“Alion, can you hear me?” Serjon called back as the body was strapped into the instructor’s seat.
“He stunned. Go! You fly.”
“But I can’t reach back to help him from—”
“You fly. Go, go, go! You stay, all die. Go!”
Serjon ran his hands over the controls as the canopy was slid back into place; then he snapped down the catches from inside. The control layout was fairly standard, except for the two engines. The flightstrip’s boundary lanterns were alight as he gunned the compression engines and trod the right brake to turn the gunwing trainer. Away in the darkness there were more shots, some of them from reaction guns of a heavy caliber. The gunwing gathered speed, rotated, then lifted into the air. Serjon wound the wheels up the moment they had left the ground.
It being early in the evening, Mirrorsun was rising in the east. Serjon made several estimates based on Mirrorsun, the stars, and the time of year and banked into a course for the Wind River Range.
“Alion!” he called back. “Hie there, Alion! Can you hear me? Are you all right?”
There was no answer. By turning as far as the seat would allow and stretching his arm back Serjon was able to reach Alion’s wrist. The skin was warm, and there was a steady pulse. He had been shot in the thigh, which had been roughly bandaged with a ragged piece of cloth. There was blood seeping out of the fabric, but not an alarming amount.
Flying northeast over the mountains, Serjon flew through cloud for a time, then caught sight of the glinting waters of Bear Lake in a gap. It was not a long flight, only 150 miles or so, and he had studied the terrain in detail in preparation for the raid that had brought the war to Condelor. The clouds continued to clear, and soon after their first hour in the air he was able to make out Green River in Mirrorsun’s light. Ahead was the southernmost lip of the Wind River Range, but as he got closer to free Yarronese territory, so did Serjon’s problems grow. There would be no landing lights at any wingfield, and there would be shots fired if he did manage to find one by Mirrorsun’s glow.
There was another way, however. The Sweetwater River became visible, and Serjon began to recognize some of the bends and stretches from his orientation training. A dispersal wingfield was close by. The night was calm and Mirrorsun shone down from the southeast, a pale but steady beacon. Serjon wrenched back on a handle that ignited a trail flare while the gunwing was still high. That would draw shots from anyone on the ground, but it could not be helped.
Water is flat, he kept telling himself as he threw two levers to kill the compression engines. The gunwing bounced amid a burst of spray, skipped, bounced more heavily amid a bigger splash, then lurched to an abrupt stop on a shoal just beneath the surface. Serjon immediately snapped the canopy open, but the gunwing was stuck fast and they were safe.
17 July 3961: Wind River
Alion moaned as he revived. His head was throbbing, and there was a stabbing, insistent pain in his right thigh. He tried to move, but his limbs felt as if lead weights had been strapped to them. As far as he could tell he was in a tent and it was daylight, yet everything around him seemed familiar while out of place. In the distance he could hear compression engines. So, he was still at the training wingfield north of Condelor, yet what had happened to him?
A field nurse entered. She was dressed in a neat but plain brown uniform with a red cross at either side of her collar.
“Warden Alion, you’re awake at last!” she exclaimed in Yarronese when she saw that his eyes were open.
Yarronese. Now Alion was even more confused. He decided to groan rather than speak, and he clumsily moved his hand to the bandage on his forehead.
“Try not to move,” she said as she knelt beside the stretcher and gently moved his hand back to his side. “You were shot in the escape from Bartolica, then Wingcaptain Feydamor crash-landed the stolen gunwing in the Sweetwater River. Such an ordeal! Were you awake for any of it?”
Alion thought for a moment, then decided that confusion was his best ally. He rolled his head from side to side on the pillow.
“Well now, the same Bartolican resistance fighters who had been sheltering you also managed to free the Wingcaptain Feydamor from the Bartolicans. I thought it was so noble of you, defecting to the Bartolicans to free your flockleader. What happened to you, how did you get shot?”
“Bartolican adjunct … heard me speak Yarronese. Slip of the tongue. Shot him, then … all went black.”
