“The caravels will sortie at the first sign of this raft,” he said, indicating the map spread out before them. “We can’t let them get on the flank or rear of the causeway. We have to assume it’s got a wooden structure, and if it’s wood it can be burned.”
As the others nodded in agreement at his sage pronouncement, Natac felt a stab of guilt. He could only hope that he was right.
“W hat in the Seven Circles is that?” growled Rawknuckle Barefist. He held a great axe against his chest, caressing the smooth handle, taking comfort in the keen steel blade that Karkald had given him twenty years before. The giant squinted across the lake, staring at movement he perceived through the mists of the Lighten Hour. Around him, the forty others of his company, hulking and bearded warriors to a man, stirred from their rest, a few picking up their weapons to join their chieftain.
Theirs was a lonely outpost, a wide spot on the middle of the causeway amid the generally placid waters of the lake. The small island boasted flat ground, a few trees, and benches and shelters for travelers’ rests. The smooth causeway departed from the islet in two directions, in the direction of metal toward the lakeshore, and in the opposite bearing toward the city, and the Center of Everything. In that direction the company of Deltan Columbine’s archers was rousing itself, cooking fires ignited and lookouts joining the giants in staring across the lake.
Now, just past Lighten, mist shrouded the water in gauzy curtains, visibility closed in enough that the giant chieftain knew he couldn’t be looking at the far shore. And yet something solid stretched across his view, more suggested than substantial in the vaporous air-but far, far closer than any land should be.
“Looks like the lakeshore is moving,” suggested his comrade Broadnose, with a noisy snuffle. He went back to the haunch of mutton that served as his breakfast.
“Well, I know what it looks like,” snapped Rawknuckle. “I want to know what it is!”
A great wall seemed to emerge from the mist, pushing through the water so slowly that it raised barely a ripple on the smooth surface. Far to the right the barrier seemed to curve away, and it was there that he caught a hint of a wake-long, rolling ripples coursing across the still water, confirming that the vast shape was in fact moving closer.
“It’s gotta be that raft we was warned about. Give a rise on the horn,” Rawknuckle decided. Young Crookknee, the bugler, hefted the instrument and placed his lips against the mouthpiece. Once, twice, and again he boomed long, lowing notes. The sound resonated across the water, many seconds later echoing back from the heights of Circle at Center.
“ ’Eh, chief. They’re coming the same old way, as well,” muttered Broadnose, lifting his bearded chin to point down the causeway in the direction of the enemy camp.
“No centaurs in front, this time,” said Rawknuckle regretfully. “I guess we’ll have to save the pikes for later.” He was disappointed. The last time this position had been attacked, the Crusaders had come at them with a rushing mob of centaurs. The giants had blocked the causeway with a bristling array of long-hafted spears, and dozens of centaurs had spilled blood and guts when they collided with the immobile line. The attack had been brutally shattered, without a giant suffering a serious wound, so in practicality Rawknuckle knew that the enemy tactic was unlikely to be repeated. Instead, it would be cast upon the growing pile of ideas that had been discarded by one side as the other found an effective countermeasure.
This time, the front rank of the attackers was a line of giants. Each bore a large wooden shield, and a club, hammer, or axe. By advancing in shoulder-to-shoulder formation with shields held high, they left little target for the elven archers who were forming to back up the giants.
“Where do you want us?” asked Deltan Columbine. The famed archer and poet stood ready with two hundred of his deadly bowmen. In past engagements they had formed on the city side of the little islet, shooting over Rawknuckle’s company to shower the attackers forced to concentrate on the causeway.
“I don’t like the look of that,” Rawknuckle declared, indicating the massive raft. “Why don’t you give us some room to fall back-say a few hundred yards? We could use your covering fire if that big thing floats in on our flank. And it’s just possible we’ll have to get out of here in a hurry.”
“You got it, Chief,” Deltan agreed. He crossed to his men and started them filing onto the causeway toward the city, while the giant turned around and watched nervously as the raft, and the rank of Crusaders on the causeway, moved steadily closer.
N atac and Karkald stood atop one of the towers flanking the end of the causeway. From here they could get only a vague sense of the true vastness of the raft.
