by Byron Preiss
Amsel cried for help as he hit the soft, billowing pocket of the topsail, slid down it, and then continued his drop toward the deck. Willen and two others caught the tiny Fandoran. Hawkwind and Jondalrun ran toward him, but it was Ceria who called his name. “Amsel!” she cried. “Amsel, you are safe!”
Jondalrun heard these words and felt as if a madness had seized him. “Amsel?” he boomed. “Amsel of Fandora?” Then he saw a white tuft of hair peeking out from between the legs of two Simbalese soldiers. “Out of my way,” Jondalrun shouted, and he broke past them in consternation. A few yards above, being helped to his feet by Willen, was the inventor he had accused of murdering his son!
“You!” Jondalrun exclaimed. “You are not alive!”
Amsel saw the Elder, and though he was dazed, he cried, “I have found the cause of Johan’s murder!”
“This cannot be!” Jondalrun shouted. “This man was trapped in a burning tree house! He cannot possibly be here!”
Before Amsel could answer, Ceria happily embraced him. “He is here and he is a hero!” she said. “He is a hero for us all. He has brought a dragon to defeat the coldrakes!”
Amsel smiled uneasily. “It appears as if the war has ended,” he said.
“Yes,” Hawkwind replied, “but another has begun.”
He looked up at the sky. Bathed in the moonlight, brushed by the clouds, were the two gigantic creatures. The wave of coldrakes hovered in the sky beyond them. As the Fandorans and Simbalese watched, the Last Dragon approached the Darkling.
In shock the Darkling shrieked his anger. A dragon still lived—a dragon who had faced the humans’ fire without fear! He had arrived in darkness, the Darkling knew not how or from whence he had come, but he knew the dragon had to be defeated. Only then would coldrakes complete their journey south. If the dragon prevailed, the coldrakes would respect his edict and perish—as the ancestors of the dragons had done long ago.
The coldrakes hovered behind him, watching in silence as the dragon appeared.
The Darkling hissed; he knew the respect the creatures harbored toward the dragon. He, too, felt those feelings within him, for the dragon’s blood was in part his. In another time he would have deferred to the dragon’s presence, but now he would not. The age of the dragons had passed!
The Last Dragon flew toward the Darkling. In adherence to an ancient code of battle, he would circle the creature once before attacking. He did not wish to fight, but it was clear from the dark creature’s cries that he would attack. The Last Dragon roared as he swooped through the clouds, making clear his challenge to the frightened coldrakes above.
As he did, there was a sudden shriek from the creatures, and the Last Dragon saw the gigantic coldrake hurtle straight toward him. He had not circled. His talons were extended. He was attacking!
The Last Dragon was old and wounded; he could not turn away quickly enough to avoid the Darkling’s claws which raked him along one side. The sight of blood again drew disapproving sounds from the swarm above. From the boats far below, all could see the silhouettes come together against the full moon. The Last Dragon dropped slightly; Amsel caught his breath, but then the dragon rallied, wings beating strongly, and rose again to meet the Darkling. Hawkwind stared at the creatures; the fire around the ship had vanished in the waves; and a few barrels had fallen overboard in the tumult. If the coldrakes attacked again, they would be relatively defenseless.
The Darkling surged forward, knowing he could give his adversary no respite. He swooped, slashing at the dragon’s neck with the claws on the ends of his wings, but the dragon arched his neck, and the slashes whistled through the thin, cold air.
The Last Dragon knew that this creature was different from the other coldrakes. Beyond his size and color, there was an intelligence, a determination to succeed for a higher purpose. The human had been correct; the creature was planning to invade the south!
The Darkling twisted about in mid-flight then, hurling himself upward with mighty wingbeats in an attempt to gore the dragon with his horns. The dragon swerved and avoided the attack, roaring as he did. He was enraged by the coldrake’s arrogance. He was old and tired, but he was still a dragon, a member of the race that had protected the coldrakes for ages! He was to be treated with respect. He soared up to meet the insolent creature. The edict would not be defied.
The Darkling did not wait to renew his attack. As the dragon ascended, the Darkling swooped down again, slashing the dragon’s wounded wing with its teeth.
