Circle at center

13
Battle of the Blue Swan

“We will stay here, on the lakeshore-but you must take word to the city,” declared Tamarwind.

Belynda nodded. For nearly twenty days she had accompanied Natac’s band on a grueling march through the hills. Now they had come to the edge of the lake, at the Blue Swan Inn, with the Silver Loom rising from its island across the causeway. The Lighten Hour was just past, and the spire gleamed with argent brilliance. The city structures, the manors and museums of so many hues of marble, stood impassive. In their eternal majesty Belynda could almost make herself believe that nothing had changed.

But in truth, everything had changed.

She was more tired than she had ever been in her life. After the first few days, during which she had ridden on the back of the centaur Gallupper, she had forced herself to walk on her own. Her shoes had tattered, been replaced by deerskin moccasins of Tamarwind’s making, as the company had fled from the Greens. They had skirted the edge of the Snakesea, knowing that the Crusaders had marched in pursuit. Then, though the tunnel of the Metal Highway had beckoned as an easy route back to the city, Natac had led his little force on a grueling trek through the Ringhills. The elves had not questioned his orders, and the objections of the two men-Owen and Fionn-had been overcome with a sharp rebuke from Miradel’s warrior.

Along the way Belynda had learned that Natac had a company of about a hundred elves, and that they had been joined by some twenty-five giants. During the long march back to Circle at Center the fighters had been in high spirits, encouraged by their success in bringing the sage-ambassador out of the enemy camp. Still, they were badly outnumbered by that foe, and their only battle experience was the brief skirmish that had freed Belynda. Led by their captain, the warrior from Earth, they had marched swiftly through the hills.

But they knew that Sir Christopher’s army had been on the move as well. Gallupper, Owen, and Fionn had held back from the main body and provided them with detailed reports of the knight’s progress. The human warriors had harassed the enemy column, bringing supplies and stealing horses at every opportunity. The young centaur, meanwhile, had served as messenger, carrying regular reports of the Crusader movements back to Natac and the elves. The Knight Templar had been following the same trail as the elves, and at last word he was no more than ten or twelve miles away from the lakeshore.

Now Natac had drawn up his little band beside that shore, at the start of the causeway. They occupied a small rise of dry ground. Before them was a stretch of marsh to the left, then a shallow stream linking to the lake. A small stone bridge crossed that stream. In order to attack, an enemy would have to come across the bridge, wade the stream, or slog through the marsh. Or, as Owen had pointed out, the attack could come from the lake, but the Viking had admitted that it was unlikely the Crusaders were bringing boats along the highway. The Blue Swan Inn, with its lofty verandas and sheltered harbor, was outside of Natac’s position. So was the great tunnel leading to the Metal Highway.

“Do you expect that he will try to attack you here?” the sage-ambassador asked Tam.

“Yes… and we will fight him,” Tamarwind said, trying bravely to sound casual about the whole notion of a battle. “Natac says that we must stop him here, for if we give him the causeway, we give him entrance to the city.”

“I think I can see that,” Belynda said. She had been paying attention as Natac continuously instructed his elves and giants, and she had begun to understand some aspects of strategy and tactics. “As soon as the Crusaders come down the hill, they will take the Blue Swan. But if you tried to fight at the inn, the enemy could come through the tunnel and attack you from behind.”

“Not to mention that we don’t have enough fighters to hold the inn,” said Tamarwind. “I hope they leave it alone.”

“They won’t,” Natac said grimly, joining the pair. He came up to Belynda and took her hand in his powerful fingers. “Now, Lady Elf, you must do as Tamarwind suggests-hasten to the city and raise the alarm. We will hold here for a time, but you must send reinforcements, as quickly as possible.”

“I will try,” she promised.

With only a few backward glances, she and Nistel made their way across the causeway. Thoughts of her enemy, of the hatred that blazed within her and of the violence that the Crusaders could wreak upon her beloved city, lent speed to her flight and urgency to her mission.

“It is a good tunnel, my lord,” reported one of the Crusader elves. “I myself have traveled it to Circle at Center. If we take it, we will be at the lakeshore in a day.”

“We will follow the tunnel,” Sir Christopher decided, looking at the wide roadway as it disappeared into the darkness. His black horse pranced nervously sideways in the face of the shadowy entrance, while the knight considered his tactical situation. “I want my centaurs and giants to follow them across the high trails. I want that witch, one way or the other!”

Indeed, when the knight remembered the way the elfwoman had seduced him, then escaped from his righteous vengeance, he could think of nothing except taking her again-with a culmination in the devil’s fire she so richly deserved. His hatred was a strange mixture of longing and revulsion, a memory of harsh pleasure and urgent desire that kept him awake for long hours in the night.

The Crusaders split into two parties, the goblins and elves forming a column for the march into the tunnel while the centaurs and giants took up the hilltop trail, following the tracks of the raiders who had so boldly attacked their camp. The knight rode behind the first company of a hundred goblins, urging speed as they entered the tunnel to find that it was very well lighted by floating globes of magical fire.

