The Miocene Arrow

by Sean McMullen

  Feydamor and Glasken did not notice the gunwings with Yarronese markings until they were already attacking. One moment a Bartolican sailwing was sweeping along in triumph, the next it had slewed into the ground, where it cartwheeled and exploded. A gunwing with DK 2 on the wings and a red claw on the engine’s cowling roared over them and banked to starboard, coming around in a tight turn. A Bartolican sailwing leveled out for its strafing run, oblivious of the danger, and a moment later it bellyflopped onto the roadway and erupted into a fireball of compression spirit. Glasken glanced about. Two more Yaronese sailwings had engaged the Bartolican wardens high above. Already one invader gunwing was trailing black smoke.

  “This is beyond words,” said Feydamor. His mouth hung open as he sought more words, but none came.

  “Twenty-five against three, another glorious Yarronese defeat, eh?” said Glasken.

  Feydamor scanned higher battle in the sky for a moment. Now two Bartolican wardens were trailing smoke and losing height.

  “That’s nine—” A sailwing to the right crumpled and began falling, out of control. “Make that ten Bartolicans destroyed. Glasken, our hybrids are tearing them to pieces!”

  As they watched another trail of smoke was written across the sky, yet the invader sailwings lower down were still trying to make strafing runs. Two more came in to attack, pursued by DK 3. Both crashed into the fields beside the road and burned in smoky pyres.

  A Bartolican warden descended with his motor spluttering. Three of the Bartolican flock tried to cover him as he landed on the deserted road. A sailwing landed nearby to rescue the warden, but a Yarronese hybrid cut through at full speed to rake the two airborne sailwings with reaction-gun fire, drawing the defenders after him. They could not match his rate of climb, however, and he pulled away from them easily. Another long, black trail had formed in the sky over to the south, a comet with a tail of black and a head of fire.

  “That’s eleven,” said Glasken.

  Feydamor was watching the two grounded Bartolicans being beaten to the ground by Yarronese refugees. Glasken followed his gaze when he made no reply. The proud invaders were on the ground, unmoving, but still the refugees continued to beat and kick.

  “Bad form, Sair Feydamor?” asked Glasken, looking back up at the sky.

  “They murdered my sympathy long ago, Sair Glasken.”

  Another six Bartolican sailwings were shot out of the sky before the surviving eight broke and fled, two trailing thin streams of black smoke. Feydamor noted who had fled, noting especially which was the warden who was running from commoners. A lone Yarronese was flying in pursuit, and at a speed that should have brought the fire of the Sentinels down upon him.

  “I suppose this is a disgrace because commoners defeated wardens,” Glasken said as they made their way back onto the road.

  “I should think that, Sair Glasken,” Feydamor said, his eyes burning with triumph, “but I can’t.”

  Serjon’s hybrid was out of ammunition as he bounced through the mountain thermals back to Casper. Bronlar was flying tatters of fabric from her port wing, and Alion had a streamer of pale smoke trailing from his engine. They passed Casper Mountain, then began to descend. At Casper wingfield there were sailwings on patrol, but the Call signals were down so it was safe to land.

  Alion descended first, bounced twice in an overhasty landing, then stopped in a cloud of smoke near the end of the flightstrip. Guildsmen came running up pushing a fire cart and by the time Bronlar made her approach the hybrid had been pushed clear and the fire was out. She landed smoothly and taxied onto a dispersal track, heading for the guild tents. Serjon followed her example, but as he turned onto the dispersal track his mind began to slip out of combat mode and his demons returned. He had returned with one very significant thirteen hanging over him.

  As he neared the pennant pole the adjunct came running up, followed by two clerks.

  “Bullet holes,” observed the adjunct as Serjon unbuckled his straps. “Did you see clear air combat, or was it ground fire?”

  “Combat, Sair Adjunct, though the air was a bit smoky.”

  Serjon climbed out onto the ground and stood clutching the hybrid’s wing while his knees trembled visibly. Not far away Ramsdel was shouting at the top of his voice, gesturing to the holes in Princess’ compression engine’s cowling and a large oil stain on the gold and crimson needlework of a new 8ight jacket that he had lent Alion. Several guildsmen looked on, puzzled but sympathetic. Bronlar was on her knees beside her hybrid, vomiting her last meal into the dust.

