Goddess Worldweaver sc-3

by Douglas Niles

  Hundreds of the shrieking flyers thrashed and twisted as their momentum bore them into the mesh of silk. As the weight of the dead rockets plunged into Riven Deep, the net pulled countless harpies out of the air. The whole mass crashed to the ground in a flailing mass of wings, talons, and spitting, hateful faces. Some of the great flock of harpies were too high or too slow to get caught in the trap. Spooked by the sudden attack, many of them scattered. Others dived lower to attack and fell to the arrows of alert Hyaccan archers. Those caught in the net were already incinerating each other, so blind was their fury. They kicked and raised a furious cacophony, but they couldn’t get free nor could they raise their heads enough to direct their fiery sputum at the grimly advancing elves.

  Janitha dismounted and advanced, sword in her hand, beside the closing ring of Hyac. Five minutes later, the last of the harpies had ceased its screaming.

  “You want me to do that which I have never done-in the service of a goddess who profanes everything my life has meant? Surely you see that this is blasphemy, a desecration of my church and my Savior!”

  Shandira glared at Miradel. The newly reborn druid was clad in a gown of white, now, and stood in the shade of the great Grove. She was tall, even statuesque, possessed of a dignity and pride that struck the elder druid as almost superhuman.

  Miradel drew a breath and shook her head. “No one will make you do anything you do not wish to do. But you must understand that so much of what you learned during your life in the Seventh Circle is untrue. Mankind does not understand the reality of the cosmos or even guess at the existence of the first six Circles. You have been brought here as a reward for your labors and suffering upon Earth. You are a very special person; the goddess recognized that and bade me to bring you here. Think of Nayve as a place not so very different as the Christian heaven of which you were taught.”

  “How dare you make such a comparison! You bring me here so that I can seduce a warrior from that world and bring him here as well? Why did you not just bring the warrior, then, and allow me to go on to a mortal death? Perhaps you are wrong. How do you know that I wouldn’t have gone to heaven, to a blessed rest with my immortal God?”

  “Do you remember what I told you?” Miradel said, allowing her own tone to grow sharp. “I was born seven times on the Seventh Circle, each time to grow old and perish-sometimes violently, often suffering from hunger or great pain. There was neither heaven nor hell awaiting me, merely another birth, another chapter of life so that I could watch the extermination of my people. All that ended when the goddess brought me back to Nayve, in the year that much of your Earth numbers as 1864. This is real-this is your destiny, Shandira!”

  “I, too, know about the extermination of people,” retorted the black woman. “I have watched the Arabs and the English, the Portuguese and Belgians and Germans and French overrun Africa and divide it into their private fiefdoms. My grandfather was carried into slavery when my mother was but an infant. She had to sell herself to gain enough money to feed her children. She sent me to the convent on Zanzibar before my thirteenth birthday so that I would not share her fate. The priests were kind to me, and the church gave me a home and a promise that became my life. And I was devoted to that life.”

  “That devotion is part of your power! Think of your life as the good, the virtuous tale that it is!” Miradel pressed. “And know that not all acts done in the name of your god have been so benign. I have seen damage done by your church-I will tell you what was done to the Mayan people of Mexico, sometime, in the name of your pope and your god-but I also know that your faith is capable of goodness. It gave you a home and a purpose, and you did good works.” Her tone grew soft again. “I watched you, in the Tapestry, as you tended to the inhabitants of your city, when the plague swept through every street and alley. You eased the suffering of countless people, even saved lives against unthinkable dangers. Now you are called upon to do new works-but believe me, they are works of good and can result in benefits to very many people!”

  “Explain to me how an act of fornication-three acts of fornication, as you describe it-can result in benefits to anyone!”

  “The Spell of Summoning is a cherished, sacred rite; it is not fornication!” snapped Miradel. “It is a rite that is blessed by the Goddess Worldweaver, and it is necessary to the bringing of humans to Nayve. It calls upon your beauty, your caring, your love-you must arouse your warrior and bring him to release three times in the night of the casting-but by so doing you bring him the chance of immortal life on Nayve.”

