The Miocene Arrow

by Sean McMullen

  The Airlord abdicate, Chancellor Virtrian, was taken alive in the spring and was forced to sign the articles of surrender. Unfortunately for the Bartolicans, his powers only extended to surrendering the capital. The whole of the north was still in Yarronese control and ruled by the new Airlord, Sartov. The former Airlord was put aboard a steam tram for the trip west to Condelor. There were great celebrations planned in the Bartolican capital, and the vanquished leader was to be the centerpiece of them.

  During the winter the Bartolicans divided Yarron into three portions. The western third was directly annexed to Bartolica, the northern third would be isolated, and the remainder was declared the independent dominion of Bartolica-Yarron. In a secret pact, Dorak was charged with conquering North Yarron alone, in return for being granted all its territory. Strategically it was a stroke of genius by Stanbury, as Dorak was destined to be bled dry by what became a very difficult late-spring campaign. It would be an exhausted, minor power at the end of the war. Like all brilliant plans, however, it did not credit the enemy with sufficient ingenuity and tenacity. The winter campaign had also cost Bartolica dearly, and there were increasingly loud questions being asked in the Airlord’s Condelor palace.

  In the west of Mounthaven, Bartolica forced Westland to join Montras as a Bartolican protectorate, then annexed eastern Senner in a campaign that lasted only five days. Senner had an alliance with Cosdora, however, and to the surprise of many in the Bartolican court Cosdora’s Airlord declared chivalric war in defense of its vanquished ally and gave sanctuary to the surviving Sennerese carbineers and wardens. Cosdora was a bad enemy to acquire, being nearly as powerful as prewar Yarron.

  Thus Bartolica was forced to open a second front before the life had been squeezed from Yarron. Aviad agents were hurriedly withdrawn from the vicinity of Forian for use in Cosdora, but it took time for them to infiltrate into positions of trust in that dominion. The war slowed to a standoff on both fronts. Greater Bartolica was once again great, and Stanbury’s popularity had never been stronger, yet it had all been bought with easy, glorious victories. What even Stanbury failed to realize was that the supply of soft, easy targets had now run out.

  Having become Airlord of Yarron, Sartov lost no time in organizing a new strategic approach to the war. Knowing that Bartolica would be extended for some months to come, he evacuated twenty thousand people and thousands of tons of materials and tools west to Gannett and Wind River. There he set up new factory towns built into the hills or disguised within forests.

  On the 30th day of April, 3961, Sartov was brought news of the fall of Forian. He ordered that all flags be lowered to half-mast, then called Fieldmajor Gravat to his briefing room. They surveyed a map of the whole of Yarron. Much of it was covered with black hatching where the invaders had taken control, and their bases were marked by red circles. In his hands were reports on the battles of the previous four months, and spread out on the map were lists of names.

  “Us Yarronese ‘outlaws’ are biting back hard,” he said to Gravat, who had been directing the northern defenses.

  “The odds are better with the Callwalker featherheads removed from behind our lines. We just may survive.”

  “Remember what Virtrian said, we must do more than survive,” responded Sartov. “For now I suspect that we are secure, so I have a very special strike planned.”

  “A strike, Warden? All our victories have been defensive.”

  “On the ground, yes, but in the air we have better latitude.” He tapped at the map, deep within the shaded area. “I have some potent weapons at Gannett and Wind River. The area has difficult approaches and a loyal, well-organized militia. The Bartolican merchant service has posted garrisons on the western approaches and left them to be conquered later. The eastern approaches are all ours for now, and there are good, long wingfields there. We have been doing a lot of development work, and have thirty new gunwings stationed in the area. More are being built.”

  “Good, good. From there our patrols could shoot up those unmarked Bartolican sailwings over the Red Desert and harass their trams on the main tramway.”

  Sartov smiled. Gravat had reached a good conclusion, but one that was also wrong.