The clash of weaponry startled him, as the head of the column suddenly stumbled to a halt. Sir Christopher rode up alongside the goblins, who were armed with bronze-tipped spears. He was shocked to find a group of small warriors hurling themselves at the goblins. These dwarves had face-plates of smooth metal, without even slots for their eyes-and each bore two wicked daggers, steel blades that slashed through the air before them.

The dwarves formed a solid barrier, blocking the Crusaders’ progress into the tunnel. Perhaps a dozen goblins were howling, gashed by the daggers, while two or three lay still in the midst of spreading pools of blood. While many of the goblins had jabbed with their stone-tipped spears, the knight could see no sign of any injured dwarf.

Reining his horse a few steps away from this solid, but so far immobile, foe, Christopher considered his options. Nayve was reputedly a place of eternal peace, yet here he was confronting a rank of armored fighters. He was not afraid, not for himself nor his army. While it would be difficult to break this tight rank in an attack, he was certain his goblins and elves could easily evade these short-legged warriors, and eventually he could win a battle by maneuver.

“Ho, small knights!” he called. “Who is your captain?”

“That is I, Zystyl!”

The voice came from the rear of the rank. Sir Christopher stared into the shadows there, and quickly saw the speaker. Now the knight frowned in distaste. Differing from the masked men of the ranks, much of the speaker’s face was visible, and grotesque: a gory, moist gap of snuffling, flaring nostrils spread above jaws of shiny metal, a sharp-fanged maw that spread wide to reveal a blood-red tongue.

“Are you warriors of this place called Nayve?” asked Christopher.

“We are the conquerors of Nayve, here to take prizes and treasure!” declared Zystyl. “Do not think you can defeat us!”

“My lord Zystyl,” said the knight with oily sincerity. “I should not do you that disservice. But rather still, should you not consider how, together, we might both achieve our same ends?”

B elynda took time only to clean up and change clothes while word was carried by runners to each of the senators and ambassadors in Circle at Center, announcing an emergency meeting of the Senate. With her hair combed and her tattered gown replaced by a fresh robe of gold, she tried to maintain her confidence as she made her way to the forum.

But when she rose to address the body of the Senate, all her old doubts came sailing back.

There hadn’t been time to gather many of the delegates. She saw a few goblins and many elves, but there were no giants or gnomes present-even Nistel hadn’t made it yet.

Karkald and Darann were there. The dwarves sat near the front of the assemblage, and though a few goblins and fairies looked at them curiously, the elves studiously ignored these visitors who so clearly did not belong here. One faerie, a little creature called Kaycee, buzzed sleepily to her seat near the top of the chamber.

At the rostrum, Belynda made a valiant effort. She told, firsthand, of the deaths she had witnessed, cruel poisonings inflicted by Sir Christopher’s serpent staff. She described the stake, and the firewood that was to have been the instrument of her own death. And she noted the threat, in the form of the advancing army, that was even now approaching the lakeshore beyond their precious city.

Naturally, her remarks caused a great deal of consternation, especially among the elves. Both Praxian and Cannystrius shouted for order, but it was several minutes before the assembly quieted down.

More excitement was caused, then, when she invited Karkald to speak. In blunt, plain-spoken language, the dwarf described the army of Delvers that had embarked on an invasion of Nayve. By the time he was finished, goblins were jabbering, but the elves remained stony-faced and aloof.

“I tell you, peoples of Nayve-we must act, and quickly!” Belynda declared, once again stepping to the fore. “Come by the tens, by the hundreds-have them rally at the Blue Swan Inn!”

A few of the elves were nodding in agreement. Several of the goblins were grinning with excitement, all but bouncing up and down, ready to move.

“A point of order.” It was old Rallaphan, raising his hand and rising from his stool. The assembly grew silent.

“These are alarming tales, extraordinary occurrences,” declared the elder senator. “Perhaps they do call for action. But I would observe that a casual count shows no more than half the delegates are present, here and now. We are clearly lacking the quorum needed for a vote.”

“We don’t need to vote!” Belynda retorted. “We need to act!”

“Ahem.” It was tall Praxian, glaring down at her sternly. “Need I remind the sage-ambassador that this is not a body that acts. This is a body that votes-and that only after proper and decorous debate!”

“Quite, quite,” chimed in Cannystrius, while Rallaphan snorted in agreement.

The doors to the Senate chamber burst open with a shocking clang.

“We are prepared to fight!” It was Nistel, leading perhaps a hundred gnomes into the suddenly stirring chamber. “We offer ourselves as warriors, ready to lay down our lives to protect Circle at Center.”

“And I will fight, too!” cried the lone faerie, Kaycee.

“You are out of order!” cried Rallaphan. “I object to this disruption.”

