by Byron Preiss
In his moment of sight, Amsel glimpsed a large, hideously white creature, like a wolf but hairless, with two large red-rimmed eyes. The creature howled in shock at the brilliant sparks, then turned and fled, its claws skittering on the stone. Amsel heard it turn left and disappear. He lay prone for a minute, gasping in relief. He did not know what had attacked him, but it obviously did not like the light.
When he felt relaxed enough, Amsel moved forward. A few moments later, his questing hand found a corner. Another tunnel crossed this passage. The creature had run off to the left. “Therefore,” Amsel told himself, “I shall go to the right. No animal that flees from a few sparks would escape toward daylight!”
He hurried down the new tunnel and soon felt it sloping upward. “At last!” he whispered to himself. “Congratulations, Amsel. You may yet find an answer to Johan’s murder.” Then he nodded with determination. “I will, I will find an answer.” He hurried up the tunnel.
* * *
Alone in the library of the palace stood Ceria. She hugged herself tightly, for the room was cold. There were no windows. On the high curved walls was shelf after shelf of books and documents about Simbalese history. These had always impressed Ceria; she had had little formal education, and the physical presence of so much knowledge was at once imposing and intriguing.
Although she wished to find the secret to the madness she had seen, she longed for the familiarity of her home, for the freedom of the plains. The threat of war troubled her deeply, and she wished the Family would listen more closely to the voices of reason, to Hawkwind, and Ephrion, and the others who were not driven by ambition or pride in their attitude toward the Fandorans.
Hawkwind had departed the palace with General Vora to make additional preparations for the defense of the forest. Since the arrival of the dragon, both he and Vora had agreed that it would be best to continue the withdrawal of as many windships from the sky as possible. Thalen had been dispatched to the Northweald to get reinforcements for the army. With the exception of his ships and the ships which would soon be assigned the mission of confronting the Fandorans in the hills, all others would be confined to the ground.
In the place of the windships, the army would be responsible for the defense of the forest. Yet the threat of the dragon had made even ground troops wary of war.
The appearance of the dragon disturbed and confused Ceria. She had been told stories about dragons when she was a child; the legends of the friendly and noble creatures were known to all Simbalese. But the animal they had seen was neither friendly nor noble. It was, however, very real.
The Family viewed the dragon as a tool of the Fandorans. Ceria thought differently. How could farmers control a creature larger than a windship? More was happening here than she understood. Ceria remembered a feeling she had had the moment before the dragon had appeared; a desperation, a sadness that went beyond any tragedy she had known. It had been frightening. In the silence of the library she again sensed the cold, heard the cry, felt a distant terror that seemed to envelop her like a mist. She ran toward the door, but when she opened it, she saw not the palace corridor, but icy cliffs and a leaden sky above her. She could feel the jagged rocks and the freezing grip of the wind. She screamed.
Minutes later, footsteps sounded in the hall. Two aides entered and found the young woman on the library’s floor.
“Tell Monarch Ephrion!” the first aide shouted. “Hurry! It is Lady Ceria!”
* * *
At the cavern entrance, several aides carried Kiorte and the guard out. Evirae was on a stretcher made of tanselweb. Tolchin, Alora, and a physician followed. They reached the surface near the palace grounds and stepped into chaos. People were running through the streets, some carrying weapons, all appearing terrified or outraged. The Baron looked aghast, but as he was about to speak, Evirae feebly beckoned to him. He stood close to her. Her face was pale, and the streaks of mud on her cheeks were quite dark by contrast.
“Tolchin . . .” she whispered.
“I am here,” said the Baron.
“The Fandoran . . . escaped . . . all Hawkwind’s doing . . . Fandoran may cause . . . harm . . . stop him . . . stop . . . Hawkwind . . .”
Her hand fell limply to her side, and her eyes closed again. The physician felt the pulse at her throat and nodded in relief. “She must have rest,” he said.
Tolchin looked up at the crowds in the square. Evirae opened one eye a slit to watch him, then quickly closed it again.
