Circle at center sc-1

by Douglas Niles

  “Are you warriors of this place called Nayve?” asked Christopher.

  “We are the conquerors of Nayve, here to take prizes and treasure!” declared Zystyl. “Do not think you can defeat us!”

  “My lord Zystyl,” said the knight with oily sincerity. “I should not do you that disservice. But rather still, should you not consider how, together, we might both achieve our same ends?”

  B elynda took time only to clean up and change clothes while word was carried by runners to each of the senators and ambassadors in Circle at Center, announcing an emergency meeting of the Senate. With her hair combed and her tattered gown replaced by a fresh robe of gold, she tried to maintain her confidence as she made her way to the forum.

  But when she rose to address the body of the Senate, all her old doubts came sailing back.

  There hadn’t been time to gather many of the delegates. She saw a few goblins and many elves, but there were no giants or gnomes present-even Nistel hadn’t made it yet.

  Karkald and Darann were there. The dwarves sat near the front of the assemblage, and though a few goblins and fairies looked at them curiously, the elves studiously ignored these visitors who so clearly did not belong here. One faerie, a little creature called Kaycee, buzzed sleepily to her seat near the top of the chamber.

  At the rostrum, Belynda made a valiant effort. She told, firsthand, of the deaths she had witnessed, cruel poisonings inflicted by Sir Christopher’s serpent staff. She described the stake, and the firewood that was to have been the instrument of her own death. And she noted the threat, in the form of the advancing army, that was even now approaching the lakeshore beyond their precious city.

  Naturally, her remarks caused a great deal of consternation, especially among the elves. Both Praxian and Cannystrius shouted for order, but it was several minutes before the assembly quieted down.

  More excitement was caused, then, when she invited Karkald to speak. In blunt, plain-spoken language, the dwarf described the army of Delvers that had embarked on an invasion of Nayve. By the time he was finished, goblins were jabbering, but the elves remained stony-faced and aloof.

  “I tell you, peoples of Nayve-we must act, and quickly!” Belynda declared, once again stepping to the fore. “Come by the tens, by the hundreds-have them rally at the Blue Swan Inn!”

  A few of the elves were nodding in agreement. Several of the goblins were grinning with excitement, all but bouncing up and down, ready to move.

  “A point of order.” It was old Rallaphan, raising his hand and rising from his stool. The assembly grew silent.

  “These are alarming tales, extraordinary occurrences,” declared the elder senator. “Perhaps they do call for action. But I would observe that a casual count shows no more than half the delegates are present, here and now. We are clearly lacking the quorum needed for a vote.”

  “We don’t need to vote!” Belynda retorted. “We need to act!”

  “Ahem.” It was tall Praxian, glaring down at her sternly. “Need I remind the sage-ambassador that this is not a body that acts. This is a body that votes-and that only after proper and decorous debate!”

  “Quite, quite,” chimed in Cannystrius, while Rallaphan snorted in agreement.

  The doors to the Senate chamber burst open with a shocking clang.

  “We are prepared to fight!” It was Nistel, leading perhaps a hundred gnomes into the suddenly stirring chamber. “We offer ourselves as warriors, ready to lay down our lives to protect Circle at Center.”

  “And I will fight, too!” cried the lone faerie, Kaycee.

  “You are out of order!” cried Rallaphan. “I object to this disruption.”

  “You’re good at that, aren’t you?” snapped Karkald, rising to his feet so abruptly that his stool toppled over behind him. He fixed Rallaphan with a contemptuous glare, then let his scornful eyes blaze across the whole gallery of elves. “Objections! Out of Order! Talk, vote, you do everything but act!” He drew a deep breath, and to Belynda it was obvious that he struggled to control a volatile temper. She doubted whether any of the other elves sensed the emotion simmering beneath the dwarf’s gruff countenance.

  “I’ve tried to explain to you about these Delvers,” he declared. “They’d be delighted to hear you talk like this, because before you make up your minds they would destroy you! I have no doubt that Zystyl, their captain, would personally eat the hearts of a dozen elves in celebration of his victory!”

