“They’re up to something,” the dwarf grunted, squinting across the sun-brightened waters. “Natac’s not far away from there.”
“They’re still a mile or more from Miradel’s cove,” said Tamarwind, trying to sound more optimistic than he felt. He knew that Natac and Roland would be trapped if the galleys continued on their current course.
Deltan gestured to the ships in the harbor below, a dozen three-masted caravels currently riding at anchor. In the prow of several of the ships gleamed a silver contraption, a miniature version of the great weapon atop this tower. “Perhaps it’s time to give your nautical battery a test.”
Karkald grimaced. “You know Natac wanted to wait until we had all of the ships outfitted. To get the most out of the surprise.”
The elf nodded. “I know-but he couldn’t have foreseen this! And it’s not just the Swallow that’s ready-we can shoot from the Nighthawk and the Falcon, too! Besides, we’ll probably get out there, and the galleys’ll turn after us and we can get away without firing a shot. That’ll give the Osprey time enough to race for safety.”
“I can’t argue with that,” the dwarf agreed. Tamarwind nodded decisively.
“Ahoy-crew of the Swallow!” Deltan shouted down from the tower. “Prepare to sail-we’re coming down!”
Instantly the deck of the ship became a beehive of activity. Elven crewmen started to hoist the sails, while others cleared away the clutter of routine sail-mending and rope work, or made ready to cast off the lines. In moments the two elves and Karkald had scrambled down the stairs and were running along the dock. By the time they boarded the caravel, the ship’s druid, Juliay, had brought out her bowl and windspoons.
“Cast off!” cried Deltan, as magical wind swirled upward and began to billow the sails.
“Look.” Karkald said the word quietly, but his blood chilled as he looked across the lake. “There’s the Osprey.”
Roland Boatwright’s ship had broken from its cove, twin sails full of wind. But the big war galleys were close now, and with their prey in plain sight they wheeled majestically, turning into position for an attack.
N atac stood with his hand on the line, leaning out to add his slim weight to the digging of the sailboat’s keel. The war galley loomed huge off the port bow, and Roland was rapidly spinning the spoon in his wooden bowl, casting every bit of wind he could muster into the taut canvas.
In a rush of wake the Osprey scooted past the first of the big ships. Several giants roared and hooted, then hurled big rocks. With some trepidation Natac watched the boulders soar close, but Roland twisted the tiller at the last minute. The crushing missiles landed to either side of the racing boat, raising tall cascades beside the gunwales, showering the deck with water. Swiftly the little sailboat raced away, and the next volley of stones fell just short of the stern.
But now they saw the other two galleys, big ships waiting farther away from shore. Those vessels had been screened by the first of the Crusader vessels, and were perfectly positioned to block the Osprey’s escape either to the right or the left. Giants loomed in the prows and sterns of both galleys, while the banks of oars, powered by rowing goblins, pushed the massive hulls through the water with churning speed. Natac could hear the drumming, the cadence of pounding feet and rhythmic chants made by the laboring rowers. The pair of galleys seemed to leap forward, closing the gap with startling quickness.
Beyond the enemy ships, far away across the lake, Natac caught a glimpse of white sails and felt a momentary chagrin. The caravels had sortied! His disciplined plan, to wait until all of his ships could be outfitted with Karkald’s new weapon, had been thrown into disorder by the need to rescue him. Still, the fleet’s presence at least raised the hope of escape. The warrior turned back to Roland, ready to announce his observation..
“I see ’em,” the druid declared from his position at the tiller.
“We need to buy some time!” Natac urged, knowing the caravels would not reach them for many minutes.
“I can do a little something about that-but it’s a risk!” Roland said.
“This whole war’s a risk,” Natac replied. He held the line and watched, his heart pounding with that precious excitement raised by a contest in which the prize was survival.
Roland pulled the tiller again, adjusting the force of his magical wind so that it still roared against his boat from the stern quarter. The little craft cut a tight half circle through the water, slicing through the gentle waves, now racing directly away from the two galleys-and straight back to the shore, only a few miles away.
