Circle at center

18
Fulcrum

“Where’s Darann?” Karkald pushed his way through the rank of gnomes, shouting his question, roughly shoving several of the rotund warriors aside. Ignoring their howls of protest, he made his way to Fionn, grabbing the Irishman by his arm and pulling him roughly around. “Have you seen Darann?”

“Your wife?” Fionn scowled, and gestured to the raft gliding inexorably closer, the armored prow separated from the shore by a steadily narrowing gap of water. “Shouldn’t you be thinkin’ about them, right now?”

Karkald turned around in anguish, then looked down at the note in his hand.

I’m sorry-if I fail, you will not see me again. But if I succeed, our lives have hope of a new, bright future.

He had found the paper in their apartment, when he had gone there earlier in the day. She could not have been expecting him, would have left the message thinking that he wouldn’t discover it at least until after the imminent battle.

Now she was gone, but where? And she spoke of success or failure, but he didn’t even know what task she had undertaken. How could she influence the future, change the course of history? She was only one person-his wife, of course, but she was not even a warrior.

His eyes turned to the lake, which he could clearly see across the plaza. The raft was surging closer-in minutes the fight would reach the very shores of the city. He imagined the teeming ranks of Unmirrored and Crusaders, their twin captains of evil. Karkald had seen the Knight Templar in battle, knew his fearsome powers of command. Furthermore, he vividly remembered Zystyl, with terrifying memories of the two instances where he had come so close to capturing Darann.

And with that memory he understood what his wife was trying to do. By the Goddess, she had suggested the thing to him a few days before! Instead of listening, he had rebuked her, forbidden her to discuss it, only to have her ignore him.

Pretty much as he had ignored her, he realized. He stared at the raft, knew that Zystyl was there, that somehow Darann was going to try to reach him, attack him. Of course she would fail-the villainous Delver was too well protected, both by his allies and by the power of his own arcane senses. Her courage awed him, even as the futility and waste of her actions infuriated him.

Again he was aware of movement around him. Trumpets blared and signals dipped. Several elven companies filed out of side streets and courtyards, forming lines of spears across the routes from the waterfront. A small unit of giants, many of them bandaged and limping, took up arms at the very fringe of the Mercury Terrace, which looked to be in the center of the raft’s landing frontage. Great gaps in the line yawned to the right and left of the giants, extending along the shore toward the causeway, and opening across much of the terrace.

Around Karkald the gnomes whispered nervously, pulling together into a knot of bristling beards and wide-eyed stares. “We’ll be ready for ’em, you bet!” Nistel declared cheerfully, his voice cracking on the last word.

Then, even more amazing, the dwarf saw the command flag dip, knew immediately what Natac had ordered. Fionn and Nistel recognized the signal at the same time. The human uttered a whoop, while Blinker raised his voice to shout orders to his fellow warriors.

And the Gnome Regiment started forward.

N atac trotted across the Mercury Terrace, a hundred paces back from the lakeshore. He was making his way from unit to unit, checking readiness for the battle, knowing there was little time left. The raft surged closer with an almost animal eagerness, pushing ripples of water out of the way, forcing wavelets against the rocky shore. The front of the craft was a wooden wall high enough to conceal any Delvers behind it, as well as most of the Crusaders except for the giants. Some of those hulking warriors hurled boulders at the plaza, sending big stones clattering through the Nayvians who stood ready to meet the attack. But those companies bore the bombardment stoically, and even the skittish gnomes avoided panic when a rock tore through the tight ranks and scattered the diminutive warriors like tenpins. Druids tended those who were injured, while other gnomes hastened to fill the gap left in the line. A howling sound rose along the waterfront, and abruptly lake water surged against the raft, splashing and foaming, driven by a sudden and unnatural wind. Dozens of druids stood amid the defenders, and in unison they called upon their power to raise a small gale. The raft staggered to a halt as larger and larger waves churned against the blunt prow, rising in cascades of spray to wash over the troops huddled behind the walls.

