Goddess Worldweaver sc-3

by Douglas Niles

  “Absolutely, sire,” proclaimed the famed scientist and inventor. He addressed Rufus. “I have been able to send a rocket projectile through the barrier. The key seems to be incredible velocity-enough to breach the magic shield that had rendered upward travel hitherto impossible. Of course, we are some ways short of sending an actual dwarf-the traveler’s survival, at this juncture, is far from assured. But nevertheless, it is progress.”

  “If anyone can solve that problem, it will be you,” Rufus declared sincerely. “And if we can break through to Nayve, our prospects for food, for trade-everything improves!”

  Nayfal chuckled, a dry sound devoid of amusement. “You always were a dreamer, Lord Houseguard,” he said. “Fortunately, our monarch realizes that our dangers, and our salvations, lie closer to home. We have a responsibility not just for the present but for the future of our people!”

  Rufus pressed on with his argument. “It has been fifty years since the loss at Arkan Pass, and we have discerned no major Delver move toward our city. Admittedly, in the aftermath of the battle, caution demanded that we pull back from our more far-flung outposts, even though we sacrificed much of our food supply.”

  “And the Blind Ones are still out there, waiting-” Marshall Nayfal attempted to intercede, but Rufus trampled ahead as if he hadn’t heard.

  “There are the great fungus flats of the Metalreach, food enough to feed the city for a year in a single harvest. We could send an expedition, well protected of course, to retrieve many barges full of those mushrooms. It is worth the chance, sire. Consider: perhaps the Delvers suffered a loss as great as ours at Arkan Pass! We need to venture into our world again, explore, reconnoiter…”

  “Perhaps seek to open the routes to Nayve, again? Is that what you are getting at?” asked the king with a tolerant smile.

  “Your Majesty!” declared Nayfal, his face growing pale. “Remember the disastrous attempts of four decades ago. Hundreds of brave miners buried, seeking a passage that no longer exists.”

  Rufus snorted, contempt getting the best of his judgment. “Indeed, sire, we suffered great losses-because the shafts were poorly shored, and we faced the barrier of magic-the force that we were barely beginning to understand. A tragic mistake, but one that can be rectified, especially if the Worldlift can be completed. And why not seek a return to Nayve? The peoples of the Fourth Circle would be happy to trade food for gold, iron, flamestone-resources we have in abundance.”

  “And you know where you would look for such a route?” the king asked, still smiling tolerantly. “In case the Worldlift does not prove to be the panacea?”

  “I have ideas,” admitted the dwarf lord. “My sons, Borand and Aurand, have explored some routes on their ferr’ells. They have found a promising gap in the direction that is neither metal nor wood. With reinforcements, they might be able to-”

  “We have no troops for such expeditions!” snapped Nayfal. “We cannot risk the warriors, the precious few ferr’ells in our corrals, on such a mad quest!”

  Rufus bit his tongue and watched the king, who once again seemed very old, very tired. Lightbringer settled into his throne, and his head leaned forward, his beard bristling across his chest almost as if he was falling asleep. Finally, he shook his head. “No, my good Rufus, I cannot sanction such an attempt, not when we still don’t know the status of the Delver armies. They could strike at any time… any time at all…”

  “But we can be prepared for an attack, sire. There are many ways! We could man the watch stations again… even enlist the goblins to scout for us.” Rufus heard Nayfal’s gasp but forged ahead with his arguments. He sensed he was making his points too frantically, but he couldn’t hold back. When would he get the king’s ear again?

  “Remember, the goblins have fought on our side in a dozen campaigns! Why, we could even venture out and seek the Delver army, take the battle to them, strike by surprise…”

  His voice trailed off as he noticed that the king was snoring. Rufus knew the audience was over. He was not surprised when Nayfal came over to him, the marshal solicitous, sympathetic, as he escorted Rufus through the door, toward the steam-powered lift beyond. “I understand your frustration, my lord. But we must be realistic. There are grave threats to the kingdom, and we dare not take the chance to weaken ourselves. Why, the goblins themselves present a real threat!”

