by Byron Preiss
As the ship began to settle over the clearing, those below could see that, in addition to Kiorte and two Windriders, there was also aboard a short, bald, massively built man in ragged garb. He was obviously a Fandoran.
Few noticed a thin man, dressed in Bursar’s clothing, slip quietly through the crowd to the clearing.
The rope ladder was thrown down, and the Prince descended quickly, leaving Tamark aboard with the two Windriders. As he touched foot to the dais, Evirae rushed toward him. “Kiorte,” she cried, “you must tell the people of what Hawkwind has done, of how he abandoned the army! Tell the Family that he is a traitor!”
Kiorte looked at his wife for a moment in silence. His uniform was torn and soiled, much as another had been when he had first returned from the war. He did not look angry now, but an expression of quiet determination rested upon his face.
Hawkwind and Ceria watched anxiously and waited for him to speak. Kiorte’s word would be accepted by the people—his name was synonymous with honor—and the support of those still loyal to Evirae hung in the balance.
Hawkwind knew that his words to Kiorte earlier had had an effect on the Prince, but he knew not how much. Kiorte’s commitment to the control of Simbala by the Royal Family had never been challenged. Now he would have to decide between it and the truth.
Evirae crept forward to embrace her husband, and in that moment Hawkwind knew what Kiorte’s answer would be.
He rejected her touch, clasping his gloved hand about the delicate fingers of his wife’s hand. Her nails cut into his shirt.
“Evirae”—he spoke in a low and even voice—”Hawkwind has told me of your concealment of the Fandoran spy.”
“He knows not the truth!” she cried.
He squeezed her frail hand tighter.
“Hawkwind has told me also of your actions toward Lady Ceria, a woman I do not trust, but nevertheless worthy of justice.”
Evirae’s face turned crimson. “The charges against her were raised clearly and properly, as you yourself saw!”
“Evirae,” said Kiorte, and this time the words were loud enough for even the crowd beyond them to hear, “you know my distrust of Hawkwind and all that he has done against the traditions of Overwood!”
Evirae smiled. “Of course, Kiorte. We have always been in complete agreement on this.”
“Then you must also realize that my support of his words must mean that the proof of them is far beyond doubt.
Evirae did not reply.
Kiorte continued, and this time, for the first time in memory of those assembled, his emotions could be felt clearly through his words. “Evirae, you have conspired against the Monarch and his Minister. You urged war for nothing more than your personal gain! You have lied and schemed and endangered the lives of others to reach the position you are in today.” He stared coldly at his wife and said, “Evirae, surrender your claim to the palace. You have disgraced yourself and Simbala. You are unworthy of the Family.”
Evirae moaned as though wounded and started to stagger away from Kiorte. He had not as yet released her hand, however, and as she pulled back, three long and delicate nails broke off with his grasp. Then the tears began. “Kiorte,” she sobbed, “my husband, why do you do this to me?”
“You have brought it upon yourself,” he replied. “You are a slave to your ambition.” He watched her then, as she stood harbored by her parents, sobbing shamelessly in full view of the people of Overwood.
Hawkwind stepped forward and acknowledged Kiorte’s support with an expression of gratitude.
The Prince frowned. “You remain Ephrion’s successor,” he said curtly. “I trust you will show more respect for the laws of Simbala than you have in the past.”
Hawkwind nodded to Ephrion, and the elder statesman approached with the Ruby.
“Not yet,” said Kiorte. “My wife has been disgraced enough.”
Together with Jibron and Eselle, he led the unresisting Princess down the steps of the dais. Hawkwind and Ceria watched as Evirae was taken through the crowd to a large carriage not far from the side of the platform. Suddenly she stopped and turned back toward them. Her face burning with anger and pride, she shouted, “I know of your past, Hawkwind! I know the secrets in it, and the danger it will someday bring to Simbala! A time will come when the people will cry for your removal! A time will come, Hawkwind, when I shall return here in triumph!” Ceria and Ephrion looked at each other in shock as the Princess entered the carriage with her parents. The horses cantered away, bearing the Princess and her broken dreams away from the dais and back to Overwood.
