Dragons!

  DRAGONS!

  EDITED BY

  Gardner Dozois and Jack Dann

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  eISBN: 978-1-62579-143-6

  Copyright © 2013 by Gardner Dozois and Jack Dann

  First printing: August 1993

  Cover art by: Ron Miller

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  Electronic version by Baen Books

  Acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint the following stories:

  "Draco, Draco" by Tanith Lee, copyright © 1985 by Tanith Lee, was first published in Beyond Lands of Never (Unicorn); reprinted by permission of the author.

  "Two Yards of Dragon" by L. Sprague de Camp, copyright © 1976 by Lin Carter, was first published in Flashing Swords No. 3 (Doubleday); reprinted by permission of the author.

  "Mrs. Byres and the Dragon" by Keith Roberts, copyright © 1990 by Davis Publications, Inc., was first published in Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine, August 1990; reprinted by permission of the author.

  "A Handful of Hatchlings" by Mark C. Sumner, copyright © 1993 by Dell Magazines, was first published in Asimov's Science Fiction, February 1993; reprinted by permission of the author.

  "Covenant with a Dragon" by Susan Casper, copyright © 1987 by Jeanne Van Buren Dann and Jack Dann, was first published in In the Field of Fire (Tor); reprinted by permission of the author.

  "Paper Dragons" by James P. Blaylock, copyright © 1985 by James P. Blaylock, was first published in Imaginary Lands (Ace); reprinted by permission of the author.

  "Up the Wall" by Esther M. Friesner, copyright © 1990 by Davis Publications, Inc., was first published in Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine, April 1990; reprinted by permission of the author.

  "Lan Lung" by M. Lucie Chin, copyright © 1980 by Simulations Publications, Inc., was first published in Ares, March 1980; reprinted by permission of the author.

  "Climacteric" by Avram Davidson, copyright © 1960 by Mercury Press, Inc., was first published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, August 1960; reprinted by permission of the author and the author's agent, Richard D. Grant.

  "The Man Who Painted the Dragon Griaule" by Lucius Shepard, copyright © 1984 by Mercury Press, Inc., was first published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, December 1984; reprinted by permission of the author.

  For

  John Kessel and James Patrick Kelly —firebreathing BOFFOS!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The editors would like to thank the following people for their help and support:

  Susan Casper, who helped with much of the word-crunching, and who lent us the use of her computer; Jeanne Van Buren Dann; Merrilee Heifetz; Janet Kagan; Ricky Kagan; Michael Swanwick; Peter Heck; Mark C. Sumner; M. Lucie Chin; Sheila Williams; Ian Randall Strock; Scott L. Towner; Trina King; Ellen Datlow; and special thanks to our own editors, Susan Allison and Ginjer Buchanan.

  Preface

  Dragons are by far the most potent and widespread of all mythological beasts, and dragons or dragonlike creatures appear in just about every mythology in the world. So omnipresent is the image of the dragon, and so powerful the emotions that it evokes, that Carl Sagan, among others, has suggested that dragons are actually a racial memory of dinosaurs, left over from the days when our remote ancestors were tiny tree-dwelling insectivores who cowered in shivering terror whenever one of the immense flesh-eaters like Tyrannosaurus Rex came crashing through the forest. Whatever the truth of that, it's certainly true that dragons are one of the few mythological creatures that it's almost pointless to bother describing. As Avram Davidson puts it, "Although the wombat is real and the dragon is not, nobody knows what a wombat looks like, and everybody knows what a dragon looks like."

  There are variations, of course—sometimes the dragon is wingless and rather like a gigantic worm; sometimes like a huge snake; most often like an immense, winged lizard. Sometimes it breathes fire, sometimes not. But, for the most part, the rule holds. With very few exceptions, almost everyone does know what a dragon looks like, which is why it is one of the master-symbols of fantasy. (Or perhaps it's the other way around.)

