Goddess Worldweaver sc-3

by Douglas Niles

  The goblin lowered his voice. “Have you been to see the king? Is there any word on his condition?”

  She shook her head. “Nayfal controls the audience list, and he doesn’t want me in there. He’s even trying to keep my father out, though I know Rufus is still seeking an audience. I will see my father tonight, but I can’t think of any reason to be optimistic about changes happening, not in the near future anyway.”

  “I understand.” The goblin’s eyes were downcast.

  Darann had one more piece of business. She took the goblin’s arm, and they stepped around a sharp corner, where they were concealed from the observation slits in the outer wall. She reached into her tunic and pulled out a narrow dagger from the sheath she had concealed between her breasts. The keen steel glinted faintly in the dim light. “Here is another one,” she said, as Hiyram took the forbidden weapon without a word, slipping it through his belt so that it vanished into his grimy trousers. “Only, please…”

  “I understand,” the goblin whispered. “And you have my pledge; we shall not use these weapons, save only if we need to fight for our very lives.”

  “I hope it never comes to that,” she said fervently.

  “Aye, Lady,” Hiyram whispered as she started away. His words barely reached her through the darkness. “So do I.”

  Karkald wandered away from the company while the Hyac piled the bodies of the slain harpies. The smoke from the fire rose like a pillar of blackness into the sky, and though he intentionally walked upwind from the pyre the air still seemed to reek of bile and char. His stocky legs bore him along the ridge, with the vast yawning gap of Riven Deep beginning a few hundred yards to his right.

  Out of old habit, his hands went to various parts of his body, where he had his tools strapped to belts, slings, and harness. “Hammer, chisel, hatchet, file. Knife, pick, rope, spear.”

  He sought the calmness those words had once brought him, but it seemed that sense of placidity was gone forever, had been gone since he and his company of dwarves had been magically transported here, to the world of Nayve, following the disastrous battle at Arkan Pass. True, he had managed to keep those survivors, several hundred strong, together here in the Fourth Circle. And they had friends here, good and loyal people such as Natac and Janitha, Belynda and Roland Boatwright.

  But how he missed Darann! At times like this, when he had created a new invention-a device that had worked perfectly, bringing more than a thousand harpies to sudden doom-he should have felt some sense of elation. Instead, he only wanted to tell her about it, and it seemed the only pleasure he would ever gain would be if his wife, herself, could again tell him that she was proud of him.

  Janitha came up to him as he was sitting on a flat-topped rock, looking without seeing as the Darken shadows thickened along Riven Deep. “Our best count was more than fourteen hundred of them brought down by your net,” she said cheerfully. “It was hard to get an exact count-lots of them got pretty well chopped up or burned before we had the time to count heads.”

  Karkald snorted, making the effort to be civil. “That’s something, anyway. With the Delvers and golems stuck on the other side of the Deep, it’s nice to know we have something that might give the harpies pause.”

  “Yes… it begins to seem that the decisive battle will not be fought here after all,” the Hyaccan chieftain replied.

  “Have you heard anything from Circle at Center?” asked the dwarf.

  “The landing of the death ships appears to be imminent,” Janitha said. “One of the faeries brought a missive just now. They are making for shore, to the metalward of Argentian.”

  Karkald nodded. “Good beaches there, the smoothest coast on all of Nayve, I should think.” He felt strangely unmoved, though this was the development the whole world had been dreadfully anticipating for so many years. Was it because this was not his world, that he was a stranger here? He knew it was much more than that. With Darann gone from his life, nothing that happened to him on any circle would seem to be terribly important.

  She looked at him sharply, and he sensed that she had more to say. He waited, and after a few heartbeats she continued.

  “There was word from the last group of miners, too,” she said quietly. “The gnomes and goblins, and some of your dwarves as well, that started their excavation four years ago. They worked their way down for more than three miles, following caves where they could, digging when they had to… trying to find a link to the Underworld.”