“They must have taken the breakwater out of the harbor,” the warrior observed. “Just pushed the damned thing right into the lake!”
“Are we ready for a two-pronged attack?” Karkald asked, looking along the miles of exposed shoreline on the city’s fringe.
Natac frowned. There were elven companies placed throughout the city, and a small, mobile force of Gallupper’s centaurs and the few dozen elven riders who had mastered the art of horsemanship. But these forces were spread thin, and the only sizable reserves he had were the huge regiments of goblins and gnomes. These were deployed to either side of the base of the causeway, with the goblins on the Mercury Terrace and the gnomes on the other side of the road. If the raft could not be stopped, those untested troops would have to bear the brunt of the first attack.
“The caravels are ready,” the general observed, gestured to the ships that sat, sails limp, in the protected anchorage beside the terrace. “Best send them out, now.”
The signaler, a young elfwoman who had trained herself to anticipate her commander’s orders, quickly pulled out a blue banner scored with lines of white to represent billowing sails. With a crisp command of magic she sent the standard fluttering aloft, where it attached itself to the top of the flagstaff and streamed outward.
The reaction in the harbor below was instantaneous. Immediately the druids in the stern of each caravel started their casting, and wind puffed into the limp sails. Slowly, but with steadily increasing speed, the little ships scuttled past the breakwater and turned onto the lake. They made a brave display as they deployed into line abreast, steel batteries gleaming from the prows of no less than half of the dozen ships.
“But I still don’t like the size of that thing,” Natac confided, as the racing ships, even spreading into a wide fan, did not make as wide a formation as the flat prow of the great raft.
“And trouble on the road, too,” remarked Karkald.
The enemy phalanx of giants attacking down the causeway had almost advanced to Rawknuckle’s islet, and that massive raft-apparently propelled by hundreds of polers in the stern-had nearly reached as far into the lake. The metal and wooden walls protecting the floating platform were clearly visible, while the fore and both flanking faces bristled with weapons.
“They’re going to get around behind Rawknuckle,” Natac said. He shouted to one of his signalmen. “Run up the green flag-I want the giants to withdraw!”
The banner swiftly soared up the long shaft, supplanting the sailing orders to the caravels, streaming into the gentle breeze. But when he looked down the causeway, Natac wondered if they weren’t already too late.
From the main battle tower he could see the whole causeway of the Metal Highway, as well as the great stretches of lake to either side of the smooth, wide road. Rawknuckle Barefist’s company of giants were forming an orderly line on their islet in the middle of the causeway.
A cloud of dust billowed into the air, marking a swath along the Avenue of Wood.
“Here comes that centaur again,” Karkald noted with a frown. “Maybe we’d be better off just to let him charge and be done with it.”
Natac shook his head, though he shared his comrade’s frustration. Gallupper came into view as he and his company cantered across a wide market. The young centaur led a band of perhaps fifty hoofed
, thundering chargers. Half the number were centaurs, disowned youngsters of the Blacktail, Craterhoof, and other clans, while the rest were elves mounted on horseback. Natac had to admire the speed of the racing advance, even as he recognized its futility in the tangled streets and buildings of the city. “Sometime we’ll find a use for them… until then, we’ll just have to keep talking to him.”
“Can we charge yet?” hailed the young centaur, shading his eyes with his hand as he looked up from the base of the tower.
“Not yet! Just wait there a minute,” barked Karkald. He turned to Natac. “I’ve been working on another invention, a little device I’m about ready to try-I’d like to give it to the young fella. It’s something that could use a speedy wielder.”
“Give it a try,” Natac said, immediately curious. Still, Karkald, as always, tended toward secrecy while his inventions were being developed-he very much relished revealing them with a flourish. So the warrior turned his attention to the enemy’s progress while the dwarf went down and spoke with the centaurs for some time.