  “Immortal life, if he isn’t killed, you mean. Tell me, how is this world, this Fourth Circle, heavenly?”

  “Nayve is a world of peace, and yet we find ourselves beset by war-by a war greater even than those that convulse the world of our birth,” the druid explained patiently. “The Lord of Null, Karlath-Fayd, is sending a fleet against our world that numbers thousands of ships and a million warriors-warriors whose souls he has drawn from Earth since before the age of Caesar. Nearly every man killed in war has come to him, unwilling yet compelled. In the last hundred years the carnage wrought by Napoleon and his enemies, by the American Civil War, and now this Great War that threatens to consume all of Europe, have swelled his ranks to an unthinkable degree. Even now, his ships have turned toward land; the battle will be joined in a matter of days.”

  “But you summon warriors from Earth yourself, you and your fellow druids?” Shandira challenged. “To fight and die in this campaign?”

  “Yes. We select men of great skill and bravery and honor and goodness. We bring them here at the moment of death, through the Spell of Summoning… the carnal magic that you have called fornication.”

  “Why do you need me? I have seen many women here, in the temple and in the Grove. Some of them are clearly wanton. Can they not summon warrior after warrior, one every night perhaps?”

  Miradel flushed, unease and guilt wrestling within her. “It is not that simple. When first the spell was cast, it was a sentence of death upon the druid who worked the summons. I used it to bring Natac here, more than five hundred years ago, because I sensed his greatness, and I knew that Nayve, that the goddess, would need his help. In the course of that casting I became an old woman in one night, commencing an inevitable slide toward mortal death.

  “It was not until one of our order, Juliay, cast this spell to bring a warrior from America, at the end of their civil war, that we made a discovery: there is a stream in the Mountains of Moonscape, and a druid who drinks the water of that stream may cast the spell-once-without suffering the ravages of age. Juliay’s discovery has given us the means to resist. Just two days ago a party of heroes journeyed, magically, to that river and returned with six casks of the precious liquid. In the years since Juliay’s discovery, we have brought nearly a thousand valiant warriors from Earth, all of whom have been enlisted in the defense of Nayve. But no druid can cast the spell a second time without facing the future of aging and death. So each new warrior requires a new druid.”

  “You make it sound very clinical,” Shandira said coldly. “Have you selected the man I am to give myself to?”

  “No! You will undergo training, and you will study the Tapestry of the Worldweaver. The selection of a warrior is yours alone to make. And you should know that it is not uncommon for the druid to love her warrior… for the lovers to remain faithful to each other over decades, even centuries. It is that way with Natac and myself.” Miradel was surprised by how defensive she felt; never before had she considered her spell worked upon the warrior as anything other than a pure and sacred rite. How was Shandira able to twist everything around?

  “And if I choose no one?”

  “That is your decision to make. You will still have work to do here, and you will certainly hope that our world survives the onslaught of the Deathlord. If not, it will be the end… not just of Nayve, but of everything.”

  Shandira drew a deep breath and turned away, stepping to the side of a massive oak trunk and placing her h
and upon the bark, as if she would draw strength from the forest giant. She bowed her head, and Miradel wondered if she was praying, extending a plea for guidance-or succor-to the God in whom, perhaps, she still believed. At last, the black woman raised her head and looked over her shoulder.

  “I will start this training,” Shandira declared. “I make no promises that I will do your bidding. But at least, I shall try to learn.”

  “I could ask for nothing more,” Miradel said sincerely. She extended a hand to the taller woman, who accepted the gesture with her own strong fingers. “Come this way,” the elder druid declared. “You can start by observing the Hour of Darken.”

  3

  The Goblin Ghetto

  One Spark: Dumb!

  Two Sparks: Bum!

  Three sparks burns ’im,

  Run, Gob, Run

  Seer Dwarf Nursery Rhyme

  Darann was used to the stares and insults of the guards, but she couldn’t help bristling when one of them, a gap-toothed dwarf she knew as Blackie, suggested he’d have to subject her to a physical search.

