by Byron Preiss
“We will hold the line until evening,” said Jondalrun. “Then we will join you as fast as we can. The Simbalese have learned of our fortitude. They would not dare attack us in daylight.”
Tamark shook his head grimly. “Do not forget their dragon. It may attack at any time!”
Jondalrun shook his wristlet defiantly. “They have been driven off once; if they return, we will do so again!”
Tamark nodded and, with Dayon’s assistance, began to round up the familiar faces of the men of Cape Bage.
The men remaining were positioned in three groups within the hills, directed by Dayon, the Wayman, and Jondalrun himself. They would defend their line as best as possible, to give Tamark’s men a chance to reach the shore. Hopefully, the Simbalese would again be unable to penetrate the cover of the hills. By nightfall, they would be able to escape.
Jondalrun observed some of the men glancing skyward, as though puzzled. Then he heard what they did—a low rumble, like the thunder of a summer storm. He looked up warily; what could be seen of the sky through the foliage was innocent of clouds. The noise did not come from the windships, yet the sound increased steadily, growing nearer. He could not see the valley from his place of cover, and so he dispatched a young man to investigate, whispering, “Up yonder oak, and tell me what you find.”
The fellow so ordered climbed quickly into the branches. Those below could not see him, but they could hear his cry moments later.
“Elder Jondalrun!” he cried. “ ‘Tis the Simbalese troops—far off, but there’s hundreds of them and their windships above them! ‘Tis far more than we ever dreamed!”
Jondalrun sprang up from the spot in which he had hidden. “Impossible!” he shouted. “We have driven them back more than once! They cannot possibly have . . . ”
Now others broke cover, anxious to see what was approaching.
“Get down!” yelled Jondalrun. “Do not let yourselves be seen!”
Some did not listen; they sprang up from rocks and bushes and glimpsed the Simbalese riding straight for the hills.
“Stay down!” cried Dayon. “Stay down until they see you!”
The Wayman chased two frightened soldiers back to the cover of a stand of butterwoods, but as he did he heard the sound of hoofbeats in the brush at the bottom of the hill. In a few moments the Simbalese would arrive.
The morning wore on as the return to the shore was effected as quickly as possible. Most of the wounded were able to walk, but, like Tenniel, they were quite weak and would not be able to go far without frequent rest. Those unable to walk were accommodated by improvised travois and stretchers.
“It will take Tamark the entire day to reach the boats,” Dayon said to Jondalrun, who stood on a high hill watching the valley.
Jondalrun stared broodingly out over the valley toward the Simbalese camp. The trees and the rising mist made it difficult to see clearly. The rigid old man leaned on a staff, gazing at the forest, his rage still high. He knew many had perished, and he felt the burden of those lost men upon him. How would Lagow’s wife be told? How would any be told? Then he shook his head. It was a heavy price to pay for Fandora’s security.
Dayon stood silently by his father’s side. Tamark had left close to an hour ago, and he wondered how long it would be before the order would be given for the rest of the troops to retreat. “The Wayman says all are ready, Father. I have spoken to the Borgen Town contingent and they wish to depart now. They are worried that the weather will soon make it difficult to escape.”
Jondalrun nodded and looked back over the valley. Suddenly he stiffened, staring intently. Dayon followed his gaze. “What is it, Father?”
Jondalrun pointed. “There! Over the trees!”
“It is a rain cloud.”
“A cloud indeed,” Jondalrun said tensely. Dayon looked closer and gasped. What had at first seemed to be a large gray cloud billowing over the treetops was now suddenly breaking up, scattering into an incredible armada of windships! As he watched, sunlight streamed through the sails and scintillated off the prows’ jeweled designs, and the windships’ many masts seemed to form a second forest in the sky.
“Give the order!” shouted Jondalrun. “Alert the men! We will defend the hill!”
Among the Simbalese, preparations were being made for the assault on the hills. The troops formed themselves into serried ranks, pennons on lances held proud and high. Archers and infantry composed the flanks, and the center was row after row of armored knights. The Simbalese army, once more at its full strength, was readying for the final battle.
