Circle at center sc-1

by Douglas Niles

  “A dog?” Tamarwind looked skeptical. Wiytstar, meanwhile, seemed stunned into speechlessness.

  “He’s very well-schooled, I assure you. And it could be that he has some insight into the current problem.”

  Still dubious, the elves of the delegation regarded the great canine. Ulfgang strolled up to them and sat on his haunches, turning chocolate eyes toward Belynda.

  “You heard some of the concerns, about digging… and uncontrolled, er, procreation,” the elven ambassador began. “Can you tell the delegation what you have learned?”

  “Hmph… yes.” The dog smacked his lips and passed a long tongue back and forth around his narrow snout. “It seems that there has been a… well, a discovery.”

  “You mean-something new?” demanded Wiytstar, his pale face blanching even whiter.

  “Hmph, hmph… yes, in a sense.” Ulfgang shook his head once, then looked at Belynda again. As gently as possible, she encouraged him to continue-though she herself was not keen on hearing him once more articulate his shocking revelation.

  “It seems that the discovery-there’s no easy or delicate way to say this-Some of the dogs have discerned an effect-my apologies, I hope you understand-of a certain ingredient found in the dung of some of the larger herbivores.”

  “Dung?” Wiytstar looked as if he was about to faint. Fortunately, the matronly elf took his arm and guided him to a nearby bench.

  “Precisely. The effect seems to be, er, that a dog who rolls in the stuff becomes virtually irresistible to a prospective mate. At least, this is the case among the uneducated hounds of the countryside. Unfortunately, the discovery of such a powerful aphrodisiac, a discovery which has occurred in several parts of the Circle, has had an untoward effect on the population of my people.”

  “But-but this is awful!” the petite elfwoman spluttered. “Nothing like this has happened before!” The others gasped in sympathetic furor, exchanging worried looks.

  “Do you have a suggestion for what we can do about it?”

  Belynda gently prodded Ulfgang with the question. Unlike the other elves, she had been trained to search for solutions. The delegates, so unaccustomed to anything resembling a problem, would most likely only dither and cluck disapprovingly.

  “I have a suggestion.” The white dog smacked his jowls a few times, waiting until he had the attention of the elves. “I could go to Argentian, out to the pastures, and have a word with some of the shepherds. They’re not educated, of course, but they’re usually a pretty responsible sort of dog. With a little persuasion, they should be able to keep the riffraff out of the fields.”

  “Could you?” asked Wiytstar, momentarily enthused. As he recovered his dignity, his expression grew bland. “That is, please do so.”

  “It would be a pleasure,” the dog replied, with a polite dip of that white-tufted head.

  Belynda knew that Ulfgang wouldn’t mind making the trip. For all his refinement, he enjoyed the company of the simple, uneducated dogs of Nayve-and there were very few of those to be found in Circle at Center.

  “And when will he come to Argentian?” asked the wire-thin elfwoman, turning to the sage-ambassador.

  “He will travel with your party, of course,” Belynda snapped, allowing a hint of her true power to glare from her eyes. “Now, I assume you will stay for a few days before you commence the journey home?”

  “Of course, Belynda-my lady Sage-Ambassador,” declared Tamarwind smoothly.

  “Ahem.” Wiytstar spoke hesitantly. “There is the other matter…”

  “Certainly.” Belynda was terse now, tired of the complaining, seemingly helpless elves. “As to the problem of rambunctious children, I have counsel for you: The recent census shows that we have an unusually large number of offspring in their development just now. The condition is temporary, but will persist for several more decades. The solution, of course, is to wait.”

  “Wait. Yes, of course,” echoed the elder male from his seat on the bench. This was a tactic that he, and every other elf, could understand.

  “We thank you for your response,” Tamarwind added. “It has been a pleasure to see you in the Center.”

  “And to have you visit, as well,” Belynda replied. She wondered fleetingly about the children that she and Tamarwind had parented-he undoubtedly encountered them now and then in Argentian. Too, his company had been pleasant. In fact, she had considered herself fortunate to have mated with one she could also befriend. The elfwoman went to his side as the other elves turned their attention back to the fountain, which once more blossomed into a wide-winged imitation of flight.