“You’re good at that, aren’t you?” snapped Karkald, rising to his feet so abruptly that his stool toppled over behind him. He fixed Rallaphan with a contemptuous glare, then let his scornful eyes blaze across the whole gallery of elves. “Objections! Out of Order! Talk, vote, you do everything but act!” He drew a deep breath, and to Belynda it was obvious that he struggled to control a volatile temper. She doubted whether any of the other elves sensed the emotion simmering beneath the dwarf’s gruff countenance.

“I’ve tried to explain to you about these Delvers,” he declared. “They’d be delighted to hear you talk like this, because before you make up your minds they would destroy you! I have no doubt that Zystyl, their captain, would personally eat the hearts of a dozen elves in celebration of his victory!”

That graphic suggestion, at least, caused the blood to drain from many an elven face. And Karkald didn’t seem inclined to let up. “Can you imagine what it would be like, a hundred faceless dwarves, protected in black steel from head to toe, each carrying two wicked knives. They whirl them, and advance shoulder to shoulder. Some of you might try to stand and fight-and you’d be cut to pieces. The rest, those who run, would have to keep running, and hiding. And even then the Delvers would smell you, and they’d come for you, and your children, and your world!”

“Enough!” shrieked Rallaphan, his face taut, veins bulging on forehead and neck. “You have no voice here-you are an outsider, and you have no right to defile our chambers!”

“You think this is defilement?” the dwarf replied with a snort. “Just wait-I know you can do that. I can see you’re damned good at doing nothing. As for me, I’ll stand with the gnomes and anyone else who wants to be a warrior. I will fight, in this world, against the enemy of my own homeland.”

“Then you must go to the Blue Swan Inn,” Belynda said to Karkald and the gnomes. The elven delegates hissed and murmured in soft objection, but even Rallaphan refrained from raising his voice. The sage-ambassador raised her voice, sweeping her eyes across the chamber to include everyone present in her response.

“And pray to the Goddess Worldweaver that we are not too late!”

“Good sir, can I speak with you, please?”

This humble elf was the innkeeper, Natac knew-the fellow had been pointed out by Tamarwind as soon as the company had reached the Blue Swan Inn. Jared Innkeeper was his name, and despite his nondescript appearance and slight size, the scout had identified him as a very influential citizen of Nayve.

“I have only a minute-what do you want?” the warrior asked ungraciously. He begrudged even this tiny shift of his focus, but in truth he knew there was little else he could do now. His warriors were deployed, and they could only wait for the enemy to appear.

“We hear that there’s an army on the way-coming here!” stated the elf, his words tumbling out in a rush.

“Yes… it was my order that you be told. Have you evacuated the inn?”

“Well, no. It’s just that… you see, we’ve never done anything like this before.” The frail elf strove to stand straight, to meet Natac’s eyes. “And, well… there are many families living here, the elves who maintain the inn. Not to mention guests. And we really don’t want to leave.”

Natac looked toward the ridge crest, the horizon where the highway came over the hill. There was still no sign of the Crusaders, nor of the scouts he had placed up there to bring early warning. He tried to contain his exasperation, reminding himself that war was an utterly foreign concept to the people of Nayve.

“I understand how you feel. In fact, neither myself nor these elves and giants who are with me would choose to be here now, if given a choice. But the matter has been taken out of our hands by the actions of an enemy, one who comes here with the intent to destroy and to kill.”

“I am trying to grasp this,” said the elf with obvious sincerity. Natac felt a flash of sympathy. Naturally, the fellow’s age wasn’t apparent, but the warrior assumed he was the patriarch of a sizable clan. Perhaps they had operated this inn for a thousand years, or more. “And you are here to resist that enemy, correct?”

“Yes… we will fight them if they try to come onto the causeway.”

“Then… can you not fight them before they come into the Blue Swan?”

Natac drew a deep breath. How could he briefly explain about tactics? About hanging flanks and untenable positions? Before he spoke, Deltan Columbine came up.

“I think Jared Innkeeper makes a strong point,” said the elven poet. “We intend to fight. Why don’t we fight for this inn? It’s beautiful… it has a history that goes back further than two generations of elves. And it is visible from Circle at Center-a very symbol of Nayve.”

“If we put our warriors in the inn, then the Crusaders can simply go around us and get on the causeway,” Natac argued. “The whole city is open to them.”

“What if we try to hold the bridge and the inn?” Deltan suggested. “Owen and the giants can stand at the bridge, and the elves can hold the inn.”

Natac shook his head. “The giants are not enough to hold the bridge-not if the enemy comes through the stream.”

“Perhaps we can prevent that.”

Miradel’s voice from behind him sent a jolt of happiness through Natac. He turned to embrace his teacher, saw that she had come across the causeway with Juliay and several other druids. “How can you prevent a crossing of the stream?” asked the warrior. Beyond the druids, another column of recruits-short, bearded figures bearing a variety of implements as weapons-marched resolutely toward the bridge.

“It is the same magic that raises the Snakesea raft,” explained a tall male human, a man with a flowing beard and long, bronze-colored hair. “We can fill the stream with so much water that anyone trying to cross will be swept out to the lake.”

