Douglas Niles: Goddess Worldweaver

Miradel knew that the answer to this question would shock, even appall, the newcomer who, in her previous life, had steadfastly adhered to her vow of chastity. The druid demurred. “Let me show you the Grove,” she said. “There you will learn the truth.”

“There’s the bay,” Natac said, slapping the great wyrm on the shoulder. Regillix Avatar had already spotted the crowded harbor, and now he tucked his wings slightly to drop them through a shallow dive. Wind howled past Natac’s face, streaming his black hair behind him and bringing tears to his eyes until he ducked his face behind one of the dragon’s bony neck plates.

Sheltered from the buffeting air as the great serpent picked up speed, the man looked past the chestnut scales of the mighty shoulder. Though his narrow vantage revealed only a fraction of the druid boats below, he could not help but take heart from the extent of the fleet that had gathered to meet the armada of Karlath-Fayd. More than a hundred slender hulls clustered on the placid water just within his narrow frame of view-and that was only a small fraction of Roland Boatwright’s flotilla.

A few minutes later the dragon pulled up, then bounced to a landing on the grassy bluff that overlooked this natural, deep-water inlet on the wilds of the metal coast. Natac slid from his perch and walked to the edge of the steep slope. Fifty feet below, a strand of beach encircled a stretch of placid water protected by a range of rugged hills to the woodward side, and a rocky breakwater, constructed by druids, that arched out to close off the sea swells that surged in steadily from the direction of metal.

The harbor, which was nearly two miles long and half that in width, was crowded with small, sturdy sailboats. Natac knew from his earlier counts that there were well over a thousand vessels here, but the reality of the fleet was still enough to bring him up short. The watercraft were small by comparison to the looming bulk of the death ships, single-masted, opposed to the triple masts on each vessel of the invaders’ fleet, but they were fast and nimble, with sleek, weighted keels. Each bore a shining steel spike jutting from the bow, a ram capable of tearing the planking out of a much larger ship.

A metallic battery glinted coldly above the ram on each boat, well forward of the single mast. Looking like an oversized crossbow mounted on a metal pivot, the weapon was based on a design invented by the dwarf Karkald. It could launch a spray of incendiary spheres at a nearby target or fire a single, heavy missile-a steel arrow dubbed a fire-bolt by the crews-that could fly for a thousand meters and still punch through a hull of thick planks. The sailboats, each of which was crewed by anywhere from four to eight sailors, had small cabins, protected by thin steel plate, and an armored cockpit where the druid who captained each vessel could windcast in some safety, while still getting a good view of the surroundings. Many employed human warriors, men drawn from earth in the spell of summoning, to man the batteries and otherwise fight.

“I don’t know if we can stop them, but we can make them know they’ve been in a fight.” Roland Boatwright had come up to Natac while he looked at the fleet, and now the druid-and master sailor-voiced the speculation that all the defenders of Nayve had trained themselves to believe. “Any new word from the sky?”

“If they hold course, they’ll make shore about a hundred miles up the coast, metalward, from here,” Natac replied. “You’ll have to leave today, if you have any hope of intercepting them.”

“We’re ready,” Roland declared. “My wing captains rowed in to the beach when we saw you coming. Do you want to give them a quick briefing?”

“Sure.” Natac followed the druid down the narrow footpath that switched back and forth across the steep, grassy bluff. Sunlight sparkled on the waters, and the boats were gleaming, clean and freshly painted. He grimaced at a momentary image of marred perfection, the destruction and death that would decimate this picture by the time the battle was done. But there was no point in that worry. He reminded himself that this fleet had been gathered, this band of druids and warriors trained, with one purpose, and that purpose, that need, now came to fruition.

Many of the boats, he saw, were already hoisting anchor, each sail filling with its local, druid-cast gust of wind. A few of the craft were closer to shore, still idle, and a group of men and a few women were clustered around some small dinghies that had been pulled up onto the beach.

“Greetings, General Natac,” said one, a hawk-faced man of medium height with an impressive nose and red bronze skin that was similar to Natac’s in tone. “Have you the latest word on the enemy fleet dispositions?”

“We flew over them this morning, Crazy Horse,” replied the Tlaxcalan. He embraced the Indian, former chief of the Sioux tribe, who had been brought to Nayve nearly forty years earlier. He felt the tension in the great leader and leaned back to look at him in the face.

“Once I thought my days of war were over,” the Sioux warrior said grimly. “But now I stand ready to shed blood in a new cause. Once my men rode ponies and whipped Custer…” He gestured to the boats. “Now we ride a different kind of steed, make a new kind of war,” he declared.

“I am glad to have you leading a wing of the fleet,” Natac said sincerely. “In all my studies of the Seventh Circle, I never observed a bolder warrior.”

Next Natac turned to Richard Rudolph, a squat and dark-haired Englishman of unfailing strength and cheery disposition. He had been a sergeant-major in the British Army, an Earthly victim of the inept officers who had commanded him during the Zulu war of 1898. With his keen eye for enemy weakness and his affable and courageous disposition, he was much admired by his warriors and one of Nayve’s most trusted commanders.

“We’ll be sailing soon, I’m thinking,” he remarked.

“Before Darken, if you can,” Natac confirmed.

Richard clapped Natac’s arm, an expression preferred to the more formal salute among the army of Nayve, then stepped aside to let Fritzi Koeppler join the circle.

Natac shook hands with the Prussian, the man he had known the longest of these three captains. In 1879 Fritzi had led a cavalry regiment into France, until, at Sedan, the men on horseback encountered the repeating fire of modern weaponry. As with Crazy Horse and Richard Rudolph, Fritzi had been brought to Nayve by the magic of a druid’s seduction: the Spell of Summoning that lifted and bore the soul of a warrior to Nayve. Fritzi was an enormously capable soldier with a keen eye for detail. Like his fellow commanders from England and America, he had learned to fight on land, but in the decades of preparation since then he had become a master of nautical tactics. Though Roland Boatwright was in overall command of the druid fleet, Natac was immensely glad to have these three veteran warriors to oversee the three individual wings of the sailboat force.

“The death ships are spread out across a frontage of twenty miles, maybe more; they seemed to be dispersing as they moved toward shore,” he explained.

“Does it look like they will land this side of Argentian?” asked Richard, who had extensively surveyed this section of coast over the last fifteen years.

“I’m guessing they’ll make for the Blue Coral Arc,” Natac replied, referring to a smooth shoreline about a hundred miles away. “There’s lots of good beaches where they can come ashore, and the reefs will protect them from the worst of the ocean waves.”

“Good guess,” Richard concurred. “There’s rougher land, rocky bluff and the like, beyond. Closer by there’s a whole mess of swamp and sea marsh.”