T amarwind stood at the helm of his ship. A stiff wind filled the sails, pushing him on a course of interception. The other caravels of the little flotilla fanned out to either side, a line of white canvas and sleek hulls. He had not ordered them to follow, but he was gratified to see that the Nayvian fleet had taken to the lake with alacrity.
Beside him, Deltan Columbine grinned, white teeth flashing. His hair streamed in the wind, and his face, bronzed by years of sun and weather, glowed with a golden sheen of vitality. Just for the joy of it, the poet-warrior raised his flugel, sent brash notes ringing across the water. Just beyond Deltan, Karkald leaned over his battery, fiddling with the sights, checking the ammunition in the compact breech. He, too, was weathered and browned, his full beard flowing to either side of his broad chest.
How much we’ve changed, reflected Tamarwind. He looked at his own hands, browned, muscular, and calloused in a manner that he never would have imagined. Years of warfare had hardened his fingers and his palms, just as those same years had hardened him all over. Life had become a constant fight to protect the city. Matters of life and death were faced every day. Tamarwind himself had made mistakes that had sent brave elves to their deaths. And yet, in a secret part of his mind, he admitted to a bizarre vitality to this life, an appreciation of each day that he had never before imagined.
For the most part, it had been Natac and Karkald who had instructed the elves in matters of defense. The human warrior had studied many ways of making war, Miradel frequently utilizing the Wool of Time to teach him more about his birth-world. And Natac had put that knowledge to good use. When the attackers sent a wave of centaurs advancing rapidly down the causeway, the Nayvians had quickly formed a barrier of giants armed with massive pikes, an array of sharpened steel that had effectively thwarted the thundering charge. Sir Christopher sent legions of bowmen to shower the giants with arrows, and Natac had overpowered them with volleys from Deltan Columbine’s deadly longbows. And when the huge war galleys had been launched, more than ten years ago, Natac had enlisted Roland Boatwright to build the caravels. The little sailing ships, while unable to significantly damage the galleys, were-with the aid of druid-cast winds-always able to escape the lumbering Crusader vessels. The contrast had resulted in a situation where each side could still send ships across the lake, but neither could attain full control.
During the same time, the Seer dwarf from the First Circle had shared many secrets of technology with the druids and elves of the Nayvian army. Karkald’s skill at stoneworking had, with the aid of goblin labor, erected the towers on the island’s shoreline. His recent discovery of a large quarry of flamestone, existing right in the city, had allowed coolfyre to be developed, and the bright lights had proven invaluable in night battles. It had been the dwarf’s knowledge of metals-since the capture of Darryn Forgemaster-that enabled the defenders to make steel weapons and armor for much of the army, as well as to craft the mighty springs that powered the newest weapon. When Karkald’s great batteries had been mounted in the towers, the galleys were at last held at bay.
Now, with the smaller versions of those weapons placed in three of the caravels, the war was entering another period of change, Tamarwind reflected. Once again, he raced toward battle, hoping for the key victory, the triumph that would change the war forever.
But then his attention was drawn to the drama on the lake before them. He gasped as the Osprey turned, then vanished
behind the closing shapes of two massive galleys. More rocks flew, and splashes rose from the water beyond the great ships, but finally Roland’s sailboat darted into view, racing toward the shore.
“Come and get us, you bastards!” Karkald growled, and Tam silently repeated the prayer. He could sense the indecision in the enemy captains-the small prize of the sailboat, almost certainly doomed if the galleys turned and followed it toward the shallows. But here came the much larger prize of the caravels, the vexing little ships that so often before had darted away from the galleys rather than face the larger ships in battle.
Now the galleys were turning, oars pulsing, great hulls slicing the water as they veered toward the elven fleet.
“They’re taking the bait!” Deltan shouted, as Tamarwind called for more wind. Juliay spun her spoons with intense concentration, the wooden utensils a blur in the large, empty bowl. Somehow she managed to avoid clicking against the sides, and freshening wind surged in the sails.