“Oh, brave warrior-is it possible?” asked Jared Innkeeper. “Can you block the causeway, and save the inn?”

With a scowl, Natac glowered at his companions. “What if Sir Christopher sends some of his men through the tunnel? They’ll come out right between the inn and the bridge. We’ll be trapped.”

“Not with us to watch your back.”

Natac saw that the dwarf Karkald had arrived with the next group of reinforcements. Karkald and his wife had led a column of gnomes, a hundred or more strong, across the causeway from the city. The stubby little people were armed with big knives, pitchforks, staffs, and clubs. A few of them had crossbows and quivers of small, metal-tipped darts.

“Can you position yourselves across the gap?” asked the Tlaxcalan, knowing that the dwarf-out of everyone present-had some grasp of combat tactics.

“Yes-we’ll keep an eye on the tunnel,” declared Karkald, while Nistel nodded eagerly at his side.

Natac looked for Belynda and didn’t see her. “Any hope of more reinforcements, some elves from the city, perhaps?”

Karkald growled and spat. It was Nistel who answered. “They… I think they’re too frightened. Anyway, it didn’t seem like any of them were in a hurry to help.”

Natac looked at the ridge again… no sign of alarm there. He looked at the inn, trying to see its defensive strengths, if any. There was a high balcony encircling the upper stories. From there, the archers could shoot unimpeded in every direction. But there were too many doors, and the building was made entirely of wood. If Sir Christopher attacked with fire, the results could be disastrous.

Yet Natac knew the value of a strong symbol, and suspected that value would only be enhanced in the eyes of young, untested warriors. And the inn stood visible even from Circle at Center… Perhaps it might prove a rallying point, if they could just withstand the first onslaught. Critically he eyed the ground. The archers could do some damage from the inn, harassing any Crusaders who tried to bypass the position to attack the bridge. If they were forced out, they could possibly fall back to the boats in the harbor, or else try and battle their way to the causeway. It was worth a try.

“Very well,” he said. “Deltan, move your archers onto the balcony up there. The rest should take up positions inside, behind the doors and windows.” He looked at Jared Innkeeper. “Get your strongest elves. Grab weapons-knives, garden tools, axes. And get ready to defend your home.”

The slight elf gulped nervously, but then pledged his agreement and hastened to the inn to start preparations.

In a few minutes, the archers were in position. Natac strode through the ground floor of the building, seeing that the main gates were well-barred, that every door and window was barricaded and reinforced. After a quick circuit he climbed to the balcony, and then to a lone tower which rose above the rest of the sprawling structure.

He looked in the direction of metal and saw movement atop the ridge. A lone figure raced down the road, a centaur who was waving a piece of red cloth clutched in one hand. It was Gallupper, giving the signal that an attack was imminent.

“They come!” cried Natac, and the alarm was taken up throughout the ranks of the defenders.

By the time Natac had descended to the balcony, the vanguard of the Crusaders had come into view: two dozen centaurs who rumbled along the road, shouting and cursing at Gallupper. The youngster held a good lead, however, and as he neared the inn the pursuers pulled up.

“Obviously they remember the sting of our arrows,” Deltan observed.

“Good thing-for you’ll need to conserve them, now,” Natac replied. “Tell your men to make every shot count.”

The rest of the enemy fighters gradually came into view, a long, dark file, closely packed ranks plodding relentlessly down the hill. Menacing giants loomed over companies of goblins and long columns of elves. The centaurs circled back, raising clouds of dust with their heavy hooves as they flanked the marching army and fell into an easy walk through the fields beside the track.

Sir Christopher was clearly visible in his silver shirt, riding a black horse and cantering back and forth along the formation. He halted near the top of the hill, and spent several minutes eyeing the inn, the bridge, and the mouth of the tunnel-where the gnomes were already forming up a line. Even in the distance Natac could hear the human warrior barking orders, and he saw several centaurs take off running, no doubt bearing their leader’s commands to the various units on the road.

When the lead giants were a half mile away they left the road, and the rest of the column followed. For ten minutes they marched into a line perpendicular to the highway. Their discipline was unimpressive, compared to the precise formations followed by a Tlaxcalan or Aztec army, but soon the Crusaders had formed a formidable front, standing shoulder to shoulder, facing the Blue Swan.

Then, with a yell that began as a rumble and swelled to a ringing cry, the giants, elves, centaurs, and goblins surged forward. The sound swelled into a wave of noise, a roar that might have emerged from a single, monstrous throat. Feet and hooves pounded the ground, adding to the din, and as the attackers swept closer the sound rose to a thrumming crescendo.

The first arrows streaked out to vanish in the mob. In moments the attackers were closing around the inn, and racing toward the bridge, where Owen, Rawknuckle, and the other giants stood waiting.

