“How did he die?” Aurand asked grimly, fingering his sword as he looked across the water at the lights of Axial.
Darann described the warning from Hiyram, her detainment by the guards, and the discovery of the shattered lift. “The king suspected nothing but an accident,” she said quietly. “I looked into his eyes, and I believed him. But he told me that Nayfal himself walked Father to the lift, that he was standing right there when it happened. The cable snapped, and the brakes failed, the first time those two systems have ever malfunctioned together.”
“Sabotage. He would have needed help, but that’s a simple thing for a man of Nayfal’s connections.” Borand scratched his beard, his eyes narrowed. “You were wise to leave the city, my sister.”
“It was not so much a decision-I was chased out!” She recounted the tale of the intruders into Manor Houseguard, of her harrowing escape, and her flight over water. “I knew you would return by the Null Causeway, so I waited here, camping beside the shore, until I saw your ferr’ells coming past the outer beacon.”
“What do we do now?” Konnor asked. “Surely something, besides hiding out in the dark?”
“Yes. Now that you are here, we have to take action,” Darann declared. “We must try to get to the king, tell him what you’ve learned about the Delvers, and what I suspect about Nayfal.”
“You are right, I think,” Borand said. “But I wish we had more to tell him than mere suspicions. Is there some way we can get proof?”
“You said someone helped him to sabotage the lift. We could try to find that person, force him to confess,” said the dwarfmaid.
“Not an easy task, perhaps even impossible,” said the elder brother, shaking his head. “But Hiyram gave you warning about the plot against Father. Do you have any idea how he learned?”
“He knows a dwarf, a pailslopper, who works in the Royal Tower, seems to know something about Nayfal’s activities. But she’s not loyal to him-she gave Hiyram the warning to bring to me. If we find Hiyram, perhaps he can lead us to her, and she might be able to provide us with proof?”
“A pailslopper?” Aurand said with a grimace. “Makes us seem pretty desperate.”
“We are desperate!” snapped Darann, glaring at her younger brother. “In case you hadn’t noticed, your life is probably in danger as well! If our best hopes lie with a goblin and a pailslopper, then what does that say about our countrymen?”
“I am sorry. Your point is taken,” Aurand acknowledged. “And it says some very ugly things about our fellow Seers… very ugly indeed.”
“I have been thinking of something else,” Darann noted, continuing as her brothers remained silent. “Father got a note from a dwarfmaid who claimed to be ‘one of the lowest’ or something like that. I am wondering if she is the same woman as Hiyram’s pailslopper.”
“It’s possible,” Borand concurred. “Certainly worth speaking to the wench.”
“Your boat-is it nearby?” asked Konnor.
“At the foot of this hill,” she replied. “And big enough for the four of us, but barely.”
“We can get the supplies off the ferr’ells,” volunteered Aurand, “and meet you at the shore. Let’s get started right away.”
“Do you think the king will see us?” Borand asked, staring at the city shining so brightly in the distance. The white coolfyre beacons reflected off the still water, amplifying their brightness against the backdrop of the sunless circle.
“We don’t have any choice but to try!” Aurand said sharply. “Our father has been murdered! Do you not desire to avenge him?”
“I do,” said the elder brother, nodding grimly. “I just wonder about our chances of success.”
“That’s a waste of time from over here,” Konnor said. “Better to wonder while we’re waiting in the throne room for our audience with the king. Until then, we’ve got other problems to solve.”
“Agreed,” said Borand. “Perhaps I am simply feeling my age. It is easier, certainly, to wonder than it is to act. But so, too, is such pensive reflection undeniably useless. So let’s move.”
The two brothers started to descend the back side of the hill toward the ferr’ells, while Darann led Konnor down the steeper side facing the city. They worked their way down the rocky slope for some distance before stopping to catch their breath, still a hundred feet above the shore.
“I… I feel terrible that you were here alone,” the dwarf told Darann, clearing his throat awkwardly. “That is… since Karkald was lost, I have worried about you… I mean, with concern, of course.”
