Goddess Worldweaver

9
Centerflight

Miradel entered the temple in the middle of Darken. A few candles brightened the alcoves along the entryway, though shadows carpeted the floor of the main hall. The druid walked soundlessly down the center of this lightless aisle, passing the bolted iron door where the Rockshaft, long ago, had connected this temple to the city of Axial on the First Circle, so far below. Once that had been a route for trade and travel, but since the barrier of blue magic had descended, the shaft had been impassable. Some time ago, the upper terminus had been permanently sealed behind these locked iron doors.

The druid moved on, unconsciously stealthy as she approached the chamber of the Tapestry, the heart of the Worldweaver’s Loom. She thought of Shandira, the other woman waiting for these last moments on the plaza outside. Miradel had counseled her to watch the dancing stars, the reflections sparkling in the placid lake, and not to worry if she had to wait there for most of the night. Indeed, Miradel herself had no idea what would happen, how long or how short the discussion would be. She had questions, did the druid, but she was not certain that the answers she sought even existed, much less that they would be revealed to her.

The ivory doors to the inner sanctum, parted slightly to reveal a pale wash of light beyond, soon loomed, and Miradel drew a deep, slow breath. Then she reached forward, pushing the portals softly aside as she entered the large, circular chamber.

The goddess was at her loom, her long fingers supple on the threads, colors interweaving faster than the druid’s eye could follow. The tapestry, a blur of colors and images-the blue of water and sky, green of forest, and teeming collage of lives-rose from the wheel to cover the wall. For ten thousand years it had been growing, encircling the vast chamber, rising on the walls that towered high overhead. The pedals of the great loom hummed and whirred under the Worldweaver’s steady pressure, and the fabric, as shimmery as silk, continued to form and to rise from the machine.

“Ah, my faithful daughter, come in,” she said. “What do you seek in the midst of this night?”

“I have been wondering about Karlath-Fayd,” Miradel began-then halted in surprise as the goddess abruptly halted her weaving to regard the druid with narrowed, penetrating eyes.

“I would think you have more immediate concerns,” the goddess said sarcastically.

Never had the Worldweaver looked quite so severe, Miradel thought: her eyes glittered coldly, like diamonds, and a frown of displeasure creased her high forehead with more than a usual complement of wrinkles. She presented a rather frightening visage, an aspect the druid had never seen before. She fought an impulse to quietly acquiesce, to lower her eyes and murmur a deferential apology before she fled. Instead, she met that sharp glare with her own expression of honest curiosity.

“I mean no disrespect, lady. But I am curious and, as ever, I work to serve the cause of Nayve. To that end I ask: Is Karlath-Fayd not at the root of all our important concerns?” She faced the glowering expression of the goddess and continued. “Perhaps we need to know more about him.”

The goddess blinked and snorted, clearly offended by the question. “Why do you speak to me of this?” she demanded. “Do you now lack faith in my vision, in my knowledge of the Seven Circles. Know that I can see all in these threads!”

Miradel forged ahead. “I understand, lady. But because-I wonder if there is some cause for hope to be found in the Fifth Circle! Is it possible that we might strike at Karlath-Fayd himself, somehow destroy his power in his very lair? Perhaps that would be an effective tool-cutting the head off the snake in order to render the snake harmless, so to speak.”

“The armies menacing my shores are more dangerous by far than any snake!” retorted the Worldweaver, stern and stiff, with a voice that was icy cold.

“But still, you understand what I mean! He has no troops in Loamar now; they are all embarked on the death ships! This would be the time to strike… or at least, to scrutinze and study that foul god in his lair, to seek a weakness!”

“He doesn’t need troops! Have you not seen his gargoyle?” snorted the goddess. “It could destroy you, any of you, an entire army if it desired to do so. Regillix Avatar himself would be helpless against that giant! And even should one get past the gargoyle, why, the very sight of the Deathlord’s gaze is enough to turn one to stone! Imagine that horrible fate: frozen as a statue, immobile but aware, for as long as he desired to keep you as his ornament.”