  That graphic suggestion, at least, caused the blood to drain from many an elven face. And Karkald didn’t seem inclined to let up. “Can you imagine what it would be like, a hundred faceless dwarves, protected in black steel from head to toe, each carrying two wicked knives. They whirl them, and advance shoulder to shoulder. Some of you might try to stand and fight-and you’d be cut to pieces. The rest, those who run, would have to keep running, and hiding. And even then the Delvers would smell you, and they’d come for you, and your children, and your world!”

  “Enough!” shrieked Rallaphan, his face taut, veins bulging on forehead and neck. “You have no voice here-you are an outsider, and you have no right to defile our chambers!”

  “You think this is defilement?” the dwarf replied with a snort. “Just wait-I know you can do that. I can see you’re damned good at doing nothing. As for me, I’ll stand with the gnomes and anyone else who wants to be a warrior. I will fight, in this world, against the enemy of my own homeland.”

  “Then you must go to the Blue Swan Inn,” Belynda said to Karkald and the gnomes. The elven delegates hissed and murmured in soft objection, but even Rallaphan refrained from raising his voice. The sage-ambassador raised her voice, sweeping her eyes across the chamber to include everyone present in her response.

  “And pray to the Goddess Worldweaver that we are not too late!”

  “Good sir, can I speak with you, please?”

  This humble elf was the innkeeper, Natac knew-the fellow had been pointed out by Tamarwind as soon as the company had reached the Blue Swan Inn. Jared Innkeeper was his name, and despite his nondescript appearance and slight size, the scout had identified him as a very influential citizen of Nayve.

  “I have only a minute-what do you want?” the warrior asked ungraciously. He begrudged even this tiny shift of his focus, but in truth he knew there was little else he could do now. His warriors were deployed, and they could only wait for the enemy to appear.

  “We hear that there’s an army on the way-coming here!” stated the elf, his words tumbling out in a rush.

  “Yes… it was my order that you be told. Have you evacuated the inn?”

  “Well, no. It’s just that… you see, we’ve never done anything like this before.” The frail elf strove to stand straight, to meet Natac’s eyes. “And, well… there are many families living here, the elves who maintain the inn. Not to mention guests. And we really don’t want to leave.”

  Natac looked toward the ridge crest, the horizon where the highway came over the hill. There was still no sign of the Crusaders, nor of the scouts he had placed up there to bring early warning. He tried to contain his exasperation, reminding himself that war was an utterly foreign concept to the people of Nayve.

  “I understand how you feel. In fact, neither myself nor these elves and giants who are with me would choose to be here now, if given a choice. But the matter has been taken out of our hands by the actions of an enemy, one who comes here with the intent to destroy and to kill.”

  “I am trying to grasp this,” said the elf with obvious sincerity. Natac felt a flash of sympathy. Naturally, the fellow’s age wasn’t apparent, but the warrior assumed he was the patriarch of a sizable clan. Perhaps they had operated this inn for a thousand years, or more. “And you are here to resist that enemy, correct?”

  “Yes… we will fight them if they try to come onto the causeway.”

  “Then… can you not fight them before they come into the Blue Swan?”

  Natac drew a deep breath. How could he briefly explain
about tactics? About hanging flanks and untenable positions? Before he spoke, Deltan Columbine came up.

  “I think Jared Innkeeper makes a strong point,” said the elven poet. “We intend to fight. Why don’t we fight for this inn? It’s beautiful… it has a history that goes back further than two generations of elves. And it is visible from Circle at Center-a very symbol of Nayve.”

  “If we put our warriors in the inn, then the Crusaders can simply go around us and get on the causeway,” Natac argued. “The whole city is open to them.”

  “What if we try to hold the bridge and the inn?” Deltan suggested. “Owen and the giants can stand at the bridge, and the elves can hold the inn.”

  Natac shook his head. “The giants are not enough to hold the bridge-not if the enemy comes through the stream.”

  “Perhaps we can prevent that.”

  Miradel’s voice from behind him sent a jolt of happiness through Natac. He turned to embrace his teacher, saw that she had come across the causeway with Juliay and several other druids. “How can you prevent a crossing of the stream?” asked the warrior. Beyond the druids, another column of recruits-short, bearded figures bearing a variety of implements as weapons-marched resolutely toward the bridge.

