Dragonworld

by Byron Preiss

  “I will be brief. The death of the child is a tragic thing. If you were right, and it was the fault of the Fandorans—”

  “My own son discovered the body near the cliffs,” said Willen. He held up two rainbow-shaded fragments. “I think she was collecting seashells when the Fandorans found her.”

  “Then we are in grave danger,” said Evirae. She looked at the fragments for a moment, then pushed them away. “I doubt if Overwood has now the leadership to see us through this crisis. The government is being subverted by those who wish to use it to their own ends.”

  “What do you mean?” Willen asked.

  “I mean this: Hawkwind and Ceria, with the help of General Vora, intend to use Simbala for their own gains, perhaps in league with the Southland.”

  Willen simply stared at her in disbelief.

  “Monarch Ephrion,” Evirae continued, “has suffered dearly, Willen. He was ill when he selected Hawkwind. He grows senile, as all doubtless know who have heard him speak. He has no wife or children, and Lady Graydawn, his beloved younger sister, continues her self-imposed exile in the Northweald. Hawkwind realizes these things. He was honored by Ephrion for his heroism in the mines, and he seized the opportunity to ingratiate himself. Once in the castle, he and his gypsy lover, Ceria, manipulated Ephrion. The Monarch is an old sick man, Willen, and it is easy to see how he could have taken the miner for a son. How else could an outsider have come to join the Royal Family?

  “Though I am a member of the Royal Family, I did not oppose Hawkwind at first, but it has become increasingly clear to me that Hawkwind is weak. He does not rule Simbala—he is a hollow man, a puppet ruler. He rarely speaks to the people. It is Ceria who pulls his strings, supported by the General. A frightening pattern has begun to emerge, Willen. Hawkwind, for example, did nothing to offset or prepare for war during previous troubles with Fandora—”

  “Excuse me, milady,” Willen said hesitantly. “But . . . previous troubles?”

  “That is too complicated to go into now—by your own statement, we have not the time. I asked you to trust me, did I not?” Evirae said with a disarming smile. Without waiting for an answer, she concluded, “Hawkwind is Ceria’s puppet. Nobody knows her true origins, save that she is a Rayan. The Northwealdsfolk have had problems with the Rayan before, have they not?”

  “Indeed they have!” Willen replied hotly. “Thieves and vagrants, all of them! Never ones for honest work when they can—”

  “Exactly so,” Evirae said, interrupting smoothly, “but they are canny, very canny. Ceria has ambitions which are being furthered by Hawkwind’s actions, and I must learn what they are. To do that, I will need help. I will need the help of a people who are not afraid to demand what they feel is just, even from the Monarch of Simbala.”

  “I understand,” Willen said.

  “Good, good. Please keep in mind that this conversation is secret, but if you care to discuss Hawkwind’s and Ceria’s actions with a few people whom you trust in the Northweald, then do. I am afraid Lady Graydawn is loyal to Hawkwind, and I must solicit your pledge of secrecy regarding her.”

  Willen was troubled. Keep this information from Lady Graydawn? How could he possibly . . . ?

  Evirae sensed Willen’s discomfort and said, “After all, Hawkwind was appointed by Lady Graydawn’s own brother. It would be impossible for her to protest.”

  Willen nodded. That made sense. The Princess spoke with such conviction, much more so than the people of Overwood he had dealt with in the past. Yet, in the back of his mind something bothered Willen. He had trouble trusting a person who seemed to have all the answers.

  Evirae leaned toward him. “Remember,” she said confidentially, “there are rumors about the Rayan. They are nomads. They could easily have lived in another country, years ago, could they not? Perhaps . . . Fandora?”

  Willen drew back and stared at her. His mind focused on the land across the Strait of Balomar. Evirae raised her hand quickly. “Again, all of this is only conjecture. But . . . it is something to think about.” She paused. “Return now and await word from me. Simbala—both Overwood and the Northweald—is in danger.”

  Willen nodded. He stood, turned to go, then remembered to take her hand. She smiled at him, and under the spell of that smile he said, “You can depend on me, milady.” Then he hurried away into the woods.

