Dragonworld

by Byron Preiss

  The Darkling had brooded long over what the Guardian had said. She had told him that the humans could fly, even as they could. What they had done proved beyond doubt that they were dangerous and hostile. The Darkling raised his horned head and shrieked rage and helplessness—a sound like a mountain being riven. At that moment he envied those below him for the simplicity they possessed. They could not understand the magnitude of the problems that beset them. The cold that increased yearly, the scarcity of food—these things frightened them, but they could not forecast from them the end of their kind. They did not have the awful clear light burning in their minds, as the Darkling did; the light that illuminated their approaching fate so cruelly, but did not show him how to prevent it.

  If he was to be governed by his fury, he would take them now to the warm land in the south, to war against the humans. However, he was compelled by something stronger to wait. Although the Guardian’s tale had proven the humans to be dangerous, migration to the land of the humans had been forbidden by another, whose authority he had never dared to challenge. The coldrakes had been barred from the warm southern lands by the dragons long before the Darkling had been born.

  The rage he felt was like a virulent breath; it descended from him to those below. Their shrieks and snarls filled the air. Several launched themselves from the jagged crannies below and caught the wind, rising like vast bats in the bloody light. A large coldrake soared close to the Darkling, and filled with the contagious rage, snapped at his tail without realizing whom he attacked. The Darkling could not control his reaction—his head shot out in a flickering strike, and teeth ripped the other’s wing, crunching the fragile bone. With a reverberating cry of pain, the wounded one tumbled toward the rocks far below. Simultaneously, the Darkling launched himself after the injured creature. That part of his brain blessed—or cursed—with reason had seen the consequences of his action, but had been too late to prevent the bestial part of him from retaliating. He must now repair the harm he had done; their numbers were far too few to risk deaths in the battles of despair.

  Wings flat, slipping into the wind, he swooped underneath the panicked coldrake, breaking his fall in midair and slowing him until the wounded one was able to regain control and catch the air currents, safely gliding to a ledge. When he saw this had been done, the Darkling returned to his eyrie.

  He knew that he must not lose control again. He was responsible for them. In their dwindling numbers there was still some strength. Without him to direct their hunts, to apportion the take fairly, they would all starve, including the Darkling. They needed him, and he needed them.

  He brooded upon his perch, and his demeanor gradually had its effect upon the others. Their cries lessened, and gradually, one by one, they returned to their warrens.

  The Darkling knew that something had to be done. The cold encroached steadily; they seemed unable to resist it as they had in the past. The warmth from the hot springs and geysers could no longer hold it back. They could not remain here to starve and freeze.

  The Darkling would search the caverns to the north of the sea again, for any sign of life.

  The Last Dragon had disappeared long ago—the last of its race that had vanished in the ice of the coming cold. But the coldrakes would not violate the edict as long as there was a chance that the Last Dragon was still alive. But if the dragon could not be found, then it would be time to test the humans, to find out how dangerous they really were. The land to the south, the warm and golden land, awaited.

  The Darkling took to the cold air and flew southward.

  XVII

  A chain of a thousand torches made its way through the Fandoran hills. It wound its way through small towns, toward the cliffs of Cape Bage.

  “Elder Jondalrun!” came a call from the Tamberly contingent. “The men ask for a moment’s relief!”

  “No!” went back the word. “Those that cannot make the trip to the shore are unfit for the invasion!”

  Jondalrun marched at the head of his army. He too was tired and hungry, but he of all the men could not complain. “They march for Johan,” he told Dayon, at his side. “They march for Analinna and all the children of Fandora.”

  His son nodded silently, dreading the voyage to come.

  * * *

  The armada, if such it could be called, was built slowly and laboriously, from every skiff, every dinghy, every carrack and coracle available. In Cape Bage, every owner was automatically made a captain. The army began to arrive about noon, and it was soon apparent that the boats could not ferry them all. Additional boats and rafts were being built, it having been decided that two crossings would demoralize that part of the army left on the beach of a hostile country. The building of additional boats and rafts took the better part of two days. Fortunately, there was a convenient stand of trees nearby, which provided timber. Nevertheless, Jondalrun’s earlier apprehensions were justified. The food supply was low, and with it his army’s passion for the invasion.