  “Are they all right?” Serjon asked the adjunct, gesturing to the rest of his flock.

  “If you mean are they injured: not badly. Did you have any victories in these new wonder wings?” the adjunct asked hopefully.

  “Three wardens and two sailwings.”

  The adjunct dropped his board.

  “I now have twelve victories, Sair Adjunct,” Serjon began babbling. “My next will be thirteen. That’s my nemesis. I will die.”

  Ramsdel came striding over. There were tears in his eyes.

  “Fourteen gold circars and just look at this sleeve!” he said, holding up the flight jacket that he lent Alion to go with the new gunwing.

  The embroidered cloth was soaked in oil, torn by the passage of a bullet, and bloodied by the graze on Alion’s upper arm. Alion stood behind him, his lips pressed together and clearly unimpressed by Ramsdel’ histrionics.

  “Have you anything to report?” asked the adjunct, motioning Ramsdel aside and looking to Alion.

  “Ah, two sailwings and one gunwing destroyed, with two damaged but flying,” said Alion with a crisp salute.

  “One of those was forced down on the road,” Serjon added.

  The adjunct chalked the figures that he did not believe. Bronlar was still on her knees retching. A medic and his nurses were attending her.

  “And Semme Jemarial, was she in the combat too?”

  “Nine sailwings … and a warden!” said Serjon after a moment’s thought.

  “Ten,” whispered the adjunct in wonder as he noted the figures.

  “She shot up her thirteenth today, she’s safe now!” said Serjon with undisguised envy.

  The adjunct watched as Serjon took Alion over to where the medic was treating Bronlar. The young warden’s arm was not badly hurt, and was soon cleaned up and bandaged. Serjon knelt beside Bronlar and began a conversation that featured the word thirteen very heavily.

  “Nineteen victories,” said the adjunct to his clerks. “No losses.”

  “Chancellor Sartov may be pleased,” said a clerk optimistically.

  The adjunct handed him the board, then crossed the dispersal track to the two flyers. Flopping down in the grass beside them he threw his arms around Serjon and burst into tears. Nothing that anyone could do would stop his weeping.

  “Ah, there now, sair, we understand,” babbled the embarrassed Serjon. “I lost my mother and five sisters, and Bronlar lost her parents and one of my sisters. I mean, she borrowed my sister because she didn’t have any colors and now—”

  “When did you hear that they died?” asked Bronlar after taking the adjunct’s hand.

  “We walked in just as you ascended,” said a hoarse voice behind them.

  A gaunt, hollow-eyed woman was standing in the adjunct’s greatcoat, with a girl of about eight clinging to her ragged skirts and a toddler in her arms.

  “He was frantic for the whole time you were away,” the woman continued. “He thought he’d sent you to your deaths while we were safe.”

  15 September 3960: Casper

  There were no more Bartolican attacks on the refugee column before Glasken and Feydamor reached Casper, but as they reached the little city they found themselves among the last of six thousand arrivals. The welcome for the refugees was wearing decidedly thin.

  A cluster of tents and a clerk with a few carbineers comprised the checking post, and the queue took longer to negotiate than the previous day’s walk. As they d
eclared themselves, Glasken and Feydamor were suddenly surprised by the way the jaded clerk’s head jerked up.

  “Guildmaster Feydamor!” he exclaimed. “You’re listed as dead!”

  “That’s a little extreme,” said Feydamor, holding up his arm and feeling his pulse.

  The clerk sent one of the carbineers on an errand while he processed their papers, and the man returned with a lieutenant of the local merchant carbineers. They soon found themselves in a small room at the tram station, tasting coffee for the first time since leaving Opal.

  “I should begin with the good news after all you’ve been through,” began the officer. “Your son has had twelve victories against the Bartolicans, six of them against wardens.”

  Elation and amusement pulled in different directions at Feydamor’s features.

  “So he’s facing his thirteenth?” Feydamor laughed. “He should be rattled about that. And is he safe, uninjured?”

  “He’s on patrol, and as safe as any flockleader can be in a war.”

