Circle at center

10
A Girding of Elves

B elynda lay awake, fidgeting restlessly. The Lighten Hour was still a long time away, but she felt no need to sleep. She didn’t know what subconscious anxiety triggered her unease, but she finally, reluctantly, gave up the attempt at repose. She whispered on the light and found that she didn’t even blink against the soft illumination.

Swinging her feet to the floor, she stood, and then paced across her sleeping chamber for the simple reason that she needed to move. She walked past the reading table without pause. The door to her garden glided open as she murmured the word of command, and then she was under the night sky with its fulgent, gracefully shifting patterns of stars. Sitting on a marble bench, she leaned back to watch the stately wheel of the night overhead. The stars spiraled around the axis of the distant sun-the celestial body that was now no more than the brightest star in the twinkling vista of the sky. Each speck of light seemed to move at its own speed. At times thousands of them formed tendrils of blurry illumination, while shortly thereafter those twisting limbs broke apart, dissolving into their individual, lonely components. And thus they wandered until the pattern brought them again into concentration.

All but hypnotized, Belynda stared into the vastness overhead. As she had done countless times before, she tried to sift some kind of design from the cosmic quilt… but just when she began to perceive a face, a horizon, an animal or leaf, the twinkling display would distort and realign. Inevitably she was left with a sense of randomness that she found troubling, resonant of a vague sense of insecurity.

But tonight even the spectacle of the skies could not distract her from the agitation that ruined her sleep and lifted her from her bed. She still could not identify a precise source of unease. Rather it was as if too many little changes were occurring in the world, niggling things that combined to portend something different, some dire interruption in the stately pace of Nayve.

For, of course, change was bad. In any kind of alteration there was a potential for violence, and perhaps it was this awareness that caused her to think about pain, and killing, and war. Not that she had seen any examples during her lifetime… rather she had learned from tales of the Seventh Circle, stories told by druids who had witnessed the Worldweaver’s Tapestry. In her lifetime there had been many advances in the way humans made war, and she tried to imagine where they could go in the future. Such a frenetic, furious race they were-even, truth be told, the druids, who were supposed to represent the wisest and most serene of the lot.

But in this past year Caranor and Allevia had died violently. She had just learned from Nistel that more giants had come to Thickwhistle, this time rousting a whole clan of gnomes out of a cherished cavern. She missed having Ulfgang to talk to… and even more, she wished Tamarwind was here.

She stood up and stretched, and it was then that she heard the rustling in the shrubbery surrounding her garden. In another moment a canine body, white against the darkness, trotted into view. Ulfgang was followed by Tamarwind Trak, who was breathing hard from exertion, and another, similarly exhausted elf. Both wore clothes that were in tatters, and Belynda gasped at the sight of the scout’s face, haggard and thin, streaked with sweat and dirt.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, rushing to embrace Tam by his shoulders. She stared into eyes that were hooded and dark, and contained the gleam of burning anger.

“No… just tired,” he said. Despite the emotion that seethed almost visibly beneath his skin, his voice was soft and calm.

“We came here without rest,” Ulf explained. “From the Greens, running nearly all the way. Tam even mounted a horse for the last leg of the trip.”

“What’s wrong?” asked the sage-ambassador, shaken by the explanation, by the implication of bad news. “And who… Deltan Columbine!” She recognized the other elf then.

“My lady Sage-Ambassador,” he said with a bow. “I regret that I see you again on an occasion of such dire portent.”

“Tell me!” she said, sitting on the bench and forcing herself to be calm. The two men joined her, apparently soothed somewhat by her example. “What is this dire portent?”

“It is death-murder and war come to Nayve!” Tam blurted.

“In the person of a warrior, a human,” added Deltan. “One who dwells in the Greens, and gathers others to his cause.”

“It is he who has lured the shepherds from their duties,” Ulfgang put in.

Belylnda listened in growing shock as the dog and elves continued to describe the band they had observed, and the burning of the druid who had been called a “witch.”

“Elves, giants… centaurs? And they are all armed?” she echoed in growing fear. “That’s enough for a whole army, right here in the Fourth Circle!”

