by Byron Preiss
“If I can get far enough away to make a trip out to the riverbank,” he murmured, “I may be able to find a little vegetation.”
A short time later, the gorge opened into a wider valley. To the west he could see the bank of the river. Growing around it were a few rushes and reeds, even a sapling or two, all covered by a thin layer of frost. He peered up at the sky again and sighed. I must have something to eat, he told himself, even if it is no more than a plant. Slowly he moved away from the edge of the gorge, down the valley, toward the riverbank. Fifty feet ahead, he suddenly saw what appeared to be a hairy beast, waiting for him in the darkness. Amsel froze in his tracks, but as he did, he realized that it was not a beast at all, but a sleeping fur that had evidently fallen from the windship when it crashed. “This is most fortunate!” Amsel sighed, quickly wrapping the fur around him. Then, as he reached the riverbank, he noticed something floating slowly along the shoreline. It was a piece of wood covered by a blue cloth. No, thought Amsel, not a cloth, a section of the balloon sails. He retrieved it from the freezing river. It had obviously been carried south, away from the other wreckage of the windship. The piece of wood was a foot wide and a little taller than he was. The cloth from the balloon sail was shredded, and Amsel was at first disappointed that he would be unable to use it except as further insulation from the cold. Then it occurred to him that the wood could be used as the basis for a raft. He now realized how he could use the sail. After gathering several tall reeds and saplings, he would have something with which to tie them together.
“I shall have to risk it,” he murmured. “It is far too cold for me to travel much farther by foot.”
In the next three hours Amsel busied himself gathering wood and building the raft. The full moon was quite high when he finished. At last he pushed the tiny craft into the river and began his journey southward.
He observed the high cliffs on both sides of the riverbank. “I will watch for the Glowing Caverns,” he said. “It may not be long before the coldrakes take flight again. If their attack on Johan was any example of what is to come, then I must, I must, find out the truth behind the legends of the dragons!” Although he was convinced that the coldrakes were responsible, he still had no idea why the children of Fandora and Simbala had been killed. Amsel thought of the horrors he had faced in the north and the war for which he felt responsible.
A quiet weeping filled the canyon, a sound as lonely as the howling winds. Farther north, clouds hid the moon, and though Amsel did not know it, silent wings still searched for him.
* * *
At midnight, word was sent quickly to the Kameran Valley.
The meeting of the Royal Family had been brief. Monarch Ephrion’s objection to the inconclusive and surreptitious nature of Evirae’s charges had been considered insufficient. He was unable to divulge what had happened between him and the Fandoran, for it would throw suspicion on his defense of Hawkwind. Similarly, Ceria’s mission could not be revealed. He still hoped that she would return to the forest with evidence to explain the mystery of the coldrake’s attack.
The Princess herself spoke with compassion and restraint, giving a memorable performance that Mesor would have loved had he been permitted to attend. She received the unexpected support of her husband, and of other Ministers who had been willing to give the miner a chance in calmer times, but who were now deeply concerned and angered by the losses suffered under his direction in the war.
Baroness Alora was also swayed by the news of the losses—Thalen’s murder could not be tolerated, no matter how much she admired Hawkwind’s effort to seek reforms. He had brought the hot-tempered Northwealdsfolk into the army. She called for Hawkwind’s suspension for the duration of the conflict with the Fandorans, but she wished to defer the question of his complete removal.
Tolchin supported the proposal out of respect for Alora’s wishes, but it was soundly rejected.
Jibron and Eselle were the last to speak, and it was they who moved for the removal of Hawkwind from the palace on the grounds of treason and inadequacy in military matters.
The vote was unanimous.
Despite Ephrion’s protest, Evirae would have the title of Queen.