“Oh, how brave, you were very lucky,” she gushed. “Your Bartolican friends carried you to the trainer gunwing where the wingcaptain was waiting, and now you are home again.”
It slowly became clear to Alion what had happened. His liaison with the Lady Airlord was looked upon with extreme displeasure in Bartolica, yet he was also a hero to Samondel. What better way to be rid of him than to have him turn traitor? At that very moment someone would be telling her what a despicable turncoat he was, how he had feigned love for her to rescue Serjon.
Serjon had hardened during his time in the Bartolican cell. Rank no longer impressed him, and he was all too aware of his current high status. Sartov had expected more. Bubbling effusion, an enraged outburst, anything but uneasy politeness.
“I appreciate your, ah, initiative in the bombing of Condelor,” said the Airlord when they were at last alone. “It was an act of bravery and loyalty beyond my wildest dreams. Even had I thought of such a raid I could never have ordered you against the stronghold of Bartolica with just two gunwing escorts.”
“I would have been happier with no escorts, after what happened,” said Serjon with all the warmth of a slipstream in winter.
Sartov was aware that something odd had taken place after the bomb had plunged into the Bartolican throne hall. He now faced up to Serjon, hoping that whatever words followed would not damage the war effort.
“I have read a disturbing synopsis of your report, Wingcaptain Feydamor. It says that one of your escorts fired upon your wing as you made your second attack.”
Serjon nodded. “My dome gunner was killed instantly, and all three starboard engines shut down. I think that rockets hit them. Reaction gun bullets tore past me, but none hit. I managed to get the wing under partial control. The flight guildsman was unhurt, but in the nose. The outer port engine seized, I lost control. The flight guildsman was calling my name as the streets and housetops raced past below. Then we crashed. I remember pain, breaking spars, fire, and then water rising all around me. Bartolican carbineers cut me free and laid me on a stone road. I saw the triwing Slash fly overhead, then … I think someone kicked me in the head.”
Sartov shifted in his chair. “There were two gunwings flying escort behind you,” he pointed out. “Which of them opened fire?”
“How am I to know, Lordship? I was delivered from captivity by Warden Alion. I returned to find Bronlar Jemarial a hero and your liaison to Cosdora. What would you think?”
“Both deny shooting at you. I have a testament from Bronlar describing her part in the bombing and war duel that followed, but it says nothing about how the super-regal was shot down. Alion has made a statement. He denies it too. It might have been a triwing captured by the Bartolicans.”
“And painted sufficiently like Slash or Princess to fool my tail gunner?”
Sartov got to his feet and walked over to the trestle table where his maps and briefing cannisters were. He picked up a small box and opened it.
“This is the daystar,” he said as he looked into the box. “It was to be yours posthumously for extreme bravery in the defense of Yarron. Note that it has a red background, because it is meant to be posthumous. Now it will have to be made blue.”
“I’m sorry to cause inconvenience.”
“A member of the Guild of Medalliers is preparing another.”
“Have you spoken to Warden Alion yet?”
“No, but what—”
“Now it is my turn to ask questions and I want the answer to this one: who shot me down over Condelor, and from behind?”
Nobody else could have spoken to an Airlord like that, but Serjon already had a legend built that would live for centuries and outlast the reputations of most Airlords.
“An inquiry of the Warden Inspectorate will be called this very hour,” Sartov assured him. “Now, can I arrange anything for you? Leave to see your father in Gannett? A new flight jacket and a comfortable bed? Company in the latter?”
“I want a patrol gunwing and a place on the duty roster,” Serjon replied.
Sartov nodded with considerable relief and called in his clerk.
18 July 3961: Wind River
It was the following day before Alion was able to get up, and by then Serjon was in the air again and on active duty. Alion was able to walk only with a crutch, but the wound to his thigh had not been serious as gunshot wounds go. Sartov arrived in the early afternoon, and Alion met the Airlord of Yarron in the wingfield adjunct’s tent. After an exchange of formalities Sartov ordered the other officials out.
“What can you tell me about the Bartolican resistance?” asked Sartov, leaning forward. His manner was more one of eagerness than suspicion.
