Goddess Worldweaver

2
The Order of the Druids

Cholera came to Zanzibar in the spring, and by the middle of the sweltering summer Shandira had closed the eyes of countless babies, praying reverently over each shriveled little corpse. When she was not in the crowded sick house, she helped to burn the lifeless bodies of fever-parched adults, trying to stem the tide of the plague. She worked tirelessly, her strength an inspiration to everyone who saw her, but it was perhaps inevitable that at last the sickness would strike her, as well.

Even as the chills racked her long limbs and the sweat beaded upon her ebony skin, she continued her work, always wearing the stained robe that marked her as a Sister of Mercy. When at last she collapsed, she was given a pallet in her cell, and Father Ferdinand himself came to visit her. Solemnly he administered the last rites, and then he lingered for a moment, his hand, tender despite heavy calluses, gently holding her sticklike fingers.

“I remember when you first came to us,” he said in his stilted Swahili, his eyes filling with tears. “A wide-eyed girl from the bush. You had the Holy Spirit in you then, my child, and your life has been a testament to that glory. I know that your reward shall be everlasting.”

His words were a comfort to her in the days that followed, as she grew weaker. She could not eat, and water was little comfort. A fire seemed to burn within her, growing hotter with each passing night, until at last, inevitably, her very life was consumed.

It was then that Shandira’s story began.

“My Holy Virgin Mother!” cried the woman, dropping to her knees before Miradel, pressing her forehead to the floor.

“I am not your mother, nor blessed,” replied the druid, gently placing a hand on the smooth black shoulder. “But I hope you’ll consider me a friend.”

Shandira looked upward, her eyes wide as she stared past Miradel, into the verdancy of the garden. Fountains spumed softly, unseen but soothing, and pale sunlight filtered through the canopy of palm fronds as the sun descended toward Lighten. Slowly, the black woman lifted herself, kneeling proudly, then standing. Her cowl of tight, curly hair seemed immense to the druid, like the mane of a lion, and her naked physique of wiry muscle was a monument to physical perfection.

“Where am I?” she asked warily.

“You are in the garden of the Goddess Worldweaver,” replied Miradel, extending a hand, gently leading Shandira to a nearby bench of carved marble. “You have been brought here by the goddess, as a reward for your hard work in the world you call Earth.”

“But surely our Lord Jesus…?” The woman who had spent a lifetime as a Christian nun hesitated, looking around further. “Is it delirium?” She said wonderingly. “I have seen that madness many times-but it is always a thing of fever and nightmares. Now I feel at peace, whole again.”

She touched her flat, muscled stomach, felt the sinews of her thighs and the fullness of her breasts. “If this is delirium, may God forgive me-I welcome it!”

“It is not madness. It is real, and you have been brought here not only as reward but also because you are needed. Our world is in danger, and you… you and all the other women who come to the Fourth Circle now… you must help us.”

“What do you ask of me?” Shandira asked, her dark eyes level and shrewd as she met the druid’s gaze.

Miradel knew that the answer to this question would shock, even appall, the newcomer who, in her previous life, had steadfastly adhered to her vow of chastity. The druid demurred. “Let me show you the Grove,” she said. “There you will learn the truth.”

“There’s the bay,” Natac said, slapping the great wyrm on the shoulder. Regillix Avatar had already spotted the crowded harbor, and now he tucked his wings slightly to drop them through a shallow dive. Wind howled past Natac’s face, streaming his black hair behind him and bringing tears to his eyes until he ducked his face behind one of the dragon’s bony neck plates.

Sheltered from the buffeting air as the great serpent picked up speed, the man looked past the chestnut scales of the mighty shoulder. Though his narrow vantage revealed only a fraction of the druid boats below, he could not help but take heart from the extent of the fleet that had gathered to meet the armada of Karlath-Fayd. More than a hundred slender hulls clustered on the placid water just within his narrow frame of view-and that was only a small fraction of Roland Boatwright’s flotilla.

