He bent over and pulled at a knot with his teeth. It came undone easily, as had been intended. In a moment Feydamor’s hands were free. He untied his legs, then drew his knife. The bulkhead behind the flyer’s armored seat was lacquered canvas, and he gently cut a flap open. Pulling a length of wire from his pocket he eased himself up. With one fluid motion he looped the wire over the flyer’s head and pulled it against his throat.
Kalward wheezed as he grasped at the wire with gloved hands. He thrashed and fought with incredible strength for such a thin man, punching holes in the fabric and smashing at the controls. The Skyfire began to bank more and more steeply but Feydamor held on grimly, cutting the wire deeper and deeper into the aviad’s throat. The Skyfire was standing on its port wingtip and dropping fast by the time Kalward went limp. Feydamor struggled past the flyer’s seat and reached out for the stick, settling the Skyfire back into level flight before struggling all the way into the cockpit. Kalward’s head was all but severed and an apron of blood covered his chest and lap. His eyes bulged as if in surprise.
Putting the Skyfire into a turn, Feydamor returned it to the wingfield, cut power, and parachuted out. He watched the flying wing go into a shallow dive, but was on the ground and in the Call’s grip before it crashed amid the distant hills in a little puff of flame.
The flyers of the Skyfires that were to have followed Kalward noted in their logbooks that his aircraft had attempted to lose them amid the hills but had crashed. No report was made of a parachute.
Feydamor landed in a stand of trees east of the wingfield, but still under the Call. His parachute acted as an effective Call anchor, and when the Call passed he followed its trailing edge back onto the wingfield to be greeted by knowing looks and discreetly raised thumbs by nearly everyone who caught sight of him.
Sartov made only the most feeble of attempts to hide his suspicion of Feydamor’s role in the aviad’s death, but he never mentioned the incident again.
10 August 3961: Condelor
Three days after the death of Kalward a flock of forty gunwings ascended from the wingfields around Condelor, all fully fueled and armed. As far as the adjunct was concerned they were to assemble over the city and strike at the gunwings that were covering the advance of the allied carbineers. Instead they turned east and flew out over the mountains. The adjunct of the palace wingfield lay on the ground with tears of rage in his eyes, beating the dust with his fists and cursing all cowards to hell, but the damage was done. The flock included the only five operational Sandhawks in Bartolica.
Stanbury later announced that the flock had flown east to smash the Yarronese air cover at Fort Sartov and allow the tramway link to be reopened through the Red Desert. The attack never came. The wings landed at Median, and Flockleader Carabas demanded that they be refueled for an attack on Forts Sartov and Virtrian. When they ascended they flew due east.
Sartov had been slow to react, but this ultimately gave him his advantage. A new Skyfire was sent to overtly Median. It found the flock as it was ascending and followed them as they flew almost due east again. It flew over Kennyville and the Laramie Mountains, then over the Callscour frontier. An hour later and ninety miles inside the Callscour region, they landed.
The wingfield was nothing of note from the air. There were no tents or buildings, but there appeared to be compression spirit stockpiled here and there. By the time the Skyfire was forced to turn back the first gunwings were ascending and flying due east again. If they noticed the high-flying intruder they showed no sign of it.
“They landed there, at the Alliance ruin, but they ascended as soon as they had refueled,” Sartov said to his Advisory Board of Wardens as he read the report of the sailwing flyer that night. “Somewhere to the east there must be a far bigger base of featherheads.”
In Greater Bartolica, the desertion of the flock alarmed the regional governors past endurance. By the next morning they had withdrawn their wardens and squires from the wingfields of the capital, and were evacuating their carbineers as fast as the steam-tram-drawn trains would allow. New borders were established and announced to the advancing allies by leaflets dropped by high-flying sailwings. Condelor was being thrown to the advancing enemy as a blood sacrifice.