The words were obviously a childish threat, but Hawkwind seemed oddly troubled by them. He looked up at the windship above the crowd as Kiorte returned to the dais and ordered the Fandoran disembarked.
As the rope ladder descended, Hawkwind faced the Family. Tolchin and Alora watched him, as did Lady Tenor and other dignitaries. Hawkwind had refused to be defeated. It was obvious why he remained a hero to the people of Overwood.
“We face a long and perilous road ahead,” he said, turning back to the crowd, “but there will be peace in Simbala once again. We shall defend our shores against the possibility of invasion and attack by the dragons!”
As the Fandoran climbed down upon the dais, the voices of the Family were drowned out by the cheering crowd.
Ephrion smiled, and as the hawk circled the windship above them, Ephrion opened the chain holding the Ruby and clasped it about Hawkwind’s neck. “There is no escaping this jewel,” he said, smiling. Another cheer went up. Hawkwind embraced Ephrion and Ceria. “We must talk with the Fandorans at once,” he said softly. “Preparations must begin as soon as possible.” Ephrion then conferred with the bewildered Tamark.
Hawkwind turned and approached Kiorte. The Prince stood apart from him, eyes fixed on the avenue where Evirae had been taken away. Hawkwind was sure he had seen a tear fall from those eyes, but Kiorte turned quickly from him and climbed up the rope ladder back to the windship. “The Fandoran will convey the status of their troops,” he shouted. A few moments later the craft moved slowly away from the dais, toward Overwood.
“Where is he going?” Ceria asked.
“I suppose to be alone,” Hawkwind whispered, “and then perhaps to speak with Evirae in the privacy of their mansion. He has lost more than most.”
The windship disappeared from view and Hawkwind turned to address the crowd. “Return to your homes! Men and women will soon be returning from the battle!” As the crowd slowly scattered, he looked at the woman beside him.
“Ceria,” he said. “It seems the miner is monarch again.”
Ceria smiled. “There was never a time when you were not,” she replied.
Then, in front of the crowd, Hawkwind took her in his arms and kissed her.
XXXIII
The palace was a lonely giant, its glowing lights like miniature moons in the darkness. Although it was well past midnight, there was much activity within, for the people of Simbala now faced the real danger.
On the eighth level of the palace, in the chambers of Monarch Ephrion, the elder statesman met with Ceria to determine the true nature of that which she had glimpsed within the Dragonpearl. Below them, in the private chamber of General Vora, Elder Tamark of Fandora met with three navigators of the Simbalese merchant fleet and Baron Tolchin to examine ancient maps of the sea to the north.
Still farther below, deep within the subterranean tunnels of the palace, two figures walked a winding torchlit passage toward an old and dimly lit door. They were Hawkwind and Kiorte.
“I appreciate your understanding,” said Hawkwind. “I do not wish to make things more difficult for you.”
“You could not,” Kiorte replied. He straightened his blue jacket.
Hawkwind sighed. “I too grieve for Thalen. I wish only that it had not happened.”
Kiorte stiffened. “Your words cannot bring him back,” he said harshly. “It is best that we do not speak of it. The perpetrator of my brother�
��s murder will be dealt with when order returns to the affairs of my fleet.”
“Murder?” asked Hawkwind. “You do not still think—”
Kiorte waved his hand flatly in a motion for silence. “My brother was murdered by the Wealdsman Tweel. I viewed the act with my own eyes!”
“As did I!” said Hawkwind. “It was an accident! The Wealdsman was attempting to save Thalen’s life!”
“It is easy for you to see things differently from the ground. I was at Thalen’s side.”
Hawkwind reddened. “Kiorte, haven’t the Wealdfolk suffered enough? Many were killed in their assault on the hill. Only an hour ago I dispatched Lathan to help the man who had originally brought the news of the murdered child!”
“A friend of Tweel’s, I presume.”
“He is Willen, by name. A hunter loyal to Lady Graydawn. He sought food and supplies for the wounded Wealdfolk stranded in the valley.”
“They had no business in the war at all!”
