Dragonworld

by Byron Preiss

  Ceria stared at the great shining globe as Zurka resumed her seat. It was as she remembered it in her dream—a smooth, glowing, opalescent sphere that contained clouds tinted with rainbow hues. They rolled and shifted, almost hypnotically. Ceria, staring at the stone, seemed to hear the faintest tinkling as of wind chimes, deep within her mind. Excitement seized her, making her forget her fatigue momentarily. She took her gaze from the jewel with an effort, and looked at Balia. The hostility evident in her face brought Ceria back to reality like a dash of cold water.

  Zurka was saying, “It is known that Ceria’s talent is exceptional. It has been since childhood. Perhaps she is best suited to probe the mysteries of the Dragonpearl.”

  “Shall we give such a treasure to a woman who has renounced her heritage?” Balia asked. “Shall she take it and once again vanish for years? I will not permit it! If she feels she can succeed where the rest of us failed, let her attempt to help Simbala here and now. By my decree, the Dragonpearl shall not leave Shar Wagon tribe until Ceria proves herself worthy of it!”

  Ceria looked at the other faces. They nodded assent. She looked at Balia. She knows I am exhausted, she thought; she wishes to see me fail and be humiliated. That way, she does not have to refuse me directly.

  Zurka said, “I am sorry, but Balia is right to demand this. We have held the Dragonpearl for years—we have a right to know what secrets it holds before we send it away.”

  Ceria looked at the Dragonpearl. She had ridden all day and most of the night. She was exhausted, and now she faced a critical test unlike any she had known.

  * * *

  It was afternoon when sunlight at last broke through the clouds above Overwood. In the mansion of Kiorte and Evirae there was much commotion, for a meeting of the Family had been called and the Princess was actively preparing for her role. Monarch Ephrion would be there, she knew, with a plan to defend Hawkwind.

  Tapping her long nails on the door of the dressing closet, Evirae called anxiously to Mesor on the other side. “My gown!” she shouted. “Where is my gown?”

  “It is coming, Princess. The dressmaker is on her way.”

  “There is no time!” Evirae replied. “Get downstairs and bring it up yourself!”

  “It will be here in a moment,” Mesor said reassuringly. “Please be patient.”

  “Patient! How can I be patient when—”

  The door of the bedchamber swung open. “Is that her?”

  The Bursar turned and gaped at the sight framed by the doorway. “Princess,” he whispered, “come out.”

  “I’m not dressed!” she called. “Is it the dressmaker? Tell her to hand the gown to me.” Evirae’s arm poked out of a crack in the closet doorway, and as it did, she heard her husband’s voice.

  “Kiorte!” she cried. The door swung back, and Evirae rushed out. She was clothed in only a petticoat and corset. A blanket of russet curls fell over her delicate shoulders.

  Mesor left quickly. Evirae stood, staring in shock at her husband.

  His uniform was torn and muddy. Evirae feared that he had been wounded, then realized with relief that he was not. “What has happened?” she cried.

  Kiorte sat down on the bed, heedless of the blood and dirt on his uniform. “Thalen has been murdered,” he replied. “Shot by a careless Wealdsman in battle.”

  Evirae was stunned. For a terrible moment she felt directly responsible, and the enormity of that guilt was more than she could bear. Up until now, the conflict had been abstract to her—an event that had advanced her plot against Hawkwind. She shuddered now, close to hysteria.

  If it had not been for her scheming, there might not have been a war, and Thalen would be alive. Even as these thoughts tortured her, another part of her, a part that she could never fully control, began casting about for ways to use this tragedy to her best advantage. Kiorte would now be susceptible to her accusations against Hawkwind. She felt a surge of anger at her own heartlessness, but she felt unable to stop the thoughts. The war existed now, she told herself, whether her fault or not—and surely it was not entirely her fault, because Hawkwind was unfit to serve as Monarch. No matter what she had done, she still believed that to be true.

  She realized that Kiorte was speaking; she heard his voice as though from far away. “Hawkwind must be removed,” he said. “He does not know how to lead an army. There must be no more like Thalen.” He stretched out on the silken bed-cover, tears filling his angry gray eyes.