The Sennerese nomads’ elite spearhead carbineers marched into Condelor on August 12, 3961. Unlike Forian, there was little resistance to the fall of Greater Bartolica’s capital. Laurelene, Theresla, Darien, and Virtrian watched the first wave of nomads running through the streets in skirmishing order, checking buildings and firing occasional shots. Their uniforms were dusky, like the deserts that they had boiled out of, and their manner was very professional.
“Ah, they are here at last,” Theresla observed, looking down into the street. “Good, they are good. My own people are like this, as free as the fingers of a hand yet as tight as a fist.”
“Proud Bartolica, brought to this,” said Virtrian without emotion.
“Proud Bartolica was defeated the day that Stanbury turned against Dorak,” said Theresla. “Yours are small, poor dominions. They are not kept at peace by the warden system, they are kept at peace by the lack of resources to go to war. The carbineers that should be defending this city are fighting their way back here through Yarron, but it’s too late now.”
The firing intensified from the direction of the palace, and there was an explosion at the gates. An improvised bridge was wheeled along the Grand Road of Processions to span the moat, and the invaders swarmed across. Gunwings circled overhead, alert for anyone trying to escape by air, but all the sailwings and gunwings on the palace wingfield had been either shot up and destroyed or grounded with white flags flying above them. There was another flurry of shots.
“The Archwarden’s personal guard, perhaps,” ventured Virtrian. “Why do they bother?”
“You bothered, back in Forian,” said Theresla.
“Back in Forian I had what was left of Yarron behind me. This is just death for its own sake.”
The shooting died away to sporadic exchanges, and Theresla, Darien, and Virtrian sat down to quailmeat and groundnut pastries. Condelor had fallen so quickly that luxuries were still available.
“Ah, they seem to be among the palace buildings now, I can see smoke,” Virtrian observed.
“Is the palace afire?” asked Theresla.
“No, I suspect that smoke pots are being hurled by the Sennerese nomads to choke the defenders. They don’t want to damage what is liable to be their new capital and palace.”
For Stanbury the nightmare had come true at last. His mighty war beast had fallen on its face after being denied its meals of blood. At dawn on the 12th of August he ran about the palace with two dozen of his Inner Guard, collecting gold coins in bags and burning documents. His wife Samondel found herself roused from her bed and bundled into a flying suit by maids acting on Stanbury’s orders; then she was taken out into the corridor to meet with her husband.
“What is this about, where are we going?” she asked.
“Condelor is about to fall, but we are not going to fall with it. There are still enough loyal carbineers and wardens in eastern Yarron to set up New Bartolica and defend it forever.”
They hurried out by a side door and through the palace gardens while sailwings and gunwings swooped overhead and cart cannons boomed in the distance. The flag of capitulation already flew over the palace wingfield, but Stanbury had another escape planned. At Festival Park the tentcloth facade of a house on the perimeter was drawn away to show an advanced Sandhawk-class prototype, one more than capable of ascending with Stanbury, Samondel, and their combined weight in gold as well.
A steam starter engine was already fired up and as soon as the Inner Guard pushed the Sandhawk out it was engaged to the compression engines. The propellor began to spin and the guardsmen cleared the gravel path across the center of the path of debris as Stanbury and Samondel climbed into the cockpit and strapped themselves in.
A stutter of reaction-gun fire sounded without warn
ing, and shots tore up the ground before the Sandhawk. A second, sustained burst hammered into a compression engine. The guardsmen began exchanging fire with drably uniformed carbineers who emerged from bushes and nearby buildings as the Sandhawk began to roll forward. Bursts from at least six reaction guns focused on the engines and wings. Guards shot down the carbineers and were shot down themselves. Compression spirit began to pour down onto the path, the engines spluttered and lost power, but it did not actually die. Sparks from flying rounds set the spilled fuel ablaze and the Sandhawk began to trail smoky flames and streams of burning compression spirit.