  “Serjon? A flockleader?” Feydamor exclaimed, delighted.

  “Yes, worthy sair. He’s one of the finest flyers in Mounthaven’s history. Serjon Warden Killer, that’s what they call him.”

  Glasken now leaned forward and cleared his throat.

  “By your leave and all, Sair Lieutenant, but what is to be our fate now that we’re in Casper?”

  “Well now, that is up to my discretion. Sair Feydamor, you are quite clearly needed at the regional capital, Sheridan, where the Chancellor is directing our war effort. As for you, Sair Glasken, these papers state that you are a diplomatic courier from a very distant dominion in the south.”

  “Yes. I was told to seek an audience with your airlord on behalf of my mistress the envoy, but I have learned this day that your capital—and airlord—are under siege.”

  “That is so. The Bartolicans’ carbineers moved with the speed of a windsquall and surrounded our capital.”

  “In that case I must see Chancellor Sartov.”

  “Ho ho! Chancellor Sartov is a very busy man, Sair Glasken. But tell me your message and I’ll have a courier take it to him by steam tram.”

  “With all possible respect, Lieutenant, if my message was so trivial that I could pass it to you, it would be of no interest to Chancellor Sartov.”

  “Which tells me nothing,” sighed the merchant officer. “Sair Glasken, space in the steam trams is so scarce that passengers must discard their bedrolls, bags, and even water bottles. You may be genuine, but you may be lying. I cannot tell which, so I can provide no authority for you. All I can suggest is that Sair Feydamor sees the Chancellor on your behalf.”

  Outside the office Feydamor was more hopeful.

  “I cannot tell you the message,” said Glasken. “Please understand that and take no offense.”

  Feydamor nodded and clapped Glasken on the shoulder. “Sair Glasken, I’ll have a word to Chancellor Sartov when I arrive, I swear it.”

  Later that day a Call swept over the refugee camp, but most people were just sitting about and securely tethered. Shortly after it had passed, the next steam tram was cleared to leave for Sheridan. Its seats had been ripped out to allow room for a few more passengers, and there were even passengers sharing the driver’s booth. To Feydamor’s surprise Glasken came running up waving a permission that bore an official seal with the lieutenant’s stamp. The station guard scowled and muttered that the merchant officer was breaking his own rules by overloading the tram, but Glasken was still allowed aboard. Amid clouds of steam and wood smoke mixed with vegetable oil lubricant, the tram began chuffing slowly through the depot sidings and rattling over the points. Those aboard were almost all young men.

  “So why are so many lads of fighting age being moved to Sheridan?” Feydamor asked the youth beside him.

  “I’m to lay rails, but I’ve not been told where,” he replied. “That’s like for all of us, what say?”

  There was a chorus of assent at his words. Nearly everyone else aboard had been recruited to go lay rails. Some were miners, others had backgrounds in flightstrip preparation.

  “It seems a misplaced effort with the Bartolicans swarming over us,” said Feydamor.

  “Chancellor Sartov decreed it, and he has lost no battles.”

  “His region is furthest from the fighting,” Feydamor pointed out. “Where is the track to be laid?”

  “And why would you want to know, Sair Stranger with a Bartolican lilt in your Yarronese?”

  All eyes were upon Feydamor as other conversations fell away into silence.

  “From Opal, border, mostly family killed,” Glasken barked awkwardly in Yarronese.

  “And how would you know, foreigner?” Feydamor’s interrogator asked.

  “Flockleader Serjon Feydamor, he father of,” Glasken said, ignoring the question. “Papers having.”

  “The Warden Killer?” said the youth. “Half the fogeys in Yarron would claim him as their son to beg an ale.”

  Just then there was a shout from behind the tram and someone exclaimed that there was a flyer running after them. When Feydamor heard his name called he suddenly burst into a thrashing blur of arms and legs as he fought his way to a window and punched out the glass. The tram driver was putting on steam, thinking that an illegal passenger was in pursuit.

  “Serjon!” Feydamor shouted to the figure in a flying jacket running about fifty feet behind the tram.

  “Dad!” panted Serjon. “You hurt?”

