Circle at center

19
Cold as Fire

“We will build a palace here,” Sir Christopher said, sweeping his hands around the broad, flat expanse of the Mercury Terrace. At his side was Darryn Forgemaster, though the blacksmith seemed to take little note of the knight’s expansive gesture. The Nayvian night still loomed dark and starlit above them, and the sounds of battle marked skirmishing a half mile or more away.

“I tell you this,” Christopher went on, turning to address the smith, “because you will be doing much of the work. Our troops are well-armed now, and the war is nearly concluded. With our ultimate victory I will raise an edifice that will be a monument to God!”

“You need carpenters and stonemasons, then-not a blacksmith,” retorted Darryn.

But the knight was not paying attention. Instead, his eyes narrowed as he watched his ally approach from the darkness. Zystyl, accompanied by a dozen of his faceless Delvers, strode up to Christopher with that disquieting directness, confirming for the knight that the blind dwarf knew exactly where the human was standing. The knight put his hand upon his chest, feeling the comforting Stone of Command under his tunic. He let the power of his talisman infuse him, renewing and readying him for the meeting with his horrible partner.

“We need to erect shelters, awnings across this terrace, before the Lighten,” declared Zystyl. “A pavilion that will protect my warriors from the murderous sun. We can use the tarpaulins from the raft.”

“Of course, yes,” Christopher said irritably. “But beyond that, we need to create something lofty, permanent, glorious. Your troops are skilled with stone, are they not?”

The dwarf nodded, sniffing with those grotesque nostrils as if he sought the spoor of the knight’s thoughts. Christopher shuddered, squeezed the stone more tightly, and tried to keep the revulsion out of his voice.

“And our goblins work well with wood. I shall assign a thousand of them to the building task. The blacksmith shall make himself available as he may be needed.”

“Don’t you think we should complete the conquest, first?” snapped Zystyl. “And perhaps there will be a better place for your palace-in the Center of Everything, I suggest.”

“That land is blasphemed by the presence of the demon’s loom,” retorted the knight. “No, this shall be the place. When that foul temple is destroyed, I intend to salt the grounds and make the land around it a waste.”

“Very well.” The dwarf shrugged. “But before we move on with your plans, let’s get some shade up. My troops can use a day of rest-so tomorrow night we shall take the rest of the city.”

T he captains of Natac’s army met their general on the Avenue of Metal, a hundred paces from the place where it emerged from the Mercury Terrace. The Nayvians had withdrawn to the edges of the great plaza, but thus far the attackers hadn’t broken into any of the city streets.

“How are we holding?” Natac asked. He addressed his question to Fionn. “You first.”

“We’ve got gnomes and the rest of the goblins dug in on Marble Hill,” the Irishman reported. “The only way they’re comin’ over the top is when the last of us has died.”

Natac looked into his fellow warrior’s eyes and knew he was being truthful. At the same time, both men were aware that the suggested eventuality was a real possibility. So many were already gone… Miradel, Owen, Deltan Columbine, Roland… the names could roll on and on. How many more would fall before they were done?

Tamarwind spoke next. “I’ve found enough elves to block off the Avenue of Metal and the surrounding streets. We’ve garrisoned the walls and fortified the roofs of the Hall of Granite and the Gallery of Crimson-they’re big, stone buildings rising to either side of the road. The Crusaders and Delvers might push through on the avenue, but we’ll make it pretty bloody for them. We’ve got arrows and stones, even oil-bombs, ready to throw down from above.”

“Good.”

“And I’ve got a little surprise for the bastards,” Karkald announced. “Gallupper and his centaurs have it now-they can make a good mobile reserve.”

“Now can you tell us what the new invention is?” Natac pressed.

The dwarf nodded smugly. “It’s a mobile battery-three guns, on wheels, that can be pulled around by centaurs or horses. They’re smaller even than the batteries on the caravels, of course, but they can still toss some nasty fireballs into the enemy ranks. And the centaurs have had a little practice now-they seem pretty good at lining them up, aiming, and reloading.”

“Let’s get them into place in the rear, then,” Natac said. He looked at the sky, which remained fully dark, many hours away from Lighten. “I have a feeling that our respite is just about over.”

T hree women-two of them elves, their companion a dwarf-sat in the darkened chamber, their faces illuminated only by the pearly light of Belynda’s scrying orb. The image in the glass globe was faint, a poor source of light, but even so, the sage-ambassador and the others could follow each movement, study the people and locations thus revealed.

Sir Christopher stood at the center of the image. His hand was held at his throat, and Belynda sensed that he clutched the Stone of Command there, while his eyes followed the form of the hideous dwarf, the one called Zystyl. So intent was her hatred of the knight that, for a time, Belynda had paid little attention to the dwarf. Instead she watched Sir Christopher, saw the outline of the great rooms he would make his headquarters, scrutinized his mannerisms and his defenses as he stalked from one part of the plaza to the next.