In hindsight it would have been better for Stanbury to have abandoned the Sandhawk then and there, and stay under the protection of his Inner Guard, but he still thought to escape. The struggling compression engines drove the Sandhawk down along the path, but it did not even approach the ascent speed. What it did manage to do was take Stanbury and Samondel some distance down the wide path and well away from their loyal Inner Guard. The blazing gunwing rolled amid the trees, trailing fire and smoke until its wheels hit an ornamental rock wall. The aircraft collapsed into a flowerbed in a cloud of smoke and burning fragments. Stanbury and Samondel struggled clear within moments, but the carbineers were waiting for them.
The survivors of the Inner Guard could not see that the Bartolican leaders were being led clear of the burning wreck. The remaining fuel exploded. Burning wreckage and gold coins showered down over the park, and there was a prolonged lull in the firing. Now the reaction guns started up again, but this time the Inner Guard’s survivors were covering their own retreat, having assumed that their Lady Airlord and Archwarden were dead.
“Bind them and take them to the Sunflower Street refuge,” a familiar voice called. “There’s any number of hotheads who would kill them out of revenge.”
“Hannan!” exclaimed Stanbury, recognizing the Inspector General beneath the lampblack grease on his face.
“Search both of them,” he continued, ignoring Stanbury. “Remove everything, especially papers and code cards.”
“You’re betraying me, your own airlord!” Samondel cried, her terror giving way to outrage.
“It’s odd, Ladyship, I was about to say the same about you and your people,” replied Hannan.
“Did your secret masters reward you well?” asked Stanbury.
“You should know best what rates secret masters pay, sair Archwarden.”
Drawn by the explosion and smoke, Sennerese nomads soon arrived at the park. They were slowed far more by the gold coins littered about than any squad of resistance carbineers could have managed. An hour later Hannan approached a Sennerese carbineer captain with articles of general surrender signed by Samondel, and by the late afternoon the fighting for the capital was over. Samondel and Stanbury were led back to the palace in shackles by Sennerese carbineers and nomads, while rockets trailing green and red smoke signaled that the capital had fallen and the Lady Airlord was in custody. Some of the sailwings overhead broke away at once to report the news home.
Samondel and Stanbury had a busy night as they signed decrees ordering occupation forces in Montras and Dorak to hand the government back to the local nobles and begin an orderly withdrawal. The carbineers and wardens in Yarron were still fighting, however, and they were ordered to simply surrender. In the latter case many of the local units mutinied. Sartov’s diplomats eventually negotiated their withdrawal in return for safe passage across the Red Desert and on to the newly autonomous regions of what had been Greater Bartolica.
13 August 3961: Condelor
The Airlord of Montras was freed from his cell in the palace on the night of the surrender, and he immediately allied himself to Sartov. The next morning the allied airlords began arriving in their regals, each with a formation of gunwings trailing smoke in their colors and resplendent in their wardenate livery. The Sennerese Airlord landed first, and was followed by the Airlords of Cosdora and Dorak. The other alliance airlords arrived later in the morning, and finally at noon the huge shape of a super-regal appeared in the northeast. The olive-green monster circled the city twice with its escort of battle-worn, brown and green dapple gunwings, then came in for an impressive landing on the hastily cleared palace wingfield. Sartov stepped out to cheers of adulation from wardens and commoners alike. In a tribute to those who had brought him the victory, he wore a flight jacket of his Air Carbineers.
A Council of Alliance Airlords was assembled at once, with Airlord Abdicate Virtrian elected as their Proclaimant. Justice was as swift as it was firm. The first of the Bartolican nobles were brought before the council later that very afternoon, and the first of the death sentences were passed by Virtrian before the summer sunset had begun to splash gaudy colors across the horizon.
Strangely, Samondel was treated leniently by the council. She had been in power for only a short time, and had been little more than a figurehead during that period. Stanbury was a different matter.
The council’s hearing of the Archwarden’s case began after the evening meal. A series of lists of charges were read out by each of the Airlords, most to do with breaches of the code of chivalry prevailing in Mounthaven. As it stood, Stanbury could have been executed several hundred times over.
