Dragonworld

by Byron Preiss

  “There is no time!” said Evirae. Then she whispered, “Tolchin and Alora have been swayed. They have doubts about Hawkwind. I must move quickly before Hawkwind learns of the spy. I must win the support of the people in the merchants’ quarter. If they suspect Hawkwind, as the Northwealdsfolk must already, then only the miners shall remain as his defenders. I am sure they can be convinced to change.”

  Mesor was worried. Her plan was too blatant, much too blatant! This was far worse than anything she had planned in the past. He had never realized how fully consuming her designs on the throne had become. He had to convince Evirae to—

  “Mesor!”

  The adviser looked up, startled. The small tree bear had jumped from Evirae’s shoulder to the path below. It was now scampering toward the pond.

  “Quickly!” Evirae shrieked. “Catch her before she reaches the water!”

  Mesor rushed forward and seized the tree bear gently. As he did, he spied Evirae’s reflection in the lake. It was grotesque, pulled by the ripples of the water into a giant mouth and tiny eyes.

  “Come, my pet,” said the reflection, and Mesor wondered if the phrase referred to him. He handed the small animal back to Evirae. “Thank you,” she said. “Now it is time for you to return, to prepare your speech for Hawkwind.” She smiled at Mesor. “The driver will take you home.”

  Mesor forced a smile. Over the years he had developed a certain fatalism, and he knew that for the moment he could not dissuade the Princess from her course. He would simply have to wait and do Evirae’s bidding until she was once again open to his thoughts. Things could be worse, he reasoned. At least I am privy to her plans. Should Evirae actually reach the throne, I would profit more than most. He started back toward the coach, but as he extended his arm for Evirae to join him, she shook her head. “No,” she said. “I would like to walk back.”

  Mesor was disturbed. The Princess, usually so predictable to him, was continually surprising him of late, and he did not like that.

  “Very well,” he said reluctantly. “I will see Hawkwind in the morning,” and he mounted the coach.

  Evirae listened to the sound of diminishing hoofbeats. The Bursar is a fool, she thought. He seeks my favor, but he is blind to the consequences of his ambition. If my plot is discovered, I will lay the blame on him. A Bursar’s word will not be taken over that of a Princess, even if that Bursar is the Princess’s adviser. Mesor thinks me hotheaded and irrational. Little does he realize that tomorrow’s meeting is without danger to me.

  She tapped two long nails together and looked at her reflection in the now-placid water. An old aphorism came to her mind. Smiling, she said, “A woman’s beauty is the best refuge for the truth.”

  * * *

  In the old tunnels under the forest, a large portly guard sat on a chair beside a locked chamber. He had been ordered by the Princess Evirae to guard the Fandoran spy, and this was what he was doing. Still, he thought, there could be no harm in catching a few moments’ rest. The cell was securely locked, and he was going to close his eyes, not sleep. He had been slumbering peacefully for over an hour when he was suddenly awakened by the sound of coughing—loud and hacking, as though someone were choking—from within the cell.

  “Guard, help!”

  The guard came ponderously to his feet. He put his ear to the door. The prisoner’s coughing fit had stopped; all was silent inside the cell. He eyed the door suspiciously. Since Evirae had ordered the prisoner guarded, it followed that she wanted no harm to come to him. The guard unlocked the door and peered inside.

  The Fandoran was nowhere in sight!

  The guard stared about for a moment. A trick? Perhaps the fellow was hiding behind the door. He stepped into the cell. . . .

  “Hello,” a voice said from directly above him.

  The guard looked up, and a cloud of fine dust dropped into his eyes. Blinded, he stumbled backward, tripped over the stool, and fell heavily, half onto the straw. He heard something hit the floor lightly beside him . . . quick footsteps . . . then the slamming of the door.

  The Princess, he realized, would not be pleased.