  Although the Eastern dragon (and particularly the Chinese dragon) is usually depicted as a wise and benevolent creature, a divine being associated with the bringing of the life-giving rains, what we have been describing here primarily fits the Western dragon . . . and, not surprisingly, it is the Western dragon, the terrible fire-breathing dragon of folklore and fairy tales, that has been the dominant image of the dragon in Western literature and art, and which is the kind of dragon we'll encounter most frequently in the stories that follow (although we've thrown in a few Eastern dragons too, along the way, just for spice).

  In addition to its well-known fondness for snacking on princesses, the Western dragon is a covetous beast, and can often be found guarding the immense treasures of gold and jewels that it's ravaged from human realms. Although sometimes portrayed as merely a huge mindless beast, the dragon is just as often depicted as having the gift of speech: in this guise, it is frequently a sorcerer, an active magic-user itself, as well as being just a magical creature. In fact, some say that Dragon Magic is the strongest and most ancient magic of all. . . .

  The strength of that magic, and the sheer power to enchant and fascinate that the dragon still possesses, even in our busy modern world, is amply demonstrated in the pages that follow.

  So open those pages, and be seized by Dragon Magic. You may never be able to snap the spell again!

  Draco, Draco

  by

  Tanith Lee

  Here, in keeping with long tradition, we get to watch a battle between a hero and a ferocious dragon of the genuine old-fashioned maiden-eating variety—but keep your eyes open, for in the compelling, tricky, and bitterly ironic story that follows, nothing is quite what it seems... .

  Tanith Lee is one of the best-known and most prolific of modern fantasists, with over forty books to her credit, including (among many others) The Birth Grave, Drinking Sapphire Wine, Don't Bite the Sun, Night's Master, The Storm Lord, Sung in Shadow, Volkhavaar, Anackire, Night Sorceries, and the collections Tamastara, The Gorgon, and Dreams of Dark and Light. Her short story "Elle Est Trois (La Mort)" won a World Fantasy Award in 1984 and her brilliant collection of retold folk tales, Red As Blood, was also a finalist that year, in the Best Collection category. Her most recent books are the novel The Blood of Roses and the collection The Forests of the Night.

  * * *

  You'll have heard stories, sometimes, of men who have fought and slain dragons. These are all lies. There's no swordsman living ever killed a dragon, though a few swordsmen dead that tried.

  On the other hand, I once travelled in company with a fellow who got the name of "dragon-slayer."

  A riddle? No. I'll tell you.

  I was coming from the North back into the South, to civilisation as you may say, when I saw him, sitting by the roadside. My first feeling was envy, I admit. He was smart and very clean for someone in the wilds, and he had the South all over him, towns and baths and money. He was crazy, too, because there was gold on his wrists and in one

  ear. But he had a sharp grey sword, an army sword, so maybe he could defend himself. He was also younger than me, and a great deal prettier, but the last isn't too difficult. I wondered what he'd do when he looked up from his daydream and saw me, tough, dark and sour as a twist of old rope, clopping down on him on my swarthy little horse, ugly as sin, that I love like a daughter.

  Then he did look up and I discovered.
<
br />   "Greetings, stranger. Nice day, isn't it?"

  He stayed relaxed as he said it, and somehow you knew from that he really could look after himself. It wasn't he thought I was harmless, just that he thought he could handle me if I tried something. Then again, I had my box of stuff alongside. Most people can tell my trade from that, and the aroma of drugs and herbs. My father was with the Romans, in fact he was probably the last Roman of all, one foot on the ship to go home, the rest of him with my mother up against the barnyard wall. She said he was a camp physician and maybe that was so. Some idea of doctoring grew up with me, though nothing great or grand. An itinerant apothecary is welcome almost anywhere, and can even turn bandits civil. It's not a wonderful life, but it's the only one I know.

  I gave the young soldier-dandy that it was a nice day. I added he'd possibly like it better if he hadn't lost his horse.

  "Yes, a pity about that. You could always sell me yours."

  "Not your style."

  He looked at her. I could see he agreed. There was also a momentary idea that he might kill me and take her, so I said, "And she's well known as mine. It would get you a bad name. I've friends round about."

