be theirs.
He added the bottle to his little pile of possessions. There was a ring, a wax tablet and stylus, the buckles from his belt and boots (polished to an unsatisfyingly dull gloss). It was not so much, he thought sadly, looking at them, but it was a start. The bottle was a significant addition.
The florid words and complex theologies that had been impressed upon his memory were fading. They would have stayed vivid and clear only if he had put them to use. But even now he could remember some of them.
He muttered, “Asserted unities generate their opposites, resulting in dualities of opposition. Unbalanced trinities degenerate into dualities of opposition. Trinities can only be balanced by opposing trinities, resulting in effective dualities of opposition. In this way we can see that duality of opposition is the fundamental principle of existence. There is no unity; there is only duality.”
He licked his lips (he was so thirsty!) and thought about gold.
Morlock was vomiting outside the High Gates when Tyrtheorn and Earno arrived. Deor was already there, perched on a rock safely out of the way.
“I don’t think you’re really trying, Morlock,” he was saying sardonically. “There! That was better!”
Morlock retched again; the splashing sound that followed was painfully clear in the dark quiet of predawn. He spat, coughed, spat again. He shuddered violently a few times. Then, after remaining still for a moment, he said carefully, “Thank you.”
“Bah. Don’t be so polite. Get that venom out of you.”
Morlock cleared his throat and spat. “I need something to drink,” he said.
They both stood up, and that was when they saw the Eldest and the summoner standing in the gateway.
“Morlock’s been doctoring himself,” Deor said, breaking the embarrassed silence. He jumped down from the rock and ran past Tyr and Earno. There was a cask of beer in the watchroom off the corridor within. Deor drew a couple of mugs, exchanged a few words with the dwarves on watch, and walked back.
“. . . that you knew this treatment for venom,” Earno was saying.
Morlock nodded. “They taught us at the Lonetower. The Kaeniar use a venom like that of the dragons—Ah, Deor. Thanks.” Morlock took one of the mugs and turned toward the darkness. He could be heard gargling a mouthful of beer, then rinsing out his mouth with the rest of the mugful. He turned back to them. Deor silently handed him the second mug, accepting the empty one in exchange.
“The worst part of it was eating,” said Morlock, after a long pull on the mug. “I had to give the purge something to work on, you see.” He drank again.
“Morlock, you’re making me sick,” Deor complained.
“Oh. I’m out of beer.”
“I thought you were going to drink it, not water your chin with it!” Deor exploded. “I could roll the cask out here if you feel the urge to wash your hair.”
“Um. No, thanks. I am beginning to be hungry, though.”
“That’s really revolting!” Deor exclaimed. “How can you talk about food after . . . What about a decent interval?”
“Three days is interval enough,” muttered Morlock.
“I agree,” Tyr said. “Deor, you can wait decently out here. Come within, Rokhlan; I think I hear the watch making breakfast.”
“There’s only one rokhlan here,” Morlock said, as he followed his harven father into the High Gate. “The sentinel-dragon killed itself—”
“Athru rokhleni! Rokhleni! Ath! Ath!” It was the watch of the High Gates, calling into the corridor from the watchroom.
“Kinfolk,” said Tyr, “I understand that there are two opinions about Morlock’s title—”
A chorus of shouts interrupted him, Dwarvish and Wardic mixing together.
Deor was following Earno through the gateway. “Canyon keep it!” the young dwarf swore. “Don’t let Morlock tell the story. ‘I was just standing there, and this dragon—’”
The members of the watch came out and gathered them into the watch-room. Earno felt as if he had stumbled into a family celebration—a family he did not know, but had mistaken him for one of its own. They called him Rokhlan and seated him at the third place of honor, on the Eldest’s right hand, as they sat down to listen to the story of Morlock’s victory.
It was a great thing, in the north, to be a dragonkiller. The Eldest had explained it to Earno as they had travelled north to the High Gates. It went back to the Longest War (as so many things did) that had been fought between dragon and dwarf in these mountains. But the last dragon had been banished from the north