by Byron Preiss
To Kiorte’s surprise, he found Alora watching him. “Are you in agreement with the Family?” he inquired.
Alora smiled impartially, in the manner common to the Bursars. “A Monarch may only be removed by unanimous vote of the Family,” she said, “or at the request of his predecessor. Ephrion has no interest in asking for the latter, and you reject the former. My opinion matters not.”
Kiorte studied the Baroness’s expression. Alora was testing him. She wanted to know if he would change his position to sway her. He would not. He glanced at Tolchin and noticed the disapproval on his face.
“Alora,” Tolchin said solemnly, “whatever romantic notions you have of Hawkwind must not endanger the safety of the forest.”
Alora replied placidly, “I am as worried as you are, my husband, but raising the question of Hawkwind’s removal is a decision we must all consider seriously. You know there can be no vote against any Monarch unless there is evidence of treason. There is no evidence of treason concerning Hawkwind or his aides.”
“What of the spy?” said Jibron. “Hawkwind did nothing about Evirae’s discovery of the spy! Is that not treason?”
Alora looked at Evirae. “I believe Hawkwind never learned of the spy,” she said.
Evirae reddened.
“Is that not true?” asked Alora.
“Hawkwind knew,” said Evirae anxiously. “I dispatched Mesor to see Hawkwind.”
Alora shook her head and addressed the others. “It does not matter. Hawkwind’s inaction is no proof of treason. The spy’s words could not be proven before the invasion, especially if Hawkwind had not heard them himself. If Hawkwind ignored Evirae’s warning, then he was foolish, but not a traitor. He is young and inexperienced. There must be proof if I am to consider charges against him.”
Alora smiled condescendingly at the Princess and said, “You may wish to find the missing spy before planning to redecorate the palace.”
* * *
Fair Simbala
On battle’s eve I cry,
Fair Simbala
With your windships in the sky,
Fair Simbala
With your forests and your sights
Fair Simbala
I wish you safety through this plight.
Willen, walking through the trees on the edge of the clearing where the ground soldiery awaited Monarch Hawkwind, had heard a strange, plaintive sound nearby. He approached it warily, thinking at first it was some forest animal, hurt and howling its misery. Then he peered from behind a tree and beheld Tweel, sitting cross-legged on the damp ground by a crackleberry bush. It was he who was responsible for that horrible sound. He had been singing and strumming a penorcon, a delicately fretted instrument constructed of paper-light strips of wood.
Other members of the Northweald contingent had also come to learn the source of the painful notes. Tweel looked up and saw Willen. He smiled broadly. “How do you like it?” he asked. “I composed it myself, as a gesture of comradeship to our allies of the Overwood!”
Willen put a finger in one ear and shook it vigorously. Then he grinned and said, “In all honesty, I think it could be considered a righteous cause of war by itself!”
Tweel’s smile took on the lines of his mustache and became a grimace of disappointment. The other Northweald soldiers watched, laughing. Willen reminded himself that he was the leader of the contingent, and, as such, should keep his dignity, but he too could not help but laugh.
“You do not like my singing?” Tweel asked mournfully.
“I did not say that,” Willen replied. “It would be fine were this, say, a turkey hunt. As a war song, however, it leaves everything to be desired. My friend, the way you torture that penorcon! I would sooner hear the cry of a windship’s sails.”
Tweel gazed sadly at the instrument. “I must find a way to coax more pleasing sounds from it.”
Willen nodded. “You must indeed.”
Tweel rose slowly to his feet. “Perhaps you can help me, Willen.”
“Me?”
Tweel flashed a grin and smashed the body of the penorcon against Willen’s head. There was a cracking sound as the light wooden frame shattered harmlessly.
“There!” Tweel shouted, over the laughter of those watching. “That is a more pleasant sound indeed!”
The commotion brought a red-faced captain of the Simbalese army to the scene, just in time to witness Willen seizing Tweel’s tunic and spinning him about to receive a boot in the backside.
The captain stared in shock. “Cease this!” he shouted. “Monarch Hawkwind is due to arrive!”
