Douglas Niles - Goddess Worldweaver

More lightning sparked along the course of the Swansleep, and he could see that the water level had risen dramatically after the half night of rain. Here and there the current swept along with visible force, and even where the water was placid he knew that it was deep; the rocks and tree trunks that had jutted into sight on the previous day had all disappeared.

Additional, sinister images came into view in the sporadic flashes. He could see the Deathlord’s horde advancing through the grassy marsh on the other side of the river. They looked so very much like living men, he thought; they slogged across the muddy ground, sometimes tripping or falling over obstacles. He noted that the ghastly invaders were more likely to trample a fallen comrade than to help him up. Water was slick on their skin, soaking through their tunics, plastering hair to heads, and trickling from bushy beards.

But none of them, apparently, had dropped their weapons during the long night march: there was still a wide array of spearheads and bayonets visible above the ranks, and those in front carried their weapons at the ready. They had followed through the hills in broad columns, but now, in the river valley, they seemed to have spread into a massive front-at least, the enemy rank was solid for as far as Natac could see to the right or the left.

The first of the ghost warriors slowed as they approached the opposite riverbank. A few of them probed through the grassy shore, poking the butts of their spears into the water, apparently seeking solid footing. More lightning flashed, brightly etching the image in Natac’s mind: the ghost warriors inspecting the river and then slowly venturing in, starting to wade.

On the near bank the elves, formed in a double line at the water’s edge, lifted their weapons and prepared for the onslaught. Far to the left the trolls made ready, too, growling, snapping, and barking at the relentless invaders. Whether it was fearlessness or simply the pressure of the horde advancing behind them, Natac couldn’t tell; in any event, the first ghost warriors pressed on toward the middle of the stream, while more and more of them marched down the bank and followed the leaders into the water.

Beside Natac, unnoticed by the general, Cillia had taken up her windcasting bowl and spoon. A sudden gust of air swirled outward, driving the raindrops horizontally, right into the faces of the attackers. Miniature cyclones burst into being all along the riverbank, and in moments the steady rain had been transformed into a driving storm, the sheer force of which knocked many of the attackers backward.

More wind swirled, driving waves now as well as rain, a gushing current of river water that swelled into frothy crests and pounded like ocean surf into the chests and faces of the ghost warriors who were now neck deep in the Swansleep. In the force of that surge the first rank of the attackers simply vanished, overwhelmed and knocked off their feet by the power of angry water. Waves lashed harder, attacking with physical violence, pounding and smashing against the enemy horde.

The storm only seemed to enrage the following troops, for they lowered their spears and bayonets and charged headlong into the streambed, slashing and pushing through the floundering bodies that were tangled in the far shallows. The force of the wind relaxed momentarily, giving Natac a jolt of fear. But he looked at Cillia, saw her concentrating, and realized the druids were simply timing their gusts for maximum effect.

Indeed, as water that had been whipped against the far bank flowed back to a more normal level across the entire river, the rush of current pulled the warriors along with it, unbalancing many of them and drawing still more into the channel. Some thrashed and fought while others, apparently drowned, floated lifelessly downstream. This time the attackers pressed through the dead and came more than halfway across before the wind blasted outward again, churning the water into a compact hurricane of force, once against blasting into the faces of the attacking ranks.

Those ranks were shattered again, leaving the far side of the river choked with bodies. Survivors straggled and clawed their way out of the water, while others fought to proceed. In several places violent skirmishes erupted between the ghost warriors, and Natac saw several cut down by their own comrades. This time the blast of water actually carried onto the far bank and through the marsh, breaking up the attackers arrayed in their neat ranks at the edge of the river, playing havoc with the legions extending into the darkness beyond.

Natac heard the clash of steel, cries of alarm and fury, and saw that some of the ghost warriors had struggled through the torrent and were trying to scramble up onto the near bank. The elves moved forward with lethal precision, two or three of Tamarwind’s warriors meeting each of these survivors, cutting them down and pushing the corpses back into the flowage. Thus far, the few attackers who fought their way across, or, in some cases, had been carried across by the water that inevitably flowed back against the wind after too much of the liquid collected against the far bank, were no threat to break through the line of doughty defenders.

“Take a rest for a few minutes,” the general suggested to the druid matriarch. “You’ve wrecked their formation for the time being. Let’s see if they try to come up with a new tactic.”

“Very well,” Cillia agreed. She set down her bowl and once again raised her hands, lancing the lightning over the heads of her druids. This time the bolt was an eerie green in color, and Natac guessed that was the matriarch’s prearranged signal, for the gale faded away along the entire river.

For the first time he noticed gray light seeping through the rain, and he knew that the Lighten Hour was near. It gave him a sense of some relief to be able to see his attackers more clearly, and it was further encouragement to witness their disarray. Though the far side of the river still teemed with ghostly warriors, their once-neat ranks were a shambles, and a great many corpses lay scattered in the shallows and through the muddy grass of the opposite bank.

He turned around and was not surprised to see Horas of Gallowglen standing there, watching and waiting. The faerie’s wings were soaked and drooping, but when the general looked at him, he buzzed them quickly, casting off a spray of drops and, in seconds, drying the delicate membranes enough for flight.

“Can you go down the line and see if we’ve had any casualties?” Natac asked. “Let me know if there’s anyplace where they nearly made it across.”

“Right away, Lord Natac!” replied the fleet scout, saluting and then vanishing into the misty dawn with a loud hum of his wings. A short time later he was back, reporting that a few elves had been injured by the attackers who made it across the river. But nowhere was there any danger of a breach, at least not from the first assault. Natac thanked the brave faerie and turned his attention toward the enemy, which was clearly gathering for a second push.

Daylight was growing brighter, though the thick clouds muted everything into a drab gray. Rain still fell, though it was more of a drizzle now than the downpour that had drenched the armies and filled up the riverbed through so much of the night. Across the river the attackers were getting themselves sorted out, ranks tightening, weapons poised. A thousand ghost warriors stood shoulder to shoulder within Natac’s field of view, while the number of spearheads and bayonets in view behind them was far beyond his ability to count.

“It won’t be long,” he predicted quietly. Cillia, who was watching, too, and waiting for his command, nodded as he held up a hand. He knew that windcasting required a lot of energy, and the druids’ ability to sustain the storm was limited, so he was anxious to conserve their power for as long as possible.