  “Bah! The goblins would be our allies again if we could but treat them with a modicum of dignity!”

  “I know your feelings on this. It should not be a surprise to you that we are aware of your daughter’s activities on their behalf. I admire her generosity, even if there are those who feel that she is rather unwise to be such a sympathizer with those miserable wretches in the ghetto.”

  “I am proud of my daughter and her work,” Houseguard said stiffly. “Would that there were more with her courage and her insight in our once-bright city. Perhaps there would be some questions asked-investigations, even?”

  “What do you mean?” the royal adviser asked, his eyes narrowing.

  “I mean regarding the death of Cubic Mandrill. There are stories abroad, you know?” Rufus regarded the other dwarf carefully, saw the flush creeping up the ruddy cheeks, the cold fury in his eyes. With visible effort, Nayfal drew a deep breath and made a display of shrugging unconcernedly.

  “Admirable sentiment,” Nayfal said breezily. “Who knows-it may happen someday, though I suspect we already know the truth. Goblin treachery nearly claimed the life of our beloved king, and since then the goblins have met the fate that they deserved. Still, it does not hurt to ask. You are very influential in this city, perhaps more than you know.”

  The two dwarves arrived at the lift, where the metal cage rattled to a stop and the door of metal bars clanked open. “But… are you sure you won’t reconsider your support of continued exploration of the Midrock? Can’t you see the danger?”

  “I see the danger in cowardice,” Rufus Houseguard retorted. “In hiding behind our walls and shutting out the rest of our world, of all the worlds!”

  “I am truly sorry you feel that way,” replied the king’s closest adviser. Rufus had the odd sensation that the marshal was, for once, speaking with true sincerity. He watched, puzzled, as Nayfal signaled the lift operator, the cage starting down.

  And then the floor seemed to drop away. The dwarven lord slammed against the wall as the lift plummeted without any support, any brake on its shrieking, quarter-mile descent. Rufus clung to a railing, stunned by the blow, feeling the strangest sensation… as if he was floating, utterly weightless.

  The crash as the cage hit bottom was a monstrous noise, tearing metal and shattering rock exploding into lethal splinters. In the middle of the tangled wreckage, Rufus Houseguard, esteemed lord of Axial, was far beyond any sensation of pain.

  6

  Admiral of the Oglala Sioux

  Images of light and color,

  Sounds of nothing at all;

  Violence binds the souls together,

  Mortal flesh in chains will fall.

  From the epic Days of Worlds’ End by Sirien Saramayd

  How much had he learned in the past forty years, since the soldier’s bayonet had sliced his guts and ended his brief and glorious life on the Seventh Circle? As the battle raged before him, Crazy Horse reflected on the question and knew that it was impossible to imagine the answer.

  Beauty… he had learned so much about beauty. Certainly he had known for all of his first life the splendor of a sunrise above the Dunkapapa, the Black Hills. He had seen the wondrous grace of a fleet deer, the sleek musculature of a fast pony… and he had beheld the grace and tenderness of a splendid woman. But not until Cloudwalking Moon had revealed herself to him in the grotto of Nayve’s highlands, where stars drifted overhead and the scent of pine was sweet nectar in each breath, had he known the true depths of wonder that beauty could provoke. He had taken Moon at once, and again and again, and over the course of the night was spellbound beyond any previous measure.
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  And he had gained wisdom… he had conversed for hours, days, cycles with the druid Miradel, and his mind had grown broad with the knowledge of reality far surpassing anything the Sioux shamans had understood. The study of the Seven Circles, he had realized with no small amount of pleasure, even made mockeries of the truths accepted by the white men who had come to claim his lands, to drive his people from the hills and plains.

  He had also learned of courage. Crazy Horse, of course, had always been a courageous man, and he had battled mighty foes without ever a thought of running away. It was he who had led the Sioux and Cheyenne warriors who had smashed the cavalry and taken the life of the ambitious general Custer on the hills above the Little Big Horn. And when his people had been starving, and the white soldiers were everywhere, he had gone bravely to meet the soldiers at Fort Laramie, there to face the steel cage of a cell and at last the steel blade of the bayonet.

