Circle at center sc-1

by Douglas Niles

  But as quickly as his hopes ignited they were doused, like the splashing waves that spilled through great slots in the deck of the raft. Here and there Delvers and Crusaders shrieked and died, burned by the caustic flare of Karkald’s missiles. But the flames that might have ignited the deck quickly fizzled away. Some of the crewmen took up buckets or manned huge, bellows-driven pumps, directing sprays of water on every budding conflagration and thoroughly dousing the larger fires. Other Crusaders flocked to the gunwales of the raft. Volleys of arrows darkened the sky, the missiles tearing into the sails, thunking into the decks and hulls of the valiant caravels, here and there piercing elven crewmen.

  Tamarwind remained undaunted. He signaled his helmsman to make a hard turn to port, and braced himself as the deck heeled and the caravel carved a tight arc into the water’s surface. Following his lead, the other captains mirrored the Swallow’s maneuver, sweeping in unison away from the huge raft. Meanwhile, the elven gunners worked hard to crank back the springs and load another salvo of ammunition, readying the batteries for another shot.

  A few minutes later the caravels wheeled around again, reversing course to once more close rapidly with the enemy platform. Tam was encouraged to see plumes of smoke rising from the raft, a series of smoldering fires apparently burning behind a wall of iron encircling the central portion of the vast deck. Perhaps the first volley had done some lasting damage after all. The little fleet of sailing ships pressed in, ready to launch another salvo of blazing missiles, while splashes rose before the caravels as giants hurled great rocks. The range was great, even for the iron-thewed giants, and nearly all of the boulders fell short. Tamarwind saw two caravels lurch as a sail or mast came down, and both of these turned from the attack, limping away from the menacing platform.

  “Fire!” called Tamarwind, and once more the trumpet echoed his command. The Swallow lurched again as the great spring compressed, flinging the load of shot up and out, sending the incendiary globes bouncing across the deck of the raft. A great volley of silver spheres rained onto the raft, the balls slicing through tightly packed Crusaders along the rail. Flames erupted here and there, and some of the enemy warriors, engulfed by fire, hurled themselves into the lake. But the slain and injured warriors were merely pushed overboard by the press of their comrades advancing to take their places.

  Again volleys of enemy arrows arced outward, stuttering along the caravel decks, tearing through the sails with soft rips. The caravels veered again, beginning their turn. More boulders flew through the air, but these too splashed well short of the speeding attackers, and Tamarwind allowed his hopes to flare.

  But then the wall of iron on the enemy raft fell flat, and Tam saw that he had led his ships into a trap. Smoke flared into orange flames as a hundred catapults snapped forward, and balls of oily fire soared into the sky, tumbling in lazy parabolas toward the elven fleet.

  S ir Christopher stood atop the tower that had been erected on the raft’s foredeck. From here he could see across the teeming surface of the platform, had watched the caravels wheel gracefully into a line abreast, and had seen his ambush work to utter perfection.

  The caravels had raced close, and then went into a turn across the broadside of the massive raft, unaware of the imminent and lethal barrage. The catapults were a total surprise, launching a volley when the enemy was in easy range. The knight cheered as many of the catapult loads spattered into the water among the elven ships to form bobbing, burning slicks of oil-soaked wreckage. Black smoke blotted the air, swirling crazily as it was caught in the gusts of the druid-spawned wind.

  A few of the missiles struck with even greater effect. Christopher shouted a hurrah as a white sail caught a fireball and quickly erupted into flames. At the same time, rivers of fire trickled down the mast, and immediately the planks of the main deck began to burn. Another caravel wheeled out of line, flames streaking the port gunwale, engulfing the helmsman and half the crew within an inferno. And at the far end of the elven line, fire crackled in the prow of a wildly steering caravel. White flames suddenly shot skyward, and Crusaders cheered at the knowledge that one of the hated batteries was now turned upon its owner. More explosions rocked the hapless vessel, blasting away the mast, tearing at the planks of the hull. Within a few heartbeats, the ship was gone, the grave marked by a smear of crackling flame and hissing steam boiling upward from the surface.

