Circle at center

15
Scar Tissue

Belynda tried to take some encouragement from the columns of figures on the pages before her, the tallies of recruits and armaments that should have been good news. She saw the proof of a growing army, a force that steadily gained might, confidence, and experience. Every cycle, more elves made the decision to join the Nayvian forces-seventy-four of them in the last forty days alone, most drawn from right here in Circle at Center. When added to the goblins recruited by the loquacious “Captin” Hiyram, the giants who steadily emigrated from the Greens and crossed the lake by raft in the dark of the night, and the young centaurs who rallied in answer to Gallupper’s entreaties, Natac’s army had gained another two hundred souls in this, the third interval of the twenty-fifth year of the war.

But then there were pages with other columns, different figures, such as the dolorous list of thirty-two brave elves who drowned when their caravel had been shattered by giant-thrown boulders, the four giants who had perished in recent skirmishes on the causeway, and the dozens of goblins who were killed during the routine brawls that rocked their camp with inevitable frequency. Always the gains were balanced against the losses, as they had been since the Battle of the Blue Swan. Even if that balance showed that the army defending the city was continuing to grow, as it had in nearly every interval of every year of the war, it amazed her that she could muster even the pretense of dispassion as she pondered such matters of life and death.

And to what purpose?

It had fallen to her to be the organizer, to gather the mortal fodder that Natac, and his lieutenants such as Tamarwind, Karkald, and Rawknuckle Barefist, sent into battle. Often they won, and sometimes they lost. Always warriors died, and others were recruited to take their places.

The sage-ambassador sighed, and rose from her writing table. She went to the window, looked across the Center of Everything, saw the great loom rising from its base in the shallow valley. Her colorful songbirds regarded her from their branches, still and silent. Beyond the garden and the valley she was aware of the teeming city, for the most part still going through the days as though nothing had changed. Music reached her ears, the tune wafting from some idle street-corner concert within a nearby elven neighborhood.

Even farther beyond, past the outskirts of the city and the once-placid lake, Belynda felt-though she could not see-the presence of the Knight of the Crimson Cross. Her hatred flared unbidden as the awareness seeped through her mind, burning in her breast and surging with all the force of that brutal night so long ago. She caressed that malice with her thoughts, holding it close, breathing the fetid smell of his sweaty flesh, remembering the anguish that had pierced her when he pressed home his brutal assault. Sometimes it seemed to be all that kept her going, that hatred, and so in her own way she cherished it, recalled it willingly, knowing that amid the inaction and apathy of Circle at Center she, at least, had a powerful cause, a reason for waging this war.

The knock at her door startled Belynda. She drew a breath and tried to stem the trembling in her hands, the tremors that arose, unbidden, every time she was surprised or frightened. Only after several deep breaths was she able to control her voice enough to speak calmly.

“Enter.” She turned as the opening door revealed the worried face of her assistant and friend. “Oh hello, Nistel.”

“Hello, my lady,” the gnome said, rising from a deep bow. His eyes wrinkled in concern as he surreptitiously studied the sage-ambassador. “How are you feeling?” he asked nervously.

She laughed-or tried to laugh. The sound that emerged was more of a bark, she realized. Short, nervous, warning. “As good as ever, I guess,” she admitted. “What about you… any word from Thickwhistle?”

Nistel’s face fell. “Thickwhistle is no more-there are only giants there, and so what was once Thickwhistle is just Granitehome now.”

Belynda knew that the gnomes of Thickwhistle had simply moved to a different part of the hill country, and she found it hard to share the gnome’s palpable sadness. Instead, she made vague noises of sympathy and turned back to the window.

“Did you see the war today?” Blinker asked.

“No… for once I stayed inside, thinking, trying to rest. I know the war will be there tomorrow-that’s one thing that doesn’t seem to change.”

“It changed a little today,” offered the gnome, advancing into the room, chattering enthusiastically. “Tamarwind went out there with a new weapon-and the caravels burned up a big galley, and sent the others packing back to port!”

Belynda sighed. “There’s always a new weapon. One side or the other burns up, or is torn to pieces. How is that a change?”