  Evirae approached him, wondering why she felt no satisfaction from Kiorte’s decision.

  “Be calm, husband,” she murmured. “Know that this evening there will be a meeting of the Royal Family. After that meeting, Hawkwind will no longer rule Simbala.”

  If Kiorte heard his wife, he gave no indication. His eyes were closed. She gently removed his boots, frowning slightly at she touched the mud and grime. As she sat on the bed beside him and unclasped his shirt, he lifted one hand and stroked her back. She stopped and looked at him. Her face, in that moment, was that of a very different Evirae, a woman many would have been surprised to see. In that moment, the love that lived so deeply within her, chained by ambition, was free. In that moment, conspiracies and confrontations were entirely forgotten. In that moment.

  XXVIII

  The sound of flapping wings and the faint odor of burning tansel awakened Amsel. He coughed, blinked his eyes, and gazed out sleepily through the mist.

  Somehow he was still alive, and he was grateful for it. He glanced down and saw that he was on a warm, damp rock. He stood up carefully and stepped forward. As he did, he remembered what had happened.

  He had been carried here by the black coldrake! He looked around quickly and saw a dank and ancient cavern. Its stark walls extended roughly fifty feet to a large irregular opening framing the mist. On the floor were strewn the skeletons of goats and other mountain creatures. He was not quite sure where he was; he wiped perspiration from his forehead and cheeks; then, with a gulp of humid air, he cautiously peered out over the edge of the opening.

  Below him were the riddled cliffs that held many of the coldrakes’ warrens. The drop was not sheer, but the climb down and the destination itself would frighten even the bravest explorers. The coldrake would surely see him. He looked up. Through a curtain of fog he saw the tip of the giant spire above him. From the strategic position of the cavern, thought Amsel, this could be the warren of the giant coldrake itself!

  He gulped and looked down again, past the cliffs, and saw the flat rocks and rushing river far below. Through clouds of steam he glimpsed the scattered ruins of the windship. I guess I am to be another legend, he thought. The fool who found the coldrakes but lost the means by which he could leave them.

  Amsel shuddered as a coldrake flew past the cavern. He stared down once again at the wreckage of the windship. Two or three of the creatures were searching the craft for any sign of life or food. As he watched, two rose from the mist with the broken mast of the windship in their claws. They flew high above him with it, even above the spire, and then, with a shriek, they dropped it. The mast plummeted toward the ground, barely missing a third coldrake who was flying off with a piece of the hull between its teeth.

  Amsel anxiously patted the pouch at his side, and was relieved to find the bread he had stored there earlier. He took it out and ate it quickly. Though he had little appetite, he knew he would need his strength. The howling wind, the hissing, and the distant sight of the coldrakes below made him feel like a prisoner of this nightmare land.

  The mist cleared somewhat below him, and about a hundred yards away from the shattered hull of the windship Amsel glimpsed a small fire. A section of the main balloon sail was draped over the edge of an enormous boulder; it was burning, and a smoky curtain rose above it. Amsel stared at the dark blue cloud and thought for a moment that there was another, larger shape behind it. Then he gasped as the cloud swirled away suddenly, and two yellow eyes peered out behind it. The black coldrake’s wings swept the sky above the fi
re. The creature was circling the burning sail.

  Amsel remembered the distinct feeling of intelligence he had gotten from the coldrake as it had approached the windship earlier. There was a mind behind those yellow eyes—different from a human mind, certainly, but nevertheless capable of awareness, of comparing situations and acting upon what it saw. Might it not be possible for him to communicate with such a creature?

  It was a faint hope. At the sight of the Darkling above the flame, the other coldrakes began shrieking once again. The fire was to them a symbol of the dragons, the higher race to which they had been obedient long before the icy winds had touched these cliffs. Their reaction to fire was more than respect—they feared it. They would not approach the boulder as long as the balloon sail burned. The Darkling was different. He knew the dragon’s fire in a way the other creatures did not. He no longer feared it. Although he regarded the balloon sail with caution, he kept his distance from it only because he knew he risked the wrath of the others if he did not. To him the fire was proof of the humans’ hidden strength. Not only could they fly, but they also possessed the secret of fire. The wisdom of the dragons’ edict was clear to him now. The humans were dangerous. The coldrakes were weak, their number diminished by the killing frost. The dragons no longer stood between them and the land of the humans. The balance, he thought, had been lost. The coldrakes were vulnerable to their cloud ships. To protect themselves, they would have to attack the land of the humans.