The dragon screamed as the membrane of his wounded wing was torn apart, but as he did, he swung his tail forward, surprising the savage coldrake. Then, folding his wings, the Last Dragon dropped to a lower altitude, to gain a few precious moments’ rest.
The Darkling interpreted the dragon’s retreat as fear. With a shriek of triumph that carried to the boats below, he pursued him. To the Darkling’s surprise, the dragon rose to meet his attack. They collided in midair with a sound like a sudden storm. For an instant they fell together, wings beating, stirring the waves far below to white foam. The Darkling clung to the dragon, trying to eviscerate him with his slashing talons, but the dragon used his sharp claws and tail to hold him away. As they fell, the Darkling’s gaze met the Last Dragon’s. In those calm, blue eyes he saw no fear, no panic; he saw instead determination that would not be diminished by a hundred attacks. He also saw sorrow.
In that instant, the Darkling knew that nothing less than the secret deep within him would defeat the dragon. The dragon would not retaliate; he was still bound by the meaningless laws of an age gone past. The dragon would be vanquished, the Darkling knew, for it was he who had the strength to govern the dawning of a new age—the age of the coldrakes in the warm land of the south!
The Darkling broke from the dragon, soaring high above the sea, and he howled in ecstasy as the warmth he had hidden for so long grew within him. This was as it should be; he was certain of it. The fire would light the way to a new life—a life they would never have if the edict were still obeyed.
The Last Dragon looked up and saw the coldrake’s arched body against the moonlit sky. He had struggled against him, but surely not hard enough to drive him so quickly away. He saw the creature stiffen and heard him roar, a sound of dragon, not coldrake.
Only then did the Last Dragon suspect the truth behind the creature’s rage. It was nearly too late. A white bolt of flame burst from the Darkling’s mouth, hurtling with terrifying speed toward the dragon. He swerved away in a steep and sudden glide, flame singeing only the tip of his wing. The Darkling screeched in fear. He had missed!
In the ships below, those watching thought at first that a star had fallen from the sky. All aboard the deck of the flagship shielded their eyes from the brilliant trail of light. It leached color as it fell, illuminating the ship in stark blacks and whites.
Then the ocean exploded! In an instant, the water was blanketed with fire, as the Darkling’s burst of flame ignited the oil that had escaped the barrels floating on the sea.
“Man your stations!” Hawkwind shouted to the crew. “We must stay clear of flames!”
Amsel watched as the combined forces of Fandora and Simbala raced across the deck. Fortunately, the currents had separated the oil from the fleet; there was no immediate danger to the flagship.
Amsel quickly looked up again, but the light and the smoke from the fire had obscured the sky.
“Listen!” Ceria whispered.
From far above the billowing clouds, there came a savage chorus of shrieks. Jondalrun scowled as Dayon faced Amsel. “What is it?” he asked.
Amsel frowned. “The coldrakes!” he said. “They are angry or frightened!” Then, a breeze cut through the clouds, and Amsel saw the dragon’s dark wings against the moon.
The Darkling circled in confusion. He had used the flame, but he had failed! His secret was lost! The dragon still lived! It could not be! It was his destiny to defeat the dragon, it was he who had seen to the coldrakes’ survival. The Darkling
knew there was no way now to mitigate what he had done. In a single, fiery instant he had violated one of the most ancient edicts of the dragons and failed. His rage gave way to sudden panic, and in his panic, he saw the dragon flying up toward him.
He did not need to see the anger in the dragon’s eyes to know what he could expect from his adversary now. He had used the flame in an attempt to kill. He could do nothing worse. The dragon would risk his life to punish him.
The Darkling banked sharply away from the dragon, thrashing his wings desperately in the thick smoke billowing from below. He was blinded by it. Something struck hard against his tail. He shrieked in pain and floundered for a moment before catching air beneath his wings. The wind tore apart the curtain of smoke then, and suddenly he could see again. Ahead of him, all about him, were the coldrakes! In their eyes, glowing like embers in the smoke, he saw their rage and confusion. He had convinced them that the dragons no longer existed. He had driven them toward the south. Now a dragon had returned and he had tried to attack it with flame! The coldrakes did not understand, but they knew that as long as the dragon survived, they would be loyal to him, loyal at the expense of any other creature.