“The war has changed Circle at Center a lot,” Nistel continued. “I can remember when we didn’t have fortress towers by the causeways, didn’t have any warships on the lake.”

“But we still have concerts on every corner, people laughing and going about their lives like there’s no danger, like nothing’s wrong!” she retorted bitterly.

Now it was Nistel’s turn to slump his shoulders and hang his head. “You’re right-in so many respects the war hasn’t changed anything at all.”

Belynda spoke harshly, determined to prove her point. “The Senate meets once every interval, and during those forty days most of the city’s leaders seem to work very hard to ignore the danger. If it was up to them, we’d have simply let the Crusaders march in here, invited the Delvers to dig their tunnels under the Center of Everything.”

Indeed, many elves still hosted fabulous parties, and every day there were celebrations and festivals throughout the city. Some foods, and especially wines from the outlying realms of elvenkind, had been scarce or nonexistent, but most of the elves had preferred to make do with substitutes rather than make any changes in their lives that might acknowledge the difficulties raised by the war.

Of course, Belynda admitted, there had been some awakening. Many individual elves had rejected their clans’ complacency and joined Natac’s army. These included outlander companies from Barantha, Kol’sos, and other realms, as well as a number of recruits from Circle at Center. And still no elven land had sent as many companies as Argentian, the sage-ambassador thought with a touch of pride-pride tinged with sadness, for by the same token no realm had given as many lives to the war as her own.

Another knock sounded at the door, and Nistel hopped up to answer. He came back to speak to Belynda.

“Tamarwind is here to see you… maybe he wants to tell you about the battle. It was his ship, you know, that burned up that galley!”

Belynda shook her head, suddenly irritated. “I told you… I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Can he come in?”

The elven warrior was standing behind the gnome, and Belynda saw the eagerness, the high spirits in his expression. Tiredly, she nodded.

“It was a great day!” the warrior exclaimed, rushing into the room with un-elflike haste and taking the chair nearest to Belynda. She saw again how he was dark, weathered, hardened in ways that centuries of his earlier travels could never have done.

“What happened?” she forced herself to ask.

“Another weapon of Karkald’s,” Tam explained. “Like the tower battery, only mounted in the bow of a caravel. We burned three Crusader galleys!”

Belynda’s eyes narrowed, and her teeth clenched at the image of suffering and death. “Was he there?”

Tamarwind looked crestfallen. “Sir Christopher… no, of course not. He hasn’t gone out on the lake in years… but tell me, Belynda. Why do you always ask?”

For an instant the fires of hate welled up so strongly within her that she couldn’t speak, afraid the blaze would flash its awful truth from her eyes. But she kept her expression blank, saw that Tam was looking at her with sincere curiosity. And she knew, she had convinced herself, that solid logic lay behind her question.

“You should understand by now: If we can kill him, we will win the war. The Crusaders will fall apart… go home. Nayve will be as it was!”

Tamarwind shook his head, apparently oblivious as Belynda’s temper began to mount. “They still have that arcane Delver, Zystyl. Karkald claims he’s more dangerous than any ten human warriors could be.”

“That’s right-there are still the Delvers,” Nistel declared, his beard bobbing sternly. “I don’t think they would cease the war even if the Crusaders gave up.”

“The Delvers are not going to destroy us by themselves, whereas I fear, sometimes, that the Crusaders might do just that,” Belynda replied. “He keeps them in thrall with the Stone of Command, molds them to his will by ancient magic.” She fixed Tam with a direct stare. “Why can’t you just kill him, take the stone away, and be done with it! Natac had the chance twenty-five years ago, and he failed. Someone has to do it!”

“I-I have tried!” the elf declared, shaking his head in frustration. “We all have-but the knight no longer leads his troops in battle. He doesn’t expose himself to our weapons! But please, my dear lady, have faith and patience! We will find his weakness, and we will bring this war to a victorious end!”

Abruptly she felt monstrously tired, unwilling and unable to face up to Tam’s enthusiasm, or his attention.

“I’m sorry,” she said firmly. “I’ve been hit with a terrible headache… can you come back tomorrow?”

