by Byron Preiss
They started up the stairs again, Amsel between the two guards. This may have its merits, thought Amsel; at least I’ll have an escort back to the palace grounds.
The guards in front of him hurried over the top of the staircase and headed toward a path shadowed by large trees.
“If they take me within sight of the palace,” Amsel murmured, “all I will have to do is escape them and find that fellow Hawkwind.” He looked ahead at the giant guard and realized that was easier said than done.
The stairs led to another walkway, which wound through small wooden buildings and large trees into which had been built homes and markets. Children wearing ragged clothes played in the streets, watched by men and women who were too old to be their parents.
Their fathers are off to war, Amsel thought, and their mothers as well. How strange! A land where the women are also responsible for defense.
He saw the meager furnishings through the windows of the tree homes, and remembered their opulent counterparts in the center of the forest. This, it seemed, was a poorer section of Simbala.
This area soon gave way to a larger street, which was lined with shops and open-air market stalls. Evidently there had once been a gathering or procession of considerable size here, for there were banners and colorful strips of thin paper on the trees. Most of the marketplaces were closed now, and those that were open were largely empty of shoppers. Across the width of the street, from tree to tree, had been strung a complicated network of tansel, from which lanterns and other banners swung gently in the wind.
Amsel stared up at the crisscrossings of rope they were passing under, his gaze tracing the complicated patterns. Then suddenly he saw another sight beyond them. In the distance, partly obscured by the trees that lined this avenue, and the other, larger trees in view, Amsel glimpsed the center of Overwood, and in their midst, the giant tree that was the palace! He knew which way to go now, but how was he to escape from these guards?
A possible answer occurred to him. He looked again at the ropes above them. Despite their complexity, they seemed to be anchored only at two major points, doubtless to facilitate removal of the lanterns and banners. Amsel frowned, trying to trace out the anchor points before they passed beneath the huge web.
There! He had it! The second point was roped securely to a large oak, ahead and to the left.
He had no time to lose. He suddenly doubled up, grabbing his knees and tucking his head in, making himself as small as possible. The guard following him did not realize what had happened until he had stumbled over Amsel, staggering forward with a cry. Amsel grabbed the dagger from the guard’s belt, turned, and ran toward the oak.
“Get up, you butter-handed oaf!” the first guard shouted to the second. “He’s getting away!” The first guard ran after Amsel. Fortunately, the inventor did not have far to go, or he would have been overtaken almost immediately. He reached the tree, and with a slash of the dagger cut loose the thin yet strong tansel line that held half of the supporting lines in place. The ropes overhead collapsed, entangling both of the guards as they ran toward him. Shouts of rage and crashes of shattering clay lanterns reached Amsel’s ears as he slipped the dagger into the sheath at his belt and climbed quickly into the tree. He did not stop to look back, but kept climbing until the foliage hid him from the ground below.
Heart pounding, he looked about, and saw that the trees grew so closely together that the branches were interwoven. For the first time in a long trial, Amsel felt at home. He could proceed with relative safety and much less chance of being caught through the canopy, and travel almost as fast as he would have on the winding paths below.
He could still hear the guards faintly as they shouted instructions and imprecations to each other. He smiled wryly. “If only I could be that clever all the time,” he murmured, “then perhaps I wouldn’t find myself so often in situations where I need to be.”
He began moving with quickness and agility through the branches, toward the center of the forest.
* * *
Hawkwind had split the army into three divisions. The first, the infantry, would meet the Fandoran attack head-on. The second, the cavalry, divided under the lead of Vora and himself, would circle about and attack from the rear. The third, composed of Wealdsfolk and volunteers, would remain near the forest, to hold against any Fandorans who were able to get through the lines.
The Simbalese infantry advanced swiftly in orderly ranks, viewing with contempt the wild, undisciplined approach of the Fandorans, but as the fog closed in, they realized that, undisciplined or not, the Fandorans were definitely a threat. They had considered the demise of the windship as evidence that they were immune to the magic they thought their opponents wielded. Now they were venting all the pent-up frustration that had accumulated over the weeks—the torture of the crossing, the misery and discomfort. Now, at last, they had something tangible and human to strike out against.