  “Perhaps we could have a chance to visit more informally,” he said politely.

  “I’d like that. Why don’t we meet for the evening meal?”

  “I’m at your disposal.” Tamarwind was clearly pleased by the suggestion, though his features remained carefully cool.

  “Meet me an hour before Darken at the Mercury Terrace-the one beside the lake.”

  “Very good, my lady.” Tamarwind smiled and bowed. Belynda once more felt that flush creeping upward from her throat.

  Accompanied by the regal dog, who went along to make some travel arrangements, the elven delegates withdrew from the garden. Finding that her irritation had only been increased by the meeting, Belynda turned up the hill, climbing toward the Senate.

  She thought momentarily of teleporting back to her chambers and was surprised at her own impatience. Chiding herself, she resolved to take the long way, walking the whole distance. The rays of the sun, spilling from straight overhead, now seemed harsh and unrelenting. The white columns along the facade of the grand structure sometimes reminded her of ghostly trees, yet now they seemed more like the bars of a dungeon, or the wall formed by some kind of gigantic fence.

  She hadn’t taken a hundred steps when she saw Nistel coming down the path, and she forced herself to take a seat and smile in welcome as the gnome approached. Yet as he drew closer she quickly perceived that the friendly overtures passed unseen by her frowning, preoccupied assistant.

  “Blinker-what’s wrong?” she asked, using the gnome’s nickname as he halted before her.

  Stammering, he shifted his weight from one curl-toed boot to another. “My lady-it’s trouble! Real trouble!” he blurted.

  Belynda’s stomach churned as she tried without success to imagine what could be causing his agitation.

  “They’re talking about it in the Senate already, and I came to find you as soon as I heard! It’s Caranor-she was found by a centaur!”

  “She’s fine, isn’t she? What was her news?” Belynda stammered the questions, dreading to hear what Nistel would say next. She remembered her sense of unease when she had been unable to reach the sage-enchantress earlier that day.

  “She’s not fine,” the gnome said, with a grim shake of his head. “She’s not even alive anymore! And the centaur said she was killed by fire!”

  N atac was acutely conscious of his erection, but only gradually did he realize that, somehow, his loincloth had been removed. Perhaps he wouldn’t need the garment in Mictlan. But, except for the pervasive darkness, this was nothing like the realm of death he had always imagined-or that the priests had invariably described.

  Primarily, there was that female aura, a scent that seeped into his pores, that had brought him to this profound arousal. He tried to reach out, sought the touch of womanly flesh, but he felt no motion in his arms or legs-Indeed, it was hard to recall the reality of limbs, of sight or sound or other sensation.

  There was only the compelling smell and a massive, pulsing desire.

  “Warrior Natac…”

  The words were a whisper through the darkness, a sound of pure beauty in a womanly voice that drew a groan of desire from his lips. And with the utterance he began to feel a measure of control over the muscles of his mouth and throat.

  At the same time, he realized that she had spoken to him in a language that he had never heard-yet the words burned with clear meaning
in his mind. To compound his wonder, he replied in the same tongue:

  “Woman… I hear you… but where are you? Where am I?”

  “Shhh… you must listen, warrior.”

  “Speak-tell me!” Natac demanded, struggling again to move, to feel his arms and legs.

  Gradually he perceived that he was standing, with his feet planted firmly on a smooth, hard floor. His fingers clenched in answer to his will, and then he could feel his arms. Immediately his hand went to his chest, where it seemed that only a moment ago the priest had ripped out his heart.

  But his skin was whole. Too, he could feel the steady pumping of that vital muscle through the intact bones of his rib cage.

  Only then did he begin to discern a faint illumination, a muted wash of light from several small clay lamps. He was surprised to see that, unlike the pottery found in even the most backward mountain village, these lamps were formed of simple curves, unadorned by the images of gods. They burned from niches in the stone walls, and the surfaces between the niches were lined with thick furs, the lush pelts of animals huger than any Natac had ever seen. He was looking at one side of a cozy chamber, and guessed that the woman must be behind him.

