Circle at center

PART TWO
14
War Years

Natac stood in the prow as Roland guided the Osprey into the sheltered cove. The stars sparkled above them, and the night was so still that the sailor had used a wind of his own casting to glide them silently, quickly across the lake. By following a circuitous route, tacking far in the direction that was neither metal nor wood, then approaching this anchorage along the lakeshore, the Osprey had avoided the heavy Crusader galleys that controlled so much of the water.

“That’s half of the job,” Roland said in a hoarse whisper as the boat glided to a halt within a few paces of the grassy shore. “And if we can get out of here before dawn, I can outrun those hulks back to the harbor.”

“I’ll be back before then,” Natac promised. “I hope she’ll come with me…” He sighed and shook his head.

“I know,” Roland said sympathetically. “But she’s always lived here… and who knows how much longer-” He stopped, but the question lingered in Natac’s mind as he slipped into the shallow water and waded ashore. He heard a splash behind him as Ulfang, too, sprang from the deck. The white dog swam to the shore and then, conscientiously turning away so that the warrior didn’t get sprayed, shook himself vigorously until he was nearly dry.

Roland whispered encouragement and then, with the aid of his small crew, pushed off. Natac knew he would keep the Osprey waiting in concealment against the Tlaxcalan’s pre-Lighten Hour return.

Natac and Ulf climbed the hill to Miradel’s villa. Still the night yawned around them, vast and utterly still. Far away the lights of Circle at Center blinked across the city’s expanse. Great houses and fabulous museums stood outlined in yellow illumination, while the fortified towers at the ends of the causeway were surrounded by the bright, white light of coolfyre. Even at this distance the Metal Highway stood outlined in clear relief-and Natac knew that, on the other side of the city, the causeway on the Wood Highway was similarly protected.

The camps of the enemy armies were for the most part invisible from this vantage, but he knew that within the valleys and lowlands along the shore there were ten thousand or more fires burning. The blazes marked the great city-camp of Delvers and Crusaders, the two armies that, in uneasy alliance, had worked so ceaselessly to breach the defenses of Circle at Center. The sprawling encampment had, through the years, grown to include the shoreline ends of both causeways, effectively cutting the city off from the rest of Nayve. Preventing those attackers from gaining a foothold on the island had become a life’s work for the Tlaxcalan, and it was a task that had no foreseeable end.

But now Natac’s thoughts turned inward, a mixture of melancholy and delight as he and Ulf approached the white-walled villa. Candles and torches glowed around the outer walls. Halting just beyond the periphery of brightness, Natac knelt down and looked into Ulfgang’s bright, intelligent eyes.

“You’ll keep an eye out here?” the human asked.

“All night,” promised the dog. “I’ll be a ghost on the hillside.” And just like that he was gone, vanishing into the shadows to commence a circuit of the slopes below the villa.

Natac climbed into the corona of light surrounding Miradel’s house, following the path toward the wide front stairway. He was not surprised when Fallon met him at the top. The elf, as always, had been keeping watch-indeed, Natac wondered if he ever slept. Now Fallon spoke very quietly.

“Warrior Natac… I thought it would be you. She is waiting.”

“Thanks, old friend. How is she?”

“The same.” The elf’s eyes were sad, and Natac touched him on the shoulder, then crossed the veranda to enter the house.

He saw her immediately, sitting upon a wooden chair near the fireplace. A blanket, a weave of many bright colors, was pulled over her thin legs. Her face was a relief map of wrinkles, creases radiating until they met the scalp of snowy white hair.

But the smile that brightened her face was as familiar to Natac as his own skin. And her eyes of violet, still as bright and colorful as they had been on the night so long ago, when she had sacrificed her own future to bring him life here in Nayve, pierced his heart with that mixture of joy and sorrow that seemed always to mark his visits to the villa.

“Hello,” she said, almost shyly.

“Hello.” His voice was thick, and he leaned down to kiss her on each cheek. “You’re as beautiful as ever.”

“And you’re as big of a liar,” she said with a tart laugh. “The Goddess knows, I can barely lift myself out of bed on these chill Lightens. But come, let’s eat-and talk.”