“And there’s more,” Tam said. He told her about the human warrior with his great staff and his shirt of silver. “He was urging his army into a frenzy. He held aloft a small white talisman on a chain and charged them to come here, to Circle at Center. They intend to tear down the Worldweaver’s Loom!”

Belynda felt as though she had been punched in the stomach. It was hard to draw a breath, or to wrap her mind around the idea of an attack against this sacred place.

“How…” She let the question trail off, not even knowing what to ask. “We can’t let them!”

Tamarwind drew a deep breath. “I know… we need to gather against them-to-to fight!” He looked stunned, even sickened, by his own words.

“I have sent word to Argentian,” Deltan Columbine said. “There are many of my students there who will join us, I’m certain. I asked them to travel here, to Circle at Center. From them we can form a company.”

“A company…” With a jolt Belynda suddenly remembered Miradel, and the warrior the druid had summoned at such cost. “To train the elves for war,” she murmured wonderingly.

“What?” asked the scout.

“It’s… there’s someone who saw the danger before I did,” the sage-ambassador said quietly. “She gave up her future, her whole life, because she perceived this menace and sacrificed herself so that the rest of us might be prepared.”

“What do you mean?”

“There is a human warrior called Natac. He lives in a villa in the hills, not far from the end of the causeway. He will take Deltan Columbine’s company of elves and teach them to be warriors. And we will get more elves, from here in the city, and from Barantha, and all the other realms.”

Now Belynda felt a focus, a direction for the energy and agitation that had disrupted her sleep and brought her, awake and alert, into the garden. She looked fondly at Tam, gently caressed Ulf’s head and ears. She smiled at Deltan Columbine, saw that he stood taller, looked sturdier, than she remembered him. “You are very brave… all three of you. You must have been in terrible danger.”

“Actually, we did face down a giant,” Tam admitted, huffing slightly in embarrassment. With a shy grin he reached behind a bush to bring forth a stout spear, the weapon a good deal longer than Belynda’s height. “Ulf bit him, and I bopped him over the head-and then I took this away from him.”

The sage-ambassador was appalled at the tale, and she squeezed her hand tightly around Tamarwind’s arm. “Please-you must try to be careful!” she declared.

“I will. In any event, there won’t be any giants around this warrior’s villa.”

“Actually, it’s my friend’s house. Miradel is her name, and she will know where your company can make camp.”

“Can you show us the way to Miradel’s?” Tam asked, again smiling bashfully.

Belynda was strangely touched. “I will take you there in two days-there’s something I have to do, first.”

Natac and Miradel sat on the veranda, watching the lake turn purple as the sun receded overhead. They had eaten a splendid meal of cowsteak and beans, which Miradel had cooked together in a mixture of spices that still tickled about the warrior’s palate. With a few whispered words of magic, Fallon had cleaned up after the meal and retired to his own apartment. Now the elf strummed his lute there, and the gentle chords swirled and soothed through the growing night.

The druid and Natac had just spent long hours in the dark room, where she had displayed for him many pictures of humans using swords-for contests and combat alike. As he had been doing for many days, Natac practiced the moves he had seen, whipping his own blade around with speed and grace. Their session had closed with an hour spent watching the unarmed warrior who had unknowingly taught Natac so much. This man of the Orient was adept at the use of his hands and feet, and by now the Tlaxcalan had learned to exactly mimic his remote teacher’s movements.

Tired from the exercise, with his full belly seeming like an anchor as he sat in a comfortable wicker chair, Natac felt his eyelids start to droop. He sighed, and leaned back, watching as more and more stars came into view.

“The time is coming, very soon,” Miradel said suddenly.

His tiredness vanished in that instant, for he knew exactly what she meant.

“I will be ready,” he promised. He looked across the starlit vista, the sparkling lights of the city across the lake, the placid evening lying still and comforting about them. The promise welled up, and he thought of a yellow hummingbird. Unbidden, the vow came again to his lips.

“I will be ready.”

B elynda strode to the rostrum with every appearance of confidence, though inwardly she suddenly quailed at the prospect before her. The reality suddenly struck her like a blow: How could she expect to get this hidebound body to accept her warnings and, even more difficult, to actually take action in the face of danger?