  With that realization he tried to whirl around to seek her, but though his wish was clear in his mind, his flesh responded slowly. Almost as though mired in thick mud, his feet dragged across the floor, and even when he had turned, the woman came into view only gradually, an image emerging from a red, smoky haze.

  First he saw her eyes: huge, wide, and so deep a purple that they might have been black. They stared at him with tenderness and affection-but in their depths lurked a haunting sadness that threatened to break the heart he had just rediscovered. Soft and liquid, her look drew him in until desire weakened his knees and brought another involuntary groan from his throat.

  Very gradually he realized that those eyes were set into a face of breathtaking beauty. The woman’s skin of unblemished copper gleamed like gold in the soft lamplight, highlighted by a small, upturned nose, and lips that were full and wide, rouged to an exotic shade of bright crimson. That lush mouth smiled, softly, and once again Natac had an impression of a distant sadness, a shadow reflected in those violet eyes hinting at something regretful within this woman.

  But he had no further thoughts about that.

  Her hair was thick and black, straight and long enough to spread in a fan over her shoulders and torso. A flower, a bloodred poppy matching the shade of her lip rouge, was set above her ear, blooming in perfect complement to the triple petals of her high cheekbones and delicate chin.

  “Who are you?” asked the Tlaxcalan, hesitantly giving voice to the words-as if he feared that any further sound might cause this exquisite apparition to disappear. Once more that strange language came from his mouth, as fluently as he had ever spoken Nahuatl.

  “Call me Miradel, Warrior Natac.” Again he heard that deep, solid voice, and this time it seemed like a steadying thing, a promise that she was real, that she would not vanish in the blink of his eye.

  “Miradel?” He had never heard a name like that, and it was music when it flowed from his lips. “By the Smoking Mirror-you’re beautiful!”

  “My beauty is a gift for you, now, and here.”

  He was stunned by her words, and desperate to have her. But he forced a moment’s hesitation with another question.

  “Is this Mictlan… or what place?”

  “There will be time, later, for that… for all of your questions.” She stood, and only then did Natac realize that she had been kneeling on a fur-lined pallet that was itself supported a short distance off the floor. A white mantle of soft cotton was draped over her shoulders, and her unbound breasts bounced slightly as she rose. When the garment swirled to the side, he saw the bare skin of her hip, and ached with the knowledge that she was naked underneath the filmy gauze of cloth.

  Somehow he had forgotten his own uncovered state, but even with sudden recollection he felt no discomfort, none of the modesty that should have inhibited him in the presence of this unknown woman.

  “The time now is for us,” Miradel concluded, coming to him, taking his hardness in her hand. “You need me, warrior-and you must make love to me with all your heart, all your being.”

  “Yes, my lady-I will!” he whispered, once again fearful that a strong breath of his voice might whisk her away.

  Natac had enjoyed many women during his life. His beloved wife had been a splendid lover until age had dimmed her interest. And he had not infrequently availed himself of the young concubines who were always ready to serve the pleasure of honored warriors. But he had never felt desire, a consuming lust, such as now pounded in his chest.

  Slowly, reverently, he reached to embrace her, then chilled as his arms moved through her with ghostly ease. He leaned into her, feeling the warmth of her flesh-but no other sensations, nothing in his own skin.

  “You must let me touch you,” she whispered. “At least in the beginning…”

  Seeing the fire in her dark eyes, Natac guessed that Miradel’s passion was as profound as his own. Her hand squeezed, and his lust surged beneath the pressure of her fingers. Then he felt her lips against his bare shoulder, smelled the cool fullness of her hair sweetened by the blossom.

  They moved toward the pallet, she backward and he following like a shadow. Miradel sank down, curling her knees onto the soft fur. And then her mouth took him in, surrounding him with bliss. For timeless moments he knew only pleasure, and a building sense of imminent explosion. Her hands reached around him, pulling him against her face, and he erupted with shuddering force. Natac still stood, swaying almost drunkenly as the pure onslaught of sensation melted into soft satisfaction.

