by Byron Preiss
Hawkwind grasped the hilt of his blade. “Kiorte, we have always respected each other. Do not force me to act.”
“Then leave peacefully with the guard, Hawkwind. I vouch for your safety and that of the Rayan traitor.”
Hawkwind smiled. “I bring proof of Ceria’s innocence! It must be taken quickly to Monarch Ephrion. We have little time, Kiorte. It is foolish to continue this argument. We must use the full strength of our army to end this war now!”
Kiorte shook his head as Ceria approached on foot. “The troops will not be our first line of attack. I have ordered the Brothers of the Wind to come from Overwood at full strength.”
“That is madness! You cannot face them with the windships alone. You have seen what has happened!”
“There will be more than three windships this time!” Kiorte shouted. “Using a small number was your foolish plan. An armada will flush the Fandorans out into the open. Attempts have been made and failed at ground level. The windships will not fail!”
“They will fail!” Hawkwind replied. “The cover is too thick on those hills, and we no longer have the element of surprise! Your Windriders cannot shoot what they cannot see!”
“The discussion is closed!” Kiorte made a sweeping gesture with his hand that underscored his statement. “The fleet should arrive at any time, and this war will be ended when it does.”
“The Fandorans will shoot down the windships! Listen to me, Kiorte. The true danger is the dragons. The Fandorans are merely a problem to be dealt with as quickly as possible. We can drive them back with an overwhelming ground force—which we now have! You must listen to me. There are things you have not been told.”
“Silence!” said Kiorte. “You are under arrest!” He drew his sword.
“You fool!” shouted Hawkwind. The rasp of metal sounded loudly in the clearing. There was an instant of shocked disbelief, followed by a worried murmur that spread through the crowd as those who could see communicated what had happened to those who could not.
The sound of swordplay rang out over the camp. Men and women climbed trees to better observe the duel between Monarch and Prince. The two fought cautiously at first, testing each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Hawkwind knew that the duel had to be ended quickly, but Kiorte’s swordsmanship and drive were almost equal to his own. He knew also that Kiorte did not intend to relinquish command of the army to the man he believed responsible for his brother’s death.
The Prince swung his blade in a flat, whistling arc that would have disemboweled Hawkwind had he not parried the blow. Kiorte saw the surprise and anger in Hawkwind’s face, and heard the disbelieving murmur around him.
Hawkwind blocked another slash, which nevertheless struck with such force that he was driven back several steps. It had become very clear that this was much more than a matter of honor. The Prince, it seemed, was out for blood; yet Hawkwind could not afford to fight—indeed, he did not want to.
He saw the rage in Kiorte’s eyes, and ducked as the Prince’s sword passed over him, bringing the flat of his own blade hard against Kiorte’s side, momentarily winding the Prince. Pressing his advantage, he drove Kiorte back. He would have to end this soon, he knew. He had ridden all night, and he was near to exhaustion.
The Prince locked blades with him and they closed up, face to face.
“You brought this upon yourself,” Kiorte hissed. Hawkwind made no reply. Instead, with an effort, he flung the Prince from him and, at the same time, brought his sword up and knocked the blade from Kiorte’s grasp. Kiorte looked at where it fell, as though tempted to grasp it and renew the fight. Hawkwind brought his boot down on it.
“No more,” he said quietly. “This is not the battle we must fight.”
Breathing heavily, Kiorte said, “You are unfit to wage this war!”
“Whether you like it or not, you are going to hear some things I have learned,” Hawkwind said through his teeth. He took a deep breath and continued in a whisper. “There is much that will surprise you.” He then told Kiorte what Ceria had told him on the long ride back from the Southland—how the Fandoran Amsel had come to Simbala in an attempt to stop the war, how Evirae had imprisoned him without Hawkwind’s knowledge, and more. “You accuse me of bad judgments,” Hawkwind said. “I admit to some, but so must you.”
Kiorte was silent for several minutes. Then he said in a low, tight voice, “She attempted to show me this prisoner once, to win me to her cause. He had already escaped.” He looked at Hawkwind uncertainly.
