Goddess Worldweaver sc-3

by Douglas Niles

  And really, he argued to himself, where could they go that these ghost warriors wouldn’t follow?

  “Good luck,” said the dwarf.

  “Yes. Good luck for you, too,” the king replied, feeling somehow better to have shared the blessing. He turned to the more gentle rear slope of the hill, started to climb down. He would join his warriors on the wall, for, once more, it was time to fight.

  The ghost warriors halted their advance and spent an entire day spreading out, forming a vast front more than five miles across, arrayed like a massive battering ram before the right center section of the wall. The huge phalanx of the Delver army and its iron golems were opposite the far right of the wall, but for now they held back, ten miles or more out on the plains.

  Other formations of ghost warriors, each a massive army in its own right, broke off from the rear of the horde, maneuvering to the right and the left of the barrier. These warriors were not visible from the ramparts, but their progress was marked by columns of dust rising skyward. Natac estimated that it would be several days before they came into the fray, but he started making plans for that dire contingency. In the meantime, his faerie scouts would keep him apprised of the enemy positions.

  For an hour after Lighten the great army stood still. Gradually over that time a sound of wailing arose, a mournful sigh of noise that, at first, was just a rustle in the subconscious. Minute by minute it swelled until it was a cry louder than the wind, penetrating into the very bones of the defenders. Trolls muttered superstitiously, while the elves looked to their companions in dismay.

  The sound remained shrill, greater than the keen of a million locusts, as the horde of the Deathlord began to advance. They swept forward like a fog rolling from the distant sea. At first, there was no perception of individual beings in the vast swarm of darkness, but gradually specific leaders-centurians, generals, chieftains, and captains-came into view. Spear tips waved like fields of grass in the wind, and the pace of the advance picked up, a perceptible rush now.

  The batteries opened up first, at a range of more than five hundred yards, the silver spheres sparkling in the sunlight as they flew through the air. They landed amid the attacking army with specks of white light that flared like stars, then quickly vanished, leaving smoke to mingle with the churning dust cloud. Next the archers added their missiles to the effort, thousands of arrows in each volley, deadly darts arcing like clouds from the hillside behind the wall, flying over the palisade and then plunging down with lethal force into the blanket of attackers spread out below.

  The elves were arrayed along the top of that rampart, a single line of now-veteran warriors, ready to fight with spears and swords. Here and there a gangly troll loomed head and shoulders above the elven helmets. There were gnomes among the defenders, too, the survivors of the defeat on the beach. These Natac had formed into companies of twenty, armed them with crossbows, and deployed them in many places just behind the wall, as defense against another breakthrough.

  There were also humans here, druids and warriors from all corners of the Seventh Circle: powerful monks, acrobatic ninja warriors, archers and spellcasters from Asia, tall and muscular Africans, men and woman who came from Sweden and Germany, from Dakota and Tlaxcala, and all the other lands of their previous lives. They were all together here, all prepared to fight and, if necessary, to die.

  Finally the attack smashed into the rampart like an angry storm tide striking a harbor breakwater. Thousands of ghost warriors skidded and fell into the ditch, tumbling onto their own weapons, churning up the loose dirt as more and more of their comrades fell on top of them. Many died, but some crawled out of the chaos and started scrambling up the front wall of the earthwork.

  The palisade was steeply sloping, and many of the attackers slid in the loose dirt, skidding downward into the packed ranks of their fellows-and, in turn, impeding the advance of the following troops. But others pressed through, clambering and clawing up the wall, drawing ever closer to the defenders’ thin line.

  The Hyaccan elves were mounted, thousands of riders milling about in the valley, waiting for word. The warriors who had come with Crazy Horse had all found steeds, for they would ride in this charge as well. The Sioux chief himself had claimed that same pinto stallion, leaping onto the sturdy back with a whoop. Janitha watched him, saw the way he seemed to merge with the horse into one unit, and she approved.

  A faerie came buzzing up to her. “Natac says it’s time!”