  “And they were stopped, again, by the barrier of blue magic?” guessed Karkald. “No way through, no way down to the First Circle.”

  The elfwoman shook her head. “It’s as you suggested decades ago. There has been a shift in the barrier between our circles, as if the Worldfall has forged an impermeable boundary between the First and Fourth Circles. We are cut off from the Underworld, no closer to getting through than we were before this attempt. The wall of blue magic is found in every place that we try to dig.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that some more,” the dwarf said. “The Worldfall might play a role, but there’s more to it than that.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Janitha.

  “You know some of the story, I’m sure. When we came here fifty years ago, after the battle at Arkan Pass, there was powerful magic at work-and that force field was blue, just like the barrier between the worlds. The magic worked not just to bring my own company of Seers, of course-there were sixty thousand Delvers, the army of the arcane, Zystyl, that were transported at the same time. I think that the same magic is what now forms a barrier between our worlds-why every one of the dozen passages down to the Underworld has been closed off at once. That’s why this last group, like all the rest, never had a chance.”

  “Well, they made the effort anyway,” Janitha said. “It was a bold expedition, the best planned, best supplied yet.”

  “Did they all make it back?” Karkald asked.

  “Two goblins were killed in a cave-in. The rest are back in Nayve. They came up just this side of the Lodespikes, I understand.”

  “I hope that we’ve finally learned to accept the truth,” the dwarf said, the bitterness in his voice surprising himself. “We’re cut off from Axial, from my homeland, and there is no point risking lives-costing lives-just to try to restore a link that is lost forever!”

  “Don’t sit here and whine about it!” Janitha said sharply. “I know how it feels. Remember, my homeland is the one that is gone forever-torn by the dragon into the depths of Riven Deep. But I have to believe that if there was any chance that Shahkamon still existed, I would not rest until I had found a way to get there! Especially if I had a spouse, one I truly loved, there!”

  Karkald spun around to face her, too infuriated to articulate anything beyond an enraged sputter. It was that garbled noise that brought him back to some sense of proportion, with an accompanying flash of guilt.

  “You’re right,” he said, hanging his head. “There are others who have suffered worse than I. And I can’t, I won’t give up! Only, by the goddess, I need some new ideas, some glimmer of hope!”

  “And you shall have that,” Janitha said gently. “Until then, you have more work in front of you.”

  “Work? Yes, that’s what I need,” said the dwarf, standing up, bowing stiffly. “You sound as though you know some specifics.”

  “Yes. The request comes from Natac himself. We are to set up a whirlpool so that you can be drawn through the teleport spell. They’ll want you on the beaches, I’m sure, before the death ships land.”

  Borand pulled on the rope, two short tugs, and felt the answering yank of Konnor’s reassuring presence. He knew the belay was set, and there was nothing for it now, but to try to inch his way above the yawning gap in the subterranean chimney. He felt that peculiar excitement that only came from life-threatening danger, forced himself to draw a deep breath, and made ready to proceed with the climb.

  With a flash of irritation he noticed that his hands were trembling. �
�Come on, you old graybeard,” he whispered soundlessly, addressing himself in the vast silence of the Midrock. “You’ve done maneuvers like this a hundred times before!”

  Though not exactly like this, he was forced to admit. For one thing, he would have to make his way along a wall that leaned out precariously, and gravity would work to pull him off the face. The rock was not exactly seamless, but none of the cracks offered more than a very tenuous grip. Finally, Konnor’s belay was too far away. If Borand fell, he would plunge fifty feet downward and then swing, hard, against the near wall of the chimney before coming to a halt.

  The contemplation of these real conditions proved calming, however, and in moments the dwarf was ready to attempt the crossing. He checked his carabiners, made sure that the rope moved smoothly through the metal loops, and reached out for his first handhold. Wedging his fist into the opening, he swung into space, his short climber’s pick ready in his left hand. With a careful strike he thrust the tool into the same gap, farther from the ledge.