The enemy galleys came at them in a line of three abreast, several giants at the ready in the prow of each vessel. Tam knew that they would have plenty of rocks on hand, ready to unleash a devastating barrage as soon as they got close enough.
“Now-make ready to shoot!” he shouted.
Immediately sails slackened on the elven ships, though the sharp bows remained pointed directly toward the advancing Crusaders.
“Remember-aim low,” Tamarwind urged, speaking quietly to Karkald as if he were worried that the enemy, still five hundred yards away, would overhear.
“I’ll remember,” said the dwarf, with a wry smile. “After all, I made the damned thing!”
Already he was squinting along the grooved sights, lining the massive barrel onto the prow of the nearest Crusader galley. Juliay slowed the stirring of her windspoons, and the Swallow settled into a gentle roll. Soon all the elven vessels bobbed gently on the placid waters while the three galleys swept closer.
Tamarwind gave the signal, a sharp downward chop of his hand. Deltan had been waiting and watching from the rigging, and at the gesture he gave a single, loud blast of his flugel horn.
Immediately Karkald pulled the release.
The caravel lurched backward as the spring whipped free to fling the silvery balls through the air. On each side another elven ship shuddered, and the air rang with the whining sounds of bending springs and swiftly flying missiles.
Karkald’s aim was good. Tamarwind saw the spreading cloud of shot streak outward, arcing high above the waves before settling back toward the water. Many of the balls struck the Crusader ship, scattering across the deck near the bow, instantly blossoming into flames. Screams of fear and pain echoed across the water as, within moments, the entire wooden vessel was engulfed by roaring fire. The wounded ship shuddered like a living thing as orange tongues of fire crackled along the hull, devouring the oars and spindly mast. Anguished cries rent the air as elves, giants, and goblins hurled themselves from the flaming deck. Some of these hapless victims were themselves ablaze, their flesh hissing as they struck the water. Quickly the hull was obscured by smoke and steam, but still came the insatiable roar of the flames and the horrible sounds of the dying ship.
To either side the other galleys were also afire, though neither had been hit so solidly as the middle vessel. Water splashed across the decks as many goblins fought the flames. Others manned the oars, slowly backing the two surviving vessels away from the caravels and the death pyre of the third ship. A column of black smoke rose into the sky as the doomed vessel was gradually consumed right down to the water line.
“Look-we’ve knocked all of them out of the fight!” cried a crewman on the Swallow.
Whoops and shouts swept from the elven ships as the fleet of caravels wheeled away. Druids cast their magic, and as wind again filled the sails it was a triumphant fleet, with pennants flying and crews cheering, that sailed back to the anchorage below the Mercury Terrace.
Z ystyl clumped across the encampment and nodded to the two guards, giants who stood outside Sir Christopher’s palisade. He couldn’t see them, of course, but their auras-of scent, sound, and vitality-clearly marked them in the Delver’s mind. The first was full of lust, he sensed, yearning for a giantess he hadn’t seen in a long time. The second was a dullard, head fogged by too much firebrew consumed the previous night.
Numerous adaptations allowed the Unmirrored commander to move about under the light of Nayve’s sun, which had at first been almost unbearably painful to all his senses. A shield of silver was now attached to his helmet, deflecting the horrible light and providing him with an area of permanent shadow. His body was cloaked in a silk of fine weave and bright white color, a covering that extended right down to his fingertips. Only his sensitive nostrils were bared-as always, those moist apertures sniffed and sucked at the air, drawing in sensations that were far deeper than mere odors.
Leaving the giants behind, Zystyl relished the cool shade of the knight’s great stone-walled house. Shrugging the silken cloak from his shoulders, he allowed the sensations of warmth and chill against his skin to locate the walls and arched doorways surrounding him. With unerring accuracy he started toward the knight’s audience room.
And then, hearing the sound of a harsh voice, he halted, listening.
“… a time when I would have had you killed… burned at the stake.” It was the knight, Sir Christopher, speaking patiently, as if to a recalcitrant child. “You should be grateful that you have lived all these years, have been granted the chance to serve me.”
