by Byron Preiss
“I wonder if we’re winning,” Steph said.
“Hard telling. For all we know, the war’s been called off, but there’s still some fools out there fighting it.”
“I told you these seeds wouldn’t do us any good,” Steph said. He looked at the wristlet of black pods on his left arm, and tore it loose in disgust, tossing it away.
“Here, now!” Jurgan said. “That’s rash, ain’t it? How d’you know those seeds ain’t all been keeping you alive? Myself, I’m leaving them on till I’m safe back at home in my own bed, and maybe I’ll keep ’em on then. They ain’t in my way.” He tied the bandage and sat back, blinking. “We’d best look for shelter now—this wind’s getting awful cold.” He shook his head. “Is the fog getting thicker?”
“No,” Steph said. “It’s clearing.”
“Then it’s my eyes. That lousy Sim knocked ’em out of whack. I’d best find a safe place to stretch out for a while—I don’t know as I can walk very far.” He touched the welt gingerly. “Think I’m hearing things, too. Sounds like waves . . .”
“I hear that,” Steph said. “Like a smith’s bellows, getting louder. Over there . . .” He pointed toward the north, then clutched Jurgan and screamed. “Look!”
Sky showed for a moment through a rift in the mist, framing the creature that hurtled over them. Steph clung to Jurgan in terror, babbling. “It’s a monster, Jurgan! What do we do now, what do we do?”
Jurgan watched the huge apparition disappear overhead, its wings creating slow thunder. “For starters,” he said slowly, “I think you’d better find those seed pods you threw away.”
* * *
Jondalrun, Pennel, and Dayon watched the creature approaching, the fog clearing before it, almost as though its mighty wings drove the mist away. All about them, the Fandorans were raising a clamor of terror, for the behemoth was coming straight toward them, evidently bent on attacking.
“Take cover!” Jondalrun shouted, though he himself stood in the open, raising a spear he had seized in a grand and ridiculous gesture. Dayon pulled the spear from his grasp and pushed him toward the shelter of a tree.
“There are some things you cannot fight, Father!” he shouted.
Men still in the open ran in all directions as the coldrake swooped lower. The backwash from its wings sent some of them sprawling. From beneath a bush, Pennel watched it as it followed a weaving course. It almost seems to be looking for something, he thought.
Despite its erratic course, it was still coming toward the Fandorans. Jondalrun watched it approach, grinding his teeth in fury. “At last, they bring their magic to play against us!” he said. “It will not stop us!” Before Dayon could stop him, he had stepped from the shelter of the tree, directly into the coldrake’s path.
“Do your worst against us!” he shouted, shaking his fist at the oncoming beast. “It will not be enough!”
“Father!” Dayon shouted, expecting to see him snatched up by the huge claws, but to his astonishment, the monster abruptly changed course, banking sharply away from the hills, almost as though frightened of something. It winged across the valley toward the Simbalese.
Jondalrun watched it go. “Did you see?” Jondalrun shouted to Dayon and Pennel. “Did you see how it fled from us? Tenniel was right—the witch’s magic works! We have repulsed the Sims’ greatest weapon!”
“So it would seem,” Pennel said cautiously, but privately he felt that nothing in this war was what it seemed.
* * *
The riders of the other two windships had seen Thalen’s craft brought down, and had also seen Kiorte rescue his brother. They had continued to cruise over the hills, looking for Fandorans to attack from above, but the fog had become too thick for that to be very effective. They had been isolated above a white sea of mist from which rose sounds of fighting. And so they had followed Kiorte’s ship as it returned to the regrouping Simbalese troops. Since they had been farther away, however, they were still in the air when the wind began to blow, and it had driven them to the southern end of the long, narrow Kameran Valley. They had been returning slowly, tacking against the wind, when they saw the terror coming from the north.
On the ground, Willen and Tweel, hidden beneath bushes, saw the creature they thought of as a dragon approach. From their point of view it appeared to come through the fog over the hills where the Fandorans hid. “By the Northweald stag!” Willen swore. “Do you see that, Tweel? It’s like they herded it our way!”