But the laughter of the Northweald soldiers drowned out his orders, and Willen and Tweel continued their halfmock, half-serious struggle. It ended with both tripping and falling into a sizable mud puddle, much to their annoyance and to that of those about them, who were splattered by flying grime.
The captain was livid. “Bring those men to me!” he shouted as he wiped mud from his armor. “I’ll see that they’re—”
Whatever punishment the captain had in mind was not voiced, for at that moment, heralding horns sounded in the forest depths beyond the clearing. Willen and Tweel were forgotten as four hundred men and women of the Overwood fell quickly into ranks for the arrival of Hawkwind, Vora, and the Simbalese cavalry. They stood at attention, motionless, while officers prowled among them looking for some individual upon whom to pounce.
The Northwealdsfolk had stationed themselves to one side; they looked at the Simbalese divisions with mingled amusement and uneasiness. Rows of gleaming helmets, breastplates, and jambs caught the dim streaks of sunshine through the scattered trees. The Northwealdsfolk, wearing durable and camouflaging leather cuirasses and leggings, thought this pomp and finery ridiculous, but they had been cautioned against mocking the Overwood soldiers. Simbala could not afford animosity among the troops.
The brazen call of the horns came again, louder and nearer. In the silence that followed, the sound of horses galloping could be heard and felt. Wealdsfolk and soldiers alike watched at the edge of the clearing. A moment later a horse, dark as a shadow save for silver saddle and chamfron, charged through the woods.
Hawkwind sat tall and straight in the saddle. He wore silver armor and a cape of midnight blue. His face, despite the long ride, was pale and composed. All there were familiar with that face, and yet all felt there was a puzzling, indefinable difference about it. Then, as he rode closer, gasps of shock were heard. Hawkwind was no longer wearing the Ruby!
Those who realized this had little time to reflect upon it, however, for close behind Hawkwind came the members of the cavalry and Vora’s entourage. The General brought his horse to a stop to the right and slightly behind Hawkwind, as was proper. Some of the Wealdsfolk watched Hawkwind with suspicion. He had, after all, rejected their demands of war with Fandora when Willen had informed him of the murder of their child. It had taken an invasion to change his mind. Others, however, had decided to trust Hawkwind. Even Willen viewed the decision to recruit Northwealdsfolk as a gesture of respect, such as had never been made by the Royal Family. Willen did not know why Hawkwind had forgone the Ruby, but it seemed to him a gesture of independence, which he liked.
Hawkwind reined in his snorting horse on a small rise and surveyed the troops before him. The Simbalese forces had been diminished, and his lieutenants had no real estimate of the invaders’ strength, save for the number of ships that had landed. Many viewed the Fandorans as simple peasants, no longer content to be envious of the wealth and beauty of Simbala, but Hawkwind was sure that there had been a different reason for war. He could not accept the possibility that they somehow controlled the dragon and that it was the sole reason for their attack.
He had sent Thalen and three windships to the Kameran Valley. They would try to frighten the Fandorans out of the hills and into the valley, where they could be surrounded and then driven back to shore.
It was risky, of course—it exposed the windships to attack if the dragon returned�
�but it offered the possibility of ending the war quickly and with a minimum of bloodshed.
The troops watched him quietly. He knew they were awaiting a performance. Certain roles were expected of a monarch. Hawkwind raised his right hand for silence.
“We face an invasion of farmers and fishermen!” he shouted. “They stand no chance of reanhing the forest. This war will be over before morning.” He described briefly the purpose of the windships. “We will meet the routed Fandorans in the valley and imprison all who do not flee toward shore!”
There were some cheers at this, but a young soldier, loyal to Evirae, shouted angrily, “What of the dragons? You send us against monsters with no defense!”
Hawkwind shouted back, “We have seen one dragon! We have no reason to believe that there are more. We will be prepared if it attacks again! A fleet of windships carrying Simbalese archers will be more than a match for any dragon!”
This time the cheers resounded through the clearing. Hawkwind gestured toward Vora. “General Vora will confer with the division captains. We ride now to the edge of the forest to await the completion of Thalen’s maneuvers!” Hawkwind reared his horse and started toward the west as the captains of the troops came forward to receive their orders.