  He grinned, good-naturedly. His teeth were good, too. What with that, and the hair like barley, and the rest of it—well, he was the kind usually gets what he wants. I was curious as to which army he had hung about with to gain the sword. But since the Eagles flew, there are kingdoms everywhere, chiefs, war-leaders, Roman knights, and every tide brings an invasion up some beach. Under it all, too, you

  can feel the earth, the actual ground, which had been measured and ruled with fine roads, the land which had been subdued but never tamed, beginning to quicken. Like the shadows that come with the blowing out of a lamp. Ancient things, which are in my blood somewhere, so I recognise them.

  But he was like a new coin that hadn't got dirty yet, nor learned much, though you could see your face in its shine, and cut yourself on its edge.

  His name was Caiy. Presently we came to an arrangement and he mounted up behind me on Negra. They spoke a smatter of Latin where I was born, and I called her that before I knew her, for her darkness. I couldn't call her for her hideousness, which is her only other visible attribute.

  The fact is, I wasn't primed to the country round that way at all. I'd had word, a day or two prior, that there were Saxons in the area I'd been heading for. And so I switched paths and was soon lost. When I came on Caiy, I'd been pleased with the road, which was Roman, hoping it would go somewhere useful. But, about ten miles after Caiy joined me, the road petered out in a forest. My passenger was lost, too. He was going South, no surprise there, but last night his horse had broken loose and bolted, leaving him stranded. It sounded unlikely, but I wasn't inclined to debate on it. It seemed to me someone might have stolen the horse, and Caiy didn't care to confess.

  There was no way round the forest, so we went in and the road died. Being summer, the wolves would be scarce and the bears off in the hills. Nevertheless, the trees had a feel I didn't take to, sombre and still, with the sound of little streams running through like metal chains, and birds that didn't sing but made purrings and clinkings. Negra never baulked or complained—if I'd waited to call her, I could have done it for her courage and warm-heartedness—but she couldn't come to terms with the forest, either.

  "It smells," said Caiy, who'd been kind enough not to comment on mine, "as if it's rotting. Or fermenting."

  I grunted. Of course it did, it was, the fool. But the smell told you other things. The centuries, for one. Here were the

  shadows that had come back when Rome blew out her lamp and sailed away, and left us in the dark.

  Then Caiy, the idiot, began to sing to show up the birds who wouldn't. A nice voice, clear and bright. I didn't tell him to leave off. The shadows already knew we were there.

  When night came down, the black forest closed like a cellar door.

  We made a fire and shared my supper. He'd lost his rations with his mare.

  "Shouldn't you tether that—your horse," suggested Caiy, trying not to insult her since he could see we were partial to each other. "My mare was tied, but something scared her and she broke the tether and ran. I wonder what it was," he mused, staring in the fire.

  About three hours later, we found out.

  I was asleep, and dreaming of one of my wives, up in the far North, and she was nagging at me, trying to start a brawl, which she always did for she was taller than me, and liked me to hit her once in a while so she could feel fragile, feminine and mastered. Just as she emptied the beer jar over my head, I heard a sound up in the sky like a storm that was not a storm. And I knew I wasn't dreaming any more.

  The sound went over, three or four great claps, and the tops of the forest reeling, and left shuddering. There was a sort of quiver in the air, as if sediment were stirred up in it. There was even an extra smell, dank, yet tingling. When the noise was only a memory, and the bristling hairs began to subside along my body, I opened my eyes.

  Negra was flattened to the ground, her own eyes rolling, but she was silent. Caiy was on his feet, gawping up at the tree-tops and the strands of starless sky. Then he glared at me.

  "What in the name of the Bull was that?"

  I noted vaguely that the oath showed he had Mithraic allegiances, which generally meant Roman. Then I sat up, rubbed my arms and neck to get human, and went to console Negra. Unlike his silly cavalry mare she hadn't bolted.

  "It can't," he said, "have been a bird. Though I'd have sworn something flew over."

  "No, it wasn't a bird."

  "But it had wings. Or—no, it couldn't have had wings

  the size of that."

