Circle at center

9
A Distant Storm

Ulfgang was anxious to look into the matter of the rambunctious dogs, so he and Tamarwind decided to head into the country the morning after their arrival in Argentian. The Lighten Hour found them already descending from the lofty arkwood tree to start through the twisting streets of the elven city. Before they’d taken a hundred steps they were hailed by a familiar voice and they saw Deltan Columbine hastening to join them. The poet was dressed in traveling clothes, leather tunic and breeches, with a pack slung over his shoulder. A small harp and a curved silver trumpet were strapped to his back.

“The city’s been wearing on me,” he admitted. “And, hearing you talk yesterday, I got to thinking about the hill country. Do you mind if I come along?”

Tam welcomed his friend’s company, and Deltan fell comfortably into step with the trio as they passed a pair of towers marking the place where Argentian merged into the vast, surrounding forest. A minute later they were in the thick woods, and dog and elves relished the renewed freedom of the traveler.

“It’s been years since I’ve been outside of Silvercove, at least for more than a few hours,” Deltan remarked, drawing a deep breath. “I had forgotten how refreshing the forest can be.”

“Our homeland is a wonder,” Tam noted, “but I myself am certainly glad to get away now and then.”

They swung easily along, and Tam found the faster pace strangely exhilarating after the measured march of the elven delegation. By noon they had reached the first of the pastures, broad, rolling fields where the trees had been shorn away. It was here that the inherently hilly nature of Argentian became visible, with each successive meadow rising higher in the distance. Here and there walls of piled stone crossed the heath, making oddly geometrical patterns. The nearest cows were on a hillside beyond a narrow, sparkling stream.

“But it’s not the cows we’re looking for-it’s field rabble,” declared Ulfgang sternly. Tam got the feeling that the dog was reminding himself of his task. Ulf’s luminous brown eyes lingered lovingly over the cattle, and when the small herd wandered over the horizon and out of sight he uttered an audible sigh.

“No shepherds with the herd,” Deltan observed.

“That’s the problem, I imagine,” suggested Ulf. “The rabble hounds are always going to look for chances to run in the fields-but the shepherds should be keeping them out!”

“How are you going to solve the problem?” Tam wondered.

“We’ll have to find some dogs-shepherds or rabble, it doesn’t matter-and then we’ll learn what’s going on,” Ulfgang declared grimly.

They decided that the best way to look for unruly dogs, or anything else, was to get a good vantage, so the trio set out through the meadows, climbing from one pasture to the next. Tam and Deltan scrambled up a rock wall while Ulfgang sprang right over the barrier. The grassy loam on the other side formed a soft cushion, gentle on their feet even as they made their way steadily uphill. Here and there they worked through a grove of aspen or pines, and once they circled a small grotto where a tiny waterfall spumed through the clear air.

Deltan was puffing and red-faced, but sternly insisted that he could keep up. “Don’t wait for me,” he said between breaths. “It’s just city lungs.”

Finally breaking onto a rounded hilltop that domed above the surrounding pastures, dog and elves spotted several small herds of cows and horses, some so distant that they were mere brown spots on the terrain. But they saw no sign of any other dogs. After catching his breath, Deltan took some paper and charcoal from his pack, and sat with his back against a boulder, sketching the rural landscape. Later he played his horn, which he called a flugel, and from which he coaxed some pleasant and melodious tunes.

Tam took a short nap on the soft grass, then reached for the cheese and sausage he had brought, which he shared with his two companions. Finally the Hour of Darken was upon them, and the sun slowly began to recede into the heights. Twilight fringed the woods and fields beyond the hills, and here and there lights sparkled into being, each a glow marking a village or hamlet of Argentian.

And they heard the sound of frantic barking, a harsh echo rising from the valley behind their rounded summit. They crossed the hilltop at a trot, and even in the shadows that darkened the vale Tamarwind could see a gray shape writhing deliriously on the ground. Ulf inhaled, then shook his head violently, as if to clear an odor from his nostrils.

“Horse dung and a silly bitch,” he sniffed contemptuously. “I don’t know what they smell in it.”

Tam couldn’t detect any odor, but he trusted the dog’s superior nose. “Can you ask her about the shepherds?”

