Dragonworld

by Byron Preiss

  Tenniel had not retreated beyond the reach of the marta’s tentacles when the beast wrapped one about his leg, suckers fastening around his breeches. With a cry of disgust Tenniel ripped free. Moments later, he and the boy were outside the cabin.

  Dayon and Tenniel laid the two boys beside the old man on deck. They were not much more than fourteen or fifteen years old. The boy nearest to Dayon struggled to talk. “My brother . . .”

  Dayon nodded. “We’ll get him out.”

  Tenniel looked toward the fog-covered beach. “I’m sorry, Dayon,” he whispered. “I can’t face that thing again.”

  “Tenniel!”

  Tenniel refused to meet his gaze. “It’s just too . . . I don’t know what happened in there, but I’ve never been frightened by anything like that! I’m sorry. I just . . .”

  “All right,” Dayon said softly. “Return to my father and warn him.”

  “Warn him?”

  “If there is one marta here, there may be twenty out there! Tell him to make sure there are no wounded men in the water. Blood will attract the martas.”

  “More martas? Are you sure?”

  “No, but we mustn’t take a chance.” Dayon hurried back to the cabin. “Hurry! There are many lives at stake!”

  He heard the splash as Tenniel leaped into the water. He did not know how many people in the cabin he could rescue before the room filled with water, but he hoped to have a chance to save them all.

  The marta would be waiting. He did not know how badly his maneuver had affected it, but he knew it would continue to attack.

  Dayon braced himself for the sight of the beast and stepped inside the cabin again.

  At the other end of the cabin, the water rushed loudly through the hole in the stern. The water had risen too quickly. The hole was empty. The marta had escaped!

  “Dayon!”

  Dayon gasped. It was Tenniel’s voice. The son of Jondalrun rushed back to the deck, looked over the lee side, and saw Tenniel standing in the shallows about twelve feet away. A shadow was swimming in a circle around him.

  “Don’t move!” Dayon shouted.

  The circle was growing smaller. Attracted by the blood from the cabin on Tenniel’s clothes, the marta was ready to attack.

  “Dayon, help me!”

  Dayon rushed back to the cabin. He would ask forgiveness later for what he was about to do.

  He plunged into the choking atmosphere of the cabin and seized one of the corpses. The clammy flesh against his hands made him feel ill, but he did not hesitate; he dragged it on deck, carefully avoiding any glance at its face, and tumbled it into the sea. The splash blinded him for a moment.

  He heard Tenniel scream—then silence.

  Dayon rubbed the water from his eyes and looked fearfully into the water. A long black shape with a red-stained burden in its mouth was moving toward the open sea.

  In the shallow water next to the barge stood Tenniel, silently watching the trail of foam and blood.

  “Say a prayer,” shouted Dayon, “then get yourself to my father. Everybody must be warned!”

  * * *

  Much later, the Fandoran army would take count and learn that only a miraculous twenty out of a thousand were known to have drowned or were unaccounted for in the chaotic crossing. Now the men camped, shivering and damp. Even Jondalrun, who had continued to supervise the landing of the boats, agreed that the men would get little done until they were dry, recovered, and fed. Eventually a few small fires were started and food was apportioned.

  The beach sloped gradually up to the east, toward a series of low craggy hills. Beyond that, they could not see. Jondalrun and his assistants prowled among the men, helping and talking down outbursts of rebellion.

  In the morning hours, Lagow found Jondalrun seated on a large piece of driftwood. The old farmer sat straight-backed, hand gripping his staff. In his wet clothes and with a strand of seaweed woven into his tangled white beard, he looked to Lagow like some absurd old man of the sea.

  Lagow sat down beside him, marveling at the Elder’s stamina. Lagow had had no sleep for two nights, and felt ready to drop. Jondalrun was twenty years his senior, but appeared cast of iron.

  “We must move soon, Jondalrun,” he said.

  Jondalrun started slightly, and looked in surprise at Lagow. Lagow, also surprised, realized that Jondalrun had been sleeping with his eyes open.

  “Yes,” Jondalrun said. He got to his feet slowly, aiding himself with his staff.

