Douglas Niles - Circle at center

“Not to mention that we don’t have enough fighters to hold the inn,” said Tamarwind. “I hope they leave it alone.”

“They won’t,” Natac said grimly, joining the pair. He came up to Belynda and took her hand in his powerful fingers. “Now, Lady Elf, you must do as Tamarwind suggests-hasten to the city and raise the alarm. We will hold here for a time, but you must send reinforcements, as quickly as possible.”

“I will try,” she promised.

With only a few backward glances, she and Nistel made their way across the causeway. Thoughts of her enemy, of the hatred that blazed within her and of the violence that the Crusaders could wreak upon her beloved city, lent speed to her flight and urgency to her mission.

“It is a good tunnel, my lord,” reported one of the Crusader elves. “I myself have traveled it to Circle at Center. If we take it, we will be at the lakeshore in a day.”

“We will follow the tunnel,” Sir Christopher decided, looking at the wide roadway as it disappeared into the darkness. His black horse pranced nervously sideways in the face of the shadowy entrance, while the knight considered his tactical situation. “I want my centaurs and giants to follow them across the high trails. I want that witch, one way or the other!”

Indeed, when the knight remembered the way the elfwoman had seduced him, then escaped from his righteous vengeance, he could think of nothing except taking her again-with a culmination in the devil’s fire she so richly deserved. His hatred was a strange mixture of longing and revulsion, a memory of harsh pleasure and urgent desire that kept him awake for long hours in the night.

The Crusaders split into two parties, the goblins and elves forming a column for the march into the tunnel while the centaurs and giants took up the hilltop trail, following the tracks of the raiders who had so boldly attacked their camp. The knight rode behind the first company of a hundred goblins, urging speed as they entered the tunnel to find that it was very well lighted by floating globes of magical fire.

The clash of weaponry startled him, as the head of the column suddenly stumbled to a halt. Sir Christopher rode up alongside the goblins, who were armed with bronze-tipped spears. He was shocked to find a group of small warriors hurling themselves at the goblins. These dwarves had face-plates of smooth metal, without even slots for their eyes-and each bore two wicked daggers, steel blades that slashed through the air before them.

The dwarves formed a solid barrier, blocking the Crusaders’ progress into the tunnel. Perhaps a dozen goblins were howling, gashed by the daggers, while two or three lay still in the midst of spreading pools of blood. While many of the goblins had jabbed with their stone-tipped spears, the knight could see no sign of any injured dwarf.

Reining his horse a few steps away from this solid, but so far immobile, foe, Christopher considered his options. Nayve was reputedly a place of eternal peace, yet here he was confronting a rank of armored fighters. He was not afraid, not for himself nor his army. While it would be difficult to break this tight rank in an attack, he was certain his goblins and elves could easily evade these short-legged warriors, and eventually he could win a battle by maneuver.

“Ho, small knights!” he called. “Who is your captain?”

“That is I, Zystyl!”

The voice came from the rear of the rank. Sir Christopher stared into the shadows there, and quickly saw the speaker. Now the knight frowned in distaste. Differing from the masked men of the ranks, much of the speaker’s face was visible, and grotesque: a gory, moist gap of snuffling, flaring nostrils spread above jaws of shiny metal, a sharp-fanged maw that spread wide to reveal a blood-red tongue.

“Are you warriors of this place called Nayve?” asked Christopher.

“We are the conquerors of Nayve, here to take prizes and treasure!” declared Zystyl. “Do not think you can defeat us!”

“My lord Zystyl,” said the knight with oily sincerity. “I should not do you that disservice. But rather still, should you not consider how, together, we might both achieve our same ends?”

B elynda took time only to clean up and change clothes while word was carried by runners to each of the senators and ambassadors in Circle at Center, announcing an emergency meeting of the Senate. With her hair combed and her tattered gown replaced by a fresh robe of gold, she tried to maintain her confidence as she made her way to the forum.

But when she rose to address the body of the Senate, all her old doubts came sailing back.

There hadn’t been time to gather many of the delegates. She saw a few goblins and many elves, but there were no giants or gnomes present-even Nistel hadn’t made it yet.

Karkald and Darann were there. The dwarves sat near the front of the assemblage, and though a few goblins and fairies looked at them curiously, the elves studiously ignored these visitors who so clearly did not belong here. One faerie, a little creature called Kaycee, buzzed sleepily to her seat near the top of the chamber.

At the rostrum, Belynda made a valiant effort. She told, firsthand, of the deaths she had witnessed, cruel poisonings inflicted by Sir Christopher’s serpent staff. She described the stake, and the firewood that was to have been the instrument of her own death. And she noted the threat, in the form of the advancing army, that was even now approaching the lakeshore beyond their precious city.

Naturally, her remarks caused a great deal of consternation, especially among the elves. Both Praxian and Cannystrius shouted for order, but it was several minutes before the assembly quieted down.

More excitement was caused, then, when she invited Karkald to speak. In blunt, plain-spoken language, the dwarf described the army of Delvers that had embarked on an invasion of Nayve. By the time he was finished, goblins were jabbering, but the elves remained stony-faced and aloof.

“I tell you, peoples of Nayve-we must act, and quickly!” Belynda declared, once again stepping to the fore. “Come by the tens, by the hundreds-have them rally at the Blue Swan Inn!”

A few of the elves were nodding in agreement. Several of the goblins were grinning with excitement, all but bouncing up and down, ready to move.

“A point of order.” It was old Rallaphan, raising his hand and rising from his stool. The assembly grew silent.

“These are alarming tales, extraordinary occurrences,” declared the elder senator. “Perhaps they do call for action. But I would observe that a casual count shows no more than half the delegates are present, here and now. We are clearly lacking the quorum needed for a vote.”

“We don’t need to vote!” Belynda retorted. “We need to act!”

“Ahem.” It was tall Praxian, glaring down at her sternly. “Need I remind the sage-ambassador that this is not a body that acts. This is a body that votes-and that only after proper and decorous debate!”

“Quite, quite,” chimed in Cannystrius, while Rallaphan snorted in agreement.

The doors to the Senate chamber burst open with a shocking clang.

“We are prepared to fight!” It was Nistel, leading perhaps a hundred gnomes into the suddenly stirring chamber. “We offer ourselves as warriors, ready to lay down our lives to protect Circle at Center.”

“And I will fight, too!” cried the lone faerie, Kaycee.

“You are out of order!” cried Rallaphan. “I object to this disruption.”

“You’re good at that, aren’t you?” snapped Karkald, rising to his feet so abruptly that his stool toppled over behind him. He fixed Rallaphan with a contemptuous glare, then let his scornful eyes blaze across the whole gallery of elves. “Objections! Out of Order! Talk, vote, you do everything but act!” He drew a deep breath, and to Belynda it was obvious that he struggled to control a volatile temper. She doubted whether any of the other elves sensed the emotion simmering beneath the dwarf’s gruff countenance.