Goddess Worldweaver

11
The Horde Undammed

“ You can’t be serious!” Belynda declared, aghast.

“Lower your voice!” Miradel urged, her own tone a rasping whisper. “And yes, I have never been more serious in my life!”

“You want me to send you to the Fifth Circle, to the Deathlord’s world?” the elven sage-ambassador shook her head. “That would be tantamount to murder!” She turned away, shaking her head, drawing a few glances from the other druids and sages gathered along the casting pools beside the lake. The Hour of Darken was imminent, and they had gathered here for the mass teleportation that Natac had requested.

But Miradel had a different idea and had just broached it to her elven friend. Now she continued her efforts at persuasion. “No-it is the best hope we have!”

Shandira had been watching the exchange in silence, but now she queried Belynda. “Why do you argue? Does not Miradel’s plan make sense?”

“Make sense?” The sage-ambassador’s elven serenity had already wavered, was in danger of cracking altogether. “That depends: if your goal is to waste your lives, throw them away to no effect, for no benefit, well, then Miradel’s plan has distinct advantages.”

“Please!” The druid was shocked and nonplussed at her friend’s sarcasm. “You have to try to understand!”

“Explain it to me, then,” Belynda demanded, her eyes narrowed.

“I think that the goddess may be wrong about the Deathlord, Karlath-Fayd. She seems to think there is nothing we can learn, nothing we can do against him! But I believe-at least, I hope-that by doing some reconnaissance, spying on him, we may find the weakness that allows us to defeat his army.”

“What makes you think the Worldweaver is mistaken? Isn’t the very idea rather blasphemous?” The elfwoman’s eyes were narrowed, her expression stubborn, but at least she was listening.

Miradel shook her head. “I don’t believe so. If I can bring her information, I am certain she will be grateful for the knowledge. As to why I think she is wrong, it is a little thing, but proof to me: long ago she told me that no one could survive in the presence of the Deathlord, because his very gaze would be enough to turn that person into ashes. Yet more recently, when I raised the issue again, she claimed that his gaze was enough to render a person into a stone statue. It is clear that she doesn’t know what effects, if any, might be engendered by a journey into the Deathlord’s presence. I intend to learn.”

“By sacrificing yourself or this novice druid to his whim? Either stone or ash is a terrible enough fate!”

“But she is just guessing!” Miradel retorted.

“I am willing to try,” Shandira said quickly. “Indeed, this is a sacrifice I prefer to the other task that has been explained to me.”

Belynda shook her head. “That doesn’t change the fact that you are almost certainly doomed if you go to Loamar. I cannot be a party to that fate!”

“But you must help us,” Miradel pressed. “It is our best, not our only, chance. When the great teleporting is done at Darken, when the druids are sent to the Swansleep River, you can simply send us to a different location.”

“Even if I consent to do this, and supposing that you do enter the citadel of Karlath-Fayd and learn something of use, how do you propose to return here with that knowledge?”

“There, too, I will need your help,” said Miradel quietly. “You will have to seek me periodically in your Globe of Seeing-perhaps you could look twice each day, as the Hour of Darken commences and the Lighten Hour begins. Those times will be the same throughout the circles, though much colder and darker on Loamar than they are here. If we have learned what we seek and are ready to return here, we will await your sighting around some swirling current of water, so that you can bring us out with a teleport spell.”

“I tell you, I don’t like this,” Belynda repeated, but there was a sense of resignation in her voice. “Though I begin to understand your glimmer of hope. You have thought about this carefully, I see.” She looked at Shandira. “You understand that you will probably perish in this quest?”

“I am prepared for whatever might happen. I have made peace with my Savior and within myself,” the tall woman replied with great dignity.

“Very well,” the sage-ambassador acquiesced, turning back to Miradel. “But what about Natac?”

For the first time she felt the tug of regret, but she pushed it out of her mind. “He risks his life every day in this war. He and I must both accept the same imperilment.”

“Have you made your preparations? Provisions? Weapons?”

Miradel nodded, indicating the two backpacks they had brought with them. “Enough food for five or six days. Also, I have a knife, and Shandira her stave. Though I do not think weapons will decide the success or failure of this mission: we are going there to learn, not to fight.”

