Circle at center sc-1

by Douglas Niles

  Natac attacked like a madman, shouting a challenge as he rushed into the enemy’s midst. He struck left and right-killing blows to neck and chest, crippling slashes to hamstring or calf. Within seconds half the elves were down and the others were diving back out the window.

  Then a cheer rang from the ramparts. Natac looked outside, saw that Sir Christopher was ordering his men back, regrouping on the slope of the ridge. A glance toward the bridge showed the same-the Crusaders were backing away, and the giants and elves of Natac’s company were shouting in joy.

  Natac looked up, saw that the sun had already begun to recede. It looked as though his warriors had carried the first day.

  T he giant was covered with blood, sprawled across a two-wheeled oxcart that had been violently tipped onto its side. The leather traces were sliced to ribbons, and there was no sign of the great bovine that, Karkald deduced, must have been pulling the wagon. The whole gory tableau lay at the mouth of the tunnel carrying the Metal Highway away from Nayve.

  The dwarf felt a dull sense of hopelessness. This world was so different from the First Circle… how could he manage? He was in command of a hundred gnomes, but none of the little fellows had ever even delivered a blow in anger before. And he couldn’t even keep Darann safe-she had insisted on marching here with him. She had been cursedly stubborn about the matter, too-he had only acquiesced because they needed to get on the march, and she had been unwilling to yield to his authority.

  Now this giant lay here, clear proof that the danger was greater than just that offered by the Crusaders-for in the cruel, slicing cuts Karkald felt certain he was looking at the work of Delvers.

  “In here!”

  It was the faerie called Kaycee, who had flown along as the gnomes and the two dwarves had marched out of the city. Now she called from inside the tunnel, and moments later came flying woozily out. She plopped into the ditch and retched noisily.

  “It’s the ox… what’s left of it,” offered Nistel, who had gone ahead to investigate. “Mostly bones, I should say.” The gnome, too, looked a little queasy as he emerged into the fading light.

  “What could have done this?” Darann asked, moving closer to the motionless giant. She leaned toward his face, brushed away the blood with a tentative hand. “He’s alive!”

  “Bring him over here, to the grass,” Karkald directed the gnomes. The little fellows, who seemed to welcome his assumption of authority, hastened to obey. In a few minutes the giant was stretched out, compresses laid against his many wounds. Most of these, fortunately, proved shallow. As Darann gave him some water, and washed his face, his eyelids flickered and then, with a start, he sat up.

  “Little murderers!” he howled, raising his fists as gnomes scampered in all directions.

  “Wait!” declared Karkald, his sternness matching the giant’s outrage. “We are not the people who did this to you!”

  The giant scowled and squinted, rubbing one of the wounds on his scalp. “No,” he admitted. “They were ugly runts, no eyes in their faces! And one of them had jaws of metal-’twas his bite did this.” The fellow displayed a nasty wound in his forearm. “There was hundreds of ’em, teeming like rats, they were.”

  “Did you fight them off?” Karkald asked, amazed.

  The giant shook his head ruefully. “Not the like. It seemed like there was no hope. We’d fought our way out of the tunnel, just before the Lighten Hour… must have been this morn. But the little wretches came after, pulled Bess out of her traces.” The fellow’s voice caught, a mixture of pain and rage, and his great hands clenched into fists. “They were eatin’ her while she was still kickin’! She bellowed for me, and I tried to get to her. But they was too many.”

  “You fought bravely,” Karkald said. “Your wounds show that.”

  “And then they just left me… like the sun was getting brighter, and then run back into the tunnel.”

  “They are Delvers, blind dwarves of the First Circle who live for killing and cruelty. They have indeed come to Nayve,” Karkald declared grimly. He looked up, saw that the sun had receded far into the heavens. “Probably they wait only for nightfall before attacking.”

  “And here they come!” squeaked Kaycee, buzzing out of the tunnel where she had ventured to keep watch. “Get ready!”

  “Gnomes-form a line here, across the tunnel mouth!” shouted Karkald. The little people hastened to obey, but the dwarf’s heart sank at the prospect of these untrained troops facing a Delver assault. Still, there was nothing left to do.