  “A stripped-down regal with a five-hundred-pound air-bomb could fly two hundred and sixty miles without refuelling. How far could it get with a crew of four and three Klasmikar guild double reaction guns?”

  The fieldmajor thought for a moment.

  “It could perhaps get into the air with such a load, but it could carry no more fuel than that to circle the wingfield and land again.”

  “What about a giant regal with a wingspan of over a hundred feet and six gunwing engines?”

  “What? I—impossible, the Sentinels would destroy—”

  “Ah, but our improvised trains now go unmolested, they have done so for five months.”

  “That is true,” Gravat conceded.

  “I trace logical paths out for myself, Fieldmajor. Five months ago I sent the airframe guilds—or what remained of them—to the Wind River Range. There they were charged with developing a new type of regal, one that could fly an immense distance with a very heavy load. I thought to bomb the besieging Bartolicans around Forian, but now, alas, Forian has been crushed. I nevertheless have six super-regals with a return circle of … an impressive number of miles.”

  Gravat whistled. “How fast are they?” he asked.

  “Not fast by any means, but each has two carbineers with reaction guns for protection, and we have also developed a method to extend the range of the hybrid gunwings. There are twelve converted already. They have even been tested in combat. They are good. Very good.”

  “A dark view will be taken by the wardens—but I do favor such innovations,” Gravat hastily added.

  “I am now Airlord, the wardens will obey me. The six super-regals have been practicing bombing runs in the Wind River Range for the past week, Fieldmajor. Further, one of our know Callwalker spies was slipped intelligence that all remaining Yarronese wings will be used to bomb the rail approaches to Forian. This will be meant as a gesture of defiance, in the face of the capture of the city.”

  “And the real target?”

  “Fieldmajor Gravat, even the flyers will not know that until they ascend from Wind River.”

  “Ah, the railway bridges between Middle Junction and Median, then?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “They would need a range of just over two hundred miles to bomb the place and return. If they are such an immense size they just may able to carry all that load and still fly such a distance.”

  “True, Fieldmajor, and you may be right. What is important is that the Bartolicans expect a massed attack on a plausible target. I want you to set sailwings practicing strafing runs against rail bridges and steam trams. Make sure that Bartolica’s agents know of it, too.”

  24 April 3961: Bartolica

  Although beaten, Yarron’s power was by no means broken. Two days after the fall of Forian an armed sailwing was cruising high over the Snake River Plains in western Bartolica, flying so high that the engine also drove a little compressor to give the flyer enough air to breathe. The sun was not yet up on the ground, and he intended to turn and make a pass after surface dawn, when the shadows were at their most revealing.

  As his compression engine droned steadily he scanned the great assembly grounds near Richfield, where hundreds of new gunwings were being built. The area was sealed off, even to ordinary Bartolicans, and was of great interest to Sartov.

  Then he saw it, flying some distance above him and across to port. It was a sailwing of some sort, but of an odd configuration. Even as he watched, he noticed another sailwing, apparently much closer although still above him. The flyer released the catches on his reaction guns. They had obviously seen him … yet they were not diving to intercept. Then he noticed another of the odd sailwings, and another, all in a row.

  The texture of the aircraft was odd, blending with the sky so as
to make them scarcely noticeable. It had only been the sharper contrast with the Bartolican sailwing that had caught his attention in the first place. He scanned them with his field glasses, and he noticed long, thin lines that converged to—the gunwing!

  Suddenly the Yarronese flyer had it. The three odd sailwings were not close and small, they were distant and immense. The gunwing was at the same height as they were, and he noted that its propellor was not spinning.

  The Yarronese flyer could not make out anything else at such a distance. He trailed the strange convoy for another thirty miles until it flew west out over the Callscour lands; then he turned back and resumed his original mission.

  The Yarronese flyer had made detailed sketches and notes as he flew. He estimated the span of the giant sailwings to be at least half a mile.