She felt a twinge of guilt as Tam’s shoulders slumped. Naturally, he agreed to see her the next day, and made the appropriate noises of concern before rising to depart.

“I will go, too,” Nistel said, bouncing to his feet. “Please, my lady, try to get some rest… and do not let your hatred sicken your soul.”

She wanted to snap at him-Who was he to tell her what to do? But she let him depart without another word. In her silent apartment she tried to go back to work, and had even made some progress when Darann came to see her an hour later. Belynda admitted the dwarfwoman with no pretense of headache or other discomfort. Moments later the two females were seated at her conversation table.

“Have you thought about my idea?” asked the sage-ambassador.

“Yes,” Darann replied quickly. “I’m thinking about discussing it with Karkald, but I’m not sure he’ll be ready to listen.”

“That’s not surprising,” Belynda said. “It seems counter to the way men think about war.”

“Still, I know you’re right.” The dwarfwoman met the elf’s eyes squarely. “And I’m ready to help you try.”

“Good,” Belynda said. “You know that if we succeed, we might be able to end this war.”

Darann nodded. Both of them knew, though neither of them put it into words, what their fate would be if they failed.

U lfgang loped through the night, following the network of trails around the slopes below Miradel’s villa. He had maintained his post here for many days, ever since Natac had left him following the warrior’s last visit. Familiar by scent, by sight, and by sound with every inch of the ground, the white dog patrolled tirelessly, seeking any sign of something out of the ordinary.

During this time, the elf Fallon had cared for the dog well, providing a spread of meats, bread, cheese, eggs, and milk with each Lighten. During the day Ulf generally rested, finding comfort in one of the shady grottoes or cool, stream-washed ravines that dotted the rough landscape around the great white house. Even then he slept just below the surface of consciousness, every chirping bird or rustle of wind bringing his head up, ears pricked and clear eyes open, searching. But it was at night that the dog went to work, constantly circling the hill, ensuring that nothing approached unnoticed. He moved quickly, endlessly roving around the elevation of rough, isolated ground.

He padded through a shallow stream and shook himself quickly on the far bank, then raised his nose and sniffed at the air. The wind was behind him, unfortunately, pushing his own scent into the stretch of hill he had yet to explore-and at the same time, carrying the spoor of any possible intruder away from him.

But this was inevitable, on every windy night-when he searched through a circular path, there was always going to be one part of the patrol where the breeze worked against him. Ulf didn’t hesitate. Springing up the rocks flanking the stream’s narrow ravine, he emerged on the brush-covered hillside and trotted along a low trail he had worn here over the last tenday. The cloaking branches formed a roof over his head, allowing the dog to move through a tunnel of vegetation. Even if he couldn’t smell what lay in front of him, at least he knew he was invisible to observers who might be looking at the hillside from overhead.

Ulfgang moved steadily along the trail, panting slightly as he quickly covered a long uphill stretch. He broke from the brush near the top of a ridge and stopped on a shoulder of rock. From here he could look down to the lakeshore, follow the course of two adjacent ravines, and look all the way up the slope to where Miradel’s torchlit house beckoned so brightly in the night.

He heard a sudden sound that immediately caused him to stop panting, to lift up his ears and listen intently. Something scuffled across smooth stone, and then he heard a thud, as of a heavy body falling. The sounds came from above, from a source either at or very near the villa. He sniffed, mentally cursing the wind that still continued to blow from behind him, and then leaped upward. Ulfgang ran as fast as he could, streaking toward the top of the hill, racing along the crest of the ridge in long, bounding strides. The white body was a ghostly shape in the night, slashing quickly toward the grand stairway below the villa.

At last he could smell the wrong smells, proof that danger was abroad in this dark night. His nose brought to him traces of metal and sweat, the acrid smell of unwashed dwarves. Shapes moved on that stairway, and Ulf wondered if he should shout a warning. But he was so close now-instead, he opted to charge in silence, to maximize the confusion his sudden arrival would have on the intruders.

