Douglas Niles - Goddess Worldweaver

Only then did he stop to consider what, in fact, had been the cause of their flight. With a sheepish look backward, he remembered the quake, the awful feeling that the world was lurching beneath him, actively seeking to do him, King Awfulbark, personal harm.

Of course, he had not been the only one to take off in flight, but he reflected that, perhaps, he could have set a better example. Natac had explained to him that it was important to keep the ghost warriors from crossing the river, and the trolls had really not done a very good job of that, not if the enemy had decided to advance some time in the last few hours.

Awfulbark had become a very chagrined troll by the time he saw the great, winged shape in the sky. Glumly he stood and waved, spotting Natac astride the great dragon’s neck. Then the monarch of the forest trolls slumped in shame, looking at the ground as the serpent landed, and the general dismounted to speak to the troll.

“Greetings, King Awfulbark,” Natac said politely. “I am relieved to find you well. I saw the damage wreaked in your grove by the quake.”

The troll, expecting a rebuke for cowardice, was rather pleased by the general’s words. He took a moment to ponder his answer. “Yes… some killed. But I lead trolls away from that place. We go back now?”

“I appreciate your courage, my loyal monarch,” said Natac, reaching up to clap the lanky creature on his bark-rough shoulder. “But there has been a change in our battle plan. The quake we felt was caused by powerful magic-magic that brought the Delvers across Riven Deep. Now, we must fall back from the river.”

“Fall back-you mean run away?” Awfulbark was stunned at first, and then indignant. “But we was winning fight!”

“I know. Your trolls did a magnificent job,” the general declared, but he shook his head. “Even so, to stay here is to face ruin-so we must retreat.”

“How far?” The king had only a vague idea of Nayve’s geography, but he knew this was an important point.

“March toward the center,” was the answer. “We will have to go as far as the Ringhills to make another stand.”

“Okay,” Awfulbark agreed. “You points us the way, and we goes there. And if the ghosts come, we fight!”

“Very good,” Natac replied, seemingly sincere, though the troll king had never quite grown accustomed to sincerity. “The Fourth Circle is depending upon you, and you have answered the call, brave leader. Now, lead your warriors away from here, so that they may fight again tomorrow.”

Awfulbark, feeling very pleased that he had not been rebuked for his impetuous flight, did just that, bellowing and cajoling even as the general and his mighty steed took to the air. His trolls gathered to him, and all within earshot echoed his orders to those who were too far away to hear the king directly. Gradually, the army of the forest trolls came together again.

M IRADEL no longer had a sense of daylight, even though she knew that the Lighten Hour, on Nayve, had passed several hours ago. As she and Shandira made their way up the narrow, black-walled gorge, however, they might have been climbing through thick twilight.

They had spent the cold night trembling on the mountaintop, scanning the skies for another sign of the gargoyle. But the massive creature, after flying past that one time, had not reappeared. The pale illumination of dawn had revealed it back in its position on the upper rampart.

The druids had proceeded over the ridge and pushed into the labyrinth of gorges and ravines on the far side, which is where they now found themselves in such stygian conditions. The rock walls seemed to be a mixture of dark gray and smooth, black stone that absorbed any trace of light that might have found its way here. In some odd way, however, the darkness was a comfort, for it seemed to lessen their chances of being discovered as they made their way closer to the great, dark vale they had seen from the crest.

“Are you sure that’s the hall of the Deathlord?” Shandira asked once, whispering as the two women paused to drink some water and to rest.

“I have studied this place in the Tapestry, and yes, that high valley is the place where he sits on his great throne. It is the last place in this world or any other, as far as one can go in the direction that is neither metal nor wood. Beyond rises the great darkness, end of the cosmos. Every time I observed him, he has been as still and lifeless as a statue, but we will see if that is his true state or if he can be aroused by visitors.”

“Visitors?” Shandira was looking at her intently. “Do you mean to pay a social call upon him?”

Miradel shook her head. “No… I wonder if we’ll even find…” She didn’t finish the thought.

“What? Find what?” Shandira demanded.

A shriek of uncanny power abruptly penetrated into the depths of the gorge. The sound echoed and rang, lingering for a long time after the original had faded.

“The gargoyle!” Miradel felt a stab of fear, sheer, unbridled terror gripping her entire body in a sweaty cocoon. Instinctively she was up, following the vague shape of Shandira, who was already sprinting along the winding floor. Glancing upward, she saw no sign of the monstrous pursuer, but that did nothing to hold up their pace as they raced, headlong toward the citadel of the Deathlord.

“ I can get this door open,” Konnor whispered, as the three Houseguard siblings crouched in the alcove and waited. The company of dwarves had marched past just a few minutes before, and already they heard the smashing of at least one gate in the Wood Wall of the ghetto. “Maybe we can go through the warehouse and come at the wall farther from the waterfront.”

“How can we be sure this place is abandoned?” Borand wondered.

“Look at it-dusty and dark, and quiet as a graveyard,” Aurand replied. “No one’s been in here for years!”

Darann readily agreed. “We don’t have any choice. Let’s go!” she urged, fearful that another company would be along at any moment. Next time, the shadows might not be enough to conceal them.

Quickly, Konnor eased the door open. The creak of rusty hinges seemed terribly loud to the four of them, but Darann hoped that beyond their hiding place the sound was buried in the greater tumult rising throughout the ghetto. Not daring to spark a light, they moved into the almost pitch darkness of what felt like a single, large room-at least, the little illumination spilling from the wharf side allowed them to see only empty space to either side. Dust kicked up by their feet hung in the stale air, tickling her nostrils, and Darann suspected that it was more than just a few years since this place had seen any activity.

When Konnor pushed the door shut, nearly soundlessly, there was no way to see anything at all. Borand risked lighting a match, the sulfurous flame shockingly bright, the smoke and scent pungent. In the flickering illumination they could see long, bare shelves extending into the distance on both sides. This certainly had been a warehouse, though it was now empty of goods.

Holding the match high, Borand led them forward, down a long aisle between the empty racks. Each step kicked up more dust, and there was a lingering smell of mold, slightly tainted by fish, in the air.

“An old fishery warehouse,” Konnor guessed, whispering to Darann. “Probably abandoned not long after the king walled off the ghetto.”

Darann was inclined to agree. She couldn’t help reflecting that the cost of the goblin imprisonment had, in this case and many others, exacted a very real economic toll from the dwarves who had implemented that confinement. “What a waste,” she breathed silently-at least, she thought she had spoken silently until Konnor turned to her and nodded in agreement.