“The rumors must be true,” Tweel said. “The Fandorans do somehow control a dragon!”
“If this is the same dragon that attacked Overwood,” Willen said, “and not still another. Look!” He pointed to the south. Through the clearing fog could be seen the dim outlines of the approaching windships.
Tweel gasped. “It sees them! Willen, the dragon sees them!”
The coldrake approached the Simbalese troops, who, like the Fandorans, scattered for whatever cover they could find. Then it changed course once again as it saw the windships. It turned toward them, rising to meet them. An alert Windrider saw the gigantic shape rising out of the mist below him. Its size dwarfed the one-man craft. The rider banked the Sindril fire and furled the sails in an attempt to drop to the ground, but the wind and the gusts from the coldrake’s wings caused the craft to yaw and pitch. The rider saw the talons, each as long as his arm, as the coldrake rose above the windship and attempted to seize the balloon sails. He screamed as the delicate material ripped apart. Gas exploded out; the rider was almost thrown over the side as the ship tilted, but instead of falling, it rose, momentarily. He realized that the monster was pulling the ship upward. But the sails, unaided by the Sindril gas, could not support the craft’s weight. The ship tore free, leaving dangling shreds in the coldrake’s talons. The rider felt a moment of weightlessness as he and his ruined ship plunged toward the ground. The last thing he saw was the coldrake turning toward the other windship.
The second windship was in a more favorable position; the coldrake had to circle to approach it. As the beast did so, the side of its body passed before the ship. The rider of that ship raised his crossbow and fired twice.
He saw one arrow hit, burying itself in a haunch. Another tore through the thin membrane of a wing. The coldrake hissed in pain, then dropped and passed beneath the ship.
It swooped low over the Simbalese troops. Then it rose toward the top of the trees swiftly in the direction of the center of the forest. It shrieked in pain as it did, frightening those scattered soldiers and citizens traveling between the Simbalese line and the heart of Overwood.
At the forest’s edge, Thalen leaped onto a horse and spurred it quickly toward the downed windship. He had little hope that the rider was alive. The ship had not drifted down, as his had; it had been hurled to the ground like a child’s toy. “It is clearly in league with the Fandorans!” General Vora shouted. “They ordered it to attack the windships, and now it is approaching Overwood!”
“It seemed to be trying to carry the ship away,” Hawkwind said. “I have seen my hawk do the same with a rabbit.”
“For the same purpose, no doubt!” Kiorte cried. “I demand the right to follow that dragon!”
As he spoke, the soldiers helped dock the second windship. Nearby two soldiers stood guard by the single Fandoran prisoner. He was a sullen, burly man, this Fandoran—a smith of Borgen Town. They had bound him with rawhide thongs, but they had underestimated his strength. The Fandoran had tested the thongs about his wrist and knew he could burst them when the time came. It appeared that it would come soon—the confusion about him would help his plan. He looked toward the windship.
XXVI
Ephrion faced Amsel, who sat, gratefully, across from him on the blue silk couch. “If what you say is true,” the bearded man whispered, “then we must get some word to this Jondalrun and to Hawkwind at once!”
Amsel’s voice quavered. “At last. I have found somebody who can help! Monarch Ephrion, this will mean the end of the war!�
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The old man shook his head grimly. “No, I am afraid it will only be a step.”
“I have given you the truth!” Amsel protested. “My people did not attack your child! They have gone to war for the same reason as Simbala! Obviously, somebody has attacked the children of both our lands. I cannot understand it, but the knowledge at least should prevent Fandora and Simbala from murdering each other!”
“Ah, if things were so easy, Amsel, there would have been no war. I will get word to Hawkwind,” Ephrion said, “but I fear the answer to the murder of the child cannot be found within the world we know.”
These words puzzled Amsel; he cocked his head sideways in the manner of a small child.
“Come with me,” said Ephrion, “and I will explain.”
Amsel followed Ephrion toward the rosewood desk on the other side of the chamber, from which Ephrion pulled a large brown book studded with jewels.