  When he came to Nayve and learned the truth, his bravery at first compelled him to cry out, to beg for a return to the Seventh Circle, a chance at vengeance and honor. He had fantasized, for a time, with his new knowledge, wishing he could return to the plains and unite the bickering tribes, leading them in a great war. But then the warrior Natac had shown him a different kind of bravery. Crazy Horse had learned the fate of Tlaxcalans and Aztecs, of Iroquois and Cherokee, and had seen the inevitability of change.

  He had even begun to understand the cold reality of such change as it was overtaking his world: it was not that one people was evil, the other good. It was, instead, that one side had far more people, as well as better weapons and better tactics of war, than the other. Most significantly, he had seen the effectiveness of troops who could be controlled by a commander, wielded as a weapon of one mind. His beloved Sioux were independent and impetuous warriors, each man doing as he sought fit, seeking individual glory over a coordinated objective. Because of that more than anything else, they were doomed, as were the Cheyenne and the Nez Perce and the Apaches and all the other tribes… doomed because the white men would follow orders, wielding their better weapons and better tactics in a pursuit of a common objective. And they had so many people, so many soldiers, that they would never be stopped.

  Now, he looked down at the deck of his boat, and he felt a strong measure of hope: this time, he had the better weapon.

  Dakota was a large sailboat, like Kaiser, the flagship of a fleet numbering hundreds of vessels, equipped with an observation tower, and a pair of powerful batteries. Crazy Horse took a look to the stern, where Cloudwalking Moon spun the wind in her great bowl, and he was rewarded by a smile from the woman he loved, loved more than he had ever loved anyone. A part of his mind, a very old part lingering from the Seventh Circle, felt a tremor of chagrin that she was here with him, going into such danger. He simply shrugged; he was a warrior of Nayve now, and so was she.

  Turning his attention to the fore, he watched the dark ships of the armada surging against Fritzi’s wing. He admired the Prussian’s courage, the discipline of his sailors, and he thrilled to the sight of the smoke and flames blossoming among the death ships. His own wing, the middle of Roland’s fleet, numbered some 350 boats and now waited in three great lines. The druids spun enough wind to keep them aligned forward, moving very slowly, but they would wait for their leader’s command before they rushed ahead.

  Crazy Horse narrowed his eyes as he saw large death ships, dozens of towering vessels, veering toward him, swerving around, blocking his view of Fritzi’s line. He sensed the encirclement as it began, and with that realization he ordered the flag raised, the signal for a general advance.

  Cloudwalking Moon spun a fast wind now, as did the other druids of his fleet, and the sailboats surged forward, slicing the waters, leaving white wakes behind. For the first time on Nayve, Crazy Horse thrilled to a martial charge, the boat pitching and speeding as vibrantly as any pony could run. He saw the tall shapes of his enemies, sensed the impetuous eagerness of the druids and warriors as they raced in to the attack.

  The first rank of boats, including his own, launched their steel bolts when they were still a half mile away from the enemy fleet. The metal spears ripped into the black hulls, exploding and burning and wreaking fearful havoc. The rest of the druid boats came on, spreading out, shooting at unscathed ships as soon as another dark vessel swerved into range.

  Fighting raged all across the front, acrid smoke mixing with the miasma of the Deathlord’s fleet to clog nostrils and sting eyes. In a chaos of movement the deadly dance evolved, sailboats darting between lumbering ships, spitting their deadly barbs, pressing forward with courage every bit the equal of a plains warrior trying to count coup.

  But where were Fritzi’s ships? Crazy Horse squinted through the murk, tried to catch a glimpse of white canvas-even a single sail!-but there was nothing to break that aura of darkness. A glance to the left showed him more ships, a hundred of them, sweeping out from the armada, attempting to encircle his own wing of boats just as the Prussian’s had been devoured.

  The truth was bitter gall, but it was apparent: if they held the charge they, too, would be swept into the insatiable belly of the deadly armada. There was no sign of any white sail, any surviving boat, in the tangled and smoky melee before them. The First Wing was gone, utterly destroyed, and if he held the current course, Crazy Horse would lead his own men and women to the same fate.

