Circle at center

16
The Marching Acres

Everything was a dim, gray haze… a haze punctuated by pain, agony that speared through his skull, stabbed his mind with relentless, fiery force… until again the murk would rise, granting him the only relief from his constant hurting.

Sometime later he smelled blood, and came awake with a start. Once again that pain rushed through every nerve end, but he forced his head up, off the hard stone floor. Drawing a breath, he felt more pain searing through his ribs, but he fought against it, pushed himself through a slow, awkward roll onto his belly. Still he held his head up, though his vision was blurry and his head still pounded.

With an effort, he thumped his tail against the ground once, and again. And then he knew he was whole. Grunting from the agony, he pushed his shoulders up until he was sitting. His head throbbed with an agonizing cadence of pain, and one ear was crusted with dried blood, but stiffly, slowly, he forced himself to stand. Sunlight flooded the garden, the villa, the landscape. The blood he smelled came from very nearby, where Fallon’s corpse lay stiff and drained, with a dried, brownish swath extending in a ghastly spill down the stairs from the elf’s body.

Shaking his head, seeing and smelling better with each passing second, Ulf started into the big house. And then he froze.

Miradel lay on the floor in a pool of her own blood, a smear of darkening crimson across her belly staining her gown. Nearby was the corner of a black silk net, apparently sliced with ragged force from its parent. Whimpering unconsciously, Ulf slowly approached the motionless figure. He lowered his head, sniffed hopefully, knowing that those hopes were futile. The druid was utterly, irrevocably dead.

The stench of Delvers was everywhere, so he had no doubts as to who had killed her. Growling almost inaudibly, he padded back onto the patio and blinked in the bright sunlight. The lake was an azure blanket below, cut by the thin white line of the causeway.

Ulfgang knew that Natac needed to be told about Miradel, and that road was his only route back to Circle at Center. Taking several deep breaths, then lapping up a good drink of water from the druid’s garden pool, the dog ignored the pounding in his head as he started down the hill.

K erriastyn cowered before her master. Zystyl could sense her fear, reveled in it as his rage flexed through his nostrils like an odor, touching the cringing female, stroking her senses like the disingenuous kiss of a hungry vampire. She stood on her feet, but leaned forward abjectly, with her face turned up to him in mute acceptance of whatever justice he would deliver.

You failed me. The phrase was a whip, used against her thoughts, striking with a lash that drew a moan of agony from her silver-plated jaws. She dropped her face, unable to meet his punishment directly.

You disappointed me.

Again he struck her with the power of his mind, and again he thrilled to the sound of her pain as she took a step backward. Kerriastyn was crying now, a pathetic murmur of sound that echoed through the tunnel in dolorous solitude. Doubtless there were Delvers who could hear, but they remained utterly silent lest the weight of their general’s displeasure should fall upon them.

You have cost me a precious opportunity.

His final rebuke whipped through her being, dropped her to her knees, sent her writhing across the floor. He observed her convulsions with keen pleasure-the sounds of her pain, the raw stink of uncontained terror, the keen awareness of her utter subjugation, all bathed his senses in sublime ecstasy. She expected to die-he could sense her anticipation of his judgment-but it gave him cold pleasure to defer his retribution.

“But it is my decision that you shall live, shall continue to serve.” He began to speak aloud, letting his mercy be known to all witnesses within earshot. “For even with your failure, the elven city will fall, and a world of treasures will become mine.”

T he white dog crouched at the top of a hill, looking at the scene spread along the muddy lakeshore. The mouth of the Metal Tunnel yawned at the base of the opposite elevation. The Hour of Darken approached, so the shadowed entryway teemed with Delvers, hundreds of the Blind Ones milling like ants, waiting for full darkness to release them to raid. Ulf knew that Zystyl’s warriors had created a city for themselves, a virtual hive of sunless caverns, dens, and warrens, within the massive subterranean passageway.

Closer by, the ruins of the Blue Swan Inn lay scattered across the shore, a monument of charred stone walls, blackened timbers, and soot-covered ground that the invaders had left undisturbed, in full view of Circle at Center. Ulfgang noticed again how even now, twenty-five years after the destruction, not so much as a blade of grass had sprouted from the blackened and bloodstained ground. To the right and left of the ruins, however, the Crusaders had erected massive, log-walled barracks buildings. Muddy streams flowed from valleys denuded of timber, while companies of Sir Christopher’s warriors gathered, marching along the lakeshore and out of the hills to converge here, at the place that now held Ulfgang’s considerable interest.

