“I said come out, Fionn-you cow-loving son of a mare!”
“Owen?” The one called an Irishman emerged from the house. He was as big as the other warrior, and similarly shaggy-though his hair was like the red of tarnished copper. He wore a cap of leather, and carried a thick cudgel. “You faerie Viking! Why are you back-did you run out of little boys down at the fjord?”
Fionn was trailed by a pair of females who wore diaphanous gowns and clung to the big man’s arms as if to hold him back. Natac saw that Owen, too, had brought women with him, a trio of maidens who now ran out to follow him across the field.
“Those are druids?” asked the Tlaxcalan.
“Yes-as I said, some of my Order enjoy warriors.” Miradel looked at him through narrowed eyes. “No doubt you, too, will eventually have your pick.”
He looked away, unwilling even to consider her words.
“We’d better wait here for a while,” Miradel said. “But watch-you might find it interesting.”
“Those are both men?” Natac pressed.
She nodded. “They are humans from a different part of Earth than Mexico-but yes, they are of a people who are cousins to you and your own.”
He shook his head in disbelief, half expecting to feel the ground shake as the two warriors approached each other. Owen had his staff raised, while Fionn swung his club back and forth, holding the narrow end in both hands.
“Liar!”
“Bastard!”
“Faggot!”
“Blackguard!”
The insults flew thick and loud, and Natac lost track of who was hurling the epithets. And in another moment it didn’t matter as the pair flew at each other, wooden weapons whistling through the air. Fionn’s club smashed Owen’s iron hat with a loud clang, while the staff landed with stunning force on the Irishman’s knee. A fist flew, bloodying a nose, and then came the loud crack of wood landing against a skull.
It was Fionn who went down, and Owen straddled him, ready to drive the staff into his foe’s belly. But somehow the supine warrior found the leverage to flip the Viking over, and by the time Owen landed, Fionn was on top of him, twisting the Viking’s massive leg around. Natac winced as he imagined the pressure, the pain-and then there came a loud snap of bone. He gasped, knowing that such a break, even if it did not result in a fatal infection, must cripple a man for life.
The Viking, his leg jutting at an unnatural angle, shrieked as Fionn rolled off him and stood. “Do you yield?” he asked, snatching up his club and raising it.
“Yes, by Thor-I yield!” snarled Owen through clenched teeth.
Immediately the druidesses gathered around the injured man. One woman stood with her arms spread, spilling something like water over the wounded man. Two more knelt at each side, stroking the mangled limb. By the time Natac and Miradel had reached the bottom of the slope, the Viking’s leg had been straightened. The astonished Tlaxcalan watched as Owen lurched to his feet and stood on the limb with no apparent limp. “That was a good twist, there, at the end,” he admitted grudgingly to Fionn, who beamed in triumph.
“What? Who’s this?” asked the Irishman at the sight of the two new arrivals.
The druidesses gasped in unison, and one of them advanced hesitantly. She was staring at the old woman, and finally asked: “Miradel?”
“Yes, Nachol, it is I.”
Immediately the woman called Nachol, who was a tall female with long hair the color of spun gold, blanched, then came forward and wrapped the older druid in a tearful embrace. Natac stood by awkwardly, conscious of the two warriors looking him over and at the same time wanting to ask Miradel a thousand questions.
“You went against the will of the council,” Nachol was saying. “Why?”
“I had no choice,” Miradel answered. “The threads of the Tapestry showed me that.”
“When?” The golden-haired druidess relaxed her embrace and was joined by several other women who looked at Miradel with expressions mingling awe, pity, and sadness. A few cast appraising, accusing, or suspicious glances at Natac.
“Two nights past.”
“And the spell worked,” said a dark-haired, diminutive druidess, inspecting Natac archly. “You have brought Nayve another warrior?”
“Warrior?” The word was a hoot of amusement, uttered by Fionn. “More like a boy, I should say. Owen, maybe she brought him here for you!”
