From somewhere she found the strength and speed to rise, leaning to the side as the Delvers cast the net. It swept past Miradel and she lashed out, slicing threads, then driving her blade into the neck of the closest dwarf. With a mortal hiss the creature whipped around, slashing with a curved dagger even as his life sluiced from a ripped artery.
But that dwarven blade, wielded in a dying frenzy, found its way between frail ribs. Miradel gasped as her heart was pierced, as strong arms seized her. She kicked, but there was little speed or strength in her struggles. Before she thought to scream, her blood spilled in a circle across the floor, her mind grew dull, and she died.
N atac turned with a start, his eyes narrowing as he stared across the dark, still swath of lake. The lights of Miradel’s villa were barely visible in the distance, twinkling on the hilltop, flaring with routine brilliance. Yet it seemed to him as though some shadow darkened the fires, masked the vitality of that distant place.
“What is it?” Karkald asked in alarm, joining the army commander at the parapet of the defensive tower.
“She’s sad about something… I can feel it,” he said. I wish I was there with you. He lingered over the private thought, knowing it was a luxury he could not afford.
Shaking his head, he tried to return his attention to the command problem facing them: what to do about the increasingly rambunctious goblins. He knew that the problem was real, that the unruly recruits in their great regiments were running wild in sections of Circle at Center, rendering many neighborhoods uninhabitable by the elves who had once lived there.
“We could break up the regiment into companies,” Owen suggested. The Viking, who had been commanding the goblins for more than twenty years, was as frustrated as Natac himself with his unruly charges. “I can tan the hides of those that still get out of line, and Hiyram can keep tabs on some of the others.”
Natac shook his head. “I want to avoid that if at all possible. We have, what, four thousand or more of them? That makes them our biggest single force, and if we need them in the fight, I’d like to use them together.”
“I would, too,” Owen agreed, relief written across his bearded visage. “So let’s keep ’em in camp, and I’ll still find some hides to tan!”
“Good… for now, anyway.” Natac tried to move on, to think about the next problem facing his large army. But despite his best intentions, the warrior found that he couldn’t concentrate. Over and over his mind wandered across the water, to the white villa on the lakeside hill.
“I tell you-it’s our best chance. You have to let me try!” Darann hissed, her face darkening as she made the effort to keep her voice down. She confronted her husband in the plain barracks room that had been their living quarters for more than two decades.
“Are you mad?” roared Karkald, uncaring of the elves who lived in neighboring rooms and were undoubtedly shocked by his outburst. “You’d be killed-or worse!” His rage was fueled by stark, raw fear, emotions howling through his veins.
“But listen to me! I might be able to distract him-”
“I forbid it! I utterly, absolutely forbid you from acting on this craziness-in fact, you are not even to think about it!” He struggled to regain his breath, to lower his voice. “Why-you’re talking about the most powerful, unpredictable kind of magic there is! And you’d put yourself in terrible danger!” It was all so logical, such an obvious decision. Surely she could see that?
When his wife didn’t answer, Karkald grunted in acknowledgment, sorry that he had shouted so loudly. And he made the mistake of thinking that her silence indicated that she had accepted his mandate.
16
The Marching Acres
Fear is a capricious weapon effective only as a credible threat.
When no such threat exists terror and dread are fruitless, as transient, as wind on wave.
From The Ballad of the First Warrior
Deltan Columbine
Everything was a dim, gray haze… a haze punctuated by pain, agony that speared through his skull, stabbed his mind with relentless, fiery force… until again the murk would rise, granting him the only relief from his constant hurting.
Sometime later he smelled blood, and came awake with a start. Once again that pain rushed through every nerve end, but he forced his head up, off the hard stone floor. Drawing a breath, he felt more pain searing through his ribs, but he fought against it, pushed himself through a slow, awkward roll onto his belly. Still he held his head up, though his vision was blurry and his head still pounded.