A few minutes later the dragon pulled up, then bounced to a landing on the grassy bluff that overlooked this natural, deep-water inlet on the wilds of the metal coast. Natac slid from his perch and walked to the edge of the steep slope. Fifty feet below, a strand of beach encircled a stretch of placid water protected by a range of rugged hills to the woodward side, and a rocky breakwater, constructed by druids, that arched out to close off the sea swells that surged in steadily from the direction of metal.

The harbor, which was nearly two miles long and half that in width, was crowded with small, sturdy sailboats. Natac knew from his earlier counts that there were well over a thousand vessels here, but the reality of the fleet was still enough to bring him up short. The watercraft were small by comparison to the looming bulk of the death ships, single-masted, opposed to the triple masts on each vessel of the invaders’ fleet, but they were fast and nimble, with sleek, weighted keels. Each bore a shining steel spike jutting from the bow, a ram capable of tearing the planking out of a much larger ship.

A metallic battery glinted coldly above the ram on each boat, well forward of the single mast. Looking like an oversized crossbow mounted on a metal pivot, the weapon was based on a design invented by the dwarf Karkald. It could launch a spray of incendiary spheres at a nearby target or fire a single, heavy missile-a steel arrow dubbed a fire-bolt by the crews-that could fly for a thousand meters and still punch through a hull of thick planks. The sailboats, each of which was crewed by anywhere from four to eight sailors, had small cabins, protected by thin steel plate, and an armored cockpit where the druid who captained each vessel could windcast in some safety, while still getting a good view of the surroundings. Many employed human warriors, men drawn from earth in the spell of summoning, to man the batteries and otherwise fight.

“I don’t know if we can stop them, but we can make them know they’ve been in a fight.” Roland Boatwright had come up to Natac while he looked at the fleet, and now the druid-and master sailor-voiced the speculation that all the defenders of Nayve had trained themselves to believe. “Any new word from the sky?”

“If they hold course, they’ll make shore about a hundred miles up the coast, metalward, from here,” Natac replied. “You’ll have to leave today, if you have any hope of intercepting them.”

“We’re ready,” Roland declared. “My wing captains rowed in to the beach when we saw you coming. Do you want to give them a quick briefing?”

“Sure.” Natac followed the druid down the narrow footpath that switched back and forth across the steep, grassy bluff. Sunlight sparkled on the waters, and the boats were gleaming, clean and freshly painted. He grimaced at a momentary image of marred perfection, the destruction and death that would decimate this picture by the time the battle was done. But there was no point in that worry. He reminded himself that this fleet had been gathered, this band of druids and warriors trained, with one purpose, and that purpose, that need, now came to fruition.

Many of the boats, he saw, were already hoisting anchor, each sail filling with its local, druid-cast gust of wind. A few of the craft were closer to shore, still idle, and a group of men and a few women were clustered around some small dinghies that had been pulled up onto the beach.

“Greetings, General Natac,” said one, a hawk-faced man of medium height with an impressive nose and red bronze skin that was similar to Natac’s in tone. “Have you the latest word on the enemy fleet dispositions?”

“We flew over them this morning, Crazy Horse,” replied the Tlaxcalan. He embraced the Indian, former chief of the Sioux tribe, who had been brought to Nayve nearly forty years earlier. He felt the tension in the great leader and leaned back to look at him in the face.

“Once I thought my days of war were over,” the Sioux warrior said grimly. “But now I stand ready to shed blood in a new cause. Once my men rode ponies and whipped Custer…” He gestured to the boats. “Now we ride a different kind of steed, make a new kind of war,” he declared.

“I am glad to have you leading a wing of the fleet,” Natac said sincerely. “In all my studies of the Seventh Circle, I never observed a bolder warrior.”

Next Natac turned to Richard Rudolph, a squat and dark-haired Englishman of unfailing strength and cheery disposition. He had been a sergeant-major in the British Army, an Earthly victim of the inept officers who had commanded him during the Zulu war of 1898. With his keen eye for enemy weakness and his affable and courageous disposition, he was much admired by his warriors and one of Nayve’s most trusted commanders.

“We’ll be sailing soon, I’m thinking,” he remarked.