  The four Elders had regrouped in the midst of the activity. Barrels of pitch were bubbling over fires, and small gangs of men were desultorily applying the calk to wounded ships. Dayon, late of Cape Bage but now a member of his father’s contingent, directed the rebuilding of the rudder of a large fishing ship.

  “Winners all!” said Tamark sardonically as he slapped a dilapidated boat and felt the wooden hull fall apart beneath his hand.

  “Not this fellow,” said Lagow. “This skiff will not even reach water!”

  “This boat is not even among the worst,” said Tamark. “The currents will do more damage than Jondalrun expects.” He watched as the Elder of Tamberly Town conferred with Tenniel about supplies.

  Lagow leaned uneasily on the skiff’s lee side. “Tell me, Tamark; you were so opposed to the war before it was discussed in council. How did you allow yourself to get involved as deeply as you have?”

  Tamark picked a splinter from his hand. “I can ask you that same question, Lagow. Was it not you who leaped to my defense?”

  “Aye.”

  “Yet you also accompanied Jondalrun and Tenniel on the trip to the Alakan Fen. I am convinced you had the same motive as I did at heart.”

  “That being?”

  Tamark raised his brows, as if to announce a message of utmost importance. “When a man is at sea and he feels the wind buck up and the waves hurl forward like the head of a dragon, he knows how foolish it is to resist. The best he can do is cover himself, protect his ship, and pray.”

  Lagow nodded. “You saw no way to stop the war, so you chose a path that would allow you to protect Fandora.”

  “Precisely,” said Tamark. “And you have done the same thing. By directing the invasion, we can perhaps prevent disaster.”

  Lagow frowned. “But I would still turn back tomorrow. I fear you would not.”

  Tamark took a step away from the vessel. “A decision has been made. I question its wisdom but not the emotion behind it. Fandora must be protected. Perhaps we are incorrect. But perhaps the Simbalese do plan to extend their influence across the strait. I do not think that is true, but to surrender before we start, and then discover that Jondalrun was correct, would be intolerable. The sentiments of Fandora should not be ignored, as much as we disagree with them.”

  “The people of Fandora are frightened, Tamark. They do not know the meaning of war. I would still like to reason with them.”

  The fisherman surprised Lagow with a deep laugh. “Look around you! Cape Bage is filled with ‘soldiers’! It is their grand adventure! A trip to lands unknown! A confrontation with sorcerers! There’s a boy in every man out there, crying to get out! You think an ounce of reason will hold them back now?”

  Lagow knitted his brow. “Not reason, perhaps, but I hope hunger and impatience will do the trick.”

  The fisherman flashed a bitter grin. “The strait will do it,” he said.

  * * *

  In his small underground cell, Amsel sat and considered his circumstances. Obviously, the pe
ople who had questioned him had no intention of releasing him.

  Amsel remembered that the Baron had spoken of a man named Hawkwind in terms that indicated a high place in the Simbalese echelon. Perhaps he had some authority over the woman named Evirae. Perhaps he could find this Hawkwind. At any rate, he was not aiding Fandora or Simbala, let alone himself, by remaining in the cell. “There’s no other way about it,” he said. “I shall have to escape.”

  Amsel methodically went through his pouch and pockets. There was little there—the Windriders had confiscated most of his things, including his notebook (he felt a pang of loss at that) and his net and knife. In the bottom of one of his pockets he found his spectacles, and also the pungent seed pods he had plucked from his garden patch. That seemed a year ago to him now. None of these things would help him escape.

