by Byron Preiss
Outside, Mesor was one of the last to enter the palace. He had waited in hope that Evirae would arrive at the last minute, but there had been no sign of her. What could have prevented her from coming? His mind conjured up all sorts of disasters, not the least of which was that Hawkwind had somehow discovered her actions and ordered her confined.
He was not the last to enter, however; that dubious honor belonged to General Vora. The portly soldier came huffing up just before the doors were closed. Mesor watched him approach, wondering if his tardiness had anything to do with Evirae’s absence, but the General paid him no attention. Vora merely passed and hurried down the wide torchlit steps.
Mesor shrugged and followed. He tried to be philosophical about it—until he had more information, there was no use being worried. Unfortunately, his stomach did not agree.
* * *
Seven hundred feet above the western shore of Simbala, a windship rode the morning air. Beneath the balloon sails, two Windriders sat near the brazier, for despite the sun, the air was cold.
The older man squinted at the white disk of the sun, which slipped in and out of the clouds, and said, “The meeting must be under way by now.”
“I wish I could be there,” the younger man said. “My mother’s representing my family. This would be the first time I’d be old enough to watch. They say it’s a beautiful sight.”
“That may be,” said the other, “but it’s not held to decide a beautiful matter.”
The first Windrider shook his head in disgust. “The Fandoran rumors! If it wasn’t for the Princess, we’d be back sitting around a warm hearth.”
“Then pray that the vote goes against war, or you’ll see a lot more duty,” his companion said. “Myself, I wonder . . .” He noticed that the first Windrider was not listening. Instead, he had leaned over the railing to view the water below.
“Bayis,” he said to the second Windrider in a choked voice, “I think I may be dreaming.”
Bayis stepped quickly across the narrow deck and joined his friend. Both stared in disbelief. Below the windship, emerging from a curtain of fog, was a sight at once ludicrous and frightening. A patchwork armada of fishing boats, rafts, and virtually anything that would float, all filled to overflowing with men, was approaching the beach. The Windriders could see that they carried crude weapons, farming tools, and even clubs and rocks. They kept coming out of the mist. That was what was so frightening—the boats kept coming out of the mist.
“They haven’t seen us,” Bayis said in a tense whisper. “Put about! Head back to the forest!”
* * *
Centuries earlier, the roof of a large tunnel in Overwood had collapsed, diverting part of the Kamene River underground. The water flowed along the tunnel until it reached the large cavern now used for the meeting. It fell almost fifty feet, forming a deep pool and a subterranean stream. Before this pool were gathered Hawkwind and the Senate of the families of Simbala. The few spectators allowed within for one reason or another filled the cavern, from the stairs to the walls. Some crowded under a dolmen; others stood on rocks to see. The heads of the families stood in lines facing front, waiting to hear Hawkwind speak. Each held in his or her hand two uncut gemstones—one wine-dark, one clear crystal.
Hawkwind stood on a rock dais in front of the stairs. Silently he watched the representatives before him. He tried to judge their attitude, but the emotions he read on their faces were so diverse that he took no further guesses at what the vote might be. He sensed their expectation, however, and he hoped that his words would be enough to sway them from war. He also noted Evirae’s absence, and this troubled him. There was no reason for her to miss the meeting, unless, he speculated, she thought it would convince the crowd that he was somehow responsible for her absence. Yet there was no time to worry. Hawkwind stepped forward to address the families.
The acoustics of the cavern were such that the sound of the nearby waterfall was only a gentle murmur.
“You come in peace,” he said solemnly, “to vote on a matter which may result in war.” He scanned the rows of men and women. “I ask only that you think of the welfare of Simbala, not the affairs of the palace or the Family.”
Baron Tolchin leaned toward his wife. “A bad choice of words,” he grumbled.
Hawkwind continued. “This council has been called because a child was killed in the Northweald. This is the gravest of all matters. Our children are our future. We must protect them at all costs, but there is no reason to attack a poor and ignorant people.”