He helped her up, let her lean on his arm as they walked, very slowly, toward the large wooden table. As he did upon each of his visits, he noticed now that her steps seemed shorter, her stance more frail and halting, than ever before. Her hands trembled slightly, an effect he had witnessed in the elders of his birth world, but something that seemed monstrously out of place in Nayve.

“It has been a long time since you visited,” she said, and though there was no accusation in her tone, he felt a stab of guilt.

“Yes… three intervals now,” he said. “The war-”

“Of course, the war.” She cut him off, gave him a quizzical look. “How long has it lasted now, that war?”

“It was twenty-five years ago, just last seventh interval, that we fought the battle at the Blue Swan,” he reminded her.

“Twenty-five years,” she mused. “It seems only yesterday-you were a naif from the Seventh Circle, and I-I was so much younger.”

Natac knew that she was right. In the time since she had begun to teach Natac the ways of Nayve, Miradel had continued to grow older at a shockingly rapid rate. It was probably nothing more than the ordinary mortality faced by every person of Earth, but in this eternal place it seemed to the warrior as though she were withering before his eyes.

“Of course, many things besides myself have changed over those years,” the druid said pointedly, in her oddly disturbing way of responding directly to Natac’s thoughts. She looked at him with that same sense of pride she had shown from the beginning. “You are the general of ten thousand warriors-a whole army answers your command, and a city depends upon your skill for its survival.”

“I play my part-but there are so many others. Rawknuckle, Tamarwind, Karkald-”

“Of course. But I don’t want to talk about them. You must return to the war before the dawn, yes?”

Natac nodded, and drew a breath. “This time, please come with me! You will be comfortable in the city-you know Belynda has offered you rooms. And more importantly, you’ll be safe. You don’t know how many times we’ve seen Crusader patrols coming along this shore of the lake. It’s only a matter of time before they come here.”

“Nonsense. I’ve seen some of those patrols-my eyes are quite good, you know. They stay miles away from here.”

“That’s no guarantee that they’ll always stay away.” In fact, Natac too had noticed that the enemy troops had so far assiduously avoided the stretch of shore below Miradel’s villa. He drew little consolation from this observation, since it was something beyond his control, and a fact that could change at any time.

“This has been my home for hundreds of years,” the druidess declared. “Ever since I came here from the Seventh Circle… from our birth-world.” She looked at him directly and he nodded.

“I have plucked the Wool of Time. I am ready for the casting, if you want to see,” she said quietly.

“Is it finished yet?” he asked, looking at the door into the darkened viewing chamber.

“Soon… soon it will be over.”

It had become a place of horror for him, that room. Natac knew that he would have to go in there, to watch the final scene in a terrible story of violence and treachery, of theft on an incomprehensible scale, and of the end of the world that had been his home. But each time now, that watching, that remote observation, was a brutally agonizing affair.

Through the past few years, the warrior had observed the tragedy unfolding as an inexorable progression. He had insisted that Miradel show him every moment, each step in the destruction of everything he had left behind. The story held an intense, if horrifying, fascination. Unlike the people of his native land, he had some awareness of the power of European weapons, and he had at least a vague understanding of the invaders’ passion for gold. Furthermore, he had witnessed the power of European religion, in the belief in one god, in whose name works both good and evil were consecrated.

But he had been awed and enraged by the audacity of the man called Cortez. Natac had watched the captain general of conquistadores sink his own ships on the coast of Mexico so that his tiny army would have no means of retreat. Even as Natac hated them, he admired the Spaniards’ discipline in battle, felt the courage of a small force facing overwhelming numbers. The efficacy of metal armor against weapons of stone was proved and proved again, and he saw the sweeping power of a cavalry charge against men who, though they were bold warriors, had never seen horses.

His own Tlaxcalans, the bravest fighters in all the world, had waged a frenzied battle, a full day of fighting against the small band of invaders. Hundreds of warriors, including one of Natac’s sons, had perished during the savage fray. Cannons had roared fire and iron, and whole swaths of brave fighters fell. And at the end of that long and bloody day, only three of the conquistadores had been wounded-wounded-by the full might of the armies of Tlaxcala.

