Douglas Niles: Goddess Worldweaver

Though the humans and the elves maintained their diligence-the dark dwarves and harpies were still present and abundant across the gorge-the trolls had grown bored with the war within a few months after the battle at the bridge. Awfulbark had led them inland, and they had settled in another forest of ancient oaks interspersed with numerous apple and cherry groves. Many of the trolls spoke wistfully of happy times in their ancient capital city, Udderthud, but in truth Awfulbark understood that living in the New Forest was easier, offering better weather and much more abundant food, than existence in Udderthud had ever been.

So it was that the king of the trolls was a little bit fat and was feeling very lazy when he took up his sword and ambled through the tangled paths of his domain. He left his wife, Roodcleaver, snoozing under the widespread branches of the oak they had claimed as the royal abode. Her easy snores comforted him, for they reminded him that she was well fed and thus content.

He stopped to speak with several of his subjects and watched a few youngsters play vigorously at the timeless game called Squash the Raccoon. The object of the game’s attention proved quite vigorous and would have escaped back to the wilds, but for the keen aim of a young troll’s stone.

“Stones good,” the king remarked, drawing a beaming smile to the youngster’s toothy gash of a face. “But sword better. Remember that!” He flashed the blade and instantly-despite the fact that it had been years since he had amputated a child’s limb-all the young trolls disappeared.

Shrugging, he continued on his way, failing to notice the shadow that crossed the sky, interrupting the beams of sunlight that spilled through the leafy canopy. Only when the troll king came to a clearing did he see the massive serpentine shape, the mighty wings pulsing down to send a gust of wind blasting between the trunks. Blinking the dust from his eyes, Awfulbark recognized Natac, the great general already dismounted from the dragon and striding toward him.

The king tried to think. He judged it unlikely that the man was coming to take back his sword; after all, Natac had bestowed it with great ceremony, in thanks for the troll’s aid during the Battle of Sharnhome. There was a chance, a good chance, that he was returning now to ask Awfulbark’s assistance in some undoubtedly unpleasant and arduous task. This, thought the monarch of the New Forest, was a much more likely prospect. He considered fleeing, knowing that he had a very poor record of standing up to Natac’s requests for assistance.

But there was a third possibility, and this kept him rooted in place: perhaps the man was coming to give him another gift. Of course, he couldn’t see any likely-looking parcels, either on the man or his dragon, but hope was strong in the troll king, and so he clutched his sword and waited for Natac to reach the shade of the trees.

“Greetings, O King,” said the man, making a formal bow. “I hope that life in the New Forest continues to suit you.”

“Well, okay enough,” said Awfulbark grudgingly. “Could wish for some good Udderthud caterpillars though, spice up these soft apples.”

“Indeed. The foods we are raised with, those are the finest tastes,” Natac acknowledged sympathetically. “How I longed for the taste of tart chocolate and chilis when I first arrived here.”

The troll didn’t know what the man was talking about but pretended to nod in understanding. It was then that Natac sprang his trap.

“I need your help,” he said.

Awfulbark blinked and, with longing, thought of the winding forest trail, the route into shadow and obscurity that he had considered moments earlier, before it was too late. Now, there was no way he could refuse the man, not when the trolls were needed. It had never happened before he had met Natac and the other warrior, Jubal. Never had there been a time when the trolls were needed for something. The first time it had happened, Awfulbark had tried to resist. But now, there was no use.

“What we do now?” he asked.

“There is going to be another war,” Natac said. “I need you to bring your trolls, everyone who is strong enough to fight, to the shore of the Blue Coral Sea.”

Cholera came to Zanzibar in the spring, and by the middle of the sweltering summer Shandira had closed the eyes of countless babies, praying reverently over each shriveled little corpse. When she was not in the crowded sick house, she helped to burn the lifeless bodies of fever-parched adults, trying to stem the tide of the plague. She worked tirelessly, her strength an inspiration to everyone who saw her, but it was perhaps inevitable that at last the sickness would strike her, as well.

Even as the chills racked her long limbs and the sweat beaded upon her ebony skin, she continued her work, always wearing the stained robe that marked her as a Sister of Mercy. When at last she collapsed, she was given a pallet in her cell, and Father Ferdinand himself came to visit her. Solemnly he administered the last rites, and then he lingered for a moment, his hand, tender despite heavy calluses, gently holding her sticklike fingers.

“I remember when you first came to us,” he said in his stilted Swahili, his eyes filling with tears. “A wide-eyed girl from the bush. You had the Holy Spirit in you then, my child, and your life has been a testament to that glory. I know that your reward shall be everlasting.”

His words were a comfort to her in the days that followed, as she grew weaker. She could not eat, and water was little comfort. A fire seemed to burn within her, growing hotter with each passing night, until at last, inevitably, her very life was consumed.

It was then that Shandira’s story began.

“My Holy Virgin Mother!” cried the woman, dropping to her knees before Miradel, pressing her forehead to the floor.

“I am not your mother, nor blessed,” replied the druid, gently placing a hand on the smooth black shoulder. “But I hope you’ll consider me a friend.”

Shandira looked upward, her eyes wide as she stared past Miradel, into the verdancy of the garden. Fountains spumed softly, unseen but soothing, and pale sunlight filtered through the canopy of palm fronds as the sun descended toward Lighten. Slowly, the black woman lifted herself, kneeling proudly, then standing. Her cowl of tight, curly hair seemed immense to the druid, like the mane of a lion, and her naked physique of wiry muscle was a monument to physical perfection.

“Where am I?” she asked warily.

“You are in the garden of the Goddess Worldweaver,” replied Miradel, extending a hand, gently leading Shandira to a nearby bench of carved marble. “You have been brought here by the goddess, as a reward for your hard work in the world you call Earth.”

“But surely our Lord Jesus…?” The woman who had spent a lifetime as a Christian nun hesitated, looking around further. “Is it delirium?” She said wonderingly. “I have seen that madness many times-but it is always a thing of fever and nightmares. Now I feel at peace, whole again.”

She touched her flat, muscled stomach, felt the sinews of her thighs and the fullness of her breasts. “If this is delirium, may God forgive me-I welcome it!”

“It is not madness. It is real, and you have been brought here not only as reward but also because you are needed. Our world is in danger, and you… you and all the other women who come to the Fourth Circle now… you must help us.”

“What do you ask of me?” Shandira asked, her dark eyes level and shrewd as she met the druid’s gaze.