  "Yes it could. They don't carry it far, is all."

  "Apothecary, stop being so damned provoking. If you

  know, out with it! Though I don't see how you can know.

  And don't tell me it's some bloody woods demon I won't

  believe in."

  "Nothing like that," I said. "It's real enough. Natural, in

  its own way. Not," I amended, "that I ever came across one

  before, but I've met some who did."

  Caiy was going mad, like a child working up to a tantrum.

  "Well?"

  I suppose he had charmed and irritated me enough I

  wanted to retaliate, because I just quoted some bastard

  non-sensical jabber-Latin chant at him:

  Bis terribilis-

  Bis appellare-

  Draco! Draco!

  At least, it made him sit down.

  "What?" he eventually said.

  At my age I should be over such smugness. I said,

  "It was a dragon."

  Caiy laughed. But he had glimpsed it, and knew better

  than I did that I was right.

  Nothing else happened that night. In the morning we started off again and there was a rough track, and then the forest began to thin out. After a while we emerged on the crown of a moor. The land dropped down to a valley, and on the other side there were sunny smoky hills and a long streamered sky. There was something else, too.

  Naturally, Caiy said it first, as if everything new always surprised him, as if we hadn't each of us, in some way, been waiting for it, or something like it.

  "This place stinks."

  "Hn."

  "Don't just grunt at me, you blasted quack doctor. It does, doesn't it. Why?"

  "Why do you think?"

  He brooded, pale gold and citified, behind me. Negra tried to paw the ground, and then made herself desist.

  Neither of us brave humans had said any more about what had interrupted sleep in the forest, but when I'd told him no dragon could fly far on its wings, for from all I'd ever heard they were too large and only some freakish lightness in their bones enabled them to get air-borne at all, I suppose we had both taken it to heart. Now here were the valley and the hills, and here was this reek lying over everything, strange, foul, alien, comparable to nothing, r
eally. Dragon smell.

  I considered. No doubt, the dragon went on an aeriel patrol most nights, circling as wide as it could, to see what might be there for it. There were other things I'd learnt. These beasts hunt nocturnally, like cats. At the same time, a dragon is more like a crow in its habits. It will attack and kill, but normally it eats carrion, dead things, or dying and immobilised. It's light, as I said, it has to be to take the skies, but the lack of weight is compensated by the armour, the teeth and talons. Then again, I'd heard of dragons that breathed fire. I've never been quite convinced there. It seems more likely to me such monsters only live in volcanic caves, the mountain itself belching flame and the dragon taking credit for it. Maybe not. But certainly, this dragon was no fire-breather. The ground would have been scorched for miles; I've listened to stories where that happened. There were no marks of fire. Just the insidious pervasive stench that I knew, by the time we'd gone down into the valley, would be so familiar, so soaked into us, we would hardly notice it any more, or the scent of anything else.

  I awarded all this information to my passenger. There followed a long verbal delay. I thought he might just be flabbergasted at getting so much chat from me, but then he said, very hushed, "You truly believe all this, don't you?"

  I didn't bother with the obvious, just clucked to Negra, trying to make her turn back the way we'd come. But she was unsure and for once uncooperative, and suddenly his strong hand, the nails groomed even now, came down on my arm.

  "Wait, Apothecary. If it is true—"

  "Yes, yes," I said. I sighed. "You want to go and challenge it, and become a hero." He held himself like marble, as if I were speaking of some girl he thought he loved. I didn't see why I should waste experience and wisdom on him, but then. "No man ever killed a dragon. They're plated, all over, even the underbelly. Arrows and spears just bounce off—even a pilum. Swords clang and snap in half. Yes, yes," I reiterated, "you've heard of men who slashed the tongue, or stabbed into an eye. Let me tell you, if they managed to reach that high and actually did it, then they just made the brute angry. Think of the size and shape of a dragon's head, the way the pictures show it. It's one hell of a push from the eye into the brain. And you know, there's one theory the eyelid is armoured, too, and can come down faster that that."