Tolchin caught the arm of a young man dashing by, brandishing a heavy brass candlestick. “What has happened?” the Baron demanded. “Have the Fandorans reached Overwood already?”
“No, but their demons have!”
“Demons?” Alora asked incredulously.
“Aye! The city has been attacked by a dragon! The Fandorans have magic and legendry on their side! The city must be defended!” He wrestled free of Tolchin’s grasp and was gone through a hedge.
Tolchin called after him, uselessly. He observed the confusion in the street with growing anger. “The miner is responsible for this!” he said. “If Hawkwind had listened to Evirae’s warning, the people would have been prepared for the invasion. Dragons indeed! His inexperience has caused this panic!”
Tolchin took his wife’s arm and started toward the ordinarily quiet plaza. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“To speak with the rest of the Family. Hawkwind must not be trusted with the affairs of war!”
“I will stay here,” Alora replied. “Evirae and Kiorte must be taken back to the palace grounds.”
“The physician will see to it!” said Tolchin. People had started to gather around the Prince and Princess. He did not wish to be caught in the crowd.
“I wish to see to it myself,” Alora answered.
Sensing his wife’s inflexibility, Tolchin rubbed his chin and then frowned, nodded, and rushed off alone.
XXIII
On the plains of Simbala, large flat meadowlands dotted with small groups of trees, the Fandoran army had gathered. Jondalrun stood, oblivious of the cold, and surveyed the distant forest. Dayon, Lagow, Tenniel, and Tamark stood beside him. The Fandoran army had traveled over the hills from shore without as much as a fence in their way.
“They wait for us,” Jondalrun said. His voice was throaty from continuously shouting orders and encouragement. “There.” He focused on the dark forest in the distance. The noon sun was obscured by the clouds. The light made the trees look foreboding.
“I see no soldiers,” Lagow said. “Nor any windships. This has not the look of a land bent on war. I tell you, Jondalrun—”
“Spare me, Lagow,” Jondalrun said. “I know your opinion by now. I still say that the Sim wait for us, hoping we will enter the forest. Then their woodsmen and archers and magicians will fall upon us. No, we will not fight them in their forest. We will wait them out on these plains, under these stands of trees. Here we are prepared for them, and we are protected from their windships. Here we will wait.”
To Jondalrun’s surprise, the wheelwright agreed. “I admit we have an advantageous position here. We should hold it for now.” Perhaps, he thought, nothing will happen. The night will be cold and the men may become anxious to leave. Then we can return home.
“I am not sure,” said Tenniel in an unnaturally somber tone. “As Elder of Borgen Town, I am weary of all these delays. My men grow tired. Without food they will soon be too weak to face the Simbalese.”
“The Borgen men are fat,” said Tamark impatiently. “Do not worry about their endurance!”
“We will wait, Tenniel,” Jondalrun said softly. “Tomorrow we can discuss further plans.”
There was no disagreement. Tenniel reluctantly went off to tell his men of the decision. Lagow did the same, but with relief. It was not too late to hope for an early end to all this foolishness.
* * *
The tunnel sloped steadily upward. At times it was steep enough to force Amsel to climb with the help of his hand
s. “It cannot be long now,” he kept telling himself. As he scrambled forward feverishly, it seemed as though he could hear Johan’s voice encouraging him, urging him forward. “I will find out the truth!” he shouted, and the words echoed back in the silent passageway. “I will!” It was growing faintly lighter, and he was able to see a large boulder ahead of him. He pulled himself over it and lowered his small legs into the darkness beyond it, but as he did, the tunnel floor seemed to disappear. Amsel toppled precariously on the edge of the precipice and then dropped, with a startled scream, into darker and unknown depths.
* * *
“Fool, you’ll leave the forest open to their entire army!”
“It is not an army! It is a band of buffoons! Jibron, you are no longer General! Do not meddle in my affairs!”
“I am not meddling, Vora, and these are not your affairs! They are the affairs of Simbala. As a member of the Royal Family, they deeply concern me!”
