by Byron Preiss
Hawkwind held back a smile. “There is a council meeting to be held this morning,” he said. “You and the other Elders shall attend.” He looked again at Jondalrun. The Fandoran would be a fit companion for Jibron in his most grudging mood.
Then he turned to Kiorte. “Come,” he said, “we will discuss this further outside.” The guard was given orders to allow the Fandorans free access to each other’s cells.
Returning to the outer tunnel, Kiorte resumed his criticism of Hawkwind’s plans. “This smacks of your usual unorthodoxy. What need do we have for any Fandoran soldiers?”
“Do not rush to judgment,” Hawkwind answered. “Do you not remember what happened during the battle? The dragon swept down to attack the Fandorans, but then it turned away, as though fearing something. We assumed that the dragon was on their side. We now know that is untrue.”
“Yes,” Kiorte replied with some reluctance. “But why did it retreat? The Fandorans hardly know how to fight—how would they be able to drive back a dragon without lifting a sword?”
Hawkwind smiled tensely. “I do not know, Kiorte. Yet it would be worth their presence to learn, would it not?”
Kiorte nodded thoughtfully. “I still do not like it,” he said, “but I think you may be correct.”
* * *
The Last Dragon’s injured wing made for an unsteady flight, and the daylight hours had long since passed when he and Amsel finally reached the wide river basin at the edge of the land of the coldrakes. The icy winds cut through the inventor’s tattered clothing. He was tired and cold. More than once he had grown worried that the air currents would sweep him from his perch, but he had held on tightly and prayed.
At last he spied the tall spire, silhouetted in the distance against a lonely moon. “We must head there!” he cried. “Below it lies the coldrakes’ warren!”
The dragon dropped slowly, his wings proudly raised toward the sky. “I do not see them,” he bellowed. “I do not see any of them at all.”
“Wait!” Amsel shouted. “You must get closer to the caverns near the spire! That is where they live!”
The dragon continued north above the river, flapping his broad wings through the oncoming mists. “It grows warmer here,” he rumbled. “The ice has not yet made its home.”
“It is the hot spring,” said Amsel. “The boiling waters run below the spire.” Amsel stared out anxiously through the mists, his heart pounding. He expected at any moment to see the coldrakes pouring from the caves like bats. Yet, as he watched, he saw nothing but the spiraling mist. He glanced again at the spire, and fear seized him.
What if the coldrakes were gone? What if they had already left for Simbala or Fandora?
It was not possible!
“We must fly down to the caverns!” he screamed against the howling wind.
The dragon flew lower as they approached the gray cliffs. “The sound of my voice will summon them,” he said, “if any remain here at all!” Then the dragon swung its massive head slightly, as if to remind Amsel how easily he could be flung to the ground. “If this is a trick of man . . .” he grumbled.
“It is not a trick!” Amsel cried. “I am deeply worried! The coldrakes seem to have vanished!”
The dragon lowered his neck toward the darkened caves and roared. The titanic sound nearly hurled Amsel from his perch, and as the echo faded in the wind, there came a muffled cry from the darkness below them.
It was the shriek of a coldrake!
The cry was followed by another, and another. At first Amsel thought that these were echoes of the first, but then he saw three coldrakes burst suddenly from a large cavern. The sight of them sent a chill through him, bringing back the terror he had felt so recently.
The Last Dragon watched the coldrakes soar high above the warren, startled and searching. Then, as the mists cleared momentarily, he roared again, a sonorous, sad sound, a cry from another age. The coldrakes saw the dragon then. Shrieking, they retreated in shock as he slowly planed toward them through the mists. They hovered for a moment near the top of the cliffs, and then dropped, screeching and howling in fear, back to the caves.
The dragon’s easy planing changed to a controlled dive as he pursued them. Amsel held on for his life. In the excitement of the chase, the old beast seemed to have forgotten that Amsel still rode upon his head!
“Slow down,” cried Amsel, “or you will kill me!” The words were lost in the wind. He closed his eyes as the dragon dived to the edge of the caverns, and wrapped both arms tightly around the horn. A moment more and they would be on a ledge outside the warren.