With a quick glance from his post on the balcony, Natac saw that the placid stream guarding the causeway had swelled to a raging torrent. Whitecaps churned through the roiling river, and water surged over the banks and rushed to spill in great waves across the lake. The druids, tall and serene in their brown robes, stood in a line about one every twenty paces along the stream’s course. Natac nodded in satisfaction-the bridge would be the only crossing.

Three of the Crusader giants led the charge, pounding onto the bridge with clubs upraised. Owen roared a battle cry-it sounded something like “Odin” to Natac-and met the leading giant with a slash of his great club. The giant howled and fell back, blood spraying onto the cobblestones. Rawknuckle and his comrades met their foes with staffs made from whole trees, bracing the poles against the bridge and lowering the ends into the charging enemies.

And then Fionn and three more giants rushed forward, wading into the confused front rank, the Irishman bashing with his staff while these giants laid about with heavy clubs. Within seconds the impetus of the Crusaders’ charge was broken, and the attackers fell back with shouts and curses.

Meanwhile, a few centaurs had tried to wade the raging stream, but the nearest druid chanted and swept her hands through an elaborate circle. Abruptly, white water churned upward, surging over the bank, sweeping around the legs of the rapidly retreating centaurs. One of the horse-men tumbled and slipped into the stream, and despite the best efforts of his comrades the hapless creature tumbled down the stream, rolling and bobbing as the water carried it into the lake.

Natac couldn’t wait to see if the centaur swam back to shore-the Crusaders were milling about outside the inn now, and he heard crashing and pounding below as they battered at the barricaded entrances. Clutching his sword, the warrior raced downstairs, just in time to see two elves tumble back as the front door gave way.

Five leering goblins clawed and scratched at each other, each trying to be the first through the opening. Natac rushed forward and, reminding himself to stab, not chop, thrust his blade into the packed bodies. The goblins howled and kicked, recoiling in a tangled mass. Natac stabbed again and four of the creatures scampered back from the broken door. One was bleeding, dragging a limp leg. The fifth lay motionless, pierced through the heart.

Natac felt the same chill he’d experienced when he slew an elf in the Crusaders’ camp. Never in all his years of warring had he killed so easily-this keen weapon cut flesh in a way that went far beyond the capabilities of the stone blades of his homeland. He had no time for further reflection, as giants and wild-faced elves lunged toward the opening.

“Get this door back up!” shouted the warrior to his own elves, several of whom gaped, horrified, at the breach. Natac stabbed again, puncturing a giant’s belly, then slashed his sword back and forth across the opening until the door was pushed back into place. Other elves were ready with beams and a great table, which they used to prop the barrier in its frame.

A clatter of hard blows mixed with shrieks of pain drew Natac to a room in the back-a private dining room. Here a window had been pushed in, and a dozen Crusader elves had forced their way into the chamber. Already several defenders-mostly cooks, to judge from their greasy, flour-stained garments-had been cut down. One crawled toward the door, while two more lay in pools of fresh blood.

Natac attacked like a madman, shouting a challenge as he rushed into the enemy’s midst. He struck left and right-killing blows to neck and chest, crippling slashes to hamstring or calf. Within seconds half the elves were down and the others were diving back out the window.

Then a cheer rang from the ramparts. Natac looked outside, saw that Sir Christopher was ordering his men back, regrouping on the slope of the ridge. A glance toward the bridge showed the same-the Crusaders were backing away, and the giants and elves of Natac’s company were shouting in joy.

Natac looked up, saw that the sun had already begun to recede. It looked as though his warriors had carried the first day.

T he giant was covered with blood, sprawled across a two-wheeled oxcart that had been violently tipped onto its side. The leather traces were sliced to ribbons, and there was no sign of the great bovine that, Karkald deduced, must have been pulling the wagon. The whole gory tableau lay at the mouth of the tunnel carrying the Metal Highway away from Nayve.

The dwarf felt a dull sense of hopelessness. This world was so different from the First Circle… how could he manage? He was in command of a hundred gnomes, but none of the little fellows had ever even delivered a blow in anger before. And he couldn’t even keep Darann safe-she had insisted on marching here with him. She had been cursedly stubborn about the matter, too-he had only acquiesced because they needed to get on the march, and she had been unwilling to yield to his authority.

Now this giant lay here, clear proof that the danger was greater than just that offered by the Crusaders-for in the cruel, slicing cuts Karkald felt certain he was looking at the work of Delvers.

“In here!”

It was the faerie called Kaycee, who had flown along as the gnomes and the two dwarves had marched out of the city. Now she called from inside the tunnel, and moments later came flying woozily out. She plopped into the ditch and retched noisily.

“It’s the ox… what’s left of it,” offered Nistel, who had gone ahead to investigate. “Mostly bones, I should say.” The gnome, too, looked a little queasy as he emerged into the fading light.

“What could have done this?” Darann asked, moving closer to the motionless giant. She leaned toward his face, brushed away the blood with a tentative hand. “He’s alive!”