The Darkling shrieked a last, anguished cry, a passionate sound that he had never before made. The coldrakes did not understand what he had done for them. A dozen mighty tails swept across the clouds, and the Darkling felt his wings shatter against the blows. To the accompaniment of the coldrakes’ cries, he fell. Below, he saw the burning sea awaiting him. His own kind had hurled him to it—but no, they were not his own kind. They had never been. He had flown lonely and apart, always.
At least there would be loneliness no more.
The Darkling took that thought with him to the flames.
* * *
At Hawkwind’s cry, the others looked up to see a huge coldrake fall helplessly from the clouds. The hawk screeched as the giant plummeted toward the sea. For an instant the Darkling was limned before them; then it plunged into the inferno on the waves. The impact hurled sheaths of orange and red flames, which fell short of the ships. Fiery droplets of oil splashed on board, starting several small fires which were quickly doused.
The crews of every ship watched as the Darkling surfaced in the midst of the flames, raising his burning head. From his throat came a last cry which startled them, a remorseful sound that echoed to the creatures above. Then the fire consumed him. The Darkling sank, and the burning sea closed over the battered peaks of his horns.
The Fandorans and Simbalese stood at the railing of the flagship, stunned by what they had seen. They watched as the ship floated further and further away from the flames. They watched, but the Darkling did not surface again.
* * *
High above the ships, the Last Dragon slowly circled the coldrakes. He roared with pride, for the horde had respected him; they had rallied against the dark creature whose plans would have caused them to perish.
He told the coldrakes of the reasons for the dragons’ edict against entering the land to the south. The heat there could destroy them; the humans were able to survive where they could not. The coldrakes shrieked in sorrow as the Last Dragon told them of the fate of the other dragons. They were frightened, he knew. The cold was killing them. Yet it would accomplish nothing to attack the humans.
The Last Dragon roared again. He would search for a safe home for them, a place away from the cold. He would find it, he told them. Anything was possible if they did not lose hope.
He had seen much courage since his return; he would demand no less of himself. The coldrakes hovered in the moonlight as the fires faded below.
The Last Dragon bid them to return to their warrens. He would soon join them. The Guardian flew out then, and told the dragon of her attacks upon the humans.
The Last Dragon listened, broad wings flapping against the breeze. He roared, vowing to learn the reason for what man had done. The Guardian shrieked her assent and returned to the grey mass of wings. Then the coldrakes turned north and began their flight home in peace.
* * *
“Look!” Amsel exclaimed. “The dragon is returning!”
From out of the smoke and clouds, the Last Dragon appeared. Blood had dried on his skin where the Darkling had gouged it, and the wounds on his wings were evident in the way he flew. Nonetheless, he settled upon the sea so gently that there was scarcely a change in the keeling of the ships nearby.
Amsel watched the dragon’s descent from the foredeck of the flagship, surrounded by Hawkwind, Ceria, Tamark, Vora and Jondalrun. Despite his assurances, many in the crew shrank back at the dragon’s approach. Under orders from Hawkwind, a few brave Simbalese women had scrambled up the masts to remove the dragonbane put there earlier. The hawk remained perched upon the mizzenmast as they did.
As the dragon arched its neck toward the prow, Ceria thought about the pouch at her side. The Dragonpearl rightfully belonged to the dragons. She would see to its return.
Far behind her, in the shadow of the mainsails, another also stood with pouch in hand. It was Willen of the Northweald. He fingered the rainbow-colored shells within his bag. He knew now that it was the coldrakes who had murdered Kia, but he still did not know why. A child had also been murdered in Fandora. It could not be mere coincidence. He was sure of it. Perhaps the dragon held an answer. He had to find out.
As the dragon’s head loomed toward those standing at the helm, his mouth slowly opened. Then, to the vast amazement of all save Amsel, he spoke!