At the same time black clouds roiled overhead, gathering in the center of the defensive position. Natac could see Cillia, mistress of druids, handmaiden to the Goddess Worldweaver herself, holding a wooden staff over her head and chanting sounds of deep magic. The dark mass of cloud churned and billowed upon her command, and suddenly tongues of orange fire blasted from the tenebrous belly of the stratus, gouging and crackling along the face of the raft.

Natac halted in his tracks, watching awestruck as lightning bolts exploded, one after the other, against the face of the raft. Each time the druid gestured with her staff another blast erupted from the cloud, smashing against the wall and tearing away great chunks of the wooden barrier, forcing the huge craft, by inches, away from the shore. Bolts of lethal energy sizzled into the packed troops, burning and searing, killing in great swaths. But still the raft pushed, rising and surging with that almost sentient eagerness to reach land. For a long interval the two forces battled, with countless attackers charred and blasted by lightning, great pieces of the raft exploding away or burning furiously. The warrior allowed himself to hope that magic alone might hold the enemy at bay.

But no human could sustain such an outpouring of strength, and finally Cillia lowered her arms, dropped the staff from numb fingers. She swayed weakly and was caught by a nearby giant before she fell to the ground.

And in the absence of the lightning strikes, the raft surged forward with renewed speed. Despite the gusting winds, the craft floated into the shallows, the blunt prow crushing through the marshy fringe of shore, shuddering slightly as the massive transport was firmly grounded. Volleys of arrows, launched by unseen archers in the center of the raft, showered the defenders. The wooden wall at the front of the attackers’ vessel-except where it had been blasted away by lightning-suddenly toppled forward, dropping into the shallow water to form a ramp leading from the deck of the raft to the shoreline of Circle at Center. Immediately, roars and shouts emerged from thousands of throats, and the Crusaders and Delvers rushed into the attack.

The enemy giants were the first to charge ashore, followed immediately by swarms of Crusader elves, and then the masses of goblins, centaurs, and Unmirrored Dwarves who spilled into the attack. Howling madly, smashing weapons against their shields to increase the level of the din, the whole army surged toward the Nayvian defense. Giants strode through the shallows, knocking aside brave elves who tried to stand at the water’s edge.

“Bring your left up!” Natac shouted to Hiyram, who tried to yelp orders to thousands of goblins organized into three long ranks.

On the other end of the line Owen roared his commands. Hundreds of goblin voices yodeled agreement, though an equal number of the flop-eared warriors looked askance at each other, and at the swarm of attackers.

“Stand here!” cried Natac, waving his sword and turning his back to the approaching enemy. He tried to meet the goblins’ eyes, to force them to acknowledge his presence and his authority. He was somewhat surprised to see the big regiment stabilize, fists clutching weapons, faces marked now by determined snarls.

The Nayvian warriors formed a line at the shore, but there were too few of them to stem the tide. Natac rushed to help, charging into a gap and standing alone with his steel sword flashing back and forth in the direction of suddenly hesitant giants. One of the huge Crusaders swung a big club, but the human ducked under the blow and then stabbed upward, piercing his enemy’s guts with the razor of steel. But moments later he saw that the giants had ruptured the defensive line in several places. Centaurs raced through the gaps, charging toward the companies of brave elves who tried to resist.

A quick glance showed that the Gnome Regiment was in place, a rank of the short warriors forming a solid wall of shields, bristling with big knives. As the attackers rushed forward the gnomes stood firm, meeting the weight of the heavier enemy troops with sturdy stances and a rank packed so tightly it proved to be all but immobile. As the elves and goblins reeled back, a few giants tried to create a breach, and Natac watched in astonishment as each of the brawny warriors toppled like felled trees, hulking bodies vanishing into the melee.

A look in the other direction, however, showed him that more and more of the goblins were backing away. One turned on his heel, big ears flapping as he started to sprint away.

“You there-Ratlock!”

Owen’s voice cut through the fight and froze the cowardly warrior in his tracks. “Stay there-be a man, not a worm!” demanded the Viking. He strode along the rank, glaring at the scruffy, pot-bellied troops. One after another the quailing goblins started to swell, to swagger, and make ready for battle.

“All goblins-dress your lines!” Again the Viking shouted, striding back and forth before the line, his back to the enemy. The warriors hastened to obey, apparently more frightened of their captain than of the teeming enemy.