* * *
The road that Hawkwind had taken to the Southland had received the heaviest part of the Spring rains, and parts of it had been flooded. Hawkwind now came to one of these parts—a low gully where the road had been completely washed out. He reined up before it and looked about the woods. The sun was just above the horizon. His hawk had flown ahead to search the road for danger. It would have returned to him had there been dangerous animals lying in wait, but he could not expect it to understand that a stretch of water was impassable to him. Hawkwind whistled and the piercing sound cut through the stillness. There was no response. The bird had evidently flown far ahead. Hawkwind turned his horse to the left and plunged into the woods, riding up the slope. His horse picked its way easily through the woods. It had been trained for battle and for the hunt; many times had Hawkwind gone into these woods to hunt for stag and wild boar. It was a dangerous sport, but the courageous animal had never failed or faltered during it. Hawkwind smiled at the memories. Relaxing in the saddle, he let lapse momentarily his habitual awareness of the woods. His first realization that danger was near came when the horse suddenly neighed a warning cry upon entering a small meadow. Then the dark curtain of the forest nearby was pushed aside, and, with a shattering roar, a gigantic bear shambled into view. Hawkwind, in that moment of clarity that comes with a sudden shock, saw just within the trees the dead body of a cub, felled by a hunter’s arrow. The bear was obviously full of grief and rage. She roared again, and then charged toward them.
The horse leaped forward, needing space in which to maneuver. Hawkwind’s legs tensed, keeping him in the saddle, as the horse gave a mighty leap that carried it over the bear, which rose too late to her hind legs in an attempt to claw it. She whirled quickly and rushed forward again.
Hawkwind barely had time to draw his sword. “Clear!” He shouted, and the horse leaped to one side. Hawkwind leaned low as the bear passed and attempted to hamstring her, but the blow did not cut deeply enough to reach the tendons. Furious at the pain, the bear turned quickly and rose upon her hind legs, leaning on a small tree that uprooted beneath her weight. Hawkwind’s horse reared and struck at the bear with its front hooves. The bear struck back; the horse retreated, but not quickly enough to escape four shallow gouges on its flank.
Hawkwind struck again with his sword, wishing he had the long spear he normally used in hunting. His blow did no good; the bear lashed out at the sword and struck it from his hand, numbing his arm in the process. Now there was nothing with which to keep her at a distance. The distraction that other hunters would normally have provided was also missing. There was only one thing to do. Hawkwind leaped from the saddle, whirling his cape from his shoulders as he did so. He ran to one side, shouting and waving the heavy cape with his good arm.
Now there were two targets. The bear hesitated, then snarled and hurled herself at the small, dancing human, ripping furiously at the flapping thing that cracked at her eyes. Behind her, the horse screamed and struck again with its hooves. The bear turned and raised a paw to strike; she was within easy range, and could disembowel the noble beast with one blow. Hawkwind gasped, but before the bear could strike, an explosion of feathered fury about the bear’s head distracted her. The hawk had come! Shrieking, all talons and beak, it wheeled about the bear, then pulled up steeply, wings laboring, out of reach.
The bear turned about in a circle, completely bewildered by this third and, to her, almost invisible assailant. The hawk dipped down again, needle claws stinging the bear’s muzzle, while Hawkwind moved quickly to the edge of the forest, picking up his sword. “To me!” he cried, and the horse responded, slowing to let his master mount. Hawkwind swung into the saddle and the horse galloped swiftly back toward the woods. The hawk screamed a final challenge and followed, leaving the bear bellowing f
uriously in the empty clearing. They heard the thunder of its pursuit, but it could not move as swiftly as they between the trees, and they soon outdistanced it.
Soon they came out onto the road again, beyond the flooded area. Hawkwind slowed his horse to a canter and drank from his canteen. His arm ached, but it was not broken. He had been very lucky, he knew. He gathered herbs for soothing juice to treat the shallow wounds of the horse. As he did so, his hawk perched on the saddlehorn with a triumphant cry. Hawkwind grinned. These two animals had risked their lives to protect him. He knew that he could do no less for Simbala.
The journey ahead was long, but there would be nothing else to stop him. He knew of the Rayan camps; he had heard Ceria speak about Shar Wagon many times. He would find it, he would find Ceria, before the sun set again in the sky. Whatever evidence Monarch Ephrion had directed her to recover would be taken back to the forest by them.
Hawkwind knew that Simbala would support him, if only he could determine the truth behind the war and the dragon.
