Douglas Niles - Goddess Worldweaver

“Our last line had broken,” Tam acknowledged. “We faced certain defeat-until we saw you.”

“Elves of Nayve! Trolls and gnomes-men and women of all peoples!” Jubal shouted, waving his sword over his head, calling the routed defenders down from the heights. They came from every gulley and rise on the foreslope of the hills, still whooping, newly energized by the appearance of the dragons. They swarmed in small groups at first, quickly assembled into companies and regiments, charging to reclaim the wall that the ghost warriors had already abandoned to the dragons.

Tamarwind, grinning, charged down the hill with his elves, but not before he made a silent pledge to return to Belynda as soon as he could get away from here.

“Get away from that!” snapped the Goddess Worldweaver, her face blanching. “You don’t understand what you’re doing!”

“Perhaps not, but at last I understand you,” replied Miradel. She kept her eyes on the immortal woman as she gestured to Natac. “Cut it-cut the threads!”

“No!” The Worldweaver shrieked her command. She raised her hand, palm outward. “Impudent humans-I gave you life on Nayve, and I can take that life away!” Her face distorted into something unrecognizeable, an image of unrestrained fury and immortal power.

The ground heaved, and Miradel fell. A great section of arch swayed, granite cracking, loose rubble plummeting downward. Cracks rippled through the smooth marble floor, and more debris spattered from the damaged ceiling. Even amid the chaos Natac noticed that the surface under the loom and the walls where the Tapestry was strung remained intact. In that instant he knew that Miradel was right-and that her idea was their only chance.

Sword drawn, the Tlaxcalan lunged to obey the druid’s command but was forced back from the Tapestry when a great slab of marble smashed onto the floor before him. Pieces flew through the air, scratching his face, sending him staggering to one knee. Resolutely he stood again, planting his feet and bending his knees, trying to keep his balance.

A storm of wind arose, sending stinging shards into their eyes, against their skin. Despite his exertion, the warrior was pushed farther back. Karkald made a rush for the loom, but a gale of air curled into a fist and smashed him all the way to the door of the chamber. Natac stumbled to his knees, then rose up again, lunging to take Miradel’s arm as she nearly tumbled into a widening crack in the floor.

All of them were shoved inexorably toward the door, Belynda flying like a rag doll after Karkald, while Natac clutched Miradel’s hand as they staggered along like tumbleweeds in a whirlwind. In another instant they, too, were bashed against the door, which flew open and sent them sprawling on the floor in the anteroom.

The acolytes had fled, but the goddess was not going to give those who had offended her that luxury. She stalked through the door after them, stood like an avenging beast over their sprawled bodies. She seemed to have grown-or else the humans were shrinking. Natac sensed that she had withheld her true power in the sanctum, undoubtedly because she did not want to risk her treasured fabric. Now she was outside of that room, with the iron doors of the Rockshaft forming a dark barrier behind her as she raised her hands for a final, lethal blast.

The explosion came in a cloud of dust and smoke. Natac choked, surprised that he was still alive-and astonished to see that the goddess had been smashed forward to lie on her face. The heavy iron door of the Rockshaft had been blasted from its hinges, falling forward to stun and trap her. She groaned, pushed upward, and a ton of metal wobbled on her back and shoulders.

“She’s down-go-cut the threads!” cried Miradel, slapping Natac on the shoulder. “It’s our only chance.”

In that instant Natac sprinted forward, through the door into the inner sanctum, racing forward and chopping in the same motion. He brought his keen blade through the colorful fabric as it spun off the loom. The Tapestry sliced away with no more resistance than he might have gotten from a spiderweb.

“No!” screamed the goddess, pushing mightily, rising upward to shuck away the heavy iron slab. “You have doomed this perfect place!”

She groped her way back to the loom. The Worldweaver sobbed as she clutched at the trailing threads, which already seemed to be evaporating. Natac stood behind her with his sword raised, but he held his blow, not yet ready to strike her with the weapon. No longer did she terrorize or awe him. Instead, he felt numb and strangely regretful.

But the damage had already been done. They felt the rumbling through the soles of their feet, saw it in the cracks that appeared in the marble floor, gaps that twisted and snaked up the walls. The goddess collapsed, sobbing, taking the broken strands in her fingers as if she would tie them all together again. The Tapestry whirled off the wall, torn like it had been blown apart by a cyclone, trailing threads lashing through the air with whipcrack force.

Karkald pushed through the wreckage of the mouth of the Rockshaft, where smoke billowed out the gaping doorway. Something was there, a blunt object emitting sulfurous smoke. It was that object, Natac realized, that had blasted off the long-sealed doors over the shaft.

A crack appeared in the shell of the mysterious missile, a door opening to reveal a small compartment. A figure moved there, a stout dwarfwoman struggling out of restraining straps. Coughing and limping, she lifted herself free and stumbled into the anteroom.

“Darann? Is that you?” Karkald stammered in disbelief.

“Karkald!” It was the dwarfmaid, shaken and covered with soot, rushing toward her husband. With a sob he collected his wife in his arms. “I knew I would find you here! I knew it!” she cried.

“Run!” urged Miradel, standing over the loom and the Worldweaver, gesturing toward the door.

“Come with me!” Natac demanded. The druid looked at the Worldweaver, anguish etched upon her face, and then she turned and raced beside the warrior toward the lofty door leading to the exterior garden. They ran into sunlight and clean air, kept running until they had to pause and gasp for breath.

“Look,” Miradel said, her voice hushed.

The Worldweaver’s Loom glowed like a magical light. Sparks rained downward from the tall shape, and electrical bolts of power blasted into the sky like lightning generated from this massive metal pole. Thunder crackled, nearly crushing their eardrums, and the scent of ozone was acrid in the air. The ground heaved and buckled underfoot, while the waters in the lake and the lagoon churned and frothed. The air was strangely still in the midst of this chaos, as if the world of Nayve held its breath.

“It’s going to fall,” whispered Natac.

And then, slowly, the silver spire of the Goddess Worldweaver began to sway. All of them ran again, as fast as they could, panic lending wings until they were far away across the parkland. Here they turned to watch in horror and awe. The lofty tower toppled slowly at first, leaning, then plunging, breaking apart in the air to slam downward, splintering into an explosion of light, casting sparks toward the sky in an explosion of blue magic.

H E had fought from Flanders to the Metal Coast, battled across the Swansleep River and marched over the dusty plains of Nayve. He had assaulted the palisade at the Ringhills, wounded again, but he had prevailed as, once more, the attack carried the enemy away before him. He even survived the aerial onslaught of the dragons, like his fellows feeling no fear as the monstrous serpents soared overhead, spewing fire and rending with their mighty claws.

He was grievously tired yet compelled to advance. He knew that there was another battle before him, another war after that… He had to go on. For this was his existence, his life, his being.