  He raised the blue flag, the signal for a withdrawal, and like magic the druid boats responded, turning through tight half circles, running for the clean water along the metal coast, away from the armada. They were running, leaving many of the enemy intact…

  But they would be alive to fight again tomorrow.

  The pictures of war played out on the whitewashed wall of the Worldweaver’s inner sanctum, but Miradel found her eyes drawn not to the waterborne carnage but to the face of the druid Shandira. She was surprised to see the African woman looking back at her when Miradel glanced over to gauge her reaction to the First Wing’s destruction.

  Many druids were gathered in the viewing room to witness the commencement of the long-dreaded war. Cillia herself, eldest druid of the order, fed the Wool of Time into the candle flame, though her fingers trembled slightly as the image of the armada darkened the whole, vast wall. The white sails of the druid boats seemed like tiny snowflakes wafting toward a great gulf of smoke, and Miradel heard murmurs of fear and horror as the two fleets mingled.

  The pictures showed the view from high overhead, and for that she was grateful. They could make out the three separate wings of Roland Boatwright’s fleet, and they marveled at the bravery of Fritzi Koeppler’s wing as it rushed to intercept the advancing tide of darkness. Tiny sparks glowed every time a death ship exploded, and the druids collectively held their breath as the thin line of white sails stood firm before the onslaught.

  But of course the armada was too huge, and as the arms of black reached around the boats of the First Wing, one by one the white sails broke or burned or sank. In a surprisingly short time, the entire wing was gone, engulfed by the darkness. They had endured no longer than the snowflakes they resembled, melting away in the furnace of battle. Miradel looked up as she heard a sob, saw Gretchen-the druid who had summoned Fritzi to Nayve-clasp her hands over her face and run from the room, sobbing.

  Some unknown time later Miradel and Shandira walked into the garden, alone in the midst of a hundred somber druids who all emerged from the viewing chamber to cleanse themselves in the sunlight and try, for the most part unsuccessfully, to dispel the lingering nightmare of the sea battle.

  “The black ships… they will reach the shore in a matter of hours, it seems,” Shandira observed quietly. Her face was downcast, but she still carried that regal sense of pride in her tall frame. The white of her gown stood in stark contrast to the darkness of her limbs and her face. Her eyes were wet with tears as she looked at Miradel. “The carnage… it was horrible!”

  “Beyond horror,” the elder druid agreed. “I don’t kno
w if the armada will reach shore that quickly, though. There are still two more wings to Roland’s fleet, and they were close.” She glanced at the sky, where the sun was already receding upward, purple twilight closing in from all horizons. “I think they will wait until Lighten before attacking.”

  “All those ship masters, the warriors who fought with such courage… all of them were brought here by druids, performing the spell of summoning?”

  “Yes… many of the same druids were spinning the winds for their warriors. The loss of each boat meant the loss of at least two lives.”

  Shandira nodded, and her eyes narrowed. “There was that serpent flying above-like the Beast of my church’s nightmares, though you call it benign-and the man astride his back. He is your lover?”

  Miradel drew a quick breath. “How did you know? I said nothing about Natac.”

  “I saw the way you clenched your fists, tightened your jaw, when the picture was upon him. Also the way many other druids looked in your direction, quickly and secretly, when the picture moved to him.”

  “You are right. I love him very much… have loved him for more than four hundred years.”

  “You brought him here, with your Spell of Summoning?”

  “I did, though it cost me my youth. And I had no regrets. It was the mercy of the goddess that I returned to earth and lived through seven more lives there, before again returning to Nayve in this young woman’s body.”

  “But if your goddess was to command you to give yourself to another, to work the magic to bring a warrior here, you would do so?”

  Miradel stared at Shandira, astounded by the question-and by the rush of outrage that arose within her at the thought of giving herself to another man. “I told you… one druid can only summon one warrior. Natac is my warrior,” she said, sensing the evasion even as she tried to sound decisive.