For better or worse, the Grand Forum of the Senate was half empty. Belynda was not surprised, for despite an announcement of this special session having been sent to all the delegates, any break in Nayve’s routine was not likely to stir up a great deal of interest. She saw one friendly face and smiled at Nistel, who had done a good job of gathering the most influential gnomes. It had been her faithful assistant, too, who had helped her spread word among the other delegations in Nayve’s ruling body. She looked for Cillia, but the statuesque druid was nowhere to be seen.

At the last minute Quilene, mistress of the enchantresses, arrived in a soft twinkle of light. The elves accepted her teleportation with typical aplomb, but the gnomes on the nearby benches stared, goggle-eyed, at this evidence of powerful magic.

Only one giant, the rangy Galewn, had bothered to attend. And she saw that the goblins and faeries had not sent even a single delegate. Most distressing, however, was the sparse attendance of her own people. Barely half the members were here, and of these only one-the venerable Rallaphan, who all but dozed on his stool-came from the districts within Circle at Center.

Tall Praxian and rotund Cannystrius had taken their stations, and now both of the speakers of the Senate looked at Belynda. Each had a nervous expression, despite valiant-and obvious-attempts to appear aloof and unconcerned.

“Peoples of Nayve,” began the sage-ambassador, allowing her eyes to scan the entire chamber. Curiosity about the impromptu session, if nothing else, drew all eyes to her. She knew that she would have to startle them in order to make any headway toward persuasion, so she forced herself to speak very loudly.

“The Fourth Circle is entering a period of dramatic change. We face unprecedented dangers, threats of violence and destruction such as our world has not known in ten thousand years. I come to you now with a plea for action-we must organize, and prepare to defend ourselves against a horrible foe!”

Audible gasps and murmurs of disbelief punctuated her statement. Elves exchanged nervous looks while the gnomes chattered excitedly. Belynda saw that Blinker was holding forth among his comrades, that his companions were looking at him with expressions bordering on awe. Also interesting was the reaction of Galewn, who leaned forward on his stool to scrutinize Belynda skeptically. Quilene surprised her too, as she rose to her feet and raised her hand to her chin in the indication of one who wished to address the Senate.

But she saw more as the elven faces hardened to regard her with frank suspicion, even distrust. Old Rallaphan was glaring in open hostility. Perhaps she had miscalculated… perhaps she should have taken more time in describing the threat, before making her plea for action.

Praxian and Cannystrius exchanged nervous glances. After a moment it was the latter who rose, waddled forward, and curtly gestured for Quilene to proceed.

“I am glad my sister sage has brought this matter into the light,” the enchantress said. “For she states the conclusion of all among my Order. We have been striving to come to grips with an array of very dire portents, each seemingly more grim than the last. It is time that we take action.”

“Portents, dangers, threats!” mocked Galewn, standing and planting his hamlike hands on his hips. “Tell me, old woman… what are the portents? Where are the dangers?”

“In the Greens,” Belynda retorted sharply.

She was surprised when the giant bit back the outburst he’d been about to make. “Explain,” he demanded.

“A wild human lives there. He has corrupted elves and centaurs, even giants. He bears a powerful talisman that I believe to be the Stone of Command. This stone was held by the sage-enchantress Caranor, one of those who was killed by fire. It is powerful magic, for it can influence and weaken the will of all who behold it, or even sense its presence. I have spoken with witnesses who saw these outlaws burn a druid who was tied to a stake in the ground.” The blunt description of violence brought the chamber to a stunned silence. “Her death was painful, and horrifying,” Belynda concluded sternly. “And the wild human has declared his intent to bring the same fate right here, into Circle at Center!”

“Who are these witnesses?” demanded Praxian, standing tall and glaring down at Belynda.

She had already decided that she would not mention Ulfgang’s involvement-the haughty elves would immediately disdain the report of even the most educated dog. “Tamarwind Trak, a scout from Argentian. And one Deltan Columbine, a teacher and poet, also of my home realm.

“I don’t believe it!” Cannystrius huffed. “They must be making it up-such an occurence is utterly unthinkable!”

“Outlander lies!” cried Rallaphan, who had presided over his quarter of Circle at Center for nearly a thousand years. “I have heard of this Columbine-a young radical, looking to stir up trouble!”

“It is the truth!” insisted Belynda.