“I do not ask you to accept me now,” said Hawkwind. “Merely work with me to win this war. That is of first importance.”
A shadow flowed over the camp suddenly, and Ceria gasped as she looked up. Above the eastern woods, cresting the tops of the trees, came the first line of the windship fleet. Balloon sails taut with gas and billowing with wind, the elegant fleet slowly descended over the camp.
Hawkwind looked at the Prince again. “I can finish this business alone, Kiorte, or together we can end the whole ridiculous conflict.”
Kiorte nodded slowly. “You have proven your honor. You will have the chance to prove your courage. Nothing more will be decided now.”
Hawkwind smiled. “To a bloodless victory,” he said, and extended his hand.
Kiorte took it, his gloved hand stained with sweat. “I will conduct the windships’ maneuvers from my own craft,” he said. “No doubt you will want to direct the troops to arrive in the hills after us.”
“I’ll have to summon Vora,” said Hawkwind. “We’ll coordinate plans together.” He looked eastward toward the thickening trees. “Where are the Wealdsmen?” he asked. “We may have use for them in our maneuvers.”
Kiorte scowled. “The Wealdsmen are no longer our problem,” he said. “They have foolishly attacked the hills by themselves.”
XXXI
Two shadows filled the passageway of the glowing caverns, the large swallowing the small. Footsteps echoed from the walls, the sound of scraping claws drowning out the touch of tiny boots on the lichen-covered stone.
The Last Dragon moved slowly, the weight of its body heavy on its legs. Amsel followed the path he had taken earlier, having been shown how to reach it from the cavern floor by the dragon.
The passage, wide as it was, twisted and turned through the subterranean landscape, at times barely high enough to accommodate the creature’s body. Every so often stalactites and stalagmites shattered with deafening sounds as its massive wings and shoulders pressed against them, while Amsel scurried under the great body to shelter from the debris.
“We are almost there,” said Amsel, sighting a familiar pink-and-yellow bend in the tunnel, “but the opening through which I came in is far too small for your body.”
“Yes,” grumbled the dragon, “the entrances of many tunnels were covered by ice and rock long ago. It was often difficult for us to leave the caverns.”
As he reached the entrance, Amsel saw that falling rocks from the cliffs had closed it completely. The dragon saw this, too, and emitted a short, grumbling sound. “Wait,” said Amsel, and he ran forward to probe the freshly fallen rocks with his foot. “It is not packed tightly,” he said. “You can force it away.”
The dragon looked at Amsel. “I am tired,” he said with dignity. “I do not wish to move anything.”
“You must!” said Amsel. “It is the only way out I know.”
“There are others,” the dragon replied. “We shall find another that is open.”
“No,” cried Amsel. “The coldrakes may be flying toward the south at any time! We must reach them as soon as possible.”
The dragon sniffed the dusty air. “You do not understand the meaning of patience!” he said. “Man always wishes to act as quickly as he speaks.”
Amsel frowned. “That is very interesting,” he shouted, “but you have agreed to help us! You must trust my understanding of the problem. I have seen the coldrakes.”
This seemed to anger the dragon, and it bellowed back
at Amsel. “I have governed the coldrakes for nearly an age! They will listen to my words.”
“They will not listen if we do not reach them in time,” Amsel replied, and he looked impatiently at the dragon.
The dragon’s blue eyes widened. “Very well. Stand back.” he said. “Stand behind me so that you will be shielded!”
The inventor happily consented and hid behind the dragon’s tail.
The Last Dragon positioned the front of its horned head against the fallen rock and pushed forward. There was a shifting, a dull echo, and then the scraping sound of rocks moving against each other. Amsel could hear the movements of the dragon’s ancient frame beneath the white ribbed skin, and the teeth-grating scratch of the dragon’s claws against the rock. Then, abruptly, there was an explosion of stone and dust. Amsel looked out between the dragon’s forelegs and saw an avalanche of boulders. Tiny fragments of flying rocks scraped his skin, and a thick gray cloud obscured his view and made him sneeze. “The dragon calls himself old and weak,” Amsel whispered. “I wonder what he was like in his prime.”
