Goddess Worldweaver

14
Embattled Nayve

A volley of arrows arced through the sky, falling among the black-shirted Delvers as the dwarves sorted out their ranks. Again and again the Hyaccan elves launched their feathered, steel-tipped missiles, and many punctured enemy armor and flesh. But the steady barrage seemed to have no effect on the horde of attackers, as the dwarves formed their lines, lifted their shields, and started to advance.

“Mount up and fall back!” Janitha cried, furious at the necessity of retreat. For five decades her company had stood here, and she had allowed herself to believe that Riven Deep was a barrier that would stand forever. Now, in an explosion of dark magic, the Delvers had crossed that vast gulf in the space of a single hour.

The great slabs of stone had each borne a thousand or more Delvers. The air rafts, as she thought of them, had drifted across the chasm as gently as any lighter-than-air balloon. They had rumbled to the ground on the near rim, their edges cracking into rubble. The elves had ridden forward bravely, shooting hundreds of arrows, but the slabs were close together, and the attackers easily scrambled down these slopes of broken rock. Those who fell with broken legs or wrenched knees were abandoned as quickly as if they had been wounded on the battlefield, as the Delvers had quickly massed into their great, blocky battle formation. With shields raised over their heads to protect against the barrage of arrows, they had started forward at a fast march, forcing the mounted elves to withdraw.

That might have been the best-the only-time to have defeated the attack, Janitha quickly realized, but she lacked the warriors to make anything more than this token stand at resistence. Her elves were skilled riders and deadly archers, but they were outnumbered forty or fifty to one by the Delvers. The best they could do is shoot as many of them down as possible, then mount up and slowly withdraw.

Janitha gathered a hundred or so riders, led them in a sudden rush that broke through a Delver line. Slinging their bows for the moment, these elves chopped with swords, hacking back and forth as they left the rank of dark-armored dwarves scattered and bleeding. They gathered on the far side, and the khandaughter looked around, seeking another likely target.

Instead, a tall, faceless giant strode toward them-one of the iron golems created in the Delver workshops of the First Circle. The monster moved quickly, but the mounted elves scattered, nimble ponies darting this way and that, eluding the giant’s crushing blows. But that was no path to victory, Janitha knew. For how long could they run, if they didn’t have any means of slowing the enemy’s attack?

Yet for now, there was no other option.

“Rally at the Skull-Face Hill!” she cried, naming a landmark two miles back from the rim of the canyon. “Ride to the top where we can get a look at these bastards!”

The ponies and their elven riders streamed across the plateau, leaving the rim of Riven Deep behind. They raised a cloud of dust, but Janitha knew that they would need to send a better warning than that. Thankfully, she spotted a faerie buzzing along with the riders and waved him over with a gesture.

He flew beside her racing mount, gliding easily as her loyal stallion pounded at full speed. “Can you take a message to Natac?” she asked, shouting to be heard over the din of galloping ponies.

“Yes,” he said. “I can tell him about-” He gestured vaguely in the direction the dwarves.

“Tell him we won’t be able to stop them, even hold them up very much. If they start toward the Swansleep, he’ll have to pull his army off the river, or he’ll be taken by surprise.”

“I will tell him,” said the faerie with a bright salute. “Good luck to you, Lady Khandaughter!” he offered, then turned and flew away so fast that he seemed simply to disappear.

“Luck… that’s the least of what we need,” she muttered, casting a glance behind where the dwarves and iron golems were still forming ranks, taking time before they commenced the pursuit.

“We’ve got to have a miracle,” Janitha concluded, with a grim and hopeless shake of her head.

F OR five days the druids maintained their vigil at the Swansleep River, backed up by the legions of elves from Argentian and Barantha, as well as by the trolls of King Awfulbark’s tribe. There were a few gnomes there, too, by now, survivors of the disaster at the shore who had made their way inland. These Natac had armed with crossbows and held back from the river as a thus-far-unneeded reserve.

Countless times during that interval, during the days and during the nights, in misty darkness and searing sun, the ghost warriors had tried to force a crossing of the small stream. Each time the winds howled forth and the waters surged into the attackers’ faces. Waves had overwhelmed them, and Nayvian weapons had cut them down, a crop of souls harvested in every onslaught.