“But…” Miradel was surprised and about to argue further, when she decided to hold her tongue. She needed to think, to understand what she was hearing. “Perhaps you are right,” she said quietly. “Forgive my impertinence.”

“Of course. But remember, the Deathlord is my concern,” the goddess declared sternly. “You should concentrate on preparing the initiates for the Spell of Summoning. That casting will occur tomorrow, you recall?”

“Yes,” Miradel acknowledged with a pang of guilt as she thought of Shandira. She considered raising further objections, but another look at that uncompromising visage caused her to hesitate. And the memory of a fresh question, newly growing in her mind, bade her to excuse herself as quickly as possible. “Very well, lady,” she said with a bow. “I leave you to your weavings.”

When she emerged from the temple, the night seemed to have grown much colder. She thought of her warm chamber in the Grove, longing for sleep, for blessed escape from the true world. But there was no time for that. Instead, she turned her steps toward the College, toward the apartments of her good friend.

She needed to talk to Belynda Wysterian.

The dragon spread his wings, ready to take to the air, while Natac remained on the ground. The Tlaxcalan looked at his mighty companion-more than a steed, the serpent had become as true a friend as he had ever known.

“See if the trolls need help,” said the general. “They have to get back from the shore as quickly as possible.”

“I may be able to delay the pursuit for a bit,” declared Regillix, snorting a sulfurous cloud that discolored the air over the man’s head. “Once again I am ready to spit some fire!”

“Good. I will help Tamarwind hold the elves together. If the trolls can join up with us by the time we reach the Swansleep River, we’ll have a chance to make another stand.”

“But if the Deathlord’s army stays between troll and elf, then there is no choice but to keep running,” the dragon noted.

“Exactly-so haste is important. Good luck to you and to Awfulbark,” Natac said, clapping the mighty neck affectionately.

“And to you. Stay well, my human,” urged the wyrm.

Natac trotted backward, experience having taught him about the downdraft that would emerge from those massive wings. With an eager snort, Regillix extended his neck, crouched upon his massive legs, and hurled himself into the air. Even two dozen paces away, the man was nearly knocked down by the gust of air pushed by the liftoff, but he braced himself and watched as the dragon rose upward, a hundred, two hundred feet in the air within a few seconds of his initial leap.

Turning to look into the valley, Natac watched the fleeing file of Tamarwind’s elves. They had fallen back from the shore in good order and were now marching inland at a good clip. Even so, when the man looked toward the coast, he saw the dark mass of the pursuing army. The ghost warriors were in contact with the rear guard of the elven march, and any slowdown in the pace of the retreat would bring yet more of the enemy troops into the engagement.

But how long could they keep marching?

Natac stood on the crest of an elevation that divided two valleys. Now he looked nullward, trying to see some sign of the Baranthian elves. He had spoken to their commander, Kelland Windreader, a few hours earlier, trying to convey the importance of a hasty but well-ordered retreat. At the time, Kelland’s force had been holding the original line at the beach, and the elven veteran objected to the idea of retreating before his warriors had been defeated. Patiently, Natac had explained about the gnome collapse, and the Baranthian leader had seen the fate that lay in store for his army if he didn’t pull them back before they were cut off. So he had started the withdrawal inland, like Tamarwind, keeping an aggressive rear guard engaged with the pursuing invaders. Jubal was with them. The human general, veteran of the American Civil War, was contributing his expertise, and Kelland Windreader had proved more than willing to accept his help.

Now, from the ridge between the two armies, Natac could barely see the advance elements of the Baranthian column. At the same time, the rear guard of the Argentian elves was drawing closer; it seemed obvious that the two columns were in danger of being catastrophically separated. The roads through the hills were long, twisting, and narrow, the next smooth ground some twenty miles away. There, a scenic river-the Swansleep-meandered through meadows and glades. The stream spilled from the Lodespike Mountains and through this long valley, until it ended in a waterfall, plunging from the edge of Riven Deep.

After the beach had been lost, that river became Natac’s next and best hope. His plan had been formed years ago, when he had studied the Blue Coral Coast as one of a half dozen landing sites suitable for a force the size of the armada. In long conversations with the elder druids and especially their matriarch Cillia, he had settled upon a tactic, and now he was ready to put it into place. He leaned his head back and cupped his hands to his mouth.

