Douglas Niles - Goddess Worldweaver

When she emerged from the temple, the night seemed to have grown much colder. She thought of her warm chamber in the Grove, longing for sleep, for blessed escape from the true world. But there was no time for that. Instead, she turned her steps toward the College, toward the apartments of her good friend.

She needed to talk to Belynda Wysterian.

The dragon spread his wings, ready to take to the air, while Natac remained on the ground. The Tlaxcalan looked at his mighty companion-more than a steed, the serpent had become as true a friend as he had ever known.

“See if the trolls need help,” said the general. “They have to get back from the shore as quickly as possible.”

“I may be able to delay the pursuit for a bit,” declared Regillix, snorting a sulfurous cloud that discolored the air over the man’s head. “Once again I am ready to spit some fire!”

“Good. I will help Tamarwind hold the elves together. If the trolls can join up with us by the time we reach the Swansleep River, we’ll have a chance to make another stand.”

“But if the Deathlord’s army stays between troll and elf, then there is no choice but to keep running,” the dragon noted.

“Exactly-so haste is important. Good luck to you and to Awfulbark,” Natac said, clapping the mighty neck affectionately.

“And to you. Stay well, my human,” urged the wyrm.

Natac trotted backward, experience having taught him about the downdraft that would emerge from those massive wings. With an eager snort, Regillix extended his neck, crouched upon his massive legs, and hurled himself into the air. Even two dozen paces away, the man was nearly knocked down by the gust of air pushed by the liftoff, but he braced himself and watched as the dragon rose upward, a hundred, two hundred feet in the air within a few seconds of his initial leap.

Turning to look into the valley, Natac watched the fleeing file of Tamarwind’s elves. They had fallen back from the shore in good order and were now marching inland at a good clip. Even so, when the man looked toward the coast, he saw the dark mass of the pursuing army. The ghost warriors were in contact with the rear guard of the elven march, and any slowdown in the pace of the retreat would bring yet more of the enemy troops into the engagement.

But how long could they keep marching?

Natac stood on the crest of an elevation that divided two valleys. Now he looked nullward, trying to see some sign of the Baranthian elves. He had spoken to their commander, Kelland Windreader, a few hours earlier, trying to convey the importance of a hasty but well-ordered retreat. At the time, Kelland’s force had been holding the original line at the beach, and the elven veteran objected to the idea of retreating before his warriors had been defeated. Patiently, Natac had explained about the gnome collapse, and the Baranthian leader had seen the fate that lay in store for his army if he didn’t pull them back before they were cut off. So he had started the withdrawal inland, like Tamarwind, keeping an aggressive rear guard engaged with the pursuing invaders. Jubal was with them. The human general, veteran of the American Civil War, was contributing his expertise, and Kelland Windreader had proved more than willing to accept his help.

Now, from the ridge between the two armies, Natac could barely see the advance elements of the Baranthian column. At the same time, the rear guard of the Argentian elves was drawing closer; it seemed obvious that the two columns were in danger of being catastrophically separated. The roads through the hills were long, twisting, and narrow, the next smooth ground some twenty miles away. There, a scenic river-the Swansleep-meandered through meadows and glades. The stream spilled from the Lodespike Mountains and through this long valley, until it ended in a waterfall, plunging from the edge of Riven Deep.

After the beach had been lost, that river became Natac’s next and best hope. His plan had been formed years ago, when he had studied the Blue Coral Coast as one of a half dozen landing sites suitable for a force the size of the armada. In long conversations with the elder druids and especially their matriarch Cillia, he had settled upon a tactic, and now he was ready to put it into place. He leaned his head back and cupped his hands to his mouth.

“Runner!” he called. Then he sat on a flat boulder, taking a little while to breathe, to prepare his strength.

Less than five minutes later he heard the telltale buzzing of wings as a small faerie buzzed into sight. Quick as a hummingbird, he flew up to Natac and came to rest on the same rock. Even standing, the little fellow barely came to the man’s shoulder. He bowed gracefully, then looked at the general.

“You require a courier, Lord Natac?”

“Please-take a message back to the Grove. Tell Cillia that we need a hundred druids experienced in windcasting at the Swansleep. She’ll know what that means.”

“Very well, my lord. And may I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors on behalf of the Fourth Circle,” said the faerie with polite dignity.

“You may,” Natac replied with a chuckle, the first levity he had experienced in what seemed like weeks. He enjoyed the company of the faeries, several hundred of which served his armies. He didn’t recognize this one. “What’s your name?”

The handsome, young-man-faced creature’s eyes widened. “I am called Horas of Gallowglen,” he said seriously.

“Then I bid you the best of luck as well, Horas of Gallowglen, in all your endeavors on behalf of the Fourth Circle.”

“Thank you, my lord!” Beaming, the faerie hopped into the sky and, with hum of speeding wings, darted toward the Center. In seconds distance rendered him invisible.

His mood lightened slightly, Natac of Tlaxcala, general of all the armies of Nayve, started jogging down the hill to try to make a workable plan. He concentrated on the ground as he ran, but another part of his mind was analyzing the battle, his concentration aided by the activity. Of course, he had learned how to ride-horses, as well as the dragon-but he came from a place on Earth where the horse had been unknown, and for all of his first life had gotten where he needed to go on the strength of his own legs and the endurance of his lungs. So he gave no thought now to the fact that he would have to cover nearly four miles to reach the vanguard of the Baranthian column; he simply started to run.

It was not even a half hour later that he reached the valley floor, loping along until he could climb onto a dramatic outcrop of rock rising thirty or forty feet above the trail. They moved in a long file, trudging with stooped shoulders and plodding footsteps. But they still bore their weapons, he was glad to see. As he watched, four centaurs came into view, pulling along a pair of the batteries, the silver carriages rolling through the muck in the midst of the retreating Baranthians.

“Hail General Natac!” cried an elf, as soon as he came into view. The warrior took heart from the cheers that rose from the troops-they didn’t sound like an army that was running away-but he quickly raised his hands and brought about a silence.

“Brave elves of Baranthia!” he called. “The battle has not gone as we desired, but all is not lost. Your brothers from Argentian march in the neighboring valley, in position several miles ahead of you. So make haste, my elves; hurry down the vale and join with Argentian for another battle. We will find the place and bring this horde to a halt!”

He wished he could unequivocably believe his own words, but the elves certainly took him at face value. They shouted another hurrah, then started to jog, the column moving notably faster as it snaked along the gentle valley floor.

Natac stayed atop the rock for nearly an hour, exhorting each company of elves as they came within earshot. He was rewarded as they hurried along, and he felt certain that they would pass through the hills at nearly the same time as the Argentians.