R awknuckle roared a challenge, allowing the by-now familiar joy of battle to suffuse his body and inflame his temper. He and his giants straddled the road, retreating slowly against the press of their kinfolk who had been corrupted by the Crusader knight. With a flexing of corded sinew, he brought his axe through a vicious overhand swing, cleanly splitting the wooden shield of the nearest attacker. The deadly blade continued unabated, cleaving the enemy giant from chin to belly. As the dying Crusader tumbled into the steaming heap of his own guts, Rawknuckle was already striking a different target, wielding the axe in great back and forth swipes that felled another attacker and halted the rest in a respectful arc around the huge chieftain.
Tremendous noise surrounded him, the cries of grievously wounded giants, the crushing blows of steel and stone against wood and metal-and, sometimes, flesh and bone. Giants pressed back and forth, limbs tangling, brutal blows landing against both sides. A heavy body fell against Rawknuckle, and as he pushed it away he recognized Broadnose. His companion grasped at his shoulder, mouth working soundlessly, until a gush of blood gurgled forth, smearing the chieftain’s side as the dying giant sprawled onto the road.
His sturdy legs planted like tree trunks, Rawknuckle sliced at the attackers with renewed fury, grimly exacting vengeance for his slain friend. The steel axe carved into a thick neck, nearly decapitating one attacker, then swept back to take the arm off another. But even in the press of his deadly blows he was forced back, sensing the weight of the massive column of attackers as an inexorable tide. Comrades to either side fell or retreated, and Rawknuckle was forced to go along-else he would have quickly been surrounded and cut down.
Even so, he stepped back slowly, begrudging each bloody, precious pace. Gore spilled from his axe, and many a bold Crusader quailed from the slash of his deadly weapon. Others of the attackers, those in the rear ranks, howled and cursed as arrows showered onto them. Shields were raised, and many of the steel-tipped shafts thunked harmlessly into the wooden barriers. But more fell through the gaps to strike deep into shoulders, thighs, necks, and chests.
The shower of arrows grew thicker, and now many of the missiles were falling among Rawknuckle’s own company. He trusted the aim of Deltan’s elves, but with a quick look to the side he saw that the great raft was creeping slowly past his position. Another volley of arrows darkened the sky, scattering indiscriminately among both the attackers and the defenders, as Crusader archers sprayed the causeway with their dangerous missiles.
The big warrior cursed as he plucked a missile from his hamstring, then snorted in disgust as another pricked his cheek, nearly taking his eye. Beside him Forestcap, a rugged specimen who had joined the company at its inception twenty-five years before, howled in rage as a volley of deadly barbs rendered his arms and shoulders into an approximation of a porcupine. Rawknuckle offered his old comrade a brawny arm and aided him limping backward, crossing the islet as the Crusaders rushed forward.
“The green flag is up-Natac is calling us back!” shouted a giant. The chieftain took the time to glance toward the city, ensuring that his comrade’s eyes were not being deceived, and he, too, saw the signal to retreat.
Bellowing for the rest of his giants to follow, seeing that Deltan’s company was already hastening toward Circle at Center, Rawknuckle Barefist led his bloodied company in a hasty withdrawal along the causeway.
D arann went to Belynda’s chambers and was surprised to find that the outer door was closed and locked. Still, the dwarfwoman knocked without hesitation. She was startled when, without perceptible sound, the portal glided open to reveal an empty antechamber.
“Come in, Darann.” Belynda’s voice flowed from the main room, and the dwarf followed the sound down the short hallway. She found the sage-ambassador and another elf she recognized by her silver robe as a sage-enchantress. There was a third chair, currently empty, beside them.
“This is Quilene,” Belynda said. “She is the greatest of our enchantresses.”
“And you’ll help us?” Darann asked, taking the elfwoman’s hand.
“I will,” Quilene replied.
“We were expecting you,” said Belynda, gesturing to the extra chair.
“But how did you know I was coming tonight?” asked Darann as she joined them.
“Because we share your purpose… and we all sense that time is growing short,” the sage-ambassador said, looking directly into the dwarfwoman’s eyes. Darann felt as though she were laid naked, bared even beyond her skin. She settled into her seat with a sense of warmth and belonging, a lightening of the lowering cloud that had been hanging over her.
“So tell me,” she began, relieved enough to speak bluntly. “How are we going to save Circle at Center?”