Amsel hurried toward the new opening in the cavern, a hole now wide enough for a being of enormous size. As he reached the edge, his companion spoke. “I hope you are satisfied,” he said, “for I am now so tired that I can do nothing but rest,” and he lowered his head to the rocky floor. Sighing, the tiny inventor looked out through the burrowed exit and was surprised to find that the sky was dark. He had apparently been inside the cavern for a longer time than he had thought. A good thing, too, he told himself, for it had obviously been raining. Black clouds filled the sky, and freezing rain and sleet fell, obscuring the river. Amsel shivered as the cold air touched him.
“I cannot fly,” said the dragon. “I must have food and rest.”
Amsel looked at the creature and nodded. “There are reeds and grass frozen beneath the riverbank. I could not get to them with my hands, but with your claws you could easily dig them out of the snow.”
The dragon moaned. “I wish never to feel the frost again!”
“That is fine with me,” Amsel replied, teeth chattering, “but I do not think we have any choice.”
The dragon scrutinized the distant shoreline. Then, with a harsh and sudden bellow, it lifted its neck and said, “I must find something to eat.”
Amsel stepped aside and the dragon stepped forward. Then, with a moan, it departed from the cavern. Amsel smiled as the dragon moved down the deep slope, wings half-spread to aid its balance. The long neck lifted, defying the weather, and the beast walked toward the river. It was difficult for Amsel to tell what the dragon was thinking, but he hoped that it was happy, happy to be alive and needed again—even by man. He trusted the dragon to keep its word. He was also hungry and tired—and cold! He had not realized how much heat there was within the dragon’s body. Left alone now on the cavern’s floor, he was freezing!
Amsel hurried down the tunnel to crouch in a cozy niche between two glowing rocks. He leaned his head against moss, but even as he cautioned himself to stay awake in the event a coldrake appeared, he fell asleep.
A tapping on the stone awoke him a short time later. The dragon had returned and was now standing in front of Amsel, watching him with what appeared to be an amused expression.
“Did you find anything?” asked Amsel, and as he did, he saw tufts of pale wet grass caught between the dragon’s claws. “You did!” he continued. “Would you mind if I take what is trapped between your paws for myself?”
The dragon gently lifted its paw toward the inventor. Amsel removed the grass and ate it.
“The land is colder. I cannot fly.”
Amsel shook his head. “If I can survive a flight to the north, then you can, too.”
These words confused the dragon. “Man cannot fly,” he said.
Amsel smiled. “Man has ships that sail the air like boats upon the sea. That is how I reached the coldrakes’ warren.”
“Man does not have wings.”
“No,” the inventor responded, “but you do.” Amsel knew he would have to be very persuasive now. The dragon was in no hurry to leave the cavern. Amsel started to walk toward the opening.
“Where are you going?” asked the dragon.
“To the north,” said Amsel. “I am going to the north with you. We must not wait any longer!” He continued ahead and was relieved to hear the dragon’s footsteps behind him. As he reached the edge of the tunnel, Amsel looked out and saw that the sky was still dark but that the rains had ended. He turned to the dragon behind him and simply said, “We must leave now.”
The dragon looked at Amsel, lifted his head proudly, and roared with anguish. “You puny creature! Do you not understand?” it said. “I have not flown in nearly an age. I am tired and I am old.”
“You have your wings,” said Amsel. “You can still use them if you want!” He started to walk on the icy slope outside the cavern. It was slippery and wet from the rain. The dragon was watching Amsel with its dark blue eyes as a gust of icy wind blew at them both. Amsel continued down the slope, shivering but undaunted.
He looked back and once again shouted, “You must fly!” Then he glanced beyond the dragon at the cliff above the cavern. Within it he saw the familiar form of a dragon frozen in ice.