  At Jondalrun’s orders, the men grouped into straggling ranks. Those who retained their weapons carried them; others armed themselves with sticks or pouchfuls of rocks. Many walked with their hands empty. Slowly, with grumblings of hunger and concern, the ragged defenders of Fandora headed toward the hills.

  Tenniel walked at the head of the Borgen Town contingent. He was tired. The encounter with the marta was fresh in his memory, but he attempted to convince himself that his enthusiasm for the invasion had not been dampened. Nevertheless, he continued to reach the same conclusion no matter what explanation he made. This had to be the most poorly managed excuse for a war that he had ever seen. He had thought much about the fate of Amsel, which he had been partially responsible for, and wondered if this invasion would be just retribution.

  He had lost hold of his vision of war as a glorious enterprise. Now—he admitted to himself—he was thoroughly frightened and appalled at what they had done.

  * * *

  “I still do not understand,” said General Vora. “Even with troops in the Southland, our windships are more than enough to defend us against the Fandorans. How could they possibly expect to win?”

  In a large conference hall at the rear of the palace, the Royal Family had assembled to discuss the matters of war. Although the weather was cool, Hawkwind had directed the satin curtains of the hall to be pulled back, and from their seats the Family was able to see a magnificent view of the surrounding forest.

  There was a sense of urgency at the meeting, and a sense of resentment. Hawkwind was seated at the head of a large wooden table. To his left sat Ephrion. To his right was Ceria. Positioned around the table were Lady Eselle, Lady Tenor, Thalen, and six Ministers of Simbala. Across from him stood a tall white-haired man—General-Emeritus Jibron.

  “Where is my daughter? I demand to know what has happened to my daughter!” Jibron looked accusingly at Hawkwind.

  Hawkwind rose calmly from his seat. Ephrion watched him nervously. The young man could not afford to lose the support of Simbala’s former General.

  “I regret I have no news of Evirae’s situation,” Hawkwind told Jibron. “Both she and her husband have been missing since the morning.”

  Jibron responded quickly. “That is impossible! There must be a reason for Evirae’s absence from the Senate!”

  Hawkwind nodded. “There is a rumor concerning Evirae’s concealment of a Fandoran spy.”

  “A spy?” said Jibron. “Are you accusing my daughter of being in league with the Fandorans?”

  Ephrion could not tolerate this exchange. Jibron was playing politics while the country’s future was at stake! “No!” he said from his seat. “Hawkwind merely means that a Fandoran spy may have been taken prisoner by your daughter.”

  “This troubles you?” asked Jibron. “Is it not meritorious behavior?”

  “Quite possibly,” said Hawkwind, “except that I had not been told of the spy’s presence. I have just learned of the rumor through Thalen.”

  “Is this true?” asked Lady Eselle. She faced Kiorte’s brother. Thalen nodded. “A young captain has told me of a Fandoran fisherman brought in while Kiorte was on an exploratory mission. According to this captain, the fisherman was taken to Evirae’s aides by her own request. There have been rumors that this man is not a fisherman, that he is actually a Fandoran spy. That is all we know, for the Fandoran has disappeared.”

  Another Minister rose from her seat. “There seems to be a danger to the Circle,” she said calmly. “As we al
l know, Baron Tolchin and Baroness Alora are also missing. Could this Fandoran have been sent on a mission of subversion against the Family?”

  “How could that be?” Hawkwind answered. “The Fandorans know little about our land, and even less about the Family. The forest hides the secrets of Simbala, and the forest has been protected. The Family is safe! I have ordered the returning Senate members to warn their families of the invasion. The army is being assembled at various stations throughout the forest.”

  General Vora agreed. “Our men are positioned throughout the forest and around the palace. There is no reason for concern.”

  General-Emeritus Jibron frowned. “It is not your daughter who is missing, Vora. You and Hawkwind were quick to dismiss the possibility of invasion at the Senate. You showed little concern at that time also.”

  Vora pounded the tabletop. “That is unfair, Jibron! Had you been in my position, you would have also voted against the war! The Fandorans are known to be ill-equipped for any attack. They are farmers. There is no reason, there was no reason, to suspect an invasion.”