Racing up the stairs, he smelled the ferrous stench of fresh blood, a great deal of blood to judge from the intensity of the odor. Atop the steps he almost groaned audibly at the sight of a crumpled form lying motionless on the flagstones, pouring lifeblood in a crimson-black flowage down the smooth white stairs.

“Fallon!” he whispered, gently nudging the faithful servant with his nose. The elf’s eyes were open wide, but they saw nothing, and no faint breath rasped through a throat that had been cruelly sliced.

Ulfgang heard a heavy blow, a splintering of wood in the villa, and he raced across the plaza toward the shadowy alcove leading into the house. He saw an eyeless dwarf there, suppressed the instinctive growl that tried to rumble from his chest. Racing toward the enemy, he leapt.

But he did not see the second dwarf, the Delver crouching against the wall of the house. Nor did Ulfgang see the blunt-ended club of metal that whistled toward the sound of his approach.

His skull met the weapon with full force, and the white dog smashed into the ground. Once again metal struck downward, and Ulfgang knew nothing more.

T hey came from the darkness, moving in almost perfect silence. Still, the aged druid continued to listen to their approach. She had been admiring the sprouting plants in her small spice garden when she heard Fallon’s gasp of alarm, and then the shocking, gurgling sound of air bubbling through his slashed throat. Instantly knowing her faithful assistant was dead, Miradel had forced herself to put off her grieving, to think, to make a plan so that she might not meet the same fate.

But she was so old. It was work just to lift her arms, to weave her fingers through remembered patterns of magic. She heard the splintering of her door, a violent sound of crude power and arrogant destruction. The intruders were in the garden, pounding at the front entrance. How could she resist?

She moved toward the garden, following the connecting corridor behind the kitchen. Some remembered sense of power drove her motions, guided her crooked digits through the incantation. Hoping to conceal her location until the last minute, she whispered the words of power under her breath, virtually silent.

Even so, she sensed the intruders halt in their surreptitious movement, knew they were locating her by the faint noise of her breathy speech. But she had reached the garden, saw her objective glimmering in the starlight. She didn’t hesitate-instead, she spoke with growing force, tightened her hands into fists, pulled the threads of magic together until, in another instant, the spell was done. Advancing into the garden, she brought the power with her.

Immediately a roar like the pounding of a waterfall thundered from the basin in the midst of the garden. A figure rose there, a foaming, gray-limbed creature of liquid power. Water compacted into solid form, dropping one wave-tipped foot onto the ground, then another. The being rose far above the frail druid’s head, with two arms of ice-like silver and a face capped by white, frothy hair, marked by a whirlpool mouth and eyes as black as the limitless depths of the Worldsea. Looming like a mountain before her, the watery guardian turned toward the front door.

A moment later Miradel saw small, dark figures rushing around the garden. She backed away, conscious of her frail legs, the tenuous balance of her retreat. The intruders were fanning out to come at her from both sides, wicked metallic warriors with helmets covering their entire faces. Immediately, she knew these were the deadly Unmirrored Dwarves.

The water-creature lashed out, a clublike fist crushing a Delver to the floor, shattering the metal helmet and the skull beneath with a deadly hammer blow. More dwarves attacked, and the great foot kicked brutally, denting metal and crushing flesh and bone. She heard groans, sensed the fear as her attackers shrank back, hesitating.

“Go-drive them back!” Miradel ordered, her voice strong and commanding. The water creature took a step toward the door, and another, reaching to smash another dwarf to the floor.

But then sparks flashed through the darkness, stuttering and trailing to the floor. In the sudden brightness Miradel saw a stout female dwarf, her grotesque face revealed by a partially open helmet, raise a metal club. Red nostrils flared on this Delver, and magic pulsed through her arms and into the coppery shaft. The end of the weapon touched the water-creature, and abruptly the room flared into fiery brilliance. The guardian threw back its head, gurgling a sound of unmistakable pain. A second later, the being dissipated, cold water sloshing chaotically across the floor, running over limp Delvers, splashing past Miradel’s feet.