He stared at the road that threaded toward the Valian Plains. The troops from the Southland would be returning through the Eastern Pass. If he could reach Ceria first, then rendezvous with the caravan, he could be back in Overwood in a day’s time.
The bear had not stopped him. The Princess had not stopped him. Come what may, he would return with the means to win the war. He took to the saddle again and, hawk on his shoulder, rode down the darkening road.
* * *
Tweel sat sadly on a rock at the edge of the clearing occupied by the Northweald volunteers. He was gazing silently at the moon when Willen approached.
“Vora still refuses to allow us to infiltrate the hills,” he said. “You’d think the Simbalese army was cracking their lines, the way he talked.”
Tweel ignored him.
“They’re not doing a single thing. Not a single thing! Frightened of the dragon, they are—Vora, too. With Hawkwind off on some secret mission, no one wants to make a move. You’d think there’d be a charge! The farmers are just hiding in the hills. We could push them back to the boats in an hour!”
Again Tweel was silent.
Willen frowned. “Vora won’t trust us at all!”
“Can’t blame them.” Tweel grunted. “It wasn’t a Fandoran that killed Thalen.”
“That wasn’t your fault,” Willen said. “It was an accident.”
Tweel shook his head. “That doesn’t change what happened. I’m worse than a fool.”
“Now you’re going to sit there and brood over it?” Willen scratched his cheek, covered with a light beard. “You’re a Wealdsman, Tweel! You can’t just sit there!”
“What am I supposed to do?” Tweel yelled.
Willen pushed him off the rock. “Do not forget the reason we came here!” he shouted. “A child of the Northweald was murdered by the Fandorans.”
“There is nothing we can do if General Vora stays here.”
Willen glanced in the direction of the General and the cavalry, positioned on the other side of the clearing.
“Vora keeps saying we’re not a part of his army. Why should we obey his orders? I say we take our contingent, slip into those hills and flush those child-killers out!”
“What about the dragon?”
“Who cares about the dragon. Every one of us is a hunter! We’ll see how it flies with a hundred arrows in it! Come, Tweel! Here’s your chance to show Vora you can hit the right target!”
Tweel rose quickly and stared at Willen in anger.
Willen’s face reddened. “I am sorry, friend. Sometimes my words are said too fast. I’m not the enemy, Tweel.” He pointed at the hills. “They are.”
Tweel exhaled sharply, and nodded.
* * *
The two Wealdsmen quickly mobilized the rest of the Northweald troops. Quietly they slipped into the darkness. They moved slowly around the perimeters of the hills, up the large gulleys and ravines that opened into the Kameran Valley. They took advantage of the trees, rocks, and bushes to conceal themselves. Willen knew that Fandoran sentries watched from the hills. He had told the others with him to take their time. On occasion, they took an entire hour to cross ten feet of open space. In the ravines, where darkness pooled thickly, they made their way through unseen dry leaves with no more sound than a breeze. They moved slowly and surely, toward positions in a rough ring around the center of the hills. They would have one chance at surprising the Fandorans, Willen knew. He intended to see that they drove them back to shore.
XXIX
Amsel continued his voyage down the river all night. The journey was ofttimes perilous—his makeshift raft tumbled down shallow rapids and through narrow passes at tremendous speeds. During these times Amsel would cling to the bonds that held the tiny raft and hope that it would not shatter against the rocks. Even with his fur wrapped around him, he was shivering, but in his heart one tiny flame burned, and it was the hope that the dragons did exist. For if the coldrakes planned to descend on Fandora and Simbala, only a creature as large as a dragon could stop them.
His concern was heightened by the approach of a storm. Chill winds began to whip around him, and flurries of sleet occasionally fell. By the full moon’s light he could see clouds massing against the sky.
Fortunately, the storm took its time about developing. By the time dawn arrived, the sky was an angry gray, but rain had not yet fallen. Amsel could see lightning among the distant peaks. Although there had been moments of astonishing beauty in the past few hours, Amsel found it hard to imagine a land more desolate than this chilling canyon. The only colors were the white of snow, the pale, pale greens of the infrequent flora that bordered the river, and the browns and reds of the rocks and the cliffs. Despite the danger, Amsel dozed intermittently, for he was bruised and weary. In his dreams, the coldrakes returned, and he awoke frequently to the sound of a whistling wind.