“They … are Bartolicans, mainly. They are against the war, and are opposed to the Archwarden, Stanbury.”
“Can you give me names, or contact codes? Where were you held?”
“I am sorry, Lordship, I cannot. I was kept in basements and unlit rooms. As for names, why one of the resistance told me that he knew not a single name that was not a codeword.”
Sartov sat back and clapped his hands together. “It makes sense, yes. Without such secrecy they would not last long … yet it would be helpful to be in contact. What do you remember of the attack on the palace?”
“Everything that I saw, Lordship.”
Sartov picked up a report and read what he already knew off by heart.
“Wingcaptain Feydamor was fired upon from behind. He did not see the gunwing responsible, but he is adamant that it was not groundfire. What happened, Warden Alion? Tell it in your words.”
“Ah, as I saw it, the super-regal bombed the palace. As I flew through the cloud of debris. I was hit by either groundfire or flying stone. I nursed Princess clear of the palace grounds, then crash-landed in a street. I ignited the destruct flare and left Princess burning.”
“That was brave and resourceful. And the resistance found you before the vigilance brigades?”
“Yes. It was just luck.”
“Were there any other gunwings in the sky during the second attack against the palace? Had the Bartolicans ascended by then?”
“Lordship, I did not even see the second attack on the palace. I noticed one triwing in a war duel, but quite far away.”
“You are certain?”
“Yes, Lordship.”
This was not what Sartov had wanted to hear. The attack on the Bartolican wardens and nobility had unified both warden and artisan classes throughout Yarron and all its allies. The attack had been so spectacularly successful that it was touted as a sign of divine approval for the Yarronese cause. The Bartolicans had even tried to emulate it in an attack against Cosdora, but that scheme had gone badly wrong and left the Bartolicans looking stupid as well as unchivalric. Yarronese attacked in the open, bravely and directly: Bartolicans did it by stealth and secret bombs.
To have suspicion and dissension surfacing now would do no good to the war effort. Sartov stood up and folded his arms behind his back.
“From what you say, it is clear that Semme Jemarial was the only one in a position to shoot down the super-regal, yet she is currently our military liaison to Cosdora. Guilty or not …”
Sartov’s voice trailed off as he considered the constraints and options. Serjon was the greatest Yarronese hero for decades, and perhaps the greatest ever. Alion had saved him from a Bartolican prison. Bronlar had brought Cosdora into the war on Yarron’s side, and the Cosdorans would not hear a word against her. Either Bronlar or Alion had shot down Serjon, and the evidence pointed to Bronlar. The palace gardens were apparently full of women when Serjon had attacked, and that might have aroused her sense of chivalry. It might also have aroused Alion’s, for that matter. Who was to know?
That afternoon Sartov told Serjon that groundfire had been deemed responsible for the crash of the super-regal by the presiding Warden of the Inspectorate after consultations with him. Serjon had added an unmarked sailwing and a Bartolican warden to his tally by then, and was in a fighting mood. They went walking along the flightstrip for privacy, and a mild wind tugged at their clothing and floated their voices away.
“The word must be that groundfire brought you down,” insisted Sartov. “Any other conclusion would damage Free Yarron’s war effort.”
“Yarron’s freedom can’t be founded on lies. Chancellor Virtrian saw a gunwing shoot at me.”
“Chancellor Virtrian might have been mistaken. Besides, he is imprisoned in Condelor and obviously not available to testify, and we have only your word on what he said. Yarron can be weakened by truth for its own sake. Accept and proclaim my word, Flockleader Feydamor, we cannot let anything detract from Yarron’s triumph at Condelor.”
“Yarron’s triumph at Condelor was nothing but a breach of discipline on my part,” Serjon snapped angrily. “How would you like me to proclaim that to the guildsmen, artisans, wardens, and carbineers of the ground and air? It’s just as I confessed to you yesterday: I broke off and flew against Condelor on my own initiative out of sheer revenge for the Bartolican atrocities at Opal and the other estates of western Yarron. Never forget that, Lordship.”