“Before Darken, if you can,” Natac confirmed.

Richard clapped Natac’s arm, an expression preferred to the more formal salute among the army of Nayve, then stepped aside to let Fritzi Koeppler join the circle.

Natac shook hands with the Prussian, the man he had known the longest of these three captains. In 1879 Fritzi had led a cavalry regiment into France, until, at Sedan, the men on horseback encountered the repeating fire of modern weaponry. As with Crazy Horse and Richard Rudolph, Fritzi had been brought to Nayve by the magic of a druid’s seduction: the Spell of Summoning that lifted and bore the soul of a warrior to Nayve. Fritzi was an enormously capable soldier with a keen eye for detail. Like his fellow commanders from England and America, he had learned to fight on land, but in the decades of preparation since then he had become a master of nautical tactics. Though Roland Boatwright was in overall command of the druid fleet, Natac was immensely glad to have these three veteran warriors to oversee the three individual wings of the sailboat force.

“The death ships are spread out across a frontage of twenty miles, maybe more; they seemed to be dispersing as they moved toward shore,” he explained.

“Does it look like they will land this side of Argentian?” asked Richard, who had extensively surveyed this section of coast over the last fifteen years.

“I’m guessing they’ll make for the Blue Coral Arc,” Natac replied, referring to a smooth shoreline about a hundred miles away. “There’s lots of good beaches where they can come ashore, and the reefs will protect them from the worst of the ocean waves.”

“Good guess,” Richard concurred. “There’s rougher land, rocky bluff and the like, beyond. Closer by there’s a whole mess of swamp and sea marsh.”

“Then we need to get there first, to stand in their way,” declared the Prussian. “Perhaps we can hold them back from the shore.” He didn’t sound as if he believed the last part of his statement, but neither did he sound at all reluctant about making the attempt.

“Our best hope is to destroy a great part of their fleet and insure that the rest of them land in confusion,” Natac confirmed. “Tamarwind’s elves, ten thousand strong, are already arrayed along the shore, and Rawknuckle Barefist is making a forced march with almost as many giants. They have a full regiment of rolling batteries in support, nearly a thousand centaurs hauling them. The whole force will fall upon the first wave to land… or try to hold the line if too many of them reach shore.”

“You really think they’ll make it to the beaches?” Richard asked. “This is a mighty fleet we send against them!”

Natac nodded. “As mighty as any fleet on any of the seas of Earth, I agree. But you have not seen these death ships from the air, the way they cover the seas for miles in every direction. No matter how much damage you inflict-and I know that all of you will do brave deeds-you must be prepared to fall back before you can be enveloped.”

The normally jovial Englishman looked at him seriously, his expression grim. “Aye, then, General, we’ll do as you ask. What are your orders?”

“Fritzi, your wing is closest to the mouth of the harbor?”

“Already on the way, yes,” replied the Prussian. He indicated a strapping druid, wrapped in the traditional turban of Earth’s Persia. “Reza will have to cast a gale just so that I can catch up to them.”

“He can do that, I know.” Natac smiled at the dour windcaster, who had spent nearly a thousand years in Nayve. “So you will go first. Get in front of the death ships, use your weapons to hit from a distance, to scatter as many as you can. Stand and fight while you can, but then pull back. Richard, you bring your wing right behind. Engage as you close in, but also keep an escape route open for Fritzi’s ships-I don’t want them trapped against the shore.”

“Aye, General… we’ll char a few of those black hulls, you can bet.”

“Crazy Horse,” Natac continued, turning to the Sioux. “You’ll come behind, in reserve. Give the battle time to develop. Regillix and I will be overhead, keeping an eye on things. When we give you the sign, you should sweep around their left with all of your strength.”

“It shall be my honor, General Natac, to strike a blow for Nayve,” replied the valiant warrior with a stiff bow.

Minutes later they were all headed back to the boats. Natac, from the top of the low bluff, watched the procession of sails exiting the harbor and allowed himself a glimmer of hope-hope that was quickly quashed by the memory of the numberless enemy they faced. Even so, he could only admire the bravery and dedication of these warriors, each of whom had been brought to Nayve for just this purpose, and who had accepted the grim task with a sense of honor and duty.

