Goddess Worldweaver sc-3

by Douglas Niles

  Now, there was just the silence.

  She had come here after learning of her father’s death, under the initial sense that she did not want to return to her lonely apartment, the cold chambers she had shared with Karkald so many years ago. Yet it seemed that here, in the big house by the dark sea, there were even more memories. Certainly this was a place she associated with gatherings, with jokes and feasts and lively people. She walked the long halls by herself, listening, hoping to hear echoes of long-ago galas.

  She spent much of her first several days in the home seeking the letter that her father had mentioned, the note that gave some indication of Nayfal’s involvement in the death of Cubic Mandrill. Searches of her father’s apartments, of his office and his library, had been unsuccessful, and she was forced to admit that there were literally thousands of places where a piece of paper could have been concealed in the great house. With tears in her eyes, she regretted not asking him for more details, even to see the letter, on their last night together.

  Finally she gave up and sat in the chair-her father’s chair-beside the great hearth. She was half afraid that she would start to hear those echoes, and that was a very scary thought, for down that road, she was certain, madness awaited.

  Where were her brothers? She cursed them, halfheartedly, resenting their freedoms that were so easy to perceive as a lack of responsibility, knowing she was being irrational. They were probably safer out of the city than they would be if they were garrisoned here, she reasoned, for who was to say that Nayfal would not have looked to do them harm, as well as their father?

  For that matter, how safe was Darann, herself? This was the question that had been dancing around the fringes of her awareness for the three intervals since her father was murdered. She had come up with no good answer.

  Despite the chill in the large hall, she felt no desire to build a fire; that had always been her father’s job, something he did with joy and with pride. It would have been blasphemous to his memory had she stooped to arrange the peat and coal in the grate, to touch spark to tinder and ignite a blaze. She started to laugh at a whimsical notion: perhaps she should just wait for Rufus to come in and start a jolly blaze. Her laughter dissolved into a sob, even as the thought drifted past.

  Irritated, she rose and crossed to the base of the great stairway, climbing to the second story with a series of stomping steps, until she heard the echoes coming up from the cavernous main floor. Shivering, she moved silently into the upper hallway.

  It was in that silence that she heard a single thud of sound, something forceful but vague, originating from one of the wings of the great house. Darann didn’t wait for a repeat of the sound; instead, she jogged down the long hallway, passing the doors to her sleeping apartments and her father’s rooms without hesitation. Only when she reached the end did she pause, carefully lifting the latch and quietly entering the anteroom of one of the guest apartments.

  She had chosen these rooms with a purpose, for in one of the closets she knew Rufus had stored several of his weapons: keen and sturdy, each of them, though not ornate enough to deserve display in the family’s great hall. Now she was grateful to find a silver short sword, the blade slick with preservative oil. Gingerly she girded on the scabbard, thankful that it was supple leather and thus soundless to manipulate.

  Only then did she notice the tube, a golden cylinder about the size of a small knife. She picked it up, finding that it was surprisingly light; the gold must be a very thin sheet of metal. Curious, she noticed that one end of the tube screwed off; when she twisted this, she quickly discovered that the cylinder was hollow, and that it contained a single sheet of parchment. A quick look showed her a note written in a delicate, female hand. She knew this was the note that had aroused her father’s curiosity, but before she could look further, she heard another scuffing sound from below.

  Strangely enough, she never even paused to wonder about the origin of the sound; she was utterly convinced that intruders were here and that they came with violent intentions. That brought to mind the second advantage of this guest chamber: the private balcony, small and well concealed, extending from the metalward end of the house.

  Carefully she slipped open the door to the balcony, crouching low as she emerged to peer over the railing. Her stomach tightened nervously as she saw dark shapes moving through the courtyard, four or five dwarves scurrying past to guard the rear exit where the balcony sprawled above the dark, placid water. She forced herself to breathe slowly and calmly, watching until the dwarves were out of sight. There would be others, she knew, guarding the front, and probably still more already in the house.

  As if to confirm her fears, she heard footfalls in the upper hall, doors opening as searchers probed through the sleeping apartments. They were moving quickly, more concerned with surprise than stealth.

  She wasted no time in lifting herself over the rail and hanging down to the limits of her arms. She notched one toe into a gap in the building stones, then found a grip for her fingers. As quickly as possible she eased her way down the wall, dropping the last six feet to land in a shadowy corner of the outer plaza. She was still concealed from the back door as she scuttled across the open area and slipped down the steps to the rocky yard.

  This was her element; she had played tag and hide-seek with her brothers for many years among these very stones. Darting from one to the next, she made her way down the slope until she reached the lakeshore.

  The boat was where she had remembered it: a narrow fishing dory of metal, with light tin oars under the bench. With one last look up at the house-there were still no lights on, but she could see figures swarming across the upper balconies now-she pushed the boat away from shore, slipped over the gunwale, and silently paddled away from the house, the city, and the king, which had been constants for all of her life.

  Two hours later, she judged that she was far enough from the manor to risk a light. She found a small box of matches near the lamp in the boat’s bow and quickly ignited the wick. Then she sat down, opened the tube, and took out the letter.