The notes of a flute trilled along the lakeshore, and the druids started moving toward the pools, the ten circular wells of water that had been carved into the bedrock of the shore. The teleportation spell required a focus of swirling water, both at the beginning and the destination of the magical transport. A hundred miles away, on the banks of the Swansleep River, elven warriors had prepared an equal number of eddies to serve as destinations. The druids would be sent, ten at a time, until all hundred had made the journey.

“I presume you have spotted an appropriate destination?” Belynda said.

“Yes, I have viewed Loamar through the Tapestry. There is a great waterfall that spills from the front of the citadel, down a thousand feet of cliff. At the base it has hollowed out a great bowl in the rock, and the water swirls violently there before flowing onward. There is a flat shelf of rock nearby. All I ask is that you send us there and let us proceed on foot.”

“Very well.” Belynda’s Globe, the crystal sphere that allowed her to view any place in the first Six Circles, rested on a pillow on one of the stone benches, covered with a velvet cloth. She pulled the cloth away and peered close at the glass. Miradel could see a vague glow, pearly light growing pleasantly bright within the ball, though she could make out no details. The image shifted and wavered, light fading and then growing to sudden sparkles, until it blinked out as quickly as if someone had shuttered a lamp.

“I see the place,” the sage-ambassador said. “The water will work for the spell, though I beg you again to reconsider! What a barren, awful place it is!”

“I know,” Miradel said. “But we have to go there.”

“Then, my friend, I can only wish you the best of luck. I will check twice each day, seeking you, hoping to bring you back. But remember, you must stand close to a swirl of water for my spell to bring you out.”

“I remember,” the druid said. “I am grateful, too.” She gestured to the shore, now etched in the growing swell of daylight. “Now, good women, it is time for us to go.”

Natac had walked the bank of the Swansleep River for more than ten miles and was dismayed at the low water level. Rocks poked from the bed where once-deep waters had flowed unbroken. The shores were muddy and flat, overgrown with cattails and reeds. The ground in both directions rose only gradually: toward the coastal hills in the direction of metal; while centerward the land opened on a long, open highway leading to the Ringhills and Circle at Center.

Nevertheless, if his army was going to make a stand, it would have to be here.

Late in the long day, nearly forty-eight hours after the army had fallen back from the beach, he met the vanguards of the two elven columns. He led the elves to the two good fords, where the smoothly graveled riverbed spanned the distance between dry, open approaches. He was relieved to discover that most of the batteries had escaped the battle at the shore, and he had the centaurs quickly haul them into position for a vigorous defense of the two fords. Nearly half the wheeled weapons were placed at these two junctures. The rest he scattered along the length of the river, counting on the centaurs’ speed to bring them into position when the enemy, as he inevitably would, forced other crossings of the water.

“Go and find the trolls,” he ordered Horas of Gallowglen, who had returned to the general with confirmation of the great teleportation spell from Circle at Center. The faerie was accompanied by several dozen of his fellows, and Natac was grateful for the extra couriers and scouts. “Tell them to get to the river as quickly as possible. Also, can you return here and tell me how far they are? When I should expect them?”

“As you wish, General Natac. It is my honor!” replied the bold courier. He flew off with five comrades, while Natac addressed the others. “I need some of you to find the gnomes-any that survived the battle on the beaches. Get them heading this way if they can, or tell them to hide out until the Deathlord’s army has passed. The rest of you have to locate that army… get an idea of the strength and the locations of his columns.”

Quickly the winged messengers darted away, and the general had already turned to his next problem.

He had set the elves to work in parties of a score of diggers, striving to create ten circular bowls beside the river. These were to be filled with water and manually stirred to create the focal point for the teleportation. But though the elves found good spots to dig and quickly channeled trenches across the short distances between the riverbank and the circular waterholes, there was not enough water in the channel to carry more than a trickle into most of the crucial sites.

Natac found Tamarwind, worrying about that same problem. “There are lots of deep spots within a mile up-and downstream,” the general explained. “One thing we have is numbers; let’s send ten thousand elves out to fill their waterskins. We’ll get our waterholes that way.”

The elf agreed and set the troops to work. Hundreds of elves marched away, carrying empty water sacks, returning an hour later with those containers dripping full. Though the day was drawing to a close by the time the last of the holes was filled, the elves transported enough water for each of the ten pools to serve as a focus of the spell. As soon as the sun began to pull away, a dozen elves knelt at each basin and used makeshift paddles to start the water swirling.