Natac had not even tried to estimate the number of the enemy who had perished in these attacks, for the toll was really beyond comprehension. During the hour or two after each attack, the river channel would be choked with slowly decaying corpses, until the force of the current bore them on, pushed them along until they reached the fall plunging into Riven Deep. Not long after this natural cleansing, the enemy horde would come forward again, make another frenzied attempt to cross, and countless more of them would perish.

Despite the success of the defense, Natac had a number of worries. The defenders were growing fatigued, especially the druids, who were sleeping at their battle stations and inevitably roused several times a night to wage another furious fight. The elves and trolls were faring better, for the fury of the druid storm was such that they did not need all of their numbers to hold the line. As a result, they had taken to standing half of each force down for twelve-hour shifts.

But how long could this stalemate last?

Once each day Natac mounted Regillix Avatar and took to the air, scouting back and forth over the horde. He flew all the way to the canyon, watching with awe as the placid river abruptly plunged from the lip of the visible world, vanishing into the fog-shrouded depths of the canyon. The defenders seemed like a pathetically thin line on the center side of the river, while the horde of the Deathlord was a blanket of darkness across the water, spreading over the ground on the far side for as far as he could see. Every tree in the path of the advance had been hacked down, many of them burned while others were apparently just removed and cast aside. Each sward of green had been trampled into mud, with orchards ruined, sluice gates smashed, and terraces washed away.

The vast sweep of the army extended away from the canyon for a distance of more than twenty-five miles, as far as the Whitemarsh. There the Swansleep rose in a swamp of immense proportions, such that even the undead warriors of Karlath-Fayd could not pass. So it came down to this stretch of ground and this thin and desperate defense.

Throughout this time Natac was obsessed with worry about Miradel. He could spare no attention from his work with the army, yet he found himself fretting about her as he rode through the sky, or thinking of her during the last moments before he fell asleep and the first after he awakened. Where had she gone? Why? Was she hurt or-the unthinkable-had she perished? It was an agony of ignorance, and it allowed him not a moment’s peace.

On the sixth day of the stand, he inspected the enemy front and saw no signs of any imminent change in tactics. The ghost warriors were still ranked across the river, Roman legionnaires together in their regiments here, the dead of the American Civil War over there. Some of the largest legions were the Tommies and Germans who had been harvested from the fields of France; they, too, waited patiently in formation, far enough back from the riverbank that the general would have plenty of warning of any impending attack.

Even so, he couldn’t suppress his sense of nervousness. He talked to Gallupper and was assured that the batteries were all in place. Additional wagons of ammunition had arrived from the factories in the Ringhills, courtesy of the gnome King Fedlater of Dernwood Downs, so the centaurs were confident and ready. The Baranthian elves, too, were well rested and certain that, with the help of the druid windcasters, they could defend against anything the ghost warriors could send.

Next Natac sought out some of the druids, speaking to Cillia and Juliay. Both women were wan, even haggard. Cillia had begun to show streaks of gray in her long, ebony locks, and Juhiay had dark circles under her eyes.

“Maybe we should try resting some of the druids, like we are with the elves and trolls,” the general suggested. “Do you think you could raise much of a storm with half your number?”

“I wouldn’t like to try,” Cilhia said with a firm shake of her head. “I think we have the upper hand, but it takes everything we can throw at them from all hundred-that is, ninety-eight-of us.” She looked at him pointedly as she concluded.

“Has there been word of Miradel?” he asked quickly. “Do you know where they are?”

“Not exactly,” replied the matriarch. “More, we have some evidence of where she is not.”

“What do you mean? Tell me!”

“She is not in Circle at Center, nor is Shandira. But they did not come here. The sage-enchantress who was casting the spell didn’t complete the last casting at her focal pool; she left, exhausted, and gave her position to another. But she didn’t notice who replaced her.”

“Could her spell have been sabotaged?” Natac asked in sudden panic.

“Unlikely. They would have had to talk to the sage-enchantress before the spell was cast, to confirm the details. I doubt they would have gone if they hadn’t trusted the person doing the casting.”

“The sage-enchantress… yes… but would it have to be an enchantress who cast the spell?”

“Well, yes,” the druid answered. “At least, that’s most likely. I suppose some of the elder sage-ambassadors might be able to muster the magic… at least, it’s not inconceivable.”