“Runner!” he called. Then he sat on a flat boulder, taking a little while to breathe, to prepare his strength.

Less than five minutes later he heard the telltale buzzing of wings as a small faerie buzzed into sight. Quick as a hummingbird, he flew up to Natac and came to rest on the same rock. Even standing, the little fellow barely came to the man’s shoulder. He bowed gracefully, then looked at the general.

“You require a courier, Lord Natac?”

“Please-take a message back to the Grove. Tell Cillia that we need a hundred druids experienced in windcasting at the Swansleep. She’ll know what that means.”

“Very well, my lord. And may I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors on behalf of the Fourth Circle,” said the faerie with polite dignity.

“You may,” Natac replied with a chuckle, the first levity he had experienced in what seemed like weeks. He enjoyed the company of the faeries, several hundred of which served his armies. He didn’t recognize this one. “What’s your name?”

The handsome, young-man-faced creature’s eyes widened. “I am called Horas of Gallowglen,” he said seriously.

“Then I bid you the best of luck as well, Horas of Gallowglen, in all your endeavors on behalf of the Fourth Circle.”

“Thank you, my lord!” Beaming, the faerie hopped into the sky and, with hum of speeding wings, darted toward the Center. In seconds distance rendered him invisible.

His mood lightened slightly, Natac of Tlaxcala, general of all the armies of Nayve, started jogging down the hill to try to make a workable plan. He concentrated on the ground as he ran, but another part of his mind was analyzing the battle, his concentration aided by the activity. Of course, he had learned how to ride-horses, as well as the dragon-but he came from a place on Earth where the horse had been unknown, and for all of his first life had gotten where he needed to go on the strength of his own legs and the endurance of his lungs. So he gave no thought now to the fact that he would have to cover nearly four miles to reach the vanguard of the Baranthian column; he simply started to run.

It was not even a half hour later that he reached the valley floor, loping along until he could climb onto a dramatic outcrop of rock rising thirty or forty feet above the trail. They moved in a long file, trudging with stooped shoulders and plodding footsteps. But they still bore their weapons, he was glad to see. As he watched, four centaurs came into view, pulling along a pair of the batteries, the silver carriages rolling through the muck in the midst of the retreating Baranthians.

“Hail General Natac!” cried an elf, as soon as he came into view. The warrior took heart from the cheers that rose from the troops-they didn’t sound like an army that was running away-but he quickly raised his hands and brought about a silence.

“Brave elves of Baranthia!” he called. “The battle has not gone as we desired, but all is not lost. Your brothers from Argentian march in the neighboring valley, in position several miles ahead of you. So make haste, my elves; hurry down the vale and join with Argentian for another battle. We will find the place and bring this horde to a halt!”

He wished he could unequivocably believe his own words, but the elves certainly took him at face value. They shouted another hurrah, then started to jog, the column moving notably faster as it snaked along the gentle valley floor.

Natac stayed atop the rock for nearly an hour, exhorting each company of elves as they came within earshot. He was rewarded as they hurried along, and he felt certain that they would pass through the hills at nearly the same time as the Argentians.

Spotting Jubal in the file, Natac waved, and the Virginian quickly scrambled up to join him.

“I reckon we can pick up the pace a bit,” he agreed, after Natac had explained his hopes for the retreat. “But what’re we gonna do at the river?”

“I have sent for druids to help us,” replied the general. “Juliay will be there, as a matter of fact.”

“That’s encouragin’,” Jubal replied. “Wish we coulda had a few druids at Gettysburg-things mighta come out a little different.”

With that, the human warrior was off. Natac stayed in place, and Kelland Windreader came along near his rear guard. Only then did the general scramble down from the rock to speak to the Baranthian commander.

“We’re holding them back for now,” the elf, his skin streaked with soot, sweat, and blood, explained. “But they come on tirelessly; it will be hard to outdistance them.”