Hawkwind stared at Kiorte and saw the face of a man who had retreated, at least in the matter of his brother’s demise, to a private reality. There would be no reasoning with Kiorte about it now; he would deal with the matter at hand and confront the issue of the Wealdsman’s safety again later.
“We must speak with the Fandorans about the dragons,” he said as they reached one end of the tunnel. Hawkwind motioned to a guard in front of the tunnel door. The man smiled in recognition, leaped to his feet and removed a key from his pocket. As Hawkwind and Kiorte watched, he unlocked the door.
The door came open with a loud squeaking sound. Behind it lay a long, low tunnel, a cornucopia tapering into the darkness. It had been bored into a giant root long ago. On either side of the tunnel were lines of small, arched, wooden doors. In the distant past of Simbala, this had been the prison of the palace, a dreary home for spies and enemies of Overwood. More recently it had become a cellar for wines and jams—a sleepy tunnel covered with layers of soil and dust.
Kiorte stepped inside. The floor was covered with fresh footprints, those of Simbalese soldiers and Fandoran men.
“Come,” said Hawkwind. “I have had the leaders of the Fandoran troops sequestered here.” He started down the tunnel.
“How did you know which men were in charge?” asked Kiorte. “They wear no garments of distinction or uniforms.”
“Some identified themselves; others were described to us by Tamark, the man you brought back to Overwood.”
“A barbarous name, but I admit some respect for him. He is here, then?”
Hawkwind shook his head. “He confers with Baron Tolchin as we speak.”
“Tolchin!” Kiorte snorted. “Have you lost all sense, Hawkwind? What reason would you have for pairing the Fandoran with the Baron?”
“He is a skilled sailor. We have need of his expertise, as you will soon discover.”
Kiorte shook his head. “Perhaps I should not have come. There is much we still do not agree upon, Hawkwind. You have a talent for seeking answers to problems in a manner uncommon to Simbalese tradition.”
Hawkwind smiled momentarily and signaled to a guard farther down the tunnel. The corridor was dark and musty, and he wished to join Ephrion and Ceria as soon as possible. First, however, it was imperative that he gain the Fandoran’s trust. For what he wished to do was more daring, more unorthodox than even Kiorte might suspect.
* * *
The sound of footsteps in the hallway roused Jondalrun, and he felt the raw pain of the injury to his head. Dizzily he looked up, and the memory of the battle returned. Faint light poured through a crisscross of bars within a wooden door. He had been imprisoned!
Struggling to his feet, he stumbled toward the door and pressed his gnarled hands against it. The murderous Sim had taken Dayon captive! Anger burned within him. He would not lose another son! As long as he lived, he would fight for Dayon’s safety.
He peered through the bars and glimpsed three figures across the corridor, illuminated by the light from a small torch. The first was dressed in a blue robe, the second wore a high multicolored hat. The other, holding the torch, was obviously a guard. He opened the door of another cell and vanished inside. The first two waited.
“I demand to be freed!” cried Jondalrun. “I demand to see my son!”
The man in the multicolored hat turned and shouted harshly at him.
“Silence,” he said. “We shall be there shortly!”
“I demand to be freed!” Jondalrun cried again. “I will not wait!”
The man in the hat ignored him.
Jondalrun sat down on the floor of the cell. There was little he could do to protest. They had taken his weapon, of course, but they had left his wristlet. It was obviously as worthless as they had thought. He waited and hoped that Dayon was still alive. Sitting on the damp straw, he thought of the others, of Lagow, who had perished; of Tenniel, the injured young Elder; and of Tamark, who had set out to take the wounded back to the boats. Had the Sim captured the last two also?
Suddenly his thoughts were broken by the sound of footsteps. A key turned in the lock of the cell. Jondalrun struggled to his feet. He had come this far; no Sim would keep him from finding his son! Then, as the door swung back, he gave out a gasp of delight. There, in the hall outside, stood Dayon and the Wayman!
“Father!” the young man cried. “You are safe!” In unabashed relief he hugged his father, holding him hard. “I feared you were killed in the battle!”