“The battles that rage with such endless repetition are fruitless,” Quilene began. “At best they are short-term exercises in courage that, perhaps, will win us a little more time. At worst, they are a waste of lives-the lives of bold defenders, and the lives of misguided attackers who, all unwitting, have become the tools of evil. And no matter how many of those attackers are killed, they are only nettlesome pinpricks, tiny blows against the body of a beast that must be killed by a strike to that brain.”
“And that brain is in two parts-Sir Christopher, and Zystyl,” Darann said grimly.
“Two parts linked by a single soul. I don’t know if either of you realize it,” Quilene said, “but the real key to the enemy’s destruction lies in the Stone of Command.”
17
Heartblood in the Center
Violence spreads a stain across the world.
Mayhem’s surge, and grieving holds for no border.
From Tales of the Time Before from the First Tapestry
“There’s the blue flag-make sail!” cried Tamarwind, who had been watching Natac’s command post as the mist-shrouded Lighten began to grow into full daylight.
Within seconds wind gusted into the sails of each caravel. Tam felt the deck shift slightly underfoot as the vessel quickly, smoothly gained speed. Juliay whirled her spoons, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her skill was proved again as the Swallow, by a nose, pulled out in the lead of her sister ships.
The other eleven caravels raced to either side, white wakes frothing back from the narrow prows. Tamarwind stood next to the battery, peering across the lake at the vast expanse of the enemy raft. He tilted his head back, spotted his lookout perched high in the rigging.
“What can you see?” the elf shouted.
“They’re falling back on the causeway-that raft must have a thousand archers on it!”
“Let’s burn ’em out of there!” retorted Tamarwind with a fierce grin. He turned and hollered along the line of ships. “We’re taking the war to them!”
Druids worked at their posts below the after masts of each of the caravels. Elven sailors worked their lines, climbed into the rigging with bows and arrows, or lined the gunwales with weapons drawn while the
humans continued their magical casting, windspoons stirring the wooden bowls, local gusts of air filling out the sails, propelling the nimble ships across the lake.
All around Tamarwind sails strained as the twelve valiant caravels surged toward the battle. A smaller hull streaked just to starboard, and Tam grinned at Roland, seeing that the steel-prowed Osprey accompanied the fleet. “Just stay out of the way!” the elf shouted cheerfully.
Roland waved back with a quick gesture of his wooden spoon, then returned his full attention to sailing. Unlike the captains of the larger caravels-who employed a helmsman at the wheel in addition to the wind-caster-the druid shipbuilder raised his wind with one hand, whirling the spoon through the bowl with swift precision, while he held the tiller of the sailboat clenched in the fist of the other. Even so, the nimble Osprey bobbed and glided amid the larger craft, keeping pace with no difficulty.
For the first time, Tam turned his attention to their enemy. He felt a momentary puzzlement as he looked across the lake, for he had been told the raft was quite big and yet he could see no sign of their enemy-there was just a stretch of shoreline before him. And then he realized that the shore was moving.
“It’s huge!” breathed a crewman, coming to the same realization.
“Let’s trim it down to size, then,” Tamarwind declared, suppressing his own misgivings. In truth, he had to wonder how much damage they could inflict on the massive raft. He felt like one of a few mosquitoes who had been sent to sting an elephant to death.
Nevertheless, each ship, with wind filling the sails and a white wake frothing from the hull, turned toward the attack. Tamarwind’s Swallow soared in the lead as the whole fleet swept in from the direction of metal.
“Fire the batteries-now!” cried the elven commander, his order underscored by the trumpeter’s blare.
Springs snapped and the ships lurched from the force of the launch. Sunlight glinted on orbs of steel as all the caravel batteries lobbed their shot toward the enemy. Most of the globes clattered onto the raft, and Tam immediately saw columns of smoke churning into the air. At least a dozen fires sprang into life across the deck and the elven captain felt a simultaneous flaring of his own hopes. If they could destroy that raft, sink it into the lake, they would annihilate a great portion of the enemy forces. Could it be that the knight had given them this opportunity?
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