Pacing along the length of the riverbank, trying to contain his agitation, Natac swung his eyes from one group to the next. It seemed as though he had been waiting forever, but it was only a couple of minutes before he saw the lights sparkling in the air, like miniwhirlwinds of fireflies that soon coalesced into druids, a pair of them arriving at each focus with the first casting.

Quickly, elves helped these new arrivals away, offering sips of water to help with the momentary disorientation that always followed the teleport. A few minutes later, the second group arrived, with subsequent castings-each performed by a new set of sages back in Circle at Center-bringing in the rest of the druids as the sun slowly rose toward full nightfall. Twenty druids arrived in each of the first four waves, but on the last group there were but eighteen; none materialized at the last waterhole along the line.

Juliay was one who arrived at the next basin. “What happened to Miradel and Shandira?” she asked, as Natac jogged up to investigate.

“Miradel was coming here?” he asked. “I thought she had work in the temple!”

Juliay shrugged. “So did I, but I saw her just before Darken. It seemed odd; Shandira is just a novice and wouldn’t be able to help with your plan in any event.”

Natac frowned, concerned.

“I presume she must have changed her mind at the last minute,” Juliay suggested hopefully. “In any event, ninety-eight of us are here. We can do what you need.”

“I know,” the general agreed. He turned his attention to the local problem, though he remained concerned about Miradel. What had she intended? And where was she?

Those answers would have to wait. He found Cillia, the matriarch of the druids, critically inspecting the low level of water in the river. She was a tall woman, sturdy of frame, with black hair flowing freely down the length of her back.

“It would help if we had some rain,” she said as soon as Natac came up to her. “This isn’t much to work with.”

“I know,” he agreed. “They picked the driest year in two decades for their invasion.”

The venerable druid leaned back to look at the sky. “There’s some evening mist rising up and a few clouds blocking out the stars. Let us see if we can do something to help. Any idea how much time we have?”

“The scouts report that the ghost armies will be here by the middle of the night,” Natac replied.

“Druids, gather to me!” shouted Cillia, and in ten minutes the members of her order had assembled from their focal basins along the riverbank. Natac went back to inspect the fords, so he didn’t hear what she said or see what the druids did.

He was just relieved when, an hour after Darken, it started to rain.

If there was one thing that made a dark night even more miserable, it was rain. Awfulbark reflected on this truth as he slogged through mud that seemed to clutch his feet with sucking mire every time he tried to take another step. He was following at the tail end of a long line of trolls, and it seemed that they were all doing their best to churn up the ground so as to make it virtually impassable for the king.

Cursing and muttering, Awfulbark simply kept going. Roodcleaver was right in front of him-for some inexplicable reason she had refused to leave his side during this inglorious retreat-and somewhere behind, not terribly far away, came the implacable legions of the ghost warriors.

Frequently he glanced behind him, certain they were closing the gap. It was impossible to see much of anything in the lightless night, further obscured by the rain spattering down in large drops. Aside from the eerie wails they had uttered in combat, the troll had heard no noise from the enemy, so he fully expected them to be moving in complete silence.

“Faster!” he shouted. “March faster!”

Awfulbark hoped that the faeries who had been guiding the front of the troll column were still there. They claimed to have come from Natac and were going to show them the way to the nearest ford across the Swansleep. The little flyers could be leading the trolls right off the edge of Riven Deep, for all he knew.

Lightning flashed, illuminating a hundred miserable trolls, their rough, barklike skin slick with rainwater, and then a crash of thunder split the night. The king cringed, whipping his sword around so hard that he buried it four inches deep into the trunk of a willow tree. Angrily he pulled it out, yanking it free just as another flash brightened the night.

They were back there, the ghostly pursuers, a hundred paces away and coming on in a dense column. As the lightning faded he was left with the image of a thousand spear points, raised above the rank of marching warriors. Those in the lead bore swords, and even as the darkness closed in again, they raised that terrifying yowl that struck chills into Awfulbark’s gut.

“Run!” he cried. “Run to the river!”

He lurched and lumbered along, pushing Roodcleaver impatiently, tripping over a troll who had sprawled in the trail. He cursed as he picked that fellow up and shoved him forward, carelessly piercing him with his sword in the process. The troll howled but found the strength to continue on.