  “Give it back to the heathens!” Christopher shouted, delighting in the results of the lethal ambush. Already his elves and goblins were hastening to pull the great baskets backward, to ready the next load of flaming doom.

  “Hurry, bold Crusaders!” shouted the knight, voice shrill. His hand went to the Stone of Command and he clenched it. “Make haste, and smite the enemy again!”

  With a frenzy the last of the baskets was loaded, crewmen diving to get out of the paths of the coiled weapons.

  “We’re ready, lord!” shouted his elven gunners’ chief.

  The knight looked down, watching with satisfaction as the caravels reeled through the smoking chaos on the water. The catapults were fully revealed now, the wall that had once concealed them having dropped to lie flat on the deck. And even the undamaged caravels were still in easy range, veering and swerving on the water now marred with a hundred crackling, oily blazes. Christopher knew the time had come for the killing strike.

  “Let fly!” he cried, and one hundred supple weapons snapped forward. Bundles of oily rags soared through the air, trailing smoke and fire, plunging toward the wooden hulls of the slender elven ships.

  “F ire!” cried a crewman, flinging himself to the rail as the Swallow swerved past a flaming swath of floating debris. Tamarwind got a quick glimpse of broken staves, greasy rags, and oil burning into a column of thick, black smoke. Thankfully the caravel slipped past without damage-though they clearly remained in grave danger, as another series of smoking fireballs burst upward from the stunning array of catapults.

  “Another volley!” Tam shouted. “Get out of range!”

  But he saw that it was too late for at least half the fleet. He watched in horror as caravel after caravel caught fire, sometimes losing masts and sails, with all too often decks and hulls succumbing immediately after.

  “They got the Robin-and the Goshawk is burning too!”

  Tamarwind tried to follow the reports of his lookouts, tried to think, to decide what to do. The surviving caravels were curling around to port and starboard, frantically maneuvering to avoid the rain of smoldering missiles. Another volley smudged the sky, and still another elven ship was suddenly immersed in fire.

  “Come about-fall back!” Tam shouted in anguish, knowing that to run away was to yield the lake to the invaders.

  But what else could he do?

  Only four of the caravels were sailing away from the raft, these ships-including the Swallow-having suffered only minimal damage. Of the other eight, two were already gone-destroyed by the explosive combustion of their battery ammunition. Tamarwind watched, horrified, as a third-the beleaguered Goshawk-abruptly vanished in a thunderous explosion of white fire and roiling smoke.

  Five more of the valiant ships struggled to make headway, often with only a jib or stern sail. Broken masts were cut away and tattered sails tried to corral the slippery wind. The crews seemed to be bringing the fires under control, and now at least the surviving ships were safely out of range of the lethal catapults. Two of the caravels, apparently the Robin and the Cardinal, were still burning savagely, and it was clear that they would never make it back to port.

  “Pull up!” Tamarwind shouted to Juliay and his helmsman. “Let’s get over there and see if we can take off survivors.” The other captains apparently had the same thought, for the caravels were slowing, gathering together like frightened sheep.

  But the next piece of bad news suddenly became apparent, as the last of the Crusaders’ galleys came into view, moving out from behind the great raft, oars driving it steadily toward the elven ships. In that lofty, metal-
jacketed prow Tamarwind saw utter disaster. The caravels were bunched together, half of them dismasted or lofting only tattered ashes of sails. The Swallow was the only elven vessel with a battery, and it was badly out of position, too far away to shoot without endangering allied ships.

  A streak of white moved across the lake, coming terribly fast from the shores near Circle at Center. Sails bulged, and the ship raced like a soaring bird, skimming over the surface of the water.