Jondalrun’s eyes grew moist. He saw Hawkwind and the other Simbalese enter the cell, and he turned away from them. “I, too, was worried,” he whispered to Dayon. Over his son’s shoulder he glared at the captors. “There was no way of knowing what treachery the Sim had used against you!”
“We are not treacherous!” Kiorte answered stiffly. “Nor did we invade your land.”
“No!” Jondalrun cried, thrusting Dayon behind him. “You sought instead to murder my child!”
Hawkwind interceded then, putting his hand upon the tattered shoulder of the Elder’s coat. “You are Jondalrun of Fandora. I have heard much about you from the others.”
“Aye!” Jondalrun responded, stepping out of the young monarch’s grip. “I am an Elder of Tamberly Town and a leader of Fandora’s army! You will treat us all with respect!”
The miner smiled at Jondalrun’s manner and said, “I am Hawkwind, Monarch of Simbala. I assure you that we do respect you and your men. Your Elder Tamark has told me of the reasons for the invasion. I sympathize with your plight, for it has been our own.”
“Tamark? You have talked with Tamark?”
“He works with us now, as I hope you and the others will, too.”
“Never!” said Jondalrun. “I will never aid those responsible for the murder of my son. Nor will Tamark.”
“Your child was not murdered by us, Jondalrun. If what we have learned is true, he was attacked by a dragon!”
“A dragon? There is no proof that a dragon was involved!”
“There is proof,” Hawkwind replied sternly. “I have brought you all to the palace so that we may find a way to face the threat of the dragons together!”
At these words, Prince Kiorte turned away angrily. “I see no need to humor these ruffians!” he whispered. “Whatever threat the dragons pose, we can face on our own!”
Jondalrun overheard him. “Ruffians?” he boomed. “It is not Fandora who murders defenseless children!”
Hawkwind sighed. The bickering could go on for hours if he did not stop it now. “Guard!” he shouted. “Release the others and bring them hither!”
The guard nodded and headed for the next cell.
Hawkwind stared at Jondalrun and Dayon. “Listen to me, men of Fandora! You have seen what the dragons can do to man. We have discovered that they are a vanishing breed. Those that attacked Fandora and Simbala are the last of their race, struggling to survive! I know not how many more exist, but their numbers can only be few.” He glanced back at Kiorte, but he could no
t determine his reaction. “Your men have been encamped near the hills where you were captured. If you are convinced by what you will soon see, implore them to join with our troops in a mission to seek out the dragons!”
Dayon looked immediately at Hawkwind. Do battle with dragons? Had they not seen enough bloodshed? Only a fool would dare challenge creatures of such size and strength. Still, if the Simbalese were correct, and it was indeed a dragon who had murdered Johan, could they do anything less than make sure it did not attack again? Had that not been the reason for the entire war?
Dayon felt very sad then, observing the expression of his father and Pennel. If the Simbalese had had nothing to do with the murders of the children, if they had had no design on Fandoran land or commerce, then the entire war had been for naught. They had attacked without knowing the truth at all. It was as he had felt from the start. They should never have gone.
Kiorte waited in the silence with growing impatience. At last he turned to Hawkwind and said, “These men are our prisoners! We need not ask for their help! It is our right to demand it!”
Jondalrun looked up at the Windrider and shouted, “You will demand nothing! There is nothing you can do to make us ally ourselves with the murderers of our children!”
“Do not argue!” said Hawkwind. “There will be no coercion here, Prince Kiorte. The mission we are to undertake requires the willing involvement of every man. If the Fandorans do not wish to protect their children from the creatures, then we shall complete the entire mission ourselves.”
Jondalrun scowled. “Dare you mean to call us cowards?”
“No,” said Hawkwind, “but there is no reason to ignore our pleas unless, of course, Fandorans fear the dragons.”
“Any fool knows enough to fear dragons,” Jondalrun responded, “and we also do not wish to embark on a long and fruitless mission. My men are tired. Prove to me that there is reason to suspect a dragon of my son’s murder, and I tell you, Simbala’s purpose will become our own, whether you like it or not!”