  With that, she raised her lance and uttered her own yell. Shouting wildly, the riders spilled from their valley in a sweeping charge, ponies madly racing toward the flank of the invaders’ army.

  In the lead of the charge was the great Sioux war chief, shooting arrows with deadly accuracy as they raced close to the column of ghost warriors, guiding his nimble steed with his knees. Crazy Horse whooped and shouted, and the elves surged with him.

  And the humans also: to his right was an English lord, on his left an Argentinian gaucho. A French chausseur and an American dragoon rode right behind, while the elves raced on all sides.

  Janitha Khandaughter, mounted upon her stallion Khanwind, raced to catch up, and as she galloped beside this natural horseman she acknowledged with a certain amount of pleasure that she had at last encountered a mounted warrior who was her equal. She would have to learn more about him, if they could but live through this day.

  Tamarwind Trak stood atop the wall and heard himself shouting a long, ululating cry. The sound was bizarre enough that it startled him-and at the same time seemed to infuse the elves around him with renewed battle frenzy. A shower of arrows soared overhead, plunking among the tightly packed ghost warriors, and once again he raised his sword and slashed, and stabbed, and parried against those who had made it up to the top of the rampart.

  The attackers churned through the ditch, clawing their way up the sloping earthen wall, falling back as the elven weapons chopped, and slashed, and slew. A troll roared, seizing on a ghost warrior by the shoulder and knee, lifting the creature up in the air. Shaking the hapless attacker like a rag doll, the troll cast the body into the faces of his companions.

  Druids stood among the many elves, casting winds that sent dust clouds whirling into the faces of the attackers, blinding and infuriating them. Cillia strode back and forth on the wall, spinning a gale where it was needed, blasting stinging debris across a blank section of the wall top, until a dozen humans-warriors from Roland Boatwright’s fleet-charged into the gap and forced the attackers back down.

  The din of battle rose around Tamarwind, mingling the screams of the wounded with the ghastly wail of the attackers. To the elf it was all a dirge, and his thoughts turned, full of longing, to Belynda.

  Jubal strode back and forth along the line, exhorting his fighters to renewed frenzy. He saw Juliay, her silver bowl cradled against her belly, the casting spoon whirring, and he felt a rush of love-love that turned to terror as three ghost warriors pushed through the minicyclone to reach the top of the rampart. They were dressed in tattered cloaks and kepis, garments stained brown in color but still carrying a hint of Union blue.

  In a flash the Virginian was there, his sword knocking aside one bayonet, then striking forward to stab the second attacker through the throat. He had a bizarre sensation of his final battle, a desperate fight on the breastwork above Appomattox Creek. He had failed then, been pierced by the bayonet that had claimed his life and, unexpectedly, brought him to Juliay.

  He would not let those same warriors, those same weapons, take her away from him. Jubal attacked like a madman, hacking his way through the company of ghost warriors. Bayonets jabbed at him but somehow he slapped them away, a lethal force of steel and determination. In seconds he drove them back, and Juliay spun hard, raising a stinging spray of dust that flew against the attackers, forced them off the summit of the earthwork.

  But the tide of death began to press hard.

  Hours later the Hyaccan cavalry rode their weary ponies back into the valley, dism
ounting, turning the animals loose to drink and graze. The riders, however, simply selected fresh steeds and once more took to their saddles.

  All except Janitha. Crazy Horse noticed that she still sat astride Khanwind, and that, furthermore, the black stallion showed no signs of fatigue.

  “He and none other will carry me so long as he can stand,” she explained, in answer to his questioning look.

  Once more the throng was mounted, though they numbered many less than upon their first charge.

  “Again! We will take them in the flank!” cried Crazy Horse, and Janitha whooped in agreement. Infused once more with the sheer thrill of war, they led another charge together, the riders of Hyac racing forward to attack.

  But their numbers would only suffer more loss, as they rode so close in among the enemy that many of the brave riders were pulled from their saddles and torn to pieces. Others fell from stabs and slashes, and in many places the ghost warriors formed bristling walls of pikes and spears, deadly hedges the horses could not approach.

