Goddess Worldweaver

6
Admiral of the Oglala Sioux

How much had he learned in the past forty years, since the soldier’s bayonet had sliced his guts and ended his brief and glorious life on the Seventh Circle? As the battle raged before him, Crazy Horse reflected on the question and knew that it was impossible to imagine the answer.

Beauty… he had learned so much about beauty. Certainly he had known for all of his first life the splendor of a sunrise above the Dunkapapa, the Black Hills. He had seen the wondrous grace of a fleet deer, the sleek musculature of a fast pony… and he had beheld the grace and tenderness of a splendid woman. But not until Cloudwalking Moon had revealed herself to him in the grotto of Nayve’s highlands, where stars drifted overhead and the scent of pine was sweet nectar in each breath, had he known the true depths of wonder that beauty could provoke. He had taken Moon at once, and again and again, and over the course of the night was spellbound beyond any previous measure.

And he had gained wisdom… he had conversed for hours, days, cycles with the druid Miradel, and his mind had grown broad with the knowledge of reality far surpassing anything the Sioux shamans had understood. The study of the Seven Circles, he had realized with no small amount of pleasure, even made mockeries of the truths accepted by the white men who had come to claim his lands, to drive his people from the hills and plains.

He had also learned of courage. Crazy Horse, of course, had always been a courageous man, and he had battled mighty foes without ever a thought of running away. It was he who had led the Sioux and Cheyenne warriors who had smashed the cavalry and taken the life of the ambitious general Custer on the hills above the Little Big Horn. And when his people had been starving, and the white soldiers were everywhere, he had gone bravely to meet the soldiers at Fort Laramie, there to face the steel cage of a cell and at last the steel blade of the bayonet.

When he came to Nayve and learned the truth, his bravery at first compelled him to cry out, to beg for a return to the Seventh Circle, a chance at vengeance and honor. He had fantasized, for a time, with his new knowledge, wishing he could return to the plains and unite the bickering tribes, leading them in a great war. But then the warrior Natac had shown him a different kind of bravery. Crazy Horse had learned the fate of Tlaxcalans and Aztecs, of Iroquois and Cherokee, and had seen the inevitability of change.

He had even begun to understand the cold reality of such change as it was overtaking his world: it was not that one people was evil, the other good. It was, instead, that one side had far more people, as well as better weapons and better tactics of war, than the other. Most significantly, he had seen the effectiveness of troops who could be controlled by a commander, wielded as a weapon of one mind. His beloved Sioux were independent and impetuous warriors, each man doing as he sought fit, seeking individual glory over a coordinated objective. Because of that more than anything else, they were doomed, as were the Cheyenne and the Nez Perce and the Apaches and all the other tribes… doomed because the white men would follow orders, wielding their better weapons and better tactics in a pursuit of a common objective. And they had so many people, so many soldiers, that they would never be stopped.

Now, he looked down at the deck of his boat, and he felt a strong measure of hope: this time, he had the better weapon.

Dakota was a large sailboat, like Kaiser, the flagship of a fleet numbering hundreds of vessels, equipped with an observation tower, and a pair of powerful batteries. Crazy Horse took a look to the stern, where Cloudwalking Moon spun the wind in her great bowl, and he was rewarded by a smile from the woman he loved, loved more than he had ever loved anyone. A part of his mind, a very old part lingering from the Seventh Circle, felt a tremor of chagrin that she was here with him, going into such danger. He simply shrugged; he was a warrior of Nayve now, and so was she.

Turning his attention to the fore, he watched the dark ships of the armada surging against Fritzi’s wing. He admired the Prussian’s courage, the discipline of his sailors, and he thrilled to the sight of the smoke and flames blossoming among the death ships. His own wing, the middle of Roland’s fleet, numbered some 350 boats and now waited in three great lines. The druids spun enough wind to keep them aligned forward, moving very slowly, but they would wait for their leader’s command before they rushed ahead.

Crazy Horse narrowed his eyes as he saw large death ships, dozens of towering vessels, veering toward him, swerving around, blocking his view of Fritzi’s line. He sensed the encirclement as it began, and with that realization he ordered the flag raised, the signal for a general advance.