  His feet came free, and he was hanging, by pick blade and fist, from the ceiling of the First Circle. Borand thought of the great space yawning below, thousands of feet above the ground of his world, the First Circle. His brother, Aurand, the third member of their scouting party, was much lower on the cliff, but even he was high above the ground. Still, to the experienced climber there was no unusual terror in the vast, world-spanning gap. After all, there wasn’t much difference in result when a climber fell more than a mile or merely a hundred feet. He glanced back, reassured by the sight of his rope trailing easily through the piton he had hammered home.

  Now he relaxed his fist, feeling the hand drop free of the crack as his body, supported only by the wedged pick, swung forward. On the upswing he extended his long arm, slipped his hand into the continuation of the crack, and once again clenched his fingers. Without pause he freed the pick and swung forward again, through four or five repetitions. Here he halted with one last axe wedge, as the gap began to grow wider.

  This was the trickiest part of the move. The bottom of the chimney entrance gaped dark with shadow, ten feet across, just beyond his line of sight. He allowed himself to hope: this could be the place, the route up to the Fourth Circle! With renewed fervor he lifted himself up with the sheer strength of his arms, kicking one leg into the widening crack. Wrenching his knee so that it held his full weight, he extended his other foot, turning his stiff-soled boot sideways. In one smooth drop he was hanging upside down, supported only by that foot. An instant later he had completed the flip, reaching up with pick and fingers, pushing apart and lifting upward until his head entered the crack and both shoulders wedged into the tight rock walls.

  He got one, short glimpse: a heartbreak; the chimney narrowed and then ended in flat stone just a short distance above. Then the rock moved, very slowly. He heard a grumbling, distant kind of noise and felt the unmistakable pinch as the great slabs to either side of him began to grind slowly together. His shoulders tensed and he twisted as he felt the pressure continue.

  To stay was to die, crushed like a bug between massive rocks, so he slipped downward, trying to support himself with just his hands. But the gap continued to narrow, so he had no choice but to let go, falling free into space with a sickening sense of weightlessness. Borand shouted an inarticulate word to warn his companion of the fall, then tried to brace himself for the shock of the rope’s pull.

  Konnor was an experienced climber, and his belay was strong and quick, tightening as the falling dwarf plunged past. Borand felt the line clamp around him, a gut-crushing force, and then he swung like a pendulum, hurtling toward the sheer rock wall. He twisted, trying to get his feet up, but there wasn’t time. The rock seemed to lunge at him, striking a glancing blow against the side of his foot, then bashing his knee.

  Borand grunted, clamping his jaws over the scream of agony that strained for release. His vision was shrouded by a film of raw pain, yet even through that filter he saw that the edge of the world cracked and strained under the force of monstrous pressure.

  He gasped, sobbing uncontrollably, as the whole cliff face across from him-the very wall of the First Circle-crumbled and fell away. The rope girdle cinched tighter across his belly, restricting his breathing, choking him until, mercifully, the world went black.

  The great stone house sprawled above a tiny bay, a rocky niche in the shore of the Undersea on Axial’s wood coast. Two great watch beacons, bright with eternal coolfyre, blazed from the promontories at either side of the bay’s mouth, lighting the placid waters with white reflection, casting a gentle wash of light across the columned portico, the balconies leaning outward from each of the manor’s three broad wings.

  Darann had always found this view soothing, and even now, when her heart was still heavy with the reality of the goblin suffering, she felt a lightness in her step, a girlish sense of anticipation as she climbed the smooth path toward the great front door.

  That portal was open, and Rufus Houseguard stood there, outlined by the spill of brightness from within. He threw out his long arms as his daughter came closer, and Darann relished the strength of his hug, the familiar musk as she buried her face in his long, soft whiskers.

  “I’m glad you could come,” he said. “It gives me an excuse to get out the nice dishes, to have something beside dried shroom for dinner.”

  She patted his gut, bulging slightly as ever, and laughed as she passed him into the entry hall. “You don’t seem like you’re in any danger of starving.”