With an effort, he thumped his tail against the ground once, and again. And then he knew he was whole. Grunting from the agony, he pushed his shoulders up until he was sitting. His head throbbed with an agonizing cadence of pain, and one ear was crusted with dried blood, but stiffly, slowly, he forced himself to stand. Sunlight flooded the garden, the villa, the landscape. The blood he smelled came from very nearby, where Fallon’s corpse lay stiff and drained, with a dried, brownish swath extending in a ghastly spill down the stairs from the elf’s body.
Shaking his head, seeing and smelling better with each passing second, Ulf started into the big house. And then he froze.
Miradel lay on the floor in a pool of her own blood, a smear of darkening crimson across her belly staining her gown. Nearby was the corner of a black silk net, apparently sliced with ragged force from its parent. Whimpering unconsciously, Ulf slowly approached the motionless figure. He lowered his head, sniffed hopefully, knowing that those hopes were futile. The druid was utterly, irrevocably dead.
The stench of Delvers was everywhere, so he had no doubts as to who had killed her. Growling almost inaudibly, he padded back onto the patio and blinked in the bright sunlight. The lake was an azure blanket below, cut by the thin white line of the causeway.
Ulfgang knew that Natac needed to be told about Miradel, and that road was his only route back to Circle at Center. Taking several deep breaths, then lapping up a good drink of water from the druid’s garden pool, the dog ignored the pounding in his head as he started down the hill.
K erriastyn cowered before her master. Zystyl could sense her fear, reveled in it as his rage flexed through his nostrils like an odor, touching the cringing female, stroking her senses like the disingenuous kiss of a hungry vampire. She stood on her feet, but leaned forward abjectly, with her face turned up to him in mute acceptance of whatever justice he would deliver.
You failed me. The phrase was a whip, used against her thoughts, striking with a lash that drew a moan of agony from her silver-plated jaws. She dropped her face, unable to meet his punishment directly.
You disappointed me.
Again he struck her with the power of his mind, and again he thrilled to the sound of her pain as she took a step backward. Kerriastyn was crying now, a pathetic murmur of sound that echoed through the tunnel in dolorous solitude. Doubtless there were Delvers who could hear, but they remained utterly silent lest the weight of their general’s displeasure should fall upon them.
You have cost me a precious opportunity.
His final rebuke whipped through her being, dropped her to her knees, sent her writhing across the floor. He observed her convulsions with keen pleasure-the sounds of her pain, the raw stink of uncontained terror, the keen awareness of her utter subjugation, all bathed his senses in sublime ecstasy. She expected to die-he could sense her anticipation of his judgment-but it gave him cold pleasure to defer his retribution.
“But it is my decision that you shall live, shall continue to serve.” He began to speak aloud, letting his mercy be known to all witnesses within earshot. “For even with your failure, the elven city will fall, and a world of treasures will become mine.”
T he white dog crouched at the top of a hill, looking at the scene spread along the muddy lakeshore. The mouth of the Metal Tunnel yawned at the base of the opposite elevation. The Hour of Darken approached, so the shadowed entryway teemed with Delvers, hundreds of the Blind Ones milling like ants, waiting for fu
ll darkness to release them to raid. Ulf knew that Zystyl’s warriors had created a city for themselves, a virtual hive of sunless caverns, dens, and warrens, within the massive subterranean passageway.
Closer by, the ruins of the Blue Swan Inn lay scattered across the shore, a monument of charred stone walls, blackened timbers, and soot-covered ground that the invaders had left undisturbed, in full view of Circle at Center. Ulfgang noticed again how even now, twenty-five years after the destruction, not so much as a blade of grass had sprouted from the blackened and bloodstained ground. To the right and left of the ruins, however, the Crusaders had erected massive, log-walled barracks buildings. Muddy streams flowed from valleys denuded of timber, while companies of Sir Christopher’s warriors gathered, marching along the lakeshore and out of the hills to converge here, at the place that now held Ulfgang’s considerable interest.
