by Byron Preiss
Hawkwind listened to Ceria’s words intently, running his fingers through the Rayan’s dark hair. “We must end the war,” he said, “and face the real danger. Ephrion has informed me of the truth behind the Fandorans’ attack. If the dragons have murdered the children of both our lands, we must find a way to stop them together!”
Ceria looked at Hawkwind in surprise. “How can we join forces with the Fandorans? We are at war with them now!”
“That is why I have come south, Ceria. I must return with the troops from the Southland to defeat them. Then there will be time to convince them of the truth.”
“That will not be easy.” said Ceria. “A country defeated in war is never anxious to join forces with its enemies.”
“Unless the enemy is a common foe,” replied Hawkwind, “such as the dragons. You must help me, Ceria. I must regain my title and control of the troops, before Evirae becomes Queen.”
Ceria wrapped herself in Hawkwind’s cape. “She will never be Queen,” she whispered, “not while Ephrion lives in the palace.”
* * *
As Hawkwind fed his horse in a clearing beyond the camp, Ceria bade good-bye to Zurka and Balia. She was still quite tired, but she knew she had no time to waste. The rest of the wagon folk dispersed, save for Boblan, who watched as Zurka handed Ceria the Dragonpearl. “When I saw you had returned, I knew it was for this,” the old woman whispered. “I pray you have discovered what is needed to end the war.”
“I pray I have too,” Ceria replied, “and I only wish I could be grateful for the circumstances that have brought me back to you both again.”
Her mother smiled at those words. At that moment, there was a shrill cry in the air above them. Balia looked up and saw a hawk circling overhead as Hawkwind rode toward them through the clearing.
Ceria gazed around the clearing. How peaceful it seemed here—how much she was giving up, it seemed to her in that instant, to return to a world of war and intrigue. She loved the woods and the plains, but she loved Hawkwind more than either.
“Good-bye,” she whispered to her mother and sister, and then Ceria turned her horse to ride with Hawkwind toward the missing troops.
* * *
Willen peered through a curtain of underbrush at a large clearing, within which was a contingent of perhaps fifty Fandorans. Some slept, but most were awake, crouched over the embers of small fires or restlessly moving about and sharpening the farmers’ tools they had for weapons.
Willen stared for a moment, then moved silently back into the darkness of the trees. He traveled a prudent distance, pursed his lips, and gave an expert imitation of a night bird’s call.
After a time, there was another shadow among the many that cloaked the woods. Then another, and another. The stealthy gathering spoke, one after another, in tones no louder than the falling of leaves. They told how many Fandorans each had seen in the hills.
Willen listened, then said softly, “There are more than we thought. We have the element of surprise, but we are not enough to rout them.”
“Perhaps, now that we are here, General Vora will be inclined to send Overwood soldiers to reinforce our attack,” Tweel suggested.
Willen nodded. “Return to him, Tweel. Say that we will attack at dawn, and for his troops to be at the perimeter of the hills, waiting to join us.”
Tweel nodded, rose, and seemed to disappear, so silently did he leave.
* * *
A slight ground mist had risen in the cold predawn hours, adding an eerie touch to the shadow-shrouded hills. Tamark and Dayon entered a small bower where the Fandoran wounded had been gathered. Both fishermen had some small medical knowledge, but there was little they had been able to do for the injured men. They had splinted broken limbs, poulticed wounds, and given rosewine to the invalids to help them sleep.
“This waiting is even harder on my nerves than the battle,” Tamark said softly, putting his hand against a feverish soldier’s forehead. “There has been no move from the Simbalese for hours. I wonder what they plan.”
“Nothing good, I am sure,” Dayon replied. He crouched beside Tenniel. The young Elder looked very pale. As Dayon inspected the dressing on his shoulder, Tenniel’s eyes opened and stared into his for a moment. Dayon gasped; he had not thought Tenniel would regain consciousness this quickly.
Then Tenniel’s eyes closed again.
Dayon smiled. “He will recover.” he said.
“Aye,” Tamark said grimly. “Recover to live as a cripple.”