“Watch your tongue, you Celtic fool!”
Fionn threw his head back and laughed heartily. Owen’s burly fist flew, smashing the open mouth. Natac saw teeth fly and watched the druidesses scamper out of the way as the two men were at it again, crashing to the ground, rolling back and forth with a barrage of smashing fists and jabbing knees. Miradel sighed, the younger women stood around wringing their hands, and blood spilled from both men.
“Druids brought them here, as well?” Natac asked. Miradel nodded. “For this?” he pressed.
“No-you will learn soon enough that we have no control over these men, once they are brought here. We tried to reason with them, but they have learned to do as they wish to.” She looked at him strangely, and he knew she was wondering if he would prove to be as intractable as the two burly men still rolling around on the ground.
In that instant he was embarrassed for his race, for his whole world. He would not give her cause for regret.
He picked up the staff that Owen had dropped in the first bout. “Warriors of Earth!” he cried out as the two rolled close. Plunging the end of the shaft between them, he used his knee as a fulcrum and pulled, easily levering the men apart. “Why are you fighting?” he asked.
“Why?” Owen blinked, speaking through puffed and bleeding lips. “Because-because it’s what we do! As well ask why we breathe, why we eat!”
“We figh’ ’cause his ances’ors s’ole the women of my ’ribe,” growled Fionn, his words mushing through the mouthful of broken teeth.
“Stole your women-and your land, too!” Owen retorted with a laugh. “Not that you Irish would know what to do with good land if you had it!”
‘Women and land-my people have fought for those things, as well,” Natac said conversationally. “But here-this place they call Nayve-it would seem that there are women and land enough for all warriors.”
Owen scowled, and squinted at Miradel. “She told you that ‘Nayve’ poppycock, eh? Don’t listen, boy-this is the warrior’s paradise, called Valhalla, and I’ve been here long enough to know that!” He turned to the short, dark-haired druidess. “Fetch us some wine, Fernie-I’m working up a thirst here.”
The woman quickly ran into the house as Natac settled himself on the ground, squatting sociably with the two hairy men.
“I know it’s Valhalla,” Owen continued, “because it’s what the priests told me to expect. I went straight from the battlefield, my blood and my guts running across the dirt, and into the arms of a beautiful woman. If that’s not a warrior’s reward, then I’m a Frenchman!”
“My priests had it wrong,” Fionn said. “They spoke of a journey to a place of darkness, eternal chill.”
“As I learned of Mictlan,” Natac agreed. He looked at Owen. “So you must have had very wise priests?”
“Lucky, more than wise, I’d say,” snorted the Viking. “They were wrong about plenty-my comrades and my enemies should have been here, but there was only me. And this red-haired Celt.”
“I was here for two hundred years before Owen showed up,” Fionn explained. Natac realized that one of the druids had done something to the Irishman’s mouth-he no longer bled, and in fact had a full set of clean, whole teeth. “How long ago, now?”
“Last count we were five hundred years together,” Owen said proudly. “And the sheep-buggering fool has still never learned to fight!”
“Why, you-”
“The pretty girls who greeted you here,” Natac said quickly, interrupting the budding contest. “Where are they now?”
Both men shrugged and looked at each other, somewhat sheepishl
y.
“I don’t know,” the Viking admitted.
“The druid who was there to welcome me-I never saw her again,” Fionn said.
“Do you know why?”
“Never asked,” shrugged Owen. “There were plenty of others to take her place.”
Natac sat back, thinking. His mind fixed on a picture of Yellow Hummingbird, of a young girl going to her death at the hands of false priests, to feed the will of nonexistent gods. Then he thought of another sacrifice, that made by Miradel when she had brought him here.
The two bearded warriors were busy sucking on the wineskins that Fernie had brought. Natac caught Miradel’s eye, and asked her the question again.
“Why?” he wondered, trying to see the answer in her eyes.
“Because I think there are things you can teach us,” she said, taking his young hand in her old fingers. “And these will be things that the people of Nayve have to learn.”