Darann sighed, touched and irritated at the same time. He had a point. Why did it seem as though she had to deal with so many problems by herself? But she clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you,” she said simply. “I am glad that the three of you are here now.”
Konnor nodded, looking at her seriously, as if he had something important to say. But in the end he swallowed his words, nodded gruffly, cleared his throat again. “Yes, I’m glad that we’re here, too,” was all he said.
Hiyram ran with terrible fear pounding in his heart, but he did not let that fear turn to panic. Spadrool was still at his side, and together they had been able to send many females and youngsters toward the lower end of the ghetto, while they raced into view of the Seer troops and led the invaders off the track.
Of course, despite his determination, there was plenty of panic to be found in the goblin ghetto. They found several bodies, goblins of all ages and both genders who had been cut down with violence. Sometimes other fleeing goblins were too distraught to listen to their advice; one elder fellow, half deaf and limping along with a cane, simply waved them off and hurried up the street, straight into the path of one of the Seer patrols. Hiyram groaned aloud as he saw the goblin flinch back from a blow, then fall to the ground to be kicked and stabbed by the dwarves. Crouching in the shadows, he waited until the dozen or so Seers had tromped past, then went to see if he could aid the old goblin. He was not surprised to find that the fellow was already dead.
“Why they do?” Spadrool asked pathetically, looking down at the frail-looking corpse. “What for they come?”
Hiyram shook his head, a low growl rumbling in his throat. He didn’t know the answer. For a time, earlier in this very interval, he had wondered those questions himself, not coming close to an acceptable answer. Now, with violence and suffering all around him, he would no longer worry about the whys and the what fors. The knife had been almost forgotten in his hand, but he discovered his fingers clenched painfully around the hilt.
“Come. We got work,” he said, starting off at a trot, the faithful Spadrool sprinting after until he caught up.
The two goblins came around another corner and found several females with a score of youngsters huddled, sobbing, in the niche between two buildings. The heavy footsteps of dwarven interlopers grew louder in the street, coming toward them.
“Follow him!” cried Hiyram, pointing at Spadrool. “Take them down to sewer flats-hurry!” he urged.
“But-you come, too!” declared his companion.
“Right after,” Hiyram said. “But go!”
With an anxious glance back, Spadrool took off, the terrified goblins hurrying along behind. Hiyram trotted after, looking over his own shoulder, seeing the rank of dwarves turn into the street. One spotted the fleeing party and raised a shout; immediately, the tromp of marching boots broke into the clatter of a dead run.
One of the females screamed, and several children started crying. Their progress was too slow; the dwarves would catch them inside of a minute! Casting around for something to do, Hiyram spotted a stack of empty, rotting barrels stacked haphazardly beside the roadway. He ducked behind the stale-smelling kegs, looking anxiously as the fleeing goblins hurried up the street. From his hiding place he couldn’t see the pursuers, but the sounds of clomped, nailed boots grew thunderous as they approached.
Judging his moment carefully, Hiyram pushed against the bottom barrel, nudging it over,
toppling it into the street. Several casks atop that one fell outward, one shattering and the other tumbling over the stone roadway. Immediately he heard cursing and crashing, saw the rolling barrel bounce toward him as a heavy object-an armored dwarf-collided with it. Urgently he pushed at the stack, sending more barrels rolling across the street, scattering the pursuing guards like ninepins.
“There he is-get him!” The shout seemed to be right in Hiyram’s ear, and he whirled in sudden fear. A dwarf, huge and strapping and fiercely bearded, thrust at him with a short sword. The goblin ducked under the blow, then dove headlong into the tumbling barrels, dodging a heavy boot that tried to stomp down on his head.