Dayon did not reply. They turned away from the wounded. The young navigator felt as though the dark mass of trees was closing in on him. Tamark was right—the constant waiting was hard. The stillness of the predawn hour and the mist combined to produce a most uneasy feeling.
As they were about to leave the bower, Tamark’s huge hand suddenly closed like a clamp on Dayon’s upper arm. “Look!” he whispered.
Dayon looked ahead, and with a chill saw a dark, shadowy form in the trees. It was moving swiftly in their direction.
* * *
The moon was down, and the coming dawn had not yet lightened the sky. Tweel did not have to worry about being seen by Fandoran scouts as he ran across the width of the valley to the Simbalese camp. He was challenged by a sentry, who refused to let him pass even after he identified himself as a Northwealdsman. Instead, he was escorted into the camp, protesting angrily. Then Tweel saw Prince Kiorte’s windship behind the supply lines. His heart started beating like a bird in flight. He was trapped. The flap of Vora’s tent was tossed aside, and Prince Kiorte, followed by Vora, stepped into the torchlight.
Several soldiers awake at this hour gathered about curiously, but at Kiorte’s sharp command they left the three alone. Kiorte stood before Tweel, face impassive, hands on hips. Tweel, remembering the feel of those hands about his neck, coughed reflexively. Bravely he explained his mission in words he thought most proper and formal.
“Willen of the Northweald has taken an invasion force to the hills.” Vora closed his eyes in weary shock, and Tweel suddenly noticed that the General had aged much in the past few days.
The muscles of Kiorte’s jaws tightened—whether in anger or concern, Tweel could not tell.
It took considerable fortitude for Tweel to continue. “He requests that General Vora order Overwood troops to ring the outside of the hills. At dawn, the Wealdsmen will attack. With help from the army, we should be able to drive the Fandorans back to shore.”
Kiorte watched Tweel, then in a soft voice said, “No.”
“No?” cried Vora. “We cannot leave them there!”
Kiorte averted his eyes and exhaled sharply, as if in regret, but when he spoke his voice was firm. “We cannot afford to waste more soldiers in a hopeless attempt,” he said. “If the Northwealdsfolk foolishly risk their lives to be heroes, it is regrettable, but done. It is not the way of Simbala.” Kiorte looked at Vora, then Tweel. “I refuse to send more soldiers to be killed. I intend to implement my own plan.”
“You refuse to give us aid?” Tweel burst out, forgetting the Prince’s anger in his own indignation. “Our soldiers cannot defeat the entire Fandoran army unassisted! To deny them aid is . . .”
“Is what?” Kiorte asked softly, his eyes burning as he stared at Tweel. “Murder? You are familiar with murder, are you not?”
Tweel tried to suppress his temper. “I tried to save your brother’s life, Prince Kiorte.”
“I am sorry that you did not succeed.” Kiorte turned and summoned two Windriders with a snap of his fingers. The men approached and saluted. “This Northwealdsman is to be taken back to Overwood,” Kiorte said. “He is to be held until my return.”
The Windriders seized Tweel’s arms. He struggled uselessly. “General!” he shouted. “Do not listen to him! You must send troops to support Willen! You must send the troops!”
Minutes later, a small windship rose above the edge of the valley and flew east toward Overwood.
* * *
Dayon s
tepped back quickly, one hand going to the sword thrust through the rope belt of his tunic. As the figure before him stepped into the dim light of the clearing, he recognized the man, although he did not feel much relief. The man was dressed mostly in black, with a black eyepatch. He was a Wayman. Dayon had often seen him, apart from the rest of the men. He was taller than most Fandorans, and from a distance on other occasions he seemed to be watching the others with an attitude of superiority.
Now it seemed to Dayon that the Wayman’s face had been filled with concern.
“Arouse the men,” said the Wayman.
“Why?” asked Tamark.
The Wayman frowned. “Do not question me, Elder. I have had much experience at knowing when danger is about to approach. It is my profession.”
Dayon nodded. “I feel it too, Tamark. Something is waiting out there.”