  “Only a fool lacks caution, Vora. A threat of war should never have been ignored. My daughter warned Hawkwind hours before the Fandorans were discovered.”

  “Then it is obvious she knew something we did not know,” said Hawkwind. “Have you considered why?”

  Jibron’s face reddened. “Do not taunt me, miner! I have given you a chance to prove yourself worthy of Ephrion’s trust. I need not have you accuse my daughter of traitorous acts!”

  “I do not accuse her,” said Hawkwind. “I just seek an answer to the mystery of this invasion!”

  “Then seek it within your own circle! The Rayan has abilities, does she not? Ask her about the Fandoran! Tell your trusted aides to find the Fandoran spy. Perhaps then they will also find my daughter!”

  Ceria waited angrily for Hawkwind’s response. He ignored Jibron’s taunts and returned to his seat to initiate a discussion of the defense of the forest. Ceria pushed her feelings away. Once again the Family had used her to antagonize Hawkwind. She knew his feelings about this and watched in admiration as he exhibited a statesman’s control.

  “A small fleet of windships will be directed to fly close to the Kameran Valley,” said Hawkwind. “The ships will observe the Fandorans and determine their plans. Then they will attempt to frighten the invaders. These men are not soldiers. We are convinced they can be defeated without danger to our men.”

  “Without danger?” asked Lady Tenor skeptically. “Is it not dangerous to send a few windships against the entire Fandoran army?”

  “Yes,” answered a young Minister of Finance. “Just as it was dangerous sending half of our troops to the Southland!”

  Hawkwind was losing patience. They were blaming him for ideas that were not even his! Ephrion had taught him to ignore royalist sentiment, but it was not always easy.

  “The Fandorans are not soldiers,” he insisted. “There is no reason to plan any—”

  Before Hawkwind could complete his sentence, a distant scream was heard through the hall. It was followed by several others, and sounds of panic and confusion. Then a high-pitched sound, alien to the forest and chilling in its effect, echoed in the courtyard. The members of the Family looked at each other in shock.

  “Is it the Fandorans?” Lady Tenor whispered.

  The shriek came again, louder. The hawk lifted itself from its perch, as if answering the hideous sound, and quickly flew out the arch.

  Hawkwind rushed to the front of the hall. Behind him hurried Ceria and Vora, followed closely by the other members of the Family.

  In the distance they could see a small dark cloud, moving quickly, too quickly for a cloud, toward the center of the forest.

  In the courtyard, small animals ran to safety. Guards leaped for cover as their horses ran out of control.

  Ceria watched the cloud as it grew larger. She could sense a feeling, borne as if on the wind. She felt pain, a hidden warmth, and then suddenly, coldness.

  She looked up. The cloud was no longer a cloud. Two giant wings brushed the top of the palace. A horned head opened its mouth and shrieked a sound like a thousand nightmares. Ceria screamed. A body ten times that of a man cast its shadow across the palace hall.

  A legend had come to life.

  To those members of the Family who stood transfixed at the edge of the archway, the creature seemed to move quite slowly. All had time to observe the huge wings, the long tail, and the head, larger than a windship craft and full of gleaming teeth. The dragon raised its head and shrieked again.

  “It is a nightmare!” said General-Emeritus Jibron.

  “It is real,” said Hawkwind. “Thalen! Dispatch a messenger to the Brothers of the Wind. All ships are to be grounded!”

  Thalen hurried out of the hall.

  Ephrion stared at the creature, studying its long neck and its two massive legs. It had to be a dragon—and yet, it was different. It had not breathed fire; it had not the attitude of intelligence, of gentleness that legend accredited to the dragons.

  “Look!” General Vora shouted, pointing below. A watchman had run out from the stable in the courtyard. In his right hand was a javelin.

  “Back!” he shouted to the dragon, as if addressing a horse. “Return to wherever you came!”

  “I cannot watch!” said Eselle, turning away.

  “Back!” the young man repeated.

  The dragon stared at him, then descended slowly toward the courtyard.