He knew then how to convince the dragon to fly. “Look behind you!” he shouted. “Look up behind you! There is another dragon!”
He watched carefully as the Last Dragon twisted its neck around to observe the sky above the cliff. As it did, it unthinkingly readied its wings to fly. Then suddenly the dragon turned back toward Amsel. It had not seen the other dragon. “Do not trick me!” it roared. “I will not be betrayed by man again!”
“No,” cried Amsel. “Look within the ice of the cliff. There is a dragon!”
The Last Dragon turned again, and this time it saw the other embedded in the ice. A long, mournful sound emerged from its throat and echoed in the cavern behind them, surmounting even the wind.
The magnificent wings suddenly spread and flexed and spread again. The Last Dragon’s head rose proudly, and the monstrous body launched itself toward the face of the cliffs. Slowly, but without hesitation, the dragon floated into the sky.
Amsel gaped at the beauty of the creature in flight. “He is worthy of the legends,” he whispered. He regretted showing the dragon something that would bring it such pain, but he knew there would be more pain if he did not.
Amsel found it hard to accept the thought that the creature was the last of its race, and that the dragon frozen in the ice was as close as it would come to seeing another again. “There have to be others somewhere,” he said aloud. “They are too beautiful to vanish completely.”
He watched the dragon hover in front of the icy cliff. He knew that the creature had once governed both coldrake and dragon, and he was sure that its orders would be obeyed by the coldrakes once they had learned that it was alive.
Amsel hugged himself tightly in protection from the cold, waiting for the dragon to return.
“Johan,” he whispered, “I will keep my word.”
XXXII
In the barren mountains, where a few wild animals still survived despite the cold, the coldrakes fed. The Darkling had exhorted them to a frenzy of hunting and gorging, knowing that they would need all of their strength for the long flight and the battle to come. While they fed, he spoke to them in their harsh, sibilant tongue. The dragons were gone, never to return. The coldrakes could not be bound to the dragons’ edict when the safety of their race was at stake and the actions of the humans could bring the coldrakes to extinction. The Darkling shrieked and circled the others, its angry sound joined to that of the wind.
The coldrakes howled in confusion and anger while the Darkling watched with approval. They would need all of their strength, all of their savagery, in this battle. Each time contact was made with the humans, he became more convinced of what the Guardian and his emissaries had told him. Man was murderous, man could attack them at any t
ime, and, as if the secrets of light and flame were not enough, the human he had captured had escaped. The tender tissues of his mouth still burned from contact with the pods. The humans were small, but their intelligence rivaled that of the dragons. If one creature could escape their warren, then a thousand could surely invade it. They had to be destroyed before they could attack.
The Darkling reassured himself with this thought, but deep within him, burning stronger than his rage, was the feeling that he should enforce the dragons’ edict, not defy it. He did not know why. The dragons had vanished. The old order had ended. The coldrakes needed him—born of dragon and coldrake—in the dragons’ stead; there could be no doubt that he was destined to protect them. He possessed the secret of the dragons and the endurance of the coldrakes. He could not deny them his help. He shrieked loudly again, aloof and lonely beneath the stars, and watched the feeding continue below.
Before dawn a storm moved into the area, and the heavy winds and sleet made departure dangerous. The Darkling kept his rage under control, though it was not easy—he was afraid that the frenzy he had instilled in the others would lose its edge. It did not; the others watched the storm and shrieked in frustration and impatience. The storm lasted all that day. At last the clouds began to part, and the setting sun turned the steam and clouds crimson. The Darkling flapped his wings and soared high into the dreary sky. The coldrakes would return to the warrens for the last time. Then they would embark upon the long journey south to the land of the humans, the warm land that would soon be their own.
* * *
The retreat of the Fandorans was to take place in two stages. The first contingent to leave the hills would be supervised by Elders Tamark and Pennel and would consist mainly of those wounded or rendered helpless by their fears. Soldiers from Cape Bage would accompany them, to act as guards and also to prepare the ships for a speedy departure once they had reached the shore.