  “It’s the Osprey!” The shout came from his lookout, and Tamarwind watched with a sense of sick horror. What was Roland Boatwright trying to do? His ship skipped across the lake with stupendous speed, surely traveling faster than any craft could sail. The druid was visible as a distant figure standing in the helm. There were no other sailors in sight, and Tam understood intuitively that Roland had sent his crew off the ship.

  The course was set, the speed fantastic, as the little sailboat-with its sharp metal prow-angled toward the hull of the massive galley. The wind in the distance was a moaning howl, and whitecaps lashed the lake around the Osprey, swelling the sails with powerful pressure. The captain of the galley obviously recognized the danger, as the big ship started a slow turn, wheeling in an attempt to meet the audacious attack head-on. But the galley was too slow, barely starting to swerve as the Osprey, like some deadly missile, raced into the inevitable collision.

  The impact against the hull of the galley was a thunderous crunch, accompanied by a flash of fire and an explosive concussion. Timbers flew, and the Osprey vanished in the instant of destruction. A moment later the galley, fatally holed, was settling into the water, sinking quickly by the bow.

  B y the time Karkald climbed to the top of the tower the sun was receding. He found Natac staring expressionlessly across the lake, where smoke still smudged the water. The dwarf’s first reaction was that the raft was horribly close, already through the patch of lake where so many elven ships had died. The surviving caravels were limping back to port, several of the damaged ships being towed by their full-masted comrades.

  “I’ve given Gallupper a few instructions,” Karkald said. “I don’t want to use him unless we have to, but this new invention might work.”

  “I’ll leave that to you, then,” Natac said. The dwarf was surprised-he had expected the army commander to make some inquiry, probe a bit to find out about the new device. Instead, the human warrior stared into the growing darkness.

  “How many died out there?” Natac asked after a moment’s silence. “Roland, for certain… and brave captains, and young sailors… sons and daughters. And still they come. Are we doomed, like Mexico?”

  Karkald cleared his throat. He knew the tale of the conquest-Natac frequently used it as a lesson for all of his lieutenants. But he couldn’t think of an encouraging reply.

  “Or like my Yellow Hummingbird… is there no point to any of this?” the warrior continued. Karkald didn’t understand the question, but he wasn’t going to ask for an explanation.

  As darkness thickened, the two veterans looked at each other. “The war still comes, closer every minute,” Natac noted.

  “And we’re drawing close to the Delver Hour,” Karkald said grimly.

  “Are you ready?” the human asked.

  “Almost,” Karkald replied. “I’m going to go up the street and talk to Darann for a moment-make sure she’s safe, let her know what’s happening. I’ll be back here before those bastards touch ground.”

  T he great raft moved with stately, implacable force. Zystyl felt the progress with his feet, and with every other sense, just as he could feel the full darkness of Nayve’s night. The lightless air was a cool embrace, wonderfully soothing against his skin. He rode near the center of the flat surface, under a metal roof that protected him from the rays of the sun, and from the flaming missiles that the city’s defenders hurled with such vexing persistence. Awnings had covered the Delvers during the day, but now these had been taken down as, with the Hour of Darken past, the Unmirrored were ready to go into battle.

  Zystyl tried to get a sense for the location of the enemy ships, the causeway, and the city, but in the chaos of battle noise it was too confusing to try and determine ranges by sounds. And any echo he cast would have been instantly swallowed in the clamor.

  “How far to the shore?” demanded the Delver of a nearby giant.

  “Five hundred paces.”

  “And the causeway?”

  “The same distance to the side, Lord Blind One.”

  Zystyl stiffened, hearing the insolence in this Crusader’s tone. Yet this was not the time for a confrontation.

  “Make ready to attack. I will have this city ablaze before Lighten.”

  R awknuckle plucked another arrow from his shoulder and bellowed in anger as he snapped the missile like a twig and tossed the pieces into the lake. The shower of arrows from the raft had pelted his company the whole grueling march back to the city. Every one of the giants was bleeding from dozens of wounds, and several had been blinded, or had collapsed from loss of blood.