Willen also hurried forward, brushing the mud from his tunic. He had as much right to hear Vora’s words as any captain of the army. The lives of the Wealdsfolk were also at stake. Indeed, one life had already been lost.
* * *
Fog, the color of despair, shrouded the Kameran Valley. On a bluff overlooking the valley and the darkened forest beyond stood the Elders of Fandora. Jondalrun, tired but alert, studied Overwood. Lagow rested uneasily against an old butterwood tree. Near him stood Tamark and Pennel.
“There is sufficient food here for the evening,” said Tamark.
“True, but there are other things that frighten the men,” Pennel said.
“The darkness?”
“Less the darkness than the quiet—the waiting. It is strange; not a windship in the sky, though we have seen a dozen from Fandora.”
Tamark nodded philosophically. “I am sure we will see more than enough Sim before long.”
Dayon joined the group, holding a small colorful lizard in his hand. “Look,” he said, “if you touch its stomach, it changes colors!” He was about to demonstrate, but Jondalrun stopped him. “Drop it!” he shouted. “ ‘Tis a trick!”
Dayon blinked in surprise. “Father, it is but a lizard.”
“Perhaps,” Jondalrun said, “or perhaps it is a Sim sorcerer in disguise. Drop it.”
Dayon shook his head in resignation and released the lizard, which slithered under a rock.
“You must be wary of every creature in a land of sorcerers,” Jondalrun lectured sternly.
Dayon nodded, turned, and stepped away a few paces to find Lagow. “I think this land is deserted,” he said.
“If you do,” the wheelwright answered, “then perhaps you can convince your father that it is time to return home.”
Dayon shook his head. “My father will never return home until he feels the debt is settled for my brother’s murder.”
Lagow frowned and looked out over the grassy hills flanked by stone precipices to the north. “There was a time when you would argue with your father, Dayon. Has the heady air of authority changed your mind, or have you been caught up in the fever of the war?”
“I stand by my father, Lagow! We must all stand by him. He’s not out for glory—only justice.”
“Justice,” asked Lagow, “or vengeance? They are two different things. The first protects you, the second consumes you. I fear your father seeks vengeance, young man. I fear we have taken steps that will do little to protect our land or our country.”
Dayon did not reply.
* * *
As the youngest Elder, Tenniel of Borgen Town had been given the thankless task of supervising the arrival of the remaining Fandorans from the hills to the scattered woods at the edge of the Kameran Valley. It was a difficult task, for these men were the injured, the young, and the old. Although Tenniel had lost his enthusiasm for the war, he realized the necessity of keeping the men in tight, organized ranks. He dreaded the approaching confrontation, but he took pride in the fact that he was responsible for the protection of these men.
Suddenly there was a shout from the west. Tenniel glanced quickly through the fog. There was shouting on the other side of a nearby hill. He ran quickly up it, dreading the possibility of an attack so soon by the Simbalese.
He reached the top of the hill and saw, to his surprise, a young man clad in black and white, posing in a graceful posture before a group of applauding men.
“What are you doing?” Tenniel shouted.
The young man smiled, did two pirouettes, and stopped within a foot of Tenniel. “Dancing!” he replied spritely.
Tenniel frowned. “You are distracting the men.”
“Nonsense! I am uplifting their spirits!”
Tenniel squinted at the man’s white makeup and mask. He was one of the few Dancers that had joined the army. Tenniel had seen the troupe from Tamberly Town board a ship together. The Dancers traveled and performed in groups, yet this fellow seemed to be alone.
“I don’t remember you,” said Tenniel.
“Nor I you,” answered the young man.
“Are you from Borgen Town?”
“I am from Fandora.”
Tenniel frowned. Several of the men watching snickered, which did nothing to improve his temper. “See here,” he said sternly, “we approach a confrontation with the Simbalese. There is no room for fools or braggarts in this army. You can be sent back to the shore!”
“I am needed here!” said the young man. He did a short leap away from Tenniel. “Your soldiers are as sad as orphans. My work provides a moment’s diversion.”
