Douglas Niles: Goddess Worldweaver

The palisade was steeply sloping, and many of the attackers slid in the loose dirt, skidding downward into the packed ranks of their fellows-and, in turn, impeding the advance of the following troops. But others pressed through, clambering and clawing up the wall, drawing ever closer to the defenders’ thin line.

The Hyaccan elves were mounted, thousands of riders milling about in the valley, waiting for word. The warriors who had come with Crazy Horse had all found steeds, for they would ride in this charge as well. The Sioux chief himself had claimed that same pinto stallion, leaping onto the sturdy back with a whoop. Janitha watched him, saw the way he seemed to merge with the horse into one unit, and she approved.

A faerie came buzzing up to her. “Natac says it’s time!”

With that, she raised her lance and uttered her own yell. Shouting wildly, the riders spilled from their valley in a sweeping charge, ponies madly racing toward the flank of the invaders’ army.

In the lead of the charge was the great Sioux war chief, shooting arrows with deadly accuracy as they raced close to the column of ghost warriors, guiding his nimble steed with his knees. Crazy Horse whooped and shouted, and the elves surged with him.

And the humans also: to his right was an English lord, on his left an Argentinian gaucho. A French chausseur and an American dragoon rode right behind, while the elves raced on all sides.

Janitha Khandaughter, mounted upon her stallion Khanwind, raced to catch up, and as she galloped beside this natural horseman she acknowledged with a certain amount of pleasure that she had at last encountered a mounted warrior who was her equal. She would have to learn more about him, if they could but live through this day.

Tamarwind Trak stood atop the wall and heard himself shouting a long, ululating cry. The sound was bizarre enough that it startled him-and at the same time seemed to infuse the elves around him with renewed battle frenzy. A shower of arrows soared overhead, plunking among the tightly packed ghost warriors, and once again he raised his sword and slashed, and stabbed, and parried against those who had made it up to the top of the rampart.

The attackers churned through the ditch, clawing their way up the sloping earthen wall, falling back as the elven weapons chopped, and slashed, and slew. A troll roared, seizing on a ghost warrior by the shoulder and knee, lifting the creature up in the air. Shaking the hapless attacker like a rag doll, the troll cast the body into the faces of his companions.

Druids stood among the many elves, casting winds that sent dust clouds whirling into the faces of the attackers, blinding and infuriating them. Cillia strode back and forth on the wall, spinning a gale where it was needed, blasting stinging debris across a blank section of the wall top, until a dozen humans-warriors from Roland Boatwright’s fleet-charged into the gap and forced the attackers back down.

The din of battle rose around Tamarwind, mingling the screams of the wounded with the ghastly wail of the attackers. To the elf it was all a dirge, and his thoughts turned, full of longing, to Belynda.

Jubal strode back and forth along the line, exhorting his fighters to renewed frenzy. He saw Juliay, her silver bowl cradled against her belly, the casting spoon whirring, and he felt a rush of love-love that turned to terror as three ghost warriors pushed through the minicyclone to reach the top of the rampart. They were dressed in tattered cloaks and kepis, garments stained brown in color but still carrying a hint of Union blue.

In a flash the Virginian was there, his sword knocking aside one bayonet, then striking forward to stab the second attacker through the throat. He had a bizarre sensation of his final battle, a desperate fight on the breastwork above Appomattox Creek. He had failed then, been pierced by the bayonet that had claimed his life and, unexpectedly, brought him to Juliay.

He would not let those same warriors, those same weapons, take her away from him. Jubal attacked like a madman, hacking his way through the company of ghost warriors. Bayonets jabbed at him but somehow he slapped them away, a lethal force of steel and determination. In seconds he drove them back, and Juliay spun hard, raising a stinging spray of dust that flew against the attackers, forced them off the summit of the earthwork.

But the tide of death began to press hard.

Hours later the Hyaccan cavalry rode their weary ponies back into the valley, dismounting, turning the animals loose to drink and graze. The riders, however, simply selected fresh steeds and once more took to their saddles.

All except Janitha. Crazy Horse noticed that she still sat astride Khanwind, and that, furthermore, the black stallion showed no signs of fatigue.

“He and none other will carry me so long as he can stand,” she explained, in answer to his questioning look.

Once more the throng was mounted, though they numbered many less than upon their first charge.

“Again! We will take them in the flank!” cried Crazy Horse, and Janitha whooped in agreement. Infused once more with the sheer thrill of war, they led another charge together, the riders of Hyac racing forward to attack.

But their numbers would only suffer more loss, as they rode so close in among the enemy that many of the brave riders were pulled from their saddles and torn to pieces. Others fell from stabs and slashes, and in many places the ghost warriors formed bristling walls of pikes and spears, deadly hedges the horses could not approach.

Yet there were always other enemies, and so they rode against the long flank, striking, killing, disrupting and, too often, dying… until their horses began to stagger from weariness, and once again the riders had to fall back.

Awfulbark had lost his right hand, twice, and his limbs and chest were constantly scored by deep, raw wounds. But he roared, and bit, and continued to fight. He tore bodily into a trio of ghost warriors, ripping limbs, crushing a skull with one powerful bite. Staggering back, he saw the butt of a spear jutting from his belly. He tried to remove the weapon but howled in pain as it twisted even through his back.

“Comes out behind!” Roodcleaver shouted, gesturing with the gory arm of a ghost warrior, holding the limb in both hands.

Groaning, Awfulbark grabbed the weapon near his skin and snapped it off. His wife pulled it out from behind as he howled in agony. He was then forced to sit down to allow his innards to knit.

Five minutes later, when he stood and once more strode into the fray, he was a very angry troll.

Clearly, there would be no damming this tide.

Natac came to the grim truth as he fought with his own sword, personally leading a counterattacking force of elves as they rushed to reclaim a section of the wall. They drove the enemy off and then stopped, panting. Darken was approaching, all of his troops were growing weary, and there was no sign of any kind of cessation in the enemy’s effort.

On the contrary, the general could see that the attack was spreading far to the flank, inevitably seeking a way around the edge of the great rampart. The cavalry was holding valiantly on the right, but to the left there was nothing to stem the tide. Faeries had brought word an hour before that the Delvers were advancing, their iron golems striding as a rank of steel in front of the dwarves. As soon as they drew near, the Hyac ponies would be forced off the plain.

He found Jubal below the position of the battery on Hill Number One. “Don’t think we can hold for another day,” the Virginian observed.

Natac shook his head. “They’re swinging to the right and the left; we can’t block both moves and still hold the wall.”

“Seems odd for it to end like this, after what we went through, back home,” Jubal noted.