5
A Crumbling Cornerstone
First Circle:
Foundation’s footing, bedrock to worlds.
Anchors present, future’s bastion.
From the Tapestry of the Worldweaver, Lore of the Underworld
Karkald’s lungs strained for air and he could feel the weakness seeping into his legs and arms. The long, terrified run from the battery, the sight of Darann clutched by that hideous, silver-mawed Delver, now propelled him into a monstrous rage. Four of the Unmirrored already lay dead and bleeding on the floor.
But now he was nearly finished, and as more of the Dark Ones spilled into the den, he staggered backward, pulling Darann and himself against the wall. They faced a tight circle of attackers, and the sightless dwarves now stood shoulder to shoulder, presenting a solid front of whirling blades.
“I love you,” Darann said, touching Karkald on the arm.
He looked at her miserably, saw scratches and smudges on her face, fear and despair in her eyes. He knew that she was here on the watch station because of him-and he saw how that devotion would, in mere moments, get her killed.
“I’m sorry!” he cried. The wall of the den was behind them now, blocking further retreat, and the Delvers continued to close in.
“No!” she retorted furiously. “Don’t say that!” She picked up a coal poker from beside the burner and flailed the steel shaft at the nearest Delvers. “We’re going to fight!” The blackened spike clattered against dagger blades while Karkald stabbed with his spear, once more driving the tip through enemy armor, then twisting and pulling back to wrench the weapon free.
“Kill him! Bring the wench to me!” The leader, the one called Zystyl, shrieked his orders, and the ring of Unmirrored pressed closer.
Frantically Karkald looked around the den. Flames smoldered in the direction of the bedchamber, and in any event he knew there was no escape that way. The steel-jawed captain still shouted from the kitchen, while the main room was full of Delvers blocking the passage out to the portico.
Still, the latter seemed like the only chance.
Momentarily he missed his hatchet, which was still buried in the skull of a dead Delver. But he still had his knife and his spear. He tapped Darann on the shoulder, nodded his head once toward the door, and then hurled himself against the front line of Delvers.
Leading with his spear, he stabbed one of the attackers through the throat. That Delver fell and Karkald rushed into the gap in the line, thrusting with his long knife, driving the blade into the next of the Unmirrored. At the same time he felt a burning pain in his back as another of the Blind Ones turned to slash at the space that had been created. Hearing the clash, the rest of the Delvers closed in.
Karkald gasped as another whirling knife ripped through his thigh. He flailed and stabbed at the enemy all around, until he felt a firm push against his back. Darann was there, shoving hard, and then the two of them were through the ring of Delvers. Limping, clenching his teeth against the pain, the Seer now followed his wife into the entry passageway. He remembered the dozens of boats at the base of the pillar, knew that the island must be swarming with the Unmirrored-yet all he wanted now was to get out of the den.
Abruptly he smashed, face first, onto the floor. His initial thought was that his wounded leg had collapsed-but then the ground jolted under his feet with a violence that lifted him into the air. Darann screamed and tumbled beside him, and vaguely he understood that somehow the bedrock itself was moving, shaking and rolling in supernatural convulsion.
A shrill cry emanated from the den, followed by a thunderous crash and a cloud of dust that billowed and rolled across the two Seers lying on the floor of the tunnel. Darann was crying, and Karkald felt numbed by shock. He could see and feel the trembling of the ground, but his mind, all his experience and his learning, told him that such an occurrence was impossible.
Yet there was no denying the reality of the violence, the thunder of collapsing stone as rock spilled into the den, choking and crushing. A rock thudded onto the floor beside him, and a clatter of gravel spilled down the nearby wall. Terror clutched Karkald’s heart as he pictured them trapped in this narrow passage, buried beneath a thousand tons of rubble.