  Or perhaps one thing. He shouted to Darann, who was moving into the gnome line. “Take word back to the inn-tell Natac that the Delvers are coming! He’s got to be ready on his flank!”

  “Send one of the gnomes!” she objected, with a meaningful nod into the tunnel. She had armed herself with a wooden shaft sharpened to a keen point, and she rose head and shoulders above their doughty comrades.

  Karkald didn’t have time to argue. “Kaycee-get to the inn and warn them about the Delvers!”

  With a nod the faerie buzzed off. By the time she disappeared, the tromp of marching feet formed a cadence coming from the tunnel. The Delvers emerged from the inky darkness into the twilight in a whirling front of slashing swords and cutting axes. Each of the Unmirrored was clad in metal armor and stood shoulder to shoulder with his mates. A few of the gnomes poked with their pitchforks or whacked with their staves, but the weapons bounced off steel-plated shoulders and heads.

  And then the Delver weapons met flesh. Gnomes shrieked and screamed as dozens of wounds were scored along the line. Some were cut down in the first contact. Others dropped their weapons and turned to flee. Still more fell slowly back from that inexorable crush.

  As soon as the Unmirrored had emerged from the cave they began to spread out, rear ranks moving to the right or left of the first row. Soon the mass was a hundred paces wide, and advancing into the open. The rest of the gnomes could do nothing but turn to flee, running into the night.

  And the Blind Ones followed.

  S he was near!

  Zystyl’s wide nostrils quivered in anticipation. More than a scent, the arcane perceived a presence on a visceral level, in a place that superseded the keen depths of his four senses. There was a sweet aura, proof that he had found the same Seer female who had eluded him in the First Circle.

  Now she was running with the gnomes, the runts who had offered such pathetic resistance. Still, the victory had been a delight-the Delvers had immersed themselves in the stench of a real bloodletting. The taste of gnomish flesh still lingered in Zystyl’s mouth, an oily residue which, after the long intervals on march rations, he found vaguely sickening.

  But that was forgotten as the arcane now led his warriors after the retreating gnomes. The dwarves followed the sounds of their retreating foes, the Blind Ones rolling easily over the ground.

  And somewhere before him was that Seer called Darann. He remembered the taste of her sweat when his tongue had stroked her cheek, the softness of her warm flesh in the grip of his strong fingers.

  He had followed her to a new world, and here at last he would have her.

  Sir Christopher launched his next attack under the full cover of darkness, once more sending waves of elves and goblins against the inn, while most of his giants again pressed the onslaught against the bridge. Natac watched the first maneuvers from the balcony of the Blue Swan, and saw a small group of enemy giants rushing out of the night. They carried a heavy tree trunk, and raced toward the front doors of the inn.

  The warrior raced down to the ground floor, hurrying to the entrance, where he watched through the crack in the broken front door. As the horde emerged from the darkness, another volley of arrows lanced out from the Blue Swan’s high parapet. Now Deltan directed his missiles with lethal accuracy, and they found targets in centaur chests, giants’ throats, and the bodies of goblins and elves. A dozen or more of the attackers fell. But still the Crusaders rushed forward, and Natac threw his own shoulder against the door j
ust in time to meet the shock of the onslaught.

  The barrier shuddered and broke under the impact of a heavy ram. The Tlaxcalan tumbled out of the way, struggling to draw his sword and climb to his feet. The first giant, with the end of a big log under his arm, plunged through the doorway and spotted Natac. With a bellow that almost deafened the warrior, the hulking creature lashed out with a huge fist. Natac’s sword snicked outward and up, slicing across three knuckles. When the brute recoiled, the blade lashed out again as Natac stabbed the giant right in the heart.

  By then another burly Crusader had entered the room, this one bearing a club. An elf charged forward, jabbing with a wooden staff, but the giant brought his club down on his victim’s skull, killing him in an instant. Natac turned, but he was too far away to intervene as the giant started toward the next room. But then another elf stood in his path, this one-like Natac-stabbing with a deadly steel longsword. The giant fell back, bright red blood spurting from his gashed thigh. By the time his comrades pulled him out of the room, the elves had lifted the door and once again barricaded it in place.