The creature at last landed, and roared loudly at the mouth of the cave into which the coldrakes had fled. An echo of his voice came back in reply.
“They are frightened,” said the Last Dragon. “They feel shame for something that they have done.”
Amsel peered cautiously over the carapace on the dragon’s head, into the darkness. There was very little he could see beyond the shadows.
The dragon stepped forward, scraping the wet rock with his claws. The stench from within made Amsel gag. Then he heard another shriek, deeper within the cavern. Amsel closed his eyes; he could not bear the thought of another attack. His last encounter with the coldrakes had been nightmare enough to last a lifetime. He had no wish for another. Yet the dragon was his only protection now against the creatures and the cold. If he went deeper into the cavern, Amsel knew he would have to go with him.
The Last Dragon continued slowly through the passage. The sound of his breathing returned softly from the darker depths. Amsel listened. He thought he could hear another sound, a panting, like that of a wounded animal. He searched the darkness of the tunnel from his vantage atop the dragon’s head, but again, he could see little more than the cavern walls.
Then, as the dragon turned a bend in the tunnel, Amsel thought he could make out a black shape lying on the cavern floor.
It moved.
The dragon drew closer to it. It was a coldrake! It squealed weakly in terror. Amsel squinted and saw its battered wing draped pathetically over a small boulder. The coldrake was seriously wounded; Amsel knew not how, but it was obvious that the creature could do them no harm.
The dragon addressed the coldrake in a low, rumbling voice, calming in tone, but authoritative. The coldrake shrieked its reply, short breathless sounds. Then the dragon roared, causing Amsel to shield his ears in pain from the booming sounds that reverberated in the cavern.
The coldrake hid its head beneath the shattered sheath of its wing. The dragon spoke again, then turned from the wounded creature and spoke to Amsel. “It is as you thought,” he said. “They are gone.”
“No!” shouted Amsel.
The dragon looked again at the pitiful creature on the cavern floor. “They have been taken by a coldrake larger than the rest to invade the land to the south.”
“That is the coldrake that attacked me!”
“He has departed,” the dragon grumbled, “the creatures we have seen are the only creatures that still remain here. They are old and frightened. The others have gone.”
“Then we must hurry!” said Amsel. “We must stop them before they reach the sea!”
“They seek to escape the cold,” the dragon bellowed, “as we once did. They know not the reason for the edict they defy. They know not that the lands to the south will grow too warm for them to endure!”
“We must catch them before it is too late!” cried Amsel.
The Last Dragon turned slowly away from the wounded coldrake and faced the mouth of the cavern. “If we are to stop them, I must rest. I have flown quite far and I am wounded.” He considered. “I must sleep.” He started back toward the cavern ledge.
“Sleep?” Amsel fairly screamed with impatience. “You cannot sleep! We must go south!”
“Do not presume to order me,” said the dragon. “I shall decide when we leave. There will be time to stop them before the land grows too warm.”
“You are thinking
of the coldrakes! I am thinking of the humans. I brought you here so that we could stop the killing! There will not be time for that!”
The dragon considered for a moment, then moved its head irritably, almost dislodging Amsel. “I must rest,” he repeated. “I will not be able to help man or coldrake if I do not rest.” He proceeded to lower his head to the cavern floor.
To the dragon’s surprise, Amsel suddenly stepped forward, pressed his boot into the tuft of hair above the dragon’s left brow, and jumped off.
“If you will not stop them, then I will!” he cried.
The dragon watched Amsel drop to the ground. “You cannot leave! It is too cold for you outside!”
Amsel looked up over his shoulder. The giant regarded him with annoyance, he thought, but there was also a tone of concern in his voice.
Amsel hoped that his trust in the creature would be justified; he did not think it possible that the dragon would allow him to perish in the cold. He turned his back to the dragon and marched down the passage toward the mouth of the cave.
“I am going!” he shouted. “If you will not help me, then I will have to find a way to stop the coldrakes myself!”