“Hey, you down there!” Ulfgang barked. His voice was sharp and piercing, and the other dog immediately ceased her wiggling dance. After a moment she rolled onto her belly and gazed fearfully up the hill.

“You floozy!” shouted the white dog sternly. “Now, I want you to clean yourself off and get up here. I’m going to talk to you.”

In a few minutes the bitch, who was a short-haired hound with long, droopy ears, came hesitantly up the hill. As she came into sight of the pair, she dropped to the ground and crawled toward Ulfgang. Her jaws gaped, and she uttered several sharp, plaintive barks.

“No… I understand,” Ulf replied in a deep woof. “But tell me, where are the shepherds who should be keeping you out of the fields?”

The hound whined something that caused Ulf to sit up straight, ears pricked as he looked at Tam with concern. “That is alarming-they’ve been gone for a long time, and they’re chasing deer, she says.” The white dog turned back to the bitch. “Where? Where are the shepherds?”

Again she barked, and Ulfgang followed her gaze. “In the direction that is neither metal nor wood,” he said slowly. “And far away.”

Tam followed the direction of the dog’s look, then turned to meet Ulf’s eyes. Left unspoken was the understanding that tickled each of them with a tremor of alarm.

For that was the direction of the Greens.

Natac studied the image on the wall, and moved his body through the exact maneuvers performed by the man he was watching. The subject of his study was a lightly dressed warrior, a man from the place called the Orient who used his feet and his hands as weapons. Now he was training, dancing alone through slashing kicks, lightning punches, and a variety of leaps and spins.

Mirroring every move, Natac kicked his foot into the air, higher than his head. Next he spun on the ball of his other foot. With his back to the moving picture, Natac worked from memory of the precise form, executing a sharp forward kick, switching feet to repeat the thrust with his other foot, then spinning once more with a roundhouse kick that brought him again into view of the man from Earth. As he expected, he matched precisely the cadence and routine of the other warrior.

The man in the image turned, and Natac had the uncanny feeling that the fellow could somehow sense his presence. When the fighter bowed formally, Natac returned the gesture.

Only then did Miradel puff out the candle and gather the scraps of wool into a basket, saved for the next viewing.

Natac’s heart was pumping, and a sheen of sweat covered his skin, plastering his thick hair to his scalp. He felt wonderfully vibrant.

“You are learning much from the people of the Seventh Circle,” the druid remarked, throwing open the door to a shimmering blast of daylight.

“Yes… there is much learning there, on Earth.”

And I have come to see myself as a man from somewhere else. The realization was a constant part of his new life, growing stronger every time he viewed images of his birth world.

They heard a shout from the courtyard, and emerged to find Darryn Forgemaster and Fallon. The smith nodded in familiar greeting to Natac, his expression unreadable. “Studying with the Wool, eh?” he asked. The wiry druid’s expression turned wistful. “Many’s the hour I’ve spent in that same room, learning the tricks of metal.”

“Yes.” Natac was nonplused, once again pierced by the thought that he had claimed this man’s immortal lover, had sentenced her to a limited life of agedness and death. Though he had never asked if this was the case, the suspicion raised a mixture of guilt and jealousy within him. And yet, if his guess was correct, why was Darryn not more overtly hostile to him?

“Here,” the smith was saying, laying out a bundle on the big table. Natac’s heart quickened at the sight of the long, leather-wrapped shape. Despite his protestations about not wanting a sword, he found himself keenly interested in the prospect of picking up the weapon.

When the smith pulled the leather away, he gasped at the shimmering beauty of the steel blade. It was a slender piece of shiny, supple metal, no wider than two of his fingers where it emerged from its sheath, tapering to a point as sharp as the fang of a viper. Edges sharper than any razor of obsidian rang the length of the blade top and bottom. The hilt, too, was a work of art, carved from some kind of very hard wood to form a protective shield for his sword hand.

“It is a stunning weapon,” the warrior said quietly. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart, and only hope that I can prove myself worthy of bearing it.”

Darryn’s chest puffed out and he allowed himself the hint of a smile. “It’s the finest piece I’ve ever made, if I say so myself. And that should make it the finest sword in Nayve.” Somehow he said the words with such honest affection for his work that they carried no hint of arrogance.

“And the hilt is a thing of beauty,” Natac continued. “What wood did you carve in such a manner?”

“Ask the lady druid,” said Darryn, nodding toward Miradel.