  * * *

  Amsel paused for a moment outside in the corridor, considering his route. He recalled that Evirae and the others had gone to the left after leaving his cell; therefore, he went to the right. He hurried down the tunnel, at first running as fast as he could, then with more restraint. The floor was covered with a thin film of slippery mud. He was very tired; he had not realized how much so until he had started to run. He had been through quite a bit in the last few days; in fact, he was amazed that he had held up so well.

  I hope the guard was not hurt, he thought to himself as he ran. He had clung with his feet and one hand to the interwoven roots near the roof, and when the guard had entered, attracted by the coughing, Amsel had dumped a pouchful of freshly powdered root fiber into his eyes. That, and the locked door, would hopefully give him time to get away.

  Now he had to decide where to run. He knew nothing about Simbala. He had heard of the man named Hawkwind, but he did not know who he was or where to find him. It does not matter right now, thought Amsel; first I must find a way back to the surface.

  Suddenly, far behind him, there was a sound like an explosion—its echoes reverberated about him, then chased each other down the tunnel. Amsel was mystified for a moment; then he realized it was the sound of the guard kicking open the cell door. A moment later he heard heavy running behind him, drawing closer. The guard was pursuing him!

  Amsel tried to run faster, but his weariness made it impossible. Roots slapped into his face, disorienting him. The guard was rapidly gaining. Amsel came to forks in the tunnel, dimly lit by torches, and ran down them at random, hoping to lose his pursuer, but the guard was close enough to see him now. Amsel saw a small hole in the wall just ahead; if he could reach that, he would be safe; the guard would never be able to squeeze his massive bulk through it. He gritted his teeth and tried to put on a final burst of speed, but his exhausted body would not obey him. A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. Amsel twisted away. His foot slipped in a patch of mud and he half-fell. The guard also slipped and fell with him. Amsel, staggering away from him, saw the guard grab a tree root hanging from the ceiling in an effort to save his balance. The root gave way before the guard’s massive weight, and then there was a strange rumbling sound that filled the tunnel. Amsel looked up and saw the ceiling caving in on him, a cascade of mud, roots, and dirt. He tried to leap to safety, but a large rock struck his shoulder. He heard the guard cry out for help. Then the sound of the cave-in deafened him, the world turned the color of mud, and there was darkness all about him.

  * * *

  A sudden gust of wind caught one of the boats being lowered down the cliffs of Cape Bage. It dangled by three ropes halfway down, and the wind now swung it dangerously close to the rocks. Its passengers, several black-and-white-garbed Dancers, gripped the gunwales as the swaying boat slowly settled again.

  On a tiny strip of beach below, Jondalrun and Dayon stood watching as five boats were lowered slowly into the water by the windlasses. On the cliff, beyond their sight, were many other boats waiting to enter the water—all of them hastily repaired or knocked together from old wagons and carts, calked against the sea with hasty daubs of pitch.

  Dayon shook his head. “I never would have believed it,” he said.

  “It will save time,” Jondalrun said. “Time is what we need. It would take a day to carry these boats down to the beach—and the beach is already overcrowded with the men being apportioned into the other boats. This way, we will have them all in the water by dawn.”

  Lagow also stood there watching. “What good will that be,” he asked, “if all the men are killed in the process?” He looked belligerently at Jondalrun, and Dayon tensed, expecting his father to explode into one of his famous rages. Instead, Jondalrun did not acknowledge the question at all. He turned away and crossed to Tamark, who was shouting orders to the men at the top of the cl
iff.

  Lagow stared after him, then looked at Dayon. “Your father is a stubborn man.”

  “Stubbornness gets things done.” Dayon felt compelled to defend his father, although he too was not looking forward to this crossing. The thought of venturing out into the heavy, wind-tossed seas of the strait again, so soon after his last experience, was terrifying.

  “Lower the prow!” Tamark bellowed as Jondalrun joined him. “It’s dropping too fast . . .” He broke off and shook his head as the straining snapped one of the ropes. The boat turned over, spilling its passengers and all their supplies into the water twenty feet below. A moment later the boat fell in with a loud splash that reached Jondalrun’s ears a moment after he saw the impact. He saw the young men bob to the surface and swim for the craft, which had luckily landed upright. A Dancer’s cap was rescued from the water by one of them.

