Douglas Niles - Goddess Worldweaver

He had also learned of courage. Crazy Horse, of course, had always been a courageous man, and he had battled mighty foes without ever a thought of running away. It was he who had led the Sioux and Cheyenne warriors who had smashed the cavalry and taken the life of the ambitious general Custer on the hills above the Little Big Horn. And when his people had been starving, and the white soldiers were everywhere, he had gone bravely to meet the soldiers at Fort Laramie, there to face the steel cage of a cell and at last the steel blade of the bayonet.

When he came to Nayve and learned the truth, his bravery at first compelled him to cry out, to beg for a return to the Seventh Circle, a chance at vengeance and honor. He had fantasized, for a time, with his new knowledge, wishing he could return to the plains and unite the bickering tribes, leading them in a great war. But then the warrior Natac had shown him a different kind of bravery. Crazy Horse had learned the fate of Tlaxcalans and Aztecs, of Iroquois and Cherokee, and had seen the inevitability of change.

He had even begun to understand the cold reality of such change as it was overtaking his world: it was not that one people was evil, the other good. It was, instead, that one side had far more people, as well as better weapons and better tactics of war, than the other. Most significantly, he had seen the effectiveness of troops who could be controlled by a commander, wielded as a weapon of one mind. His beloved Sioux were independent and impetuous warriors, each man doing as he sought fit, seeking individual glory over a coordinated objective. Because of that more than anything else, they were doomed, as were the Cheyenne and the Nez Perce and the Apaches and all the other tribes… doomed because the white men would follow orders, wielding their better weapons and better tactics in a pursuit of a common objective. And they had so many people, so many soldiers, that they would never be stopped.

Now, he looked down at the deck of his boat, and he felt a strong measure of hope: this time, he had the better weapon.

Dakota was a large sailboat, like Kaiser, the flagship of a fleet numbering hundreds of vessels, equipped with an observation tower, and a pair of powerful batteries. Crazy Horse took a look to the stern, where Cloudwalking Moon spun the wind in her great bowl, and he was rewarded by a smile from the woman he loved, loved more than he had ever loved anyone. A part of his mind, a very old part lingering from the Seventh Circle, felt a tremor of chagrin that she was here with him, going into such danger. He simply shrugged; he was a warrior of Nayve now, and so was she.

Turning his attention to the fore, he watched the dark ships of the armada surging against Fritzi’s wing. He admired the Prussian’s courage, the discipline of his sailors, and he thrilled to the sight of the smoke and flames blossoming among the death ships. His own wing, the middle of Roland’s fleet, numbered some 350 boats and now waited in three great lines. The druids spun enough wind to keep them aligned forward, moving very slowly, but they would wait for their leader’s command before they rushed ahead.

Crazy Horse narrowed his eyes as he saw large death ships, dozens of towering vessels, veering toward him, swerving around, blocking his view of Fritzi’s line. He sensed the encirclement as it began, and with that realization he ordered the flag raised, the signal for a general advance.

Cloudwalking Moon spun a fast wind now, as did the other druids of his fleet, and the sailboats surged forward, slicing the waters, leaving white wakes behind. For the first time on Nayve, Crazy Horse thrilled to a martial charge, the boat pitching and speeding as vibrantly as any pony could run. He saw the tall shapes of his enemies, sensed the impetuous eagerness of the druids and warriors as they raced in to the attack.

The first rank of boats, including his own, launched their steel bolts when they were still a half mile away from the enemy fleet. The metal spears ripped into the black hulls, exploding and burning and wreaking fearful havoc. The rest of the druid boats came on, spreading out, shooting at unscathed ships as soon as another dark vessel swerved into range.

Fighting raged all across the front, acrid smoke mixing with the miasma of the Deathlord’s fleet to clog nostrils and sting eyes. In a chaos of movement the deadly dance evolved, sailboats darting between lumbering ships, spitting their deadly barbs, pressing forward with courage every bit the equal of a plains warrior trying to count coup.

But where were Fritzi’s ships? Crazy Horse squinted through the murk, tried to catch a glimpse of white canvas-even a single sail!-but there was nothing to break that aura of darkness. A glance to the left showed him more ships, a hundred of them, sweeping out from the armada, attempting to encircle his own wing of boats just as the Prussian’s had been devoured.

The truth was bitter gall, but it was apparent: if they held the charge they, too, would be swept into the insatiable belly of the deadly armada. There was no sign of any white sail, any surviving boat, in the tangled and smoky melee before them. The First Wing was gone, utterly destroyed, and if he held the current course, Crazy Horse would lead his own men and women to the same fate.

He raised the blue flag, the signal for a withdrawal, and like magic the druid boats responded, turning through tight half circles, running for the clean water along the metal coast, away from the armada. They were running, leaving many of the enemy intact…

But they would be alive to fight again tomorrow.

The pictures of war played out on the whitewashed wall of the Worldweaver’s inner sanctum, but Miradel found her eyes drawn not to the waterborne carnage but to the face of the druid Shandira. She was surprised to see the African woman looking back at her when Miradel glanced over to gauge her reaction to the First Wing’s destruction.

Many druids were gathered in the viewing room to witness the commencement of the long-dreaded war. Cillia herself, eldest druid of the order, fed the Wool of Time into the candle flame, though her fingers trembled slightly as the image of the armada darkened the whole, vast wall. The white sails of the druid boats seemed like tiny snowflakes wafting toward a great gulf of smoke, and Miradel heard murmurs of fear and horror as the two fleets mingled.

The pictures showed the view from high overhead, and for that she was grateful. They could make out the three separate wings of Roland Boatwright’s fleet, and they marveled at the bravery of Fritzi Koeppler’s wing as it rushed to intercept the advancing tide of darkness. Tiny sparks glowed every time a death ship exploded, and the druids collectively held their breath as the thin line of white sails stood firm before the onslaught.

But of course the armada was too huge, and as the arms of black reached around the boats of the First Wing, one by one the white sails broke or burned or sank. In a surprisingly short time, the entire wing was gone, engulfed by the darkness. They had endured no longer than the snowflakes they resembled, melting away in the furnace of battle. Miradel looked up as she heard a sob, saw Gretchen-the druid who had summoned Fritzi to Nayve-clasp her hands over her face and run from the room, sobbing.

Some unknown time later Miradel and Shandira walked into the garden, alone in the midst of a hundred somber druids who all emerged from the viewing chamber to cleanse themselves in the sunlight and try, for the most part unsuccessfully, to dispel the lingering nightmare of the sea battle.

“The black ships… they will reach the shore in a matter of hours, it seems,” Shandira observed quietly. Her face was downcast, but she still carried that regal sense of pride in her tall frame. The white of her gown stood in stark contrast to the darkness of her limbs and her face. Her eyes were wet with tears as she looked at Miradel. “The carnage… it was horrible!”