“And what about now? I have my sources, and my sources tell me that you once proposidoned Bronlar Jemarial and she refused you! That could be a reason to besmirch her name with this accusation. Do you destroy everything that displeases you, including Semme Jemarial?”
Serjon’s face reddened with shame, but his eyes were wide with tethered anger.
“I am Serjon Warden Killer, as I was then. Why would I want one scrawny little rat wearing registration wings when I had my choice of every maid in Casper—and most of their mothers. I accuse someone of shooting the super-regal down. Only Bronlar and Alion qualify.”
Alion was approaching in the distance, limping along on his crutches. Sartov beckoned to him and waited until he was within earshot before he replied to Serjon.
“What would you suggest doing about the incident at Condelor, Flockleader Feydamor?” he asked, his voice even and reasonable in spite of the agitation in his face.
“Proclaim an inquiry.”
“Is that all?”
“It would ruin her name,” said Alion, entering the exchange for the first time.
“You are honorably lenient toward her, but then she did not shoot at you from behind,” retorted Serjon.
“She may have been strafing the Bartolican nobles too,” protested Alion. “The super-regal may have got in the way.”
“Impossible!” insisted Serjon. “Besides, she has testified that she did not join in the second attack.”
“Neither did I!” cried Alion.
“Well, somebody shot at me!”
“That is for a formal hearing of the Warden Inspectorate to determine,” interjected Sartov. “Until then, I want no more discussion on this matter. Yarron must see unity among its heroes.”
“Even when they shoot each other in the back?”
“The Warden Inspectorate will decide if that really happened.”
“Well, meantime the suspects must be removed from the active list.”
“You are talking about two of my best warriors. No!”
“Lordship, this is dishonesty, this is against every wardenly principle.”
“Not so, Flockleader. This is a path to wartime justice. Reject it and you betray your wardenate, guild, fiocks, dominion, and airlord. Accept it and you will get what you want. If—and I say if—the Inspectorate finds that a Yarronese shot at you, then Alion and Bronlar will certainly be suspended, subject to a deeper investigation
.”
Serjon looked from the Airlord to Alion and then back to the Airlord. None of this satisfied him, yet it was clearly as much of a concession as he could hope for. Standing with them on the flightstrip, he felt exposed and hunted, as if a rogue gunwing were about to appear and strafe him.
“Very well, Lordship, have it your way.”
19 July 3961: Vernal
Sartov had one further log to roll into Serjon’s path. He flew to Cosdora and secretly asked the Airlord to refuse the extradition of Bronlar. On the way back from the capital, he stopped at Vernal where Bronlar was training a group of young flyers in the new Yarronese way of war dueling. When she landed after a demonstration of power dives, she found that an improvised ceremony had been thrown together. Sartov had brought a daystar medal with him, and very soon the eight-pointed decoration was hanging from a silk ribbon around her neck while three of her guildsmen played the Yarronese anthem on flute, fiddle, and guitar. Nobody thought it odd that Sartov took her aside for a walk beside the flightstrip when the ceremony was over.
“I have just heard that Serjon and Alion are alive and safe!” Bronlar said excitedly. “That’s even better than the daystar. When can I—”
“Semme Jemarial, you do not hail a noble without being hailed,” Sartov pointed out. His voice was patient, but his expression grim. “You salute or bow, then wait to be hailed. The only exception is if you are the closest of friends, and have made a magistrate’s declaration.”
Bronlar fiddled with the daystar, abashed. “I’m sorry, Lordship. Formality is not enforced on this wingfield, especially now that we’re trying to encourage unchivalric methods of air combat. One gets into new habits easily.”
“Flockleader Serjon Feydamor, Air Carbineer First Class, has accused one of his escort of shooting down his super-regal over Condelor. Warden Alion Damaric helped to rescue him from Condelor, supporting the case against you.”
His words had the impact of a carbine butt to the head. Bronlar gasped, stopped, and gripped the daystar with both hands.
The Miocene Arrow Page 43