“Bring him over here, to the grass,” Karkald directed the gnomes. The little fellows, who seemed to welcome his assumption of authority, hastened to obey. In a few minutes the giant was stretched out, compresses laid against his many wounds. Most of these, fortunately, proved shallow. As Darann gave him some water, and washed his face, his eyelids flickered and then, with a start, he sat up.

“Little murderers!” he howled, raising his fists as gnomes scampered in all directions.

“Wait!” declared Karkald, his sternness matching the giant’s outrage. “We are not the people who did this to you!”

The giant scowled and squinted, rubbing one of the wounds on his scalp. “No,” he admitted. “They were ugly runts, no eyes in their faces! And one of them had jaws of metal-’twas his bite did this.” The fellow displayed a nasty wound in his forearm. “There was hundreds of ’em, teeming like rats, they were.”

“Did you fight them off?” Karkald asked, amazed.

The giant shook his head ruefully. “Not the like. It seemed like there was no hope. We’d fought our way out of the tunnel, just before the Lighten Hour… must have been this morn. But the little wretches came after, pulled Bess out of her traces.” The fellow’s voice caught, a mixture of pain and rage, and his great hands clenched into fists. “They were eatin’ her while she was still kickin’! She bellowed for me, and I tried to get to her. But they was too many.”

“You fought bravely,” Karkald said. “Your wounds show that.”

“And then they just left me… like the sun was getting brighter, and then run back into the tunnel.”

“They are Delvers, blind dwarves of the First Circle who live for killing and cruelty. They have indeed come to Nayve,” Karkald declared grimly. He looked up, saw that the sun had receded far into the heavens. “Probably they wait only for nightfall before attacking.”

“And here they come!” squeaked Kaycee, buzzing out of the tunnel where she had ventured to keep watch. “Get ready!”

“Gnomes-form a line here, across the tunnel mouth!” shouted Karkald. The little people hastened to obey, but the dwarf’s heart sank at the prospect of these untrained troops facing a Delver assault. Still, there was nothing left to do.

Or perhaps one thing. He shouted to Darann, who was moving into the gnome line. “Take word back to the inn-tell Natac that the Delvers are coming! He’s got to be ready on his flank!”

“Send one of the gnomes!” she objected, with a meaningful nod into the tunnel. She had armed herself with a wooden shaft sharpened to a keen point, and she rose head and shoulders above their doughty comrades.

Karkald didn’t have time to argue. “Kaycee-get to the inn and warn them about the Delvers!”

With a nod the faerie buzzed off. By the time she disappeared, the tromp of marching feet formed a cadence coming from the tunnel. The Delvers emerged from the inky darkness into the twilight in a whirling front of slashing swords and cutting axes. Each of the Unmirrored was clad in metal armor and stood shoulder to shoulder with his mates. A few of the gnomes poked with their pitchforks or whacked with their staves, but the weapons bounced off steel-plated shoulders and heads.

And then the Delver weapons met flesh. Gnomes shrieked and screamed as dozens of wounds were scored along the line. Some were cut down in the first contact. Others dropped their weapons and turned to flee. Still more fell slowly back from that inexorable crush.

As soon as the Unmirrored had emerged from the cave they began to spread out, rear ranks moving to the right or left of the first row. Soon the mass was a hundred paces wide, and advancing into the open. The rest of the gnomes could do nothing but turn to flee, running into the night.

And the Blind Ones followed.

S he was near!

Zystyl’s wide nostrils quivered in anticipation. More than a scent, the arcane perceived a presence on a visceral level, in a place that superseded the keen depths of his four senses. There was a sweet aura, proof that he had found the same Seer female who had eluded him in the First Circle.

Now she was running with the gnomes, the runts who had offered such pathetic resistance. Still, the victory had been a delight-the Delvers had immersed themselves in the stench of a real bloodletting. The taste of gnomish flesh still lingered in Zystyl’s mouth, an oily residue which, after the long intervals on march rations, he found vaguely sickening.

But that was forgotten as the arcane now led his warriors after the retreating gnomes. The dwarves followed the sounds of their retreating foes, the Blind Ones rolling easily over the ground.

And somewhere before him was that Seer called Darann. He remembered the taste of her sweat when his tongue had stroked her cheek, the softness of her warm flesh in the grip of his strong fingers.

He had followed her to a new world, and here at last he would have her.

Sir Christopher launched his next attack under the full cover of darkness, once more sending waves of elves and goblins against the inn, while most of his giants again pressed the onslaught against the bridge. Natac watched the first maneuvers from the balcony of the Blue Swan, and saw a small group of enemy giants rushing out of the night. They carried a heavy tree trunk, and raced toward the front doors of the inn.

The warrior raced down to the ground floor, hurrying to the entrance, where he watched through the crack in the broken front door. As the horde emerged from the darkness, another volley of arrows lanced out from the Blue Swan’s high parapet. Now Deltan directed his missiles with lethal accuracy, and they found targets in centaur chests, giants’ throats, and the bodies of goblins and elves. A dozen or more of the attackers fell. But still the Crusaders rushed forward, and Natac threw his own shoulder against the door just in time to meet the shock of the onslaught.