Much of the stronghold was formed from buildings already existing at the edge of the plaza, including the two towers at the end of the causeway, and several great warehouses and gathering halls that had housed numerous elven functions during the last centuries. Outside, great tarps were being pulled across the spaces between the buildings, awnings that would create shade by the time of Lighten. Darann had reminded them that the Delvers, all except the few who had the bright, mirrored armor such as worn by Zystyl, would have to spend the day sheltered from the rays of the sun.

Sage-enchantress Quilene touched the globe, and in response to her magic the image pulled back, until the figures were small, even antlike, and the view encompassed the whole of what would be the invaders’ makeshift palace.

“By Lighten, that whole enclosure will be packed with the Blind Ones,” Darann noted. “I reckon that we have perhaps three hours to go.”

“Do you know where you want to arrive?” Quilene inquired.

“There,” Belynda said, indicating a small alcove where a basin held a steadily dripping birdbath. Once part of a small garden, it had become an enclosed room as the awning was pulled overhead. “With luck we won’t be noticed, and will be able to move into position to…” She couldn’t quite finish the statement, wasn’t ready to articulate the fact that she fully intended to kill a man before the Lighten Hour.

The enchantress didn’t have any such hesitation. “Remember, whether or not the knight lives or dies, you must get the Stone of Command from him. That is the only way to break the thrall in which he holds his Crusaders.”

“I know,” Belynda replied.

“Now is the time,” Quilene said. “If you are ready.”

“I am,” Belynda declared. She touched her waist, where she had a long, slender dagger concealed beneath her golden robe. The weapon was in a protective sheath, but she had already practiced, knew that she could draw it in an eye blink.

“Me, too,” Darann, who was similarly armed, added.

“Then come to the other table, and place your fingers in the bowl of water. I will begin the spell.”

Belynda thought that the water was pleasantly warm. She remembered the last time she had traveled by teleportation, and tried to prepare herself for the sudden disorientation as Quilene took up position and began to weave the words and gestures of her spell. Darann put her own fingers in the water, and met the eyes of her elven companion.

And then the magic crackled into life.

“W ait!” Ulfgang barked, rearing to scratch at the door to Belynda’s chambers. He yipped in agitation, and dropped to all fours again, shaking his head. His fur stood on end, and he could sense the aura of powerful magic-the same sensation that had lifted him from his slumber in the garden.

The white dog paced through a tight circle, then reared to paw at the door again. To his utter astonishment, it opened.

He recognized the sage-enchantress Quilene as he rushed past her to look anxiously around the main chamber. His claws skidded on the marble floor as he raced from room to room, finally coming back to Quilene, who still stood placidly by the door.

“It’s too late… they’ve gone,” she said gently.

Ulf sat with a heavy sigh, shaking his head. “She’s crazy… she’ll be killed,” he moaned, his words twanging into a sorrowful whine.

“Perhaps,” Quirene admitted. “But she’s brave enough to try.”

Suddenly Ulf hopped to his feet. He saw that the door was slightly ajar, and he pushed it wide with his nose. In a second he was outside, racing through the darkness. He could find Natac, or Tamarwind… perhaps they could help.

Or perhaps Belynda and Darann were already doomed.

T he magic took Belynda’s breath away. She staggered, gasping, as she felt a floor solidify under her feet. Her hands were in water, cooler than before, and vaguely she recognized the birdbath she had observed in her crystal. Darann, looking wide-eyed and a little queasy, clung to the opposite rim of the basin. Both of them held on for several moments, and at last Belynda’s sensations returned to normal.

“Are you all right?” asked the dwarf, in a barely audible whisper.

Belynda nodded, then raised her eyebrows in similar query. Darann, too, nodded, though she scooped up some water from the basin and touched it to her forehead. They saw that, just as it had appeared in the globe, a canvas tarp was draped across the entrance to the alcove. They heard the sound of footsteps from beyond the screen, listened as those sounds slowly faded away.

Touching the dagger, reassuring herself that it was still resting at her waist, Belynda reached for the tarp to pull it out of the way. Before she could grip it, however, the canvas was torn down, and sturdy hands grasped her waist and legs. She kicked, and tried to twist away, but more arms went around her, pinching painfully.

Only then did she notice that there were many Delvers in the room-small figures cloaked in dark steel, reaching for her with groping hands. Darann was somewhere behind her, and Belynda had a sense of things gone terribly wrong as she saw the warriors close in from all sides.

Three seconds later Darann had disappeared, but Belynda squirmed futilely in the grip of the Unmirrored Dwarves.

“W hy aren’t they attacking?” Natac wondered aloud. Karkald and Tamarwind, flanking him on the hilltop overlooking the Mercury Terrace, had no answer.

“If they don’t attack, can I?” Gallupper asked.

Natac shook his head. He had seen the batteries, the short, wheeled carriages that Gallupper and his small company had readied for battle, but he was determined to wait until the proper time to release what might prove to be a devastatingly effective weapon.

“No… for now, we’ll wait, and see what happens.”

And as the night moved into its final hours, the Nayvian warriors, the place that was the Center of Everything, and all of the Seven Circles waited, countless fates and futures in the balance.

S ir Christopher stalked into the chamber. His eyes narrowed as he recognized Belynda. “You-witch!” he hissed.