  “No, I’m fit and fighting. Serjy boy, I’m proud of you. I mean it.”

  “Love you, Dad.”

  “Now you stop and set your Call anchor, you hear?”

  Serjon slowed, but they called and waved to each other until the tram rounded a bend and was lost behind a kiln-works. The mood in the tram had by now made a shift from dangerous menace to unquestioning awe and goodwill.

  “My apologies, guildmaster,” said the youth who had been speaking to Feydamor. “And to answer your question, we really don’t know where the new tramway is to be laid.”

  18 September 3960: Sheridan

  The wilderness of the Wind River Range was of no interest to any but the most hardy of settlers, but owing to the war there was no shortage of refugee labor when Sartov called for volunteers to work there. Years earlier a tramway to southern Dorak had been laid to the border, but a dispute over tolls and costs caused the Dorakians to abandon the work on their side. Now it was a tramway into wilderness, but as such it made a perfect and easily defensible fastness for Sartov. Navvy men laid track for staging yards and dug earth bunkers for storage, while others graded flightstrips. Refugees began streaming across to the sanctuary in the mountains of northwest Yarron, walking alongside narrow-gauge trams crammed with tools, weapons, and people. When the first flightstrip was declared finished Chancellor Sartov arranged a hasty ceremony to mark the first flight from Sheridan, and found a chaplain to bless the regal that was to be used—in a break from tending the wounded and praying for the dead. At the ceremony he was watched by a great number of refugee guild families and carbineers who were to go to the new estate. There were prayers for a speedy end to the unchivalric and illegal war, and Sartov made a short speech about how the Bartolicans won only by breaking the rules. He then held a copy of the Code of Chivalric Warfare high in the air.

  “Let us see if their triumphs continue when we fight that way too!” he declared, then he tossed the book through the air and behind a stack of compression spirit barrels.

  The crowd applauded politely and softly, stunned by what amounted to chivalric heresy.

  “So they fight us with merchant carbineers? We shall hit back with my new air carbineers!”

  This time there were ragged cheers of assent.

  “Air Carbineer Bronlar Jemarial has destroyed nine sailwings! Air Carbineer Serjon Feydamor has shot down six wardens. Imagine what a hundred like them will do to the Bartolicans.”

  Cries of “Mother Cat!” and “Warden Killer!�
� were mixed with the roar of assent that was returned to Sartov.

  “And that’s not all. Yarron has extra carbineers in training, carbineers that will make the Bartolicans curse the day they crossed our border, carbineers that will laugh at odds of ten to one.”

  “Good enough for Bronlar, good enough for us!” shouted a carbineer from the Bighorn Mountains. “We’ll shit on ’em, Chancellor Sartov!” drawled the man beside him. There was more cheering, and hats were flung into the air. Glasken and Feydamor watched from a distance.

  “The man impresses me,” Glasken pronounced, as if judging an examination candidate.

  “He’s throwing away everything I ever believed in,” said Feydamor sullenly, “but a dead wife and five dead daughters tell me to follow him.” After a moment he added, “Did you hear the way they cheered Serjon?” His eyes were shining with pride.

  Sartov heard the clanging of the local Call tower as he sat in his chambers, watching a regal being prepared to make the first flight to Wind River.

  “At least it arrived once we were finished,” he said to his aide.

  “Yes, Chancellor. Fifteen minutes, now.”

  The man left his office and hurried away to tether himself in the common padded room. Sartov locked his door, strapped himself into his chair, and tidied some papers as he waited. Outside the compression engines of the regal revved up, and soon Sartov heard it ascend. He worked on. Just before 11 A.M. the barely perceptible moment of surrender washed over him, and he plunged away into an abandonment that he would only remember as scraps of dreams. He awoke with the clock on just before 2 P.M.

  The clock! The clock was the regional palace tower clock, and he was sitting in the guttering between two roofs. Sartov’s hands were tied, and a gag was in his mouth. A man that he had seen somewhere once before was sitting in front of him, and there was a bottle of Colandoro frostwine and a cut of chickenwurst nearby. The Veraguayan’s guard. Glasken. The man he had helped escape the wrath of Laurelene Hannan four months ago.