He waited as the echo of his words returned. There was no sound from the dragon, save for the regular rhythm of his breath. Amsel turned. It could not end now! Not after all of the struggles he had faced.
He turned then and started back toward the dragon. Moments later, they were again face to face.
The giant lifted his head slowly as Amsel approached, then pulled it back with what almost seemed like amusement.
“There are legends,” Amsel shouted, “stories told to the children of my land about dragons brave and strong. None have ever seen such a creature, but many think these stories are true. It is sad that they will know only of the coldrakes, and sadder still that those coldrakes will kill them all!”
Amsel looked into the dragon’s wide blue eyes. “You feel responsible for the murder of the dragons,” he cried. “How can you rest knowing that the people of Fandora and Simbala will be killed because you refused to act in time?”
The dragon watched him, silent and pensive. At last a low, rolling sound issued from his throat. “Man always wishes to act as quickly as he speaks,” the dragon grumbled. “You are angry and impatient, but you are also very brave.” The dragon suddenly rose, lifting his body to tower above the inventor. “You are different from those men who betrayed us,” he continued. “You have proven yourself worthy of my help.”
Amsel nodded quietly. “We must go,” he said, “we really must leave now!”
“I do not know if I will be strong enough to face them all,” bellowed the dragon, “but whatever strength I have, I will use to stop them.”
He dipped his head to receive the tiny passenger once again.
We will face a hundred coldrakes, thought Amsel as he gripped the dragon’s horn. The odds were unthinkable—an old and injured dragon against a horde of frenzied coldrakes. Yet if the legends were true, then they would respect the dragon and obey his edict.
As the dragon made his way out of the cavern, Amsel thought again of the giant coldrake that had attacked him. He could not imagine it easily obeying the dragon’s words. It seemed to him the opposite of the dragon, but at the same time strangely reminiscent of him.
Amsel glanced out through the shadowed mouth of the warren. He and the dragon would stop the coldrakes, or perish in the attempt. It was his duty, his responsibility to those whom he had endangered—two lands which had gone to war and a small child whose smiling, adventurous face he would never see again.
* * *
There came a tapping on the rear window of Princess Evirae’s sitting room the following morning. She sat alone in the small chamber, lost in self-pity. It was a moment before she heard the sound, but when at last she looked up, she saw the familiar face of her former aide peeking through the window.
“Princess!” he whispered. “I bring news of the utmost importance! Hawkwind plans to join our army together with that of the Fandorans in an invasion of the land of the dragons! He meets with your husband and the rest of the Family as we speak!”
She let him finish, although she had already heard the news from others, and replied sweetly, “Mesor, how good of you to look after my interests.”
Mesor smiled humbly. “May I come in, my lady? I regret the rather unusual approach, but I am not in favor these days.”
“Nor am I,” Evirae answered, “as you would have learned had you stayed long enough at the dais to see!”
Mesor reddened. “I . . . I am sorry, Princess. Surely you understand my loyalty to you remains unchanged?”
Evirae rose from her seat and walked over to the window. Her hair dangled loosely over her shoulders. She looked quite young.
“Oh, Mesor,” she said, honeyed and gentle, “how could I ever think you disloyal after all you have done for me?”
Relief was visible on the Bursar’s face. “Thank you.” He sighed. “I had hoped you would be so understanding, Princess, and I am sure you will view whatever else I may have to tell you with equal compassion.”
“Whatever else?”
Mesor smiled nervously. “As a Bursar, I have worked hard to ensure the financial community’s support of your efforts to unseat Hawkwind, but. . . ” He reddened again. “Princess, I had been depending upon your patronage as Queen in my own dealings with these same merchants and bankers. The unfortunate return of Hawkwind has forced me to leave certain, shall we say, commitments unfulfilled.” He sighed. “Princess, there are many in the Merchants’ Quarter who wish me harm.”
Evirae shook her head. “Mesor, Mesor, I am surprised. After all the advice you have given me, have you counseled yourself so badly that you cannot find an—”
“No,” moaned the Bursar. “I am hopelessly in debt.”