It’s like… a floating island, he realized, studying the massive expanse of solid ground filling the place that had once been the harbor of the Blue Swan. But it was ground made out of wood and metal, he finally saw, and it had many gridded openings where he could see the water sloshing just below the deck.
Surrounded by sheets of metal armor and several tall, wooden walls, with a surface as broad as a hundred palatial courtyards, the great raft completely filled the harbor that had once served as an anchorage for the Blue Swan Inn. Thousands of Crusaders and Delvers were assembling on the massive deck, and they didn’t yet come close to taking up all the space. Ulf saw columns of giants and goblins, companies of centaurs, huge regiments numbering a thousand elves apiece, all march down the ramps leading to the flat surface. Still more of these troops were assembled on the shore, waiting for their turns to board.
Beyond, even more of the enemy troops were in the camp-and only past these, past tens of thousands of deadly enemies, Ulf could see the causeway, his route to the city, starting across the lake. As the Hour of Darken closed around him, he saw the Delvers start to file out of the cavern. Soon the column would form a barrier across the road, blocking his retreat.
Drawing a deep breath, Ulfgang rose and started to trot down the hill. He stopped to sniff a pile of fresh horse dung, took a long detour to urinate on the only tree trunk on this part of the slope. Taking great care to appear nonchalant, he started past a company of goblins, keeping a wary eye on the hungry-looking warriors. When one of them tossed a spear, the dog sprinted away, ears trailing from the wind of his speed.
Trotting around a group of bored giants, he finally saw the paved roadway of the Metal Highway. The wide avenue started across the lake on its raised causeway, a straight line leading to Circle at Center. Ulf flopped to the ground, tongue drooping lazily, as a rank of elves marched past. When they were gone, he rose and slowly padded forward, crossing in front of the advancing column of Delvers while the Blind Ones were still some distance away.
Now he was near the lakeshore. A pair of centaurs paced back and forth at the terminus of the causeway. Each was armed with a stout cudgel, and their attention was directed mainly along the road extending into the lake, where they remained alert for any sortie from the city.
Ulf trotted down to the shore and lapped up some water. At the same time, he watched the reflections of the centaurs, saw that one glanced at him, then turned his attention back to the road. Still wandering slowly, the dog paced along the shore, up onto the road. Nose down, he padded past the nearest centaur, as if he had no purpose before him other than the next exciting sniff.
“Hey!” The growl came from the second centaur. “Stop that dog.”
Instantly Ulf flew into a wild sprint, belly low, feet pounding the pavement in urgent, rhythmic strides down the straight road. He heard one centaur thundering in pursuit, heavy hooves clattering on the pavement, but by then the streaking Ulfgang was two dozen paces ahead. Without looking back, he stretched further, running faster than a strong wind. The guard kept up the chase for a half mile, but by then the dog was far along the causeway.
And even when he wasn’t pursued, his legs reached, stretched, hurled him along the pavement. His lungs strained for breath, and his long tongue dangled, flopping loosely as he streaked above the water toward the sparkling city. Halfway across the lake he passed a company of giants, the first line of the city’s defense. They made no move to stop him, and Ulf did not slow down. Lights, coolfyre beacons, blinked into life along the upcoming shore as night thickened. Even as the pain of exhaustion rose through his chest and throat he held his speed, swerving around the elven guards that moved to intercept him as he darted onto the island.
Racing across the Mercury Terrace, he ignored the protestations and surprised stares of the few elves who were out at this dark hour. Now his claws clicked along the paving stones of the Avenue of Metal. Ulfgang knew that he could find Natac at his headquarters building, formerly a gallery of iron across from the College. It was still a long run from here, but the road was straight and wide.
A minute later Ulfgang came over a low rise to find that the entire street was blocked by a riotous crowd. He smelled the bittersweet stink of goblins, heard their whoops and shouts as they danced on the pavement and quaffed great mugs of stale-smelling beer. Partners whirled each other in a frenzy, sending drunken goblins careening into each other, provoking insults, kicks, and punches.
