Douglas Niles - Goddess Worldweaver

Spotting Jubal in the file, Natac waved, and the Virginian quickly scrambled up to join him.

“I reckon we can pick up the pace a bit,” he agreed, after Natac had explained his hopes for the retreat. “But what’re we gonna do at the river?”

“I have sent for druids to help us,” replied the general. “Juliay will be there, as a matter of fact.”

“That’s encouragin’,” Jubal replied. “Wish we coulda had a few druids at Gettysburg-things mighta come out a little different.”

With that, the human warrior was off. Natac stayed in place, and Kelland Windreader came along near his rear guard. Only then did the general scramble down from the rock to speak to the Baranthian commander.

“We’re holding them back for now,” the elf, his skin streaked with soot, sweat, and blood, explained. “But they come on tirelessly; it will be hard to outdistance them.”

“Do your best, my friend,” Natac counseled. “For if we can get to the Swansleep before them, there might be some hope there.” He explained that he had already urged the bulk of the elven column into haste. “Jubal’s with the vanguard; he will work on getting the troops in place.”

Windreader nodded wearily. “We’ll try to catch up,” he offered.

“See you at the river, then,” Natac said. He left the elf to his column and trotted back up the hillside until he was running along the crest of the ridge. Now he could look down and see an elven column to each side, and he was pleased by that symmetry. He looked into the distance, toward the next ridge, and thought about the brave gnomes that had fought beyond that crest. Had any of them made it out? Or was that vale even now churning with the soulless march of the ghost warriors? Would the advance render his whole plan useless?

He couldn’t answer those questions now, not without a two-hour run that would take him miles out of his way. Instead, he turned toward the problem he might be able to solve. He ran faster now, moving toward the Center much more quickly than the marching elves. Night fell, and he kept going through the darkness and into the following Lighten. He still ran, finally emerging onto a low elevation, with a green valley opening before him. In another hour, he had completed the descent into the valley of the Swansleep River. That flowage, a shallow and meandering stream, marked a shiny ribbon in the center of this verdant lowland.

If he could reach that river, and if he found the druids there, they might just have a chance.

The sailboats of the Metalfleet, those that survived the frenzied battle with the armada, had withdrawn into the harbor. Less than five hundred hulls gathered in the placid water, and nearly all of these were scorched from the fight, gashed and gouged, with torn sails and grimy, soot-stained surfaces.

But at least they were alive.

Roland Boatwright gathered with his captains on the shore. Crazy Horse was here, as well as Richard Rudolph and the elfmaid, Sirien Saramayd. The Sioux chief was despondent, reporting that his druid and lover, Cloudwalking Moon, had perished in the fight. “I killed the bastard who stabbed her, but there was naught I could do for her,” he said, his eyes filled with tears. “Brendal was there in a moment, using her druid’s healing magic, but even she was too late.”

“I am sorry, my friend,” said Roland. “All we can do now is to seek revenge, so that she has not died in vain.”

“Aye,” agreed Crazy Horse. His eyes were suddenly dry, and the boatbuilder sensed that desire for vengeance already burning there.

“The invaders have moved inland,” Roland reported. “We can’t affect them with our boats, but we have five hundred druids and more than a thousand warriors here. This is too valuable a force to waste.”

“I agree,” said Rudolph. “We gave them a jolly good rush, but it wasn’t enough. So where do we go from here?”

“Let’s march to Circle at Center,” Crazy Horse said. “I think that’s where the next fight will be.”

“Aye,” Roland agreed. “And if we lose that one, there will be no more.”

This was already the worst war Awfulbark had ever seen, and it wasn’t about to get any better. These horrible fighters were tearing his trolls to pieces, and every time the king’s warriors killed one, it seemed that three or four lunged forward to take the place of the slain one. The battle had raged for more than a day, and still the black ships pulled up and disgorged more attackers.

“Come this way!” he shouted. “Get away!”

Every instinct of his being urged him to lead the way, to turn tail and run as fast as he could toward… well, it wouldn’t be so much toward something as it was away from here. His sword arm was weary, and his body ached in a dozen places where his flesh had been pierced by spear or sword and was slow to knit itself under these frantic conditions.

But there were others, including Roodcleaver, who were far worse off than the king, so Awfulbark resolved to stay and fight long enough for the rest of his fellows to get away.

“Run!” he urged Roodcleaver, who was sinking her teeth into the throat of a squirming ghost warrior. Her right arm had grown back, but the king winced to see the red slash across her back, the deep cut still bleeding. “Take trolls away from here!”

He seized her shoulder and pulled her away, slashing his blade down onto the head of an attacking Hoplite who lunged after. She blinked at him, but then bobbed her head and took up his call. “Run! Come away!” she brayed.

One by one the trolls fell back from the line until they were streaming away from the beach. The attackers charged forward, rushing past him on both sides. Awfulbark was nearly surrounded, but he hacked his way through a dozen primitive spearmen, leaving all of them torn, bleeding their ghost blood into the ground. Only then did he lope after the rest of the trolls, hearing the ghastly wails rising from the horde behind him.

Fortunately, his own warriors were much faster than the attackers, and in a short time the mob of fleeing trolls had put more than a mile between themselves and their enemy. Furthermore, they were capable of great feats of endurance. Awfulbark knew they could run all night and through the next Lighten, if they needed to. He was grateful, for he guessed that it would take him at least that long to figure out what to do next.

He was spared this decision making as the shadows thickened and the sun was already well advanced on its nightly ascent into the heavens. He heard a buzz of wings and turned to see a small faerie flying along beside him and eyeing him warily.

“What you want?” he asked, loping along at the rear of his army.

“I bring word from General Natac,” said the faerie. “Keep going toward the Center, away from the sea. He wants you to do your best to get to the Swansleep River.”

“The Swansleep River?” snorted the troll, not having the faintest idea where this body of water could be found. “We try to make it to river-but first, we gotta make it through the night.”

Miradel was in the temple when she heard the horn. She ran out onto the plaza, saw that Darken was well advanced, and discovered druids streaming from the Grove, from the gardens around the lake, and from the loom. They were coming to gather around Cillia, who stood in the circle of stones and once again sounded the horn.

“What does this mean?” Shandira made her way through the crowd and whispered the question into Miradel’s ear.

“A general alarm,” she replied. “Cillia will tell us more. But look-the enchantresses are coming from the College. This is something unusual.”

As the throng of white-robed elven sages mingled with the druids in their colorful tunics, Miradel spotted Belynda and, with Shandira in tow, made her way to her friend.