To the rear of the ranks, near the forest, stood Hawkwind and Ceria. It was to be their last moment alone before the charge, and the sounds of final preparations made them both aware of their danger. Hawkwind could be killed in battle, the victim of a Fandoran’s sword. Ceria was considered to be a traitor; her safety depended on her ability to reach Ephrion before the coronation occurred.
“I know you will come back,” Ceria said to Hawkwind. “We have shared too much to lose each other now. My heart tells me you must return.”
Hawkwind held her close and then took her by the shoulders. “You are dearer to me than life itself, but Ceria, I am worried.”
“I know,” she replied, “and I understand what must be done. Every moment brings Evirae closer to the Ruby. Whatever risk may be involved, I must hasten back to the palace with the Dragonpearl.”
“No!” Hawkwind said. “Such a course is far too dangerous. Evirae’s agents are still combing Overwood for you. They would not hesitate to take you prisoner, even with the knowledge of my return to the forest.”
Ceria pulled away from him. “I must reach Ephrion!” she cried. “I do not fear Evirae’s agents!”
Hawkwind drew her back. “You bring a secret too precious to lose, my love. We must ensure its safety. You must wait for me until I am able to leave the valley. Lathan will accompany you to a safe place in the woods, where you will hide. We will return to Overwood together.”
“No!” said Ceria. “There is not time! Evirae’s coronation draws nigh.”
“It is prudent that we go together, Ceria! If I am not present, even the Dragonpearl will be insufficient to stop Evirae’s plans. The jewel will only tell of the dragons—I must be there to clear my name. Evirae will find a way to use it if we do not return together. Wait, my darling, for this war will soon be ended.”
“I do not wish to wait,” Ceria answered gently.
“I will have you stopped if you leave,” Hawkwind replied. “I will not lose you to Evirae!”
Ceria saw the love within his dark eyes, and for a moment, all too brief, the war, the scheming of the Family, and the threat of Evirae did not exist for them. Hawkwind embraced her and they were lost in the touch of hands, and bodies, and the richness of their love for each other. When Hawkwind at last glanced up at the waiting troops near them, it was as though a sword had been thrust through his heart. He heard the dreadful portents of the coming conflict, the rattle of scabbards, the snorting and stamping of war horses, and the sea sound of chain mail being donned.
He compelled himself to release her and turned away to face the waiting troops. “We shall return,” he whispered. “We shall return to Overwood together!”
He hurried back toward his tent and appeared several minutes later in a light mail coat, burgnet, and leather leggings. Ceria watched Hawkwind make his way through the ranks, heard the storm of cheers as he mounted his horse beside Vora. His hawk dropped from the sky to his lifted arm and sidled up to perch on his mailed shoulder. Ceria watched, her vision blurred with tears.
* * *
Kiorte adjusted the gas flow of his windship and leveled off before the others. He looked at them. They awaited his direction. He was in his element, the rustling of the balloon sails, the caressing currents of the wind, the deck rocking gently, but none of these now brought the usual pleasure to him. Without Thalen to share it, flying would not be the same.
Below, he faintly hea
rd the trumpets sound the battle call. He raised the flags that signaled to others to fill their sails. The armada began to move slowly forward. Kiorte gripped the steering levers and looked toward the hills.
* * *
Hawkwind rode in front of the rows of troops and raised his arm. He was loath to give the signal, but he knew that he must. He had instructed the soldiers to drive off or capture the Fandorans wherever possible. What Ceria had told him during the ride back from the Valian Plains had convinced him more than ever that this entire war was born of a tragic misunderstanding. He knew that it had to be ended quickly and with as little bloodshed as possible. There was another threat to Simbala, far more dangerous than this. He brought his hand down sharply. “For Simbala!” he cried. The combined troops of the Overwood contingents charged toward the Kameran Hills.
