The Miocene Arrow

by Sean McMullen

  That same day Stanbury was married to the Lady Airlord Samondel in the royal palace of Condelor. In the skies above the gunwings of six dominions battled while heavy reaction guns in the palace gardens shot at those enemy aircraft that got too close. Bronlar was allowed back into action in the sky above Condelor on that day, and shot down her thirty-fifth Bartolican aircraft as the city’s bells began to peal for the royal marriage.

  Soon after the Northwind had begun, the resistance cells in Yarron mounted a series of suicidally intense assaults on the well-guarded and camouflaged sidings where the black trams were kept by day. Not one siding in five actually had a black tram there, but the Yarronese intelligence was limited and everything had to be hit. The attackers were armed with ballistic rockets designed for gunwings but dropped with instructions to make improvised shoulder-launchers. Hundreds of Yarronese and Bartolican carbineers died, but the Bartolicans also lost seven black trams, destroyed along with the twenty decoys that were hit. Serjon’s accidental victim had been the other. Sartov posted a reward of a million gold crendars for each of the remaining black trams. Dread of the black trams was instantly replaced by blind greed. Confronted by an ambush a fortnight after Northwind began, the commander of MC-1 set off the self-destruct charges and jumped clear. He was lynched before the fire had begun to die down. The driver and stoker of MC-3 shot the aviad crew, released the components, and derailed the tram into a shallow ravine. A carefully placed rockslide covered the prize, and the pair melted into the nearby forest to await the end of the war and their reward. They were never seen again.

  4 August 3961: Wind River

  The ceremony for awarding medals to Serjon and Alion was postponed while the fighting raged on the two fronts, but by August 4th a courier sailwing brought news of the victory at the battle of Ogden. Amid the celebrations it was also discovered that Bronlar’s reply to the charges against her had been included in the sealed bag.

  She testified that she had left the super-regal to attack the palace wingfield when Serjon had turned for his second run against the palace. The next time she saw the super-regal it was lying half submerged in a Bartolican canal. As far as she was concerned, only Alion would have been in a position to open fire on his own wingcaptain—whether accidentally, deliberately, or not at all. The Wind River Warden Inspectorate did not take long to consider the evidence. Alion was exonerated, while Bronlar’s evidence was declared to be “outside reasonable trust.” A full investigation was ordered for when Bronlar could be summoned to appear in person. The Airlord of Cosdora now intervened, saying that he would allow Bronlar to be tried only by the new Council of Allied Airlords. Sartov was secretly delighted to have the matter out of his hands and agreed, although with public reluctance.

  No sooner was this settled than Kalward sent a petition to Sartov complaining about his continued confinement. Sartov summoned Jeb Feydamor, and when the guildmaster arrived at his tent he handed him the petition and asked him to read a circled section aloud.

  “‘I originally surrendered myself for the purpose of repairing the sunwing, yet for four weeks I have been confined and subjected to almost continual examination and interrogation. Airlord of Yarron, I most humbly beseech you to allow me to work on the sunwing at the first possible opportunity, and subject to whatever scrutiny that you wish. Your loyal ally, Pyter Kalward.’”

  Feydamor handed the petition back.

  “That is all he has to say,” Sartov said as he put the petition in a gilt-embossed folder.

  “Ignore it, Lordship” was Feydamor’s opinion.

  “Have you made any progress with the sunwing?”

  “Nearly all of our resources have been dedicated to Northwind, Lordship,” Feydamor replied without a pretense of apology. “Some of the more obvious structural damage has been repaired with splints, and the wheel assembly is again usable.”

  “That is all that you have done? Nothing important has been made to actually work as yet?”

  “No, Lordship.”

  “It is still in pieces, you say?”

  “Yes, Lordship.”

  “My first thought was that Kalward might set off some self-destruct device, but if it is in pieces, how much damage can he do? Let him work on the engines first, in fact let him demonstrate them in working order to you before you will sanction the sunwing being reassembled. Assign a dozen guards to watch with you, but remember that this work is only to be done if you have time after tending the gunwings fighting over the Red Desert.”

  “Understood, Airlord.”

  The next day Sartov presented the daystar medal to Alion as he rested between patrols over Fort Sartov, and he also promoted Serjon to flock commander. Serjon had refused to accept a medal that had also been awarded to Bronlar or Alion, so he just watched and scowled. Sartov scowled back, but Alion determinedly maintained no expression at all.

  Feydamor approached his son as the crowd was dispersing after the ceremony. The guildmaster had a scrap of paper in his hand and stared at it thoughtfully as they walked.

  “If I remember anything about this glorious day it will be that a tailor’s pin was sticking into my side for the whole of the presentation,” Serjon said before his father could speak.

  “Serjon—”

  “And do you know why? Thirteen pins left by that excuse for a tailor! Gah, how I miss Ramsdel’s work. I had my suspicions so I went right through the coat and trousers and counted them. Flock commander! That means a higher allowance, and I can afford to have a proper flight jacket run up with gold thread, plush, silk and velvet. Ramsdel suggests raised moonflowers in curved teardrops with leaves that curve off the lines. He says it impresses the girls, they think flowers on dueling dress is a sign of a man’s tenderness within. I now have some discretion about who I have flying with me, be they wardens, squires, or commoners.”