  His expression grew grave as he followed and carefully shut the door. “Not from lack of food, in any event,” he said guardedly.

  Darann understood; any more pointed discussion would have to wait until later.

  “I picked up a bottle of Toad’s Head Malt,” she said, producing a flask of the dark brew from her pouch. “Bermie was just rolling a fresh keg into the market square as I started on my way out here. This is the first gallon he drew.”

  “Ahh, now that looks to be a treat,” exclaimed Rufus, taking the bottle, holding it up to the full brightness of the coolfyre chandelier. Brown bubbles meandered through the syrupy fluid, and a foam of chocolate-colored lather formed at the top. “I think I have a main course worthy of this: grilled blackfish, taken with my own spear from the bay not three hours ago. Are you hungry?”

  “I can’t wait.”

  As usual, Rufus took great pride in laying the table and presenting the dishes. Since his wife had died, some thirty years earlier, he had become something of a gourmand. In addition to the serenity she felt in his company, Darann was always delighted by his culinary accomplishments, and tonight proved to be no exception.

  “The spiderweb fungus came from my own mold house,” he proclaimed as she sampled the flaky filet on its bed of netlike mushroom strands. “I bought the citrishroom, of course. It came from the warrens on the Basalt Islands. Tart, don’t you think?”

  “Unbelievable!” the dwarfwoman agreed, speaking around a savory mouthful before reaching for her brimming flagon. The mead was the perfect complement to the delicate food, for the drink was thick and sweet and potent enough to put a nice burn into her belly.

  “Any word from my brothers?” Darann asked, as they meandered through dessert: a sweet roll made from moon wheat and caveberries, two crops that had been cultivated to grow under the illumination of coolfyre.

  “Yes,” Rufus said, “I had a letter two cycles ago. It seems they’ve found another niche in the Midrock, a tiny gap on the edge of Null.” He frowned. “Don’t like to think about them runnin’ around in that lightless void,” he admitted. “Wherever the Delvers are collecting themselves, that seems to be a likely place.”

  “At least they have Konnor to look after them,” Darann said, trying to mask her own alarm. “And who knows-maybe they’ll find the opening, the route that will lead us back to Nayve!”

  “I still think our best hope lies with the Worldlift,” Rufus said. “I was talking to Donnwell Earnwise, last
week-you know, the engineer who’s in charge of the project.”

  “Of course I know, father. I’ve only called him Uncle Donnwell since I was a little girl!”

  “Er, yes,” Rufus said, reddening. He huffed. “Guess I’m not as sharp as I used to be, and that’s the truth. But that’s beside the point. Donnwell said that his rocket experiments have been remarkably successful. He thinks that’s the way to break through the barrier, to reach Nayve again.”

  “If he finds someone foolish enough to ride a rocket!” Darann said scornfully. “If I ever get back to Nayve, it’ll be the old-fashioned way, step by step!”

  “Well, that worked for you four hundred years ago… and for your brothers, when they went to see what trouble you’d got yourself into. But this is a new and modern age, girl, and things like rocket lifts are going to be a part of it.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” she said, growing serious. “As for me, I don’t know…”

  Her father looked at her, his expression morose, and she was unable to maintain the hopeful facade. “I know,” she said quietly. “I’ve admitted it: the Worldfall closed us off for good. I don’t think any dwarf will ever go back there.”

  “Makes it all the more important that we manage our own affairs. Come, humor me while I smoke a cheroot. I’ll show you my fountain-I’ve installed a few new valves, and a flute that plays a tune when the water flows across it.”

  She followed him onto the wide portico overlooking the bay. Rufus pulled a lever down, activating the water flowing from an uphill tank, then fiddled with an array of circular valves. Soon Darann heard the trilling of water, and moments later a curtain of white spray erupted from several nozzles flush with the paving stones. A circular bowl rose from the middle of the ring of spray, catching the spumes, then channeling the water through an intricate series of chutes. As it splashed downward, a simple tune emerged, deep musical notes that sighed through a mournful, minor key.