Cloudwalking Moon spun a fast wind now, as did the other druids of his fleet, and the sailboats surged forward, slicing the waters, leaving white wakes behind. For the first time on Nayve, Crazy Horse thrilled to a martial charge, the boat pitching and speeding as vibrantly as any pony could run. He saw the tall shapes of his enemies, sensed the impetuous eagerness of the druids and warriors as they raced in to the attack.

The first rank of boats, including his own, launched their steel bolts when they were still a half mile away from the enemy fleet. The metal spears ripped into the black hulls, exploding and burning and wreaking fearful havoc. The rest of the druid boats came on, spreading out, shooting at unscathed ships as soon as another dark vessel swerved into range.

Fighting raged all across the front, acrid smoke mixing with the miasma of the Deathlord’s fleet to clog nostrils and sting eyes. In a chaos of movement the deadly dance evolved, sailboats darting between lumbering ships, spitting their deadly barbs, pressing forward with courage every bit the equal of a plains warrior trying to count coup.

But where were Fritzi’s ships? Crazy Horse squinted through the murk, tried to catch a glimpse of white canvas-even a single sail!-but there was nothing to break that aura of darkness. A glance to the left showed him more ships, a hundred of them, sweeping out from the armada, attempting to encircle his own wing of boats just as the Prussian’s had been devoured.

The truth was bitter gall, but it was apparent: if they held the charge they, too, would be swept into the insatiable belly of the deadly armada. There was no sign of any white sail, any surviving boat, in the tangled and smoky melee before them. The First Wing was gone, utterly destroyed, and if he held the current course, Crazy Horse would lead his own men and women to the same fate.

He raised the blue flag, the signal for a withdrawal, and like magic the druid boats responded, turning through tight half circles, running for the clean water along the metal coast, away from the armada. They were running, leaving many of the enemy intact…

But they would be alive to fight again tomorrow.

The pictures of war played out on the whitewashed wall of the Worldweaver’s inner sanctum, but Miradel found her eyes drawn not to the waterborne carnage but to the face of the druid Shandira. She was surprised to see the African woman looking back at her when Miradel glanced over to gauge her reaction to the First Wing’s destruction.

Many druids were gathered in the viewing room to witness the commencement of the long-dreaded war. Cillia herself, eldest druid of the order, fed the Wool of Time into the candle flame, though her fingers trembled slightly as the image of the armada darkened the whole, vast wall. The white sails of the druid boats seemed like tiny snowflakes wafting toward a great gulf of smoke, and Miradel heard murmurs of fear and horror as the two fleets mingled.

The pictures showed the view from high overhead, and for that she was grateful. They could make out the three separate wings of Roland Boatwright’s fleet, and they marveled at the bravery of Fritzi Koeppler’s wing as it rushed to intercept the advancing tide of darkness. Tiny sparks glowed every time a death ship exploded, and the druids collectively held their breath as the thin line of white sails stood firm before the onslaught.

But of course the armada was too huge, and as the arms of black reached around the boats of the First Wing, one by one the white sails broke or burned or sank. In a surprisingly short time, the entire wing was gone, engulfed by the darkness. They had endured no longer than the snowflakes they resembled, melting away in the furnace of battle. Miradel looked up as she heard a sob, saw Gretchen-the druid who had summoned Fritzi to Nayve-clasp her hands over her face and run from the room, sobbing.

Some unknown time later Miradel and Shandira walked into the garden, alone in the midst of a hundred somber druids who all emerged from the viewing chamber to cleanse themselves in the sunlight and try, for the most part unsuccessfully, to dispel the lingering nightmare of the sea battle.

“The black ships… they will reach the shore in a matter of hours, it seems,” Shandira observed quietly. Her face was downcast, but she still carried that regal sense of pride in her tall frame. The white of her gown stood in stark contrast to the darkness of her limbs and her face. Her eyes were wet with tears as she looked at Miradel. “The carnage… it was horrible!”

