“You get started,” Borand said. “Auri and I will help hold them up.”
“No!” the dwarfmaid insisted. “You have to come, too!”
“We’ll be right behind,” her brother assured her. He turned to the big goblin. “Take her down there-now!”
Without hesitation the battle-scarred Bull-Hair dove through the hatch. Konnor and Darann started after, down the ladder and into the now-familiar dankness of the drainage sewer.
Her last sight was of Hiyram and her brothers as they gathered a dozen stalwart goblins and headed back down the street, determined to hold up the pursuing Seers.
“Stop them!” shrieked Nayfal, as his restive ferr’ell pranced beneath him. Of course, mounted as he was, he was in the best position to lead the pursuit of the fleeing goblins, but he was too reasonable to do that. Let the foot soldiers risk their lives. His role was here, in the saddle, and in command!
Two companies of dwarves charged forward, pitching in to the goblins who were battling with such unusual ferocity. Nayfal saw several of his men fall back, wounded and bleeding, but was pleased that others quickly stepped in. Axes and swords rose and fell, and he could only imagine-happily-the carnage that was being wrought.
But the number of goblins was shrinking faster than he could explain by death and wounding, and as the dwarves pushed forward, he got a glimpse from his saddle that confirmed his worst fears.
“They’re getting away!” he cried. “Stop them!”
There could be no stopping the escape, however, not when the rear guard fought with such ferocity. It was only when the last of the refugees had vanished that the attackers overwhelmed the goblins, taking several prisoners.
It was then that Nayfal got his next surprise, one that brought a grim smile to his thin lips. For there, among the prisoners, were the two brothers of clan Houseguard. Somehow, fate had delivered them right into his hands.
“C OME on-keep moving!” shouted Bull-Hair, the urgency of his voice amplified by the pitch darkness of the tunnel and the distant sounds of battle fading behind them.
Darann had held up, wanting to wait for her brothers, but Konnor took her arm and spoke to her softly, persuasively. “They’ll meet us at the Goat Hair Inn if they can. Borand knows where it is; we’ve been there together, in happier times. But what they’re doing, staying back there and fighting, that’s for you. Don’t waste it by staying behind.”
“Dammit, you’re right,” she snapped, before turning and following the slapping footsteps of their goblin guide. Surely her brothers would find a way out-they had to! She wouldn’t let herself believe that they could get snared in Nayfal’s sweep.
They seemed to go for a long time, covering a greater distance than in their first subterranean trek, when they had been seeking Hiyram. Darann had no trouble believing that they had moved beyond the ghetto walls, but she found it impossible to get any sense of bearings, to have any idea where they were going. She simply followed along behind Bull-Hair, and when the sounds of his steps abruptly stopped, she halted, too.
“Here, go up,” their guide said suddenly. “This quiet place; nobody see, if you careful. Be careful.”
“We will-thank you,” Darann said, squeezing the loyal guide on his shoulder. “You be careful, too.”
She felt for the rungs, found that Konnor had aleady started up the metal ladder. She came along behind, silently climbing. A minute later the two dwarves emerged through a sewer drain on a quiet side street, several blocks away from the ghetto wall. Trying not to think about her brothers, Darann couldn’t suppress a single, grieving sob as she looked down the hole they had emerged from. Were Borand and Aurand back there someplace? Or had, as she feared, they been snared by the attacking guards? Konnor put an arm around her shoulders, and she drew a breath, banishing her fears, angrily rubbing a hand across her moist eyes.
“The Goat Hair Inn is not far away,” Konnor said, taking his bearings from the position of the city’s great towers rising into view around them. “We can walk there in ten minutes. Let’s hope Greta Weaver is at home.”
“And that she’s willing to tell us the truth,” Darann agreed, drawing some comfort from her companion’s calm awareness. He offered her his arm, and she took it, reasoning that their chances of being questioned by guards was lessened if they could be mistaken for a normal couple.