For some reason she looked first to the giant for support, but was chagrined to see Galewn already making his way out of the chamber. Quilene stood in the midst of shouting elves, looking at the sage-ambassador with an expression of mild exasperation. Belynda could only continue, trying to shout over the commotion. “It’s not only true-but we have to do something about it!”

“What?” Praxian bleated plaintively.

“We must organize ourselves, prepare to resist any attack. It will require training and discipline, lead to hard and unpleasant work. But it must be done, or we are doomed!”

“No!” shouted someone from among the elves.

“We need more proof-we cannot disrupt our world based on the word of some rural scout,” Cannystrius declared, the stout speaker addressing the Senate with rare severity. “I, for one, will not hear of it!”

“Nor shall I!” huffed Praxian.

“Listen to her! Listen to Belynda!” shrieked a new voice, and the sage-ambassador was touched to see Nistel standing on his stool, waving his fist at the elves. But his loyal advocacy had no discernible effect. Instead, the elves milled about, chattering and whispering. Several were crying, or casting cold and hostile looks at the sage-ambassador.

“You tried… but what could you expect?” said Quilene, who had somehow whisked herself to Belynda’s side.

“I thought they might listen, might understand the urgency…”

The enchantress shook her head. “They will need the word of more than one witness before they change the way they think… and even then, I don’t think half of these elves would acknowledge trouble if it was coming through the front door.”

Quilene made her farewells, then vanished as quickly as she had arrived. The other delegates trailed out, some pensive and alone, others in tight groups, hunched in quiet, agitated conversation. Finally only Blinker remained. The little gnome was still indignant, his beard bristling angrily as he glared at the empty stools throughout the chamber.

“Fools and idiots!” he snorted. “I’ve seen faeries with more sense!”

“She was right,” Belynda reflected, still thinking about the words of the enchantress.

“What?”

“We need more witnesses, more testimony before the Senate will admit that anything can be wrong. And I intend to get that proof!”

“Who are you going to send?” asked the gnome suspiciously.

“No one. I intend to go and see for myself. When I bring word back, I can stand before them and tell them what I’ve seen-and they will have to believe me!”

“No!” gasped Nistel. “It’ll be too dangerous-you should send someone else!” The gnome gulped and drew a deep breath. “Why, I’ll go…”

“That’s very brave, my friend. But it has to be me. It’s not fair to send another in my place. And besides, the Senate needs to hear from me directly.”

“But… you can’t go alone,” the gnome insisted. He drew a deep, heavy sigh. “I have to go with you.”

Belynda smiled. “I appreciate your loyalty… I really do. But your place is here.”

“Nonsense!” Blinker sounded very firm. “You need protection, and I’m just the person to protect you!”

The sage-ambassador finally had to laugh, and then touched the gnome’s shoulder in gratitude. “Then together we’ll go have a look at the Greens,” she said. “But I must ask you to say nothing of this to Tamarwind or Miradel… I fear that their objections would be as vociferous as yours.”

“I can keep a secret!” Nistel pledged, and the matter was decided.

“T hese are elves of Argentian, come to Circle at Center in response to a summons for help. Will you train them, make them into a company of warriors?”

Belynda asked Natac the question frankly. She had come to the villa this morning, accompanied by a gnome-the first of these Natac had met-and perhaps a hundred young elves. The pair of leaders, Tamarwind and Deltan, had joined them in the villa while the rest of the group had settled into a shady grotto just below the white-walled house.

“Yes,” Natac replied without hesitation. “At least, I will teach them what I knew, and what I have learned since coming here, about the making of war.”

“Tamarwind and Deltan can tell you about the enemy-they have seen him, and his force. His warriors include giants, centaurs, and many hundred elves.”

“Are there more elves willing to fight against him?” Natac wondered.

“I hope there will be, soon… there is a need among some of my people for further proof, which we hope will be forthcoming shortly.” The elfwoman glanced quickly at the gnome, who whistled and looked away.

“Very well. I think we should get started right away.”

“Will you stay here for a while and observe the training?” Miradel asked Belynda, then smiled shyly. “Also, I would enjoy the pleasure of your company, old friend.”

The elfwoman looked strangely uncomfortable. “I would like that but, no. I am afraid there are… other matters demanding my attention.”