“Beyond horror,” the elder druid agreed. “I don’t know if the armada will reach shore that quickly, though. There are still two more wings to Roland’s fleet, and they were close.” She glanced at the sky, where the sun was already receding upward, purple twilight closing in from all horizons. “I think they will wait until Lighten before attacking.”

“All those ship masters, the warriors who fought with such courage… all of them were brought here by druids, performing the spell of summoning?”

“Yes… many of the same druids were spinning the winds for their warriors. The loss of each boat meant the loss of at least two lives.”

Shandira nodded, and her eyes narrowed. “There was that serpent flying above-like the Beast of my church’s nightmares, though you call it benign-and the man astride his back. He is your lover?”

Miradel drew a quick breath. “How did you know? I said nothing about Natac.”

“I saw the way you clenched your fists, tightened your jaw, when the picture was upon him. Also the way many other druids looked in your direction, quickly and secretly, when the picture moved to him.”

“You are right. I love him very much… have loved him for more than four hundred years.”

“You brought him here, with your Spell of Summoning?”

“I did, though it cost me my youth. And I had no regrets. It was the mercy of the goddess that I returned to earth and lived through seven more lives there, before again returning to Nayve in this young woman’s body.”

“But if your goddess was to command you to give yourself to another, to work the magic to bring a warrior here, you would do so?”

Miradel stared at Shandira, astounded by the question-and by the rush of outrage that arose within her at the thought of giving herself to another man. “I told you… one druid can only summon one warrior. Natac is my warrior,” she said, sensing the evasion even as she tried to sound decisive.

“That is no answer.” The black woman’s tone was not accusing, but blunt. “Anyway, I know the answer: you would not. Because you love this man, and the love you share is a treasure. Can you not know this about me: the love I hold for my Savior is as precious, or more, to me. I cannot betray it by performing this carnal act!”

“Even though you know that Savior, the promise of Heaven and the threat of Hell, are myths, created by humans to explain that which they did not know? Cannot you see that this is real, here… the truth lies with the Worldweaver, at the Center of Everything? Do you deny the existence of Nayve?”

Shandira shook her head sadly. “My faith has been shaken in so many ways, yet I feel that it is all I have left. Perhaps this is a test of that faith… a temptation to deny the real truth.” She raised her head, looked at Miradel from beneath that great mane of hair, then extended a hand and placed it on the shorter woman’s shoulder. “I believe that there is evil here, just as there was upon earth. And I will devote myself to fighting that evil. But I cannot do it in the way you ask. Is there not some other means with which I may wage my battle?”

Miradel felt those strong fingers squeeze her shoulder, and she was surprised by the comfort she derived from that touch. She placed her own hand over Shandira’s and nodded, watching the druids in the garden start filing back into the viewing chamber. “There will be a way,” she promised. “I don’t know what it is, but we will find it.”

T HE coast of the Blue Coral Sea was obscured by smoke, a thick dark cloud that rolled from the water onto the land, stinging the eyes and nostrils of the elves arrayed above the beaches. Tamarwind Trak stood on the highest sand dune, a wet kerchief pulled across his face in an effort to alleviate the pain of each breath. One eye was closed, the other pressed to the viewpiece of a telescope.

“I can’t see any more of our boats,” he said grimly to Gallupper.

With an angry snort, the centaur pawed one of his fore-hooves through the sandy ground. “It was as brave an attack as I’ve ever seen or imagined,” he said, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. “They deserved a better fate.”

“Just because I can’t see them doesn’t mean that no one escaped,” the elf demurred hopefully.

In truth, however, there was little hope. The two arms of the armada had simply been too large, hundreds of ships surging in front of Fritzi Koeppler’s wing, blocking the advance even as the fire-bolts tore through their hulls. The valiant warriors and druids had found themselves trapped by fiery wreckage before them as well as offshore, while land itself blocked flight toward the center. Thus, when the death ships had surged around behind the wing of druid boats, the Prussian’s vessels had no route of escape.

For more than two hours Tam had watched the black ships closing in. He lost count of how many had burned, but even this had been a vain tactic: the flaming ships of the enemy had been blown right into the mass of sailboats as the defenders had been packed into tighter and tighter quarters. At last, the entire surface of the sea was obscured by smoke, broken only by bright plumes of crackling fire.