  The Crusader giants were pursuing them steadily, but seemed content to hold back a few dozen paces, just far enough to ensure that they didn’t fall into the scatter range of the massive volleys launched from the raft.

  The elven archers had already made it back to the city, Rawknuckle was relieved to see. The surviving giants broke into a lumbering run, hurrying along the causeway toward the welcoming shelter of the two great towers erected on the island’s shore. Many elves had fallen, and their bodies remained on the causeway, but the gruesome obstacles didn’t slow the retreating giants.

  And then the giant chieftain stumbled to a halt, staring down at the road in shock. A body lay before him, face down. It was one of many elves who had perished on this retreat, but this one was marked by a broken harp jutting upward from his pack. Slowly, reluctantly, Rawknuckle turned the body over.

  It was Deltan Columbine. The archer and poet lay on the road, pierced by a dozen arrows. His blood formed a circle around him, a great pool of drained life that seemed too red, too rich, to have flowed from this lifeless form.

  18

  Fulcrum

  Seven circles; balanced, poised, and centered.

  Tilting pivot, center misaligns, and seven worlds fall.

  From the Tablets of Inception

  “Where’s Darann?” Karkald pushed his way through the rank of gnomes, shouting his question, roughly shoving several of the rotund warriors aside. Ignoring their howls of protest, he made his way to Fionn, grabbing the Irishman by his arm and pulling him roughly around. “Have you seen Darann?”

  “Your wife?” Fionn scowled, and gestured to the raft gliding inexorably closer, the armored prow separated from the shore by a steadily narrowing gap of water. “Shouldn’t you be thinkin’ about them, right now?”

  Karkald turned around in anguish, then looked down at the note in his hand.

  I’m sorry-if I fail, you will not see me again. But if I succeed, our lives have hope of a new, bright future.

  He had found the paper in their apartment, when he had gone there earlier in the day. She could not have been expecting him, would have left the message thinking that he wouldn’t discover it at least until after the imminent battle.

  Now she was gone, but where? And she spoke of success or failure, but he didn’t even know what task she had undertaken. How could she influence the future, change the course of history? She was only one person-his wife, of course, but she was not even a warrior.

  His eyes turned to the lake, which he could clearly see across the plaza. The raft was surging closer-in minutes the fight would reach the very shores of the city. He imagined the teeming ranks of Unmirrored and Crusaders, their twin captains of evil. Karkald had seen the Knight Templar in battle, knew his fearsome powers of command. Furthermore, he vividly remembered Zystyl, with terrifying memories of the two instances where he had come so close to capturing Darann.

  And with that memory he understood what his wife wa
s trying to do. By the Goddess, she had suggested the thing to him a few days before! Instead of listening, he had rebuked her, forbidden her to discuss it, only to have her ignore him.

  Pretty much as he had ignored her, he realized. He stared at the raft, knew that Zystyl was there, that somehow Darann was going to try to reach him, attack him. Of course she would fail-the villainous Delver was too well protected, both by his allies and by the power of his own arcane senses. Her courage awed him, even as the futility and waste of her actions infuriated him.

  Again he was aware of movement around him. Trumpets blared and signals dipped. Several elven companies filed out of side streets and courtyards, forming lines of spears across the routes from the waterfront. A small unit of giants, many of them bandaged and limping, took up arms at the very fringe of the Mercury Terrace, which looked to be in the center of the raft’s landing frontage. Great gaps in the line yawned to the right and left of the giants, extending along the shore toward the causeway, and opening across much of the terrace.

  Around Karkald the gnomes whispered nervously, pulling together into a knot of bristling beards and wide-eyed stares. “We’ll be ready for ’em, you bet!” Nistel declared cheerfully, his voice cracking on the last word.

  Then, even more amazing, the dwarf saw the command flag dip, knew immediately what Natac had ordered. Fionn and Nistel recognized the signal at the same time. The human uttered a whoop, while Blinker raised his voice to shout orders to his fellow warriors.