The barrier shuddered and broke under the impact of a heavy ram. The Tlaxcalan tumbled out of the way, struggling to draw his sword and climb to his feet. The first giant, with the end of a big log under his arm, plunged through the doorway and spotted Natac. With a bellow that almost deafened the warrior, the hulking creature lashed out with a huge fist. Natac’s sword snicked outward and up, slicing across three knuckles. When the brute recoiled, the blade lashed out again as Natac stabbed the giant right in the heart.

By then another burly Crusader had entered the room, this one bearing a club. An elf charged forward, jabbing with a wooden staff, but the giant brought his club down on his victim’s skull, killing him in an instant. Natac turned, but he was too far away to intervene as the giant started toward the next room. But then another elf stood in his path, this one-like Natac-stabbing with a deadly steel longsword. The giant fell back, bright red blood spurting from his gashed thigh. By the time his comrades pulled him out of the room, the elves had lifted the door and once again barricaded it in place.

“Where did you get that sword?” Natac asked, recognizing Tamarwind Trak as the elf wiped and sheathed his blade.

“From me.” It was Darryn Forgemaster. The blacksmith druid stood with Miradel in a hallway. “I brought four more weapons over… thought they might be of some use. I gave two to those big humans, the Irish and Vikingman. One went to Tamarwind, and I have the other.”

“Good-and thank you!” Natac replied. Before he could say more, shouts of alarm rang through the hall.

“The inn is on fire! We’re burning!” The alarm spread quickly, and by the time Natac raced through the several connecting halls he found one wing of the Blue Swan nearly engulfed by flames. Elves frantically poured buckets of water onto the blaze, but the fire continued to consume the wooden structure. Interior walls glowed red, and smoke belched into the hallway from the open doors of several rooms.

Jared Innkeeper was there, sooty and gasping. The elf directed the firefighting efforts, even lending his slight body to the task of hauling buckets. But a quick glance showed the courageous elves forced to fall back, retreating in the face of intense heat.

“You-all of you! Help fight the fire!” Natac shouted, mustering a dozen elves who were milling about, wide-eyed and near panic, at the top of the wide stairway. They hastened to obey as the warrior rushed onto the outer balcony to get a view of the damage.

He saw that the roof was ablaze over the entire wing, with cheering Crusaders gathered around to watch. Turning back to the door, Natac was startled to find that Miradel had followed him onto the balcony. “Go back inside!” he ordered, but immediately saw that she was paying no attention to him. Instead, her eyes were fixed upon the sky.

She raised her hands and shouted. The voice that boomed from that frail and elderly form was a shocking pulse of pure power, and when she lowered her voice, the cry sank to a rumble that reminded the warrior of distant thunder. He stared in wonder, awed by her power, her calm majesty.

And then real thunder crackled through the night, exploding from dark clouds that were just now churned into being. Abruptly rain pummeled Natac, the inn, and the ground in a torrential deluge. Miradel wove the magic with her hands, threads pulled from fingers to palm in delicate motions. And while she worked her spell, the rain poured into the flames, sizzling and hissing into steam, dousing the fire wherever a finger of flame dared to rise-at least, on the outside of the great building.

However, when he went back inside, Natac saw by the smoke-filled halls that the conflagration continued to spread. He encouraged Jared’s efforts with a report of Miradel’s spell, then started for the stairs to check on the battle at the ground floor.

“Natac!” Tamarwind met him on the steps. The elf’s eyes were wild, and there was an edge of panic in his voice.

“What is it?”

“Over there-at the bridge. You have to see!”

Natac followed the elf back to the balcony and looked toward the other part of the battle. Torches flared in the darkness, and it looked to him as though the bridge still held. But there was churning movement beyond, dark forms coming from the mouth of the great tunnel.

Abruptly the night was split by a brilliant light, a glow of whiteness that seemed somehow even brighter than the sun. At the same time, it was a cold sort of illumination, suggestive more of a bright star than any kind of fire. Natac saw that the dwarf Karkald was holding his spear over his head, and it was the point of the spear that was aglow.

In the light the warrior could see that the gnomes were in full flight, running from the Metal Highway tunnel. Behind them came other figures, dark and crablike in the way they moved. They rushed after the routed gnomes in what was clearly an aggressive pursuit.

And Natac saw the grim truth in an instant: With this new attack, the whole defense of the causeway was outflanked.

“Fall back!” he shouted. He seized Tamarwind by the shoulder. “Go through the inn-get word to the far wings first. We’ll retreat to the courtyard, then make a rush from the gates-we have to reach the causeway, and soon. Now, move!”

The elf raced away, while Natac found Deltan Columbine. “Give them a few quick volleys-then get down to the courtyard!”

The poet nodded in understanding, then turned to shout orders to his archers. “You elves-go for the kill, now! Shoot three!”

