by Byron Preiss
“The Princess? She kept you from getting a message to Monarch Hawkwind?”
“Yes! Yes! A message to stop the war! You must take me to him now!”
“Turn your back to me,” Ceria said, “and lean against the trunk of the tree. I must be sure you carry no weapons.”
Amsel complied. Ceria searched him. Outside of the knife he had taken from the guard, which she confiscated, he had no weapons. She considered momentarily taking the seed pods she found in his pouch, but decided they were harmless. “We must get you away from here,” she said. “Come with me.”
They hurried along a flower-lined path. “Evirae’s guards are everywhere!” said Ceria. “Even in that stable where I keep my horse! We must reach the palace guardhouse. The sentry there is loyal to Hawkwind.”
Amsel nodded. “The Princess and Monarch Hawkwind are enemies?”
Ceria nodded. “She wishes to be queen.”
They ran quickly toward a wide, winding road. This was Monarch’s March, and straight ahead, no more than two hundred yards away, was the back entrance to the palace grounds.
“Hurry!” said Ceria. “We must reach the sentry!”
Amsel struggled valiantly to keep up with the young woman, but he could not. He had gone too far and too long without ample food or sleep, and his legs were much shorter than hers. “Just one moment’s rest!” he implored, but the Rayan shook her head.
“I have to leave Overwood on urgent business!” she insisted. “Your delay comes at a most inopportune time!”
“I’m sorry,” said Amsel, wheezing and coughing, “but I need rest, if even for a moment.”
“It is not safe here!” she replied. “I must have the sentry take you to Monarch Ephrion!”
“Ephrion?” said Amsel, startled. “What about Hawkwind?”
“Hawkwind is at war! Ephrion is his predecessor! Don’t you know these things? You are supposed to be a spy!”
“I am Amsel!” he said. “I am not a spy! I have come—”
He was cut off by the distant clopping of hoofbeats on the flagstone. Somewhere behind them a coach was approaching!
Ceria took Amsel’s hand and hurried forward, almost dragging the weary inventor.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Trouble,” she replied. “Whoever it is must not see us.” She waved frantically in the direction of the sentry post, and Amsel saw a short round man come outside and wave back.
Ceria glanced over her shoulder. The coach was about to turn the last bend before the palace. When it did, they would be seen!
“This way!” she shouted, and she tugged Amsel toward the side of the road. Yet as she did, they both caught a glimpse of the sight down the road. An ebony coach was coming directly toward them. Atop it, next to the private coachman, rode Princess Evirae!
She saw them immediately and screamed, “The spy! It is the Rayan and the spy! After them!”
Upon hearing those words, Amsel discovered a hidden store of energy in his legs, and together with Ceria he dived for the cover of the bushes at the side of the road.
“Alora! Tolchin!” shouted Evirae from the coach. “Take heed! The Rayan conspires with the spy!”
From the bushes Ceria spotted the Baron peeking out through an uncovered window of the coach. She grabbed Amsel’s hand again, but he pulled away.
“No more of that!” he said. “Where are we going? The coach has already passed us and is on the way to the palace!”
Ceria nodded. “The gardeners use the footpath behind us to reach the palace. There’s a gate at the end. I’ve already warned the sentry. Watch!”
As they hurried down the unpaved footpath through the bushes, Amsel saw the coach jolt to a stop outside the palace gate. The sentry stepped forward to greet it, but he appeared to take no action toward opening the gate. Instead, he seemed to be gesticulating and nodding apologetically to the Princess.
A minute later, Ceria fumbled with the latch on the gardener’s entrance. Beyond it lay the lush back lawn of the palace tree.
“We’ve made it!” said Amsel.
“Not yet,” answered Ceria. “He won’t be able to keep the Princess out for long.”
Sure enough, the moment Amsel and Ceria were spotted on the verdant grounds, the gate behind them was opened.
Evirae rushed through, followed by Tolchin and Alora, screaming, “Stop them! Guard! Stop them before they reach the palace!” The sentry obeyed at the speed of a man twice his age.
