The sage-ambassador, her hands now confined behind her by a length of supple chain, had watched it all. Seeing the knight bleed, listening to him scream, beg, whimper through the hours, finally observing the gory, eyeless mess that he became, she had felt strangely detached from the scene, the experience. She knew that this had been her goal, her purpose in life for the past twenty-five years, and yet now she was untouched by the fulfillment of that objective. Her enemy’s agony had been like a living thing, some grotesque serpent writhing and dancing for her pleasure, a performance enacted with her as the only seeing member of the audience-and yet she could find no shred of satisfaction in the watching.
The sage-ambassador knew that it would be her turn next, and that knowledge was vaguely depressing, but not terrifying. She was too tired even for dread, too drained to grasp the horror she knew she should be feeling. For some reason she thought, instead, of Tamarwind, regretting the curt way she had sent him off the last time she had seen him. He deserved better, she knew, and she was sad that she hadn’t realized it sooner. Ironically, that regret was the strongest emotion she felt right now.
Her thoughts returned to the present, and to her immediate future. It was true at last: Sir Christopher was dead. That was the thing she had wanted, the goal that had risen before her, more important than anything else. She had watched him die, and his passing had been as brutal as any being could have imagined. Why, then, didn’t she feel something, anything, more than this ennui that so deadened her now? Surely horror, anger, frustration-some kind of powerful emotion-should be arising within her.
The room in the great pavilion was filled with Delvers, and she could see from the illumination in the halls beyond that Lighten had come, the sun descended to full brightness. The dwarves were restive, cramped and confined in here. Already the faceless helmets were turning toward her, with silent but ominous attention. Zystyl, meanwhile, stood over Christopher’s mangled corpse, pacing a slow circle around the remains of his victim. The arcane was fondling the Stone of Command, swinging it from its golden chain, obviously assessing its power and capabilities.
Suddenly she heard a commotion, shouts of alarm and cries of warning. Trumpets blared outside the pavilion, a brassy, rising sound that was unlike anything Belynda had heard from either the Nayvian army or their enemies. Weapons clashed as fighting erupted in many places, with some of the violent engagements right outside the main hall.
“We’re attacked! From the causeway!” Delvers shouted the warning, scrambling to gather weapons, to garrison the doors of the pavilion. Instinctively, Zystyl seemed to seize control of the situation-the arcane didn’t speak, but his flaring nostrils turned this way and that, his hands made curt gestures that were translated into actions by his rushing troops. Despite their blindness, the Unmirrored moved with discipline and precision, forming ranks across the numerous entrances to the makeshift shelter.
Only then did Belynda realize that the Delvers were turning their attention toward the lake, as if a new enemy approached from their rear. She recalled the sounds of alarm-“an attack from the causeway.” But an attack by what, by whom? Had the Crusaders turned on their allies? Belynda doubted that-it was not likely, not while Zystyl held the Stone of Command. But who was the new enemy?
The sage-ambassador felt a tug on her hands, which remained bound behind her. Perhaps she would die now-fortunate to be killed quickly at the onset of battle, spared the anguish she had just seen inflicted on the Knight Templar. She froze, waiting for the cut of a knife, the blow of some blunt weapon.
“This way! Quickly!”
The voice in her ear was no Delver. Instead, she recognized the sound of her companion-Darann had found her! Belynda’s arms came free as the dwarfwoman somehow unfastened the chain, allowing the freed prisoner to stumble back. Expecting an alarm, the sage-ambassador saw that the Unmirrored seemed fully occupied responding to their leader’s commands. Hand in hand, the two women darted away from Zystyl, picking their way past the blind, milling dwarves, making for the escape promised by a nearby doorway.
“W e’ve got to attack!” Karkald said, frenziedly speaking to Natac. “Fight our way into their pavilion, right now! It’s the only chance she’s got!”
“If you won’t lead the charge, I will!” Tamarwind added, his face twisted by anguish and fear.