  Amsel contemplated the ceiling of the cell. It was a tangled mass of root ends and spiderwebs. Contact with the air had withered the root ends, causing their outer layers to peel away in brown strips. Amsel stepped onto the stool, stretched his arms over his head, and found he could barely reach the roots. He peeled off several strips; they were dry and crumbled in his hands to a dry powder. They would burn very easily, he reflected. He dug his hands into the roots, trying to ignore the shuddersome feeling of tiny spiders and insects scurrying along his fingers. He pulled himself up into the thick latticework, and found that he could cling there, although not very comfortably.

  “Very good,” he said, and dropped back to the floor. He collected several strips from the larger roots and began crumbling them into powder and filling the small pouch he had removed from his belt.

  XVIII

  So, said Ceria, “the Princess strikes again.”

  She sat next to Hawkwind, her hand on his shoulder, in the private suite of the Monarch of Simbala. It was a round room, cloaked in light blue silks that complemented the dark polished walls of the palace. They sat upon a large gray causeuse studded with pearls. It was the most comfortable piece in the room, an antique that dated back to the days of Monarch Ambalon.

  “Lathan looked as if he were ready to join Evirae, did he not?” Hawkwind smiled. His visit to the mines had been helpful. Despite the threat of the cave wolf, it had given him an opportunity to quietly contemplate the problems that had arisen in the past two days. Although the news from the Northweald was disturbing, he had resolved to deal with it calmly.

  “I have never seen a man so exhausted by a ride,” Ceria said. “I can imagine the state of his horse!”

  “He is a good man,” said Hawkwind. “I do not blame him for wanting a fortnight’s rest. It was a difficult mission.”

  Ceria nodded. She was pleased to see Hawkwind at ease. It was rare that they had any time together alone, and it felt good to share each other’s love. She toyed with the diadem and jewel that had been deposited casually on an arm of the causeuse. “You must be careful with the Ruby,” she scolded. “It is proof of your position in Simbala. Evirae would give all the windships in Kiorte’s charge to have it.”

  “No,” answered Hawkwind, “Evirae is a spoiled child, but she is not a traitor.”

  The comment took Ceria by surprise. “Surely you do not believe that now! Not after Lathan’s message! Evirae’s meeting with the Northwealdsman was treason. Her accusations were treason! What must the Princess do to convince you? Kidnap me?”

  “That”—Hawkwind grinned—”would not be treason. That would be charity!”

  “Charity!” Laughing, Ceria threw the jewel by its diadem across the room to Hawkwind’s bed. “Charity! I should leave you to the Princess! Then Evirae would have both the Ruby and the palace!”

  Hawkwind smiled broadly and pulled Ceria closer. “Now, that would be treason!”

  They both laughed then, and Ceria nestled tightly in his arms. “I think you take Evirae too lightly,” she whispered. “At the very least, what she is doing can throw doubt upon the integrity of your name. At the worst, her intrigue could make serious trouble for you. Many people believe the rumors of war. The murder of a child has not been taken lightly, Hawkwind, and the windship which vanished has left many concerned.”

  Hawkwind stroked Ceria’s cheek. “You worry, as always, my love. I am aware of those problems. According to Kiorte, the windship blew away in a storm. The ship was unmanned, and it is very unlikely that it could reach the Fandoran shores. As for the child, that matter troubles me deeply. I have no explanation. Perhaps Kiorte shares my concern. That would explain why Lathan saw him in the north.”

  “You believe the Prince was investigating the attack on the child?”

  “I would hope so. I certainly do not believe that Kiorte has decided to do Evirae’s bidding.”

  “True,” said Ceria. “Kiorte is not under her spell . . . but there are many others who would do Evirae’s bidding in exchange for the friendship of the Royal Family. That young Bursar, for example . . .”

  “Mesor.”

  “Do not trust him.”

  “I don’t,” said Hawkwind, “but now is not the time to discuss matters of state.”

  Ceria frowned. “You put me off again,” she said. “You have avoided discussing this since the ride to Dragonhead. Do you fear what I have to say? Or do you no longer respect my opinions?”