Only then did Awfulbark think of the tree he had struck: a willow! Surely the river must be near!

In two more steps he was in the water, feeling the hard gravel of the ford under his feet. The rest of the trolls were crossing or scrambling out, gasping and panting, on the other side. He saw ghostly blue fires along the bank there and groaned at the knowledge that magic was being cast. Nevertheless, his terror of the pursuing horde was even more acute, and so he pushed through the last few steps, stumbled onto the riverbank, and threw his hands over his head as magic exploded behind him.

“Why did Miradel plan to come out here to the Swansleep?” Natac asked Cillia, as they stood at the riverbank in the rainy night. “I thought she was busy in the temple.”

“That’s what I thought, too. In fact, I didn’t know she was coming,” the druid matriarch replied. “Where is she?”

“Well, I’m worried about that. Juliay said she was with Shandira, but they didn’t arrive with the last group of teleports.”

“Strange.” Cillia looked at Natac in concern, her skin pale ivory against the dark background of her hair and the night. “Shandira certainly isn’t ready to help with the water magic. Miradel was supposed to be training her to prepare for the Spell of Summoning. Perhaps Juliay was mistaken. There were lots of our order on the lakefront, many more than actually came out here to the river.”

“I hope you’re right.” Natac was still concerned. The absence of two druids from the last group of twenty suggested that Miradel and Shandira had departed Circle at Center, but somehow did not make it to their destination.

His worry was overridden as Horas of Gallowglen buzzed up to him, then dropped wearily to the ground. “The trolls are here. The last one just crossed the river, and the ghost warriors are right behind.”

“Thanks for the news,” Natac said to the faerie before turning to the druid. “It’s time!”

Cillia had overheard and was already raising her arms, stretching them like wings as she turned her face to the rainy skies. The warrior was stunned by the loud clap of thunder that seemed to emanate from the air right beside him. Lightning flashed from the druid’s fingertips, searing to the right and left, bolts crackling parallel to the ground but over the heads of the warriors and druids gathered on the riverbank.

“My signal,” the matriarch said with a wry smile. “I hope it didn’t startle you, but I had to let the rest of the druids know.”

“No, fine,” Natac said, patting down the hair that, even soaked, had stood stiff upon the back of his neck.

More lightning sparked along the course of the Swansleep, and he could see that the water level had risen dramatically after the half night of rain. Here and there the current swept along with visible force, and even where the water was placid he knew that it was deep; the rocks and tree trunks that had jutted into sight on the previous day had all disappeared.

Additional, sinister images came into view in the sporadic flashes. He could see the Deathlord’s horde advancing through the grassy marsh on the other side of the river. They looked so very much like living men, he thought; they slogged across the muddy ground, sometimes tripping or falling over obstacles. He noted that the ghastly invaders were more likely to trample a fallen comrade than to help him up. Water was slick on their skin, soaking through their tunics, plastering hair to heads, and trickling from bushy beards.

But none of them, apparently, had dropped their weapons during the long night march: there was still a wide array of spearheads and bayonets visible above the ranks, and those in front carried their weapons at the ready. They had followed through the hills in broad columns, but now, in the river valley, they seemed to have spread into a massive front-at least, the enemy rank was solid for as far as Natac could see to the right or the left.

The first of the ghost warriors slowed as they approached the opposite riverbank. A few of them probed through the grassy shore, poking the butts of their spears into the water, apparently seeking solid footing. More lightning flashed, brightly etching the image in Natac’s mind: the ghost warriors inspecting the river and then slowly venturing in, starting to wade.

On the near bank the elves, formed in a double line at the water’s edge, lifted their weapons and prepared for the onslaught. Far to the left the trolls made ready, too, growling, snapping, and barking at the relentless invaders. Whether it was fearlessness or simply the pressure of the horde advancing behind them, Natac couldn’t tell; in any event, the first ghost warriors pressed on toward the middle of the stream, while more and more of them marched down the bank and followed the leaders into the water.

Beside Natac, unnoticed by the general, Cillia had taken up her windcasting bowl and spoon. A sudden gust of air swirled outward, driving the raindrops horizontally, right into the faces of the attackers. Miniature cyclones burst into being all along the riverbank, and in moments the steady rain had been transformed into a driving storm, the sheer force of which knocked many of the attackers backward.