  She read the contents with a strange sense of sadness.

  Dear Lord Houseguard,

  I write to you, as I know that you are a goblin friend. You must know that these hapless people are innocent of the charges leveled against them, especially in the matter of the attempt to kill King Lightbringer forty years ago.

  I know for a fact that Cubic Mandrill was Lord Nayfal’s toady. The plot was Nayfal’s, and it was intended to fail! I have proof of this, and would share it with you if you desire.

  Though I am a dwarf, I am the lowest of the low among our people, and this is a fitting station for me. I will find you at the right time.

  One of the lowest of us all

  8

  Invasion

  By steel and by stealth,

  By might and by wealth,

  By valor and flesh

  And by blood.

  Elves bold in their mail,

  With allies, still fail

  To stem and to dam

  Such a flood.

  From Days of Worldfall by Sirien Saramayd

  Miradel watched, horrified, as the pictures played out in the Viewing Chamber. The sight of the armada struck like a cold blade into the pit of her stomach, and she choked back a sob as the tall, dark ships for the first time cast a shadow across Nayve’s verdant shore. She was so appalled that she couldn’t draw breath when she saw Natac, astride Regillix Avatar, vanish into the inky miasma. Orange flame blossomed in the murk, and she shuddered with each explosion, not knowing if her beloved had cast, or been struck, by fire.

  Finally the great serpent emerged into view, wings striving for lift, a dozen harpies straining to catch the dragon from below. But those massive pinions were strong, and Miradel slowly drew in a breath of air as serpent and rider at last rose free. It was a little victory that meant all the world to her in that instant, yet what could it mean against the complete scope of the disaster?

&nbs
p; The druids in the chamber, a hundred or more of them, were stunned into silence by the awful scene.

  “It can’t be real!” gasped one woman, a novice brought to Nayve by the goddess barely two years ago.

  But it was real. Nayve was facing a threat beyond anything in her historical memory, and it seemed that every effort of resistance must be as futile as the last. If the thousand beautiful boats of the Metalfleet could be brushed aside by these ships, what hopes could they place in the army on land?

  All the peoples of Circle at Center had been following the news of the invasion with growing terror, and none of them knew the answer to that question. Indeed, from beneath the Loom of the Goddess Worldweaver, it seemed as though the whole Fourth Circle, the nexus of the cosmos and the Center of Everything, could only tremble in dread. A multitude of earthquakes rippled across the land, crumbling mountains, clawing fissures through verdant plains, draining lakes and streams through cracks in the ground, leaving wastelands of mud, silt, and sand. In Argentian, tall towers of crystal and wood crashed to the ground, killing hundreds. In the Lodespikes, a prosperous gnomish town was buried under the rubble of a crushing landslide.

  All these scenes were played on the wall of the Viewing Chamber, the elder druids taking turns sifting the wool through the flame. Of course, many of the order were gone from the Center now, playing an important role in the army and navy of the world. Not only were druids windcasters for Roland Boatwright’s fleet, but they served as healers in the ranks of the foot soldiers. Too, the mightiest among them could wield goddess magic with devastating effects.

  But others were needed here, in the temple and the city, and Miradel felt a flush of shame as she thought about her fear, relieved in a small measure that she was not in the front of the fight.

  As to the actual scene, five hundred death ships simultaneously grounded themselves in the shallows at the edge of the Blue Coral Sea, and it was as though the strands of threads refused to draw close to complete the picture, to give a specific view. Instead, the druids saw a storm of darkness, like a cloud of black smoke lying low and heavy over the sea, drawing close to land. Here and there sparks blossomed as fires burst into sight, but mostly it was more like a single vast blanket than any individual collection of ships and warriors.

  Yet when those first keels touched ground, the hundred druids in the chamber uttered a collective groan. They felt the pain in their feet, in their guts, in their souls. Several ran sobbing from the room, and Miradel caught a young woman next to her, who fell into a complete swoon. She noticed that Shandira was kneeling, helping several others who had fallen.

  The black woman looked at her, and Miradel was shaken to see this tall, lithe woman trembling like a frightened deer.

  “What happened?” Shandira asked, her voice a harsh whisper.

  “You are one with Nayve, now,” the elder druid replied. “And so you are suffering the pain of the world.”

  “Why, again? Tell me why this scourge strikes such a peaceful world.”

  Miradel went to the candle, still burning near the flat, white wall; Most of the other druids had left, but there were several tufts of thread remaining near the single flame. She lifted them, stretched them gently with her fingers, fed them one at a time into the yellow tongue of fire.

  “View the Fifth Circle… to the far distance in the direction that is neither metal nor wood,” she intoned.

  The world of Loamar was there, portrayed on the wall as it might have been viewed by a bird flying at impossible height with impeccable clarity of vision. The dark shore of the Worldsea fringed the circle, the coast separated by narrow channels, bays, and harbors. The terrain rose into the distance, each inland plateau of Loamar higher than the last, until the dark fortress of Karlath-Fayd himself rose like a mountain range at the far end of the world… the far end of all existence.