And moments later, when the rush of Crusaders spilled past the gnomes and smashed up against the goblin wall, that regiment, too, stood firm.

The Tlaxcalan raised his sword and led a contingent of elves forward. He slashed to the right, cutting a giant’s hamstring, then plunged forward to disembowel a rearing centaur. Beside him Tamarwind Trak thrust with his own steel, dropping a goblin by piercing his heart. Everywhere fighters cut and slashed, banged, bled, and died, and across the whole breadth of the plaza the Nayvian defenders held firm and the attackers milled about in a packed mass of confusion.

More lightning crackled, a bolt of brightness that slashed across the front. Blinking his eyes against the residual glare, Natac saw that Cillia had again unleashed her elemental magic, this time scoring a bloody swath through no less than a hundred Crusaders. But as quickly as she cast the spell, she fell back and was again carried off by her assisting giant. Natac could only imagine the debilitating effect of this explosive enchantment, knew that they would have to win the battle with courage, sinew, and blood.

A band of fanatical enemy elves hurled themselves at the juncture between the gnome and goblin regiments. Owen stepped in to hold the breach, his great war hammer smashing back and forth, driving back the Crusaders in a tangle of broken limbs and bruised flesh. Natac cheered the human warrior, awed at the display of skill-until a spear snaked out from the elves to bury itself in the Viking’s brawny chest.

By the time Natac reached the scene, Owen lay in a pool of bloody gore and Fionn stood over his body, sobbing like a baby. Around the Irishman lay a scattering of Crusader corpses-obviously Fionn had already avenged his friend.

Gasping for breath, the Tlaxcalan looked for another enemy, an elf or a giant, any of Sir Christopher’s lackeys upon whom to exact his own vengeance.

But gradually he noticed that there was a strange respite to the battle. The Crusaders were not pressing the attack along the line, instead drawing back to regroup, tighten their ranks, regard the defenders from a short distance away.

And they were waiting.

You must break through in the center-be the tip of the blade, and slice into our enemy’s flesh!

Zystyl’s groping thoughts found Kerriastyn, entered her mind in the midst of the fray, and now he sent her his command.

Master, I shall.

His own senses absorbed the violent urges of a thousand dwarves, felt the will of his lieutenant as she summoned the Delvers to her side. Zystyl remained safely in the rear, vicariously relishing the sensations of battle. The Blind Ones formed a tight wedge, as the companies of their allies fell away to either side. The enemy was a hot image of blood and the promise of glory, a sensation etched in the awareness of every one of the Unmirrored.

In moments a phalanx of steel had formed around Kerriastyn, and Zystyl felt its weight, its power in his own mind. Tightly packed, with shields and weapons ready, they waited for the command.

Go. Kill. Win.

He felt the rush of anticipation as Kerriastyn commenced the advance, sensing that she drove into the joint between the goblins and gnomes. Beyond, straight as an arrow piercing directly into the city’s guts, the Avenue of Wood offered easy access to the Center of Everything.

F or a moment, Natac thought that the lull indicated a real halt to the enemy onslaught. He momentarily considered ordering a sudden counterattack, but quickly saw that his troops were too fatigued, too shocked and frightened and plainly exhausted, to make more than a token effort. Better to let them breathe, drink water, recover spirit and morale while they pondered the knowledge that they had checked the enemy’s most vigorous attack ever.

Yet even before this fact could sink in, Natac saw the Delvers gathering in the center of the enemy rank. Great dark files of armored dwarves moved through the night, gathering in a mass directly before him. They formed with precision and discipline so that within a few minutes a huge rank of sturdy fighters faced the center of the Nayvian line. As if in response to some unspoken command, they started forward, black breastplates and blank face masks arrayed in a wall of steel. Each Delver carried two knives, and these blades were extended forward, whirling back and forth in rhythmic cycles. Natac was forced to admire the way that the dwarves in the middle advanced, outer ranks joining in until the formation marched like a great spearhead, a triangle with the tip pointed directly between the gnomes and goblins.

