Douglas Niles - Goddess Worldweaver

As they made their way across the sea, the near shore vanished into the vast darkness of the First Circle, while the far shore gradually took on more detail, towers and streets and individual buildings outlined in eternal coolfyre. After another hour, Aurand took over the oars from Konnor, who moved to the seat just forward of Darann, as she steered them closer to the low, dark part of the city-the place the Seers had walled off to create the ghetto. It was eerily dark in there, though the wall itself and the offshore waters were constantly swept by those shifting beacons.

“Do you know where Hiyram lives?” asked the dwarven explorer, stretching his arms, rolling his shoulders to loosen the kinks brought on by his long stretch of rowing. She noticed for the first time that he was remarkably handsome, his eyes bright and cheery, his black beard neat and silky, even after several cycles in the wilderness. He had an easy smile, and she was glad that he was here.

“No, I don’t. But everyone in there seems to know him. I’ve gone into the place a number of times, taking them the few necessities I can gather, and as soon as I pass the gates, someone always seems to send for him. I think that will happen again, that he will find me as soon as we get there.”

Konnor was looking at her with a strangely emotional expression, his eyes wide and full of wonder. “You go in there by yourself? I mean, I had heard that you did, of course… but it seems… it seems so brave!”

“Brave?” She laughed, embarrassed. “Not compared to climbing around the edges of the world, going into Nightrock itself! No, I just do what small part I can to try to be useful, perhaps to resist the malady that seems to be dragging our whole people down.”

“Well, I think it’s really admirable. You know, you are quite a woman-I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you.”

She was suddenly uncomfortable with his words, his direct stare-even if it was affectionate and admiring. It had been long since a male had talked to her like this, and she couldn’t help a sense of guilt, a feeling that to accept his affection would somehow be unfaithful to her long-dead husband.

“You miss him still,” he said gently. “Don’t you?”

She chuckled wryly, surprised-and not displeased-that he had perceived her care so readily. “I know that I will, always,” she replied, remembering. Karkald could be gruff and impetuous, and his manners were poor at best. But he was kind, and he had loved her very much. Darann felt a lump in her throat as she remembered his hands, so rough and callused, yet so perfectly gentle when they touched her.

Those thoughts, all of them, were instantly banished when she heard a stutter of sound borne through the still air: like distant screams. There was an unmistakeable crash, as of a steel blade coming into contact with something hard. The noise echoed, distant but sharp, lingering in her ears even after the sound itself had faded away. It was repeated, and again, quickly rising to a remote but ringing cacophony.

“What’s that?” Darann asked in sudden fear.

They could all hear the sounds, which were too faint to fully discern. They could have been caused by either celebration or fear. Intuitively, she suspected a sinister explanation. She heard something else gradually emerging from the stillness: a rumbling beat coming from the city of Axial, from the lower flats along the null shore of the lake… from the goblin ghetto.

That was the measured cadence of armored troops on the march. Aurand rowed harder, pushing the boat through the water with palpable surges, leaving a visible wake behind them. Darann felt the lunge with each stroke, silently willing her brother to even greater speed.

“What do you think is happening?” Konnor asked as the boat cut swiftly through the eternally placid waters of the sea.

“It can only mean one thing,” Darann said grimly. “Nayfal has given orders to the city guard, and they’re moving against the goblins.”

“Surely it hasn’t come to that!” Borand protested.

“He’s convinced lots of people, maybe even the king himself, that the goblins will rise up and attack as soon as the Delvers move against us,” she replied. “I’m guessing that someone important-maybe just Nayfal, but who knows?-has decided to make a preemptive attack.”

“But they’ll be butchered!” Aurand protested. “The goblins won’t have a chance!”

“All the more reason we need to get to our pailslopper and persuade her to tell the king what she knows,” Darann said. She looked pointedly at her younger brother, who was straining at the oars. “Can’t you row any faster?”

Nayfal mounted his ferr’ell after the liveryman had saddled the beast and had carefully affixed the steel muzzle that prevented the partially savage creature from snapping back at its rider. The lord had learned through painful experience that no ferr’ell was to be trusted. Still, he was the only dwarven noble who had ever learned to ride one of the savage creatures, and at a time like this he was determined that his men would see him in the saddle, where he belonged.

He clutched the reins and spurred the animal forward, lurching in the saddle and wishing for at least the thousandth time that a ferr’ell had a more regular gait. Instead, the beast caused him to bob back and forth on the undulating back. Some of the most veteran Rockriders eventually learned to mimic this motion, growing naturally comfortable in the saddle, but such proficiency required many long miles of riding. As a powerful lord, he didn’t have time for such diversions. Besides, he didn’t trust the ’riders, most of whom had been recruited and trained by Karkald. Fortunately, the light cavalry and their savage steeds had become virtually obsolete in the days of goblin control.

Still, he relished the awe in the faces of Axial’s dwarves as he trotted swiftly through the city streets. Youngsters gawked on the sidewalks, while women scurried out of his way and men stared admiringly at the dashing figure. The sleek animal held its head high, ears pricked upward and whiskers twitching, suitably impressive as it loped down the city street. Nayfal noted with pleasure that he still drew attention wherever he went.

He made his way down the Avenue of Metal, the wide boulevard leading toward the harbor. The ghetto lay before him to the right, and as he approached he was pleased to hear the clash of arms and the cries of frightened goblins rising from beyond the high wall. There was a company of city guardsmen standing at ease just outside the first gate, and these dwarves gathered around as he approached.

One brave sergeant even took the reins to keep the ferr’ell from bobbing restively. The toothy jaws snapped, and the dwarf clapped it across the snout with his gauntleted fist. Growling, the steed stood still.

“Lord Nayfal! The raid is progressing well,” reported the leader, a gray-bearded veteran with a silver-lined helmet. “The goblins are running like sheep. We’ve already cleared out the blocks against the Metal Wall.”

“Good. I expected nothing less, of course. But good.”

“Only thing is, the gobs are getting kind of thick in the middle plazas now. We’re getting ’em packed in tight, but we was wondering… what to do with ’em now.”

“There’s no choice. You’ll have to kill them, especially the males-though if a wench raises a stick to you, well, cut her down as well.”

The captain’s eyes widened momentarily, but then he recovered and nodded tentatively. “You’re wanting them butchered, then… all the males?” He shifted his balance from one foot to the other, an act of nervousness that annoyed the lord. “Can I be having that order in writing then, my lord?” the warrior had the temerity to ask.