Bouncing to his feet, he darted behind another dwarf, thankfully observing that Spadrool and the fleeing goblins had disappeared down the street. But now the dwarves were focusing on him, circling menacingly. One hacked downward with an axe, shattering a barrel into kindling as Hiyram tumbled away. He ducked, crept past another barrel, then leaped to his feet. The road was open before him, and he put down his head and sprinted-
Right into the gut of a dwarf who somehow emerged into view, having been hidden by a rolling keg. This one had a sword, and as he gasped for breath, he raised the weapon, aiming a blow at Hiyram’s head. Other dwarves closed in, the rest of them coming from behind, jeering and shouting.
The knife seemed heavy in the goblin’s hand. He remembered Darann’s entreaty that he never use it against a dwarf, not unless his life depended upon it. Every fiber of his conscience urged him to hold back his hand, resist the violence that was overwhelming him. But that dwarven blade was close now, quivering as the fellow lined it up for a killing blow.
“I’m sorry, Lady,” Hiyram groaned.
And then he stabbed.
11
The Horde Undammed
Hard as ice,
Soft as steam,
Soothing mist,
Quiet stream;
Till surge and tide,
And typhoon’s breath,
Give gentle brine
An edge of death.
From the Tapestry of the Worldweaver, History of Time
“ You can’t be serious!” Belynda declared, aghast.
“Lower your voice!” Miradel urged, her own tone a rasping whisper. “And yes, I have never been more serious in my life!”
“You want me to send you to the Fifth Circle, to the Deathlord’s world?” the elven sage-ambassador shook her head. “That would be tantamount to murder!” She turned away, shaking her head, drawing a few glances from the other druids and sages gathered along the casting pools beside the lake. The Hour of Darken was imminent, and they had gathered here for the mass teleportation that Natac had requested.
But Miradel had a different idea and had just broached it to her elven friend. Now she continued her efforts at persuasion. “No-it is the best hope we have!”
Shandira had been watching the exchange in silence, but now she queried Belynda. “Why do you argue? Does not Miradel’s plan make sense?”
“Make sense?” The sage-ambassador’s elven serenity had already wavered, was in danger of cracking altogether. “That depends: if your goal is to waste your lives, throw them away to no effect, for no benefit, well, then Miradel’s plan has distinct advantages.”
“Please!” The druid was shocked and nonplussed at her friend’s sarcasm. “You have to try to understand!”
“Explain it to me, then,” Belynda demanded, her eyes narrowed.
“I think that the goddess may be wrong about the Deathlord, Karlath-Fayd. She seems to think there is nothing we can learn, nothing we can do against him! But I believe-at least, I hope-that by doing some reconnaissance, spying on him, we may find the weakness that allows us to defeat his army.”
“What makes you think the Worldweaver is mistaken? Isn’t the very idea rather blasphemous?” The elfwoman’s eyes were narrowed, her expression stubborn, but at least she was listening.
Miradel shook her head. “I don’t believe so. If I can bring her information, I am certain she will be grateful for the knowledge. As to why I think she is wrong, it is a little thing, but proof to me: long ago she told me that no one could survive in the presence of the Deathlord, because his very gaze would be enough to turn that person into ashes. Yet more recently, when I raised the issue again, she claimed that his gaze was enough to render a person into a stone statue. It is clear that she doesn’t know what effects, if any, might be engendered by a journey into the Deathlord’s presence. I intend to learn.”
“By sacrificing yourself or this novice druid to his whim? Either stone or ash is a terrible enough fate!”
“But she is just guessing!” Miradel retorted.
“I am willing to try,” Shandira said quickly. “Indeed, this is a sacrifice I prefer to the other task that has been explained to me.”
Belynda shook her head. “That doesn’t change the fact that you are almost certainly doomed if you go to Loamar. I cannot be a party to that fate!”
“But you must help us,” Miradel pressed. “It is our best, not our only, chance. When the great teleporting is done at Darken, when the druids are sent to the Swansleep River, you can simply send us to a different location.”
“Even if I consent to do this, and supposing that you do enter the citadel of Karlath-Fayd and learn something of use, how do you propose to return here with that knowledge?”