Quickly, she backed into the main room of the villa. Next she drew on deeper magic, igniting a tuft of tinder by snapping her fingers. Immediately every candle in the house burst into bright flame, and a crackling fire rose from the logs in the hearth. With another whispered word, she pulled the blazing logs out of the fireplace by the power of her magic. Trailing sparks and embers, they rolled into the Delvers, sent several of the invaders shrieking from the villa. Others flailed and thrashed at the flames running hungrily up their leggings.

Falling back to her kitchen, the druid snatched up a knife and slashed, but somehow the nearest dwarf sensed her intentions and dodged out of the way, the blade deflecting off his steel helmet. Others were drawn to the clatter, hands outstretched, wielding cruel hooks that the dwarves hacked into Miradel’s clothes, her hair, even her skin. With a gasp of pain the druid was pulled off her feet. She grunted, trying to scramble away even as she fell to the floor. For a moment she lay stunned, fearing that a brittle bone had broken, watching as two dwarves advanced with a net of black silk. They raised the lattice of thin cord, ready to throw it over her.

From somewhere she found the strength and speed to rise, leaning to the side as the Delvers cast the net. It swept past Miradel and she lashed out, slicing threads, then driving her blade into the neck of the closest dwarf. With a mortal hiss the creature whipped around, slashing with a curved dagger even as his life sluiced from a ripped artery.

But that dwarven blade, wielded in a dying frenzy, found its way between frail ribs. Miradel gasped as her heart was pierced, as strong arms seized her. She kicked, but there was little speed or strength in her struggles. Before she thought to scream, her blood spilled in a circle across the floor, her mind grew dull, and she died.

N atac turned with a start, his eyes narrowing as he stared across the dark, still swath of lake. The lights of Miradel’s villa were barely visible in the distance, twinkling on the hilltop, flaring with routine brilliance. Yet it seemed to him as though some shadow darkened the fires, masked the vitality of that distant place.

“What is it?” Karkald asked in alarm, joining the army commander at the parapet of the defensive tower.

“She’s sad about something… I can feel it,” he said. I wish I was there with you. He lingered over the private thought, knowing it was a luxury he could not afford.

Shaking his head, he tried to return his attention to the command problem facing them: what to do about the increasingly rambunctious goblins. He knew that the problem was real, that the unruly recruits in their great regiments were running wild in sections of Circle at Center, rendering many neighborhoods uninhabitable by the elves who had once lived there.

“We could break up the regiment into companies,” Owen suggested. The Viking, who had been commanding the goblins for more than twenty years, was as frustrated as Natac himself with his unruly charges. “I can tan the hides of those that still get out of line, and Hiyram can keep tabs on some of the others.”

Natac shook his head. “I want to avoid that if at all possible. We have, what, four thousand or more of them? That makes them our biggest single force, and if we need them in the fight, I’d like to use them together.”

“I would, too,” Owen agreed, relief written across his bearded visage. “So let’s keep ’em in camp, and I’ll still find some hides to tan!”

“Good… for now, anyway.” Natac tried to move on, to think about the next problem facing his large army. But despite his best intentions, the warrior found that he couldn’t concentrate. Over and over his mind wandered across the water, to the white villa on the lakeside hill.

“I tell you-it’s our best chance. You have to let me try!” Darann hissed, her face darkening as she made the effort to keep her voice down. She confronted her husband in the plain barracks room that had been their living quarters for more than two decades.

“Are you mad?” roared Karkald, uncaring of the elves who lived in neighboring rooms and were undoubtedly shocked by his outburst. “You’d be killed-or worse!” His rage was fueled by stark, raw fear, emotions howling through his veins.

“But listen to me! I might be able to distract him-”

“I forbid it! I utterly, absolutely forbid you from acting on this craziness-in fact, you are not even to think about it!” He struggled to regain his breath, to lower his voice. “Why-you’re talking about the most powerful, unpredictable kind of magic there is! And you’d put yourself in terrible danger!” It was all so logical, such an obvious decision. Surely she could see that?

When his wife didn’t answer, Karkald grunted in acknowledgment, sorry that he had shouted so loudly. And he made the mistake of thinking that her silence indicated that she had accepted his mandate.