Hawkwind, Vora, and Jibron were in a high room of the palace not far from the windship station on the eastern wing. There was a huge glass window in the sloping wall of the room, and through it poured amber light. There was little time for speculation now; the main troops of Simbala, composed of miners and other young men and women from Overwood, would join with the incoming troops from the Northweald and the advance troops outside the forest. In recruiting the men and women of the northern woods, Hawkwind hoped to compensate for the missing troops who were still in the Southland.
Hawkwind was worried. His original resistance to the Baron’s trade mission had been correct. He should have argued with Tolchin; the army was not meant to be used for caravans. A contingent of guards should have been sent to the Southland, not the hundreds of men and women who had gone. They needed these troops now, needed them to protect Simbala.
Hawkwind was angered by his own inexperience. Evirae and Kiorte were still missing, but his agents had found no evidence of the Fandoran spy. Rumors were spreading of his complicity in their disappearance. It was madness! First the war, then the spy, then the dragon! He had not caused any of the problems, but he was being blamed for them all! It was as Ephrion had warned. If a man coughs in Simbala, it is the monarch who is responsible for the cold.
“Hawkwind! What do you think of this matter?”
It was Vora. Hawkwind blinked nervously. He had not been listening.
“What matter, General?”
Jibron scowled. “Dream not of the Rayan now! There’s a battle afoot!”
Hawkwind paced toward the wall opposite the window. There was a large map engraved in the wall showing the land of Simbala. In the center of the Overwood, a giant circular field. To the west of the forest were the woods, scattered trees, and bushes which preceded the larger trees of the city to the east. Then came the Kameran Valley, a narrow grassy plain that by now had become wet and covered with fog from the spring rains. Farther west were the rolling Kameran Hills, and beyond them, the Simbalese shore.
Colored strings indicated the path of the Fandorans as relayed by Simbalese sentries. Hawkwind examined them again, noting the irregular but generally accurate route the Fandorans had taken through the hills toward Overwood. The Fandorans had paused before entering the valley. If they continued their drive, they would be in Overwood by evening.
“There is no reason to change our plans,” said Hawkwind.
“Good,” answered Vora.
Jibron shook his head. “The Fandorans will not be scared by the windships. They have come too far to be turned back by a few colorful sails.”
“It is an opening tactic,” said Vora. “There is nothing to be lost by attempting the safest plan first. The Fandorans are hardly a threat.”
“You know not their reason for invading,” Jibron replied. “Any people with a dragon on their side must—”
Hawkwind interrupted. “You are correct, General Jibron. We were caught unaware by the Fandorans, but the error will not be repeated. We are cautious. If Thalen’s advance fleet does not push the Fandorans back toward the shore, our troops will guard the forest from both man and dragon.”
As Hawkwind spoke, there were footsteps on the curved staircase outside the room. “Monarch Hawkwind!” came an aide’s nervous call. “Baron Tolchin! He insists on seeing you!”
Hawkwind nodded. “Send the Baron up!”
“Good!” said Jibron. “Another man of experience.”
Hawkwind folded his arms over his chest and waited. He had wondered about the Baron’s absence from the conference hall earlier. He had Alora would not have missed the meeting without an urgent reason. Hawkwind sighed.
“Good morning, Baron,” said General-Emeritus Jibron as the Baron walked into the meeting room.
“ ‘Morning,” said Vora, nodding suspiciously.
The Baron did not acknowledge them. He approached Hawkwind. “I have been with Evirae,” he said.
Hawkwind looked at Tolchin with surprise. “The Princess? Then you have found her?”
“My daughter!” Jibron said anxiously. “Where is she?”
“Evirae is being returned to her mansion with the Prince,” said Tolchin. “There has been an accident.”
“An accident?” asked Jibron.
“She is safe,” answered Tolchin. “It is Simbala that is not safe!” He stared at Hawkwind. “You knew, didn’t you?”
Hawkwind looked at Tolchin in amazement. “I know nothing of Evirae’s accident!”
“Not the accident, miner. The invasion! You knew beforehand of the invasion!”
Hawkwind turned away from Tolchin in shock. He did not understand the Baron’s accusation. He walked quickly toward the window on the other side of the room. Tolchin stared at Hawkwind, his indignation growing.