“I made the hilt from the tree called the arkwood,” she said. “It grows only in Argentian, and the elves allow only one tree to be harvested every one hundred years-so the wood is quite precious, as you can imagine. And the Goddess Worldweaver herself was kind enough to bestow some of her goodness into the hilt. So long as you hold the sword in your hand and bear it justly, no weapon will be able to penetrate your skin.”

Natac had been in Nayve long enough that he didn’t marvel at the suggestion of powerful magic. Still, he was awed by the thought that such protection in battle might be offered to him. Again he made the vow, this time to himself and to his Yellow Hummingbird-he would be a worthy bearer of this weapon.

He picked the sword up, amazed at its lightness-it had far less mass than any wood-and-obsidian maquahuitl. The blade was like an extension of his hand as he whipped his arm around. When he looked at Miradel he saw that her eyes were shining, alight with that reflection of pride that disturbed him so much. Once more he wondered… Why, in a place where there was no war… why did she want him to have a sword?

“L isten… I hear them baying. I’ll bet they’re after a deer right now!” Ulfgang woofed in excitement.

“Can we catch them?” Tam asked. He felt a keen buzz of excitement-after a week of arduous trekking, at last they had caught the spoor of the trouble that had drawn them to the Greens. This was different, unknown-and that very mystery seemed to cause a peculiar thrill. The song of the hounds was distant, yet piercingly eerie. As the chorus of wails rose and ululated he felt a distinct shiver run down his spine.

Deltan Columbine, too, looked flushed and excited. His eyes were bright, and there was no sign of the fatigue that had slowed him down on the first few days of their trek.

“I think they’re coming this way-Come on!” urged the dog, breaking into a trot.

Tam loped along behind. His body moving with natural grace, and it seemed that his mind was as clear, as keen and ready, as it had ever been in his life. In one hand he hoisted a stout stick, a shaft as big around as his wrist and slightly longer than his own height. He had carved it a couple of days earlier, when the pair had first entered the lofty forest and Ulfgang had casually mentioned that a pack of deer-mad dogs might not respond immediately to cool logic. Since then the staff had seemed to become a part of him, and now he set it on his shoulder as comfortably as if it were another limb.

Deltan, following just behind, carried a homemade bow and a cluster of arrows tipped with fire-hardened points of wood. Already he had shown a keen eye, enhancing their evening camps with dinners of rabbit, squirrel, and even a plump pheasant. Privately, however, Tamarwind doubted that the light missiles would prove much of a deterrent against anything larger.

Now they ran between huge tree trunks over a forest floor that was for the most part free of brush. They leaped a long, mossy log, then skirted a small pond, and now the sounds of the baying pack rang all around them like a bizarre, demented chorus. The music of the chase soared and swelled with the dogs’ frenzy.

Abruptly Ulfgang skidded to a halt. Tam and Deltan came to rest beside him, leaning against the trunk of a huge tree. They heard crashing footsteps, and then a wide-eyed stag leapt by, tongue flopping loosely as it hurled itself through desperate, lunging bounds.

“Now!” cried Ulf, leaping out from behind the tree. The white dog crouched, facing the deer’s pursuers, upper lip curled into a very forbidding snarl. Tam, his broad staff upraised, stepped to his companion’s side-and immediately felt a searing jab of fear.

At least a dozen large, snarling dogs came to an outraged halt. They bristled and snapped, infuriated at the interruption of their chase. The elf raised his staff as three of the dogs impetuously rushed forward. Deltan Columbine, next to the tree, shot an arrow that grazed a hairy flank, sending one of the animals darting back to the pack. Another veered away as Tamarwind swung the stout weapon, and the third, a large male, yelped in surprise as Ulf feinted a lunge to the left and then drove against the dog’s right. Tam saw a flash of white fangs, and then Ulfgang had buried his teeth in the loose wattle of the big dog’s throat.

The snarl turned to a yelp and the big dog twisted and fell while Ulf maintained his ferocious grip. Tam swung the staff and Deltan nocked another arrow as several other canines lunged. The animals backed off, and again the male yelped through the pressure of Ulf’s teeth.

Spitting in contempt, Ulf released the dog to slink back to its mates.