It’s like… a floating island, he realized, studying the massive expanse of solid ground filling the place that had once been the harbor of the Blue Swan. But it was ground made out of wood and metal, he finally saw, and it had many gridded openings where he could see the water sloshing just below the deck.

Surrounded by sheets of metal armor and several tall, wooden walls, with a surface as broad as a hundred palatial courtyards, the great raft completely filled the harbor that had once served as an anchorage for the Blue Swan Inn. Thousands of Crusaders and Delvers were assembling on the massive deck, and they didn’t yet come close to taking up all the space. Ulf saw columns of giants and goblins, companies of centaurs, huge regiments numbering a thousand elves apiece, all march down the ramps leading to the flat surface. Still more of these troops were assembled on the shore, waiting for their turns to board.

Beyond, even more of the enemy troops were in the camp-and only past these, past tens of thousands of deadly enemies, Ulf could see the causeway, his route to the city, starting across the lake. As the Hour of Darken closed around him, he saw the Delvers start to file out of the cavern. Soon the column would form a barrier across the road, blocking his retreat.

Drawing a deep breath, Ulfgang rose and started to trot down the hill. He stopped to sniff a pile of fresh horse dung, took a long detour to urinate on the only tree trunk on this part of the slope. Taking great care to appear nonchalant, he started past a company of goblins, keeping a wary eye on the hungry-looking warriors. When one of them tossed a spear, the dog sprinted away, ears trailing from the wind of his speed.

Trotting around a group of bored giants, he finally saw the paved roadway of the Metal Highway. The wide avenue started across the lake on its raised causeway, a straight line leading to Circle at Center. Ulf flopped to the ground, tongue drooping lazily, as a rank of elves marched past. When they were gone, he rose and slowly padded forward, crossing in front of the advancing column of Delvers while the Blind Ones were still some distance away.

Now he was near the lakeshore. A pair of centaurs paced back and forth at the terminus of the causeway. Each was armed with a stout cudgel, and their attention was directed mainly along the road extending into the lake, where they remained alert for any sortie from the city.

Ulf trotted down to the shore and lapped up some water. At the same time, he watched the reflections of the centaurs, saw that one glanced at him, then turned his attention back to the road. Still wandering slowly, the dog paced along the shore, up onto the road. Nose down, he padded past the nearest centaur, as if he had no purpose before him other than the next exciting sniff.

“Hey!” The growl came from the second centaur. “Stop that dog.”

Instantly Ulf flew into a wild sprint, belly low, feet pounding the pavement in urgent, rhythmic strides down the straight road. He heard one centaur thundering in pursuit, heavy hooves clattering on the pavement, but by then the streaking Ulfgang was two dozen paces ahead. Without looking back, he stretched further, running faster than a strong wind. The guard kept up the chase for a half mile, but by then the dog was far along the causeway.

And even when he wasn’t pursued, his legs reached, stretched, hurled him along the pavement. His lungs strained for breath, and his long tongue dangled, flopping loosely as he streaked above the water toward the sparkling city. Halfway across the lake he passed a company of giants, the first line of the city’s defense. They made no move to stop him, and Ulf did not slow down. Lights, coolfyre beacons, blinked into life along the upcoming shore as night thickened. Even as the pain of exhaustion rose through his chest and throat he held his speed, swerving around the elven guards that moved to intercept him as he darted onto the island.

Racing across the Mercury Terrace, he ignored the protestations and surprised stares of the few elves who were out at this dark hour. Now his claws clicked along the paving stones of the Avenue of Metal. Ulfgang knew that he could find Natac at his headquarters building, formerly a gallery of iron across from the College. It was still a long run from here, but the road was straight and wide.

A minute later Ulfgang came over a low rise to find that the entire street was blocked by a riotous crowd. He smelled the bittersweet stink of goblins, heard their whoops and shouts as they danced on the pavement and quaffed great mugs of stale-smelling beer. Partners whirled each other in a frenzy, sending drunken goblins careening into each other, provoking insults, kicks, and punches.