Crossing the lawn in one swift dash, Ceria and Amsel climbed a short path framed by row after row of honeycup and sanicle. Seconds later they were at the tall, columnated archway, face to face with two guards still out of range of the Princess’s shouting.
“Sentry!” said Ceria. “The Princess has ordered this poor fellow to be taken prisoner! You must stop her! He is under the protection of Monarch Hawkwind!”
The sentry saluted. The two rushed inside just as Evirae came into view behind them.
“He will delay her for a moment,” whispered Ceria. “But the Princess will overrule my order. Follow me!”
Amsel merely nodded—he had no breath for words. He also had no time to gape at the beauty of Simbala’s palace. The columns of the entrance were of polished wood, easily fifty feet high, and they did not constitute a fraction of the size of the tree itself. The floor of the grand hallway they had entered from the rear was of marble inlaid with topaz at the juncture of every tile. They hurried on beneath a high vaulted ceiling from which hung gigantic cloth tapestries depicting Simbala’s history. All this, Amsel marveled, at the rear entrance! Ceria rushed ahead, oblivious, but Amsel, tired and frightened as he was, nonetheless mourned the fact that he could not see it all.
They ran up toward a tall narrow staircase on the eastern wall. As they reached the landing above, Evirae, Tolchin, and the guards burst into the hallway. “Up there!” she cried. “After them!”
Ceria and Amsel reached the second level, which was a mezzanine. More guards appeared in the corridor, responding to the echo of Evirae’s words. They found the Minister and the spy headed in their direction and promptly cut the two off. Ceria and Amsel ran through a side doorway that opened into one of the smaller libraries of the palace. It wrenched Amsel’s heart to hurry through the large oval room, walls covered with shelves stacked with books, scrolls, and maps. What he would not give for the time and circumstances in which to browse through this repository of knowledge!
They ran beneath a fretted archway and down a curving corridor, guards close upon their heels. The few remaining chamberlains and courtiers stared, stunned by the sight of one of the Monarch’s advisers being chased by the palace guards. A tall man, ahead of the others, closed in and lunged at Ceria, catching her cloak. She slipped neatly out of his grip and let him fall to the wood floor. She forestalled the rest of them by pulling down a large tapestry in their path. Amsel and Ceria rushed down another flight of stairs, which eventually brought them to the lower levels containing the vast kitchen of the palace.
Here were the bakeries, with their tantalizing scents, the buttery, and storerooms by the dozen. The hallway they were in was filled with distant noise—the clamor of pans and pots, and many chefs shouting back and forth. Behind them were the kitchens, and from that direction came periodic waves of heat and smell.
“We have a moment before they find us,” Ceria gasped. “You had best tell me the words you have for Hawkwind.”
Amsel took several deep breaths and nodded. “I am here on my own behalf,” he said, “but it is my hope that what I know will profit both Simbala and Fandora. My people blame your people for a mysterious attack upon their children.”
“An attack upon a Fandoran child?” Ceria exclaimed. “Why, it is a child of the Northweald that has been murdered!”
Before Amsel could voice his surprise, there were the sounds of footsteps on the stairs.
“Hurry!” said Ceria. “They have found us!” They rushed through two heavy wooden doors and into
a room full of confusion. They were in one of the kitchens, and the heat from the large stone oven was overwhelming. A proned figures scurried about with tureens and baker’s pans. Ceria paid them no mind, though they stared as she moved quickly through them, red among white, with what seemed like an urchin in tow.
Overwhelmed by the abundance around him, Amsel hovered for a moment over a dozen freshly baked rolls. But Ceria pulled him away, and he followed, reluctantly, grateful for at least the aroma. They walked quickly across the slippery floor, out another set of doors, and into a small stockroom. Ceria closed the door behind them. The room was lit by a single candle.
“Are we to wait here until the guards have passed?” Amsel asked.
“No,” answered Ceria, “you must go on without me. Monarch Ephrion must know of your tale.”
“How am I to reach him?” asked Amsel. “The guards will be downstairs at any moment!”
Ceria smiled. “Watch, but do not speak.” She faced the wall behind him and started to lift a long shelf filled with earthenware jars. “Help me,” she said, “this is heavy.”