“It was Belynda Wysterian!” Natac said, anger and relief mingling in the realization. “She’s been Miradel’s friend for a thousand years or more. Perhaps they hatched some plan-but what?”

“That is impossible to tell, though perhaps Belynda could tell you,” Cillia replied. “Or tell someone, since you are needed here, it seems to me.”

“Yes… someone.” Natac started thinking: could he entrust Horas of Gallowglen with such a mission? Perhaps-but first, there was the rest of his inspection to conduct. He thanked the druids for their information and continued along the riverbank until he found Tamarwind Trak at the command post of the Argentian elves.

“We’re still driving them back every time they try to cross,” the elf reported. “The wind and waves are getting most of them, and we pick off the stragglers before they can even crawl up the bank.”

“Good. For the time being, we seem to be doing okay.”

As if to mock his words, he heard a distant, deeply menacing rumble. The trembling of the ground underfoot was unmistakable: a quake. Though he had experienced plenty of them during his first life in Mexico, he knew they were extremely rare in Nayve and very upsetting to the residents of this once rock-solid world.

Tamarwind’s face had gone pale, and his eyes were wide as he stared around wildly. “What’s happening?” he asked. “The ground is moving!”

“It’s a quake,” Natac said. “Just ride it out-it won’t last long.”

Despite his confident words, the general was frightened by the intensity of the temblor. The ground heaved upward, and he staggered, dropping to his hands and knees to keep his balance. All around, Tam’s elves were doing the same thing, many of them crying or shouting in fear.

Farther away Natac could see the oaks where Awfulbark had made his camp. Some of the largest trees were whipping back and forth, and several of them cracked and toppled before his eyes. Next the general looked across the stream, standing up and balancing on the lurching surface in order to get a look at the enemy troops. It was at least slightly reassuring to see that the formerly neat ranks were now disordered and confused as even the ghost warriors found it impossible to stand on the pulsing, rolling turf.

In another instant Natac went down, pitched by a casual shrug of the quake, and for several more minutes he concentrated on riding it out, trying not to get hurt or to tumble into anyone else. At last, after what seemed like a very long time, the rumbling faded away, and the ground settled back to a solid semblance of normalcy. The general pushed himself to his feet, staggering as if drunk from the memory of the shaking. All around him elves were sitting on the ground, stunned and frightened. One by one they tried to stand, weaving and bracing themselves on each other, looking around in awe.

Natac’s next thought was of the trolls. He knew that, despite their size and toughness, they were easily spooked. He found a faerie settling down toward the ground-having taken the sensible precaution of hovering overhead during the quake-and quickly sent him to check on Awfulbark.

A few minutes later the faerie came back, reporting that the trolls had broken away from the riverbank and seemed to be streaming toward the plains beyond the Swansleep valley.

“Were the ghost warriors advancing yet?” asked the general.

“No.” The faerie shook his head with certainty. “They still seem to be getting their bearings.”

“Good, thanks. Tamarwind!” called Natac. The elf was there in an instant. “Can you send some of your warriors to cover the troll position? They got spooked by the quake. I’m going to get Regillix and go after them, hopefully get them back on line.”

“Sure,” Tam said. “I have a thousand warriors just marching back from the bivuouac. I’ll send them up the river right away.”

Natac was encouraged by that prospect and guessed that the elves would be in position in time to prevent a sudden enemy move. His optimism was dashed almost immediately, as Karkald tromped up to him. “What is it?” asked Natac, alarmed by the dour look on the dwarfs face. Karkald was accompanied by another faerie, and he gestured for this flying messenger to speak.

“Bad news from nullward,” replied the winged scout. “I’ve just gotten word from Janitha… It seems the Delvers have crossed Riven Deep.”

“How?” demanded Natac.

“I don’t know,” the faerie replied. “Some kind of magic, for sure. It happened at the same time as the quake, like the whole world was breaking up. And the Delver army came across, she said, and was marching this way.”

Natac’s heart sank at this disastrous development. Just when they had held so well, to get attacked by some impossible means. “What does it mean? How can they cross the canyon?” he demanded of no one in particular, though the dwarf took it upon himself to answer.

“I don’t know,” he replied laconically. “But it seems pretty clear that we’ve been outflanked. Where’s the next place you want to try and fight ’em?”