  24 April 3961: Denver

  It was a few weeks after the birth of her son that Laurelene decided to return to Condelor. A wet nurse was available to feed the baby, and she knew that she had work to do in the Bartolican capital. Like all the others who had left the monastery, Laurelene decided that she wished to do so with discretion. The Callwalkers knew of something going on there and the place was certainly being watched, but their numbers were small and they could not afford to lose another five so readily. The way out was as subtle as it was shameful to the eyes of the world.

  One afternoon Laurelene dressed in a monk’s cassock and set off across the fields with two others for the convent … . Glasken’s preaching of knowing pleasure so that one could resist temptation in better knowledge had caught on, and overnight visits took place in small groups every week. Mother Virginia met Laurelene when she arrived, and the two women sat reminiscing about Glasken for some time.

  “But now what brings you here?” asked Mother Virginia. “If you wished to initiate one of the holy brothers into those things that he must avoid you could do that in the comfort of the guesthouse at the monastery.”

  “I mean to return to Condelor,” replied Laurelene. “As you smuggled the monks away to Denver, so you must smuggle me too.”

  Mother Virginia explained that she disguised herself as a farmer’s wife and the monks as farmers or itinerants; and then they walked to a nearby hamlet, where they took a canal barge into the capital. There they stayed as man and wife in a hostelry for a day or two until the monk quietly slipped away. Mother Virginia stayed on at the hostelry, pretending that her husband was still about, then left by herself a few days later.

  “In your case we could well be sisters,” suggested Mother Virginia.

  “I have no small experience at being one of the riffraff,” agreed Laurelene.

  With some forethought Laurelene had kept the clothing in which she had escaped Yarron many months before. She and Mother Virginia changed into their disguises around sunset; then the nun left Laurelene in her room while she went to tell her deputy what was happening.

  Laurelene looked for somewhere to hang the cassock. She was surprised to see that Mother Virginia’s wardrobe held several fine gowns, and she recognized the embroidered marks of Dagraci and Lingor. A sliding panel on the dresser opened to reveal bottles of perfumes from Santarita and Parribi of Hildago, and several others that she did not recognize. She did recognize several darkwood pubic combs inlaid with gold and silver, along with sundry silk undergarments.

  Leaving everything as she had found it, Laurelene took out Glasken’s pistol, checked the rounds in the clip, then screwed the silencer barrel onto the muzzle. She had just put it into the roughweave coat that she now wore when Mother Virginia returned.

  “You have some very fine robes and perfumes,” remarked Laurelene as she swung her bag over her shoulder.

  “Well Semme, the painted women of the city have fine robes and perfumes, so if we are to show temptation in its true guise we should do at least as well.”

  “Very good, I do approve,” giggled Laurelene. “A true pupil of Glasken.”

  They set off for the tram station after dark, and within an hour were on a steam barge and chugging through the night toward the glow on the horizon that was Denver. Mother Virginia led the way to a hostelry near the center of the city. It was in a bustling but seedy area, the sort of place where one could easily lose oneself. She signed them both in, winking and giggling with the manager as she paid for the room in advance, and then he led them to a ground-floor room. Mother Virginia sat down on the bunk nearest the door.

  “So, do we go out and sample the delights of the wicked city?” asked Laurelene. “I’ve not eaten since lunchtime.”

  “Oh, we can occupy ourselves delightfully in here,” the nun replied with a wink.

  “How so? I want to eat.”

  “All in good time. I have arranged for company.”

  “Company?” asked Laurelene, turning to look through a window that opened onto a dingy lane.

  “Male company. They’re men worth waiting for.”

  Laurelene whirled and fired her silenced pistol in a string of muted pops. Mother Virginia slowly toppled from the bunk, already dead, and hit the floor with a loud thump.

  “Dagraci and Lingor gowns, perfumes by Santarita and Parribi of Hildago, crafted love combs by Brugervit himself!” Laurelene whispered sharply down at the corpse. “There were four thousand orbels’ worth of clothing, perfume, and jewelry in your room, Reverend Mother Virginia. Your servile nuns and monk lovers might not recognize the height of expensive fashion, but I do!”

