Douglas Niles - Goddess Worldweaver

Rufus pressed on with his argument. “It has been fifty years since the loss at Arkan Pass, and we have discerned no major Delver move toward our city. Admittedly, in the aftermath of the battle, caution demanded that we pull back from our more far-flung outposts, even though we sacrificed much of our food supply.”

“And the Blind Ones are still out there, waiting-” Marshall Nayfal attempted to intercede, but Rufus trampled ahead as if he hadn’t heard.

“There are the great fungus flats of the Metalreach, food enough to feed the city for a year in a single harvest. We could send an expedition, well protected of course, to retrieve many barges full of those mushrooms. It is worth the chance, sire. Consider: perhaps the Delvers suffered a loss as great as ours at Arkan Pass! We need to venture into our world again, explore, reconnoiter…”

“Perhaps seek to open the routes to Nayve, again? Is that what you are getting at?” asked the king with a tolerant smile.

“Your Majesty!” declared Nayfal, his face growing pale. “Remember the disastrous attempts of four decades ago. Hundreds of brave miners buried, seeking a passage that no longer exists.”

Rufus snorted, contempt getting the best of his judgment. “Indeed, sire, we suffered great losses-because the shafts were poorly shored, and we faced the barrier of magic-the force that we were barely beginning to understand. A tragic mistake, but one that can be rectified, especially if the Worldlift can be completed. And why not seek a return to Nayve? The peoples of the Fourth Circle would be happy to trade food for gold, iron, flamestone-resources we have in abundance.”

“And you know where you would look for such a route?” the king asked, still smiling tolerantly. “In case the Worldlift does not prove to be the panacea?”

“I have ideas,” admitted the dwarf lord. “My sons, Borand and Aurand, have explored some routes on their ferr’ells. They have found a promising gap in the direction that is neither metal nor wood. With reinforcements, they might be able to-”

“We have no troops for such expeditions!” snapped Nayfal. “We cannot risk the warriors, the precious few ferr’ells in our corrals, on such a mad quest!”

Rufus bit his tongue and watched the king, who once again seemed very old, very tired. Lightbringer settled into his throne, and his head leaned forward, his beard bristling across his chest almost as if he was falling asleep. Finally, he shook his head. “No, my good Rufus, I cannot sanction such an attempt, not when we still don’t know the status of the Delver armies. They could strike at any time… any time at all…”

“But we can be prepared for an attack, sire. There are many ways! We could man the watch stations again… even enlist the goblins to scout for us.” Rufus heard Nayfal’s gasp but forged ahead with his arguments. He sensed he was making his points too frantically, but he couldn’t hold back. When would he get the king’s ear again?

“Remember, the goblins have fought on our side in a dozen campaigns! Why, we could even venture out and seek the Delver army, take the battle to them, strike by surprise…”

His voice trailed off as he noticed that the king was snoring. Rufus knew the audience was over. He was not surprised when Nayfal came over to him, the marshal solicitous, sympathetic, as he escorted Rufus through the door, toward the steam-powered lift beyond. “I understand your frustration, my lord. But we must be realistic. There are grave threats to the kingdom, and we dare not take the chance to weaken ourselves. Why, the goblins themselves present a real threat!”

“Bah! The goblins would be our allies again if we could but treat them with a modicum of dignity!”

“I know your feelings on this. It should not be a surprise to you that we are aware of your daughter’s activities on their behalf. I admire her generosity, even if there are those who feel that she is rather unwise to be such a sympathizer with those miserable wretches in the ghetto.”

“I am proud of my daughter and her work,” Houseguard said stiffly. “Would that there were more with her courage and her insight in our once-bright city. Perhaps there would be some questions asked-investigations, even?”

“What do you mean?” the royal adviser asked, his eyes narrowing.

“I mean regarding the death of Cubic Mandrill. There are stories abroad, you know?” Rufus regarded the other dwarf carefully, saw the flush creeping up the ruddy cheeks, the cold fury in his eyes. With visible effort, Nayfal drew a deep breath and made a display of shrugging unconcernedly.

“Admirable sentiment,” Nayfal said breezily. “Who knows-it may happen someday, though I suspect we already know the truth. Goblin treachery nearly claimed the life of our beloved king, and since then the goblins have met the fate that they deserved. Still, it does not hurt to ask. You are very influential in this city, perhaps more than you know.”

The two dwarves arrived at the lift, where the metal cage rattled to a stop and the door of metal bars clanked open. “But… are you sure you won’t reconsider your support of continued exploration of the Midrock? Can’t you see the danger?”

“I see the danger in cowardice,” Rufus Houseguard retorted. “In hiding behind our walls and shutting out the rest of our world, of all the worlds!”

“I am truly sorry you feel that way,” replied the king’s closest adviser. Rufus had the odd sensation that the marshal was, for once, speaking with true sincerity. He watched, puzzled, as Nayfal signaled the lift operator, the cage starting down.

And then the floor seemed to drop away. The dwarven lord slammed against the wall as the lift plummeted without any support, any brake on its shrieking, quarter-mile descent. Rufus clung to a railing, stunned by the blow, feeling the strangest sensation… as if he was floating, utterly weightless.

The crash as the cage hit bottom was a monstrous noise, tearing metal and shattering rock exploding into lethal splinters. In the middle of the tangled wreckage, Rufus Houseguard, esteemed lord of Axial, was far beyond any sensation of pain.

How much had he learned in the past forty years, since the soldier’s bayonet had sliced his guts and ended his brief and glorious life on the Seventh Circle? As the battle raged before him, Crazy Horse reflected on the question and knew that it was impossible to imagine the answer.

Beauty… he had learned so much about beauty. Certainly he had known for all of his first life the splendor of a sunrise above the Dunkapapa, the Black Hills. He had seen the wondrous grace of a fleet deer, the sleek musculature of a fast pony… and he had beheld the grace and tenderness of a splendid woman. But not until Cloudwalking Moon had revealed herself to him in the grotto of Nayve’s highlands, where stars drifted overhead and the scent of pine was sweet nectar in each breath, had he known the true depths of wonder that beauty could provoke. He had taken Moon at once, and again and again, and over the course of the night was spellbound beyond any previous measure.

And he had gained wisdom… he had conversed for hours, days, cycles with the druid Miradel, and his mind had grown broad with the knowledge of reality far surpassing anything the Sioux shamans had understood. The study of the Seven Circles, he had realized with no small amount of pleasure, even made mockeries of the truths accepted by the white men who had come to claim his lands, to drive his people from the hills and plains.