  Tamark looked at Jondalrun, and Jondalrun, as usual, felt vaguely disturbed by those black eyes. He had the distinct feeling that Tamark was laughing at him, even though the fisherman’s face was grim. Jondalrun looked back at the boat. “Perhaps,” he said uneasily, “it will go smoother with the larger ships.”

  “Perhaps,” Tamark said.

  Jondalrun glared at him. Something about the single word stung him to rage. He did not like Tamark—the man was too cynical, too silently disapproving. “Have you a better way?” Jondalrun demanded loudly.

  “None,” said Tamark. He turned away and looked up at the fishermen who stood on the edge of the cliffs. “Next boat!” he shouted.

  On the top of the cliff, Tenniel stood staring down. He had helped lower the first boat, and he had watched in horror as it fell. He was vastly relieved that no one had been hurt. But how long before someone was hurt? It seemed so absurd to have a casualty before they even met the Sim. It was not right, all of this fumbling and uncertainty, all these problems that bothered them. If they were so plagued now, why should he expect it to be any different on the battlefield?

  It will be, he reassured himself. It must be. After all, these problems were to be expected, were no doubt due in part to the eagerness of everyone to come face to face with the enemy. Tenniel glanced behind him at the crowd of men waiting to be lowered over the cliffs. In their faces he saw some apathy, and much nervousness and fear. He saw nothing he could call eagerness. He turned to the next boat and began to prepare it for lowering. Battle will transform them, he thought. But he did not look back again.

  Through the night the extra boats were lowered from the cliffs. The men worked without food or sleep, and when the first rays of dawn broke over the misty horizon of Simbala, they sailed to join the main fleet, which had been launched from the beaches.

  The Fandoran army was now at sea—over a thousand men and boys with patchwork weapons, floating in boats made from rafts, flatbed wagons, and fishing vessels, powered by oars or paddles or sails patched with grain bags, setting forth on Fandora’s war with Simbala. Few were aware of how ludicrous they would have appeared to the Simbalese. They were a militia of bakers, tinkers, farmers, and fishers. Their outlook ranged from despair to a feeling of adventure. However, it was a grim determination to seek justice for the murder of the children, and the threat it posed to the very existence of Fandora, which almost masked their pathetic appearance. Naive and unprepared as they were, they nevertheless had a cause—they were responding to a threat with courage. Not all armies, not all wars, had such. Children were one of the very few comforts and blessings of Fandora—tangible proof that life would continue.

  Stubbornly, then, with much fouling of courses and shouted instructions and imprecations, the army of Fandora began its voyage toward the east.

  * * *

  The northern winds blew constantly, bringing snow which covered the cliffs. The Darkling threshed the air with his enormous wings. Soaring high above the icy river, he flew south toward the fabled caverns where the dragons once lived.

  Long before the Darkling’s birth, in an age when the frost had not fully covered their land, the dragons had flown south to the glowing place within the cliffs. The coldrakes had remained behind them, fighting the cold winds for survival. They were swift in flight and they learned to be hunters. Living in the caves near the hot springs, they had survived for ages.

  As the dragons vanished from the glowing caverns, the coldrakes grew frightened, for it seemed as though their land too would be safe no longer.

  The coldrakes respected the dragons, for the dragons had protected them in an earlier age. They feared them too, for the dragons possessed the secret of the flame.

  The Darkling shrieked as he flew above the icy river that flowed south toward the glowing caverns. He knew the dragons’ strength. Though he had searched for the dragons time and time again without success, he knew their secret still. It was in part his own. He had been born of coldrake and dragon, the forbidden child of a dragon who had returned to the hot springs in hope of survival. It had not survived, but the Darkling had been born; the other coldrakes knew not of his existence then, but as the cold winds grew, he had emerged smarter and swifter than them all. As the dragons perished, he became the coldrakes’ protector.