“Hoo-hoo! A doggie!” cried one wild-eyed fellow, reaching out as if to smear Ulfgang’s nose with a slobbery kiss. White jaws snapped, and the goblin lurched backward, howling and pressing hands to his bleeding lip.

“You lot!” The bellow was Owen’s voice, roaring above the din. Ulf couldn’t see the Viking, but as the crowd grew suddenly quiet he sensed that the human warrior had waded into the celebration. Goblins yelped in dismay, and several abruptly flew through the air, tossed by blows of Owen’s hamlike fists. “Stop this commotion right now! Or I’ll have yer heads on pikes over the lakefront wall!”

“What for you make ruckus?” demanded another voice, and Ulfgang saw Hiyram swagger through his fellow goblins, jabbing his finger at a chest here, meeting a belligerent eye there. “We’s gotta fight Delverdwarfs-not you too each other!”

Sheepishly, the carousing goblins shuffled from the street, filing into the large manors that had been given them as barracks. But by then Ulf was already moving, pushing through the goblins until he caught up to Owen and Hiyram.

“I’ve got to get to Natac!” He barked frantically, trying to get the goblin’s attention.

“We’ll take you to’m-I’m wantin’ to tell about this mess, anyway,” Hiyram said disgustedly. He looked as though he wanted to take off after the retreating goblins, but Owen, at least, seemed to sense the dog’s urgency. Moving at a trot, they started up the Avenue of Metal.

N atac tried to deny the truth of the message, but deep in his heart he felt the reality of Miradel’s loss. He listened in dull horror to Ulfgang’s dispassionate report. For a long time the warrior couldn’t seem to speak, couldn’t make his mouth shape the words he wanted, needed to say.

“Why?” he croaked, finally. “Why kill her?”

“I think they wanted to capture her, really,” suggested the white dog. “I saw a piece of net there. And water, and marks of fire. It seems she put up a fight.”

“And she will be avenged,” Natac said, though the phrase, the very intention, seemed a hollow mockery. “We’ll start by figuring out how to face this raft, this ‘floating island’ that you spotted.”

He looked around the table in his headquarters chamber. Natac’s subordinate captains watched him warily. Deltan and Galewn, the giants representative of Nayve’s Senate, were there. That pair were responsible for the two forces who had held the causeway against every attack over the last twenty-five years. Karkald, too, was present, as were Tamarwind and Roland Boatwright. Owen and Fionn stood on the other side of the table, Owen with Hiyram and the Irishman with Nistel. They were gathered in a room of metal, with an iron floor and vaulted ceiling of bronze. At the door stood a guard, a giant armed with a massive, hook-bladed halberd and wearing a cap of shiny steel.

The general was acutely conscious of the meeting that had been in progress prior to Ulf’s arrival. It had been a routine affair, a report from the garrison on the Metal Causeway, the awareness that the enemy’s heavy galleys had stayed off the lake since the ships had been destroyed by Karkald’s seaborne batteries.

The training of the gnomes and goblins was proceeding slowly, and Natac fervently hoped that he could continue to spare both big regiments the shock of mortal combat. For years they had been part of the army, of course, but they had been spared many of the ravages suffered by the giants and elves. He admitted to a quiet affection for the diligent gnomes, typically pudgy, bespectacled, and squinting, yet so earnestly intent on becoming warriors, on redeeming the disgrace of their flight during the Battle of the Blue Swan. But in truth they weren’t warriors, and Natac had done everything he could to keep them out of harm’s way.

And the goblins, too, he found strangely likable. Rude and disorganized to the core, they still possessed the exuberance of healthy, fast-growing children-even if they should have decided to grow up long ago. Still, he couldn’t bear the thought of putting them into battle, any more than he could have accepted sending his own ten- or twelve-year-old sons into a mortal fight.

So instead, the defense of Circle at Center had fallen to the elves and the giants. So far they had done an effective job, but Natac admitted private concern at the reports of this great raft. How would it be used? And if it came toward the city, how could they hope to stop it?

“The caravels will sortie at the first sign of this raft,” he said, indicating the map spread out before them. “We can’t let them get on the flank or rear of the causeway. We have to assume it’s got a wooden structure, and if it’s wood it can be burned.”