Miradel’s first thought, when she spotted the gargoyle looking at her, had been no thought at all but merely instinct. She had thrown herself onto the ground and huddled between a pair of boulders, fearing at any instant that the grotesque creature would take to the air and swoop down upon her. Burying her head in her arms, she lay utterly still except for the trembling she could not control.

How long she stayed that way she couldn’t remember. Eventually, however, she perceived that she had not yet been attacked. Hesitantly she raised her eyes, then lifted her head to look around the rock. She saw that the beast had made no move to leave its mountaintop aerie, though its eyes did remain open. They sparked brightly, crimson red in the distance, but no longer did they seem to be focused specifically on her. It was more as if the creature had gone from slumber to an air of general watchfulness.

Finally, she accepted that she would have to move. Carefully she lifted herself to her feet, finding that the pack was not such a burden as she would have expected it to be. Trying to stay hidden as much as possible, she started climbing again, sticking to the low ripples in the terrain where for the most part she could remain out of view. Every time she came into view of the gargoyle she looked upward apprehensively, but still the beast had made no move.

The time was drawing close to the Hour of Darken when at last, exhausted, sore, and full of despair, she reached Shandira’s position. Here she saw a sight more beautiful than anything she had beheld in days: her companion’s eyes. The druid was awake!

“What happened?” asked the black woman, gingerly touching her blood-encrusted hair. “I fell, didn’t I? How far? How long ago?”

“You took a bump on the head,” Miradel said. “About midday, I would reckon. Now’s it’s almost Darken. Here, have a sip of water-and tell me how you feel.”

“I have a headache,” Shandira admitted. “But I think I’ll be all right.”

Miradel looked at the sun, so far away and so low in the sky. Soon it would start to climb away from them, and then in the skies there would be only the stars for light and nothing at all to keep them warm. “Belynda will be seeking us in a few minutes,” she said tentatively. “I wonder if this, coming here, was a terrible mistake. Should I signal her to bring us home?”

“Well, no!” Shandira replied crossly, her spirited answer raising Miradel’s morale considerably. “We have to do what we came here to do, or what’s the point? And besides, I don’t see a stream nearby, do you?”

“No. And yes, you’re right. I mean, what’s the point of stopping now?”

Miradel wasn’t going to mention the gargoyle’s minor change, but her companion raised the issue as darkness closed around them. “Did you see it has its eyes open?” Shandira wondered.

“Yes… that happened after I climbed down to get my pack. I was afraid it saw me and was going to come after me, but it didn’t move. It’s still best to stay out of sight as much as possible,” Miradel suggested.

The pair huddled together, using all four of their cloaks and their shared body warmth to survive the cold, cold night. They were both awake before Lighten and decided to get moving right away, reasoning that activity would be a better defense against cold than anything else within their power.

Once more they stuck to cover as much as possible, and as light returned to the worlds, they saw that the gargoyle remained fixed in place. Miradel couldn’t escape the uncanny feeling that the great, stone eyes were seeking her, and once again they strove to stay out of sight throughout the long morning’s climb.

It wasn’t until late in the day that the incline began to level out, and they came into view of the great notch through the mountains, the pass that led into the shadowy maze of the Deathlord’s citadel. The druids remained off the road, skulking along just below the roadside retaining wall, using that barrier as concealment from above. But now they had come to an open approach, and if they continued forward, it would be in full view of the stony sentry.

“I don’t think we should go in there,” Miradel said, abruptly halting.

“I don’t like the looks of it either,” Shandira said. “But what are the options? Should we wait here and see if the Deathlord comes strolling out?”

The elder druid chuckled in spite of her fatigue, her mood, their surroundings… everything. Then she laughed outright. “Well, that would serve us well. Might answer a lot of questions, in fact. But I was thinking more along the lines of us finding a different way to continue on.”

Shandira nodded thoughtfully and looked skyward, toward the great summit rising on their right. “Such as… that ridge? The one that climbs around the far shoulder of the mountain?”

“That’s what I had in mind. If we can stay on the right side of it until we’re halfway up, it looks like the we could follow the crest the rest of the way and still be out of sight of the gargoyle.”

“First light, then, let’s give it a try.”

They spent another cold night in the Fifth Circle, this time wedged into a crack between two rocks. It was cramped and rough-edged, but the close quarters seemed at least to help them conserve their body heat. Miradel found that she slept better than she had since their arrival… How many days ago had it been? It was getting very hard to keep track of time.