More wind swirled, driving waves now as well as rain, a gushing current of river water that swelled into frothy crests and pounded like ocean surf into the chests and faces of the ghost warriors who were now neck deep in the Swansleep. In the force of that surge the first rank of the attackers simply vanished, overwhelmed and knocked off their feet by the power of angry water. Waves lashed harder, attacking with physical violence, pounding and smashing against the enemy horde.

The storm only seemed to enrage the following troops, for they lowered their spears and bayonets and charged headlong into the streambed, slashing and pushing through the floundering bodies that were tangled in the far shallows. The force of the wind relaxed momentarily, giving Natac a jolt of fear. But he looked at Cillia, saw her concentrating, and realized the druids were simply timing their gusts for maximum effect.

Indeed, as water that had been whipped against the far bank flowed back to a more normal level across the entire river, the rush of current pulled the warriors along with it, unbalancing many of them and drawing still more into the channel. Some thrashed and fought while others, apparently drowned, floated lifelessly downstream. This time the attackers pressed through the dead and came more than halfway across before the wind blasted outward again, churning the water into a compact hurricane of force, once against blasting into the faces of the attacking ranks.

Those ranks were shattered again, leaving the far side of the river choked with bodies. Survivors straggled and clawed their way out of the water, while others fought to proceed. In several places violent skirmishes erupted between the ghost warriors, and Natac saw several cut down by their own comrades. This time the blast of water actually carried onto the far bank and through the marsh, breaking up the attackers arrayed in their neat ranks at the edge of the river, playing havoc with the legions extending into the darkness beyond.

Natac heard the clash of steel, cries of alarm and fury, and saw that some of the ghost warriors had struggled through the torrent and were trying to scramble up onto the near bank. The elves moved forward with lethal precision, two or three of Tamarwind’s warriors meeting each of these survivors, cutting them down and pushing the corpses back into the flowage. Thus far, the few attackers who fought their way across, or, in some cases, had been carried across by the water that inevitably flowed back against the wind after too much of the liquid collected against the far bank, were no threat to break through the line of doughty defenders.

“Take a rest for a few minutes,” the general suggested to the druid matriarch. “You’ve wrecked their formation for the time being. Let’s see if they try to come up with a new tactic.”

“Very well,” Cillia agreed. She set down her bowl and once again raised her hands, lancing the lightning over the heads of her druids. This time the bolt was an eerie green in color, and Natac guessed that was the matriarch’s prearranged signal, for the gale faded away along the entire river.

For the first time he noticed gray light seeping through the rain, and he knew that the Lighten Hour was near. It gave him a sense of some relief to be able to see his attackers more clearly, and it was further encouragement to witness their disarray. Though the far side of the river still teemed with ghostly warriors, their once-neat ranks were a shambles, and a great many corpses lay scattered in the shallows and through the muddy grass of the opposite bank.

He turned around and was not surprised to see Horas of Gallowglen standing there, watching and waiting. The faerie’s wings were soaked and drooping, but when the general looked at him, he buzzed them quickly, casting off a spray of drops and, in seconds, drying the delicate membranes enough for flight.

“Can you go down the line and see if we’ve had any casualties?” Natac asked. “Let me know if there’s anyplace where they nearly made it across.”

“Right away, Lord Natac!” replied the fleet scout, saluting and then vanishing into the misty dawn with a loud hum of his wings. A short time later he was back, reporting that a few elves had been injured by the attackers who made it across the river. But nowhere was there any danger of a breach, at least not from the first assault. Natac thanked the brave faerie and turned his attention toward the enemy, which was clearly gathering for a second push.

Daylight was growing brighter, though the thick clouds muted everything into a drab gray. Rain still fell, though it was more of a drizzle now than the downpour that had drenched the armies and filled up the riverbed through so much of the night. Across the river the attackers were getting themselves sorted out, ranks tightening, weapons poised. A thousand ghost warriors stood shoulder to shoulder within Natac’s field of view, while the number of spearheads and bayonets in view behind them was far beyond his ability to count.

“It won’t be long,” he predicted quietly. Cillia, who was watching, too, and waiting for his command, nodded as he held up a hand. He knew that windcasting required a lot of energy, and the druids’ ability to sustain the storm was limited, so he was anxious to conserve their power for as long as possible.