So his homeland had surrendered to Cortez, and now Tlaxcalan warriors fought under the command of Spanish masters, slowly choking a ring of death around the heart of the Aztec realm. In that army they had been part of the Aztecs’ destruction, but to Natac it was a hollow victory for, at the same time, they were helping to obliterate their own world. Now Moctezuma was dead, and a terrible pox-another gruesome weapon of the insurmountable invaders-had decimated the ranks of the surviving Mexicans.

Miradel lit her candle and once again the pictures played across the wall. The great temples and pyramids, structures that had risen like mountains into the sky above the Aztec capital, were already gone, razed by the deliberate pounding of Spanish guns. Most of the city was a ruin, and in the rest the defenders fought like madmen, and were slaughtered like dogs. Lancers charged on horseback, picking off any Aztec who showed himself. Arquebuses blasted lethal volleys, and each fortified building was simply smashed to rubble by thundering artillery. It would be a matter of days, Natac saw, before the world of the Aztecs and Tlaxcalans was gone, replaced by something he couldn’t imagine.

The picture began to fade, and he noticed that Miradel had drifted off to sleep, her head resting on her frail-looking hand. Gently the warrior lifted her up and carried her to her bed. He thought for a long time of simply carrying her away, taking her to the boat, but in the end he carried her to the same sleeping chamber-the room that held his first memories of Nayve-and laid her gently on the bed.

Fallon escorted him back to the stairway. Natac clasped the elf by the arm, then looked upward to see that the sun had just barely begun its descent toward daylight. It glowed as a star bright enough to cast a faint illumination on the flagstones of the courtyard, but the hillside below was still cloaked in shadow.

“Take good care of her,” said the warrior.

“Of course-now, make haste,” Fallon encouraged, and Natac nodded.

He trotted down the path, and quickly found the white dog sitting in a clump of underbrush. “Let’s go,” the warrior whispered.

“You go,” Ulf replied. “I think I’ll stay over here for a while, to keep an eye on things.”

Natac was touched. “Thanks, friend. I’ll feel better knowing that you’re here.”

“I’ve already spoken to Fallon about it-he’s quite a good cook, you know. He said he’d be delighted to keep me fed.”

Laughing quietly, Natac ruffled the dog’s fur with an affectionate pat. “You’ll eat better than most of us, I wager,” he said, before starting down the trail, directing his footsteps toward the Osprey, Circle at Center, and the war.

“C ome up here, where we can get a good view,” Karkald urged Tamarwind, gesturing toward the tall stone tower that flanked the end of the causeway. The dwarf had found his elven comrade on the harbor dock, where Tamarwind was inspecting the modifications to his caravel, the Swallow. Though the Lighten Hour already brightened the sky, the lakeshore and causeway were still illuminated by the coolfyre globes mounted on tall poles all across the area.

“I’ll come too,” said Deltan Columbine. The two elves followed the dwarf off the dock, to the base of the tower, then up the steep stairway ascending to the upper parapet. Finally they reached the top, Karkald pushing through the trapdoor to the upper rampart. From here the trio looked across the lake.

The detritus of war was all around. Masts jutted from the water where the last naval skirmish had carried the enemy almost to the shores of Circle at Center. These were like ghostly trunks in the growing light of day. Karkald looked at the steel-springed battery atop the tower, feeling a flush of pride. In the most recent fight, it had been the fireballs launched from here that had destroyed Sir Christopher’s lead galleys only two hundred yards from the harbor.

Both attacking armies were visible in their encampments across the lake. Sir Christopher’s Crusaders, now numbering some twenty thousand elves, centaurs, goblins, and giants, occupied more than a mile of the lakeshore. The surroundings, once pastoral forest, were now a barren landscape of muddy hills. Crude barracks huts dotted the slopes above the flat ground. A hulking structure of sooty stone crouched beside a muddy stream, black smoke billowing from its tall chimney.

Beyond, near the mouth of the Metal Tunnel, they saw the bristling barricade of the Delvers’ camp. During the hours of daylight, most Delvers remained in the darkness of the tunnel while others moved about only with elaborate precautions to ensure constant shade. At night, however, the Nayvian warriors had learned that there were no more savage fighters than the Unmirrored.