  “You will not threaten the palace!” shouted the watchman, and he stood his ground. The watchman hurled the javelin at the creature’s belly. It glanced harmlessly from the armored scales. The dragon almost seemed to smile. In a motion unbelievably fast for a creature so large, it swept one huge taloned foot against the foolish watchman, batting him away like a bothersome insect. The watchman flew through the air, rolled over, and staggered to his feet, one arm dangling uselessly. As several other guards rushed out to help him, the dragon took to the air again. The wind from its huge wings ravaged several small trees and a garden as it rose past the palace, shrieking in triumph at the tiny beings within the giant tree.

  Hawkwind and the Family watched as the creature sailed over the trees in a northwesterly direction.

  “What is it?” said Lady Eselle. “What could it want in Simbala?”

  “Can there be any doubt?” the General said harshly. “This is obviously why the Fandorans have attacked. Somehow, they control the dragon!”

  * * *

  Baron Tolchin pressed his fingers lightly to the inside of Evirae’s wrist. “She’s alive,” he said with relief. Mesor stood near the recumbent forms, half-buried in mud, of the Prince and Princess. “She has apparently fainted from lack of air,” he said, “as did Kiorte and the guard.” A third figure rested in the mud not far from Evirae.

  Tolchin paced quickly in front of the mound of dirt. He, Alora, and the Bursar had entered the cave-in area through a small opening in the tunnel. “From the look of things,” he said, “this crack opened as the mud settled, but it did not open soon enough to keep them from losing consciousness. We are fortunate to have found them. Mesor, you must fetch some aides to carry them out! Alora and I will find a physician to take . . .” Tolchin looked up suddenly at the tunnel roof. “Listen. Do you hear it?”

  The Bursar and the Baroness listened. Very, very faintly, filtered through several feet of dirt, they heard a scream. A moment later, a vibration rippled through the cavern, as though something heavy had just crashed to the ground. A thin trickle of earth dropped from the ceiling of the tunnel.

  “The attack has started already,” Tolchin said bitterly.

  “That is not possible,” Alora protested. “The Fandorans have just landed!”

  Tolchin paced nervously. “How are we to know if the ships seen by the Windriders were the first to arrive?”

  “It does not matter. No band of farmers could penetrate the forest!” Alora wiped dust from Kiorte’s fa
ce.

  “This is Hawkwind’s fault,” said Tolchin. “Evirae was correct.”

  * * *

  Caught in a maze, Amsel stumbled through the lightless tunnels. He was weary to the point of collapse, yet he could not stop, for every time he did, he could hear the rapid footsteps of the thing that stalked him.

  The pattern was always the same. He would wait, and as the echoes of his passage diminished, he would hear the tick-tick-tick of the thing’s claws upon the rocks. Then, sensing that Amsel had stopped, it too would be silent, waiting for the inventor to start again. It was watching him, wearing him down, waiting until it sensed that he was too weak to resist its attack.

  He could not elude it; to defeat the creature, he would have to outwit it or outrun it. Amsel checked his pockets; only his spectacles and the seed pods from the Spindeline Wood remained. He hurried forward, determined to get as far ahead of the creature as he could. To his disappointment, the tunnel took on a downward slope; he was going away from the surface again.

  If only he had a light! The horrible, smothering darkness was the worst of it. The stalker was a phantom; the tunnel twisted and turned without warning. If only he could see!

  Amsel gasped. He searched his pockets frantically, and his hand closed on his spectacles. He had ground the lenses himself, but the metal for the frames had been purchased from a Southland merchant. The metal was steel. The tunnels were full of crystal and quartz deposits. Amsel crouched and began feeling about the tunnel floor for what he knew had to be there.

  He heard the sound of claws on rock approaching. He searched faster, picking up pieces of rock, hitting each stone against the frame of his spectacles and then discarding it for another.

  The creature was coming closer. He could hear it breathing! Then suddenly there was silence again. Amsel panicked, picked up another rock, and threw it in the direction of the creature. He heard it hit flesh. There was a growl, and then the swift sound of the creature’s charge.

  Amsel leaped to one side. His foot slipped on a loose rock, and he fell, throwing his hands out to keep his balance. The hand that held his spectacles skidded across the surface of a long flat rock with a scraping around. A shower of sparks dazzled him. Flint!