That first wild chaos lasted only a short time. Hawkwind and Vora, completing the encircling movement, found themselves plunged into a sea of howling men, holding all manner of weapons, clad in piecemeal armor and protected by skin-and-wood shields, attacking without rhyme or reason. There was slight hesitation on the part of some of the Fandorans when they realized that Simbalese women, as well as men, faced them, but the battle fever ran too high for that to matter long. Hawkwind’s battle-trained horse did not falter as the fighting closed about them. A Fandoran soldier struck at Hawkwind, wielding a mattock; the horse reared and kicked the makeshift weapon from the farmer’s hands with its front hooves. Another man, wearing a blacksmith’s apron, leaped upon the rear of the saddle, trying to stab Hawkwind. Hawkwind struck him in the face, loosening his grip, and his horse bucked, throwing the Fandoran to the ground. Hawkwind leaped the horse over him; the noble beast responded so well and so quickly to his commands that they seemed to be joined together as a single creature. But there were others to continue the attack, and the miner’s sword was red more than once.
The fighting moved back and forth across the narrow width of the valley, neither side gaining ground for more than a short time. The fighting was primarily hand-to-hand; there was neither time nor room to load and wind the crossbows. The Northwealdsfolk scorned the complicated weapons, preferring the longbow, but the fog, obscuring vision and wetting the bowstrings, made them useless as well. And so the battle raged with swords, pikes, knives, and axes, fiercely and without quarter.
Hawkwind turned his horse and saw a group of Fandorans besieging a smaller detachment of Simbalese. The Fandorans were led by a fierce old man with flowing white hair and beard now spattered with red. “For Fandora!” he shouted, wielding a sword. “For Johan!” Hawkwind spurred his horse toward him. Jondalrun saw him coming, and realized by his fine armor that this man must be a leader among the enemy. He raised his sword and struck at Hawkwind. Hawkwind parried the blow, amazed at the old man’s strength. For an instant they stared into each other’s eyes, Hawkwind seeing the inexplicable fury that drove Jondalrun, and Jondalrun, even in that fury, wondering why he saw no malice in Hawkwind’s gaze, but only surprise and puzzlement. Then a new wave of fighting soldiers surged between them, separating and masking them in the fog.
The fog was thickening rapidly now. It was difficult to tell just when the Fandorans abandoned their attack. No formal retreat was sounded; but, by that mysterious telepathy common to mobs, the majority of the Fandorans were soon running instead of fighting. That first madness had run its course, and they suddenly realized that they were surrounded by soldiers far superior to them. Rage was replaced by panic, and what little organization there had been vanished as they ran.
The fog aided their retreat. The encircling cavalry could not contain them; in small groups they slipped between the horses, beneath the swords, crouching low and running through the thick ground mist that hid them. Hawkwind reined his horse up next to Vora’s as he realized what was happening.
“We must regroup!” Vora shouted. “This fog has taken them from us
!”
“You are right,” Hawkwind replied. “Have the bugler sound the orders! Ready a contingent to march what prisoners we have back across the valley to the forest!”
He turned his horse then, and plunged into the gathering mist. He could still hear the sound of swords ringing on scythes and harrow blades, as the fighting continued here and there. As long as there was battle, he owed it to his soldiers to be among them.
* * *
Dayon had convinced Jondalrun to retreat when the rout had begun. The old farmer sat now on a log, not far from the hills. The fog wreathed him in gray. He had been injured: a bolt from a Simbalese crossbow had grazed the palm of his right hand. Dayon sat beside him, bandaging the wound. Pennel sat on the other side of him. Other wounded lay all about. Several physicians were doing their best to tend them, sprinkling balms of crushed herbs on the wounds and setting broken limbs with splints made of sticks and vines. Groans of agony filled the air. Jondalrun pulled his hand from Dayon.