When the blind dwarves and the savage crusaders had first encountered each other twenty-five years earlier, it had taken only a few days before it became obvious to those in Circle at Center that Zystyl and Sir Christopher had formed an alliance. The two forces had linked in dire purpose, both dedicating themselves to the capture and destruction of the city, the island, and the Center of Everything. In a series of ensuing campaigns the attackers had closed the ends of both causeways, and destroyed many of the villages, harbors, and settlements on the shore of the lake. Though they had never made it onto the island for more than a quick raid, the enemy had developed a fleet of large, powerful galleys. The great ships were slow and cumbersome, but conversely they had proven virtually unstoppable in the attack. For at least a dozen years they had patrolled the waters of the lake with virtual immunity.

It had only been an interval ago when the fleet of Crusader galleys, fifteen ships strong, had attempted to land the largest raiding party of the war right on the shores of Circle at Center. Karkald’s batteries, completed only during the last year, had seen their first action, launching balls of incinerating shot into the massed galleys from the two closest towers. Five of the ships had burned completely, while the survivors had beat a hasty retreat.

“That bastard blacksmith’s forge is roaring,” Karkald grunted, pointing to the plume.

Tamarwind nodded, not surprised. For all the years since his capture, Darryn Forgemaster had apparently labored nonstop to provide the Crusaders with metal weapons. The druid had been scorned as a traitor by Karkald and many others, but the elven scout suspected that Darryn’s apparent betrayal had a deeper explanation. Still, it galled him to know that without the smith’s weapons and armor, the Crusaders would be less deadly foes.

“Of all the enemies who deserve to die,” spat Karkald, “that bastard blacksmith would be at the top of my list. If not for him, they’d have no swords, no steel heads on their spears and arrows. I suppose the scum is making himself rich on this!” It was an opinion the dwarf had expressed many times, but he still managed to work up a good measure of vehemence.

“You might be right. But I still can’t help wondering why… why he works so hard for our enemies.” Darryn Forgemaster was not the only person changed by this war, far from it. Tam remembered the changes in Belynda since she had been a captive of Sir Christopher, so long ago. The elfwoman he had known for many centuries had seemingly vanished in that instant, to be replaced by someone who was as dark and bitter in her own way as any warrior accustomed to death and destruction.

But now their attention was directed across the lake, where the long galleys of the Crusaders could be seen gliding along the shore.

“They’re up to something,” the dwarf grunted, squinting across the sun-brightened waters. “Natac’s not far away from there.”

“They’re still a mile or more from Miradel’s cove,” said Tamarwind, trying to sound more optimistic than he felt. He knew that Natac and Roland would be trapped if the galleys continued on their current course.

Deltan gestured to the ships in the harbor below, a dozen three-masted caravels currently riding at anchor. In the prow of several of the ships gleamed a silver contraption, a miniature version of the great weapon atop this tower. “Perhaps it’s time to give your nautical battery a test.”

Karkald grimaced. “You know Natac wanted to wait until we had all of the ships outfitted. To get the most out of the surprise.”

The elf nodded. “I know-but he couldn’t have foreseen this! And it’s not just the Swallow that’s ready-we can shoot from the Nighthawk and the Falcon, too! Besides, we’ll probably get out there, and the galleys’ll turn after us and we can get away without firing a shot. That’ll give the Osprey time enough to race for safety.”

“I can’t argue with that,” the dwarf agreed. Tamarwind nodded decisively.

“Ahoy-crew of the Swallow!” Deltan shouted down from the tower. “Prepare to sail-we’re coming down!”

Instantly the deck of the ship became a beehive of activity. Elven crewmen started to hoist the sails, while others cleared away the clutter of routine sail-mending and rope work, or made ready to cast off the lines. In moments the two elves and Karkald had scrambled down the stairs and were running along the dock. By the time they boarded the caravel, the ship’s druid, Juliay, had brought out her bowl and windspoons.

“Cast off!” cried Deltan, as magical wind swirled upward and began to billow the sails.

“Look.” Karkald said the word quietly, but his blood chilled as he looked across the lake. “There’s the Osprey.”

Roland Boatwright’s ship had broken from its cove, twin sails full of wind. But the big war galleys were close now, and with their prey in plain sight they wheeled majestically, turning into position for an attack.

