Douglas Niles - Goddess Worldweaver

Konnor nodded, looking at her seriously, as if he had something important to say. But in the end he swallowed his words, nodded gruffly, cleared his throat again. “Yes, I’m glad that we’re here, too,” was all he said.

Hiyram ran with terrible fear pounding in his heart, but he did not let that fear turn to panic. Spadrool was still at his side, and together they had been able to send many females and youngsters toward the lower end of the ghetto, while they raced into view of the Seer troops and led the invaders off the track.

Of course, despite his determination, there was plenty of panic to be found in the goblin ghetto. They found several bodies, goblins of all ages and both genders who had been cut down with violence. Sometimes other fleeing goblins were too distraught to listen to their advice; one elder fellow, half deaf and limping along with a cane, simply waved them off and hurried up the street, straight into the path of one of the Seer patrols. Hiyram groaned aloud as he saw the goblin flinch back from a blow, then fall to the ground to be kicked and stabbed by the dwarves. Crouching in the shadows, he waited until the dozen or so Seers had tromped past, then went to see if he could aid the old goblin. He was not surprised to find that the fellow was already dead.

“Why they do?” Spadrool asked pathetically, looking down at the frail-looking corpse. “What for they come?”

Hiyram shook his head, a low growl rumbling in his throat. He didn’t know the answer. For a time, earlier in this very interval, he had wondered those questions himself, not coming close to an acceptable answer. Now, with violence and suffering all around him, he would no longer worry about the whys and the what fors. The knife had been almost forgotten in his hand, but he discovered his fingers clenched painfully around the hilt.

“Come. We got work,” he said, starting off at a trot, the faithful Spadrool sprinting after until he caught up.

The two goblins came around another corner and found several females with a score of youngsters huddled, sobbing, in the niche between two buildings. The heavy footsteps of dwarven interlopers grew louder in the street, coming toward them.

“Follow him!” cried Hiyram, pointing at Spadrool. “Take them down to sewer flats-hurry!” he urged.

“But-you come, too!” declared his companion.

“Right after,” Hiyram said. “But go!”

With an anxious glance back, Spadrool took off, the terrified goblins hurrying along behind. Hiyram trotted after, looking over his own shoulder, seeing the rank of dwarves turn into the street. One spotted the fleeing party and raised a shout; immediately, the tromp of marching boots broke into the clatter of a dead run.

One of the females screamed, and several children started crying. Their progress was too slow; the dwarves would catch them inside of a minute! Casting around for something to do, Hiyram spotted a stack of empty, rotting barrels stacked haphazardly beside the roadway. He ducked behind the stale-smelling kegs, looking anxiously as the fleeing goblins hurried up the street. From his hiding place he couldn’t see the pursuers, but the sounds of clomped, nailed boots grew thunderous as they approached.

Judging his moment carefully, Hiyram pushed against the bottom barrel, nudging it over, toppling it into the street. Several casks atop that one fell outward, one shattering and the other tumbling over the stone roadway. Immediately he heard cursing and crashing, saw the rolling barrel bounce toward him as a heavy object-an armored dwarf-collided with it. Urgently he pushed at the stack, sending more barrels rolling across the street, scattering the pursuing guards like ninepins.

“There he is-get him!” The shout seemed to be right in Hiyram’s ear, and he whirled in sudden fear. A dwarf, huge and strapping and fiercely bearded, thrust at him with a short sword. The goblin ducked under the blow, then dove headlong into the tumbling barrels, dodging a heavy boot that tried to stomp down on his head.

Bouncing to his feet, he darted behind another dwarf, thankfully observing that Spadrool and the fleeing goblins had disappeared down the street. But now the dwarves were focusing on him, circling menacingly. One hacked downward with an axe, shattering a barrel into kindling as Hiyram tumbled away. He ducked, crept past another barrel, then leaped to his feet. The road was open before him, and he put down his head and sprinted-

Right into the gut of a dwarf who somehow emerged into view, having been hidden by a rolling keg. This one had a sword, and as he gasped for breath, he raised the weapon, aiming a blow at Hiyram’s head. Other dwarves closed in, the rest of them coming from behind, jeering and shouting.

The knife seemed heavy in the goblin’s hand. He remembered Darann’s entreaty that he never use it against a dwarf, not unless his life depended upon it. Every fiber of his conscience urged him to hold back his hand, resist the violence that was overwhelming him. But that dwarven blade was close now, quivering as the fellow lined it up for a killing blow.

“I’m sorry, Lady,” Hiyram groaned.

And then he stabbed.

“ You can’t be serious!” Belynda declared, aghast.

“Lower your voice!” Miradel urged, her own tone a rasping whisper. “And yes, I have never been more serious in my life!”

“You want me to send you to the Fifth Circle, to the Deathlord’s world?” the elven sage-ambassador shook her head. “That would be tantamount to murder!” She turned away, shaking her head, drawing a few glances from the other druids and sages gathered along the casting pools beside the lake. The Hour of Darken was imminent, and they had gathered here for the mass teleportation that Natac had requested.

But Miradel had a different idea and had just broached it to her elven friend. Now she continued her efforts at persuasion. “No-it is the best hope we have!”

Shandira had been watching the exchange in silence, but now she queried Belynda. “Why do you argue? Does not Miradel’s plan make sense?”

“Make sense?” The sage-ambassador’s elven serenity had already wavered, was in danger of cracking altogether. “That depends: if your goal is to waste your lives, throw them away to no effect, for no benefit, well, then Miradel’s plan has distinct advantages.”

“Please!” The druid was shocked and nonplussed at her friend’s sarcasm. “You have to try to understand!”

“Explain it to me, then,” Belynda demanded, her eyes narrowed.

“I think that the goddess may be wrong about the Deathlord, Karlath-Fayd. She seems to think there is nothing we can learn, nothing we can do against him! But I believe-at least, I hope-that by doing some reconnaissance, spying on him, we may find the weakness that allows us to defeat his army.”

“What makes you think the Worldweaver is mistaken? Isn’t the very idea rather blasphemous?” The elfwoman’s eyes were narrowed, her expression stubborn, but at least she was listening.

Miradel shook her head. “I don’t believe so. If I can bring her information, I am certain she will be grateful for the knowledge. As to why I think she is wrong, it is a little thing, but proof to me: long ago she told me that no one could survive in the presence of the Deathlord, because his very gaze would be enough to turn that person into ashes. Yet more recently, when I raised the issue again, she claimed that his gaze was enough to render a person into a stone statue. It is clear that she doesn’t know what effects, if any, might be engendered by a journey into the Deathlord’s presence. I intend to learn.”