Again they were up before the Lighten Hour, chilly and sore but anxious to get started. Their loads were noticeably lighter, Miradel thought-either that, or her muscles were getting so used to the strain that the backpack had seemed to become a part of her. She felt strangely invigorated, ready to continue the climb.

Shandira led the way around the base of the mountain until they were safely beyond the view of the gargoyle. Then they started to ascend in earnest. This slope was even steeper than the vast incline that had led them up to the pass. The ground was covered with loose rock that broke away without notice, and the going was very slow. They paused every two dozen steps for a quick breather, then resumed the ascent.

Miradel was amazed at the change in her condition: far from the pain and exhaustion that had afflicted her during their first days, she now felt strong and invigorated, ready to continue each time she caught her breath. Even the shadowy twilight did not seem so oppressive. All this and more could be endured, she decided, with courage and the comfort of a good comrade.

By midday-during which it was no lighter than a cloudy twilight upon Nayve-they estimated that they had reached the point where they could climb to the ridge crest. They did so and were pleased to find out that they were now blocked from the gargoyle’s view behind a shoulder of the mountain on the opposite side of the pass. Continuing on, they now followed the top of the ridge, which still rose steeply upward but seemed to offer better footing than the scree-dappled sides of the edifice.

By the Hour of Darken they felt as though they were nearing the top, though it remained impossible to see any great distance above them. But they resolved to continue on, slowed only slightly by the lack of light. An hour later, the two women made their way to the very top of the knife-edged ridge crest and collapsed there, finding a pair of boulders barely the size of narrow bunks. But each was solidly resting in the mountain rock and provided the first flat space they had encountered in the last six hours.

In the pale starlight they could see little of what lay beyond. Miradel perceived a maze of deep valleys and steep ridges, all leading toward a vast gulf of dark space some five or ten miles away.

Next the druid looked at the distant sun, now merely the brightest star high above Nayve, so far away across the Worldsea, and she shivered against the feeling of unnatural chill. Shandira, a short distance away, lowered her head and murmured an inaudible prayer.

The elder druid lay on her back and watched the stars, full of fatigue but hopeful of their purpose. Then she stifled a gasp, clasping a hand to her mouth and staring.

“What is it? What did you see?” Shandira whispered, crouching at her side.

“Something was flying up there,” Miradel said, still trembling. “It was huge, and its wings were so broad they seemed to blot out the stars. Look, there it is, flying around the side of the mountain.”

“It is what we feared,” Shandira said bluntly. “The gargoyle has taken wing.”

T HE trolls ran from their riverside camp, pushing through the thickets that grew in the lowlands, streaming among the oaks that had started to take root on the gentle hillsides rising a mile back from the Swansleep’s banks. Awfulbark forgot about being king, abandoned any notion of trying to control anything but the direction of his own and Roodcleaver’s flight.

He did remember to hang on to his sword, however, and in fact the blade proved quite useful on those occasions when one of his countrymen was moving too slowly in his path. A swift stab proved remarkably persuasive, either convincing the laggard to hurry up or persuading him that he had better get out of the way or face an even more aggravating thrust.

They fled over the low elevation and across the smooth grassland beyond, running for hours, it seemed, until finally fatigue began to take its toll. Trolls collapsed from exhaustion by the dozens, while many others staggered wearily along, losing any sense of direction and purpose.

“Gotta stop,” Roodcleaver groaned, tugging on Awfulbark’s hand. His first instinct was to yank her along for another dozen steps. He bulled forward until he heard an unfamiliar sound. When he stopped to look, he saw that his wife was sobbing and nearly exhausted. Her rough shoulders heaved, and she drew ragged, rasping breaths-breaths that emerged as great, grieving bleats of misery. When Awfulbark let go of her hand, she simply slumped to the ground and buried her face in her hands.

“Okay, we stop, rest for a bit,” the king acknowledged. Looking around, he saw that the throng of trolls had thinned considerably. It occurred to him that many of them, weaker and lacking his own strong will, had probably already collapsed. Too bad for them… they were probably already caught by the…

Only then did he stop to consider what, in fact, had been the cause of their flight. With a sheepish look backward, he remembered the quake, the awful feeling that the world was lurching beneath him, actively seeking to do him, King Awfulbark, personal harm.