“Do your best, my friend,” Natac counseled. “For if we can get to the Swansleep before them, there might be some hope there.” He explained that he had already urged the bulk of the elven column into haste. “Jubal’s with the vanguard; he will work on getting the troops in place.”

Windreader nodded wearily. “We’ll try to catch up,” he offered.

“See you at the river, then,” Natac said. He left the elf to his column and trotted back up the hillside until he was running along the crest of the ridge. Now he could look down and see an elven column to each side, and he was pleased by that symmetry. He looked into the distance, toward the next ridge, and thought about the brave gnomes that had fought beyond that crest. Had any of them made it out? Or was that vale even now churning with the soulless march of the ghost warriors? Would the advance render his whole plan useless?

He couldn’t answer those questions now, not without a two-hour run that would take him miles out of his way. Instead, he turned toward the problem he might be able to solve. He ran faster now, moving toward the Center much more quickly than the marching elves. Night fell, and he kept going through the darkness and into the following Lighten. He still ran, finally emerging onto a low elevation, with a green valley opening before him. In another hour, he had completed the descent into the valley of the Swansleep River. That flowage, a shallow and meandering stream, marked a shiny ribbon in the center of this verdant lowland.

If he could reach that river, and if he found the druids there, they might just have a chance.

The sailboats of the Metalfleet, those that survived the frenzied battle with the armada, had withdrawn into the harbor. Less than five hundred hulls gathered in the placid water, and nearly all of these were scorched from the fight, gashed and gouged, with torn sails and grimy, soot-stained surfaces.

But at least they were alive.

Roland Boatwright gathered with his captains on the shore. Crazy Horse was here, as well as Richard Rudolph and the elfmaid, Sirien Saramayd. The Sioux chief was despondent, reporting that his druid and lover, Cloudwalking Moon, had perished in the fight. “I killed the bastard who stabbed her, but there was naught I could do for her,” he said, his eyes filled with tears. “Brendal was there in a moment, using her druid’s healing magic, but even she was too late.”

“I am sorry, my friend,” said Roland. “All we can do now is to seek revenge, so that she has not died in vain.”

“Aye,” agreed Crazy Horse. His eyes were suddenly dry, and the boatbuilder sensed that desire for vengeance already burning there.

“The invaders have moved inland,” Roland reported. “We can’t affect them with our boats, but we have five hundred druids and more than a thousand warriors here. This is too valuable a force to waste.”

“I agree,” said Rudolph. “We gave them a jolly good rush, but it wasn’t enough. So where do we go from here?”

“Let’s march to Circle at Center,” Crazy Horse said. “I think that’s where the next fight will be.”

“Aye,” Roland agreed. “And if we lose that one, there will be no more.”

This was already the worst war Awfulbark had ever seen, and it wasn’t about to get any better. These horrible fighters were tearing his trolls to pieces, and every time the king’s warriors killed one, it seemed that three or four lunged forward to take the place of the slain one. The battle had raged for more than a day, and still the black ships pulled up and disgorged more attackers.

“Come this way!” he shouted. “Get away!”

Every instinct of his being urged him to lead the way, to turn tail and run as fast as he could toward… well, it wouldn’t be so much toward something as it was away from here. His sword arm was weary, and his body ached in a dozen places where his flesh had been pierced by spear or sword and was slow to knit itself under these frantic conditions.

But there were others, including Roodcleaver, who were far worse off than the king, so Awfulbark resolved to stay and fight long enough for the rest of his fellows to get away.

“Run!” he urged Roodcleaver, who was sinking her teeth into the throat of a squirming ghost warrior. Her right arm had grown back, but the king winced to see the red slash across her back, the deep cut still bleeding. “Take trolls away from here!”

He seized her shoulder and pulled her away, slashing his blade down onto the head of an attacking Hoplite who lunged after. She blinked at him, but then bobbed her head and took up his call. “Run! Come away!” she brayed.

One by one the trolls fell back from the line until they were streaming away from the beach. The attackers charged forward, rushing past him on both sides. Awfulbark was nearly surrounded, but he hacked his way through a dozen primitive spearmen, leaving all of them torn, bleeding their ghost blood into the ground. Only then did he lope after the rest of the trolls, hearing the ghastly wails rising from the horde behind him.