“I plead the defense of peer reaction,” he declared to Virtrian, who was now sitting in judgment on Samondel’s throne. “There is not an airlord present who has not violated some principle of war duel chivalry that should carry the death penalty. Airlord Sartov ordered the bombing of this very palace, and his wings do not wear chivalric livery but cowardly green and brown disguise paint. Why am I condemned while he is allowed to sit in judgment?”
“Not an airlord present breached a chivalric principle without first being shown the way by yourself, Archwarden Stanbury,” Virtrian replied. “The plea of peer reaction is denied.”
“Honorable Proclaimant, I petition that two wrongs cannot be added together and called justice.”
“Unless I am mistaken, and subject to correction by my honorable colleagues, defense against unjust attack is allowable under both common law and chivalric codes. Defense against unjust and unchivalric attack renders codes of conduct for war duels null. Petition declined.”
“In that case, I have nothing more to say, Honorable Proclaimant”
Virtrian leaned forward on the throne. “Archwarden Stanbury, in the unlikely event that you do not understand your position, let me explain it to you again. You are charged with multiple breaches of the Mounthaven Code of Chivalric War and are being judged by nine of Mounthaven’s sixteen airlords. That is a majority, so a unanimous verdict of guilty carries enough legal weight to execute even a head of state. If your plea is guilty, you are granted the right to take your own life as a gift to the dead. If you plead innocent and are found guilty, then your entire government down to flock commander rank will be executed along with you. Again I say to you, sair Stanbury, what is your plea?”
“I have nothing to say, Honorable Sair.”
Virtrian turned to the nine airlords sitting to his right.
“The refusal to enter a plea is taken as one of innocence, just as suicide is taken as a plea of guilt. I must reluctantly decree that we assume a plea of innocence and proceed with a trial.”
Sartov stood up. “I propose that Archwarden Stanbury be taken to Median, where some of the worst atrocities of the war took place. This council can then see direct evidence of the charges, and hear from those whose lives were shattered.”
“Are any against that?” asked Virtrian. Three were against, the rest in favor. “In that case I decree that Archwarden Stanbury be transported to the city of Median in Yarron, where this council will reconvene on a date to be fixed. All in favor? Against? Carried six to three. What other business?”
“I move that this council rise for the night,” moved Sartov.
The motion was carried unanimously.
While Stanbury’s hearing was taking place, Serjon landed in his drably painted gunwing, at th
e head of his new flock. The darkened wingfield became a whirl of activity as the dozen gunwings were accommodated. Then, to the amazement of the adjunct and all others on the wingfield, two super-regals droned out of the north, circled like bats the size of dragons, then landed. Thirty-six stiff, cold but smiling guildsmen emerged and wearing field support jackets. They formed into twelve groups of three at a command from Ramsdel, each with his warden, squire, or flyer. At another command they marched for the pennant pole where the adjunct waited.
“Flock Commander Serjon Feydamor of the ninth Yarronese Air Carbineers,” Serjon declared to the adjunct “I have instructions from the Council of Alliance Airlords to assume authority over this wingfield.”
The adjunct bowed and accepted his credentials. A Bartolican warden held up a lantern as he read Serjon’s papers. He returned the credentials and took a folder of his own from an aide.
“I, Warden Grant Dennian of the Palace Air Guard, accept your authority,” the adjunct said as he handed Serjon the folder. “Do you wish me to continue in my role as adjunct?”
“Yes, by all means. Now please make tents, tools, and supplies available to my Air Carbineers and their field guildsmen.”
The truth was that the adjunct had not expected to be left in his position. The legendary Warden Killer, with ninety-seven victories confirmed, was no more than a polite but haggard boy. He stayed with the adjunct to make arrangements for the arrival of five Skyfire gunwings from Wind River in the morning. Warden Damaric would be leading this small but elite flock, and they were to be kept under heavy guard by Dorakian carbineers.
“It is also my intention to search for stolen Yarronese gunwings, tools, and guildmasters,” he told the adjunct as he removed his flight jacket and gave it to one of his guildsmen. “I want a tour of inspection of all Condelor’s wingfields, starting with this one.”
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