They found a main street and, though they wanted to run, walked along like a couple out for a stroll. True to his word, Konnor soon led her up to the door of a run-down inn. They heard sounds of raucous laughter within, while the not unappealing scent of coal smoke and grilled meat wafted into the street from the door. With an air of bravado that Darann hoped was real, Konnor swaggered forward, pushed open the entrance, and led her inside.
16
Broken Circles
Upon the foundation of worlds,
The First Circle stands,
Ultimate bedrock;
When Underworld trembles,
All skies can fall
From the Tapestry of the Worldweaver, Tales of a Time Before
The Worldfall tumbled from the zenith of all circles, carrying the stuff of creation into the mountainous Nullreach of Nayve. For decades it had pounded this ground, pulverizing the substance of the Fourth Circle in this region into a wasteland of chaos. Nothing could live there, nothing could so much as approach this shimmering vista of violence. The air churned with violent storms, and the ground was shattered and trembling, prone to quakes that dropped away great sections of terrain, sucking it right into the vortex of the great storm.
Yet for all that destruction, the storm had remained in this one location since its creation. The scope of the plunging debris, instead of expanding outward, remained localized, limited to that section of terrain that, in fact, no longer existed as anything resembling solid ground. Those bordering plains and hills that, one year, vanished into the chaotic tangle would re-form in another season; hill might be plain and flat might roll into lofty elevation, but the terrain would inevitably begin to re-form. It survived this perilous existence for an unknown time, before once again vanishing into the maw of destruction.
Across the world of Nayve, a far less violent phenomenon had been observed in the five decades since the discovery of the Worldfall. There, in an idyllic region of farmland and lakes, a land of gnomes and elves called Winecker, the ground had been subject to a series of upheavals. Hills had risen where gentle pastures once sprawled, and periodically, storms of wind would sweep the land, winds that swept away from Nayve, forming a vortex of upward-rising air. The scholarly druid Socrates had determined this to be a reaction to the Worldfall, an upward counter to that powerful and relentless downward force.
Despite the Worldfall’s lethal power, many creatures had survived the plunge down the cataract of chaos, including the thousands of harpies who had swarmed into Nayve five decades ago and the massive dragon who had been sucked into the storm called the Hillswallower. That maelstrom had similarly wrought great destruction in the Sixth Circle as well, the overworld that was called Arcati by those who dwelled there. A whole province in the cloud world had vanished into the Hillswallower, leaving a region of chaos and destruction where once cumulous elevations had risen gently into the oversky.
So extensive was the storm, so vast its plunge, that it actually carried the stuff of the cosmos downward past the sun-for that orb was below Arcati and above Nayve. Rising and falling on a cycle of twenty-four hours, the sun at its loftiest height brought daylight to the Sixth Circle as the Fourth was plunged into night. Then it would descend, and the Lighten Hour would come to Nayve as the overworld was cloaked in cooling darkness.
The sun was oriented over the Center of Everything, the temple of the Goddess Worldweaver and her silver loom, the thousand-foot-tall spire of silver rising from her sacred precincts. Three directions marked the points from the Center: the direction of wood; the direction of metal; and the direction that was neither metal nor wood, sometimes called the direc
tion of null. Like the center of a web, the temple stood tall. Here the goddess performed her labors, while the druids studied the Tapestry, practiced their magic, and recorded their stories.
Nayve, the Fourth Circle, was surrounded by the Worldsea, beyond which lay the Second, Third, and Fifth Circles. The Fifth, in the direction of null, was the land of death and the end of all worlds. The First was below, the great city of Axial aligned directly underneath Circle at Center. Together with the Sixth, above, these worlds formed the core of the cosmos, the focus of all the worlds where magic dwelled.
Only the Seventh Circle, the world called Earth, lay beyond the pale of the first six worlds. There were those druids who maintained that Earth, the Seventh Circle, is an imagined place, a dream woven by the goddess on her Tapestry for the edification of her druids. More rational minds discounted this argument, and indeed, since Earth was the birthplace of all humans who live upon Nayve, druids and warriors alike, there was a significant population on Nayve with very vivid memories of their world of origin.