Where Natac stood. He took comfort from knowing that Fionn stood at his left and Tamarwind at his right. Nistel and Hiyram shouted encouragement to their troops, and Natac was further heartened as those great formations stood firm in the face of the deliberate, measured attack.

Some innate sense of discipline guided the blind fighters toward the defenders, and rank after rank of savage, armored dwarves rushed forward. Their weapons whirled like scythes, and they came at the Nayvians like a deadly and purposeful killing machine.

Natac knocked away the blades of a pair of eyeless dwarves, slicing through their metal shirts with the point of his own deadly sword. Daggers slashed toward him and he knocked them away, cutting into hands and arms, hacking and stabbing with a quickness that he’d never guessed he possessed. One after another of the Unmirrored fell, bodies lying in a heap around his feet. He heard gnomes and goblins shrieking, crying out in pain and fear-but then he was aware of others, led by Hiyram and Nistel, who raced to take the places of those who fled or fell.

But there were too few weapons, and too few warriors with the skill and courage to wield them. More and more tightly packed Delvers pushed ahead, driving their wedge inexorably deeper into the slowly widening gap.

Fionn and another group of elves attacked from the left, but there the blind dwarves formed an impenetrable front. Clashing weapons echoed from all sides, while cries of glee and terror mingled in a rising cacophony.

“Flee, or die here!”

“We’re doomed!”

The shouts of panic rose from more and more of the horrified Nayvians. Goblins and gnomes began edging backward, and Natac sensed the line behind him wavering. His sword trickled blood onto the street, but he couldn’t take the time to wipe the weapon clean. Instead he lifted the blade and chopped again into the mass of attackers, feeling the keen steel slice through metal and flesh.

And then he saw something different. In the midst of the Delver phalanx was a being of grotesque aspect, a face of red, pulpy flesh framed by steel jaws, sharpened teeth, and a helmet that dropped down to conceal a forehead and eyeless brow. A swelling breastplate suggested that this thing was female, and the slender metal rod in her hand looked like a lethal weapon. Sparks trailed from that rod, and she lashed back and forth with a ritualistic frenzy-a frenzy Natac could see translate directly into the passion of the warriors immediately surrounding this arcane leader.

The Tlaxcalan charged, propelled by a single, desperate idea. He hacked to the right and left, grateful as Fionn and Tamarwind rushed beside him, guarding his flanks. The steel blade cut down a Delver immediately in front of the dwarven female, and then he lunged at her, sword thrusting for a killing stab.

But somehow sensing his attack, she parried with the metal rod. The two weapons met in a loud, sparking clash. Natac gasped as searing pain shot through his weapon hand, and he quickly darted back, ducking away from her savage swipe. She swung past his face, a gesture powerful and quick, but wild.

In that attack she left herself open, and Natac slashed again, driving the edge of his sword into the pulpy flesh of her flaring nostrils. The Delver shrieked and tumbled backward, and the human followed up with a lethal thrust, twisting the weapon in his hand until he saw the convincing proof of black blood gurgling upward, spreading across the horrible face, the dark armor, and the paving stones in a growing sheen.

Z ystyl reeled backward, gasping for breath, staggering to retain his balance on ground that seemed to tilt crazily beneath him. But it was not the ground that shifted-it was his own reality.

Kerriastyn was dead-he himself had felt the pain of the slicing blade, had choked on the blood that seemed to well in his throat, filling his lungs and darkening his senses. Finally he dropped to his knees, ignoring the concerned murmurs of the elves-cursed Seers!-who stood near his command post.

How could she have fallen? What fighters had the capability, the audacity, to break a Delver phalanx? Human, he knew, had sensed in Kerriastyn’s last thoughts, final sensations.

Even more surprising was the sense of loss twisting and growing within him. Kerriastyn had been merely a tool, a useful and attractive tool, but nothing more. She had served him well, but that was no more and no less than he deserved. The fact that she had given her life in that service was only appropriate, since it now seemed clear that she had been incapable of attaining immediate victory-the only other outcome Zystyl would have accepted.

Still, she had been precious to him in her own way, and now she was gone. The Delver arcane vowed, very solemnly, that she would be avenged.