“Shame-shame on you all! You are shepherds!” Ulfgang bellowed, his voice a formidable roar. Aggressive tails lowered across the group, and Tam noticed several dogs of the pack exchanging clearly sheepish glances. But one of the other animals blustered, hair bristling on its neck as it growled and snapped. This was another big male, larger than Ulf by two or three hands, and it swaggered forward belligerently. Both eyes were bright, almost bloodshot with the intensity of the creature’s agitation.

“Don’t be a fool,” scolded the white dog. “Even if you bite, my friend will smash your brains in with his pole!”

Tam brandished the staff as the big dog eyed him appraisingly. Deltan Columbine drew back his bow and many of the other dogs gaped and huffed, nervously backing away. The leader barked several times, hackles raised, but then Tam detected a note of reluctant compliance as the creature lowered its head and bared its fangs in a drooling grin.

“What brings you here? Why have you abandoned the fields, left your responsibilities to chase deer?” demanded the white dog, clearly in command now.

The dogs started barking, all of them contributing to the din, and Ulfgang shouted for silence. Even so, the baying, howling, and yipping continued, until Tam was getting a headache from the noise. Finally the pack settled down, and the white dog turned to the big male. “You tell me, alone.”

The shepherd, voice already hoarse from the hunt, barked roughly for several minutes. When he concluded, panting, Ulfgang nodded his head grimly and turned to his elven companions.

“I couldn’t understand much,” he admitted. “But they claim there is something that drew them here to the Greens… that they were pulled to the chase by a force strange and compelling.”

“What thing is that?” Tam demanded, still trembling with the excitement of the confrontation.

“Magic, I fear,” Ulf replied. “Of what type, I don’t know. But more significantly, that big one-Red Eye-says that he can show us where we can find this power in the flesh.”

T wo days later Ulfgang, Deltan, and Tamarwind crouched on the lip of a ravine overlooking a small valley, a gorge twisting through the trackless depths of the Greens. The travelers lay in a fringe of brush, silent and unmoving. Their position commanded a clear view of the ground below. In a clearing on the valley floor hundreds of people-mostly elves, but with a few giants, goblins, and centaurs among them-had gathered.

The shepherd called Red Eye had led them close to this place, though an hour earlier the big dog had slunk away without explanation. Nor had Ulf asked for one-he told Tam that he, too, could sense the wrongness in this place, an invisible corruption that marred the trees, the ground, the very air itself.

Tamarwind still carried his staff, and he was disturbed to realize that he was very much afraid. Deltan Columbine was silent, clutching his bow and looking wide-eyed at the mob below them. Ulfgang seemed purposeful and grim. As he searched for this place, the white dog had trotted along with head and nose low, sniffing constantly, seeking some improper spoor, some signal of the magic that had so disrupted life in unchanging Argentian. The warning of the pack had stricken the white dog with visible force, and the change in Ulf’s mood had provided a sobering warning to Tam and Deltan.

And now they had come upon this bizarre gathering. Significantly, many of those gathered in the little clearing bore weapons-spears and staffs, a few with the bows and arrows such as an elven hunter might carry. In the center of the gathering a tall, bare stake jutted upward from a pile of kindling. Nearby was a canvas tent, and before that shelter dangled a white banner emblazoned with a red cross. The crowd was mostly silent and attentive, though they were joined by more and more people coming from the trails leading up and down the valley. Abruptly an audible gasp sounded from the assemblage, and all eyes went to the canvas shelter.

A human came out of the tent. His chest was covered by a stiff, silvery shirt. He was bearded, with long brown hair, and he carried a stout staff that was capped with the head of a hooded snake. When he raised his arms and the final murmurings in the assemblage stilled, it seemed to Tamarwind that even the birds and monkeys grew quiet, waiting, tense, afraid.

A scream echoed, startling and eerie. Tam saw a woman, a human druid to judge from her long black hair, dragged forward by two giants. She screamed again, and one of the brutes cuffed her across the face. The crowd murmured and shifted like a hungry being, awakened and thrilled by the prisoner’s suffering.

Stunned by the violence, Tamarwind watched in horror as the druid was tied to the post. She struggled in vain, moaning and sobbing as ropes were pulled tight against her flesh. A pair of goblins, cackling excitedly, carried torches forward and thrust the flaming brands into the kindling around the stake. Quickly the fire took hold, snapping hungrily through the wood, spewing upward in yellow and orange tongues. The druidess shrieked loudly as her gown caught fire, as black smoke swirled around her and the blaze grew fierce.