As the others nodded in agreement at his sage pronouncement, Natac felt a stab of guilt. He could only hope that he was right.

“W hat in the Seven Circles is that?” growled Rawknuckle Barefist. He held a great axe against his chest, caressing the smooth handle, taking comfort in the keen steel blade that Karkald had given him twenty years before. The giant squinted across the lake, staring at movement he perceived through the mists of the Lighten Hour. Around him, the forty others of his company, hulking and bearded warriors to a man, stirred from their rest, a few picking up their weapons to join their chieftain.

Theirs was a lonely outpost, a wide spot on the middle of the causeway amid the generally placid waters of the lake. The small island boasted flat ground, a few trees, and benches and shelters for travelers’ rests. The smooth causeway departed from the islet in two directions, in the direction of metal toward the lakeshore, and in the opposite bearing toward the city, and the Center of Everything. In that direction the company of Deltan Columbine’s archers was rousing itself, cooking fires ignited and lookouts joining the giants in staring across the lake.

Now, just past Lighten, mist shrouded the water in gauzy curtains, visibility closed in enough that the giant chieftain knew he couldn’t be looking at the far shore. And yet something solid stretched across his view, more suggested than substantial in the vaporous air-but far, far closer than any land should be.

“Looks like the lakeshore is moving,” suggested his comrade Broadnose, with a noisy snuffle. He went back to the haunch of mutton that served as his breakfast.

“Well, I know what it looks like,” snapped Rawknuckle. “I want to know what it is!”

A great wall seemed to emerge from the mist, pushing through the water so slowly that it raised barely a ripple on the smooth surface. Far to the right the barrier seemed to curve away, and it was there that he caught a hint of a wake-long, rolling ripples coursing across the still water, confirming that the vast shape was in fact moving closer.

“It’s gotta be that raft we was warned about. Give a rise on the horn,” Rawknuckle decided. Young Crookknee, the bugler, hefted the instrument and placed his lips against the mouthpiece. Once, twice, and again he boomed long, lowing notes. The sound resonated across the water, many seconds later echoing back from the heights of Circle at Center.

“ ’Eh, chief. They’re coming the same old way, as well,” muttered Broadnose, lifting his bearded chin to point down the causeway in the direction of the enemy camp.

“No centaurs in front, this time,” said Rawknuckle regretfully. “I guess we’ll have to save the pikes for later.” He was disappointed. The last time this position had been attacked, the Crusaders had come at them with a rushing mob of centaurs. The giants had blocked the causeway with a bristling array of long-hafted spears, and dozens of centaurs had spilled blood and guts when they collided with the immobile line. The attack had been brutally shattered, without a giant suffering a serious wound, so in practicality Rawknuckle knew that the enemy tactic was unlikely to be repeated. Instead, it would be cast upon the growing pile of ideas that had been discarded by one side as the other found an effective countermeasure.

This time, the front rank of the attackers was a line of giants. Each bore a large wooden shield, and a club, hammer, or axe. By advancing in shoulder-to-shoulder formation with shields held high, they left little target for the elven archers who were forming to back up the giants.

“Where do you want us?” asked Deltan Columbine. The famed archer and poet stood ready with two hundred of his deadly bowmen. In past engagements they had formed on the city side of the little islet, shooting over Rawknuckle’s company to shower the attackers forced to concentrate on the causeway.

“I don’t like the look of that,” Rawknuckle declared, indicating the massive raft. “Why don’t you give us some room to fall back-say a few hundred yards? We could use your covering fire if that big thing floats in on our flank. And it’s just possible we’ll have to get out of here in a hurry.”

“You got it, Chief,” Deltan agreed. He crossed to his men and started them filing onto the causeway toward the city, while the giant turned around and watched nervously as the raft, and the rank of Crusaders on the causeway, moved steadily closer.

N atac and Karkald stood atop one of the towers flanking the end of the causeway. From here they could get only a vague sense of the true vastness of the raft.

“They must have taken the breakwater out of the harbor,” the warrior observed. “Just pushed the damned thing right into the lake!”

“Are we ready for a two-pronged attack?” Karkald asked, looking along the miles of exposed shoreline on the city’s fringe.