  “You lay a hand on me,” the dwarfwoman snapped, “and you’ll be pulling back a bloody stump!”

  Blackie hooted in amusement as his cronies, the six guards at the Metal Gate of the ghetto, chuckled appreciatively. “Does that mean you are trying to smuggle a knife in to those cruds?” he asked, his eyes roaming freely down the outline of her tunic where it swelled over her breasts.

  She ignored him, pushing past until she stood before the iron door. The black wall rose high above her, soaring nearly a hundred feet into the yawning cavern that was the Underworld. Water trickled through the sewers beside the street, gurgling through rusty grates as it passed into the ghetto, which was located in the lowest, soggiest quarter of the city of Axial. For most of her life this had been merely the quarter of the Seer capital that was home to its most benighted denizens, but for ten years now, since this wall had been erected by the king’s order, it had become a virtual prison.

  Her heart pounded, and for a moment she wondered if the guards would call her bluff insisting that she be searched. But apparently she still had some status left in this city; none of the men-at-arms dared to lay a hand upon her. Finally, the metal barrier began to rumble upward, and she could again draw a breath.

  A careful breath, she reminded herself, as the stench of the ghetto spilled through the opening and quickly surrounded her with its cloying miasma, a mixture of feces, disease, and death. She quickly stepped through, conscious of the ironic truth that she actually felt safer here, in the brackish hole of the goblins, than she did among the duly appointed guardians of her ancestral home. As usual, there was no one in sight of the opening gate. The goblins had learned through bitter experience that the portal was far more likely to reveal a thuggish band of young Seers looking for a little blood sport than any visitor engaged on a mission of mercy.

  Darann advanced, displaying a confidence she did not feel. She felt the eyes of the guards on her back and held her shoulders straight, her chin high. It took all of her will not to hurry as she strode into the lightless street that gave access to the ghetto. As the metal plate rumbled downward behind her, cloaking the narrow street in murky shadow, she finally became aware of movement, scuttling figures creeping forward, wide nostrils gaping, sniffing loudly, confirming her identity.

  “It’s the Lady,” one whispered in a gurgling voice that carried far along the darkened byway.

  “The Lady!” others repeated, the sound washing like waves through the alleys and tenements of the ghetto.

  She felt a gentle touch on her arm, others against her shoulder. One, probably a youngster, brushed light fingers along her knee. When she had first started coming here, these contacts had startled, even frightened her, but now she recognized them for the affectionate greetings they were. It had surprised her to discover that goblins were such tactile people, in many ways more empathetic and caring than her own race.

  Her own people. How sad that she couldn’t even consider them, anymore, without the familiar flush of shame rising like a itch from her neck through the full-fleshed roundness of her face. It had been her own people, the Seer dwarves, lords of the First Circle, who had grown so fearful and afraid that they had locked these people away, behind the walls of this stinking ghetto, merely because they were different. Of course, there were good people among the Seers-her own father came immediately to mind-but there were too many who were afraid, who allowed themselves to become trapped in a mire of isolation and paranoia.

  “Lady? It is I.” She heard the familiar voice, sensed the flat-footed goblin who had emerged to shuffle at her side as she moved down the narrow street.

  “Hiyram? Hello, my friend.” She touched him on the shoulder and felt the shocking frailty of his body; he seemed to be nothing but papery skin draped loosely over ill-fitting bones.

  “You are so welcome. But is it safe for you to keep coming here? I beg you, Lady Darann, think of yourself in this. My people are ever used to seeing to their own needs, and I would grieve beyond words if your caring for us was cause to bring you hurt.”

  “You are kind to think of me, Hiyram, but there is much I can do to help. And I can’t ignore the guilt, to think that my people-mine and Karkald’s-have brought you to this! Please allow me to atone as best I can.”