At these words, a murmur ran through the crowd.
Mesor, having worked his way forward to the Royal Family, stood next to Baron Tolchin. “A prideless day,” he said softly, “when a Monarch pleads for the acceptance of terrorism.”
Tolchin answered with a glare worthy of Evirae, but Mesor thought he saw a flicker of doubt in the Baron’s face. He decided not to press the matter any further.
Hawkwind sensed the crowd’s anxiety, and he observed Ephrion’s admonition to keep his plea both simple and short. “There must not be war,” he said. “I will do everything possible to discover the reason why the child was killed. Until the truth is known, we must work together to resolve the problems caused by the flooding of the mines. I have sent word to the Southland for our troops to return. When they arrive, they will stand guard in the Northweald to protect our children. Others will work in the mines to help our families in meeting their quotas. Do not worry about an invasion. The Fandorans dare not attack Simbala! Our forest is protected! Our people are strong!”
These last words pleased General Vora, and he nodded enthusiastically as Hawkwind called for the vote. There was no discussion in the crowd.
The first row of representatives approached the waterfall. Each would cast either the dark or clear gemstone into the pool, and the rushing water would reveal their decision. The gemstones were similar to the Sindril jewels, but instead of igniting when wet, their organic composition caused a color change in the liquid’s color. A majority of dark stones would stain water red—a sign of war. The light stones would cause the river to run deep blue.
Hawkwind cast the opening stone—this was a custom acknowledging his willingness to let the people decide. The stone, a flawless diamond, flew through the mist raised by the falls and sank into the pool. Hawkwind stepped down, and the voting started.
Row by row, the family representatives tossed stones indicating their vote. The first to be thrown was cast by a man from the Northweald. He stood, and without hesitation hurled a dark stone into the pool. It sank, and a stain of blood color rose from it.
Next was a representative of a miners’ clan. His stone was clear, and the red tint was lightened momentarily by blue. More dark stones fell, to be followed by light ones, then dark again. Ceria, Ephrion, and the General watched the subtle gradations of color in the pool. The vote was close, too close. The pool continued to change. It ran red, then blue, then red again. Yet when the final stone was cast, the water ran slowly, almost surprisingly, blue.
Ceria smiled radiantly and gazed at Hawkwind. Through the mist of the waterfall, she could see the relief on his face. There would be peace, although not by a large margin. The rumblings of the crowd made that abundantly clear.
Ceria joined Hawkwind and, together with Ephrion and Vora, they prepared to leave the cavern.
Hawkwind strode quickly from the steps, with much pride and a sense of vindication. Ceria was relieved. The apprehensions she had felt but not voiced earlier had been dispelled. They started back toward the doors.
Behind them, representatives spoke heatedly about the outcome of the Senate meeting. Hawkwind’s supporters were delighted. It had been his first major test as Monarch, and he had survived. Many approached with words of encouragement, and he received them warmly with a handshake and an uncharacteristically broad smile.
Minutes later, the doors were pushed back and the crowd emerged into the light of day.
Their jubilation turned suddenly
to surprise as people saw five Brothers of the Wind on the steps outside the tunnel. Thalen, the second-in-command, stepped forward. His face was drawn and tense.
With a growing sense of danger, Hawkwind said, “What brings you here?”
Thalen answered slowly, as though the words caused him pain. “An armada from Fandora was sighted not long ago. By now it has landed on our shores.”
Shock was evident on Hawkwind’s face. “How many ships?”
“The report says over two hundred.”
The words fell upon Ceria like stones. She watched Hawkwind confer with General Vora. Then she heard the ripple of silence flow down the stairs to those in the Senate who had heard Thalen’s words.
Then, flowing back like a raging tide, came the condemnation.
“He has lied to us! We are unprepared for war!”
The crowd pushed forward quickly. Hawkwind, Vora, and Ephrion headed toward the entrance to the palace. The heads of the families swarmed out behind them. There were many expressions of sorrow and anger. Representatives hurried off in all directions to warn their families that war was imminent.
