Douglas Niles - Goddess Worldweaver

They began to pick their way down the talus slope, feeling big rocks shift and wobble from the impact of their passage. The footing was irregular, with wide gaps to drop between or narrow crests to teeter along. Miradel went first, exerting great care to keep any of the stones from tumbling free. A rockslide that trapped them here might be deadly in its own right; in any event, it was certain to attract the attention of the one who was entrusted with guarding this place.

Without speaking they adopted the safest formation, each of them descending at the same elevation, side by side but some twenty feet apart. If one of them did start a slide, at least she minimized the chances of catching her companion, below, in the path of destruction. Miradel felt as though she was walking down a stairway of slippery bricks. She took care to test each foothold, very gradually, before putting all of her weight on it.

Several times they heard the rumble followed by a clunk of a boulder shifting slightly, rebalancing in the loose pile. Once a small rattle of debris skittered downward, shockingly loud in the still night. Miradel gasped and froze, seeing the outline of a similarly motionless Shandira to her side. For several minutes they remained still, and as the soft echoes swiftly faded, there was no other sound that rose from the night in response.

Finally they continued, even more gingerly. How long it took to complete the descent was far beyond Miradel’s awareness. By the time they reached the bottom, however, her shirt was soaked through with sweat, and in the chilly air this dampness seemed to penetrate right into her bones. They paused to rest for a few minutes and soon her teeth were chattering.

“We’d better get moving,” she said. “I’d hate to get this close and then die of exposure!”

“I admit… I’d hate to die for just about any reason, if I didn’t have to,” Shandira said. “So, let’s go.”

They started across the flat floor of the bowl-shaped valley. In the sky were myriad shifting stars overhead, while the great throne of the Deathlord rose like a miniature mountain itself. The gray shape atop that throne was barely visible, utterly motionless, except for the crimson slits of its eyes.

They were perhaps halfway across when Miradel saw something fly across the vista of the stars. The two druids were far from any shelter, could do nothing but stand in fear and wait as the gargoyle glided to the ground and came to rest before them, sitting squarely astride their approach to the Deathlord’s throne.

“I am ready.”

With these words, the ancient serpent tried to convey a sense of farewell and love, sentiments he felt perhaps more deeply than any mere human could know. He saw that Natac was moved beyond his own ability to reply, the man reaching out to touch a hand to the smooth scales of the long, supple neck.

The night was dark around them, this pair who had come together on the lakeshore for a farewell that might be their last meeting. For fifty years they had flown and fought together, forming a partnership of leadership and power that had mustered one of the great armies in the history of the Seven Circles.

Regillix Avatar had, for all his life, been a solitary, remote, and aloof creature. He had lived for nearly ten thousand years, most of that time in the cloud world of Arcati, the Sixth Circle. Yet he was forced now to acknowledge that this most recent half century had been the most profoundly important part of his life. Now he was strangely reluctant to bid farewell to this place, these people… this man, in particular.

Yet Darken was progressing, nearly halfway along by now, and the serpent knew that he had a long way to fly before dawn. He had talked to Socrates and made the plan that seemed most likely to work, but this required him to be high over the region of Winecker at the Lighten Hour. The scholar had speculated that, in addition to the rising current opposite the Worldfall, the descent of the sun would create a reverse pressure away from the center of Nayve, and Regillix Avatar would try to ride that draft of air all the way through the region of intense heat. Then he would rely on his own strength to lift him to the Overworld.

“It is time to go,” he said. “You will return to the army at Lighten, and I will try to return home.”

“Good luck, old friend,” said Natac.

“And to you, as well.”

With that he was off, springing into the air, then winging low over the smooth lake, using leisurely strokes of his wings to climb as he approached the far shore. He passed over the Ringhills, almost directly opposite the crest where the army of Nayve was preparing to stand, and continued to climb as the ground below faded into a patchwork of broad forests and wide lakes. Mist rose off the water, obscuring much of the landscape, and the dragon was strongly reminded of his own world.

Now he started to climb in earnest. He felt the draft rising around him, and as the Lighten Hour drew near he rested, coasting on widespread wings, and even then he continued to rise. He began to allow himself a measure of hope.

The sun began to brighten, and he knew that it was descending toward Nayve. He spread his great pinions again and began to stroke the air, heading away from the center, the sun’s rays warming his back as he flew. Regillix worked easily to gain altitude, trying to conserve his strength for when he would really need it.

Full Lighten drew near, and the wind against his belly became a rush, air pushing upward with relentless force, bearing him away from Nayve now with a hurricane force. The sun was hot, hotter than he had ever imagined, but still he kept his back to it, wings spread, riding the powerful updraft. Wind blasted and buffeted his belly and underwings, and he fought for control, trying to master the air. He caught the power of the rising drafts, climbing, soaring skyward, leaving Nayve an invisible distance below.

Until the heat began to sear him. He squirmed and twisted, desperate to escape the scalding fire that seemed to rage across his back, as if it would melt his scales and bake his flesh. But he kept his wings spread, and the wind blew, and it seemed that his body was burning away. Yet the mighty dragon could only drift upon the wind between worlds.

The sage-ambassador teleported him at Lighten, and in an instant Natac arrived at the pool on Hill Number One. Jubal and Tamarwind were there, both greeting him with visible relief, supporting him as the disorientation from the magic spell sent him reeling away from the casting pool. “Thanks,” he said after a moment, shaking his arms free, standing steadily again.

It did not surprise him to realize that, here among the troops of his army, he felt more at home than he did anywhere else in the cosmos. He clasped the hands of man and elf, then turned to inspect the scene of the imminent battle.

As Natac surveyed this scene from his hilltop, he found it hard to find any shred of hope. His memory of Miradel came back: the shape in the darkness, running for her life through the labyrinth of the Deathlord. A voice nagged at him: he should ignore this fight, turn his back on these armies, and go to the woman he loved.

To rescue her, or to die with her. It didn’t matter, not really… nothing mattered. Why shouldn’t they be together now, as they faced the end of all worlds?

But he could not do that, for he knew that, if he was gone, this army was doomed. Never before had he felt the weight of command as such an immense burden. Now it was a trap bearing him down, smothering, suffocating. In one way or another it would kill him, he knew.

It was well past midnight when he got the only dash of good news from this long, dark day. Horas of Gallowglen buzzed up to the hilltop and did an aerial bow before the general. The bounce in his flight suggested something other than disastrous tidings, Natac observed with interest.