“The battle is beyond our control, because of this,” he said.
Amsel took the book and opened it to the page held back by a yellow band. He squinted, regretting that his reading spectacles had been scratched beyond use. To his surprise, there was a large painting of a creature, with two wings, a ferocious face, and enormous black talons.
“It is a dragon!” said Amsel.
“No,” replied Ephrion. “It is a coldrake.”
“A coldrake? I have read many legends, but I have never heard of a coldrake.”
“I am not surprised. Fandora is a young country, Amsel, and though Simbala is older, it is still far from the Southland in age. These legends date back to a time before our countries were born.”
“That may be true,” said Amsel, “but surely a legend is not the reason for the war.”
“It is not a legend. I have seen the coldrake, as have many of the people of the forest.”
Amsel looked at Ephrion, in astonishment as the elder statesman continued.
“I believe that many of the legends of the Southland are not legends at all, but the actual history of the land to the north.”
“The land to the north of Dragonsea?”
“Yes,” said Ephrion, “Lady Ceria has also been told of this. Although she knows not of the coldrakes, she had departed on a mission to find proof of the legends in the area known as the Valian Plains. There may be a jewel there, a jewel containing history of the dragons.”
Amsel returned the book to the rosewood desk. “The dragons of legend were peaceful creatures,” he murmured. “I presume these coldrakes are not.”
“A coldrake attacked a watchman in Overwood,” said Ephrion, “but I do not know why it has appeared.”
For a moment Amsel remembered the days he had spent adrift in the Strait of Balomar, when reality and hallucinations brought on by hunger had merged in his fevered brain—or so he had thought. Had there not been a time back then during which he had heard the sound of gigantic wings, flapping, and seen something large and indistinct passing through the clouds?
Slowly he said, “A child I met when I escaped the tunnels spoke of a dragon, but I thought it to be no more than his imagination.”
“It is real, and it threatens both our lands. The coldrake is like a cousin to the dragons, but it possesses neither their intelligence nor nobility nor size. Nor can a coldrake breathe fire.”
Amsel looked preoccupied, his mind fixed on a moment that seemed long ago.
Then he asked, “Why have the coldrakes not appeared until now?”
“According to the legends I have most recently discovered, the coldrakes had always obeyed the orders of the dragons. They were forbidden by the dragons to have any contact with human life.”
Amsel looked at the picture. “I can understand why. This creature has the features of a predator. If it is as large as it looks, it could endanger many people.”
Ephrion removed the book from Amsel’s hand. “That,” he said sternly, “is why you must journey to the land of the dragons.”
“To the land of the dragons?” Amsel grasped the desk tightly, feeling suddenly dizzy.
“If Ceria has been captured, then she will be unable to complete her mission. You are our hope now, Amsel—and Fandora’s hope, too. You must learn why the coldrakes have attacked. You must learn their secret and bring word back to us! You alone will be trusted by both Simbalese and Fandoran.”
“My people think me to be a spy!”
“You will be a hero,” said Ephrion.
“I don’t want to be a hero!” said Amsel. “I want peace! I wish to learn the truth about Johan’s murder! It is for those things that I feel responsible!”
“Then you must accept this mission. For only by discovering the truth about the coldrakes will the murder of the children be put fully to rest!”
“I am very tired,” Amsel responded. “I have traveled for days with little food and almost no sleep. I have been chased, attacked, taken prisoner, questioned, hunted, buried alive, soaked, and now you want me to become a hero?”
Ephrion smiled. “You have no choice, Amsel of Fandora. You must go. You must find out why the coldrake has appeared!”
Amsel watched the Monarch as he spoke. Ephrion’s face was worn with age and fatigue; he too had faced a long struggle. Amsel responded that the task of deciphering the secrets of the books and maps around them had been a tremendous undertaking, yet Ephrion had discovered a vital fragment of the legends in mere days. “If you remain here,” the Monarch warned, “the Princess will take you prisoner before night descends on the forest.” He reached for a scroll on the far corner of the rosewood desk. “You must journey to the north, to learn why the coldrakes have violated the orders of the dragons. You can rest along the way but you must get away from the palace first. You must learn why the dragons themselves did not prevent the murder of our children.”