“I don’t see how any of them could have survived,” the elf said, his words hushed by awe.

“But they have managed to buy us some time,” the centaur pointed out. He indicated behind them, where a long column of warriors-centaurs, giants, and elves-was marching into view, pouring out of the gap between two mountain ridges. “And that will allow us to give them a real pounding, once they try to land.”

“I lost a hundred or more boats before pulling back,” Crazy Horse announced grimly. “There were too many death ships; I could not break through to Fritzi’s wing, though we charged four times. They have coordination and tactics, these ghost warriors, for they closed ranks to prevent our advance and paid no heed to the numbers they lost-five hundred ships ablaze, just in the last hour.”

“They are well led, it seems,” Natac noted, not surprised by the observation. Even so, it was a chilling realization, for he couldn’t imagine the nature of the enemy general.

“But by the goddess, what a blow,” the Sioux warrior continued, his eyes moist. “To hear that Fritzi’s fleet perished to the last vessel! Even that Prussian-I thought he would live forever!”

“He fought and died as well as any man could,” Natac replied. “I saw it from the sky. He had a death ship to either side, ghosts swarming onto his deck. Faerwind wielded a sword like a master, guarding his back while he launched volleys from his two batteries, canister blasts into the hulls rising up to either side of him. Only then did he fall, and the druid perished on top of him-but not before the black ship to each side was engulfed by flame.”

Darken had come to the warriors gathered on the wide beach. A large bonfire, fueled by driftwood, illuminated a ring of grim-faced men and women. Dick Rudolph was here with his druid, Christina, who stood beside Cloudwalking Moon, the windcaster for the Sioux’s boat. Tamarwind Trak had ridden Gallupper to the meeting on the beach, and now the lanky elf stood beside the grim-faced centaur. Roland Boatwright and Sirien Saramayd were also in the circle, while Regillix Avatar was coiled on the dunes above the beach, extending his long neck so that his crocodilian face loomed just above the conference.

“And the armada?” asked Roland. “Will they wait for Lighten to move in?”

“We saw a dozen death ships crash on the reefs,” Natac reported, “and then the rest of them drew back. I think we have until morning.”

“We have ten thousand elves of Argentian entrenched above the beaches,” Tamarwind offered. “All the batteries in the centaur arsenal are there in support, and we have two regiments of giants held in reserve, ready to strike at the first sign of a breakthrough.”

“Then we need to make another attack at first light,” Rudolph said. “Follow up on Fritzi’s blow, wreck as many of them as we can.”

“I agree,” Natac said, “though I will not order such an assault. Whatever gains are made must surely be offset by another day of grievous losses.”

“We have a lot of strength on the beach,” Tam reminded them. “You can let them land, and we’ll try to stop them at the water’s edge.”

“We’re here to fight,” Cloudwalking Moon said. She was a plump, round-faced woman of bronze brown skin, like Crazy Horse, of Native American heritage. Her ancestors had dwelled among the Nez Perce tribe. “No point in standing back now, when the issue will be decided. If we perish, we know we give ourselves to a great cause.”

“I think we are all agreed on that,” Christina said, her head held high. “We are here, and we can hurt them. No matter the cost, we need to strike, and strike hard.”

Natac had a hard time speaking, so tight was his throat. He loved these warriors and druids, loved them all with a passion that he could not even begin to comprehend. It grieved him to know that, tomorrow, so many of them would die. But he also knew that Christina and Cloudwalking Moon were right: there was nothing for it but to continue the battle, no matter what the cost.

“You have the admiration and respect of all Nayve,” he said thickly. “Try to get a good night’s rest; then do what you have to do tomorrow.

T HE druid boats came on in two waves, white sails aloft, magical winds propelling the sleek hulls through the coast waters. When the first rank drew close to the fringe of the armada they began to shoot, and once again the heavy steel fire-bolts wreaked havoc on the black ships of the Deathlord. One after another of the ghost-crewed ships burst into flame, breaking apart, sinking, or careening wildly as the small, nimble sailboats darted between them and drove deep into the crowded seas at the great fleet’s heart.