  Yet there were always other enemies, and so they rode against the long flank, striking, killing, disrupting and, too often, dying… until their horses began to stagger from weariness, and once again the riders had to fall back.

  Awfulbark had lost his right hand, twice, and his limbs and chest were constantly scored by deep, raw wounds. But he roared, and bit, and continued to fight. He tore bodily into a trio of ghost warriors, ripping limbs, crushing a skull with one powerful bite. Staggering back, he saw the butt of a spear jutting from his belly. He tried to remove the weapon but howled in pain as it twisted even through his back.

  “Comes out behind!” Roodcleaver shouted, gesturing with the gory arm of a ghost warrior, holding the limb in both hands.

  Groaning, Awfulbark grabbed the weapon near his skin and snapped it off. His wife pulled it out from behind as he howled in agony. He was then forced to sit down to allow his innards to knit.

  Five minutes later, when he stood and once more strode into the fray, he was a very angry troll.

  Clearly, there would be no damming this tide.

  Natac came to the grim truth as he fought with his own sword, personally leading a counterattacking force of elves as they rushed to reclaim a section of the wall. They drove the enemy off and then stopped, panting. Darken was approaching, all of his troops were growing weary, and there was no sign of any kind of cessation in the enemy’s effort.

  On the contrary, the general could see that the attack was spreading far to the flank, inevitably seeking a way around the edge of the great rampart. The cavalry was holding valiantly on the right, but to the left there was nothing to stem the tide. Faeries had brought word an hour before that the Delvers were advancing, their iron golems striding as a rank of steel in front of the dwarves. As soon as they drew near, the Hyac ponies would be forced off the plain.

  He found Jubal below the position of the battery on Hill Number One. “Don’t think we can hold for another day,” the Virginian observed.

  Natac shook his head. “They’re swinging to the right and the left; we can’t block both moves and still hold the wall.”

  “Seems odd for it to end like this, after what we went through, back home,” Jubal noted.

  “Yes. We must fight, but we cannot win,” Natac conceded.

  “General Natac!”

  It was Horas of Gallowglen, buzzing at his elbow, speaking urgently.

  “What?” he demanded.

  “The sage-ambassador Belynda-she says she needs you in the city, now!”

  “I can’t leave!” was his first reaction, until fear jolted through him. “Miradel!”

  “Yes, the lady druid is in dire trouble. The sage-ambassador only hopes that you might be able to help. But you must come at once.”

  All of his concern focused on that one woman, his lover, his partner. The battle… in his heart he knew that all the parts were in motion, and the bitter result had already been determined. “Jubal, you’ll have to take over. I’m going to Miradel!” he said. “She needs me. I’m sorry to leave now-”

  “Don’t be,” replied the other man firmly. Natac could tell that Jubal, too, understood the inevitable collapse of their position, the fact that the battle was lost. “Go to her-and good luck. We’ll hang on here as long as we can.”

  In two minutes Natac had raced to the top of the hill, where the druids maintained a teleport pool, a deep bowl of water on the rampart. Several warriors had already started the water spinning as Natac stepped up to the edge, and the sparks of teleportation magic quickly glowed around him.

  A second later, Natac was at the edge of the lake, with the Worldweaver’s Loom towering above him, rising into the same sky that had begun to Darken over the battlefield. But now he was in Circle at Center, staggering dizzily, suppressing the nausea that still afflicted him with teleport magic.

  “Come here-look!” It was Belynda, a few steps away from the pool. She had her Globe of Seeing on the bench, and she gestured to him urgently.

  “What can I do?” he cried, kneeling, peering into the sphere of cloudy glass.

  He saw at once that Miradel was in a terrible place, alone on a shelf of rock, in a world of eternal darkness. “Can you send me to her?” pleaded the general.

  “No… there is no swirl of water. In any event, I fear it is already too late. See!”

  The image shifted, and the veteran warrior paled at the sight of a grotesque monster, gigantic and horned, with a bestial muzzle and wicked, talon-tipped fingers. “Is that the Deathlord?” he asked in horror.