* * *
The filtered sunlight was blocked as the windships passed overhead. The sight of the overwhelmingly vast armada was too much for the Fandorans. Throwing down their mismatched weapons, they began to run. “Hold the line!” Jondalrun shouted, but to no avail. The men had had enough. They fled from what they felt to be certain annihilation. Many thought that the Simbalese had at last unleashed their dreaded sorcery. Others thought the sky was darkened by dragons. Jondalrun looked about helplessly, his army in total disarray. He caught glimpses of mailed figures on horseback approaching and heard the clash and cries of soldiery all around him in the underbrush. A Simbalese soldier on horseback leaped over some bushes before him. The rider raised his sword, but Jondalrun struck first—the blade rang against the other’s armor, knocking him from his horse. Before the man could recover, Jondalrun turned and ran toward higher ground, where he could get a better view of his surroundings.
He saw that his line had broken. There was a solid wave of Simbalese soldiers sweeping through the hills, driving the Fandorans before them. Even as he watched, he saw the second line crumble and break. A hundred yards away, his son, Dayon, was disarmed by two Simbalese and unceremoniously thrown across the back of a horse. “No!” Jondalrun shouted, rage blackening his vision. He ran down the hill, sword upraised. There was another crashing in the bushes nearby, and as he turned with sword ready, a brown horse appeared, ridden by a Simbalese woman in chain-mail armor. Jondalrun stood his ground. If this was the way the Sim fought, using women as soldiers, they had no pride at all! He would not be defeated while Dayon still breathed.
The soldier’s horse reared as though to trample him, and Jondalrun leaped back against a large boulder.
“Surrender!” yelled the rider. “The war is ended! You have lost! Surrender while you can!” She drew her sword, and the stallion reared once again.
Jondalrun dodged the horse, but in doing so caught his foot in a small hole and toppled.
“Idiot!” yelled the Simbalese rider, and she rode on to find another challenge.
Jondalrun could not tolerate the defeat. He pulled his leg out of the hole and hurried after her.
“Murderous Sim!” he shouted. “Face me!”
The woman’s horse kicked out at the yelling man behind him and caught the Fandoran a glancing blow in the head, grazing his helmet, knocking him heavily to the ground.
“Idiot!” the woman shouted again, and she charged ahead to search for the generals of the Fandoran army, unaware of the identity of the man who lay unconscious behind her.
* * *
The Wayman continued to fight alone, defending a small contingent of young men hidden in the brush. When at last he had found a moment to rest, he spied beyond the trees a tall Simbalese rider, dressed strikingly in silver and black, surrounded by others who seemed to be of official importance. They carried tall lances on which banners had been hung. I must reach them, the Wayman concluded, before more are killed. He had seen Dayon taken prisoner from afar, and though he did not know the whereabouts of Jondalrun, he knew that any further resistance would be futile. A surrender had to be arranged, and he, physically larger than most of the Fandorans, would at least have a chance to impress the Simbalese in the Elders’ absence. There was no longer any question of retreat—the hill was being overrun by Simbalese troops, and nothing could be gained by waiting.
He cautiously started toward the cluster of trees where the dark rider stood. As he drew closer to the gathering, he could see four or five people clearly. Two were obviously guards, a man and a woman, posted at the most vulnerable spots. The other three were on horseback; the tall dark figure was speaking with a bearded man twice his age and girth.
This would be difficult. The Wayman sighed. If he drew near too quickly, they would kill him; if he proceeded with caution, he could easily be caught.
He kept moving, slipping past a pair of Simbalese soldiers in the cover of a narrow hedge. He heard the sounds of prisoners being taken behind him, and he realized that more were being driven back or held captive than were being killed.
This was to his best advantage. The Simbalese apparently wished to end the war as quickly as possible. He continued forward, anticipating the sound of his footsteps by judging carefully the carpet of underbrush and leaves beneath his boots.
Then, only yards away from the nearest guard, he drew his sword and hid behind the slender trunk of a butterwood tree. “Sim!” he cried in a dialect of the Southland which he hoped would confuse the guard. “Defend yourself!”
The guard rushed forward, but as she did, the Wayman slipped through the stand of trees and reached the clearing. By the time the guard had spotted him, he was running directly toward the tall, dark rider.
Then suddenly the male guard spied him and leaped from his horse as the dark rider drew his sword.