Nevertheless, the reality lingered in his mind as he mounted the dragon, and Regillix Avatar’s broad wings carried them both into the air: honor and duty, bravery and dedication, these were great things.

But they would not be enough.

Janitha reined in her pony at the brink of Riven Deep and looked across the wide canyon. She was just metalward of Sharnhome, where once the great bridge had stood. This was one of the narrowest places in the chasm that stretched for most of the way across Nayve, and she could just barely make out the monolithic shapes of the golems, the giants of iron that accompanied the Delver invasion of her homeland. Countless thousands of the eyeless dwarves were over there, too, she knew, even though they were too small to see at this distance.

The rest of her riders, the fierce cavalry of the Hyaccan elves, were nearby but remained out of sight behind a low rise just back from the rim of the canyon. She knew several were lying on the ground atop the elevation, worriedly watching their leader as she stood in mute challenge at the edge of Riven Deep. All of the elves were armed, and many would be mounted.

A dozen or so of the Hyac busied themselves making final adjustments to the intricate device that was the reason for Janitha’s bold posing. That mechanism had been prepared by Karkald, Seer dwarf and master engineer; if all went well, it would be put to its first test, here today. Janitha knew that Karkald, exiled from his native First Circle for the last fifty years, was a renowned weapon smith. Even so, she would not have termed his most recent invention a weapon. More of a trap, she mused… one that would allow the elves to wield their existing weapons with greater lethality than ever before.

At least, that was the idea. Growing impatient, she prodded her pony into a prancing trot along the precipitous rim of Riven Deep. The vast gulf of space was purpled by mist and shadow, fading into a featureless murk that, as always, gave no indication of a bottom. On the other side of the canyon, her enemy waited and watched. She raised her feathered lance high, waving it back and forth in a rhythmic taunt, a gesture that would be visible for miles.

At last she was rewarded by the keening shrieks, outrage building among the keen-eyed harpies who spotted her impertinent promenade. Some of the winged creatures were circling over the deep, but she soon discerned a great cloud of them rising like angry smoke above the opposite edge of the canyon. Like the mist in the chasm, they were visible as a background shade-in this case murky gray. But she knew the cloud was made up of thousands of individual and savage creatures.

“Good,” she murmured, her hand tightening around the smooth horn she wore at her side. “Come to me… and die!”

She tugged the reins, and her pony halted, alert and quivering, anticipating the next command. After half a century of battling harpies, however, Janitha had come to know their ways, particularly the reckless impatience that propelled them when their quarry was in sight and apparently helpless. She watched and waited as they swarmed closer, and gradually the cloud of darkness resolved itself into individual, dark-winged flyers. The outraged cawing grew to a cacophony, like a field full of insanely chattering cicadas, and she brandished her lance and cried her own challenge, a shout that somehow carried into the mass of noise.

The harpies dived close, black and gray feathered wings shiny in the full sunlight. Janitha waited until she could discern the grotesque expression upon the skeletal, leering face of the leader. Talons reached toward the elfwoman, while a few of the flyers-impatient in the extreme-spat their fiery bile, only to have the smoldering gobbets tumble into the deep, trailing plumes of black smoke.

Only then did Janitha move, nudging her pony with her knees. The animal spun about and immediately burst into a full gallop toward the notched boulders atop the ridge that she had earlier marked as her destination. The elfwoman ducked low on her mount’s neck, lance leveled beside her. She did not look back: she had planned her escape well, or she had waited too long; in either case, a glimpse of her approaching enemy was not going to affect her success one way or the other.

The ridge sloped upward, and the pony lowered his head, surging with steady acceleration up the hill, then bursting through the narrow gap between the two rocks. Janitha smelled the stench of bile and smoke as the ringing of harpy cries seemed to compress her ears, and she silently urged the steed into a last burst of speed, the shouts of her warriors a welcome embrace. Arrows sliced through the air as a score of archers shot down the closest of her pursuers. She saw the flare of torches, then the brighter flash of light as Karkald’s invention came into play.