  “Serjon, do you recognize this?” Feydamor interrupted as he held out the scrap of paper.

  Serjon’s smile vanished at once and the tone of his voice plunged.

  “Where did you get this?” he demanded. “This is the one from Opal, the one who raped … Where did you get this?”

  “The Airlord assigned a Bartolican featherhead to help me work on some very secret captured equipment.”

  “It’s called a sunwing ferry, word has leaked. It was shot down over the wilderness to the east but is not seriously damaged. The technology is so far ahead of ours that you have not been able to make sense of the controls or engines yet, except that they are powered by the essence of sunlight. It was built in separate modules, thirteen modules if my sources are right. How am I doing so far?”

  “Flawless, my son.”

  “So whose pennant bar was this char rubbing done from? Was it the featherhead’s?”

  “Yes. His name is Kalward. Yesterday morning he began work on one of the electrical essence engines, and showed us how to make it operate. He left his coat on the rack and I decided to search it for sabotage tools. I noticed the bars on his collar and made this rubbing. They seemed familiar, you see, but one was obviously a recent copy by a less skilled artisan.”

  Serjon drew the original out of a pocket and compared it to the rubbing. They were identical.

  “The hand of my dead sister accuses you,” Serjon hissed, his eyes unfocused. “Where is he now?”

  “Resting in the prison blockhouse. He was showing us how to make the control flaps move by using a box with an intelligence inside—”

  “I want him shot!” Serjon shouted. “I’ll denounce him to the Airlord! I have evidence, I saw what he did. A featherhead! The Airlord was right about them, they prey on us like cats upon chickens, but this chicken has had enough.”

  “The Airlord wants the sunwing—”

  “Damn the sunwing! I want him shot. Today!”

  5 August 3961: Wind River

  It was true to say that Sartov did not like Kalward, either personally or as what he represented. He was one of a type who gained position and power by manipulation
rather than ability, and even worse the tall, spindly man was of a species designed to do just that. The aviad was brought to the Airlord’s tent an hour after the ceremony honoring Serjon and Alion, and the guards were sent away after securing him to a heavy bench by leg shackles.

  “The war has suddenly turned in your favor, Lordship,” he said as Sartov entered alone.

  “For a man held in isolation you seem well informed,” replied Sartov, barely concealing his annoyance as he swept his field cloak open and sat down.

  “There is more to the sun-powered sailwing than you realize. It contains a device for communicating at vast distances, and I have been in contact with my people in Condelor every day since I arrived here.”

  This time Sartov really was alarmed. He made no attempt to conceal it.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, sitting forward with his fists clenched.

  “Just that your carbineers and gunwings are holding the tramway through the Red Desert against everything that Bartolica can throw against them, and that the Dorak resistance has paralyzed the northern tramways. The carbineers of Senner and Cosdora are actually advancing on the mighty and beautiful Condelor while wardens and gunwings of six dominions tear each other to pieces in the skies above. Do you know what they are saying in what is left of the Bartolican court?” .

  “They can say what they like, it will change nothing.”

  “They say that Colandoro and others are about to join your alliance and that you intend to besiege the Bartolican carbineers in your own country while you crush Condelor. The three northern regions want to withdraw from Greater Bartolica and sue for peace.”

  Sartov was beginning to regain his nerve. With considerable relief he realized that Kalward had not been allowed near the device until after the Northwind campaign had been unleashed in the Red Desert. Had he been able to transmit word of a massive Yarronese buildup, had the attack been stopped, had the tramway stayed open … battle-hardened carbineers now stalled at Median would have been poured into the defense of Condelor.

  “This tells me nothing of value,” Sartov said more calmly. “Any of my wardens, flyers, and guildsmen could operate your machines with a month of the right training. Unless we can build them ourselves they are useless. What do you want?”

  “I want you to know that you are playing with vast and dangerous forces that could easily destroy you.”

  “Indeed. So where are those forces being supplied from since you stupidly murdered Highliber Zarvora and cut off the shipments of sunwings and night goggles from Mirrorsun?”

  Now it was Kalward’s turn to be surprised. Sartov pressed the advantage.

  “I put it to you that you want to steal Mounthaven wings and weapons because our forces are vast and dangerous compared to the toys Mirrorsun has dropped to you.”

  “I can win the war for you,” said Kalward. “The Bartolicans were fat and lazy, but the Yarronese—”

  “I have already won, and without your help,” Sartov pointed out. “In the meantime I have a problem with you in particular. In the first days of the war, Pyter Kalward, several dozen west Yarronese estates were overrun by Bartolican carbineers. The few witnesses to survive and escape told of entire families murdered, of girls and women raped and mutilated, of halls full of bodies and of everything that could not be carried away being burned. Templates, machines, tools, diagram archives, compression engines, reaction guns, and even the guildmasters were crammed onto steam trams and made to vanish. In the hand of one dead girl was found this.”