The Wayman looked at him grimly. “Summon some men and bring them here! There will be trouble before dawn breaks!”
Dayon hesitated; then, at Tamark’s nod, he turned and ran back through the bower, down a slope and into one of the clearings where the camps were. Several of the men sprang nervously to their feet as he entered. He saw a few Elders asleep by a small fire. Jondalrun was among them. Dayon hesitated a moment, noticing how even in repose the old man’s features did not relax. Should he wake him? He decided against it. His father needed rest.
He turned to the men. “Come with me,” he said. “Alert the other contingents—I want ten men from every town. Move quietly!”
The men seized their weapons and moved quickly into the shadows.
* * *
Willen kept his eyes on the eastern horizon, where it looked slightly lighter—the merest hint of dawn approaching, the dawn that would be the signal for attack. He had remained in this spot for over an hour, not moving except to occasionally, carefully stretch and flex his muscles. His men and women had spread out in a circle that completely surrounded the Fandorans. With the help of the Overwood troops, the invasion would be crushed. They would drive them back to shore.
Willen held in one hand the rainbow fragments of shells that had been found with the Northweald child. He looked at them, returned them to his pouch, and gripped his knife. He thought of a torn, ragged, and bloody dress. A child that had not been his, but that might have been.
Suddenly the quiet was disturbed by the sound of people moving through the underbrush. It could not be his soldiers—they would not make crashing sounds like a frightened stag! Then he heard shouting, growing steadily louder. What was it?
A moment later, he knew.
* * *
The eastern sky was growing light by the time the men had gathered. “There are enemy soldiers all about us,” the Wayman told them. “I have been walking in the woods, and I have heard them signaling each other by bird cries. We must attack before they do, to turn the tables on them. There cannot be many.”
The men quickly divided into four groups, led by Dayon, Tamark, the Wayman, and another Elder. They moved through the woods by the four compass points. None of them had to go very far. Within moments Dayon spied the silhouette of a man in a tree. Simultaneously something whistled in the air, and a man screamed, an arrow embedded in his chest. Shouts rose all about them as the other groups discovered the hidden Northweald troops. The waiting that Tamark and Dayon had found so nerve-racking was over.
* * *
Lagow had been absent from the clearing when Dayon had given the order. He was still thinking of home as he stood alone in the woods. Then he heard the attack begin. Shouting and thrashing, faint at first, but growing rapidly louder, came from all about. It has started again, Lagow thought. Full of horror, he dashed back to the clearing. He saw that the Elders were awake. Jondalrun leaped to his feet. “They have infiltrated the hills!” Lagow shouted.
“That is impossible!” Jondalrun cried. “We had sentries everywhere!”
“Dayon suspected!” another shouted. “He took men to investigate!”
Jondalrun turned and picked up his sword in his wounded hand, wincing at the pain. “Follow me!” he shouted, and charged toward the sounds of war, followed by the rest. Lagow followed as well, hardly realizing what he was doing. He prayed that this time there would finally be an end to it.
* * *
The battle of the hills was short, but nonetheless fierce. The Northweald soldiers, expecting to surprise the Fandorans but being instead surprised by them, had lost their biggest advantage. Another factor in the Fandorans’ favor was the dawn, which now came to show them how significantly they outnumbered their foes. The fighting quickly disintegrated into small groups scattered here and there throughout the hills.
The Wayman knew that this battle had to be won quickly, before the main troops might decide to move against them. Though he fought, he fought with regret. He had hoped that both sides might have learned their lesson after the first battle. Evidently this was not to be so.
Jondalrun and the men hurried through the woods and came upon Dayon and his group, fighting the Northwealdsfolk in a large clearing. “Surround them!” Jondalrun shouted.
Willen saw Jondalrun shouting orders. The Northwealdsman was loath to strike a blow at a man his father’s age, but the man was obviously in authority.
Jondalrun barely saw the blow in time to parry it. Willen, off balance, stumbled and fell. He rolled behind a bush, where he lay concealed for a moment. The battle was going badly, he realized. Where were the Overwood troops? They should be into the hills by now, shattering the last of the Fandoran resistance. What had happened to them?