Puzzled, Amsel lent his support. It was heavy, but they managed to lower it to the floor. As they did, however, they heard the sounds of the guards in the kitchen outside, followed by Evirae’s voice shouting loudly at the bakers.
“They’re coming,” said Amsel.
“Listen to me!” said Ceria. She pulled back a wooden board to reveal an opening behind the shelf. A dim light filtered into the storeroom, and Amsel glimpsed a narrow flight of stairs cut into the wood beyond it. “I have learned of this route from Hawkwind,” she whispered, “for he has long been intrigued with the secret passages of the palace. You will take those stairs to the eighth level of the palace and then bear left down the passage you will find. From there go to the third door, the third door, Amsel, and you will arrive in the private chamber of Monarch Ephrion.” Ceria was interrupted by a pounding on the door.
“Take this!” she said, and slipped a ring of peridot stone from her hand. “It will identify you to Monarch Ephrion. Tell him all you have told me. Trust him, Amsel. He can help you, perhaps more than Hawkwind and I combined.”
“Surrender!” Evirae shouted above the pounding of the guards. “Surrender, Rayan, or face me in prison!”
“Hurry!” said Ceria. “They’ll have the door down in an instant!”
“What about you?” said Amsel. “How can I leave you here to face the Princess alone?”
“Do not worry about me. I have faced Evirae many times. Now, go!”
She pushed the small inventor into the dark opening and slid the board back into place over it.
As she reached for the shelf on the floor, however, there was a cracking sound. With a screech, the wooden door burst open, revealing three sentries and an angry Princess.
Evirae pushed them aside and entered the storeroom. She looked at Ceria, then quickly around the interior. Her face tightened in fury as she realized the spy was gone.
Ceria calmly folded her arms. “Princess Evirae,” she said, inclining her head. “You wished to speak to me?”
* * *
Amsel hurried up the stairwell, hearing the sounds of Ceria’s capture fade in the darkness below him. “She knows more about the situation than I do,” he reassured himself. “Still, I hope that long-nailed fury doesn’t hurt her.”
He rested momentarily on the fifth-floor landing. His legs were knotted with fatigue, and he was sneezing, for the ancient stairwell was thick with dust and cobwebs. Occasional vents cut through a solid wall of wood supplied a bit of light and air. “Not long now,” he sniffled. He continued up the remaining stairs of the secret passage, keeping track of the floors as he passed them. At last he reached the eighth level and turned left. He spied a succession of short square doors in the low-vaulted passage way and headed toward the third. It was jammed. He pushed against it, and finally it began to swing open. Amsel carefully stepped forward. There was a ledge no longer than a foot in front of him. Looking out, he saw that the door of the secret passage was cleverly concealed in the design of a large mural. He was high above a large candlelit chamber filled with comfortable velvet-backed chairs and tables of wood and marble. Books and scrolls were scattered about. On the other side of the room he could see the white hair and silken robe of a man, surrounded by more books.
“That must be Ephrion,” Amsel whispered. Without hesitation, he jumped down to a couch below him.
The noise startled Ephrion, and he looked up.
“I have been sent to you by Lady Ceria!” Amsel said. “The Princess has taken her hostage!”
* * *
In the shelter of the fog, the fighting had rapidly disintegrated into a series of guerrilla encounters. The Fandoran Elders had ordered their men to work their way back to the hills, taking whatever advantage they could of the terrain and the fog, and there regroup.
But the fog was beginning to lift slightly. A wind had begun to blow from the south, tearing the omnipresent mist into long patches and streamers that streaked the valley. It still provided ample concealment, however, along with the rocks and trees and copses.
The Simbalese troops were also slowly regrouping, planning to sweep the valley with columns of soldiers. Hawkwind, riding through the fog with an uncanny sureness of direction, had managed to find and guide many soldiers back to the main body of the army. He sat now on horseback, next to General Vora, as the Captains formed the army once again into ranks.
