Douglas Niles - Goddess Worldweaver

Pacing along the length of the riverbank, trying to contain his agitation, Natac swung his eyes from one group to the next. It seemed as though he had been waiting forever, but it was only a couple of minutes before he saw the lights sparkling in the air, like miniwhirlwinds of fireflies that soon coalesced into druids, a pair of them arriving at each focus with the first casting.

Quickly, elves helped these new arrivals away, offering sips of water to help with the momentary disorientation that always followed the teleport. A few minutes later, the second group arrived, with subsequent castings-each performed by a new set of sages back in Circle at Center-bringing in the rest of the druids as the sun slowly rose toward full nightfall. Twenty druids arrived in each of the first four waves, but on the last group there were but eighteen; none materialized at the last waterhole along the line.

Juliay was one who arrived at the next basin. “What happened to Miradel and Shandira?” she asked, as Natac jogged up to investigate.

“Miradel was coming here?” he asked. “I thought she had work in the temple!”

Juliay shrugged. “So did I, but I saw her just before Darken. It seemed odd; Shandira is just a novice and wouldn’t be able to help with your plan in any event.”

Natac frowned, concerned.

“I presume she must have changed her mind at the last minute,” Juliay suggested hopefully. “In any event, ninety-eight of us are here. We can do what you need.”

“I know,” the general agreed. He turned his attention to the local problem, though he remained concerned about Miradel. What had she intended? And where was she?

Those answers would have to wait. He found Cillia, the matriarch of the druids, critically inspecting the low level of water in the river. She was a tall woman, sturdy of frame, with black hair flowing freely down the length of her back.

“It would help if we had some rain,” she said as soon as Natac came up to her. “This isn’t much to work with.”

“I know,” he agreed. “They picked the driest year in two decades for their invasion.”

The venerable druid leaned back to look at the sky. “There’s some evening mist rising up and a few clouds blocking out the stars. Let us see if we can do something to help. Any idea how much time we have?”

“The scouts report that the ghost armies will be here by the middle of the night,” Natac replied.

“Druids, gather to me!” shouted Cillia, and in ten minutes the members of her order had assembled from their focal basins along the riverbank. Natac went back to inspect the fords, so he didn’t hear what she said or see what the druids did.

He was just relieved when, an hour after Darken, it started to rain.

If there was one thing that made a dark night even more miserable, it was rain. Awfulbark reflected on this truth as he slogged through mud that seemed to clutch his feet with sucking mire every time he tried to take another step. He was following at the tail end of a long line of trolls, and it seemed that they were all doing their best to churn up the ground so as to make it virtually impassable for the king.

Cursing and muttering, Awfulbark simply kept going. Roodcleaver was right in front of him-for some inexplicable reason she had refused to leave his side during this inglorious retreat-and somewhere behind, not terribly far away, came the implacable legions of the ghost warriors.

Frequently he glanced behind him, certain they were closing the gap. It was impossible to see much of anything in the lightless night, further obscured by the rain spattering down in large drops. Aside from the eerie wails they had uttered in combat, the troll had heard no noise from the enemy, so he fully expected them to be moving in complete silence.

“Faster!” he shouted. “March faster!”

Awfulbark hoped that the faeries who had been guiding the front of the troll column were still there. They claimed to have come from Natac and were going to show them the way to the nearest ford across the Swansleep. The little flyers could be leading the trolls right off the edge of Riven Deep, for all he knew.

Lightning flashed, illuminating a hundred miserable trolls, their rough, barklike skin slick with rainwater, and then a crash of thunder split the night. The king cringed, whipping his sword around so hard that he buried it four inches deep into the trunk of a willow tree. Angrily he pulled it out, yanking it free just as another flash brightened the night.

They were back there, the ghostly pursuers, a hundred paces away and coming on in a dense column. As the lightning faded he was left with the image of a thousand spear points, raised above the rank of marching warriors. Those in the lead bore swords, and even as the darkness closed in again, they raised that terrifying yowl that struck chills into Awfulbark’s gut.

“Run!” he cried. “Run to the river!”

He lurched and lumbered along, pushing Roodcleaver impatiently, tripping over a troll who had sprawled in the trail. He cursed as he picked that fellow up and shoved him forward, carelessly piercing him with his sword in the process. The troll howled but found the strength to continue on.

Only then did Awfulbark think of the tree he had struck: a willow! Surely the river must be near!

In two more steps he was in the water, feeling the hard gravel of the ford under his feet. The rest of the trolls were crossing or scrambling out, gasping and panting, on the other side. He saw ghostly blue fires along the bank there and groaned at the knowledge that magic was being cast. Nevertheless, his terror of the pursuing horde was even more acute, and so he pushed through the last few steps, stumbled onto the riverbank, and threw his hands over his head as magic exploded behind him.

“Why did Miradel plan to come out here to the Swansleep?” Natac asked Cillia, as they stood at the riverbank in the rainy night. “I thought she was busy in the temple.”

“That’s what I thought, too. In fact, I didn’t know she was coming,” the druid matriarch replied. “Where is she?”

“Well, I’m worried about that. Juliay said she was with Shandira, but they didn’t arrive with the last group of teleports.”

“Strange.” Cillia looked at Natac in concern, her skin pale ivory against the dark background of her hair and the night. “Shandira certainly isn’t ready to help with the water magic. Miradel was supposed to be training her to prepare for the Spell of Summoning. Perhaps Juliay was mistaken. There were lots of our order on the lakefront, many more than actually came out here to the river.”

“I hope you’re right.” Natac was still concerned. The absence of two druids from the last group of twenty suggested that Miradel and Shandira had departed Circle at Center, but somehow did not make it to their destination.

His worry was overridden as Horas of Gallowglen buzzed up to him, then dropped wearily to the ground. “The trolls are here. The last one just crossed the river, and the ghost warriors are right behind.”

“Thanks for the news,” Natac said to the faerie before turning to the druid. “It’s time!”

Cillia had overheard and was already raising her arms, stretching them like wings as she turned her face to the rainy skies. The warrior was stunned by the loud clap of thunder that seemed to emanate from the air right beside him. Lightning flashed from the druid’s fingertips, searing to the right and left, bolts crackling parallel to the ground but over the heads of the warriors and druids gathered on the riverbank.

“My signal,” the matriarch said with a wry smile. “I hope it didn’t startle you, but I had to let the rest of the druids know.”

“No, fine,” Natac said, patting down the hair that, even soaked, had stood stiff upon the back of his neck.