Arrows whispered outward, but Natac was already down the stairs. He found Jared Innkeeper still leading the valiant, but failing, battle against the fire.

“The inn is lost,” the warrior said bluntly. “Gather your clan in the courtyard-we’re going to fight our way to the causeway while we still have a chance.”

With a gasp of utter despair, quickly contained, the elven patrician nodded and threw down his bucket. His eyes, rimmed with soot, were moist but his voice was strong. “All you of the Blue Swan-this way! Follow the warrior!”

In moments they had gathered before the main gates, which still stood intact. Miradel was there, and Darryn Forgemaster, as well as nearly all the elves of the company. Tamarwind arrived with the defenders of the far wing, and they gathered in the courtyard, waiting for word.

“Go to the stream!” Miradel shouted to him. “The druids will let us pass!”

The warrior nodded in understanding. “Open the gates and charge for the causeway!” shouted Natac. “Don’t stop for anything.”

The gates parted swiftly to reveal a few startled goblins. These wretched Crusaders hastily scampered away, as Natac led the elves out. Here and there a giant or centaur moved to intercept, but the sheer number of elves allowed them to brush these obstacles aside. However, as Natac looked ahead, he saw that the attackers still pressed against the bridge. Remembering Miradel’s instructions, he led the elves not toward the bridge, but toward the high, roiling stream.

Before the defenders reached the water’s edge the druids across the stream abruptly dropped their hands, ceasing the weaving motions they had maintained for so long. Immediately the roiling waters spilled away, leaving a shallow and placid waterway no more than a foot or two deep.

Swiftly the elves pushed across, the stronger helping the weaker. Churning over the muddy bottom, they climbed up the far bank, then turned to pull their comrades out behind them. Natac stood on the bank, watching as several centaurs galloped toward them.

“Get your bowmen ready to shoot!” he cried to Deltan Columbine. In the confusion of the retreat, however, the archer was able to assemble only a half dozen of his men. “Take aim-make each shot count!”

Most of the elves were across. Where was Miradel?

The warrior was shocked to see her just moving down to the stream, aided by Darryn Forgemaster. Natac went to her other side, but then Christopher’s centaurs galloped up, undeterred by the few arrows launched by Deltan’s archers. The warrior slashed back and forth, holding the first of the hoofed attackers at bay, but others circled around, out of range of his steel.

“Away with you!” cried Darryn, stabbing with his sword.

“Damned tooth!” cried a centaur, as the tip gouged his flank. Another of the big creatures reached down, seized the blacksmith by the wrist and pulled him out of the stream. Natac, holding Miradel with one arm, dragged her across the waterway and into the grasp of their comrades. Darryn tried to break free, to come after, but the centaur’s big hand was too strong. The smith raised his sword, but another centaur lunged at him to snatch the weapon away.

“Fine weapon!” roared Darryn’s captor, lifting the blacksmith off the ground and flicking his black tail. “You can tell our lord knight where you got it!”

More centaurs and several giants charged into the stream, and the druids hastily churned the water high, driving the aggressive Crusaders back to their shore. But Natac could only watch in helpless dismay as Darryn Forgemaster was lashed to the back of a big centaur. The blacksmith was hauled away even as the magic torrent churned through the streambed with renewed force.

The elves from the battle at the inn, battered, sooty, and defeated, streamed onto the causeway in the wake of the fleeing gnomes. Owen, Fionn, and the giants fell back from the bridge as Natac, too, joined the rearguard. A minute later they formed a living barrier across the terminus of the causeway, the Tlaxcalan standing with Rawknuckle Barefist and two other giants, as well as the other two human warriors, and Karkald and Tamarwind.

The Crusaders milled about at the bridge, hesitating to follow, and quickly Natac saw why. Churning out of the darkness came a solid front of black armor and swirling, vicious blades. The eyeless dwarves attacked like an unthinking, unfeeling machine. Sensing where the lake waters blocked them, directed by the shouts of their leader, the Delvers intuitively formed a wedge and drove down the road straight onto the causeway. They advanced shoulder to shoulder, a wall of steel breastplates and helmets. Every dwarf clutched a blade in each hand, and these deadly short swords whipped back and forth in front of the line like so many slashing scythes.

Natac stabbed and parried, with a lunge driving his blade through the breastplate of a Delver’s armor. Any further thoughts of aggression were curbed as he saw his companions forced back to either side, with the Unmirrored continuing their advance unimpeded. It quickly became clear that the only thing they could do was retreat faster than the Delvers could follow.

And so the warriors of the rearguard withdrew toward the city, staying just out of reach of those deadly swords. Around midnight, near the middle of the causeway, the eyeless dwarves finally abandoned the pursuit-to be safely underground by the Lighten Hour, Karkald speculated. Exhausted and wounded, the battered defenders could only look across the lake, where the flames still consumed the Blue Swan, and smoke and fire seemed to rise into the sky as a funeral pyre for the world.