It soon became obvious that no such aid was forthcoming. The Northwealdsfolk, disheartened by the fact that the Simbalese army did not come to their aid, and outnumbered by the Fandorans, started back toward the safety of the forest.
“We have them now!” Jondalrun shouted.
Lagow crouched behind a tree, watching the fighting. He would have nothing to do with it anymore! If he could escape from this hill alive, he would leave this battle, leave this war, and try to somehow return to his wife and children. The war would continue without him until they were taken prisoners or killed. To remain or to leave was no longer a question of patriotism—it was a question of sanity.
He hurried around the edge of the clearing, keeping in the shadows, away from the fighting. Between two boulders ahead was an opening in the rocks and dense undergrowth, away from the battle. He would find his way back to the boats and somehow cross the perilous Strait of Balomar.
Lagow reached the natural archway formed by the boulders. It opened into a narrow passageway through the rocks and trees. He could hear no sounds of fighting through there. He hesitated, then looked back at the battle.
The Fandorans were beginning to push back the Simbalese. Lagow saw Dayon, separated from the rest. The youth had seized a length of branch and was using it as a quarter-staff against the blows of a Northwealdsman’s sword. Even as Lagow watched, an overhead slash by the Wealdsman broke the staff. Simultaneously Dayon, stepping backward, hit his heel against a rock and fell, sprawling on the damp ground. The Wealdsman drew back his sword for the fatal thrust . . .
“No!” Lagow shouted. He ran forward, hurling himself at the Wealdsman. Surprised by this unexpected interference, the Wealdsman turned and thrust blindly. Lagow felt the blade enter him, sliding easily between his ribs, a shaft of coldness that seemed to numb his body. He fell forward, tearing the sword from the Wealdsman’s grasp. Dayon leaped to his feet, holding the broken staff, and swung it against the Wealdsman’s head.
Then he knelt beside Lagow, cradling the old man’s head in his arms. Lagow opened his eyes and looked up at Dayon. He had the look of a child who has been hurt without understanding why. He gasped, as though trying to say something. Dayon leaned closer, trying to hear.
There were no whispered last words. Lagow’s eyes closed.
Dayon laid him back onto the grass, his own eyes blurred with tears. “I know,” he told Lagow. “I know i
t must be ended.”
He looked around him; the battle in the clearing was almost over. Jondalrun sat on a log gasping for breath about forty yards away.
“Father!” cried Dayon, “Elder Lagow has been killed!”
“No!” Jondalrun shouted. “That cannot be! He was not fighting!” He stood up from the log and rushed toward his son.
By the time Jondalrun reached him, he had already seen the wheelwright’s body resting in the grass. “No,” he repeated in a quiet voice, “it cannot be.”
Dayon grasped the Elder’s arm. “He saved my life, Father. We have pushed the Simbalese back again. We must retreat now before they return! You must call for retreat!”
Jondalrun glared at him. “Do not order me!” he shouted. “I am your father!” Then suddenly he became silent.
Dayon stepped back and watched as his father stood at Lagow’s side.
“He always fought me,” Jondalrun whispered, “but I will miss that bitter voice.”
He turned back to Dayon, tears filling his eyes. “There is no feeling of triumph,” he said. “We have defended Fandora’s pride, but there has been more bloodshed than I ever thought possible. Were it not for Lagow, I could have lost you, too.”
This defense of the hills had long taken his mind from the reason for the invasion, but memories of Johan came to him now, like the tears upon his cheeks. He remembered the laughing, life-loving child riding on the ox’s back after plowing was done, chopping manfully at wood with the small ax Jondalrun had made for him, playing with his friends in the Toldenar Hills near the farm.
He tried to summon up the same wild rage he had felt when he first found his son’s body, and realized that he could not. There was none left in him—only a sadness and weariness. It was time for war to end. He looked up at Dayon and said, “We will retreat.”
XXX
It is sleeping, Amsel whispered as he peered over the edge of the cliff. “It does not even know that I am here.”