Natac frowned. There were elven companies placed throughout the city, and a small, mobile force of Gallupper’s centaurs and the few dozen elven riders who had mastered the art of horsemanship. But these forces were spread thin, and the only sizable reserves he had were the huge regiments of goblins and gnomes. These were deployed to either side of the base of the causeway, with the goblins on the Mercury Terrace and the gnomes on the other side of the road. If the raft could not be stopped, those untested troops would have to bear the brunt of the first attack.

“The caravels are ready,” the general observed, gestured to the ships that sat, sails limp, in the protected anchorage beside the terrace. “Best send them out, now.”

The signaler, a young elfwoman who had trained herself to anticipate her commander’s orders, quickly pulled out a blue banner scored with lines of white to represent billowing sails. With a crisp command of magic she sent the standard fluttering aloft, where it attached itself to the top of the flagstaff and streamed outward.

The reaction in the harbor below was instantaneous. Immediately the druids in the stern of each caravel started their casting, and wind puffed into the limp sails. Slowly, but with steadily increasing speed, the little ships scuttled past the breakwater and turned onto the lake. They made a brave display as they deployed into line abreast, steel batteries gleaming from the prows of no less than half of the dozen ships.

“But I still don’t like the size of that thing,” Natac confided, as the racing ships, even spreading into a wide fan, did not make as wide a formation as the flat prow of the great raft.

“And trouble on the road, too,” remarked Karkald.

The enemy phalanx of giants attacking down the causeway had almost advanced to Rawknuckle’s islet, and that massive raft-apparently propelled by hundreds of polers in the stern-had nearly reached as far into the lake. The metal and wooden walls protecting the floating platform were clearly visible, while the fore and both flanking faces bristled with weapons.

“They’re going to get around behind Rawknuckle,” Natac said. He shouted to one of his signalmen. “Run up the green flag-I want the giants to withdraw!”

The banner swiftly soared up the long shaft, supplanting the sailing orders to the caravels, streaming into the gentle breeze. But when he looked down the causeway, Natac wondered if they weren’t already too late.

From the main battle tower he could see the whole causeway of the Metal Highway, as well as the great stretches of lake to either side of the smooth, wide road. Rawknuckle Barefist’s company of giants were forming an orderly line on their islet in the middle of the causeway.

A cloud of dust billowed into the air, marking a swath along the Avenue of Wood.

“Here comes that centaur again,” Karkald noted with a frown. “Maybe we’d be better off just to let him charge and be done with it.”

Natac shook his head, though he shared his comrade’s frustration. Gallupper came into view as he and his company cantered across a wide market. The young centaur led a band of perhaps fifty hoofed, thundering chargers. Half the number were centaurs, disowned youngsters of the Blacktail, Craterhoof, and other clans, while the rest were elves mounted on horseback. Natac had to admire the speed of the racing advance, even as he recognized its futility in the tangled streets and buildings of the city. “Sometime we’ll find a use for them… until then, we’ll just have to keep talking to him.”

“Can we charge yet?” hailed the young centaur, shading his eyes with his hand as he looked up from the base of the tower.

“Not yet! Just wait there a minute,” barked Karkald. He turned to Natac. “I’ve been working on another invention, a little device I’m about ready to try-I’d like to give it to the young fella. It’s something that could use a speedy wielder.”

“Give it a try,” Natac said, immediately curious. Still, Karkald, as always, tended toward secrecy while his inventions were being developed-he very much relished revealing them with a flourish. So the warrior turned his attention to the enemy’s progress while the dwarf went down and spoke with the centaurs for some time.

R awknuckle roared a challenge, allowing the by-now familiar joy of battle to suffuse his body and inflame his temper. He and his giants straddled the road, retreating slowly against the press of their kinfolk who had been corrupted by the Crusader knight. With a flexing of corded sinew, he brought his axe through a vicious overhand swing, cleanly splitting the wooden shield of the nearest attacker. The deadly blade continued unabated, cleaving the enemy giant from chin to belly. As the dying Crusader tumbled into the steaming heap of his own guts, Rawknuckle was already striking a different target, wielding the axe in great back and forth swipes that felled another attacker and halted the rest in a respectful arc around the huge chieftain.