N atac stood with his hand on the line, leaning out to add his slim weight to the digging of the sailboat’s keel. The war galley loomed huge off the port bow, and Roland was rapidly spinning the spoon in his wooden bowl, casting every bit of wind he could muster into the taut canvas.

In a rush of wake the Osprey scooted past the first of the big ships. Several giants roared and hooted, then hurled big rocks. With some trepidation Natac watched the boulders soar close, but Roland twisted the tiller at the last minute. The crushing missiles landed to either side of the racing boat, raising tall cascades beside the gunwales, showering the deck with water. Swiftly the little sailboat raced away, and the next volley of stones fell just short of the stern.

But now they saw the other two galleys, big ships waiting farther away from shore. Those vessels had been screened by the first of the Crusader vessels, and were perfectly positioned to block the Osprey’s escape either to the right or the left. Giants loomed in the prows and sterns of both galleys, while the banks of oars, powered by rowing goblins, pushed the massive hulls through the water with churning speed. Natac could hear the drumming, the cadence of pounding feet and rhythmic chants made by the laboring rowers. The pair of galleys seemed to leap forward, closing the gap with startling quickness.

Beyond the enemy ships, far away across the lake, Natac caught a glimpse of white sails and felt a momentary chagrin. The caravels had sortied! His disciplined plan, to wait until all of his ships could be outfitted with Karkald’s new weapon, had been thrown into disorder by the need to rescue him. Still, the fleet’s presence at least raised the hope of escape. The warrior turned back to Roland, ready to announce his observation..

“I see ’em,” the druid declared from his position at the tiller.

“We need to buy some time!” Natac urged, knowing the caravels would not reach them for many minutes.

“I can do a little something about that-but it’s a risk!” Roland said.

“This whole war’s a risk,” Natac replied. He held the line and watched, his heart pounding with that precious excitement raised by a contest in which the prize was survival.

Roland pulled the tiller again, adjusting the force of his magical wind so that it still roared against his boat from the stern quarter. The little craft cut a tight half circle through the water, slicing through the gentle waves, now racing directly away from the two galleys-and straight back to the shore, only a few miles away.

T amarwind stood at the helm of his ship. A stiff wind filled the sails, pushing him on a course of interception. The other caravels of the little flotilla fanned out to either side, a line of white canvas and sleek hulls. He had not ordered them to follow, but he was gratified to see that the Nayvian fleet had taken to the lake with alacrity.

Beside him, Deltan Columbine grinned, white teeth flashing. His hair streamed in the wind, and his face, bronzed by years of sun and weather, glowed with a golden sheen of vitality. Just for the joy of it, the poet-warrior raised his flugel, sent brash notes ringing across the water. Just beyond Deltan, Karkald leaned over his battery, fiddling with the sights, checking the ammunition in the compact breech. He, too, was weathered and browned, his full beard flowing to either side of his broad chest.

How much we’ve changed, reflected Tamarwind. He looked at his own hands, browned, muscular, and calloused in a manner that he never would have imagined. Years of warfare had hardened his fingers and his palms, just as those same years had hardened him all over. Life had become a constant fight to protect the city. Matters of life and death were faced every day. Tamarwind himself had made mistakes that had sent brave elves to their deaths. And yet, in a secret part of his mind, he admitted to a bizarre vitality to this life, an appreciation of each day that he had never before imagined.

For the most part, it had been Natac and Karkald who had instructed the elves in matters of defense. The human warrior had studied many ways of making war, Miradel frequently utilizing the Wool of Time to teach him more about his birth-world. And Natac had put that knowledge to good use. When the attackers sent a wave of centaurs advancing rapidly down the causeway, the Nayvians had quickly formed a barrier of giants armed with massive pikes, an array of sharpened steel that had effectively thwarted the thundering charge. Sir Christopher sent legions of bowmen to shower the giants with arrows, and Natac had overpowered them with volleys from Deltan Columbine’s deadly longbows. And when the huge war galleys had been launched, more than ten years ago, Natac had enlisted Roland Boatwright to build the caravels. The little sailing ships, while unable to significantly damage the galleys, were-with the aid of druid-cast winds-always able to escape the lumbering Crusader vessels. The contrast had resulted in a situation where each side could still send ships across the lake, but neither could attain full control.