“Of course,” Miradel said. “These are becoming busy times in Circle at Center, and across all of Nayve.”

The sage-ambassador and gnome departed on foot, and Natac set about getting his recruits organized. He appointed Tamarwind Trak as captain, and Deltan as his lieutenant. The rest of the day was spent getting the elves-who, to Natac’s surprise, included perhaps twenty-five females among their number-into a comfortable camp.

Three days later, the Tlaxcalan was surprised and impressed by how much progress the whole assemblage had made. Deltan had organized a group who had made many bows and arrows. For now these missiles were tipped with only wooden heads for practice, but Darryn Forgemaster had pledged to provide many steel arrowheads within the next tenday. Meanwhile, Tam had taken another party in search of stout, straight branches. These had been whittled into sturdy staffs. Thus crudely armed, the elves had begun their drilling.

Natac had designated an archery range on a flat swath of ground beside the lake. Now he and Deltan were there with the archers, while the young elf barked commands, and the bowmen practiced shooting in volleys.

“Now!” cried Deltan, and two dozen strings twanged.

The cluster of arrows soared in tight formation, almost as if the shafts were linked by invisible threads. Slowly that thread drew taut as all the missiles converged on the target. Even a hundred paces away Natac heard the thud made by the simultaneous impact of two dozen wooden arrowheads. The target, a rotten stump, bristled like a porcupine-not a single shaft had flown wide of the mark.

“Good shooting,” the warrior said to Deltan Columbine, who scrutinized the array of arrows and then shook his head.

“I told them to hit the top of the stump!” complained the elf. He turned with a frown to address the rank of elven archers. “You archers-pull and shoot again. Take that next stump to the left, and I want to see some precision this time!”

Without a murmur of complaint or exasperation, the bowmen did as they had been told-and once more Natac marveled at this aspect of the elven troops. Although the whole concept of military practice, and especially the discipline needed for volley fire and marching, was foreign to the experience of these raw warriors, they put themselves to every task with a sense of purpose that still caused Natac to look on in awe.

This time the top of the stump bristled with arrows, and Deltan allowed himself a grunt of acknowledgment.

“You’re doing well, all of you,” Natac declared, pleased at the pride evident on the elven faces. He turned to watch the larger group of Tam’s fighters, who were clashing and bashing with their staves, when he was distracted by a loud shout.

“Hey… you’re wasting time on those silly games!” The booming taunt came from the hillside over the training field. Fionn was striding down the steep incline, with Owen lumbering along behind.

“That’s no way to get ready for war!” the Viking chimed in. The two men, cloaked in their furs, bearing stout staffs and full packs, swaggered closer. A half-dozen druidesses came behind them.

“Why don’t you show us how to do it?” Natac called back, pleased that the pair had come by.

“Show you? Me own lesson would kill you!” snorted Fionn, while Owen merely guffawed.

“Try me, then?” Natac said casually. He stood firmly and planted his hands on his hips as the two burly warriors pulled up short.

“Not to offend, little man… but I meant what I said,” the Irishman growled. He raised one of his own hamlike fists and faced Natac with a grin that was not at all humorous.

“So did I.” The Tlaxcalan took a step forward with unmistakable challenge, though his hands remained at his sides. “But before we grapple, perhaps you’d do me the honor of making a little wager?”

Fionn’s bearded face split into a broad grin. “Name yer terms,” he said jovially.

“My wager is this: If I can throw you on the ground before you do the same to me, then you’ll agree to join my company-and to abide by my orders.”

The big man frowned and paused. “Yer serious, aren’t ya? Thinking you can actually throw me?”

“Perfectly serious, yes.”

“And what about when I throw you? A wager goes two ways, does it not?”

“What are your stakes?” Natac, having watched Fionn and Owen grapple on countless occasions, was fairly confident of his victory. Still, he couldn’t suppress his apprehension when, after a moment’s thought, the Celt replied:

“Ye’ll do my washing for a full cycle, and clean out my lodge to boot. The place is startin’ to smell like a pigsty, anyway.”

“I accept.” The Tlaxcalan gave his word sincerely, privately vowing to win the fight, and quickly.