“Come on!” he urged, dropping his knife into the sheath at his hip, reaching for Darann. Together they scrambled toward the portico over the pitching, heaving floor. Twice, large rocks smashed onto Karkald, one banging his skull hard enough to stun him. But finally they tumbled from the den’s front door to sprawl on the flat portico jutting out from the side of the island’s cliff.
Even here rubble was scattered across the stones, and Karkald was stunned to see great waves rising and surging across the surface of the dark sea. Landslides spilled down the sides of the watch station, and several of the great beacons had been destroyed. At least two of the beams still swept across the dark water, highlighting the tortured expanse.
Karkald heard a crash from within the den. The sound was followed by a groan, and then a very foul-and lively-curse, proving that Delvers were still alive and active inside. Silently the Seer tugged at Darann’s hand, placing a finger on his lips to caution her as they made their way across the portico to the steep wall of the pillar. Fortunately the stairway to the nearest beacon remained intact, and only a few steps were obstructed by rubble that had fallen from above. He took care to step only upon solid rock so as not to make a sound as he led his wife upward, climbing toward the lantern that still blazed through the darkness.
Finally they reached a perch nearly a hundred feet above the portico. Here the two of them huddled on a narrow ledge beside the beacon of coolfyre, still too numbed and horrified to speak. Below them several Delvers were visible, crawling from the collapse within the den or gathering on the portico from other parts of the island. More and more emerged from various niches and ledges, until a hundred or more had gathered before the ruins of the Seers’ den.
The two Seers pressed back against the cliff, silent and afraid. Karkald knew they could not be seen by the Blind Ones, but even so he was reluctant to expose himself any more than necessary. Beside him, Darann was watching the lights of Axial, a bright swath across the sea. They could even make out some of the great pillars, outlined by coolfyre, that rose from the city to merge with the stone sky of the Underworld.
Neither of them was prepared for the next pulse of the earthquake, a jolt that rocked the pillar of the watch station harder than any of the previous shocks. They shouted in alarm and clung to each other, pitching perilously close to the precipice. Karkald snatched out his pick and curled the hook over the bar of the beacon’s frame. Once more the bedrock shivered, and they tumbled and twisted over the hundred-foot drop. Only his grip on the tool, and the half-circle of metal curled over the rod, kept them from a fatal plummet.
Below, the Delvers were shrieking in terror, and Karkald hoped the sounds of their panic had drowned out the sharp cries he and his wife had made. He had good reason to believe this, for it seemed as though the whole of the First Circle reverberated with sound. Waves
crashed on stony shores, or pitched against each other in chaotic surges. Massive pieces of the ceiling plunged downward, and great chunks of the watch station broke away to tumble into the sea.
“Look!” moaned Darann, rising to her knees and pointing through the vast dark of the First Circle. He looked to where she pointed and saw the lights of Axial pitching and lurching in the distance. A great swath of the city abruptly disappeared, as if ten thousand lights had been extinguished at once. The rest of Axial flared with a supernatural brightness, until another part was blinked out in the space of a few seconds. Still more of the city vanished next, blotted out in an instant.
More convulsions followed, and Karkald held his woman with all his strength, waiting for the boulder that at any instant would crush them or sweep them to their deaths. But instead, they somehow survived. Gradually this quake settled, and the rock beneath them ceased to move. Waves still pitched across the lake, and they could see many new islands, masses of rubble that jutted upward from the waves. The base of their own watch station had expanded because of falling debris, in places becoming a wide fan of loose rock that extended far out across the water.
Already there were Delvers making their way down this slope. It seemed to Karkald, in the light of the one beacon remaining, that quite a few of the Blind Ones had survived the quake. He heard words of harsh command, and recognized Zystyl’s voice.
Darann uttered a strangled sob and at first Karkald thought she was reacting to that horrific dwarf’s survival. But when he raised his eyes, he followed the direction of her horrified stare.
“No!” he whispered, as his wife clung to his arm and stared wordlessly through the darkness.
Across the sea, along the great swath where Axial had once brightened the First Circle, they saw only darkness.
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