The elfwoman stared back at him, the full memory of his villainy flooding through her mind. She bit back her first instinct, which was to spit her hatred. Instead, she drew a breath, and forced her thoughts into order. A Delver held each of her arms, and their grip tightened as if the eyeless dwarves sensed her agitation. Zystyl was a few steps away-he had just taken her dagger, and was starting to question her as to her purpose and intentions.

Darryn Forgemaster came behind the knight, and his eyes widened in surprise as he spotted the elfwoman. He halted, flustered, looking at her, at the Delvers, at the knight who had become his master. For her part Belynda ignored the smith, forced herself against her revulsion to lean close to Sir Christopher.

“Be careful, my lover,” she said in a barely audible whisper. “We do not want this blind oaf to learn too much about us.”

Zystyl’s head whipped around, the gaping red nostrils flaring in suspicion. “What does she say, warrior?” he demanded. “Do you seek to betray me?”

“Of course not,” snapped the knight, irked.

“Caution!” whispered Belynda.

“I suspected you all along, traitor!” hissed the Delver arcane. “And now here is the proof!”

“Don’t be a fool!” The knight shook his head in irritation, and Belynda saw that he did not yet perceive the extent of his danger.

The sage-ambassador looked at Darryn Forgemaster, saw the anguish, the guilt and suffering written across the man’s face. He was looking into her eyes, searching for something-forgiveness, perhaps. Again she looked at the knight, but then her thoughts returned to the smith. Why did he feel such anguish? Was he not the rank traitor that everyone assumed-was there a different reason for his years of treachery, his steady labors in the name of Circle at Center’s enemies? He had been a loyal druid, a favorite friend of Miradel’s for centuries, and his work was known throughout Nayve.

With a flash she understood, and knew how to turn that knowledge to her own use.

“You had her killed, didn’t you?” she said conspiratorially to Christopher.

“Had who killed, witch? Who?” demanded the knight.

“Miradel. You knew she was murdered in her villa a few nights ago, didn’t you?” She saw instantly that one part of her guess was correct. Darryn staggered, face blanching, hate-filled eyes turned upon the knight. She was surprised, however, to see that the Knight Templar was equally shocked.

“No!” gasped Christopher. “She… she lives! She must!”

It was the Delver arcane who laughed. “The druid is dead… I would have made her my prisoner, but she fought too well. And so she died.”

The knight was obviously stunned, trying to understand the implications of new developments. He stood before the sage-ambassador, glaring at her, then shifted his accusing stare to the arcane. Belynda gently twisted an arm, and the dwarf holding her on that side released his grip, apparently content to let his comrade restrain the prisoner. Still pinioned by the other limb, she reached out a hand and stroked her fingertips along Christopher’s arm with just the tiniest rasp of sound.

“Proof!” repeated Zystyl, his voice rising hysterically. “You touch in my presence.”

“It was the witch!” cried Christopher. He backed away, reaching under his shirt to pull out the white stone on its golden chain. He clutched it in his hand, eyes wild as he regarded his ally with growing fear.

“Do not think you can flee!” declared Zystyl. He uttered no other words or sounds that Belynda could tell, but several other Delvers advanced, apparently summoned by some unseen, unheard command.

“Halt!” cried Sir Christopher. “All of you dwarves-stay where you are!”

Surprisingly, the Blind Ones ceased their advance, several twisting in place as if their feet had been glued to the floor.

“You will stay here,” Christopher shouted, clutching the stone with a white-knuckled grip. “Leave me in peace-”

A sudden, violent blow interrupted the knight as Darryn Forgemaster struck him from behind. Christopher twisted and fell, trying to strike back at the enraged blacksmith. The smith clawed at the knight, reaching for his throat, grunting inarticulately. The white stone, held by its chain, slipped from Christopher’s fingers as he drew a dagger and drove the blade again and again into the chest of the smith.

A second later Darryn collapsed onto the floor, swaying weakly on his hands and knees as crimson lifeblood spurted from a wound in his breast. Sir Christopher, still wielding the bloody dagger, scrambled to his feet, stood over the man who had served him so well, raising the blade for a killing strike. The stone on its golden chain swung loosely against him, tangled in the strands of his beard, apparently forgotten.

But now the Delvers were moving, a half dozen of the blind dwarves rushing in, grabbing the knight by his legs and arms, dragging him down. In seconds the man’s limbs were bound, and his fear-maddened attention had returned to the hideous dwarf who had once been his ally.

“I tell you-the witch is lying!” shrieked Sir Christopher, struggling vainly against Zystyl’s bonds.

Darryn Forgemaster lay dead, his blood already congealing on the slick paving stones. His eyes were open, staring sightlessly, and the sage-ambassador wished she could close them, could bring the man, at long last, some peace. But she was still held by another Delver.

Belynda turned to look at Christopher, watching coldly. This was her moment, her triumph-and though it would be the last thing she saw in her life, she would bear witness to the death of this monstrous creature who had so unspeakably violated her.

Yet why, then, could she take no pleasure in the victory?