Tremendous noise surrounded him, the cries of grievously wounded giants, the crushing blows of steel and stone against wood and metal-and, sometimes, flesh and bone. Giants pressed back and forth, limbs tangling, brutal blows landing against both sides. A heavy body fell against Rawknuckle, and as he pushed it away he recognized Broadnose. His companion grasped at his shoulder, mouth working soundlessly, until a gush of blood gurgled forth, smearing the chieftain’s side as the dying giant sprawled onto the road.

His sturdy legs planted like tree trunks, Rawknuckle sliced at the attackers with renewed fury, grimly exacting vengeance for his slain friend. The steel axe carved into a thick neck, nearly decapitating one attacker, then swept back to take the arm off another. But even in the press of his deadly blows he was forced back, sensing the weight of the massive column of attackers as an inexorable tide. Comrades to either side fell or retreated, and Rawknuckle was forced to go along-else he would have quickly been surrounded and cut down.

Even so, he stepped back slowly, begrudging each bloody, precious pace. Gore spilled from his axe, and many a bold Crusader quailed from the slash of his deadly weapon. Others of the attackers, those in the rear ranks, howled and cursed as arrows showered onto them. Shields were raised, and many of the steel-tipped shafts thunked harmlessly into the wooden barriers. But more fell through the gaps to strike deep into shoulders, thighs, necks, and chests.

The shower of arrows grew thicker, and now many of the missiles were falling among Rawknuckle’s own company. He trusted the aim of Deltan’s elves, but with a quick look to the side he saw that the great raft was creeping slowly past his position. Another volley of arrows darkened the sky, scattering indiscriminately among both the attackers and the defenders, as Crusader archers sprayed the causeway with their dangerous missiles.

The big warrior cursed as he plucked a missile from his hamstring, then snorted in disgust as another pricked his cheek, nearly taking his eye. Beside him Forestcap, a rugged specimen who had joined the company at its inception twenty-five years before, howled in rage as a volley of deadly barbs rendered his arms and shoulders into an approximation of a porcupine. Rawknuckle offered his old comrade a brawny arm and aided him limping backward, crossing the islet as the Crusaders rushed forward.

“The green flag is up-Natac is calling us back!” shouted a giant. The chieftain took the time to glance toward the city, ensuring that his comrade’s eyes were not being deceived, and he, too, saw the signal to retreat.

Bellowing for the rest of his giants to follow, seeing that Deltan’s company was already hastening toward Circle at Center, Rawknuckle Barefist led his bloodied company in a hasty withdrawal along the causeway.

D arann went to Belynda’s chambers and was surprised to find that the outer door was closed and locked. Still, the dwarfwoman knocked without hesitation. She was startled when, without perceptible sound, the portal glided open to reveal an empty antechamber.

“Come in, Darann.” Belynda’s voice flowed from the main room, and the dwarf followed the sound down the short hallway. She found the sage-ambassador and another elf she recognized by her silver robe as a sage-enchantress. There was a third chair, currently empty, beside them.

“This is Quilene,” Belynda said. “She is the greatest of our enchantresses.”

“And you’ll help us?” Darann asked, taking the elfwoman’s hand.

“I will,” Quilene replied.

“We were expecting you,” said Belynda, gesturing to the extra chair.

“But how did you know I was coming tonight?” asked Darann as she joined them.

“Because we share your purpose… and we all sense that time is growing short,” the sage-ambassador said, looking directly into the dwarfwoman’s eyes. Darann felt as though she were laid naked, bared even beyond her skin. She settled into her seat with a sense of warmth and belonging, a lightening of the lowering cloud that had been hanging over her.

“So tell me,” she began, relieved enough to speak bluntly. “How are we going to save Circle at Center?”

“The battles that rage with such endless repetition are fruitless,” Quilene began. “At best they are short-term exercises in courage that, perhaps, will win us a little more time. At worst, they are a waste of lives-the lives of bold defenders, and the lives of misguided attackers who, all unwitting, have become the tools of evil. And no matter how many of those attackers are killed, they are only nettlesome pinpricks, tiny blows against the body of a beast that must be killed by a strike to that brain.”

“And that brain is in two parts-Sir Christopher, and Zystyl,” Darann said grimly.

“Two parts linked by a single soul. I don’t know if either of you realize it,” Quilene said, “but the real key to the enemy’s destruction lies in the Stone of Command.”