* * *
The Darkling led his legions through an icy pass in the cliffs to the east. They would hunt for whatever still roamed in these parts of the canyons; they would prepare for the coming battle. The humans were clever, they knew, and their size betrayed little of their murderous ways. The specter of the dragons haunted him. His edict now violated their own, and never, never had he taken a step that far. Yet the dragons were gone, he told himself again, and his brethren would perish without protection from the cold.
A lone emissary had been sent south. It would watch for any more of the humans’ cloud ships, and should it find the tiny creature that escaped, ensure that it would not return to the south.
The Darkling moaned as the cold winds chilled his wings. The coldrakes would endure this land, this cold, no longer. The humans had dared to violate what was sacred to them, and in doing so, had invited their attack.
* * *
Amsel wondered what time it was in Simbala. He knew nothing, of course, of what had happened, but if the sophistication of the palace was an example of Simbalese technology, then the possibility of Fandora’s victory was slim indeed. He told himself that if Jondalrun had surrendered, then at least Monarch Ephrion would see to it that Fandora would not be dealt with badly.
He looked up behind the base of the cliffs to the sheer white walls that faced the canyon. Large stalagmites of ice were melting on the higher levels, and they crashed loudly on the rocks below. The ice and the snow extended for miles beyond the top of the cliffs. It was strange how dim light made murky shadows on the snowy walls. At times it almost appeared as if clouds were moving within them. There was a large icy mass ahead, and within it a dark and irregular shape seemed to lie waiting. Fascinated by it, Amsel reached for his spectacles and remembered that they were gone.
He lifted the long pole from its berth between the slats of his raft and pushed it in the water. The river ran slower here, and it would not be difficult to bring the craft closer to shore. He wished to have a better look at the cliffs as he passed by. Glancing up again in his vigil for coldrakes, he saw the skies were empty an
d pushed ahead.
“I think,” murmured Amsel, “that this might be a good time to do a bit of foraging on shore.” He was torn between hunger and sleep, and as he pushed the raft toward the river’s edge, he decided he would go several hundred feet along the shore before turning back. He hoped to be able to find some small edible plants and at the same time get a better glimpse of the mysterious cliffside ahead.
He docked the raft securely, and climbed up the icy bank. Then he hurried east, keeping his eyes on the wall of ice above him. Several minutes later he saw a sight worthy of the most fantastic legends.
Encased within the ice of the frozen cliffside was a huge winged creature. It looked as if it had been frozen in flight. Although he could not make out its features clearly, Amsel knew that if this was a coldrake, it was the largest coldrake he had ever seen.
He approached it, forgetting to stay close to his raft, and as he saw the creature more clearly, he realized that this could not be a coldrake at all. “Four legs, two giant wings,” he whispered. “It is a dragon!”
He jumped. “A dragon! It is a dragon!” The legends were true! Dragons did exist! Or at least, had existed, for this creature had obviously been frozen for ages. Still, it made him hope. He wanted to share that feeling, but the canyon was silent save for the sound of the river behind him and the storm above. He once again felt a desperate longing for another human voice.
Then suddenly, the sound of flapping wings assured Amsel that he would not continue his observation alone. He had forgotten his vigil, and, as was so often the irony of life, he had forgotten at the very moment he should have remembered.
A coldrake was diving directly toward him. Amsel started running, his fur blanket dropping on a shattered block of snow. He was about three hundred feet from the edge of the cliffs now, on a sloping floor of rock. The slope was icy and his progress was maddeningly slow. Twice he slipped and fell, rolling down several feet. A flurry of snow pelted him, and thunder rumbled again—evidently the storm was about to start. Amsel dug his boot into the melting ice and started to climb toward the top of the rocky slope. A shriek cut through the thunder. He turned and saw the coldrake hurtling toward him.