“What will these merchants do if they catch you?” teased Evirae. “Surely you do not think you will be hurt?”
Mesor shuddered. “You do not know these merchants and bankers! I will be trampled like a tree bear under a carriage! Princess, you must help me to escape! I cannot even go into the Merchants’ Quarter to buy a horse!”
Evirae looked at him with what seemed to be compassion. “All right,” she said, “I suppose it is the least I can do for a man of your loyalty.”
“Oh, thank you, Princess!” He folded his arms over his chest. “I will prove myself worthy of your confidence!”
“Wait here,” she replied. “I will summon a coach.”
As Mesor watched, Evirae turned away from the window and left the sitting chamber. She hurried to the foyer of her mansion, where Kiorte’s driver was seated.
“Coachman,” said Evirae softly, “come hither.”
The man rose from his seat. “There is a Bursar in the garden,” she said. “You will recognize him as a frequent visitor here. You are to take him to the heart of the Merchants’ Quarter.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“He will protest,” said Evirae, “but you are not to listen to him. Do you understand?”
The coachman nodded and hurried out. Evirae returned to the sitting-room window where Mesor waited. “You will be met shortly by Kiorte’s coachman. He will transport you—”
“Prince Kiorte’s coachman?” asked Mesor. “Will the Prince not be angry?”
“Do not worry,” said Evirae. “I take full responsibility for this.”
Mesor nodded gratefully. “It may be a long time before I repay you, Princess, but repay you I shall.”
“Do not concern yourself, Mesor. Knowing what I have done is payment enough.” She heard the sound of the coach coming then, and bade the Bursar good-bye. He would soon learn what it meant to betray her. Someday they would all learn—the miner, the Rayan, all who had conspired against her. Someday she and Kiorte would make their home within the palace. Lost within this dream, Evirae made her way to the bedchamber upstairs, a prisoner of her own anger and ambition.
*
* *
The bright afternoon sunlight streamed through the trees that encircled the palace grounds, but within the conference hall of the palace itself, there was a darkness touched only by the light of the six dimly glowing torches. The meeting of the Circle had started.
At the head of the long conference table sat Monarch Hawkwind, flanked by Prince Kiorte, Baron Tolchin, and Baroness Alora. To Alora’s left stood the four Fandorans, nervously watching the proceedings. All had been startled by the sights they had glimpsed within the palace. The artistry and elegance of the tree’s interior was at once foreign to them and unforgettable. Tamark had not expected a land such as this—there was such casual beauty everywhere! The Wayman felt a longing for his native Southland and the lovely cities to be found within it. Dayon, though wary of the opulence around him, saw nothing to confirm his father’s suspicions that the palace had been the work of sorcerers. Nor could he understand how the people of such a beautiful land could ever fight a war.
Jondalrun kept his gaze fixed resolutely on Hawkwind. Despite his exhaustion, his indomitable pride remained unbroken. The Fandoran still viewed Simbala with suspicion and distrust.
“Maintain your guard, my son,” he whispered to Dayon. “I do not like the fact that this meeting takes place in darkness.”
He listened closely then to Hawkwind’s words as the young monarch addressed the thirty representatives of Simbala’s people and the Family itself.
“Advisers to Overwood,” Hawkwind said, scanning the darkened hall, “we have assembled here to discuss one of the gravest dangers to ever face our land. I have learned much since the cessation of hostilities. The dragon we faced in Overwood was neither an illusion nor a tool of the Fandorans. It is a creature known in legend as a coldrake—and it is among the last of a vanishing race.
“These creatures are few, but they are a threat to both Fandora and Simbala. Prince Kiorte and I have both agreed that these creatures must be kept from threatening our shores again!” He glanced at the Fandorans. “We will need as many men and women as we can find to embark on a mission to face the few that remain. These noble Elders of Fandora will decide today if their troops are to join us in this perilous mission. They ask, as I am sure many of you wish to ask, for proof of the danger we perceive.” He looked toward a door at the side of the hall.