Four rockets, their launchers evenly spaced along a line three hundred feet long, exploded upward, trailing plumes of fire and smoke, tugging the slender lines of a vast net behind. Arching high, crackling overhead with explosive speed as they dragged their webbed cargo across the sky, they tilted toward Riven Deep in unison. The net leaped upward and curled like some filmy, cosmic embrace. Finally the four fiery engines flamed out and the still-smoking rockets tumbled through the flock of harpies as they bore the end of the net downward.

Hundreds of the shrieking flyers thrashed and twisted as their momentum bore them into the mesh of silk. As the weight of the dead rockets plunged into Riven Deep, the net pulled countless harpies out of the air. The whole mass crashed to the ground in a flailing mass of wings, talons, and spitting, hateful faces. Some of the great flock of harpies were too high or too slow to get caught in the trap. Spooked by the sudden attack, many of them scattered. Others dived lower to attack and fell to the arrows of alert Hyaccan archers. Those caught in the net were already incinerating each other, so blind was their fury. They kicked and raised a furious cacophony, but they couldn’t get free nor could they raise their heads enough to direct their fiery sputum at the grimly advancing elves.

Janitha dismounted and advanced, sword in her hand, beside the closing ring of Hyac. Five minutes later, the last of the harpies had ceased its screaming.

“You want me to do that which I have never done-in the service of a goddess who profanes everything my life has meant? Surely you see that this is blasphemy, a desecration of my church and my Savior!”

Shandira glared at Miradel. The newly reborn druid was clad in a gown of white, now, and stood in the shade of the great Grove. She was tall, even statuesque, possessed of a dignity and pride that struck the elder druid as almost superhuman.

Miradel drew a breath and shook her head. “No one will make you do anything you do not wish to do. But you must understand that so much of what you learned during your life in the Seventh Circle is untrue. Mankind does not understand the reality of the cosmos or even guess at the existence of the first six Circles. You have been brought here as a reward for your labors and suffering upon Earth. You are a very special person; the goddess recognized that and bade me to bring you here. Think of Nayve as a place not so very different as the Christian heaven of which you were taught.”

“How dare you make such a comparison! You bring me here so that I can seduce a warrior from that world and bring him here as well? Why did you not just bring the warrior, then, and allow me to go on to a mortal death? Perhaps you are wrong. How do you know that I wouldn’t have gone to heaven, to a blessed rest with my immortal God?”

“Do you remember what I told you?” Miradel said, allowing her own tone to grow sharp. “I was born seven times on the Seventh Circle, each time to grow old and perish-sometimes violently, often suffering from hunger or great pain. There was neither heaven nor hell awaiting me, merely another birth, another chapter of life so that I could watch the extermination of my people. All that ended when the goddess brought me back to Nayve, in the year that much of your Earth numbers as 1864. This is real-this is your destiny, Shandira!”

“I, too, know about the extermination of people,” retorted the black woman. “I have watched the Arabs and the English, the Portuguese and Belgians and Germans and French overrun Africa and divide it into their private fiefdoms. My grandfather was carried into slavery when my mother was but an infant. She had to sell herself to gain enough money to feed her children. She sent me to the convent on Zanzibar before my thirteenth birthday so that I would not share her fate. The priests were kind to me, and the church gave me a home and a promise that became my life. And I was devoted to that life.”

“That devotion is part of your power! Think of your life as the good, the virtuous tale that it is!” Miradel pressed. “And know that not all acts done in the name of your god have been so benign. I have seen damage done by your church-I will tell you what was done to the Mayan people of Mexico, sometime, in the name of your pope and your god-but I also know that your faith is capable of goodness. It gave you a home and a purpose, and you did good works.” Her tone grew soft again. “I watched you, in the Tapestry, as you tended to the inhabitants of your city, when the plague swept through every street and alley. You eased the suffering of countless people, even saved lives against unthinkable dangers. Now you are called upon to do new works-but believe me, they are works of good and can result in benefits to very many people!”