“That’s enough of that!” Natac snapped. “Yes, we will charge-but let’s do it right!”
“Hurry!” cried the dwarf, leaping down the stairs. Natac followed him and quickly found Gallupper.
“Yes, Warrior Natac?” said the centaur, with a crisp salute.
“Your mobile batteries-I want you to wheel them to the edge of the terrace, and start shooting. Punch a hole in those Crusaders lined up over there. Rawknuckle!”
“Yes?” The giant was there, with two dozen of his fellows. They were bandaged and battered, but their grim expressions and ready weapons clearly indicated their willingness to attack.
“As soon as the batteries have cleared a path, I want you to charge into the breach. The rest of us will be right behind-but you need to try and get to the pavilion. Belynda and Darann are in there. We’re going to try and bring them out!”
“It will be a pleasure,” promised the big warrior, his voice an anticipatory growl. “You can count on us.”
“General Natac! Look at this! You’ve got to see!”
The cry came from one of the lookouts still on the balcony overhead. Seeing that his troops were moving into position for the attack, Natac raced up the stairs and looked over the teeming plaza, past the awnings and buildings of the enemy pavilion, to the causeway beyond.
“What is that?” Natac asked, squinting into the distance.
A column of warriors, sunlight glinting off their steel caps and metal breastplates, was marching across the causeway. They seemed to be emerging from the Metal Tunnel, far away on the mainland, and the file was so long that it clearly included many thousands of warriors. His first thought was that the Crusaders were receiving overwhelming reinforcements, but then-seeing the way the enemy troops scrambled to get a line of defense set across the end of the road-he deduced these were not additional allies of the invaders.
“Let us go now!” came the plea from below. He looked down to see Gallupper rearing, pawing the pavement and snorting eagerly.
Natac looked across the front of his army, and knew that the Goddess-or someone-was granting them a unique opportunity. The newcomers were attacking the enemy rear, throwing the large army into utter confusion.
“Bugler-sound the charge!” he cried.
And the Nayvian army surged forward.
D arann and Belynda moved silently through a narrow corridor. The commotion from the rooms beyond was as loud as ever, Delvers and Crusaders hastening to take up defensive positions, to prevent the new attackers from entering the pavilion. Already they could hear the clash of weapons, the shouts of battle as savage melees raged to all sides. A dozen steps later the two women reached a wooden screen which gave them the chance to see into the main hall.
Zystyl’s voice rose above the din, shouting orders, calling for reinforcements at the gate. They could see him standing on a table, directing troops this way and that, sometimes calling out his orders, other times conveying commands with those bizarre nonverbal thoughts. Many giants hastened to follow an order in response to the arcane’s gesture, and Darann shook her head. “I’m astonished they’ll obey him!”
“It’s because of the stone,” Belynda said in a whisper, pointing to the gem clutched in the arcane’s fist. “The power makes his word very difficult to ignore.”
“Then we should take that stone!” Darann declared with a sense of finality. “Do you still have your knife?”
Belynda shook her head. “They took it while I was a prisoner.”
“I owe that bastard a good, deep cut,” the dwarfwoman said grimly. “When I make my move, try and pull the stone out of his hand.”
The sage-ambassador found th
at she was trembling, but she nodded quick agreement. Darann continued down the corridor until they came to a door leading into the great hall.
Slowly, soundlessly, the dwarfwoman pushed open the portal. Delvers milled around a dozen paces away, but the Unmirrored were focused on Zystyl, apparently ignorant of the intrusion. The arcane climbed down from the table, clomping urgently, ordering his troops to rally. His rolling gait took him within ten feet of the door where the two women were watching.
Darann rushed forward and Belynda came right behind. Zystyl turned, nostrils flaring in alarm, but by then the dwarfwoman’s knife was slashing toward his face. He fell back with a shriek, hands flailing, and Belynda saw the gold chain flash. She grabbed it and pulled, and the Stone of Command was in her hand.