  The pain that burned within him had driven him many times to the caverns in the south, but always he had found the same thing. In those glowing caverns that had not been covered by rocks and falling snow existed only the frightening remains of the noble creatures who had once dwelled there.

  The last age of the dragons had passed and the coldrakes were alone. He was the most alone of all, neither coldrake nor dragon, living with creatures who implicitly felt that the dragons would rescue them from the growing cold.

  To ensure their survival, he had to convince them that the dragons were gone. Only then would the coldrakes defy the edict of the dragons and respect his own. Only then would they dare to leave their warrens and fly south to live in the land of the humans, the land from which the dragons had barred them long ago.

  The last search had come. The Darkling flew swiftly through a narrow pass between icy cliffs and flapped toward a wall of ice and snow beside the river. He would search one last time for any evidence of the dragons, would look inside the glowing caverns for any proof that they would return.

  There had been none, and he expected none now, but he would search carefully, for what he would ask the others to do required his own conviction.

  If they were to learn that the dragons were truly gone, if they were to fly to a warm land where the Guardian could watch without fear, if they were to war with man to seize a place where the northern winds did not blow, then he would have to be sure that no dragon had survived.

  He swooped through a break in the gray fog toward the cliffs where the openings to the caverns could be found. Some were covered with thick blue ice or had vanished in the fallen rock and snow. He would fly into those that were free. If a dragon still survived, it would not lie trapped within the others; its pride would not allow it.

  As he glided down to a familiar ledge where one of the glowing caverns waited, the Darkling saw within the ice the form of an old dragon, neck extended and wings out, as if it had been frozen in the act of flying. Or falling.

  This sight always brought anger, for he did not wish to perish as that dragon had a long time ago.

  He screamed, but the sound was buried by the freezing winds.

  The hours passed as the Darkling explored what had been the home of the dragons. He could find no trace of any of the creatures in the open caverns. As the search grew, so did his anger. He confirmed again what he already had known. These tunnels had not changed; the last age of the dragons had passed.

  Shrieking as he soared out of an icy cliff, the Darkling flew back toward the warrens.

  The coldrakes would be told. He would prepare for the journey south. He would bring them here. He would also send a scout to the land of the humans. There was much about them that he wanted to know.

  XIX

  Evirae had selected a large marketp
lace at the edge of the Merchants’ Quarter for her confrontation with Hawkwind. It was bordered on the east by a small hill. At the foot of the hill was a stone podium, and it was from this forum that the people of Simbala would witness a most extraordinary meeting.

  Two hours before the arrival of the Monarch and the Princess, the area started to fill with people from all parts of the Overwood. There was much tension and speculation within the crowd, especially among the discontented merchants whose trade had been curtailed by Hawkwind in recent months. All were anxious to hear the reason for this sudden meeting.

  Hawkwind arrived, flanked by aides, the hawk on his shoulder. To his left walked Ephrion. There were shouts of approval as they made their way to the hill, but both men agreed that the sounds were less enthusiastic than they had been at the Dais of Beron.

  As Hawkwind and Ephrion awaited Evirae’s arrival, the older man once again cautioned his successor. “You must be careful of her, Hawkwind. She has a sly and clever tongue and she will twist your words.”

  Hawkwind looked up impatiently at the hill. “I have heard the Princess’s arguments before,” he answered softly, “and I am not impressed.”

  Ephrion argued angrily. “You must be careful!” He leaned heavily on a walking stick. “She is of the Family and she has had experience in matters of politics that you have not. You must not underestimate her influence with the people.”

  Hawkwind frowned, lifted his arm, and watched as the hawk took flight. First Ceria, now Ephrion, he thought. They do not believe that I take the Princess seriously. He nodded to supporters as he and Ephrion reached the flight of stairs behind the hill.

  “There is nothing Evirae can do in the face of the truth,” he said. “It is my most valuable defense. There is nothing that I have done that is in opposition to the interests of our people. I refuse to let either the Family or Evirae force my hand on matters concerning Simbala. This meeting is just another excuse for Evirae to intimidate me. She will be disappointed.”