Fortunately, his own warriors were much faster than the attackers, and in a short time the mob of fleeing trolls had put more than a mile between themselves and their enemy. Furthermore, they were capable of great feats of endurance. Awfulbark knew they could run all night and through the next Lighten, if they needed to. He was grateful, for he guessed that it would take him at least that long to figure out what to do next.

He was spared this decision making as the shadows thickened and the sun was already well advanced on its nightly ascent into the heavens. He heard a buzz of wings and turned to see a small faerie flying along beside him and eyeing him warily.

“What you want?” he asked, loping along at the rear of his army.

“I bring word from General Natac,” said the faerie. “Keep going toward the Center, away from the sea. He wants you to do your best to get to the Swansleep River.”

“The Swansleep River?” snorted the troll, not having the faintest idea where this body of water could be found. “We try to make it to river-but first, we gotta make it through the night.”

Miradel was in the temple when she heard the horn. She ran out onto the plaza, saw that Darken was well advanced, and discovered druids streaming from the Grove, from the gardens around the lake, and from the loom. They were coming to gather around Cillia, who stood in the circle of stones and once again sounded the horn.

“What does this mean?” Shandira made her way through the crowd and whispered the question into Miradel’s ear.

“A general alarm,” she replied. “Cillia will tell us more. But look-the enchantresses are coming from the College. This is something unusual.”

As the throng of white-robed elven sages mingled with the druids in their colorful tunics, Miradel spotted Belynda and, with Shandira in tow, made her way to her friend.

“There must be word from Natac,” the sage-ambassador told the two druids. “Quilene warned us to be ready for this.”

“What have you seen of him-in your Globe?” asked Miradel. “And of Tamarwind?”

“They are well,” Belynda replied, “insofar as they have survived the battle on the beaches. But the attackers were too many; the elves have fallen back through the hills. The gnomes, I am sorry to say, were not so fortunate.”

Miradel felt a rush of guilt for, in that moment of brutal honesty, the fate of the army meant much less to her than the safety of her lover. But in another instant she acknowledged the despair brought about by the dire situation. If the Deathlord’s horde was unstoppable, how much longer could Natac, or anyone else on Nayve, hope to survive?

“Druids and sages,” Cillia declared, commanding in her position in the center of the ring. Immediately the gathered throng fell silent. “Our efforts are needed in this new war, at the Swansleep River. General Natac has sent a messenger… a not-unexpected summons, to be sure. Sages, we will need you to generate the teleports. We will use the whirlpools in the garden. Druids, the hundred of you that I have spoken to about this plan: make yourselves ready for war. We depart with the first glimmer of Lighten.”

Immediately there was murmuring among the gathered druids, knowing looks between the sages. Such a mass teleport was not unprecedented, but it was a very complicated undertaking, requiring careful coordination and a great concentration of magic. Everyone had much to do, and quickly the group broke up as individuals and pairs went about their tasks.

Miradel turned to Belynda. “You knew about this plan?” said the druid. “You are helping with the teleport spell?”

“Why, yes,” replied the sage-ambassador. “We were told that it might be necessary. But you didn’t know?”

“My work is here, in the temple; there was no need to inform me,” Miradel said. She glanced at Shandira before turning back to Belynda. “But listen, I need you to do us a favor.”

“Of course.”

“You must send the two of us tonight, when the great teleport spell is cast.”

“But your place is here, isn’t it? Why do you want to go to the Swansleep River?”

“My place… I am still trying to find it,” Miradel said. “As is Shandira. But I have concluded that place is not here. We can do good work elsewhere.”

“But there are a hundred druids, all practiced in the art of water and wind magic, going to serve at the river. Why must you join them?”

“I never said I was joining them,” Miradel answered, lowering her voice and meeting the elfwoman’s eyes directly. “I want you to send us someplace else altogether.”

“Where is that?” Belynda looked a little alarmed, which didn’t surprise her old friend.

“Later,” said the druid. “I will tell you when we come here for the spell casting.”