Mesor had already emerged from the tunnel when he heard the news. He wanted to run to Evirae’s side, tell her what had happened, but Evirae had vanished. He had to find her! He spied Tolchin and Alora in the crowd and rushed toward them.
The Baron saw Mesor approach and quickly turned away, but the Bursar called out behind him, “Wait! It is urgent!”
Tolchin sighed. “We are caught,” he whispered.
Mesor arrived, out of breath but determined to speak. “I . . . I know something has happened to Evirae. We must find her.”
Tolchin saw that the fellow was genuinely disturbed. The sycophant could ill afford the disappearance of his sole protector, he thought.
“She would never miss the Senate,” Mesor insisted. “Nor would Prince Kiorte. I fear Hawkwind has taken some action against Evirae!”
Tolchin frowned. He had thought Evirae’s absence might be part of her plan, but the Bursar’s anxiety was evidence against it.
Mesor’s last charge had also provoked Alora. She said, “Hawkwind has no use for Evirae. Something must have happened. Evirae would not miss such an important meeting.”
The Baron nodded. “Alora, I suggest we proceed to their mansion immediately.”
The couple moved swiftly away from the crowd, leaving Mesor to hurry ignominiously behind them.
XXII
Forward!
Two hundred men already stood on the foggy shore. Behind them, in the water, the ragged armada waited. Some boats had already been pulled onto the beach. The sea was relatively calm; nevertheless, several ships had already collided in the breakers and capsized. Few among the Fandorans knew how to coordinate a landing so large, with the result that a part of the army found itself swimming—or trying to swim—to shore.
The sea air was filled with shouts of confusion and fear. Many men, exhausted by the crossing, had cast themselves on the cold sand, seeking a moment’s rest. Others, under the direction of the Elders, waded in the shallow water, pulling on the boats’ ropes, in an attempt to beach them without further incident.
Dayon stood in the cold salt water and stared for a moment at the boats offshore. “I brought them through,” he said to himself. He had spoken softly, but his father had heard him. The old man put a hand on Dayon’s shoulder. “That you did,” he said. “I know nothing about the sea, but I could see that was a masterful work. I am proud of you.”
Dayon nodded. He was proud of himself. He had conquered his fear of the Strait of Balomar, had run the gauntlet that had haunted him.
Jondalrun returned to the rescue mission. “Pull now!” he shouted to the others, as if he had spent his life on the shores of Cape Bage. “There are ill and injured out there! We must get them to shore!”
Dayon, his clothes soaked, took up another rope. Tenniel stepped behind him, feet placed firmly in the sand, and they pulled in unison on a rope. A small boat surged through the breakers.
“We have it!” Tenniel grunted. “Once more, Dayon!”
When the boat was beached, the two young men waded through the evening tide looking for other boats that were having difficulty landing. In the distance they could hear the complaints of the Fandoran army, rising above the sullen breakers. Then Dayon heard his father’s stentorian tones. “Silence! Would you betray us to the sorcerers?”
This possibility brought an uneasy quiet to the confused, cold, and hungry farmers. Some men watched the fog for windships. Others pulled grimly on ropes. As others reached shore, they joined their fellow townsfolk in informal groups on the beach.
From out of the mist, another ship loomed before Dayon and Tenniel. The young fisherman recognized it—an old barge he had helped repair for the journey.
“Strange,” said Tenniel as they approached it. “It looks empty.”
“It’s taking on water,” said Dayon. “Look at the stern; it’s far too low.”
They waded out and pulled themselves on board. At first glance the wide deck seemed empty. There were signs of confusion; ropes and tools had been scattered about, as though dropped in haste. A barrelful of limes rolled slowly with the rocking of the waves. The repetitious sound made them aware of the lack of human voices or movement; when a gull keened overhead, both of them started.