Natac and Regillix flew overhead, knowing there could be no retreat, not anymore. This time they would have to press home the attack, inflict as much damage as they could. The serpent tightened his wings, arrowing toward the skies over the armada.

Again the harpies sallied forth, a great squawking formation in the sky. This time, the serpent had a new tactic ready-a maneuver he put to instant use. Climbing toward the flock, Regillix belched a great cloud of fire into the midst of the beasts, searing a hundred or more in the killing blast. Natac, meanwhile, fired shots from a specially modified crossbow. Each missile launched a spray of marble-sized canisters into the air, and when these flew out to several hundred feet, each of them exploded with a violent burst, knocking many more winged attackers right out of the sky.

The dragon immediately tucked his wings and dove away, as the warrior launched one more shot at the flock, which was not so much a cloud as a tattered sheet by now. They plummeted downward, wind stinging past as they plunged through the murk toward the black ships. This time Natac and Regillix Avatar wasted no time, displayed no caution. The dragon roared above the black decks, striking with his claws to knock down tall mainmasts, belching clouds of fire that quickly engulfed one death ship after another in roiling conflagration.

Natac was armed with two bags full of another of Karkald’s inventions: metal canisters with fins on one end and a metal trigger on the other. He pulled one out as the dragon swerved over a death ship. Seeing that Regillix was still drawing a breath after his exhalation of fire, the warrior took this target as his own. He timed his throw carefully, tossing the bomb toward the middle of the deck. The fins stabilized the flight, angling the trigger downward, and the canister struck the vessel near the port railing.

As they swept past, flying fast, Natac saw the device break through the planks of the deck with a bright flash. He looked back as the serpent drove his wings downward and was rewarded by the sight of a fiery plume, oily flames mixed with timbers, rigging, and the shredded forms of numerous ghost warriors. The main and foremasts of the ship toppled into the water, carrying rigging and sails with them, and before his scaly mount swerved into another attack, the Tlaxcalan saw flames cracking along the length of the vessel’s port side.

Impressed, he reached for another of the bombs, holding his throw as Regillix leaned down to belch a cloud of fire across another death ship. Once more they swept past their doomed victim, and Natac made another toss, cursing angrily as the speed of their flight carried the bomb too far; he saw it explode harmlessly in the sea.

But he had more of the bombs-ten slung from each side of the dragon’s powerful neck-and so he readied for another throw as Regillix banked sharply and came around, winging toward the fringe of the armada where the death ships were heavily engaged with the advancing line of druid-steered sailboats. In places the invading vessels were packed so tightly that it seemed as though the ocean itself was afire. A dozen of the black ships had collided and were locked in a tangle, masts toppled across each other, flames leaping hungrily from one ship to the next.

Nimble boats sailed past the confused mass as more flames skyrocketed upward, turning the group of doomed ships into a waterborne pyre. Still more of the Deathlord’s fleet closed in, however, and Natac grimaced in almost physical pain as he saw one of the black hulls bear down on a sailboat, crushing the smaller craft into kindling before the druid could steer out of the way.

“I want that one!” he snarled, and Regillix heard. The dragon dove past, and the man lobbed another of his bombs, grimly satisfied as this one shattered the stern of the black sailing ship and quickly brought the vessel to a curving halt. Flames erupted from the deck as the dragon dove low, reaching his talons down to strike the masts and rend the sails from another pair of boats. They heard the cheering of druids and warriors as they swept past, and more and more of Roland’s ships soared into the great breach they were tearing in the armada’s flank.

The individual plumes of smoke from burning death ships merged into a pall of darkness, a cloud that stung Natac’s nose and brought tears to his eyes. The dragon swerved wildly, banking right and carving a tight turn; as he looked to that side, the warrior had the impression of a world turned on end, a great cliff of dark ocean marking the periphery of space. With another lurch the serpent leveled his flight, then curved the other way, and Natac closed his eyes as they sailed right through a thick spume of churning smoke. He felt the heat against his skin, then a rush of coolness as they emerged.

“Can we get above this murk?” he called. “See what’s really happening down there?”