  “It is the same magic that raises the Snakesea raft,” explained a tall male human, a man with a flowing beard and long, bronze-colored hair. “We can fill the stream with so much water that anyone trying to cross will be swept out to the lake.”

  “Oh, brave warrior-is it possible?” asked Jared Innkeeper. “Can you block the causeway, and save the inn?”

  With a scowl, Natac glowered at his companions. “What if Sir Christopher sends some of his men through the tunnel? They’ll come out right between the inn and the bridge. We’ll be trapped.”

  “Not with us to watch your back.”

  Natac saw that the dwarf Karkald had arrived with the next group of reinforcements. Karkald and his wife had led a column of gnomes, a hundred or more strong, across the causeway from the city. The stubby little people were armed with big knives, pitchforks, staffs, and clubs. A few of them had crossbows and quivers of small, metal-tipped darts.

  “Can you position yourselves across the gap?” asked the Tlaxcalan, knowing that the dwarf-out of everyone present-had some grasp of combat tactics.

  “Yes-we’ll keep an eye on the tunnel,” declared Karkald, while Nistel nodded eagerly at his side.

  Natac looked for Belynda and didn’t see her. “Any hope of more reinforcements, some elves from the city, perhaps?”

  Karkald growled and spat. It was Nistel who answered. “They… I think they’re too frightened. Anyway, it didn’t seem like any of them were in a hurry to help.”

  Natac looked at the ridge again… no sign of alarm there. He looked at the inn, trying to see its defensive strengths, if any. There was a high balcony encircling the upper stories. From there, the archers could shoot unimpeded in every direction. But there were too many doors, and the building was made entirely of wood. If Sir Christopher attacked with fire, the results could be disastrous.

  Yet Natac knew the value of a strong symbol, and suspected that value would only be enhanced in the eyes of young, untested warriors. And the inn stood visible even from Circle at Center… Perhaps it might prove a rallying point, if they could just withstand the first onslaught. Critically he eyed the ground. The archers could do some damage from the inn, harassing any Crusaders who tried to bypass the position to attack the bridge. If they were forced out, they could possibly fall back to the boats in the harbor, or else try and battle their way to the causeway. It was worth a try.

  “Very well,” he said. “Deltan, move your archers onto the balcony up there. The rest should take up positions inside, behind the doors and windows.” He looked at Jared Innkeeper. “Get your strongest elves. Grab weapons-knives, garden tools, axes. And get ready to defend your home.”

  The slight elf gulped nervously, but then pledged his agreement and hastened to the inn to start preparations.

  In a few minutes, the archers were in position. Natac strode through the ground floor of the building, seeing that the main gates were well-barred, that every door and window was barricaded and reinforced. After a quick circuit he climbed to the balcony, and then to a lone tower which rose above the rest of the sprawling structure.

  He looked in the direction of metal and saw movement atop the ridge. A lone figure raced down the road, a centaur who was waving a piece of red cloth clutched in one hand. It was Gallupper, giving the signal that an attack was imminent.

  “They come!” cried Natac, and the alarm was taken up throughout the ranks of the defenders.

  By the time Natac had descended to the balcony, the vanguard of the Crusaders had come into view: two dozen centaurs who rumbled along the road, shouting and cursing at Gallupper. The youngster held a good lead, however, and as he neared the inn the pursuers pulled up.

  “Obviously they remember the sting of our arrows,” Deltan observed.

  “Good thing-for you’ll need to conserve them, now,” Natac replied. “Tell your men to make every shot count.”

  The rest of the enemy fighters gradually came into view, a long, dark file, closely packed ranks plodding relentlessly down the hill. Menacing giants loomed over companies of goblins and long columns of elves. The centaurs circled back, raising clouds of dust with their heavy hooves as they flanked the marching army and fell into an easy walk through the fields beside the track.