  The Darkling shrieked and soared-higher. He would return to the human he had left in the warren. He would learn how it used the secret of flame; then he would decide how best to attack. The coldrakes would hunt and feast, building their strength for the long journey south.

  Amsel watched as the Darkling flew toward him. He had few alternatives. He could attempt to communicate with the giant creature, a highly appealing idea to a scientist—or a fool—or he could attempt to escape into the dark tunnel behind him. Either action could be fatal. The coldrake was swift, and Amsel assumed that its yellow eyes could see far better in the dark tunnels than his own.

  Amsel decided to hide and wait. After all, if the coldrake had wanted him for supper, he could have eaten him long ago. There had to be a reason for leaving him here.

  Then, as Amsel slipped behind the cover of a large rock, he heard the sound of flapping wings behind him.

  The black coldrake’s body blocked the light of the portal. In the sudden darkness Amsel heard the hissing and the slithering of the enormous black body over the damp cavern floor. There was a deafening shriek, and a sickening odor hit him. It was the scent of the coldrake. Amsel covered his ears and pressed himself farther into the shadows behind the rock. He could hide no longer. The creature was above him, its yellow eyes staring over the edge of the rock. Amsel screamed, but the sound was lost in the reverberations of the creature’s shrieking. The Darkling slashed the air, and Amsel felt a talon as thick as his arm rip through his vest again.

  Then, before he could grasp what had happened, Amsel found himself flying through the air. For a moment he thought he was about to hit the ceiling of the cavern, but the coldrake’s claw dropped suddenly, and as Amsel looked out, he saw the creature’s grinning jaws.

  The Darkling cocked his head and observed the human. The idea that a thousand of these tiny creatures were more dangerous than even the frost made him shriek in anger. His blood would not suffer the same fate as the dragons!

  Dangling before the coldrake’s mouth, Amsel screamed desperately, “Do not hurt me! I have come from far away on a matter that concerns us all!”

  The Darkling lifted him higher. The human’s high-pitched chittering echoed in the warren. The Darkling could not understand it, but he was sure that no flame could burst from a creature so small. The humans held the secret of fire, but possessed no flame themselves. The dragon’s edict could be defied if the coldrakes attacked swiftly and did not allow the humans to protect themselves in groups. Without flame, they were too small to be dangerous alone.

  As for this human, he had served his purpose. There was nothing more to be gained from watching him. The creatures would be punished for their murderous acts. Soon the coldrakes would dwell in the warm land to the south. The Darkling opened his jaws.

  In panic, Amsel searched for something, anything, he could use as a defense against the coldrake. Instinctively he reached into his pouch, but all that remained there was the handful of seed pods from his garden.

  The coldrake screeched and lowered Amsel toward its mouth.

  Amsel grasped the seed pods tightly. Then, as he felt his vest slipping from the creature’s talon, he hurled the seed pods toward the long, sharp teeth. He felt himself falling after them. A second more, and he knew there would be no feeling at all.

  The second did not come. What seemed to be an explosion flung him suddenly through the air away from the coldrake’s teeth. Fortunately, he was able to roll with his fall. As he hit, he glimpsed the coldrake’s head reeling wildly above him. Then another explosion echoed in the cavern. Amsel gasped.

  The coldrake was sneezing!

  Amsel rubbed the arm that had been bruised in the fall and stood up quickly. The coldrake was still shaking its head and clawing at its mouth, evidently affected by the seed pods. It flung its head back again and screamed, a sound that almost burst Amsel’s eardrums. He glanced quickly around the cavern for an escape route while the creature was still distracted. Large rocks blocked the cavern on either side, and so Amsel ran in the only direction left open to him—between the coldrake’s wide-bowed legs, ducking his head to avoid the smooth belly. The creature screamed with rage again, and Amsel saw the huge tail whipping toward him. He leaped high in the air, letting it pass beneath him. He continued toward the edge of the cliff, and as he did, the coldrake, still sneezing, pursued him.