Of course, he had not been the only one to take off in flight, but he reflected that, perhaps, he could have set a better example. Natac had explained to him that it was important to keep the ghost warriors from crossing the river, and the trolls had really not done a very good job of that, not if the enemy had decided to advance some time in the last few hours.

Awfulbark had become a very chagrined troll by the time he saw the great, winged shape in the sky. Glumly he stood and waved, spotting Natac astride the great dragon’s neck. Then the monarch of the forest trolls slumped in shame, looking at the ground as the serpent landed, and the general dismounted to speak to the troll.

“Greetings, King Awfulbark,” Natac said politely. “I am relieved to find you well. I saw the damage wreaked in your grove by the quake.”

The troll, expecting a rebuke for cowardice, was rather pleased by the general’s words. He took a moment to ponder his answer. “Yes… some killed. But I lead trolls away from that place. We go back now?”

“I appreciate your courage, my loyal monarch,” said Natac, reaching up to clap the lanky creature on his bark-rough shoulder. “But there has been a change in our battle plan. The quake we felt was caused by powerful magic-magic that brought the Delvers across Riven Deep. Now, we must fall back from the river.”

“Fall back-you mean run away?” Awfulbark was stunned at first, and then indignant. “But we was winning fight!”

“I know. Your trolls did a magnificent job,” the general declared, but he shook his head. “Even so, to stay here is to face ruin-so we must retreat.”

“How far?” The king had only a vague idea of Nayve’s geography, but he knew this was an important point.

“March toward the center,” was the answer. “We will have to go as far as the Ringhills to make another stand.”

“Okay,” Awfulbark agreed. “You points us the way, and we goes there. And if the ghosts come, we fight!”

“Very good,” Natac replied, seemingly sincere, though the troll king had never quite grown accustomed to sincerity. “The Fourth Circle is depending upon you, and you have answered the call, brave leader. Now, lead your warriors away from here, so that they may fight again tomorrow.”

Awfulbark, feeling very pleased that he had not been rebuked for his impetuous flight, did just that, bellowing and cajoling even as the general and his mighty steed took to the air. His trolls gathered to him, and all within earshot echoed his orders to those who were too far away to hear the king directly. Gradually, the army of the forest trolls came together again.

M IRADEL no longer had a sense of daylight, even though she knew that the Lighten Hour, on Nayve, had passed several hours ago. As she and Shandira made their way up the narrow, black-walled gorge, however, they might have been climbing through thick twilight.

They had spent the cold night trembling on the mountaintop, scanning the skies for another sign of the gargoyle. But the massive creature, after flying past that one time, had not reappeared. The pale illumination of dawn had revealed it back in its position on the upper rampart.

The druids had proceeded over the ridge and pushed into the labyrinth of gorges and ravines on the far side, which is where they now found themselves in such stygian conditions. The rock walls seemed to be a mixture of dark gray and smooth, black stone that absorbed any trace of light that might have found its way here. In some odd way, however, the darkness was a comfort, for it seemed to lessen their chances of being discovered as they made their way closer to the great, dark vale they had seen from the crest.

“Are you sure that’s the hall of the Deathlord?” Shandira asked once, whispering as the two women paused to drink some water and to rest.

“I have studied this place in the Tapestry, and yes, that high valley is the place where he sits on his great throne. It is the last place in this world or any other, as far as one can go in the direction that is neither metal nor wood. Beyond rises the great darkness, end of the cosmos. Every time I observed him, he has been as still and lifeless as a statue, but we will see if that is his true state or if he can be aroused by visitors.”

“Visitors?” Shandira was looking at her intently. “Do you mean to pay a social call upon him?”

Miradel shook her head. “No… I wonder if we’ll even find…” She didn’t finish the thought.

“What? Find what?” Shandira demanded.

A shriek of uncanny power abruptly penetrated into the depths of the gorge. The sound echoed and rang, lingering for a long time after the original had faded.

“The gargoyle!” Miradel felt a stab of fear, sheer, unbridled terror gripping her entire body in a sweaty cocoon. Instinctively she was up, following the vague shape of Shandira, who was already sprinting along the winding floor. Glancing upward, she saw no sign of the monstrous pursuer, but that did nothing to hold up their pace as they raced, headlong toward the citadel of the Deathlord.