Abruptly Fionn charged, a rushing bull. He swept his arms around Natac-but before the Celt closed his grip, the smaller man seized a burly forearm and tossed, using the fulcrum of his own shoulder. The Irishman crashed to the turf with an impact that shook the ground. For a moment he flailed weakly, before drawing in a huge gasp of breath.

Even before Fionn regained his feet, Owen doubled over, howling with glee. “Looks like you’ve found a new recruit!”

“Would ye… like a try… at the slippery devil?” Hands on his knees, the Celt still strained to breathe. “That was no fair fight!” he finally gasped, standing upright.

“A fair wager, though,” Natac suggested. “And welcome to my company.”

“Ye’ll not be havin’ me work with those faerie bows, will ye?” growled the Irishman.

Natac shook his head and laughed. “I daresay you’re not cut out to be an archer. No-perhaps you could go and get your staff-I’m of a mind that you can help with training.”

Without a word, Fionn turned to trudge back to his kit. He didn’t even acknowledge the sympathetic cooing of Julyia and several other druidesses who gathered around.

“Would you take the same wager?” Natac asked, turning to Owen.

“Surely!” Owen accepted with immense good humor. “And I’ll do me best not to hurt you!”

“I appreciate that,” Natac replied as the Viking swaggered forward. The Tlaxcalan was wary, certain that the Norseman would not repeat Fionn’s mistakes of overconfidence and haste.

And clearly, Owen had learned a lot from Fionn’s misstep. The big man skirted through a tight circle, forcing Natac to do the same. The two studied each other, feinting with a swipe of a hand, the dip of a shoulder. When the Viking advanced, he still moved with caution, reaching without lunging, keeping his weight evenly balanced between his feet. Despite Natac’s own best efforts, he could not draw his foe into a careless attack-all the while Owen’s full concentration remained on Natac’s hands and arms.

So the Tlaxcalan decided to change tactics. He feinted an attack with his fists, and Owen spread his arms, ready to embrace Natac’s careless advance. Instead, Natac snapped a sharp kick with his right foot, smashing hard into the Viking’s left knee. Owen bellowed and stepped back, favoring the injured limb.

“How’d you do that?” the Viking growled ominously. “I’m thinking that magic is disallowed in this duel!”

“No magic,” Natac replied, dropping into a crouch. He spun through a full circle, putting all of his strength into a spinning roundhouse kick that smashed, hard, into Owen’s right ankle. Owen’s leg was swept out from beneath him, and with a roar of frustration and pain he crashed to the ground, landing hard on the flat of his back.

Natac rose and extended his foe a hand, but Owen growled fiercely and kicked at the Tlaxcalan. “No fair-I cry foul!” declared the Viking, pushing himself to his feet. He went over to the bundle of his belongings and pulled forth his large staff. “I meant to wager on a fight with weapons.”

“This is what you Norsemen call honor?” demanded Natac. Still, he was not surprised-nor unprepared. He retreated to his own cloak and pulled out the shining sword. “I warn you, Owen… you’ve lost the fight and the wager. If you come after me now, it will not go well for you!”

But the Viking was beyond reason. He let out a bloodcurdling roar and charged, swinging the stout shaft before him. His aim was good-Natac could neither duck below nor leap over the weapon.

Instead, the warrior extended his sword in a direct parry, knowing that the weapon’s first test would be a real challenge. Holding the hilt with both hands, he winced against the impact-and indeed, the blow sent him staggering to the side, his palms stinging from the vibrations of the attack.

But Owen didn’t pursue. Instead, he gaped stupidly at the deep gouge that had scored his oaken staff. When he flexed the weapon sharply, the small piece of wood connecting the pieces creaked ominously. With a flick of his sword, Natac struck the top of the staff, and the weapon snapped in two at the cut.

Instantly the big Viking leaped forward. Instincts from a lifetime of fighting with a maquahuital almost forced Natac to hack with the blade, but he recalled the lessons he’d learned from his studies of Earth. Instead, he brought the point sharply against Owen’s leather vest. He pushed hard enough to slice through the cowskin and slightly puncture the skin beyond.

The Viking halted, eyes narrowed. “You could kill me, just like that,” he said, shaking his head in wonder.

“But I won’t do that. You made a wager, and you lost. Now, go find yourself another staff, and report back here, ready to go to work.”