  Evirae watched him go, keeping herself carefully in repose. There was quiet for a moment, and then the bushes rustled again and Mesor stepped into the bower. She looked at him, and now she was trembling with nervousness.

  “Did you hear?” she asked him.

  “For the most part,” he replied. “You were very convincing.”

  She sighed. “I hope so. It is a difficult job, building suspicion out of such insubstantial materials. Do you think he suspects me?”

  “I doubt it very much. He is only a bumpkin, remember. You used your presence very effectively. You could have told him that dragons live in the palace, and he would likely have believed you.” Mesor paused a moment, then asked, “What previous dealings with the Fandorans has Hawkwind neglected to counter?”

  She smiled wanly. “None, that I know of.” She rose then, and went to him, putting her head on his shoulder, much like a small child in search of solace. There was nothing seductive in it at all, nor did Mesor feel any desire for her as he patted her back and made comforting sounds. It was simply another part of his office.

  She said softly, “Part of me loves the intrigue, and part of me fears it. Oh, Mesor, what if he suspects, what if he talks of this to Graydawn, what if my accusations return to Hawkwind?”

  “That will not happen,” he said sharply. “Continue spinning your web. Soon Hawkwind and Ceria will be so thoroughly enmeshed in it that it will not matter if they learn of your workings. You will have them. You will have the palace.” And, he added to himself, so will I.

  * * *

  Amsel dreamed. Asleep in the gently rocking boat, he saw again the bright claws of the fire tearing their way through his tree house, saw leaves becoming black cusps, furniture and equipment burning, containers of fluids exploding from the heat. In his nightmare he found his escape route to Greenmeadow Mesa cut off, and he was forced to continue climbing, higher and higher. The tree seemed to extend forever, and the fire spread until it engulfed the entire forest. Then he was at the top, and on the topmost branch stood Jondalrun, huge and terrible, a knife in his hand. He heard a voice crying his name, and saw Johan hovering nearby on the Wing he had invented. Amsel leaped up and out, and seized the crossbar. The Wing went into a dive, and Johan began to scream as they fell. . . .

  Amsel opened his eyes, shuddering. He was still in the boat, where he had been for the last two days. The heat that had been the fire in the dream was the burning sun above, but the sun was not shining on him now.

  He squinted at the dark form in the sky, then gasped as the last vestiges of sleep cleared from his mind and he saw it clearly. It could only be a windship. It was not more than twice the height of a man above him. A boatlike craft, bigger than Amsel’s and intricately carved with the figurehead of a snarling bear, hung by ropes from a huge and complicated arrangement of sails. The sails were sewn in such a way that balloonlike ribbing covered them—instead of a flat surface, they were humped with gentle, rolling billows. These strained against the wind with a flexing sound, almost musical. Obviously, some sort of buoyant gas filled the ribbing of the sail, but what produced it in such quantity without weighing down the windship?

  Amsel was immediately afire with scientific curiosity, but the sound of an arrow thudding into the floor of his boat quickly brought him out of the mood. He looked at it. There was a blue ribbon around the shaft.

  “You are trespassing in Simbalese waters. Abandon your craft!”

  Amsel looked up and saw two men, dressed in dark blue uniforms, leaning over the railing near the low cabin aboard the ship. The taller man aimed a crossbow directly at him.

  “Do you unders
tand me?” the man shouted.

  “Yes,” Amsel replied. The speech of the Simbalese man was similar to that of the Fandorans, but the accent made it difficult to follow.

  A rope ladder suddenly dropped from the windship. “Abandon your boat,” said the Windrider again.

  Another arrow sank into the small wooden seat beside Amsel.

  “Obviously I don’t have much choice,” said the inventor, but as he rose to grasp the yithe fibers of the ladder, he realized that he was weak with hunger and exhaustion. Gulls had swept down on his boat and had taken the remaining cheese while he had slept. The perilous journey had been draining. Nevertheless, the ladder had to be climbed. With much effort Amsel seized it, and as he did, he glanced out across the strait. To his surprise and delight, land was only a few miles away. He had paddled all the previous day and until now did not know that he had evaded the current and had come so close to the Simbalese shore. The news buoyed Amsel, and he started to climb the rope ladder.