“I can finish wrapping this myself,” he growled. “Surely there are others who need tending more.”
“Not at the moment,” Dayon replied, “although I expect more to appear at any time.”
Jondalrun stared into the fog, listening to the ominous silence. “What happens now?” he said softly, as though to himself.
“The Simbalese will regroup,” Pennel replied. “They will sweep the valley, picking off our men as they find them. Our only chance is to retreat to the hills and hope that the rest of the men do so as well.”
“Perhaps we should regroup as well,” Jondalrun mused. “The fog shields us. If we could break through their line—”
“Our men are lost in the fog!” Dayon cried. “How could we regroup them? We have no buglers to rally them. We have no choice but to retreat! If we are to fight at all, we must take advantage of the fog and return to the hills!”
Jondalrun put one hand to his head, and for a moment Dayon and Pennel were afraid he was going to faint. “None of this is going right,” Jondalrun said. “I think now that none of us ever really believed in the possibility of dying here.” He raised his head and looked about at the wounded, strewn over the field, mist rising about them like souls struggling to be free.
Dayon looked too. “This is the price of revenge,” he said softly. “Your revenge. For your son and my brother.”
After a long silence, Jondalrun said, so softly that they could barely hear him, “How can it be stopped?”
“It cannot,” Pennel said. “Not now. We have attacked, and we must either win or be slaughtered. But we will not win this way. We must retreat to the hills and regroup. There we can hold them off.”
Jondalrun rose slowly to his feet. “You are right,” he said gruffly. “I did not want to leave the hills in the first place. Cursed be that fool that struck down the windship, whoever he may be!” He looked at them. “Come—let us gather what men we can, to carry the wounded. We are returning to the hills.”
He will not even use the word “retreat,” Dayon thought. No matter. We are retreating—that is all that is important.
* * *
Groups of soldiers from both sides moved warily through the fog, gripping their weapons, both hoping for and dreading the appearance of the enemy in the mist. One such group was being led by Tamark. The fog had confused his sense of direction; he hoped he was leading his men back toward the hills. Like many other Elders, he was attempting to salvage as many soldiers as he could from the aftermath of the berserker attack.
He led them through the fog as slowly and silently as possible. He was not looking for another battle. His plan was to return to the relative safety of the hills. After that, they would discuss what had to be done. For now, he was looking no further than the retreat he was leading, and hoping it would pass without incident.
His hopes were soon dashed, however. Suddenly, through the fog before him loomed a line of figures, dressed in fine armor, crossing his path at right angles. The two groups of soldiers heard and saw each other simultaneously. Tamark heard excited shouts and the sound of swords leaving scabbards.
They had no choice but to fight, he realized. He drew his sword and shouted, “For Fandora!” But the battle cry sounded false to him. I may die in the next few minutes, he thought, and I am not even sure what it will be for.
Then the Simbalese charged toward them, and the two groups joined in battle.
* * *
The group Tamark had stumbled across was led by General Vora, and was marching prisoners back toward the forest. They had no particular desire to encounter more Fandorans, but when Vora saw the raggedy band emerge from the mist, he knew he had to attack first. Their only chance was to overcome this new obstacle before the prisoners realized a chance of rescue had come their way.
But the Fandoran who led this band was more intelligent than the howling berserkers that had attacked the Simbalese at first. A huge bald-headed man, he drew his sword quickly, rallying his men with a cry, and leaped forward to meet Vora’s attack. Vora, mindful of Hawkwind’s orders to take prisoners whenever possible, sought to disarm Tamark. But his foot slipped in a patch of mud, and he stumbled. Instantly the Fandoran was upon him, knocking aside his blade and thrusting for his throat. Vora ducked beneath the outstretched sword and tackled the Fandoran. They fell over together, rolling amid the shouting, cursing soldiers who battled about them. Vora drove his knee into the bald one’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He was gasping for breath himself—it had been many years since he had gone through this kind of exertion. They were fighting in a very dense area of fog; the Fandoran was half-concealed by the ground mist. Vora broke free and heaved himself to his feet. As he did so, another Fandoran soldier appeared out of the fog, brandishing a knife. Vora turned, but a moment too late; he felt a sharp pain in his side as the soldier hurtled against him, knocking him off balance. Vora fell. Momentarily dazed, he watched the second soldier tug at the bald one, lifting the latter to his knees. Then they both stumbled away into the fog.