Tenniel was growing angry. It was not the first time he had been defied during the course of this war, but he intended it to be the last. “We need dancing even less than we need this fog!” he said.
“We need this fog,” the Dancer retorted. “It hides us from the Simbalese.”
“Do not tell me about the Simbalese! I am an Elder of Borgen Town!”
The Dancer grinned. “A man as young as you is an Elder?” he teased. “Tra-la!” Spinning away, he broke into a dash for the bottom of the hill.
“Catch him!” Tenniel shouted. Several men tried to grab the running figure, but the Dancer eluded them easily and disappeared into the fog.
Tenniel grumbled angrily and hurried back toward the top of the hill. As he reached it, he gazed out over the Simbalese forest. In the fog, it looked like a strange green sea. He shuddered. He hoped Jondalrun would not order them to enter there for the night.
Tenniel headed down quickly toward his contingent, but as he did, he glimpsed a rippling in the fog over the trees. There was something in the sky, something large, moving slowly toward the valley. There was a moment of recognition, and then terror.
Tenniel turned toward his men and shouted, “Take cover! A windship approaches!”
* * *
Six hundred men watched from the mist below them. Thalen had sent up flags signaling the other two craft to circle around the hills. He planned to fly his one-man ship directly over the Fandorans. Looking down, he could see a ragged band of farmers and fishermen hiding on the edge of the hill. They are frightened, he thought. Perhaps Hawkwind’s plan would work.
* * *
Jondalrun stared nervously at the windships, their colorful sails jutting brightly through the fog. “We were smart to order the men back into the hills,” he said. “If they are unable to see us, we will be safe from attack.”
Tamark shook his head. “They will attempt to drive us out into the open, Jondalrun. Then they will attack.”
“That is my thought, too,” said Lagow. “We are easy targets.”
Jondalrun glared at him for a moment; then a slight, almost rueful smile creased his rumpled
face. “We will not strike the first blow,” he said. “Nor will we rush back to the shore in defeat.” He looked at Dayon, ordering a few stragglers behind the cover of a granite ridge. “We have come this far, and now will wait them out.”
The windships continued their approach, separating to surround the Fandorans. They seemed serenely indifferent, as though those who flew them were superior to the ground-locked humans hidden in the hills. Onward they came, their prows scudding through the mist like boats parting the ocean’s foam.
Mutterings and shouts of fear broke out among the Fandorans. “Stay where you are!” Pennel shouted, and the other Elders echoed his order. “Their magic cannot harm us—we carry the protection of the witch!”
Yet, when faced with the terrifying sight of the airborne ships, not all of the men were able to put their faith in the tiny wristlets. Thalen’s windship passed over them at a height of thirty feet, and a wavering cry of fear broke from a cluster of soldiers on the hill below. Jondalrun looked toward the forest again. Through the fog he saw another, smaller windship appear across the valley. “Caution the men!” he shouted. “Remain hidden. Do not attack!”
* * *
Kiorte’s windship flew swiftly above the forest. The wind and the freedom invigorated him; the frustrating confrontations with Evirae and the Family had made him ready for adventure. He had no doubt of Thalen’s ability to lead the troops; still, he was their commander, and it was right that he be in the forefront of the fighting.
For all his eagerness to arrive, however, he flew cautiously, and close to the treetops. He could no longer take the rumors of the dragon as unsubstantiated—too many people said they had seen it. But even if the Fandorans somehow commanded such a beast, it would not change the battle’s outcome. Kiorte could see the valley through the mist now. Hovering over the hills on the far side were three windships. As he sailed closer, Kiorte could see men—short, barbarously clad men, with primitive weapons—moving about in disorganized panic. Kiorte gave a short, disdainful laugh. These tatterdemalions were the threat to Simbala? They would be swimming home before darkness fell! He watched them milling about, obviously panicked by Thalen’s small fleet. The battle would be over quickly, and with a minimum of casualties. Then there would be time for a reckoning with Hawkwind. The miner had had no right to order the grounding of the Brothers of the Wind without consulting him first. Jibron and Tolchin were correct. Hawkwind would not defy the Family without consequence.