  The task proved harder than it looked. Although the height was low, the ladder spun around under Amsel’s weight. The inventor grew dizzy, then lost his grip and landed with a splash in the azure waters.

  The two Windriders looked down in disgust. “A Fandoran,” said the first.

  “That explains it,” said the second.

  XI

  Jondalrun watched as the children of Tamberly Town joined in a game of betie. They cheerfully kicked the cloth betie ball through a wooden board scalloped with eight arches of different value. It was painfully clear to Jondalrun that the children were oblivious of the preparations for war. Some would be losing their fathers and brothers, he thought sadly, and the news of those losses would bring sorrow and confusion to what were now sweet and innocent lives. The war would make them older. He sighed.

  The ball bounced in his direction. Jondalrun picked it up and threw it back to the children. For a moment the Elder wished that it could all be forgotten, that Fandora could return to its regular pattern of affairs. But that was impossible. Jondalrun turned slowly from the square, unable to watch the children’s faces, seeing Johan in each of them. He walked slowly toward Graywood Tavern. He was expecting Agron to join him.

  Jondalrun sat silently in a booth, not drinking. An hour passed, and Agron entered the tavern.

  “They have returned,” he said. Moments later, two men covered with soot and cinders appeared. In their arms were scrolls, bound books, and objects unknown to Jondalrun, brought from the ruins of the hermit’s house.

  “Ale for these men!” shouted Agron, and he helped them bring the objects to Jondalrun’s table. The three remained there, drinking from stone grogs as Jondalrun analyzed their find. He picked up a long black tube charred by the fire. Handling it gingerly, considering its undoubtedly sorcerous origins, he noticed that it was hollow, with a clear glass lens at either end. He turned it over several times and then held it up to his eye. With a startled cry he dropped it, and the clay cylinder shattered on the floor.

  “What did you see?” Agron asked.

  “I saw Meyan, the tavernkeeper, and that keg of ale he is tapping, as though he were a handsbreadth away!” Jondalrun said. He shuddered. “Amsel was a sorcerer—no doubt about it!”

  The men looked at each other uncomfortably; they had carried these things for many miles.

  Jondalrun picked up one of the scrolls—it, too, was charred and brittle. With extreme care he unrolled a portion of it. Jondalrun could read relatively well, but he could not read what was written in a fine hand on this parchment, though it had a disturbing familiarity to it. Agron said, “It seems to have been written backwards. Hold it up to a glass.”

  “No need,” Jondalrun said with satisfaction. “The fact that he disguised his notes is proof enough. I was correct—Amsel was a spy.” He opened another scroll. “Here is the final proof!” He showed a detailed map of the coastline of Simbala.

  “We shall turn his works against him,” Jondalrun said. “This map shall help us launch our invasion. It is only fitting that the murderer of my son should help us destroy his people.” He turned to the men. “Did you find proof of his death?”

  “There were a great many charred bones in the ruins,” one of them said.

  Jondalrun nodded. “Then he is dead,” he said with a grim expression. “I would not have seen it done this way . . . but it is done. Let the people know what we have learned.”

  Within hours, word had spread through Tamberly Town that positive proof had been found that Amsel was a Simbalese spy, and many doubts and misgivings about the war were quieted. The Elders each returned to their respective villages to prepare their people—each village was to send a hundred men to the army.

  The preparation was an incredibly difficult task. No swords had clashed within living memory, no horses had charged over the rocky fields and heather-grown moors. There had been no reason to make war. Fandora was effectively isolated from other nations, and no civil strife had ever formed. The wild currents of the Strait of Balomar and the high cliffs which faced it had kept Simbalese and Southlanders from invading.

  Finding the men willing to fight was easy enough, but finding weapons to arm them was another matter. The land was rich enough in iron ore, but there was no time to mine and refine it and cast weapons from it. Each village was expected to arm its men, any way they could.

  * * *

  “I will not let you take them!”