“The coldrakes have gone,” he said, “They were frightened and driven to attack. They will not return.”
Amsel smiled. He had told Hawkwind and Jondalrun about his meeting with Ephrion and about his mission to the north. Hawkwind had listened carefully as he had explained how the cold had gripped the land of the dragons and of how the giant coldrake had attacked him. Yet this same information had done little to soothe Jondalrun’s anger. “Why was Johan murdered?” he had screamed. “Why did the coldrakes murder my son?”
Amsel did not know. His own anguish over Johan’s fate had not diminished, despite his role in helping to save Fandora and Simbala from the coldrakes’ attack. Amsel knew that this might be the last chance he would ever have to find out. He stepped toward the prow and shouted to the dragon, in the slow, deliberate voice that the creature preferred.
“These people govern man,” said Amsel, nodding toward the elders and the Simbalese behind him. “They are grateful for all you have done, but they ask a question for which I do not know the truth.”
“Yes,” the dragon bellowed, “there is the question of the murder of the coldrakes’ unborn young.”
“The coldrakes’ young?” the inventor said with surprise. “It was the children of Simbala and Fandora who were attacked!”
The dragon grumbled. “According to the Guardian of the coldrakes’ young, their nest of eggs was destroyed by man on his land’s northern shore.”
As the dragon spoke, Willen slipped quietly forward through those who stood between him and the foredeck. At last, he was close enough to see the face of the dragon ahead. “ ’Twas a child of the Northweald that was murdered!” he shouted. “She had destroyed nothing! She had held in her hand only shells of the sea!”
Willen hurled his pouch over the railing of the foredeck and it landed near Amsel’s feet. As the others watched, he picked it up and shook the contents into his hand.
Amsel examined the rainbow-colored fragments quickly. “They are not shells,” the inventor said, holding them up so that the dragon could see. As the creature stepped forward, Jondalrun stretched closer, joined by Hawkwind and Ceria. Behind them, Willen pushed his way onto the foredeck in the silvery light.
“These appear to be fragments of an eggshell!” Amsel continued. He asked the dragon if he were correct.
The dragon roared in recognition and explained what he had learned from the coldrakes.
“Then there was a reason for Johan’s murder,” said Amsel. “The coldrakes attack
ed him in retaliation for the killing of their own unborn young!”
This knowledge filled him with sadness, for Amsel knew then that the boy would never have been murdered had he not borrowed the wing. Johan had been an easy target for the raging coldrake that day, flying gently through the sky. The raging coldrake had seen the shattered eggs, had learned that the precious young would never be born. She had attacked madly in revenge, killing the children of Fandora and Simbala in retribution for what had happened. “She knew not of either land,” ventured Amsel sadly, “nor that the eggs were probably broken by innocent young children at play.” The inventor looked at Willen. “Is that not possible?”
The Wealdsman nodded. “Aye, there are some who play on the northern shores. Kia may have found traces of their mischief while walking there alone. She was not the sort of child to do such a thing herself.”
Jondalrun started to weep, the mournful tones of a man who has learned the truth of a tragedy too late to prevent it. His cries were joined by those of Dayon, and Amsel, for the inventor was sure that if Johan had not taken the wing that day, he might still be alive.
Their tears were a sight unknown to the dragon, and he looked at his tiny friend with compassion.
“You have saved more than you have harmed,” he bellowed. “My loss is far more than yours. We must despair no longer.”
Amsel did not reply. He gazed into the night beyond the dragon, feeling the burden of his quest slipping away. He knew that it would take far longer for the pain to disappear. Then suddenly, the tired inventor felt a hand upon his shoulder. Amsel turned and discovered to his surprise that it belonged to Jondalrun.
“I accused you of murder,” he said stiffly, “but I do not blame you any more. You risked your life to learn the truth.” Dayon stood behind his father proudly. It was a difficult admission to make, but he had done it. The healing would begin.
Hawkwind walked forward with Ceria to speak to the dragon. “Perhaps not all the eggs were shattered,” he said. “Might it not help if our troops searched the shore on the coldrakes’ behalf?”