  Sir Christopher was clearly visible in his silver shirt, riding a black horse and cantering back and forth along the formation. He halted near the top of the hill, and spent several minutes eyeing the inn, the bridge, and the mouth of the tunnel-where the gnomes were already forming up a line. Even in the distance Natac could hear the human warrior barking orders, and he saw several centaurs take off running, no doubt bearing their leader’s commands to the various units on the road.

  When the lead giants were a half mile away they left the road, and the rest of the column followed. For ten minutes they marched into a line perpendicular to the highway. Their discipline was unimpressive, compared to the precise formations followed by a Tlaxcalan or Aztec army, but soon the Crusaders had formed a formidable front, standing shoulder to shoulder, facing the Blue Swan.

  Then, with a yell that began as a rumble and swelled to a ringing cry, the giants, elves, centaurs, and goblins surged forward. The sound swelled into a wave of noise, a roar that might have emerged from a single, monstrous throat. Feet and hooves pounded the ground, adding to the din, and as the attackers swept closer the sound rose to a thrumming crescendo.

  The first arrows streaked out to vanish in the mob. In moments the attackers were closing around the inn, and racing toward the bridge, where Owen, Rawknuckle, and the other giants stood waiting.

  With a quick glance from his post on the balcony, Natac saw that the placid stream guarding the causeway had swelled to a raging torrent. Whitecaps churned through the roiling river, and water surged over the banks and rushed to spill in great waves across the lake. The druids, tall and serene in their brown robes, stood in a line about one every twenty paces along the stream’s course. Natac nodded in satisfaction-the bridge would be the only crossing.

  Three of the Crusader giants led the charge, pounding onto the bridge with clubs upraised. Owen roared a battle cry-it sounded something like “Odin” to Natac-and met the leading giant with a slash of his great club. The giant howled and fell back, blood spraying onto the cobblestones. Rawknuckle and his comrades met their foes with staffs made from whole trees, bracing the poles against the bridge and lowering the ends into the charging enemies.

  And then Fionn and three more giants rushed forward, wading into the confused front rank, the Irishman bashing with his staff while these giants laid about with heavy clubs. Within seconds the impetus of the Crusaders’ charge was broken, and the attackers fell back with shouts and curses.

  Meanwhile, a few centaurs had tried to wade the
raging stream, but the nearest druid chanted and swept her hands through an elaborate circle. Abruptly, white water churned upward, surging over the bank, sweeping around the legs of the rapidly retreating centaurs. One of the horse-men tumbled and slipped into the stream, and despite the best efforts of his comrades the hapless creature tumbled down the stream, rolling and bobbing as the water carried it into the lake.

  Natac couldn’t wait to see if the centaur swam back to shore-the Crusaders were milling about outside the inn now, and he heard crashing and pounding below as they battered at the barricaded entrances. Clutching his sword, the warrior raced downstairs, just in time to see two elves tumble back as the front door gave way.

  Five leering goblins clawed and scratched at each other, each trying to be the first through the opening. Natac rushed forward and, reminding himself to stab, not chop, thrust his blade into the packed bodies. The goblins howled and kicked, recoiling in a tangled mass. Natac stabbed again and four of the creatures scampered back from the broken door. One was bleeding, dragging a limp leg. The fifth lay motionless, pierced through the heart.

  Natac felt the same chill he’d experienced when he slew an elf in the Crusaders’ camp. Never in all his years of warring had he killed so easily-this keen weapon cut flesh in a way that went far beyond the capabilities of the stone blades of his homeland. He had no time for further reflection, as giants and wild-faced elves lunged toward the opening.

  “Get this door back up!” shouted the warrior to his own elves, several of whom gaped, horrified, at the breach. Natac stabbed again, puncturing a giant’s belly, then slashed his sword back and forth across the opening until the door was pushed back into place. Other elves were ready with beams and a great table, which they used to prop the barrier in its frame.

  A clatter of hard blows mixed with shrieks of pain drew Natac to a room in the back-a private dining room. Here a window had been pushed in, and a dozen Crusader elves had forced their way into the chamber. Already several defenders-mostly cooks, to judge from their greasy, flour-stained garments-had been cut down. One crawled toward the door, while two more lay in pools of fresh blood.