“Hoo-hoo! A doggie!” cried one wild-eyed fellow, reaching out as if to smear Ulfgang’s nose with a slobbery kiss. White jaws snapped, and the goblin lurched backward, howling and pressing hands to his bleeding lip.
“You lot!” The bellow was Owen’s voice, roaring above the din. Ulf couldn’t see the Viking, but as the crowd grew suddenly quiet he sensed that the human warrior had waded into the celebration. Goblins yelped in dismay, and several abruptly flew through the air, tossed by blows of Owen’s hamlike fists. “Stop this commotion right now! Or I’ll have yer heads on pikes over the lakefront wall!”
“What for you make ruckus?” demanded another voice, and Ulfgang saw Hiyram swagger through his fellow goblins, jabbing his finger at a chest here, meeting a belligerent eye there. “We’s gotta fight Delverdwarfs-not you too each other!”
Sheepishly, the carousing goblins shuffled from the street, filing into the large manors that had been given them as barracks. But by then Ulf was already moving, pushing through the goblins until he caught up to Owen and Hiyram.
“I’ve got to get to Natac!” He barked frantically, trying to get the goblin’s attention.
“We’ll take you to’m-I’m wantin’ to tell about this mess, anyway,” Hiyram said disgustedly. He looked as though he wanted to take off after the retreating goblins, but Owen, at least, seemed to sense the dog’s urgency. Moving at a trot, they started up the Avenue of Metal.
N atac tried to deny the truth of the message, but deep in his heart he felt the reality of Miradel’s loss. He listened in dull horror to Ulfgang’s dispassionate report. For a long time the warrior couldn’t seem to speak, couldn’t make his mouth shape the words he wanted, needed to say.
“Why?” he croaked, finally. “Why kill her?”
“I think they wanted to capture her, really,” suggested the white dog. “I saw a piece of net there. And water, and marks of fire. It seems she put up a fight.”
“And she will be avenged,” Natac said, though the phrase, the very intention, seemed a hollow mockery. “We’ll start by figuring out how to face this raft, this ‘floating island’ that you spotted.”
He looked around the table in his headquarters chamber. Natac’s subordinate captains watched him warily. Deltan and Galewn, the giants representative of Nayve’s Senate, were there. That pair were responsible for the two forces who had held the causeway against every attack over the last twenty-five years. Karkald, too, was present, as were Tamarwind and Roland Boatwright. Owen and Fionn stood on the other side of the table, Owen with Hiyram and the Irishman with Nistel. They were gathered in a room of metal, with an iron floor and vaulted ceiling of bronze. At the door stood a guard, a
giant armed with a massive, hook-bladed halberd and wearing a cap of shiny steel.
The general was acutely conscious of the meeting that had been in progress prior to Ulf’s arrival. It had been a routine affair, a report from the garrison on the Metal Causeway, the awareness that the enemy’s heavy galleys had stayed off the lake since the ships had been destroyed by Karkald’s seaborne batteries.
The training of the gnomes and goblins was proceeding slowly, and Natac fervently hoped that he could continue to spare both big regiments the shock of mortal combat. For years they had been part of the army, of course, but they had been spared many of the ravages suffered by the giants and elves. He admitted to a quiet affection for the diligent gnomes, typically pudgy, bespectacled, and squinting, yet so earnestly intent on becoming warriors, on redeeming the disgrace of their flight during the Battle of the Blue Swan. But in truth they weren’t warriors, and Natac had done everything he could to keep them out of harm’s way.
And the goblins, too, he found strangely likable. Rude and disorganized to the core, they still possessed the exuberance of healthy, fast-growing children-even if they should have decided to grow up long ago. Still, he couldn’t bear the thought of putting them into battle, any more than he could have accepted sending his own ten- or twelve-year-old sons into a mortal fight.
So instead, the defense of Circle at Center had fallen to the elves and the giants. So far they had done an effective job, but Natac admitted private concern at the reports of this great raft. How would it be used? And if it came toward the city, how could they hope to stop it?
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