  She climbed out through the window, dragging her bag with her. It was none too soon. Crouched outside she heard the door open and a male voice curse. There were more footsteps following.

  “Ah good, you—what! This is the wrong one, Callbait! You shot the wrong one!”

  “I shot nobody!” another voice cut in.

  “Can’t you tell one fat pudding from another?”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “Don’t lie to me!”

  “I swear it, sair. Check my gun’s clip.”

  “Idiot, pash-head! You saw this one every time we killed a monk. Now those foreign gentlemen will have our balls in brandy … .”

  Laurelene padded quietly away down the lane and out into the street. She walked past the tram station, out onto the main arterial highway, over the barge canal bridge, and through the ancient city gate. Stopping only to buy a stick of roast potatoes and dried emu meat from a vendor, she walked on into the night by the light of Mirrorsun, going north, alone. She walked all night, not sleeping, and she covered more ground than she had when the snow had been thick and slushy. It was sixty miles to the border, but by sunset the next day she was on Yarronese soil.

  18 April 3961: Wind River

  The Wind River wingfield had been untouched by the Bartolicans not because it was so very unlikely as a threat, but because it was a hard target. At some time in the distant past glaciers had combined to grind a level stretch of valley floor that suddenly dropped away sharply. The result was the site for a wingfield that was difficult to find and difficult to attack, but easy to hide and easy to defend.

  In early spring Sartov had his adjuncts interview all flockleaders about volunteering for service over Bartolica. When Serjon asked the rest of the flock, Alion accepted before he had finished the sentence. After all, they would be based 130 miles closer to Condelor and thus Samondel. Bronlar also accepted without hesitation, but with a strange, wistful look to Alion. Ramsdel and Kumiar were more reluctant, but accepted to be part of the same strong flock.

  On the 18th of April they ascended an hour before sunrise for Wind River, leaving their guildsmen to follow by steam tram. They landed just before dawn, at a wingfield that seemed to be no more than a flightstrip in hilly wilderness, serviced by a tramway. On closer inspection it was a very large, camouflaged complex of huge tents, backfill bunkers, and barracks. Leaving the five gunwings with the pool guildsmen they registered with the adjunct and passed in their pennant plaques. They then breakfasted.

  When they emerged from the refectory
to look for the wingfield hospitalier they were stopped by a warden and six carbineers with assault carbines. Alion was arrested and marched off into detention.

  The charge against Alion was very serious. A diplomatic drop cannister had been found concealed in his gunwing by one of the pool guildsmen. When the message within was decoded it was sent to his guildmaster, and it quickly traveled all the way up to Airlord Sartov. Late in the morning Serjon was summoned to testify before the Warden Inspectorate of Wind River, being the youthful warden’s flockleader. Alion cited Bronlar and Ramsdel as the two character witnesses that he was allowed.

  Sartov began by reading out Alion’s decoded message in full.

  My dearest and only love Samondel, Cruel and unchivalric war spreads his cold shadow before Princess as I fly her to your side. He loads ice upon her leading edges until she is forced from the sky to stand helpless in the wasteland while I lie as dead at her wheels. Melt the ice with the warmth of your smile, my darling love, and spin her engine into life as the sparkle in your eyes spins my head with reverie. Wrap me, your faithful lover, in the cascading flames of your hair and bind me that I may never leave your side again.

  Your loving and faithful warden,

  Alion of the Damaric estate

  “The signalers’ guildsmen have been over it in great detail, and it appears to be nothing more than it reads as: a love letter to the seventeenth in line to the throne of Greater Bartolica. Warden Alion is known to have had a liaison with Samondel Leovor at the coronation in Condelor last year.”

  Sartov sat down. The presiding warden called the red advocate to the floor, and he asked Serjon for his opinion.