  “Do not jest,” he answered. “It is just that I do not wish this moment soured by talk of politics.”

  “Then do not make your lover Minister of the Interior! What I have to say should not wait any longer. I am worried, Hawkwind.”

  He kissed her. “You know very well that intrigue is common in the palace. It does not exist among the miners or the Rayan because they are too busy earning their keep. The Royal Family members are different. Food and shelter are available to them without work. As a result, some spend time plotting against each other. Evirae has no cause to champion, no important responsibilities. Her silly plot against me is the result of envy and boredom. She sees no other outlet for her energies. There is no time to worry about her distractions. The fate of the child demands our attention.”

  Ceria did not smile. “Evirae wishes to do more than distract you,” she said. “Her cause is your removal from the palace. Treat this lightly if you will, but you shall regret it. I feel things that you do not, Hawkwind. You know this to be true. You have always known it. Please do not turn your back on me now! There is something happening that neither you nor I understand . . . something more than Evirae. Whatever it is, it is growing and moving toward the Overwood. Rumors spread like wildfire, and the Northweald is consumed with grief. A fire burns toward the palace, my love. Do not get caught in the flames.”

  Ceria rose and walked toward the canopied bed on the other side of the room. “Now, come,” she whispered as her cape dropped slowly from her shoulders to the floor. “There are other words I have waited too long to say.”

  * * *

  Circling the massive central tree of the palace at the heart of Overwood were giant trunks of relatively smaller proportion, each the home of various dignitaries and Royal Family members. The larger the tree, the more important its inhabitants to the government of Simbala.

  Outside this circle, the royal grounds ended, but the homes beyond them were among the most spectacular in Simbala. Many of them were integrated with the trees, and their colors—from shimmering copper and silver to the dusky red of iron-rich stone—harmonized with the beauty of the forest. Some rooftops were dusted with sparkling jewels. Others, covered with flowering vines and shrubs, caused many a traveler to walk the curved broad streets with eyes uplifted.

  Between these streets and the busy central squares of Simbala, the Kamene River emptied into a stately blue lake. The lake was shared by miners and merchants, who used it for relief from the heat of the day. Tonight, however, two figures who strolled on the walkway around it were from neither the merchants’ quarter nor the mines.

  “I will confront him tomorrow,” said Princess Evirae.

  Her adviser looked surprised. “Conf
ront him? Then Hawkwind has accepted?”

  Coyly Evirae replied, “Mesor, you surprise me. Hawkwind has not been told.” Evirae stroked a small brown tree bear that sat docilely upon her shoulder. It watched the surface of the lake as Evirae and Mesor strolled in the shadow of a domed coach. The driver was deaf; Evirae had taken pains to find him.

  “Pardon,” said Mesor, “but how can Monarch Hawkwind attend a meeting in the merchants’ quarter if he is not aware of it?”

  Evirae smiled confidently. “You will inform him of it in the morning, of course. I want you to tell Hawkwind that I request his presence on an urgent matter of state.”

  Mesor did not respond. She was moving far too quickly, he thought. She had practically accused Hawkwind of being in league with the Fandorans already. Now she planned to challenge him in public! If Hawkwind had heard anything about the presence of the spy, Evirae’s entire plan would collapse in full view of Overwood!

  He had to convince her to wait. He sought to change the subject so that he could possibly return to it later when the plan might appear in a less favorable light.

  “Milady,” he said, “is there any word from Prince Kiorte?”

  “Of course!” Evirae snapped unconvincingly. “Thalen has just informed me of his return from the coast. Kiorte has been surveying the shore for signs of Fandoran ships.”

  The Princess was lying. Mesor knew it. There was a layer of fog over the shore that would keep even the most experienced Windrider away. Prince Kiorte was still missing—and Evirae did not know where he had gone.

  “Perhaps it would be best to wait for your husband’s return before taking further action,” Mesor suggested carefully.