  But, surprisingly, he was still hard, still consumed with desire. His senses returned to the room and he watched as Miradel, once more raising that wistful smile, leaned backward across the soft bed of fur.

  “The magic is strong… you can touch me, now,” she said softly, invitingly.

  He reached before she fully reclined, tugged away her mantle with a single pull. Finally she lay utterly naked before him, reaching upward, arching her back in sublime invitation. Hands alive with tingling feeling, Natac touched her slender foot, stroked the soft skin of her lower leg as he knelt.

  The tiny tuft of black was a magnet, drawing his full attention. Reverently he knelt at the pallet, laid his smooth cheek against the silken skin of her leg. Her musk, that sensation that had been his first awareness of this strange existence, was like a powerful drug, drawing him inexorably. He kissed, and he relished the inhalation of her thick scent.

  Finally he lifted his head and moved slowly upward, reluctant to break contact with any part of that glorious skin. His own flesh tingled as he stroked across her flat belly to the twin, coppery domes of her breasts. Miradel shivered as he nuzzled first one, then the other; finally she pulled him higher, so that their lips met, tongues intertwining like frantic serpents.

  All the while he relished the new feeling in his skin. He touched the thick strands of her hair as he stroked downward from her neck, along her back, ultimately feeling the firm curve of her buttocks, cheeks clenching as his fingers slipped into the fleshy cleft. She sighed softly, pulling him against her as he stroked one of her breasts and felt the nipple harden in his gentle fingers.

  Noticing new, soft sensations in his skin, he saw that the calluses that had hardened his fingertips and palms since his earliest days as a warrior were gone.

  They gasped in unison. Engulfed by heat, he pressed as she strained against him. Her legs clamped his waist and for a moment he tried to tease her, to pull away. But inevitably he sank downward again and she shivered, moaned, clenched him with renewed desperation. Then for a long time they rose and fell in mutual rhythm, slowly at first, then faster, ultimately crying aloud in shared release.

  It was with a sense of fulfillment that Natac drew long, ragged breaths, allowed Miradel to wriggle to the side. A languid contentment was
hed through him, though, surprisingly, he felt no inclination to sleep. Instead, he relished the tenderness and a momentary satiation, watching as she lifted her head to shake out the cascade of hair.

  Her smile was coy, and the fire, barely banked, still smoldered in her eyes. “Once more, my warrior… you must take me again. It is the law of the goddess and the spell: three times before the Lighten Hour.”

  Natac had no desire to argue, and when a round breast poked out from the curtain of black hair he was once more awed by her allure. By Teztcatlipoca, he wanted her again-now!

  She looked at him, and he saw an almost desperate hunger in those dark eyes. He reached, moaning in protest when she slipped farther away from him, but it was only to roll onto her belly. He was still erect as he watched her rise to her knees, that glossy black hair a gleaming shroud over her back, fanning outward across the pallet.

  He pounced on her like a jaguar taking a deer. Again she took him, crying out her own delight as ecstasy overwhelmed him. They mated like wild animals, she squirming and bucking, he clenching, thrusting, entering her so deeply that he felt he must be reaching all the way to her heart. The intensity of their lovemaking expanded to gather in his entire consciousness, building toward utter, complete release. Miradel matched his passion, lifting herself wildly, crying out with inarticulate expressions of need, of joy.

  Finally he seized her hips, squeezed her against him, and once again his world focused into a shuddering convulsion. For long moments they remained clenched, muscles locked as they strained together, covered with sweat, shivering with tremors of remembered passion.

  And only then did he sleep, drained and sated by his welcome into the afterlife.

  2

  Masters of the Underworld

  Dwarves of the First Circle: birthed in schism.

  Delvers, blind in lightless warren;

  Ever did they hate, poison tainting unmirrored soul.

  Seers, dwarves of light;

  Fleeing darkness and claws of steel, seeking hope, finding life under a canopy of coolfyre.