  The old man stood, arms akimbo, at the top of the stone steps that led to his house. He was a very old man; his skin was dry parchment, his hair a fine spiderweb of white. Though rigid in his anger and indignation, he still stood stooped with age. He wore a yellow robe made from thin night-moth silk. An opalescent ring glittered on his finger, as though reflecting the anger in his eyes.

  His house was a marvelous sight for Fandora; it made the homes of rich folk seem like mud-and-reed hovels. It stood on the edge of the town, near a stand of woods, and was surrounded by a high stone wall. The roof was domed with beaten bronze rather than shingled with wood. Two squat towers with windows of glazed glass flanked it, and the second floor opened onto an ornately carved wooden balcony. The old man stood in front of the closed double doors and glared down at those before him.

  “We must take them!” said one of those who faced him. He was also an old man, though not so old as the one on the step. He wore clothes of rough wool and a threadbare cape. He was the Chief Elder of the town, and behind him were four other men. Three of them seemed impatient and angry; they shifted from foot to foot, while the old man harangued the Elder. Only the fourth did not fidget. He was a giant of a man, almost six feet tall and built like a barrel, with huge arms and a dull, placid face.

  “Please believe me,” the Elder said. “I don’t want to do this, but you must understand our position.”

  “Your position is barbaric!” the old man shouted.

  The Elder removed his cape and wiped his brow with it. He sighed impatiently. “You cannot tend crops with them! You cannot travel in them! You have no use for them! Fandora is going to war! We need that iron! We need to cast weapons from it!”

  “Then melt down your rakes and harrow blades!” the old man said. “Take the rings from your fingers and the shoes from your horses and cast them into the fire! I tell you that you will not take from me what is dearer than my life!”

  One of the others, a man half-bald from a scar which ran across his head, said, “Why are we arguing with this old fool? We need the iron, and we don’t have much time. We go and get the things, says I!”

  “Try, and I’ll stop you!” the old man cried.

  “Please,” the Elder said in a last attempt at peacemaking. “Understand . . . the war leaves us no choice—”

  “There is always a choice about war! If you fools want to fight and kill each other, it will not be with weapons made from—”

  “Oh, enough of this!” another man said. He was tall, and thought of himself as handsome; he wore what he considered to
be an officer’s uniform—a black tunic and leggings, crisscrossed with gold braid and dotted at random with epaulets. He was obviously sweltering in the hot sun, but he kept his plumed hat on and his collar resolutely buttoned. “We have no more time to waste!” he continued. Then he went around the house toward the crenellated stone wall behind it. The others followed. The Elder paused, looked apologetically back at the old man, and then went with them.

  The old man hurried back into his house and slammed the doors.

  The ground behind the house sloped down slightly toward the forest. The men followed the wall until they came to a massive wooden gate. It was unbolted; they pushed it open, speaking loudly to each other in encouraging tones, the way men will do when they are engaged in something they know to be bad. They entered the garden, and then stopped at the sight that met them.

  There was a garden, a work of living art. Small hillocks were molded from the earth and covered with grass and flowers. They gently framed a brook which had been diverted to run through the old man’s property. It formed a series of lily ponds connected by small waterfalls. Delicate stone and crystal outcroppings were scattered here and there, but the most impressive part of the garden was the sculptures.

  There were twelve of them, each crowning a small hill. Each stood more than five feet tall. Some of them the intruders recognized as being the stuff of legends: there was a winged dragon in flight, and a seaworm surrounded by ocean spray. And there were other, more imaginative concepts: a creature half-horse and half-fish, and a winged stag posed with hooves uplifted in defiance. There were jewel-encrusted flowers and bat-winged demons. Some of the pieces were executed with stunning realism, to the last meticulous hair or petal. Others were roughly molded, cut with artful abandon from the metal. For they all had one thing in common: they were all wrought from iron, by the sculptors of Bundura.

  The men entered the garden, treading all the more roughly because of their uncertainty. Delicate crystalline pieces were crunched underfoot with a sound of eggs breaking. Two of them seized the nearest statue, that of the winged stag, and rocked it back and forth to loosen its base from the soil. They tipped it over, lifted it, and began carrying it toward the gate.