During the same time, the Seer dwarf from the First Circle had shared many secrets of technology with the druids and elves of the Nayvian army. Karkald’s skill at stoneworking had, with the aid of goblin labor, erected the towers on the island’s shoreline. His recent discovery of a large quarry of flamestone, existing right in the city, had allowed coolfyre to be developed, and the bright lights had proven invaluable in night battles. It had been the dwarf’s knowledge of metals-since the capture of Darryn Forgemaster-that enabled the defenders to make steel weapons and armor for much of the army, as well as to craft the mighty springs that powered the newest weapon. When Karkald’s great batteries had been mounted in the towers, the galleys were at last held at bay.

Now, with the smaller versions of those weapons placed in three of the caravels, the war was entering another period of change, Tamarwind reflected. Once again, he raced toward battle, hoping for the key victory, the triumph that would change the war forever.

But then his attention was drawn to the drama on the lake before them. He gasped as the Osprey turned, then vanished behind the closing shapes of two massive galleys. More rocks flew, and splashes rose from the water beyond the great ships, but finally Roland’s sailboat darted into view, racing toward the shore.

“Come and get us, you bastards!” Karkald growled, and Tam silently repeated the prayer. He could sense the indecision in the enemy captains-the small prize of the sailboat, almost certainly doomed if the galleys turned and followed it toward the shallows. But here came the much larger prize of the caravels, the vexing little ships that so often before had darted away from the galleys rather than face the larger ships in battle.

Now the galleys were turning, oars pulsing, great hulls slicing the water as they veered toward the elven fleet.

“They’re taking the bait!” Deltan shouted, as Tamarwind called for more wind. Juliay spun her spoons with intense concentration, the wooden utensils a blur in the large, empty bowl. Somehow she managed to avoid clicking against the sides, and freshening wind surged in the sails.

The enemy galleys came at them in a line of three abreast, several giants at the ready in the prow of each vessel. Tam knew that they would have plenty of rocks on hand, ready to unleash a devastating barrage as soon as they got close enough.

“Now-make ready to shoot!” he shouted.

Immediately sails slackened on the elven ships, though the sharp bows remained pointed directly toward the advancing Crusaders.

“Remember-aim low,” Tamarwind urged, speaking quietly to Karkald as if he were worried that the enemy, still five hundred yards away, would overhear.

“I’ll remember,” said the dwarf, with a wry smile. “After all, I made the damned thing!”

Already he was squinting along the grooved sights, lining the massive barrel onto the prow of the nearest Crusader galley. Juliay slowed the stirring of her windspoons, and the Swallow settled into a gentle roll. Soon all the elven vessels bobbed gently on the placid waters while the three galleys swept closer.

Tamarwind gave the signal, a sharp downward chop of his hand. Deltan had been waiting and watching from the rigging, and at the gesture he gave a single, loud blast of his flugel horn.

Immediately Karkald pulled the release.

The caravel lurched backward as the spring whipped free to fling the silvery balls through the air. On each side another elven ship shuddered, and the air rang with the whining sounds of bending springs and swiftly flying missiles.

Karkald’s aim was good. Tamarwind saw the spreading cloud of shot streak outward, arcing high above the waves before settling back toward the water. Many of the balls struck the Crusader ship, scattering across the deck near the bow, instantly blossoming into flames. Screams of fear and pain echoed across the water as, within moments, the entire wooden vessel was engulfed by roaring fire. The wounded ship shuddered like a living thing as orange tongues of fire crackled along the hull, devouring the oars and spindly mast. Anguished cries rent the air as elves, giants, and goblins hurled themselves from the flaming deck. Some of these hapless victims were themselves ablaze, their flesh hissing as they struck the water. Quickly the hull was obscured by smoke and steam, but still came the insatiable roar of the flames and the horrible sounds of the dying ship.

To either side the other galleys were also afire, though neither had been hit so solidly as the middle vessel. Water splashed across the decks as many goblins fought the flames. Others manned the oars, slowly backing the two surviving vessels away from the caravels and the death pyre of the third ship. A column of black smoke rose into the sky as the doomed vessel was gradually consumed right down to the water line.

“Look-we’ve knocked all of them out of the fight!” cried a crewman on the Swallow.