“We need more troops,” the General said. “So far, circumstances have favored the Fandorans. Much more of this, and our soldiers will become demoralized—”
Shouts from the columns behind them interrupted him. Several of the soldiers pointed at the sky. Hawkwind and Vora looked up, to see Kiorte’s windship slowly and precisely lowering onto a small level area nearby. Soldiers caught the ropes and pulled the windship safely to its berth. Before it had landed completely, Kiorte and Thalen leaped out. At Thalen’s request a physician applied an unguent to his hands, which had been burned and blistered on the ropes. Kiorte strode toward Hawkwind and Vora.
“Welcome, Prince Kiorte!” Hawkwind said. “Your rescue of your brother was a masterful job!”
Kiorte ignored the compliment. He stood before Hawkwind, arms folded. “This battle is going badly,” he said. “The fog is clearing now. We must bring in a fleet of windships and put an end to this.”
“We cannot,” Hawkwind said. He was about to continue, but Kiorte interrupted him angrily.
“Why not? Because a fortunate strike brought my brother’s windship down? That will not happen if we approach properly, instead of skimming low enough to count the lice in their hair!”
Vora looked shocked at this outburst.
Hawkwind said quietly, “We cannot, because there is more than fog in the air. Incredible as it sounds, there is also the menace of a dragon.” He was about to speak further, but was cut off by a shout from one of the aides.
“Look you, sirs! It comes again!”
The man was pointing in terror toward the north. They all looked.
In the mist, something vast loomed. It approached swiftly, a ripple of darkness across the sky that resolved itself into a giant bat-winged shape.
“By the clouds!” Kiorte swore. “It cannot be!”
Hawkwind turned toward the ranks. “Take cover!” he cried. “The dragon has returned!”
Lagow had attempted to remain in the background during that first insane burst of fighting. He had tried to keep sense in the men he was responsible for, but they would not listen to reason, and many of them had died. He had done his best to take care of the wounded, but he could only do so much.
He was feeling old, and growing older by the moment, he thought bitterly. Now he crouched behind a rock in the mist, listening. There had been no sound of fighting for some time, but still he did not move. He had come upon this rock as he wandered in search of the hills. It was a solitary gray finger in a world of mist, and so far
no one else had come near it. But he knew that was only a matter of chance; sooner or later, he would be discovered.
He could go around to the other side of the rock, beneath the overhang, and not be quite so visible. He was tired of this conflict, of this madness. Lagow thought of his family, his wife and children. He had at least left them a comfortable legacy. And he had kept his son from this lunacy. Of that he was proud. It was not much of an epitaph, but it was the best he had.
He was cold and miserable—the more so since the wind had begun to blow. Lagow squinted upward, noticing that the fog was beginning to dissipate. Now he heard something—a slow pulsing of wind, almost like breathing, or canvas flapping. It was coming from the north. At first, in his apathy, he ignored it, but its slow, ominous regularity at last made him push himself away from the rock and walk around it, looking upward toward the sound.
The sound increased. Lagow stopped beneath the overhang, staring up at the fog. His eyes widened in fear; above him, indistinct in the mist, something gigantic and winged passed over him, a dreadnought of the sky. Lagow backed up in panic—and felt his boot tread on something soft and yielding, something that was not part of the ground. He looked down quickly. Beneath his boot was a hand, and it belonged to Tenniel. The young Elder lay on his back, quite still, his eyes closed and his face pale, a Simbalese arrow protruding from his shoulder.
* * *
“I’m done for, ain’t I?” Steph asked weakly.
“Quiet down,” Jurgan growled. “If I don’t tie this bandage proper, you will be, sure enough.”
Steph lay on his back in a grassy gully near a bush of sweetleaf. He was pale and trembling. A wound in his thigh steamed slightly in the cold air, leaking blood in a slow, steady flow.
Jurgan crouched over him, tying a strip of cloth from his tunic about the wound. It was large, right enough, but shallow—the Simbalese sword that had made it had cut through Steph’s leather breeches and shaved a slice of flesh off his thigh. Jurgan had killed the Simbalese with a blow from his ax, but not before getting the flat of that same blade against his head. There was a large purple welt just above his ear now, and as he worked, he shook his head occasionally from dizziness. He could not keep his eyes focused.