“There, too, I will need your help,” said Miradel quietly. “You will have to seek me periodically in your Globe of Seeing-perhaps you could look twice each day, as the Hour of Darken commences and the Lighten Hour begins. Those times will be the same throughout the circles, though much colder and darker on Loamar than they are here. If we have learned what we seek and are ready to return here, we will await your sighting around some swirling current of water, so that you can bring us out with a teleport spell.”
“I tell you, I don’t like this,” Belynda repeated, but there was a sense of resignation in her voice. “Though I begin to understand your glimmer of hope. You have thought about this carefully, I see.” She looked at Shandira. “You understand that you will probably perish in this quest?”
“I am prepared for whatever might happen. I have made peace with my Savior and within myself,” the tall woman replied with great dignity.
“Very well,” the sage-ambassador acquiesced, turning back to Miradel. “But what about Natac?”
For the first time she felt the tug of regret, but she pushed it out of her mind. “He risks his life every day in this war. He and I must both accept the same imperilment.”
“Have you made your preparations? Provisions? Weapons?”
Miradel nodded, indicating the two backpacks they had brought with them. “Enough food for five or six days. Also, I have a knife, and Shandira her stave. Though I do not think weapons will decide the success or failure of this mission: we are going there to learn, not to fight.”
The notes of a flute trilled along the lakeshore, and the druids started moving toward the pools, the ten circular wells of water that had been carved into the bedrock of the shore. The teleportation spell required a focus of swirling water, both at the beginning and the destination of the magical transport. A hundred miles away, on the banks of the Swansleep River, elven warriors had prepared an equal number of eddies to serve as destinations. The druids would be sent, ten at a time, until all hundred had made the journey.
“I presume you have spotted an appropriate destination?” Belynda said.
“Yes, I have viewed Loamar through the Tapestry. There is a great waterfall that spills from the front of the citadel, down a thousand feet of cliff. At the base it has hollowed out a great bowl in the rock, and the water swirls violently there before flowing onward. There is a flat shelf of rock nearby. All I ask is that you send us there and let us proceed on foot.”
“Very well.” Belynda’s Globe, the crystal sphere that allowed her to view any place in the first Six Circles, rested on a pillow on one
of the stone benches, covered with a velvet cloth. She pulled the cloth away and peered close at the glass. Miradel could see a vague glow, pearly light growing pleasantly bright within the ball, though she could make out no details. The image shifted and wavered, light fading and then growing to sudden sparkles, until it blinked out as quickly as if someone had shuttered a lamp.
“I see the place,” the sage-ambassador said. “The water will work for the spell, though I beg you again to reconsider! What a barren, awful place it is!”
“I know,” Miradel said. “But we have to go there.”
“Then, my friend, I can only wish you the best of luck. I will check twice each day, seeking you, hoping to bring you back. But remember, you must stand close to a swirl of water for my spell to bring you out.”
“I remember,” the druid said. “I am grateful, too.” She gestured to the shore, now etched in the growing swell of daylight. “Now, good women, it is time for us to go.”
Natac had walked the bank of the Swansleep River for more than ten miles and was dismayed at the low water level. Rocks poked from the bed where once-deep waters had flowed unbroken. The shores were muddy and flat, overgrown with cattails and reeds. The ground in both directions rose only gradually: toward the coastal hills in the direction of metal; while centerward the land opened on a long, open highway leading to the Ringhills and Circle at Center.
Nevertheless, if his army was going to make a stand, it would have to be here.
Late in the long day, nearly forty-eight hours after the army had fallen back from the beach, he met the vanguards of the two elven columns. He led the elves to the two good fords, where the smoothly graveled riverbed spanned the distance between dry, open approaches. He was relieved to discover that most of the batteries had escaped the battle at the shore, and he had the centaurs quickly haul them into position for a vigorous defense of the two fords. Nearly half the wheeled weapons were placed at these two junctures. The rest he scattered along the length of the river, counting on the centaurs’ speed to bring them into position when the enemy, as he inevitably would, forced other crossings of the water.
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