  “Where did you get that sword?” Natac asked, recognizing Tamarwind Trak as the elf wiped and sheathed his blade.

  “From me.” It was Darryn Forgemaster. The blacksmith druid stood with Miradel in a hallway. “I brought four more weapons over… thought they might be of some use. I gave two to those big humans, the Irish and Vikingman. One went to Tamarwind, and I have the other.”

  “Good-and thank you!” Natac replied. Before he could say more, shouts of alarm rang through the hall.

  “The inn is on fire! We’re burning!” The alarm spread quickly, and by the time Natac raced through the several connecting halls he found one wing of the Blue Swan nearly engulfed by flames. Elves frantically poured buckets of water onto the blaze, but the fire continued to consume the wooden structure. Interior walls glowed red, and smoke belched into the hallway from the open doors of several rooms.

  Jared Innkeeper was there, sooty and gasping. The elf directed the firefighting efforts, even lending his slight body to the task of hauling buckets. But a quick glance showed the courageous elves forced to fall back, retreating in the face of intense heat.

  “You-all of you! Help fight the fire!” Natac shouted, mustering a dozen elves who were milling about, wide-eyed and near panic, at the top of the wide stairway. They hastened to obey as the warrior rushed onto the outer balcony to get a view of the damage.

  He saw that the roof was ablaze over the entire wing, with cheering Crusaders gathered around to watch. Turning back to the door, Natac was startled to find that Miradel had followed him onto the balcony. “Go back inside!” he ordered, but immediately saw that she was paying no attention to him. Instead, her eyes were fixed upon the sky.

  She raised her hands and shouted. The voice that boomed from that frail and elderly form was a shocking pulse of pure power, and when she lowered her voice, the cry sank to a rumble that reminded the warrior of distant thunder. He stared in wonder, awed by her power, her calm majesty.

  And then real thunder crackled through the night, exploding from dark clouds that were just now churned into being. Abruptly rain pummeled Natac, the inn, and the ground in a torrential deluge. Miradel wove the magic with her hands, threads pulled from fingers to palm in delicate motions. And while she worked her spell, the rain poured into the flames, sizzling and hissing into steam, dousing the fire wherever a finger of flame dared to rise-at least, on the outside of the great building.

  However, when he went back inside, Natac saw by the smoke-filled halls that the conflagration continued to spread. He encouraged Jared’s efforts with a report of Miradel’s spell, then started for the stairs to check on the battle at the ground floor.

  “Natac!” Tamarwind met him on the steps. The elf’s eyes were wild, and there was an edge of panic in his voice.

  “What is it?”

  “Over there-at the bridge. You have to see!”

  Natac followed the elf back to the balcony and looked toward the other part of the battle. Torches flared in the darkness, and it looked to him as though the bridge still held. But there was churning movement beyond, dark forms coming from the mouth of the great tunnel.

  Abruptly the night was split by a brilliant light, a glow of whiteness that seemed somehow even brighter than the sun. At the same time, it was a cold sort of illumination, suggestive more of a bright star than any kind of fire. Natac saw that the dwarf Karkald was holding his spear over his head, and it was the point of the spear that was aglow.

  In the light the warrior could see that the gnomes were in full flight, running from the Metal Highway tunnel. Behind them came other figures, dark and crablike in the way they moved. They rushed after the routed gnomes in what was clearly an aggressive pursuit.

  And Natac saw the grim truth in an instant: With this new attack, the whole defense of the causeway was outflanked.

  “Fall back!” he shouted. He seized Tamarwind by the shoulder. “Go through the inn-get word to the far wings first. We’ll retreat to the courtyard, then make a rush from the gates-we have to reach the causeway, and soon. Now, move!”

  The elf raced away, while Natac found Deltan Columbine. “Give them a few quick volleys-then get down to the courtyard!”

  The poet nodded in understanding, then turned to shout orders to his archers. “You elves-go for the kill, now! Shoot three!”

  Arrows whispered outward, but Natac was already down the stairs. He found Jared Innkeeper still leading the valiant, but failing, battle against the fire.