Amsel nodded softly. “For Johan, I must go. My conscience could permit nothing less.”
Ephrion smiled. “Yes,” he whispered, “and when you return to us with the answer, your conscience will be free once more.”
“No,” said Amsel. “A child has been murdered due to my thoughtless ways. I shall never be free of that!”
“Then you will be at peace in the knowledge that you have saved a thousand others.” Ephrion slipped the scroll he was holding into the lining of his robe. “Now, step back,” he said. “The guards may arrive at any moment.”
Amsel watched as Ephrion pulled a bell cord near the desk.
There was a rumbling, as of counterweights shifting in the wall behind it. Then Ephrion drew aside an arras, to reveal a dark opening in the wall. The entire palace was evidently riddled with secret passageways, Amsel thought, and he wondered at the intrigue that must have taken place over the centuries.
Ephrion caught his look and smiled. “Most of these ways are rarely used,” he said, “as you must have noticed from the dust, but it is better to have them and not need them than to need them and not have them, yes?” He thrust a torch of firemoss into a candleflame, then stooped and entered the small opening, Amsel following upright.
To the Fandoran’s bewilderment, however, instead of a tunnel or stairwell, he found himself in a small wooden room. “I think you will find this mode of travel slightly less tiresome,” Ephrion said. He gave the torch to Amsel and slowly turned a wheel on the wall of the small room. Amsel once again heard the groaning of counterweights, but faintly, as from a distance, coming closer. Simultaneously, the opening slid down and disappeared beneath the floor! After a moment of disorientation, Amsel realized with delight that the small room was moving rapidly up a shaft in the center of the tree, lifted, no doubt, by a concealed system of weights and pulleys.
“This is ingenious!” he exclaimed. “A brilliant application of a simple concept!”
“Also a method of travel much easier on an old man’s limbs,” Ephrion said. After a moment, he turned the wheel again, and the moving wall before them seemed to slow down. Ephrion stopped the lift level with another door, which
he pushed open cautiously. Amsel saw part of a vast chamber, the high ceiling of which was supported by columns. Flames in wall cressets illuminated the room. It was largely empty, save for stacks of barrels, large bolts of cloths, and coils of rope that were set along the walls. From one end, beyond Amsel’s vision, came the dull gray light of a cloudy sky.
“Step softly!” cautioned Ephrion. “We are approaching the launching chamber for the palace windship.”
“Windship?” asked Amsel. “Surely you do not expect me to travel by windship!”
“There is simply no other way for you to reach your destination in time.” Ephrion motioned for silence. “I shall distract the guard while you get aboard.”
“Monarch Ephrion, I have little idea of how a windship operates! I’ve only been a passenger once—and blindfolded for most of the time at that!”
Ephrion smiled. “You are an inventive fellow. If you can build something as exceptional as the gliding Wing you described to me earlier, then certainly you will be able to understand the operation of a windship.”
As they stepped out of the lift, Amsel peered between the folds in Ephrion’s robe and saw a sight that set his heart pounding. The room was larger than the Tamberly town square and it faced the sky itself! An entire wall was missing!
An arch in the trunk of the tree curved down to the floor. Framed in this arch was a windship. It was smaller than the craft Amsel had seen as a prisoner, and its sails were flaccid. Yet, with its intricate design and brightly painted sails, it was an impressive sight. A single guard stood nearby.
“Hide behind me, now,” said Ephrion, and Amsel took refuge between the robe and the wall.
“Sentry!” Ephrion shouted. “Come quickly! I have seen the Fandoran spy on this level!”
The guard rushed from his post toward Ephrion. “Quickly!” the Monarch shouted. “Check the hall!”
The guard passed them without hesitation. As soon as the door closed behind him, they ran toward the windship. Moments later, at the foot of the hull, they used a small rope ladder to climb aboard.