The dagger glanced across the arcane’s nostrils and he tumbled to the floor and scuttled, crablike, away from the women. Other dwarves moved in, forming a protective circle, instinctively gathering to their injured leader.
“Let’s get out of here!” Belynda hissed, as Darann hesitated, obviously ready to pursue the wounded dwarf. But finally, reluctantly, the dwarfwoman turned and accompanied the sage-ambassador toward the wide gate and the bright daylight beyond.
They darted past a Delver who apparently sensed their presence and lashed out with his dagger. The dwarfwoman stabbed with her own blade and, with a groan, the Blind One fell back. A moment later they were outside, facing a long column of warriors marching off the Metal Causeway.
“Who are they?” Belynda asked, as she saw the metal-armored warriors surging onto the plaza.
“They look like… no, it’s impossible!” Darann gasped, then shouted in delight. “It’s my own people, the Seers of Axial-come here from the First Circle!”
E ach of the mobile batteries cast a single silvery sphere, the balls bouncing across the paving stones, rolling into the rank of Crusader elves who formed a barrier before the Nayvian onslaught. Knocking some of the elves out of the way, the spheres abruptly ruptured, spilling a spray of white liquid fire across everything within a dozen feet of the erupting missile. The flames were brilliant, difficult to watch even in bright daylight.
“Now-go!” shouted Natac.
Rawknuckle had already anticipated the command, responding instantly by leading his giants in a rush toward the elves who were scattering away from the lethal fires. Wounds and fatigue were forgotten as these veterans attacked with a fury that stunned and terrified their enemies.
Natac came behind, leading his whole army, riding a wave of savage joy, propelled by thousands of voices joining in a ground-shaking roar. Goblins whooped, gnomes cheered, and more fire bombs clattered and burst as the mobile batteries fired again. The warrior’s steel sword felt hungry in his hand, and he was ready to kill, braced for the shock of imminent battle.
But instead, the enemy troops scattered, breaking away even before the first shock of combat. Many of the Crusaders threw down their weapons and raised their hands, pleading for mercy. Others simply ran away, vanishing into the pavilion, along the city streets, or even splashing into the lake. Natac stopped before two Crusader elves who were looking around in confusion. They stood numb and silent as he took away their swords, and even as he ran on they stayed in place, like heavy sleepers awakening from a long nightmare.
“P apa!” Darann threw her arms around the shoulders of a burly, gray-bearded dwarf. Belynda found herself crying tears of delight as she watched the reunion, saw the rest of the Seer Dwarves pursuing the Delvers who frantically sought shelter in the tunnels under the Mercury Terrace.
Other Seers were looking around in wonder, or coming up to greet the woman from the First Circle. “These are my brothers!” Darann declared, delightedly hugging two muscular warriors who crushed her in a return embrace. The sage-ambassador received a rib-cracking hug from her friend’s father, and only barely heard the snatches of rapid explanation.
“Axial wasn’t destroyed-just cut off by a cave-in? I knew it!”
“… Delvers, here?”
“And we’re here, too! Karkald-Papa, he’s a hero! He brought coolfyre to Nayve, and showed the elves how to make batteries! We’d have lost the war without him.”
“We found the message left by you both,” the patriarch said. His eyes narrowed. “Your husband is well, then… he survived…?”
“He’s alive, somewhere over there,” Darann exclaimed breathlessly. Already the Nayvian troops were coming into view, rushing through the pavilion, rounding up the confused Crusaders who had lost all inclination to fight. “Karkald!”
The dwarf rushed up to them, his eyes frantic. “Darann! By the Goddess, I was so afraid… I though t…” He couldn’t complete his thought, instead wrapping his wife in a long-armed embrace.
“Ahem… Darann tells me you’re something of a hero.” The gray-bearded veteran spoke awkwardly, but his pride was obvious.
“No,” Karkald said sincerely. “Not really… it’s your girl, here. She’s the real hero!”