  “Ah, yes… good Karkald.” As the goblin spoke her husband’s name Darann’s eyes, even after all these years, watered. She saw her grief reflected in the goblin’s wide, shining eyes. “He would be very proud of you.”

  “If he was alive, and here, none of this would be happening!” the dwarfwoman said passionately. “He wouldn’t let the king lock you away like this, take away your houses and shops and goods-none of it!”

  Hiyram sighed loudly. “It is too bad, tragical bad, that it was the Marshal Nayfal and not the Captain Karkald who escaped the disaster in the Arkan Pass.”

  “Nayfal?” Darann bristled. “He’s a coward and a liar. I don’t believe his story for one minute, I never believed him! Karkald wouldn’t turn his back on his men, even if he knew the battle was lost. I know he was there, fighting to the last!”

  “Shhh, Lady,” the goblin urged, staring wide-eyed at the listening slits high up on the ghetto wall. “I cannot let you say such things! You know how the times are… what might happen, if you are overheard!”

  “Bah!” snorted the dwarfwoman. She turned to look at the slits, where the king’s-and Nayfal’s-spies were certainly paying attention to her visit. Angry words rose to her tongue, but she bit them back, knowing the truth of the goblin’s warnings. Dwarves had disappeared for less insulting remarks than she had contemplated. Her reputation, as one of the two dwarves who had opened passage to Nayve more than four hundred years ago, would not protect her forever.

  Not that she had much to lose, herself. Once she had had great cause for living, for hope of a bright future. She and Karkald…

  But her husband had been gone for fifty years now, slain along with the entire Army of Axial during a vicious battle with the Delvers at Arkan Pass. Only a few battered foot soldiers and Marshal Nayfal had survived that debacle, bringing the tale of the historic catastrophe back to the city. He had reported that the Delvers were massed in a huge army, greater numbers than the Unmirrored had ever previously mustered. With the bulk of the Seer army annihilated, the knowledge of the teeming enemy lurking in the lightless fringes of the First Circle had become Axial’s overriding reality. Everyone knew they were simply biding their time, waiting for the perfect time to attack.

  Since then, the Seer dwarves of this great city had gone into a state of perpetual siege, waiting for the Blind Ones to attack in force. Though that attack had never come, the leaders of her city had seemed to succumb more and more to fear and paranoia. Even the goblins, once welcomed among the dwarves as reliable, if lower-class, workers, had been shunned. Nayfal had reported that a great company of the wretched creatures had abandoned their positions during
the great battle, and since nearly every family in the city had lost at least one member in that doomed campaign, public opinion had been harsh and unforgiving.

  This situation with the lower race had been exacerbated ten years after Arkan Pass, when a band of goblins had attempted to assassinate King Lightbringer. Only the actions of a heroic palace guard, a veteran sergeant named Cubic Mandrill, had thwarted the plot, though the brave guard had lost his life in the attempt. Lord Nayfal himself had exposed the plot and put the treacherous goblins to death.

  Despite the fact that only a few rogue males had been involved in the attempt on his life, the king had ordered all of the wretched creatures then living in Axial into this cramped and unsanitary quarter of the city. Eventually he had ordered the wall built, so that the goblins were confined until such time as the king and his marshal decreed them no longer to be a threat.

  In her despair, Darann had to remind herself that there were reasons to take precautions, to remain free. Her father, Rufus Houseguard, depended on her more than ever. And she had two brave brothers, Aurand and Borand, who still served in the Royal Army. They would be heartbroken if anything happened to her. Finally, there were these goblins, many of whom had been loyal soldiers of King Lightbringer until, in the years following Arkan Pass, they become the targets of increasing harassment and suffering.

  Her mind turned to practical concerns. She shrugged out of her heavy backpack and quickly undid the flap at the top. “Here… I’ve brought you forty pounds of citrishroom, all I could trade for at the market. And the rest is salt.”

  “I hope you know the depths of our gratitude,” Hiyram said quietly. “The citrus alone will keep a hundred of our youngsters alive for another year. And the salt… well, it is more precious than gold or flamestone.”