Douglas Niles - Goddess Worldweaver

“Unlikely. They would have had to talk to the sage-enchantress before the spell was cast, to confirm the details. I doubt they would have gone if they hadn’t trusted the person doing the casting.”

“The sage-enchantress… yes… but would it have to be an enchantress who cast the spell?”

“Well, yes,” the druid answered. “At least, that’s most likely. I suppose some of the elder sage-ambassadors might be able to muster the magic… at least, it’s not inconceivable.”

“It was Belynda Wysterian!” Natac said, anger and relief mingling in the realization. “She’s been Miradel’s friend for a thousand years or more. Perhaps they hatched some plan-but what?”

“That is impossible to tell, though perhaps Belynda could tell you,” Cillia replied. “Or tell someone, since you are needed here, it seems to me.”

“Yes… someone.” Natac started thinking: could he entrust Horas of Gallowglen with such a mission? Perhaps-but first, there was the rest of his inspection to conduct. He thanked the druids for their information and continued along the riverbank until he found Tamarwind Trak at the command post of the Argentian elves.

“We’re still driving them back every time they try to cross,” the elf reported. “The wind and waves are getting most of them, and we pick off the stragglers before they can even crawl up the bank.”

“Good. For the time being, we seem to be doing okay.”

As if to mock his words, he heard a distant, deeply menacing rumble. The trembling of the ground underfoot was unmistakable: a quake. Though he had experienced plenty of them during his first life in Mexico, he knew they were extremely rare in Nayve and very upsetting to the residents of this once rock-solid world.

Tamarwind’s face had gone pale, and his eyes were wide as he stared around wildly. “What’s happening?” he asked. “The ground is moving!”

“It’s a quake,” Natac said. “Just ride it out-it won’t last long.”

Despite his confident words, the general was frightened by the intensity of the temblor. The ground heaved upward, and he staggered, dropping to his hands and knees to keep his balance. All around, Tam’s elves were doing the same thing, many of them crying or shouting in fear.

Farther away Natac could see the oaks where Awfulbark had made his camp. Some of the largest trees were whipping back and forth, and several of them cracked and toppled before his eyes. Next the general looked across the stream, standing up and balancing on the lurching surface in order to get a look at the enemy troops. It was at least slightly reassuring to see that the formerly neat ranks were now disordered and confused as even the ghost warriors found it impossible to stand on the pulsing, rolling turf.

In another instant Natac went down, pitched by a casual shrug of the quake, and for several more minutes he concentrated on riding it out, trying not to get hurt or to tumble into anyone else. At last, after what seemed like a very long time, the rumbling faded away, and the ground settled back to a solid semblance of normalcy. The general pushed himself to his feet, staggering as if drunk from the memory of the shaking. All around him elves were sitting on the ground, stunned and frightened. One by one they tried to stand, weaving and bracing themselves on each other, looking around in awe.

Natac’s next thought was of the trolls. He knew that, despite their size and toughness, they were easily spooked. He found a faerie settling down toward the ground-having taken the sensible precaution of hovering overhead during the quake-and quickly sent him to check on Awfulbark.

A few minutes later the faerie came back, reporting that the trolls had broken away from the riverbank and seemed to be streaming toward the plains beyond the Swansleep valley.

“Were the ghost warriors advancing yet?” asked the general.

“No.” The faerie shook his head with certainty. “They still seem to be getting their bearings.”

“Good, thanks. Tamarwind!” called Natac. The elf was there in an instant. “Can you send some of your warriors to cover the troll position? They got spooked by the quake. I’m going to get Regillix and go after them, hopefully get them back on line.”

“Sure,” Tam said. “I have a thousand warriors just marching back from the bivuouac. I’ll send them up the river right away.”

Natac was encouraged by that prospect and guessed that the elves would be in position in time to prevent a sudden enemy move. His optimism was dashed almost immediately, as Karkald tromped up to him. “What is it?” asked Natac, alarmed by the dour look on the dwarfs face. Karkald was accompanied by another faerie, and he gestured for this flying messenger to speak.

“Bad news from nullward,” replied the winged scout. “I’ve just gotten word from Janitha… It seems the Delvers have crossed Riven Deep.”

“How?” demanded Natac.

“I don’t know,” the faerie replied. “Some kind of magic, for sure. It happened at the same time as the quake, like the whole world was breaking up. And the Delver army came across, she said, and was marching this way.”

Natac’s heart sank at this disastrous development. Just when they had held so well, to get attacked by some impossible means. “What does it mean? How can they cross the canyon?” he demanded of no one in particular, though the dwarf took it upon himself to answer.

“I don’t know,” he replied laconically. “But it seems pretty clear that we’ve been outflanked. Where’s the next place you want to try and fight ’em?”

Miradel’s first thought, when she spotted the gargoyle looking at her, had been no thought at all but merely instinct. She had thrown herself onto the ground and huddled between a pair of boulders, fearing at any instant that the grotesque creature would take to the air and swoop down upon her. Burying her head in her arms, she lay utterly still except for the trembling she could not control.

How long she stayed that way she couldn’t remember. Eventually, however, she perceived that she had not yet been attacked. Hesitantly she raised her eyes, then lifted her head to look around the rock. She saw that the beast had made no move to leave its mountaintop aerie, though its eyes did remain open. They sparked brightly, crimson red in the distance, but no longer did they seem to be focused specifically on her. It was more as if the creature had gone from slumber to an air of general watchfulness.

Finally, she accepted that she would have to move. Carefully she lifted herself to her feet, finding that the pack was not such a burden as she would have expected it to be. Trying to stay hidden as much as possible, she started climbing again, sticking to the low ripples in the terrain where for the most part she could remain out of view. Every time she came into view of the gargoyle she looked upward apprehensively, but still the beast had made no move.

The time was drawing close to the Hour of Darken when at last, exhausted, sore, and full of despair, she reached Shandira’s position. Here she saw a sight more beautiful than anything she had beheld in days: her companion’s eyes. The druid was awake!

“What happened?” asked the black woman, gingerly touching her blood-encrusted hair. “I fell, didn’t I? How far? How long ago?”

“You took a bump on the head,” Miradel said. “About midday, I would reckon. Now’s it’s almost Darken. Here, have a sip of water-and tell me how you feel.”

“I have a headache,” Shandira admitted. “But I think I’ll be all right.”

Miradel looked at the sun, so far away and so low in the sky. Soon it would start to climb away from them, and then in the skies there would be only the stars for light and nothing at all to keep them warm. “Belynda will be seeking us in a few minutes,” she said tentatively. “I wonder if this, coming here, was a terrible mistake. Should I signal her to bring us home?”