The druids were summoned here by the blessing of the goddess, and each warrior was brought by the explicit act of a druid: the carnal Spell of Summoning, which brings a warrior from the place of his dying to the place of his eternal life. But all of them recalled past lives, lands, and peoples of Earth.
These spells were the final proof: the Seventh Circle was a real place, source of actual creatures, the humans who, increasingly, came to populate Nayve. Thanks to the water discovered by the druid Juliay, the Spell of Summoning could be cast without costing the druid her youth and her future. As a consequence, more and more members of the order had selected warriors from the battlefields of Earth, bringing each to Nayve at the moment of his death.
Still, there were not enough of them, as the ghost warriors teemed to the far horizons and beyond.
Natac saw that the three great columns were marching onto the plains, with the Ringhills, some fifty miles away, as their goal. He sat astride the great dragon as Regillix Avatar flew three miles above the world’s surface. From here they could see the valley of the Swansleep River, the vast plain, and the rugged horizon of the hills rising toward the Center.
Tamarwind’s elves formed the rear guard as the army pulled away from the river, though the ghost warriors were not aggressive in their crossing of the Swansleep. The quake had proved very disruptive to them, even as it gave the means for the Delvers to cross Riven Deep. It was that dwarven crossing that had made Natac’s position at the river untenable; if they had stayed in place, Zystyl’s force would have attacked them from behind, and there would have been no survival. Instead, Natac had ordered the general withdrawal and now simply hoped to get his army away to fight on another day.
While the Argentian elves watched for pursuit, the elves of Barantha and the forest trolls formed two vast formations, leaving behind the valley of the Swansleep as they started across the dry plains. From the back of the mighty dragon, Natac could see the plumes of dust raised by these marchers and knew that they would reach the hills within a few days. Each had a large contingent of centaurs towing their batteries, the silver metallic carriages mingled into the long files of warriors. It was encouraging to see that the troops, despite the orders to withdraw, were moving in good order and maintaining an impressive speed.
To the left Natac saw another column of dust, and they flew low to see the Hyaccan elves, the only mounted troops of his army. Beyond were the massive rock piles, where the slabs that had carried the Delvers across Riven Deep had come to rest. The Tlaxcalan had seen many examples of powerful magic since he had come to Nayve, but never had he witnessed anything comparable to this: the great uprooting of the very landscape, the use of that ground to carry troops onto an otherwise inaccessible battlefield. He didn’t want to think about it too much, for when he did, it seemed impossible to comprehend any means whereby they could win this war, not against an enemy that could marshal such unspeakable power.
Yet still, they would try. Below him the riders of Janitha Khandaughter were already making the dwarves pay for their advance. The elves on their nimble ponies skirmished with the Delvers, riding close, showering the dwarves with arrows, then galloping away before the iron golems could come up. Like the elf and trollish infantry, the elven riders were fighting cautiously, giving ground instead of lives. Natac was confident they would reach the Ringhills with their numbers intact.
Swinging through a lofty circle, the dragon winged back across the plains. The ghost warriors were a teeming blot on the right, like a brown stain spreading across the ground. They had finally crossed the Swansleep, but they advanced on the plains as a great, broad front, not any formation of marching columns. Their numbers seemed infinite, extending far back to the river and beyond.
Far past that place, to the metalward of the enemy, there was one more group of warriors, out of sight even from this lofty altitude. Faerie messengers had brought word from Roland Boatwright, informing Natac that the druids and warriors whose boats had survived the battle with the armada had debarked onto shore and were marching toward the Ringhills. They would need to take an indirect route, crossing the Snakesea instead of the plains, since the enemy army was between them and their destination. That sea crossing was not difficult, not when powerful druids were involved, and Natac welcomed the thought of further help. Roland’s force was not numerous but included many druids and the vast majority of the earth warriors that had been summoned to Nayve over the past fifty years. They would reach the Ringhills, and they would join his army.