“No!” the Wayman cried, but as he gripped his sword, he heard the returning guard behind him. He would have to face them both.
The dark rider was young, and he wore an expression of such intensity that the Wayman expected words of anger from him at any second. The Wayman lifted his sword slowly, wishing only to speak.
“Surrender!” shouted the dark rider. There was a blur in the sky above him, and the Wayman saw a hawk, talons extended, swoop down toward him.
He whirled to evade it, but the other guard was waiting. The bird slashed his jacket and screeched, then soared skyward.
“Surrender!” came the cry from the dark rider again, and the Wayman felt a sword at his back.
“I come in peace,” he said, dropping his weapon. The guard retrieved it.
“Then you shall find it.” The dark rider lowered his sword. “I am Hawkwind, Monarch of Simbala.”
“Hawkwind,” the Wayman replied grimly. “I have heard your name.”
The dark rider observed the Wayman silently. He was too tall to be a Fandoran, and he spoke with an accent of the Southland. “You are not from the west,” Hawkwind stated.
“I am a Southlander, but I speak for Fandora. We seek justice for the murder of a Fandoran child.”
“I know the reasons for your attack,” Hawkwind responded, “but Simbala is not responsible. There has also been a child murdered in Simbala. We believe the dragons to be responsible.”
The Wayman grimaced. “I care not for dragons or windships. From what I have seen, our Elders have been captured or attacked. The bloodshed must stop. We wish only to return to Fandora.”
Hawkwind shook his head. “It was Fandora that invaded Simbala. There is now a danger we must all face together.”
“Together?” asked the Wayman skeptically.
Hawkwind turned away from him and waved to a stout man on a stallion not far away. “Vora,” he cried. “Over here!”
As the General approached, Hawkwind watched the Wayman. He was a man of reason, Hawkwind thought. Vora will be able to work with him in arranging a swift surrender. He glanced toward the valley. With every moment, Evirae drew closer to becoming Queen, and he was impatient to depart.
He had to leave with Ceria before it grew too late. The ride through Overwood would be swift, but dangerous, for Evirae’s agents h
ad probably learned of his return. They would be waiting.
* * *
The windship armada, led by Prince Kiorte, had approached the hills with the intention of augmenting the ground troops, but the soldiers were having no trouble. From his flagship he saw that a sizable percentage of the Fandorans were leaving the hills on the western side, slowly making their way across the meadowlands that sloped gradually down to the beaches. Quickly he ran up a series of flags, and the armada responded to his orders; ten windships stayed behind to help the taking of the hills, and the rest continued on toward the retreating Fandorans.
As in the hills, there was no question about victory. The size of the armada precluded any dispute. The Fandorans saw the dark masses of the windship hulls blotting out the sky and, silhouetted above them, the Windriders aiming crossbows at them. There was not even a chance of running, as most of those retreating were either wounded or responsible for a wounded comrade. No arrows were fired.
Tamark, at the front, looked longingly at the distant beach on the horizon, where the boats were. He knew there was no chance of reaching them now. The retreat had come too late.
Several of the windships descended, headed by Kiorte’s flagship. The Prince climbed down the rope ladder and approached Tamark, who had identified himself to the other Windriders as the leader of this contingent. Tamark looked at Kiorte, reflecting that despite the difference in their height, he was much the physical superior of the thin, pale man, but was still his prisoner.
“By my authority as commander of the Brothers of the Wind and as Prince of Simbala, I demand your unconditional surrender,” Kiorte said stiffly. “You may consider yourself under restraint and arrest, and you will—”
“We do not wish to fight,” Tamark interrupted wearily. “We surrender! I ask only attention for our wounded.”
“That will be done,” Kiorte snapped, slightly annoyed at being interrupted. “Since you are the leader of this contingent, you will return with me to Overwood.”
Tamark looked past the Prince at the hovering windship, and tried to give no outward sign of the nervousness that suddenly seized him. It is but a boat, he told himself. Still, he was hard put to act casually as he climbed the ladder after Kiorte and watched the ground drop away from him.