Obligingly, the mighty dragon sliced his great pinions through the air, pressing downward, lifting himself and his passenger as he flew a great circle above the entangled fleets. Regillix snorted, releasing a thin cloud of smoke, and Natac knew the wyrm was letting the magical blaze smolder in his belly, building pressure for a renewed series of fiery exhalations. A thousand feet above the sea they found cleaner air, and by the time Regillix had completed another full circle and gained hundreds more feet of altitude, Natac could get a good view of the entire battle.

Again the harpies rose toward them. This time Natac launched several blasts while they were still far below, and when the dragon turned his head as if to breathe, the cowardly creatures dove back down to harass the druid boats. Ignoring the flying pests, Regillix and his rider turned their attention back to the vanguard of the armada.

“There, to the left-all of Roland’s boats are engaged,” Natac observed. “Can you get us over there for a better look?”

“As you wish,” the dragon replied. “Though I do not like to let these others advance unmolested.”

“I share that reluctance, old friend,” Natac said. “Get us a look up high, and then we will dive back to our work.”

Willingly, the serpent flexed his wings and bore them along, above the first rank of the death ships. Natac was appalled at the vast ranks of dark hulls, line after line of them, extending out to sea as far as his eye could discern. Brown wakes trailed behind the ships, and the smoky sails billowed with unnatural, fetid wind. They were already inside the reefs, and within the next hour or less the first of the invaders’ vessels would reach the shore.

Only where the druid boats attacked was the armada in disarray. The flyers passed above a hundred ships that burned from stem to stern, sails ragged and masts toppling. Others had capsized, the dark hulls looking like long, slick whales as they bobbed and twisted in the swells. Everywhere the sea was a mass of smoke and debris, and there was no order to the enemy ranks; indeed, dozens of the death ships had become tangled together, masts and rigging fouled as frantic maneuvers forced them into collisions.

And still the little boats pressed on. Here and there they saw white sails draped across the water, and several of the narrow decks teemed with black specks, ghost warriors who had boarded and slaughtered the crews, but that had no effect on the tide as a whole. The silver batteries flashed, launching their arrowlike harpoons from a distance or firing barrages of the metal spheres that burst into flame as soon as they contacted the target. Each propelled by its private wind, the little vessels ducked and weaved and dodged among the leviathans of the death ships, and more and more of the latter burst into flame.

Natac could see that Crazy Horse was extending his flank along the front of the armada, trying to interpose his boats and crews between the invaders and the shore. But he was cautious enough to keep his line intact, preventing a massive envelopment such as had annihilated Fritzi’s wing on the previous day. As a counterpart, however, the defenders were not numerous enough to block the front of the enemy fleet, and hundreds of black-hulled warships surged forward, their route to the beach unimpeded by Nayvian action.

“Let’s break up that line,” Natac suggested, and Regillix readily agreed.

The serpent tucked his wings, and the pair swept into a blistering dive, pulling up just as they passed the farthest extent of Crazy Horse’s boats. The dragon roared and spat a boiling inferno of oily fire, a blast that encompassed three or four ships at once. As his great steed inhaled for another attack, Natac lobbed more of his bombs, dropping the incendiary missiles with lethal accuracy onto the decks of one after another of the leading death ships.

He paused only when Regillix spewed another fireball, rendering a pair of side-by-side vessels into an instant inferno. Immediately after, Natac started throwing again, not even taking the time to wonder at the spectacular eruptions following each of his tosses. They continued along the line, flying, roaring, bombing, making a wreckage of the entire first line of the armada, leaving sixty, eighty, even a hundred ships flaming and sinking and dying.

But still they hadn’t reached the end of that massive fleet, and by then the warrior was out of bombs, and the dragon was laboring, wearily, just to stay aloft. When Natac cast a glance over his shoulder, he was not surprised but he was filled with despair for, as he had expected, the next rank of the armada had merely passed through the first, and a new set of hulls, keen and undamaged, made its way unimpeded toward the green shore. Already they crested the breakers, sliding into the shallows. A hundred yards beyond, the beach of Nayve lay white and smooth and inviting, for the first time in all existence awaiting the touch of an invader’s boot.