Douglas Niles - Goddess Worldweaver

“Why I not fight?” he demanded. “Die like king!”

“Die like fool!” she retorted, further assailing his dignity. “You want to fight, come up hill with me. Stay here and we die. Go, and we fight some more. Maybe die up there, you want to die so bad! So go!”

It was hard to argue with that kind of logic, though the king made a valiant effort to come up with some devastating reply. But his mind was a blank, as usual. There was nothing left to do but follow his wife up the hill, and stay alive.

“Where’s Natac?” asked Tamarwind, as he found Jubal and Juliay on a low hill, overlooking the weary withdrawal of the once-mighty army. Everywhere troops were streaming off the wall, picking paths up the slopes of the Ringhills, in between the most rugged elevations, while the ghost warriors claimed the length of the parapet and, for now, seemed to be gathering their strength before they pursued.

“He had to go back to the city… an emergency, with Miradel. If he comes back, he’ll teleport onto Hill Number One. They’re still holding there, the last that I heard… but I don’t know how long that can last,” Jubal replied, putting his arm around Juliay. “I don’t blame him. At a time like this, things coming to an end, a man should spend those minutes with the woman he loves, I reckon. Not much hope for tomorrow.”

Tamarwind felt that remark with a stab of longing. “I’ve had a thousand years that I could have spent with that woman,” he said, “and I wasted them all. Would that I could have but one of them back again, I would go to Belynda and tell her what I know.”

Roland Boatwright and Sirien joined them on the crest, another pair of lovers finding themselves on the field of the last battle. “What can we do now?” the druid and shipbuilder asked.

“Fall back, I guess,” Tam said. “As far as Circle at Center if we have to. Until there’s no place left to retreat.”

“What’s that in the sky?” asked Sirien, the keen-eyed elfmaid. She pointed past the ghost warriors, toward the murky horizon in the direction that was neither metal nor wood.

Winged shapes were visible there, tiny specks weaving through the columns of smoke and dust. There were lots of them, wings beating unmistakably, coming this way.

“Reckon it’s more harpies, I suppose, Jubal said in resigned despair. “Spread the word. We’re not even safe up here. We’ve got another attack coming in. And these look like big ones.”

“Wait,” said Sirien, holding up a slender hand.

“Why?” asked the Virginian impatiently. “They’ll be here in a few minutes.”

“I know,” said the elfwoman, strangely unperturbed. “But look… look at them again.”

K ARKALD and Belynda hurried to keep up, Natac half carrying Miradel. At first, immediately following her teleport home, he had ordered her to lie down and rest, but she would have none of that. Instead, she had barked an order of her own.

“The temple-take me to the Goddess Worldweaver, now!”

So he offered her an arm and a shoulder, which she leaned upon gratefully. Weak as she was, she still managed to hurry them along, across the lakeside park to the marbled plaza and the great golden doors. She would not explain what she had learned on the Fifth Circle, but her lips were drawn in a tight line, and her face was ashen.

They burst through the door, scattering the acolytes in the outer chamber. Quickly they passed the exit to the old, unused Rockshaft, with its bolted iron door, pushing their way right into the sanctum with its massive loom and surrounding Tapestry.

Within, the goddess looked up from her weaving, then slowed the pace of her pedaling until the great machine came to a rest. With immense dignity she stood.

“I was not so certain that I would see you again,” she declared coldly. Her eyes were like ice, glittering, cold.

“But you do see me, and you will hear what I have learned,” Miradel declared. She had found her strength, stood without assistance, and glared icicles of her own.

“What is that?” The goddess stepped away from her loom.

“There is no Deathlord, is there? Karlath-Fayd does not exist, no more than the gods and goddesses of the Seventh Circle!” Miradel said quietly. “All of that is pretended. There is only you, and this game you have us play.”

“Do not trifle with me. I have moved armies across chasms, even between worlds. I could crush you with a wave of my hand.” She sneered contemptuously. “What might seem like a game to you is truth, reality, to me.”

“Me, trifle with you? Don’t be ridiculous-it is you who trifle with us!” snapped Miradel. She stood on her own, strong and steady now, and took a step forward, gesturing for Natac to come with her. She pointed to the threads, coming off the loom. “You think that is all fates, all futures, all pasts?” she asked him.

“It is the Tapestry of the Worldweaver,” he said, puzzled.

“It is merely a vain woman’s toy,” retorted the druid. “I want you to cut it, cut it off right now!”

“R EGILLIX Avatar must have made it home!” Tamarwind exclaimed. “Those aren’t harpies-they’re dragons!”

“I know,” Juliay said in a strangely peaceful tone. “Aren’t they the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen?”

The dragons filled the sky with wings and fire. They came from the direction that was neither metal nor wood. Diving with meteoric velocity, the wyrms swept across the top of the ghost warriors, belching massive clouds of flame, slaying with talon and fang. The serpents soared in their hundreds, maybe a thousand or more of them, spreading across the sky to span the whole of the ghost warriors’ horde. They ranged in colors from indigo so deep it was almost black to pale pastels of peach and green, shades varying even upon the same dragon, under-bellies always darker than backs.

They swooped and cavorted. The smaller serpents were nimble and quick, often circling and looping about the greater wyrms or racing low to puff orange fireballs, blossoms of flame that seared a dozen or a score of the attackers. They flew onward, driving their slender pinions, quickly soaring aloft again.

The greater wyrms were true lords of the battlefield. One dragon of emerald green, nearly as big as Regillix himself, landed in the midst of a throng of ghost warriors, incinerating a hundred with a massive exhalation of oily flame. The two broad wings came down, crushing more of the invaders, and as the serpent leaped into the air it raked another dozen with its trailing claws. More dragons swarmed along the length of the wall, and everywhere the attackers fell back, off the rampart and down through the gore-filled ditch.

The soldiers of Nayve emerged from their hiding places or ceased their panic-stricken flight. They whooped and cheered from the slopes and the crests of the Ringhills. Jubal and Juliay embraced, while Tamarwind shouted himself hoarse in exultation.

One giant serpent broke from the fight and winged closer. Tam quickly recognized Regillix Avatar as the lordly wyrm came to rest on the nearby hillside. He looked smug, curling up like a cat and grinning at Tamarwind and the others like a contented crocodile.

“I missed this place,” he allowed. “Did you know that there is no beef in all of Arcati? And I learned that I have developed quite a taste for cattle flesh.”

“Welcome back!” cried Tamarwind. “We’re rather glad to see you.”

“Everyone, except perhaps the cows,” Jubal allowed. “But we’re grateful for your epic flight, Lord Dragon, and for a very timely return.”

“The climb almost killed me,” Regillix admitted, scowling at the unpleasant memory. “But my people understood the danger. As you can see, they were more than willing to help. And we had no difficulty riding the Worldfall back to Nayve-the same route that carried me some fifty years ago.”