But what would happen then?
Regillix Avatar seemed to be pondering the same question. He turned his great head, banking sideways to regard the general who was his passenger. “How do you intend to hold them at the hills?” he asked.
“We will need to dig a trench, erect an earthen wall,” replied Natac, who had given the matter considerable thought. “As deep and as high as we can make them. Then we force them to a halt, and when they try to go around us, we simply dig a new ditch and raise a new wall.”
“A wall around the Center, perhaps,” said the dragon thoughtfully. “A great undertaking, to be sure.”
“It’s the only choice we have,” Natac said, once more dejected about the prospects of the next battle. “But the pieces are set in motion now. We have to wait until Tamarwind and Awfulbark reach the hills with their troops. For now, can you return us to the city?”
“Of course.”
The dragon turned his bearing toward the Center of Everything, winging high over the plains. Regillix was exceptionally untalkative during the long flight back to Circle at Center, and this suited his passenger as well. Having seen to the deployment of his army, Natac’s mind was focused on a single question. He only hoped he could find the answer when they got back to the temple of the Worldweaver.
The spire of the loom came into sight before them as the dragon glided over the Ringhills. The sun ascended toward Darken as they crossed the great lake. Knowing his rider’s urgency, the wyrm flew low over the city, toward the center itself. People came into the streets as they passed, some of them cheering and waving, the vast majority, however, looking up in mute, prayerful hope. Natac barely noticed, so intense was the question burning in his mind.
Before full darkness, Regillix Avatar set down within the ring created by the Grove, the Senate, and the College, the sacred ground at the Center of Everything. Natac slid down the scaled flank, his own feet landing on the ground a split second after the dragon’s. Druids were already coming toward them, but the general didn’t want to wait around for greetings or other formalities.
“Thanks, old friend. Rest here as you need,” Natac said. “I must go into the temple.”
“Of course,” said the dragon. “I grow hungry, but I know the druids will feed me well. Indeed, here come several with a small herd of beeves. A splendid appetizer, I can tell! Now go, learn what you must.”
Immediately Natac was running toward the marble temple at the b
ase of the loom. He took note of the empty plazas, the gardens where the flowers bloomed in silent luster. Though Darken was an hour away, there were only a few druids present, a pair of stout, sturdy tillers working in a field, and a few carpenters hammering away in the boatyard.
“Where’s Miradel?” he cried, bursting through the temple doors. There were a dozen acolytes within, spinning wool for the Loom of the Worldweaver. Several of them gasped, and one, an elder woman of Oriental origin, shook her head. “We know nothing of this matter-only the goddess sees all.”
Natac looked at the golden doors leading to the inner sanctum. He had never passed through that portal, though he had come to this room with Miradel on numerous occasions, even going as far as the Rockshaft, the now-sealed chute that had once been open all the way down to the First Circle.
Passing the sealed iron portal of the shaft, he hesitated only for a moment, then strode forward, ignoring the entreaties of the druid wool spinners. “No-it is forbidden! You must not!”
He pushed the doors, which opened almost effortlessly despite their obviously massive weight. Stepping through, he swayed to a momentary sense of disorientation: it seemed that the room he entered was far larger than the exterior walls would allow. The opposite wall of the circular chamber was far away, and the whole periphery was a collage of brilliantly colored fabric. He could discern no details in those colors, but he knew at once that this was the Tapestry, the record of all histories on the Seven Circles, stories as woven by the goddess herself into the fabric of time.
The loom was a massive machine, as large as a cottage. Levers and wheels whirred, stroked, and turned. Six huge spools were mounted at one end, feeding strands of thread into the tablelike slab of the machine. Plates moved back and forth, and these strands merged and mingled until the finished Tapestry, a fabric no more than six feet across, emerged from the end of the loom opposite the spools. The Tapestry flowed toward the wall, where it formed the terminus of the great coil of material, ever growing longer.
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