Hawkwind pressed his palms into the slope of the curved wooden wall. In front of him was the circular window from which he could see troops running through the palace courtyard. He struggled to suppress his anger. He had seen Evirae’s persuasiveness in his own dealings with her, but he had never seen it affect the Baron. If Tolchin readily agreed to Evirae’s accusation, then Tolchin no longer trusted him. Hawkwind knew that there was information he had not yet heard, but there was nothing that would betray his loyalty to Simbala. How could Alora’s husband side with the Princess?
There was no time to refute the charge. Despite Ephrion’s admonitions to avoid a confrontation with the Family at all costs, Hawkwind viewed this as a time for action. Jibron considered him to be a fool, and now Tolchin believed him a traitor—how could he stand by silently when they challenged him? He would compromise, but he would not lose his self-respect. Simbala was at war. He had to regain the peace. He would not be a tool of the Family.
He faced Tolchin silently, fury darkening his face. He lifted his left hand and removed the jewel by its diadem from his head; then, in a gesture of defiance he tossed it in the Baron’s direction.
Tolchin jerked away for a moment, then belatedly caught it. Hawkwind walked toward him.
“I did not ask for the job of Monarch,” said Hawkwind, “and I need no jewel of the Family to prove who I am.” He looked intently at the Baron. “I am a miner’s son. I was appointed by Monarch Ephrion to this office, and here I shall remain, until he no longer wishes me to pursue the destinies of Simbala!” He turned abruptly and started toward the door. “I had hoped to have the support of a man as intelligent as you, Tolchin, but if you wish to help fulfill the shallow ambitions of a Princess who cares nothing for her people, then I will oppose you.”
With that statement Hawkwind turned quickly and left the room.
Tolchin stared in astonishment as Jibron closed the chamber’s door. The sound of Hawkwind’s footsteps faded on the old steps outside.
“Hawkwind is a fool,” said Jibron. “He seeks to defy the Family! He insults my daughter! Does he not understand what we can do to him?”
Tolchin paced uneasily. “I had not expected this,” he said. “Hawkwind has forced my hand. I am surprised.”
Vora watched him. “How could you be surprised?” he said. “You have both forced his hand too many times! Hawkwind is a proud man. He will not submit any longer to your petty condemnations.”
“Petty condemnations? You would be smart to watch your words, Vora!” General-Emeritus Jibron turned toward the door. “A fool will not take our troops into battle! If Hawkwind will not listen to the Family, then he will be Monarch no longer!” He motioned to the Baron. “Come, Tolchin. I must speak to my daughter.” The two men departed together.
“Beware!” shouted Vora as they headed down the stairs. “Those that challenge Hawkwind also challenge me!”
The General heard the echo of his words outside the room. They sounded foolish, like the bravado of a young man, but he meant them. If the Family wanted a confrontation, they would get a confrontation, but it would not be with the Fandorans.
* * *
In the air above Simbala, an armada of thirty windships rode the cloudy skies, returning from the Northweald with volunteers for the army. More Northwealdsfolk rode on swift horses southward through the woods below, but the windships far outpaced them. Ten to a craft there were, the balloon sails filled to bursting with gas enough for the heavy cargo. The greens and browns of the Northweald garb contrasted sharply with the black and silver of the Windriders’ uniforms. The demarcation was quite noticeable, for, unless necessary to perform the functions of the ships and to maintain balance in the air, the two factions did not mingle.
On one of the ships stood Willen, his knuckles white on the wooden railing that surrounded the craft. His face was a very faint echo of the green of his tunic. Nevertheless, he held his shoulders straight and did not let his nervousness show. Though he floated higher than the tallest tree, he would be as brave as the smug and efficient Windriders.
Thalen glanced at Willen with amusement. Like many in Overwood, he was condescending toward Northwealdsfolk, but he was impressed with the stolid attempts by most of them to mask their ground-fellow fears. Moved by this toward a gesture of friendliness, he stepped nearer Willen and said, “We do not fly so high this day; the extra weight holds us close to the ground.”