  “I have heard tales of Hell,” Shandira said in awe. “And they make it seem to be such a place. Only this is so cold, so dark… it is lifeless.”

  “Yes,” Miradel said. “Lifeless, now that the armada has sailed forth. But look, see the gargoyle atop his highest precipice?” She gestured at the grotesque statue, a visage of fang and horn, leathered wings folded back as if poised for flight. “It will fly forth in rage to defend its lair, should any intruder approach.”

  “As horrible as any demon of fire,” acknowledged Shandira. “But this prince of death… he dwells within?”

  Miradel fed more threads into the flame, guiding the image through the deep canyons that formed the halls of the fortress. Finally the route emerged into a wide bowl. On the far side of the cavernous space was a throne carved from the very mountain itself. “It is hard to see very well, but look-there is his cloak, shimmering in the distance. And of course you can see his eyes.”

  Indeed, the monstrous presence was discernable in the gauzy screen, and the two fiery eyes-like the flames of infernal hell-glowed and flared from on high. “Does he never move?”

  “Not in the half century since the death ships sailed,” explained the elder druid. “It is as though he is a statue. But the goddess told me that his eyes can flash mighty destruction, and that any who beholds that gaze is immediately burned to ash. There is great power lurking within that stony shell!”

  “Power enough to send an army against a world,” Shandira murmured, as the picture of Loamar faded, and once again the green shore of Nayve trembled on the wall as the toxic cloud swept toward land.

  He had forgotten the Somme, forgotten the mud and the machine guns and the talk of the Lord. He didn’t know how long he had been aboard the death ship, only that he had come here more recently than the pikemen who wore tattered uniforms reminiscent of Alpine heights, much more recently than the legionnaires who still wore the toga and kilt of Caesar’s guard. But they were all brothers in arms now, a company of men ready to wage war. They knew and hated their captain, the black-bearded brute who ruthlessly ruled their ship and their lives. For a long time they had had only some vague notion of their enemy, unseen but also hated.

  His existence was not so much a life as a vague passing of time, just as time had been passed by the ghost warriors in Loamar for the past several dozen centuries, and for those same warriors, embarked upon the death ships, over the course of the last fifty years.

  But now that enemy had a face, had white sails and silver missiles that brought fire and death. He had seen many black ships burn, and he did not want to face the fate of those crews who had plunged, burning and suffering, into the water. When the dragon had flown overhead, breathing fire that incinerated ships to both sides of his own, he had felt an upswell of fury. He had no weapon to strike at a flying creature, but he opened his mouth and wailed an inarticulate groan of fury. His weapon, the familiar, heavy Enfield rifle, was in his hands, and he longed to plunge the bayonet into the guts of a living foe.

  When the sturdy keel struck the shallows, and the vessel was grounded on the shores of Nayve, he moved to action as if he had trained all his life for this moment. In his hands he bore that thing shaped like his rifle, with a lethal bayonet affixed to the terminus. In some dim recess he knew that it was not a rifle, for he had no bullets, no way to shoot. It was the blade that was lethal, and he knew that on this green and verdant shore there were enemies to be slain with that keen point and sharp, serrated edge.

  So he moved to the fore of the deck, with the legionaires and the pikemen, and he felt the planks begin to lower. The ship changed around him, the once-steep hulls bending, folding, flattening to form a smooth ramp. This ramp descended into the shallows, and the front of the vessel was open, facing the land. In a single mass the ghost warriors charged down and out, splashing into water that surged as high as their hips, slogging toward shore with rifles, pikes, spears all leveled toward the enemy lurking on the dunes.

  From somewhere within him a cry gurgled up, a howl of battle that was no longer a human sound nor even the noise of any living thing. Instead, it was a plea for blood, a
promise of violence… and as the death ships came to shore it erupted, simultaneously, from twenty thousand ghostly throats.

  Tamarwind’s knees went weak as he heard that awful sound wail upward from the shore. Elves in his line, warriors who had trained for hundreds of years, clapped their hands over their ears and fell, writhing, to the ground. A whole rank of younger troops turned and started to flee, only to pause before the roaring scorn of Rawknuckle Barefist, who had blocked the inland paths in fear of just such a rout.

  The beach was black with charging troops, spears and bayonets bristling all along the front. Against that tide Tam’s regiment of elves, a thousand strong and arrayed in a two-rank line, seemed like a tissue paper dike attempting to hold back the tide. Even the knowledge of other formations-more great regiments of elves, as well as legions of gnomes and an army of trolls-seemed like merely potential casualties. All would fight bravely he knew, but one of them would eventually be overwhelmed. With the line breached, the rest of the defenders would be imperiled; they would have to flee or die. At best, they could hope to buy a little time, for a tremendous payment in lives and in blood.

  Yet he had trained and prepared too long to abandon hope now. He shouted commands, inarticulate barks for the most part that nevertheless served the purpose of stiffening the ranks, letting the elves know their captain was with them. Most of these men had never been in a battle before, but he knew they would serve bravely and well. He had first learned this about himself nearly five hundred years earlier: the elven heart had some kind of instinctive war memory that proved unfailingly courageous in the hour of need.