But within a few more minutes it became obvious that the lull was over. The rank of attackers was arrayed across the entire length of the river. Spears lowered, the first of them stepped forward, down the bank and into the water. Others followed closely, tightly packed ranks extending as far backward as Natac could see.

“Now!” he said, and in almost the same instant the druid matriarch sent her lightning signal blasting in both directions along the line. Once more the winds howled and the waters surged, and the ghost warriors marched headlong into the teeth of the gale.

“Surely we have been sent to Hell itself!” Shandira exclaimed, as soon as the flickering lights of the teleport spell had faded. She was shouting to make herself heard. Her ebony skin had paled to an ashen gray as she looked up at their looming surroundings, black stone cliffs rising like colossal walls to the right and the left.

Miradel found it hard to argue, but she tried. “Do you think there is such a waterfall in Hell?” she asked, more to hear the comforting sound of her own voice than from any real desire for an answer.

In fact, her words were all but drowned in the thunder of the lofty spume, the source of the whirling maelstrom in the stone-walled channel that had given focus to Belynda’s teleport spell. Never had she been in such a forbidding place, and her immediate thought was that she was a fool, had made a disastrous decision that would inevitably cost two lives for no good purpose.

The two women were standing on a flat-topped boulder no larger than a typical dining table. The base of the waterfall was up the channel a hundred yards or so, but the air was cold and penetratingly wet. The water, a white inferno of rapids and foam, churned past them, ten feet below the rock. On the other side of their precarious platform was a small eddy, where the stream spilled into a natural bowl in the rocky bed, spun through a rapid circle, then poured itself back into the main current. It was that minivortex that had caused her to select this location for their arrival.

When she had made that selection, she had identified what looked like a negotiable trail leading up a ravine and out of the gorge. Now that route seemed more like a narrow chute of loose scree, an invitation to a fatal fall. She had brought a rope, of course, but it suddenly occurred to her that at least one of them would have to be able to reach the top on her own before that rope would be any use to the other.

“It’s cold in here!” Shandira said, shouting again. There was a little light from the stars circling overhead, but the temperature was lower than anything one could experience on Nayve.

“We need our cloaks!” replied Miradel, shrugging out of her pack as Shandira nodded in agreement. Moments later they had pulled their woolen shawls around themselves, hoods pulled up and cinched around their faces.

“Now we have to get away from the river. We’re getting soaked, just by being in this air!” The African woman took the lead, lifting her pack onto her shoulders again, then hopping from the rock to the steeply sloping ground at the base of the ravine. A cascade of loose stones tumbled down, and she lurched forward, landing on her hands and knees. “Careful!” she shouted back.

Miradel didn’t need the warning. She was trembling, frightened to move, but Shandira’s decisiveness gave her the strength to follow. She, too, donned her backpack, then stepped after her companion, taking a strong black hand to keep her balance as she made the long step to the ravine.

Slowly the two women made their way up the steep, narrow passage. Miradel was grateful as the river fell farther and farther away below them, but she was acutely conscious of her scraped hands and knees, of the aches and cramps that were growing in muscles kept taut to prevent a fall. Again it was Shandira who served as a tireless example, pressing ahead with sure steps, then pausing to encourage Miradel, often to extend that helping hand.

Whether it was an hour or three hours later she could not tell, but at last they crawled from the top of the ravine to collapse on a flat and barren wasteland of dark rock. It was still cold, though the air was drier. Stars whirled and danced overhead, providing a minimal spray of light. For a long time the two druids simply lay still and rested, catching their breath, easing their sore limbs.

Finally Miradel sat up and looked around. She was facing the direction of center, and saw a vast sprawl of descending terrain, a series of shelflike terraces of stone dropping eventually to a dark, flat lowland. She could not see the Worldsea, a hundred or so miles away.

Only then did she look behind her, in the direction that was neither metal nor wood. She could barely suppress a gasp of horror as she saw the citadel rising there, like a grim and black-faced mountain of sheer cliff, vaulted parapet, and impossibly lofty summit. Black space yawned beyond, like an infinity of bleak hopelessness or an eternity of suffering.

“I told you,” Shandira said, sitting beside Miradel and following the direction of her gaze. “Nothing less than Hell itself.”