Belynda, holding the Stone of Command, uttered a silent prayer to the Goddess, thanking her for the victory. Then she went to look for Tamarwind.
T he tunnel led down, and Zystyl led the remnants of his force into the cool blackness. It was a narrow passage, but for now it promised escape.
“There are wells and mineshafts here, lord!” declared one of his underlings. “Routes the sun-lovers would never dare to follow.”
“Very well-keep going,” declared the arcane. Around him were the remnants of his army, but he could tell from the sounds and smells, and from the deeper auras of fury and despair, that many thousands of the Unmirrored still survived. “We shall seek escape in the tunnels under the Fourth Circle.”
And later, he would plan for revenge.
N atac and Karkald watched the Darken Hour settle over the lake. The crest of the distant hills still glowed bright even as the valleys, the streets and byways of the city, fell into thickening shadow. The two old veterans, joined by a shared sense of melancholy and reflection, had climbed to the top of the tallest battle tower, where they could look over Circle at Center and so much of Nayve.
Sounds of revelry reached them from the terrace, where the enemy’s pavilion had been torn down and thousands of elves, goblins, dwarves, giants, centaurs, and humans mixed in a frenzied whirl of dancing. Natac had seen Tamarwind and Belynda gliding like soaring birds, while Darann and Karkald had swung each other about with acrobatic enthusiasm.
“I’m thinkin’ I might be going back to the Greens,” Rawknuckle said after a period of comfortable silence. “I kind of miss the forests, you know… and the quiet.”
Natac nodded. He looked across the lake, toward the hilltop were he had once found something like a home. That place had no appeal now-it was instead a storehouse of haunting memories, physical reminders of the sorrow and misery that had come to this world with him.
“What about you?” the giant asked softly. “Going anywhere special?”
“No,” replied the warrior from Tlaxcala. “I think I’ll be here forever.”
Epilogue
The small village lay on the western shore of a great inland sea. The horizon-spanning lake was full of sweet, fresh water, home to trout and sturgeon, fertile feeding grounds for the two hundred people who dwelled in the long wooden lodges, who survived by the bounty of the lake and forest. They were part of a tribe calling themselves the Winnebago, and they were a clan of the vast nation known as the Algonquin.
Life and death had been experienced by these people, on this lake, for many generations. Mysteries had been pondered, discoveries made, and always fathers and mothers had tried to make the existence of their offspring just a little easier, a little safer and softer, than had been their own. Rites of many kinds had been practiced, and if none could claim to ultimate knowledge of the supernatural, people knew many rituals that made them feel better, and added a sense of continuity to their lives.
Now a man was embarked upon such a celebration. The
proud father carried the little bundle of his newborn daughter, walking through the forest night until he came to a high bluff overlooking the water. The babe, a scarce six hours old, slumbered against his chest while he stared out at the freshwater sea, seeing the dark and misty surface slowly lighten, bluing in anticipation of the slowly rising run. For a time he sat and watched rosy dawn pale the sky, relishing the feel of the tiny body against his chest. Hopes and aspirations entered his mind, and he let them float away… for now, it was enough that there was new life, and that he could feel joy.
When the rays of the sun sparkled off the treetops above him he stood, waiting patiently for the light to work its way lower. The ritual had a meaning that was lost to him, but he took comfort from the clear skies, from the dazzling sunlight over his head, that would warm and welcome his child.
He raised his daughter high, and allowed the sunlight to illuminate the child before the rays fell upon himself. She yawned sleepily, then opened an eye of pure, bright violet-a shade that darkened to purple in the gleam of daylight. She smiled for a moment, cooed peacefully, and then the eyelid slipped shut. Again she slept.
“Welcome to the world, my little girl,” said the father. He held her still for a moment, and then turned back onto the forest trail, to the village, and the tribe and the rich promise of new life.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-fe3665-cdbe-654a-8ea9-37ca-6ef5-f842f6
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 28.12.2011
Created using: Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software
Circle at center sc-1 Page 35