  Sartov opened his hand to reveal Kalward’s pennant bar of the Bartolican Merchant Carbineers. The aviad officer considered it for a dozen heartbeats.

  “So? She was going to die anyway,” Kalward began, but was cut short as Sartov ripped the bar’s pin across his cheek. Beads of blood welled and dribbled down his skin.

  “You place the secrets of the sunwing in peril,” Kalward warned as he slowly turned his head back to face Sartov.

  In reply Sartov flung back the tentflap and pointed outside to what seemed to be a single wing with a five-bladed propellor in the base of its V body.

  “That aircraft is out latest gunwing, featherhead. It has a range of nine hundred miles even without pod tanks and a cruising speed of two hundred miles per hour. We do not need your pathetic sunwings. They are clever toys, but that Skyfire out there is a weapon!”

  “Skyfire. Not a poetic name.”

  Sartov ignored him. “Unlike the Bartolican’s Sandhawk it is cheap to build and easier than a gunwing to fly. Even its controls are standard. Keep your secrets, sair Kalward, keep them and take them to the grave and to hell beyond. We need nothing from unchivalric slime like you.”

  Kalward was marched back to the blockhouse jail. Meantime Sartov came under attack from one of his own flyers.

  “You mean to let him go?” cried Serjon, almost in tears with outrage.

  “Boy! Respect the Airlord,” warned Jeb Feydamor.

  “He commanded the carbineers that wiped our estate and families from the map, he raped and murdered at least one of my sisters and you want to let him go?” Serjon continued without heeding his stepfather.

  “The featherheads have been taking vast numbers of gunwings and sailwings during the confusion of this war,” Sartov explained, choosing to ignore the outburst. “We need to know where that base is located. Kalward will be allowed to escape in one of our new Skyfire gunwings, but will be followed by three other Skyfires with pod tanks.”

  “He’s a depraved murderer—”

  “He is senior enough to know where the base is located, and I think that he would certainly like to deliver a new Skyfire there”

  “Lordship, what are we fighting for if not for justice to be done?” Serjon pleaded.

  “We are fighting for Yarron!” Sartov shouted back. “When Yarron is again more than a few dozen tents in the wilderness, well we can have so much justice that you can hire an advocate to sue your peers for lingering too long in the privy, but until then we have to fight the enemy with whatever means we can.”

  “You don’t win wars by condoning murder,” Serjon began.

  “Silence!” Sartov shouted. “One more word and you will be taken to the presiding Warden of the Inspectorate and charged with treason. Now get back to your flock and prepare for your next patrol. Say nothing of this, understand?”

  Serjon was still furious, but was not stupid enough to defy an airlord.

  “Yes, Lordship,” he replied, then bowed stiffly and left the tent.

  “And you, sair Feydamor, what is your opinion?”

  “The featherhead should die,” Feydamor replied firmly.

  “I meant what is your opinion of what I want to do? That featherhead carries the secret of hundreds of missing wings, our missing guildmasters, and who knows what else?”

  “He should still die.”

  “The featherhead base needs to be found and wiped out, else they will establish a dominion in the Callscour lands and in ten years be flying out of the east and bombing Yarron. I want that base, sair Feydamor. Then and only then can he be killed.”

  Kalward had been waiting for weeks, but the dozens of aviad infiltrators and Bartolican agents that he had been counting on had not managed to breach Wind River’s security. Sartov was still protecting him, but sooner or later the hothead Warden Killer would find a way to kill him. It was time to select the best prototype wing on the base and fly east, so that his time in Wind River would not be a complete waste. He checked his hidden snaplock wire as soon as he was returned to the prison blockhouse. Four hours later a Call shrouded the wingfield in silence, except for the sound of a compression engine that had been left idling out on the flightstrip. Kalward picked the lock within minutes; it was part of his training on the other side of the world.

  Hastily he opened his cell door and took the guard’s assault carbine. He emptied a clip while killing a dozen Call-immune terriers that were roaming outside the blockhouse, then stood outside contemplating wh
at to do. He could try to find Sartov and kill him, but that was also a good way to waste time and there were a lot more terriers loose, looking for anyone not insensible with the Call. He had a lot of scope for starting fires, but the compression spirit dumps were widely dispersed, and the Call wardens on patrol would fly over to investigate. Over on the flightstrip, however, was a prototype Skyfire gunwing for the taking. Through some oversight its engine had been left idling.

  The Skyfire was shaking with the barely idling engine as Kalward ran up. Distant terriers noticed him and came hurtling over on their short legs, but he was in the cockpit before they arrived. As Sartov had said, the controls were standard, but it was also fully fueled. He could be in the air in a moment, and no patrolling gunwing or sailwing would be able to catch him. Kalward settled into the leather seat of the shuddering Skyfire and fastened the canopy, then gunned the engine. It was warm and flight-ready.

  Jeb Feydamor awoke as the Skyfire rose above the Call layer. He was bound securely in the stores hold of the aircraft, just as his guildsmen had left him. The Call made him struggle to follow its allure, but his struggles were mindless. Now that he could think he did not stay bound for long.