounds around him—the rattle of coins falling back down the slope, the repeated roar of the approaching dragon, the sound of his own labored breathing in the venom-laden air—but below these, on the level of the wind that hissed by the gateposts outside. The sound was directionless, dim, irregular in rhythm. He had heard it only once before, but that made it all the more impossible to mistake.
Beyond the curtain of light, there were dragons breathing.
Morlock retreated hastily down the slope, drawing the bodies of Tyr and Earno behind him. Of course: when the hoard had been moved to the new master’s den, the guile must have followed it. They were in attendance outside. Plainly they would not hesitate to destroy anyone who stumbled into their midst, attempting to make off with any part of the hoard.
He wondered whether he should drag the spellbound captives into the tunnel from which he had come. Saijok would not be able to reach them there (though how they would ultimately escape Morlock could not imagine). But he had no sooner thought this when he knew it was impossible. He could hear Saijok approaching, like a storm rising out of the earth. He would be here in moments. Morlock could save two of the captives, perhaps, and himself.
Lernaion and Earno should be saved, he supposed. But, given this miraculous opportunity, he had no intention of leaving Tyr to die while saving the summoners. The safety of the Wardlands and his loyalty as a Guardian dictated that he sacrifice his ruthen blood, but there were deeper loyalties—and, besides, would the realm really be safer with Earno in charge of its defense? He had been willful and strange, lately. Lernaion, too, had been tested against the dragons and failed. And father Tyr was wise: he knew the enemy from within.
This thought, bearing the knowledge of the dwarf’s