Appalled, Tam, Deltan, and Ulfgang watched the flames spark. The scout tried to imagine the pain the woman must be suffering, but his mind couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Fire consumed her garment and blackened her skin. Her shouts and cries climbed beyond the scale of anguish, a dolorous wail of pure agony as her flesh was consumed by the blaze. The unforgettable stench, like charred meat and offal, reached even to the nostrils of the three watchers above the valley. Tamarwind clenched his teeth, fighting against a surging wave of nausea.

And then the woman was no longer screaming. Her cries were muted moans, swiftly overwhelmed by the crackling fury of the conflagration.

The crowd remained rapt, eyes alight. The fire roared eagerly around the writhing body. Her limbs thrashed, and it took a long time before her cries faded into croaks. At last the only sounds came from the flames, crackling, hungry and exultant.

When the druid had been reduced to a blackened shell amid a mound of glowing coals the bearded man spoke.

“Again we have claimed a witch, my valiant Crusaders… and again God is pleased with our efforts!” Cheers and whoops rang out from the crowd, a response that chilled Tam nearly as much as had the gruesome death. “See!” The speaker, his voice sharp, raised a hand in a violent, triumphant gesture. A gold chain dangled from his wrist, and the elf caught a glimpse of a small white stone held in the man’s fingers. He swung his hand back and forth, and the eyes and heads of the crowd followed the talisman in rapt attention.

Something flared redly in that stone, an X-shaped vibration of crimson light that sent a jolt of pleasure through Tamarwind. Stunned, he looked to the side, saw that Deltan had dropped his bow, that he gazed longingly toward the object in the man’s hand. When the hand came down, the stone disappeared from view, and the people in the valley-and the two elves watching from above-sighed in unison.

“But it is time that we did more, labored harder in the name of our Holy Savior. And so I tell you: There is a temple of evil in this wretched swath of purgatory. The place is a monument to heresy. It rises upon an island, forms a minaret of metal that is an abomination, an affront to God. And so I will lead you there, my crusaders… and we will see this temple, and we will tear it down!”

“The Loom of the Worldweaver!” Tamarwind gasped. Deltan Columbine simply shook his head, pulling back from his vantage to sit, stunned, on the forest floor.

The frightening message was still ringing in the clearing when Ulf leapt up on all fours with a startled snort. The dog and the elves spun in unison, Tam leaping to his feet and then freezing in shock.

A giant with a bristling black beard held a stone-tipped spear leveled straight at Tam’s chest. The fellow loomed high overhead, and his body seemed as broad as a wall. Thick cords of muscle knotted his thighs and calves, and each of his arms was as big around as a human man’s leg.

“Come, witch… you can talk to Sir Christopher.” The giant’s voice was a growl like thunder. Tam felt the rumble in the pit of his stomach. “There’s enough kindling left for a double burning.”

Tamarwind’s blood ran cold. The staff was still on his shoulder, but seemed like an impotent twig in the face of that deadly spearhead. He tried to think of something, anything, to say.

Turning his head, he saw that Deltan hadn’t even picked up his bow. Instead, the poet looked back at Tam, a desperate appeal for help written in his terrified expression, his wildly staring eyes. The scout clenched his hand around the staff, but when the giant lifted his spear toward his throat he took a short step backward, unable to make himself attack.

Ulf, on the other hand, didn’t hesitate. He pranced forward, tail wagging as he gazed fawnishly up at the giant.

“Some watchdog,” snorted the elf’s captor.

Ulf suddenly lunged upward, snapping his jaws hard beneath the giant’s shaggy tunic. The fellow left out a pinched scream and doubled over. Somehow Tam’s instincts took over, and he swung the heavy staff. The pole whistled through the air, landing with a resounding crack against the giant’s skull. The shaft of wood shattered but the giant fell on his face with a thud. Groaning once, he kicked, then lay still.

“Come on!” panted Ulf, already starting through the woods.

An impulse penetrated Tam’s fear and he reached down to snatch up the giant’s heavy spear. Then he was off, racing after Ulfgang and Deltan, the wind of his speed drawing tears from his still-horrified eyes.