  “No… I cannot see the Deathlord. That is the gargoyle, the guardian of Karlath-Fayd’s citadel. I watched it kill Shandira; she died to distract the monster from Miradel. Miradel climbed to this ledge, but I fear she is trapped.”

  “Look-there’s water!” Natac indicated the stream flowing across the ledge. “Please-send me to her.”

  Belynda shook her head. “That is only a straight flow. You know that it must be swirled to allow the spell. Besides, I would not send you, merely to watch you both die. But watch-we will see if she gives us cause for hope.”

  At that moment the monster took to the air, launching itself with a powerful spring and flying with draconic grace, soaring directly toward the druid. Miradel stood as if transfixed, and the beast pulsed its wings, flying at tremendous speed. At the last instant she ducked away, rolling across the rocky ledge as the gargoyle crashed into the mountainside, just beside the waterfall, with enough force to break loose a cascade of rocks.

  “She’s doomed!” cried Natac, looking into the globe as Belynda maintained the spell of vision.

  “No, wait-look!” whispered the elfwoman excitedly. “It is what she wanted to happen!”

  Natac saw it, too: rubble, knocked down by the gargoyle’s collision, now piled in the stream, damming the flow, instantly forming a small pool. Apparently Miradel saw it at the same time. She jumped into the water, which rose only to her knees, started to twirl madly, using her hands to scoop the liquid into a roundabout current.

  “Now! Teleport!” Natac cried, as Belynda concentrated on the casting of the spell. The warrior groaned, willing Miradel to hear, to answer his summons. The monster turned, jaws gaping, talons reaching. The red eyes flashed, as if it was already savoring its prize.

  And then there were sparks dancing in the air, right past Natac’s face. In another second his black-haired druid was there, swaying weakly on her feet, taking a step forward before collapsing into her warrior’s arms.

  20

  Tapestry

  Picture painted,

  Image stained,

  Artist’s likeness,

  Goddess rained;

  All lies are true

  When sewn

  From immortal thread

  From the Tapestry of the Worldweaver, Bloom of Entropy

  In the end, the tide of ghost warriors proved to be unstoppable by even the most valiant efforts of the Nayvian Army. The fighting on the wall l
asted for two days, with a hundred or more ghost warriors slain for every elf and each troll. But an endless supply of attackers insured that there was no easing of the pressure and no hope of victory.

  The ditch had long been full of corpses, and the foreslope of the rampart was likewise tangled with the dead. The measured decay of the slain soldiers could not match the rate at which fresh bodies were added to the pile. The surviving ghost warriors merely climbed over their lifeless comrades, the attackers clawing and climbing upward until they could hurl themselves against the weary defenders atop the wall. They fought well, those warriors of Nayve, but they were mortal, and inevitably mortal limits of pain, endurance, and strength began to impede their courageous striving.

  The warriors of humankind, the men summoned by the druids over the last fifty years, were the bravest of all the defenders. Each a hero of Earth, granted a second life on Nayve, fought for that new world with a passion deeper and more comprehensive than anything that had motivated him upon the world of his birth. For a long time, wherever one of these men went, the ghost warriors were driven back, and the elves and trolls took heart.

  A Zulu champion slew a thousand before clutching ghost hands dragged him into the corpse-filled ditch. Even in falling he killed, laying about with a short javelin and a double-edged sword until he was buried by frenzied attackers. When the pile ceased twitching, not a bit of the African’s body could be seen through the heap of his victims.

  A captain of artillery, raised on a Wisconsin farm and schooled in the Iron Brigade at Gettysburg and beyond, directed the fire of a lone battery from a strategic elevation. When all the elves on the wall below were slain, the ghost warriors rushed the vacant rampart in the hundreds. The brave gunner maintained a barrage of fire intense enough to clear the platform until reinforcements could arrive. Then, as a company of Argentian elves rushed to fill the breach, he lifted the field of his fire, spraying explosives down the sloping wall, incinerating hundreds more ghost warriors with each incendiary volley.