“Explain to me how an act of fornication-three acts of fornication, as you describe it-can result in benefits to anyone!”

“The Spell of Summoning is a cherished, sacred rite; it is not fornication!” snapped Miradel. “It is a rite that is blessed by the Goddess Worldweaver, and it is necessary to the bringing of humans to Nayve. It calls upon your beauty, your caring, your love-you must arouse your warrior and bring him to release three times in the night of the casting-but by so doing you bring him the chance of immortal life on Nayve.”

“Immortal life, if he isn’t killed, you mean. Tell me, how is this world, this Fourth Circle, heavenly?”

“Nayve is a world of peace, and yet we find ourselves beset by war-by a war greater even than those that convulse the world of our birth,” the druid explained patiently. “The Lord of Null, Karlath-Fayd, is sending a fleet against our world that numbers thousands of ships and a million warriors-warriors whose souls he has drawn from Earth since before the age of Caesar. Nearly every man killed in war has come to him, unwilling yet compelled. In the last hundred years the carnage wrought by Napoleon and his enemies, by the American Civil War, and now this Great War that threatens to consume all of Europe, have swelled his ranks to an unthinkable degree. Even now, his ships have turned toward land; the battle will be joined in a matter of days.”

“But you summon warriors from Earth yourself, you and your fellow druids?” Shandira challenged. “To fight and die in this campaign?”

“Yes. We select men of great skill and bravery and honor and goodness. We bring them here at the moment of death, through the Spell of Summoning… the carnal magic that you have called fornication.”

“Why do you need me? I have seen many women here, in the temple and in the Grove. Some of them are clearly wanton. Can they not summon warrior after warrior, one every night perhaps?”

Miradel flushed, unease and guilt wrestling within her. “It is not that simple. When first the spell was cast, it was a sentence of death upon the druid who worked the summons. I used it to bring Natac here, more than five hundred years ago, because I sensed his greatness, and I knew that Nayve, that the goddess, would need his help. In the course of that casting I became an old woman in one night, commencing an inevitable slide toward mortal death.

“It was not until one of our order, Juliay, cast this spell to bring a warrior from America, at the end of their civil war, that we made a discovery: there is a stream in the Mountains of Moonscape, and a druid who drinks the water of that stream may cast the spell-once-without suffering the ravages of age. Juliay’s discovery has given us the means to resist. Just two days ago a party of heroes journeyed, magically, to that river and returned with six casks of the precious liquid. In the years since Juliay’s discovery, we have brought nearly a thousand valiant warriors from Earth, all of whom have been enlisted in the defense of Nayve. But no druid can cast the spell a second time without facing the future of aging and death. So each new warrior requires a new druid.”

“You make it sound very clinical,” Shandira said coldly. “Have you selected the man I am to give myself to?”

“No! You will undergo training, and you will study the Tapestry of the Worldweaver. The selection of a warrior is yours alone to make. And you should know that it is not uncommon for the druid to love her warrior… for the lovers to remain faithful to each other over decades, even centuries. It is that way with Natac and myself.” Miradel was surprised by how defensive she felt; never before had she considered her spell worked upon the warrior as anything other than a pure and sacred rite. How was Shandira able to twist everything around?

“And if I choose no one?”

“That is your decision to make. You will still have work to do here, and you will certainly hope that our world survives the onslaught of the Deathlord. If not, it will be the end… not just of Nayve, but of everything.”

Shandira drew a deep breath and turned away, stepping to the side of a massive oak trunk and placing her hand upon the bark, as if she would draw strength from the forest giant. She bowed her head, and Miradel wondered if she was praying, extending a plea for guidance-or succor-to the God in whom, perhaps, she still believed. At last, the black woman raised her head and looked over her shoulder.

“I will start this training,” Shandira declared. “I make no promises that I will do your bidding. But at least, I shall try to learn.”

“I could ask for nothing more,” Miradel said sincerely. She extended a hand to the taller woman, who accepted the gesture with her own strong fingers. “Come this way,” the elder druid declared. “You can start by observing the Hour of Darken.”