  “The inn is lost,” the warrior said bluntly. “Gather your clan in the courtyard-we’re going to fight our way to the causeway while we still have a chance.”

  With a gasp of utter despair, quickly contained, the elven patrician nodded and threw down his bucket. His eyes, rimmed with soot, were moist but his voice was strong. “All you of the Blue Swan-this way! Follow the warrior!”

  In moments they had gathered before the main gates, which still stood intact. Miradel was there, and Darryn Forgemaster, as well as nearly all the elves of the company. Tamarwind arrived with the defenders of the far wing, and they gathered in the courtyard, waiting for word.

  “Go to the stream!” Miradel shouted to him. “The druids will let us pass!”

  The warrior nodded in understanding. “Open the gates and charge for the causeway!” shouted Natac. “Don’t stop for anything.”

  The gates parted swiftly to reveal a few startled goblins. These wretched Crusaders hastily scampered away, as Natac led the elves out. Here and there a giant or centaur moved to intercept, but the sheer number of elves allowed them to brush these obstacles aside. However, as Natac looked ahead, he saw that the attackers still pressed against the bridge. Remembering Miradel’s instructions, he led the elves not toward the bridge, but toward the high, roiling stream.

  Before the defenders reached the water’s edge the druids across the stream abruptly dropped their hands, ceasing the weaving motions they had maintained for so long. Immediately the roiling waters spilled away, leaving a shallow and placid waterway no more than a foot or two deep.

  Swiftly the elves pushed across, the stronger helping the weaker. Churning over the muddy bottom, they climbed up the far bank, then turned to pull their comrades out behind them. Natac stood on the bank, watching as several centaurs galloped toward them.

  “Get your bowmen ready to shoot!” he cried to Deltan Columbine. In the confusion of the retreat, however, the archer was able to assemble only a half dozen of his men. “Take aim-make each shot count!”

  Most of the elves were across. Where was Miradel?

  The warrior was shocked to see her just moving down to the stream, aided by Darryn Forgemaster. Natac went to her other side, but then Christopher’s centaurs galloped up, undeterred by the few arrows launched by Deltan’s archers. The warrior slashed back and forth, holding the first of the hoofed attackers at bay, but others circled around, out of range of his steel.


  “Away with you!” cried Darryn, stabbing with his sword.

  “Damned tooth!” cried a centaur, as the tip gouged his flank. Another of the big creatures reached down, seized the blacksmith by the wrist and pulled him out of the stream. Natac, holding Miradel with one arm, dragged her across the waterway and into the grasp of their comrades. Darryn tried to break free, to come after, but the centaur’s big hand was too strong. The smith raised his sword, but another centaur lunged at him to snatch the weapon away.

  “Fine weapon!” roared Darryn’s captor, lifting the blacksmith off the ground and flicking his black tail. “You can tell our lord knight where you got it!”

  More centaurs and several giants charged into the stream, and the druids hastily churned the water high, driving the aggressive Crusaders back to their shore. But Natac could only watch in helpless dismay as Darryn Forgemaster was lashed to the back of a big centaur. The blacksmith was hauled away even as the magic torrent churned through the streambed with renewed force.

  The elves from the battle at the inn, battered, sooty, and defeated, streamed onto the causeway in the wake of the fleeing gnomes. Owen, Fionn, and the giants fell back from the bridge as Natac, too, joined the rearguard. A minute later they formed a living barrier across the terminus of the causeway, the Tlaxcalan standing with Rawknuckle Barefist and two other giants, as well as the other two human warriors, and Karkald and Tamarwind.

  The Crusaders milled about at the bridge, hesitating to follow, and quickly Natac saw why. Churning out of the darkness came a solid front of black armor and swirling, vicious blades. The eyeless dwarves attacked like an unthinking, unfeeling machine. Sensing where the lake waters blocked them, directed by the shouts of their leader, the Delvers intuitively formed a wedge and drove down the road straight onto the causeway. They advanced shoulder to shoulder, a wall of steel breastplates and helmets. Every dwarf clutched a blade in each hand, and these deadly short swords whipped back and forth in front of the line like so many slashing scythes.