dwarves alone. We fight for those of our blood, whether given or chosen.”
“But the child is not of your blood. It is—what do you say? It is of the Other Ilk. Let it go. It must sicken you to be near it.”
“Like all fanatics, madam, you suffer from the delusion that everyone secretly shares your opinions. You may be sickened and frightened by this child, but I’m not. He’s an ugly little monster, I admit, but look at those hands! He’ll be some kind of maker, if he has half his father’s talent. Anyway, he is my blood, chosen-not-given.”
“Are you trying to talk me out of this? You can’t talk me out of it. Are you hoping that someone will come to save you? No one is coming to save you. The partisans of the Ambrosii have fled.”
“No, madam. One remains.”
“I am Noreê of the Gray Hills. Do you understand? I killed two of the Dark Seven with my own hands, a third with my blade. I will have that child.” She was halfway into the room now, and Tyr stood with his back to the wall, next to the window.
“No,” he said simply. “You will not.”
“I think I can take it without killing or maiming you. I would rather do so. It is true that the dwarves would avenge any harm done to you. But not to that thing. Give it to me, or fight for it: I’m done talking.”
The dwarvish Elder shook his head, reflecting that Noreê, had, as fanatics usually do, overlooked several options, including the one he’d had in mind from the start of this confrontation.
Tyr jumped through the open window beside him and fell four stories down to the street. He landed on his feet, of course, and the pavement shattered beneath them. But none of his bones broke: he was a dwarf, and he had made his shoes with his own hands.
The child was crying. He was badly jarred, and it wasn’t impossible that some of his bones were broken: the Other Ilk were strangely fragile. “Listen, young Morlock,” Tyr told the weeping child. “If that’s the worst thing that ever happens to you, count yourself blessed.”
Morlock’s new father tucked him into his elbow and ran off at a wolf’s pace through the darkness to the edge of the city where his kith were waiting. They would leave for the north instantly. Even Noreê would not dare come as an aggressor to the Northhold. And the child would never leave the north and return to these soft child-killing holds of the south ever again, not if Tyr had anything to say about it. Young Ambrosius could live out a long quiet life among his harven people and all would be well. Tyr believed that. He insisted on it. All would be well.
On the other hand . . .
Twelve years later he was still insisting that all would be well, but the insistence had grown a little weary. The night Morlock blew up his workroom, the insistence nearly gave way.
First there was the explosion itself. Tyr awakened groggily to the sound of glass trumpets and screams. He jumped from his nest as soon as he recognized the call. He hadn’t heard it in hundreds of years, not since he was a child learning the words and songs from his father’s father’s brother, Oldfather Khust. But he had never forgotten it: it meant, Dragons are attacking.
He threw a blanket around himself, ran out into the halls, and turned down into the corridor vomiting out the loudest noise. There he found Underguide Naeth presiding over a full-blown riot of his kin, screaming, “They’re coming! They’re coming! They’re here!”
“Naeth, stop that noise and talk to me,” Tyr said. He did not raise his voice, but somehow everyone present heard him and fell silent, waiting for the Eldest’s word. Fear of the ancient enemy was blood-deep in them, but loyalty was their bone.
“There is a fire, and the inner walls are breaking. That Other Ilk is part of it. I saw him there, basking in the fire like a dragon. I saw him.”
“Are you speaking of my harven son—your kin, chosen-not-given?”
“I didn’t choose him. And—”
“But I did. His ruthen father saved our people from the Dead Corain before your grandfather was born. If you slander his-son-and-mine again, you will pay the price. I have spoken.” Tyr’s right hand clenched into a fist before his chest.
Naeth bowed his head, abashed at the mention of his grandfather, a dwarf whose sons