Vora looked about him. The ground was covered with men and women, wounded or dead. Shouts came from all about him. A Simbalese soldier appeared by his side and helped him to his feet.
“You are bleeding, General!” she said. “I will make a bandage.”
“Let it be,” Vora growled. “Why do you think I carry such a generous surplus of fat? It takes a long sword to reach my vitals.” He held his hand over the shallow wound.
“The prisoners attacked us from behind, sir,” the soldier said. “We were caught between the two groups. We lost all but one prisoner.”
Vora looked about him. Everywhere was the fog, masking both friend and enemy. “I see,” he said, and sighed. “I will have that bandage,” he told her. He stared into the mist. The battle continues out there, he thought. And now I begin to fear its outcome.
* * *
Many of the main streets of Simbala were deserted as a result of the dragon and the war. The royal coach reached the riverbank quickly. Two small children and a tall elderly man were waiting there, along with several guards.
Evirae looked at the children as the coach pulled up. She smiled. They looked so young and free of guile—their very appearance was refreshing to her. “The children saw the Fandoran?” she asked.
Tolchin nodded. “They told the boy’s grandfather of the incident, but he was not present at the time. They are the only witnesses.”
Evirae smiled and clapped her hands. The curtain of the coach slid back, and she carefully descended. She wore a long purple dress, blue cape, and silver tiara.
At the edge of the park, Woni watched in wonder. “It’s the Princess!” she said. “She looks so beautiful!”
Willow nervously stabbed at the grass with his spear’s rubber tip. “She looks funny,” he said. “Why is her hair all piled up like that?”
“Hush!” his grandfather whispered. As Evirae stopped before them, he continued nervously, “Good afternoon, Princess. I hope we can be of help.�
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Evirae nodded to him and smiled at the children. She put out a hand to pat Woni’s head. The girl instinctively recoiled from the gleaming nails, and Evirae withdrew the gesture, biting her lip. “You are lovely children,” she said cheerfully.
“I’m a boy,” Willow said. “I’m not lovely.”
Evirae nodded consolingly. “I only meant it as an expression of affection.”
The boy blushed and mumbled, “What do you want to know?”
“You saw the Fandoran spy,” Evirae replied. “What did he look like?”
The grandfather held Willow at his side. “From what he told me, Princess, the fellow he saw was as small as a boy, but with the face of a man.”
“He had hair like cotton!” said Woni. “Like a cotton ball!”
Evirae nodded enthusiastically. “That is he!”
Willow, unwilling to be upstaged by his friend, said, “He went down the path to the stairs. He told us not to follow him!”
Evirae mused, “He is no doubt on his way to spy on the palace. I will have to alert the guards.”
Woni tugged on Evirae’s gown and said, “He told us he had to help his friends.”
“I’m sure he did,” said Evirae, “but you have helped Simbala.” She faced Willow’s grandfather. “How may I thank you for what you have done?”
The man smiled, “I wish little, Princess. Ask the children. It is they who have helped you.”
Evirae turned back to Woni and Willow. “Tell me,” she whispered, “what would you like if you could have anything in Simbala?”
The boy beamed excitedly. “A Javelin! Like the ones used by the palace guards!”
Evirae shook her head. “Those are too dangerous for a boy as young as you, but I will see that you have a toy javelin more beautiful than any you have seen.” She turned to look at Woni. “What about you, my little princess? What would you desire?”
Woni grinned shyly. “More than anything else?”
Evirae laughed. “Name it and it is yours!”
Woni leaned her head against Willow’s grandfather and in a small voice said, “Can I meet Lady Ceria?”