Tenniel touched Dayon’s arm. “Look,” he said. Dayon turned and saw a man in the shadow of the hull’s lee side. He was an old man, and he seemed asleep, curled up in a ball. Dayon approached him, saying gently, “Come along, old fellow. The crossing’s completed. Where is your crew?”
The old man did not move. Dayon nudged him, then pulled him upright. His eyes were open and unfocused, his face pale. His mouth was slack. Dayon was suddenly aware of the cold sea air.
“What’s wrong with him?” Tenniel asked.
“Shock.” Dayon looked around the deck. Could the voyage alone have caused it?
“I don’t like this,” Tenniel said. “This ship’s deserted, save for him . . .”
“I’m not convinced,” Dayon said. “I remember this barge was boarded by men of Jelrich Town, which is inland. It is doubtful they knew how to swim.” He stood and faced the low cabin in the stern. “I think we should have a look in there.”
The two men approached the cabin. Within it, they could hear water sloshing with the waves.
“I don’t like this,” Tenniel repeated.
Dayon motioned him to silence. “Do you hear that?”
“Of course,” the Borgen Town Elder said. “Do you think I’m deaf? This barge is sinking.”
“Not the water. Something else.”
Tenniel listened. There was another sound: a thrashing, unlike the lapping of the waves; more rhythmic and severe—and somehow savage. “I don’t like that, either,” he said. “I think we should leave. This lady’s deserted.”
“Not until we check the cabin,” Dayon replied. He pulled the latch, but the door would not budge.
From inside the cabin there came again the thrashing, louder this time—a disturbing sound, like the slapping of wet flesh.
The wherry shifted beneath them. Tenniel was nervous. “Dayon, it’s going down fast! I say we take the old man and get ashore.”
“Help me with this door,” said Dayon. Tenniel sighed and seized the latch. Before they set their muscles to it, they both heard a moan from inside the cabin. The thrashing increased.
“Pull!” shouted Dayon. “There’s a man in there!”
They heard the snapping of wood. The door ripped open, revealing the interior of the cabin.
Neither Dayon nor Tenniel was prepared for the sight.
A stench of wet decay accompanied the sight of at least twenty bodies floating in the flooded cabin. The small table and benches had been overturned and splintered and several of the bunks ripped open. In the rear wall was a ragged three-foot hole, and in that hole was a ten-foot-long eellike beast with a fringe of writhing tentacles
that sprouted from behind its head, and a wide snapping mouth. Spines along its back had caught on the ragged edges of the hole, and it hung there, trapped. A severed arm was caught in its teeth. Blood streaked the water.
Dayon and Tenniel stared in horror. Judging by the bloated appearance of the corpses, the attack had happened many hours ago. Most of the bodies were beyond the marta’s reach. By now the amphibious beast had to be mad with hunger.
Another moan brought their attention to a bunk in the wall near the hole. A boy was crouched there, staring with wide eyes at Dayon and Tenniel. Several more were unconscious. The marta’s tentacles could not quite reach into the bunk to drag them out, but effectively prevented them from reaching the door.
“Help the boy!” shouted Dayon.
Tenniel did not move. The marta thrashed, snapping its jaws.
“Tenniel!” Dayon said urgently.
Tenniel shook his head slowly. A tentacle lashed near him, and he retreated with a cry.
Dayon examined the cabin. The beast’s struggles had knocked several smaller holes in the stern; waves were pumping water in slowly and steadily. Soon the marta would be supported and able to struggle inside the ship. He and Tenniel would have to act quickly to save them all.
He seized a broken length of plank floating nearby and hurled it at the beast. The tentacles seized it instinctively and dragged it toward the needle teeth. Dayon leaped into the middle of the cabin and extended his hand to the boy in the bunk. “Come on!” he shouted. The boy half-leaped, half-fell into the water, and Dayon grabbed his hand, pulling him toward Tenniel. Tenniel stepped forward, eyes on the marta, and seized the boy under his arms, dragging him from the cabin as Dayon pulled another out of the bunk.