  He reached the edge of the cliff, and realized there was no place left to run. A hundred coldrakes waited in the warren below him and behind him, and the angered Darkling was almost upon him.

  He glanced back for a second, saw a black talon in the mist, and gasped. There was no alternative. He jumped.

  The cliff dropped sheer for fifty feet or more, then curved gradually outward. It was wet from the mist, and Amsel found himself sliding down it at breakneck speed. His size and the fog would conceal him for the moment, but he expected the coldrake to appear at any second.

  The surface grew rougher, slowing his descent and bruising him painfully. Amsel thrust his legs against projecting spires and knobs, then was at last able to hold onto a large rock before the slope ended in another steep cliff. His arms ached from the sudden strain, but he had no time for the pain; above him, through the mist, he could see the black shadow of the coldrake coming toward him. Amsel swung himself over the lip of the cliff, not knowing what was beneath him, and released his grip. He fell several feet, and landed on a wide ledge. He managed to keep his balance this time. The narrow overhang wound downward about the spire. Amsel descended it carefully, limping slightly, leaping over gaps. He passed the entrance to another warren, and a stench swept over him. Amsel ducked as the surprised creature within slashed at him through the mist. Then he was safely past, and still descending.

  A screech sounded loudly, and a sudden wind buffeted him; he grasped a boulder tightly to avoid being swept from the ledge. The black coldrake hurtled past him, the tip of one wing almost touching the cliff. Amsel knew the coldrake’s wings were too big for it to fly close enough to pluck him from the ledge, but the backwash from them could do the job as effectively. Ahead was a narrow chimney, where a splinter of the spire had broken free of the main body. He reached the safety of it just as the coldrake whistled by again. Bracing his back against one side and his feet against the other, he started down it. The basalt was smooth and wet, which gave him little traction, but spared his clothes and skin further damage. Then suddenly he felt rock beneath him. He had reached the top of a rockfall that had choked the chimney. From there it was a relatively
easy descent down the jumbled rocky slope. Amsel ran, hopping, stumbling, tearing his hands on the rocks. The mist hid him from the black coldrake, and from the others; he could hear their shrieks of rage faintly above him, and he knew that it would not be long before they found him again.

  He studied the rocks ahead. Below the warrens there was a series of thin gorges running along the foot of the cliffs, big enough for a man but too slender for the smallest coldrake. He ran toward them, but as he did, he heard the beating of heavy wings. The coldrake was coming!

  Amsel leaped for the cracks that split the barren floor, and tumbled into a wet crevice. He hid within it and glanced out. There was a storm above him, born of angry wings. If the enraged creature could find him, it would seize him—if it could find him. Talons swept across the top of the opening, and Amsel ducked. The path ahead was too narrow for running, but if he stood sideways, he could slip through it. Amsel continued. The strip widened slightly, and soon he was able to run. “Only a little more”—he panted—”just a little bit more, and I’ll be inside the gorge!” He watched the sky and saw the coldrakes circling above him. He hurried ahead, covered by the edge of the rock. Minutes later, he darted, panting, into the cliffs where a crack widened into a gorge.

  “They can’t find me here!” he shouted in relief. “They can’t find me here!” He looked out through the slender opening in the cliff. “I’m safe!” He thought for a moment of his escape, of how a simple seed pod from Fandora had affected a creature of legend. “I’m safe!” he cried happily again, and he sat down for a moment to rest.

  Then he remembered the freezing winds that would come with the cover of darkness.

  Night fell a few hours later. Despite his theory that the coldrakes could see clearly in the darkness, Amsel was sure that most, if not all, of the creatures had given up their search for him. The clear palette of the night sky reassured him that he was no longer being chased. He was cold, but he had kept as warm as possible by moving quickly through the gorge. He was quite hungry now, but his pouch was empty. He had discovered all the seed pods were gone when he had looked for some remaining pieces of bread.