Whoops and shouts swept from the elven ships as the fleet of caravels wheeled away. Druids cast their magic, and as wind again filled the sails it was a triumphant fleet, with pennants flying and crews cheering, that sailed back to the anchorage below the Mercury Terrace.

Z ystyl clumped across the encampment and nodded to the two guards, giants who stood outside Sir Christopher’s palisade. He couldn’t see them, of course, but their auras-of scent, sound, and vitality-clearly marked them in the Delver’s mind. The first was full of lust, he sensed, yearning for a giantess he hadn’t seen in a long time. The second was a dullard, head fogged by too much firebrew consumed the previous night.

Numerous adaptations allowed the Unmirrored commander to move about under the light of Nayve’s sun, which had at first been almost unbearably painful to all his senses. A shield of silver was now attached to his helmet, deflecting the horrible light and providing him with an area of permanent shadow. His body was cloaked in a silk of fine weave and bright white color, a covering that extended right down to his fingertips. Only his sensitive nostrils were bared-as always, those moist apertures sniffed and sucked at the air, drawing in sensations that were far deeper than mere odors.

Leaving the giants behind, Zystyl relished the cool shade of the knight’s great stone-walled house. Shrugging the silken cloak from his shoulders, he allowed the sensations of warmth and chill against his skin to locate the walls and arched doorways surrounding him. With unerring accuracy he started toward the knight’s audience room.

And then, hearing the sound of a harsh voice, he halted, listening.

“… a time when I would have had you killed… burned at the stake.” It was the knight, Sir Christopher, speaking patiently, as if to a recalcitrant child. “You should be grateful that you have lived all these years, have been granted the chance to serve me.”

Zystyl listened and smelled, ensuring that he was alone in the great hall. Soundlessly he sidled closer to the closed door of the audience chamber.

“You are a fool-a blind fool,” snapped another voice, which then dropped into a register of bleak despair. “Or perhaps it’s myself who’s the fool… laboring in your name for all these years. How do I know you don’t hold me with an empty threat?”

Christopher laughed. “The druid crone is allowed to live at my sufferance… and my sufferance depends upon your steady labors. Do not think to change our arrangement now, or I assure you that your precious Miradel will pay the price. Take a look at her villa tonight, blacksmith… look long and hard, for it is only your labors on my behalf that keeps your precious druidess alive.”

A door slammed in the distance, and the Delver knew that someone had just left the audience room by a different exit. And he knew who that person was.

After a moment Zystyl cleared his throat and stomped noisily toward the room. He heard Sir Christopher rise out of his chair when he entered. The dwarf could smell the anxiety in the man, hear the tension in the rapidity of his breathing. Beneath his gauze mask the Delver’s metal mouth twisted into a smile-he had his ally at a disadvantage, and he would make use of the opportuntity presented to him.

“Your galleys have been driven from the lake, those that survive,” said Zystyl bluntly.

“We were met by a new weapon,” snapped the human. Frustration and fury thrummed beneath the surface of his voice, and the Delver relished the knight’s agitation. “Something we have never seen before. Globes of metal flung through the air from the deck of the enemy’s caravels… they shattered, and burned like the fires of the devil on my ships.”

“I heard the springs,” Zystyl replied. “It is a mobile battery, much like the weapons that the Seers used in the First Circle. Quite deadly, I imagine, to thin-hulled wooden ships. They have a command of metal technology, in Circle at Center-it is no surprise that they are putting it to such good use.”

“These are the uses of Satan!” Sir Christopher retorted. “Not the forging of good, honest steel-in the manner God intended for His warriors of virtue.”

“Ah… the forging of metal. You continue to get many tools-all your swords and armor, yes-from the druid prisoner?”

“As I have for all these years, yes.”

“It was a fortunate thing for you that you captured the man who, among all druids, is the one who knows the forging of steel.”

“It was the will of God.”

“Then let us use that will for more constructive purposes.”

“What do you propose we do?”

“What I have suggested for years. Now, perhaps, you will listen to me?”

“You may speak. But remember, the man who shapes steel is mine… he answers to my commands, and only I know the secret of his bondage.”

Zystyl nodded, knowing the human would observe the gesture, accept it as a positive response. In the heart of his mask, the metal jaws twisted into a cruel smile.