Zystyl listened and smelled, ensuring that he was alone in the great hall. Soundlessly he sidled closer to the closed door of the audience chamber.
“You are a fool-a blind fool,” snapped another voice, which then dropped into a register of bleak despair. “Or perhaps it’s myself who’s the fool… laboring in your name for all these years. How do I know you don’t hold me with an empty threat?”
Christopher laughed. “The druid crone is allowed to live at my sufferance… and my sufferance depends upon your steady labors. Do not think to change our arrangement now, or I assure you that your precious Miradel will pay the price. Take a look at her villa tonight, blacksmith… look long and hard, for it is only your labors on my behalf that keeps your precious druidess alive.”
A door slammed in the distance, and the Delver knew that someone had just left the audience room by a different exit. And he knew who that person was.
After a moment Zystyl cleared his throat and stomped noisily toward the room. He heard Sir Christopher rise out of his chair when he entered. The dwarf could smell the anxiety in the man, hear the tension in the rapidity of his breathing. Beneath his gauze mask the Delver’s metal mouth twisted into a smile-he had his ally at a disadvantage, and he would make use of the opportuntity presented to him.
“Your galleys have been driven from the lake, those that survive,” said Zystyl bluntly.
“We were met by a new weapon,” snapped the human. Frustration and fury thrummed beneath the surface of his voice, and the Delver relished the knight’s agitation. “Something we have never seen before. Globes of metal flung through the air from the deck of the enemy’s caravels… they shattered, and burned like the fires of the devil on my ships.”
“I heard the springs,” Zystyl replied. “It is a mobile battery, much like the weapons that the Seers used in the First Circle. Quite deadly, I imagine, to thin-hulled wooden ships. They have a command of metal technology, in Circle at Center-it is no surprise that they are putting it to such good use.”
“These are the uses of Satan!” Sir Christopher retorted. “Not the forging of good, honest steel-in the manner God intended for His warriors of virtue.”
“Ah… the forging of metal. You continue to get many tools-all your swords and armor, yes-from the druid prisoner?”
“As I have for all these years, yes.”
“It was a fortunate thing for you that you captured the man who, among all druids, is the one who knows t
he forging of steel.”
“It was the will of God.”
“Then let us use that will for more constructive purposes.”
“What do you propose we do?”
“What I have suggested for years. Now, perhaps, you will listen to me?”
“You may speak. But remember, the man who shapes steel is mine… he answers to my commands, and only I know the secret of his bondage.”
Zystyl nodded, knowing the human would observe the gesture, accept it as a positive response. In the heart of his mask, the metal jaws twisted into a cruel smile.
15
Scar Tissue
Skin healed bone mends; flesh restored, body tends.
Spirit’s gouge torture’s deeds; wounded spirit ever bleeds.
From the Lore of the Healers
Tapestry of the Worldweaver
Belynda tried to take some encouragement from the columns of figures on the pages before her, the tallies of recruits and armaments that should have been good news. She saw the proof of a growing army, a force that steadily gained might, confidence, and experience. Every cycle, more elves made the decision to join the Nayvian forces-seventy-four of them in the last forty days alone, most drawn from right here in Circle at Center. When added to the goblins recruited by the loquacious “Captin” Hiyram, the giants who steadily emigrated from the Greens and crossed the lake by raft in the dark of the night, and the young centaurs who rallied in answer to Gallupper’s entreaties, Natac’s army had gained another two hundred souls in this, the third interval of the twenty-fifth year of the war.
But then there were pages with other columns, different figures, such as the dolorous list of thirty-two brave elves who drowned when their caravel had been shattered by giant-thrown boulders, the four giants who had perished in recent skirmishes on the causeway, and the dozens of goblins who were killed during the routine brawls that rocked their camp with inevitable frequency. Always the gains were balanced against the losses, as they had been since the Battle of the Blue Swan. Even if that balance showed that the army defending the city was continuing to grow, as it had in nearly every interval of every year of the war, it amazed her that she could muster even the pretense of dispassion as she pondered such matters of life and death.
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