Douglas Niles - Circle at center

“Where did you get that sword?” Natac asked, recognizing Tamarwind Trak as the elf wiped and sheathed his blade.

“From me.” It was Darryn Forgemaster. The blacksmith druid stood with Miradel in a hallway. “I brought four more weapons over… thought they might be of some use. I gave two to those big humans, the Irish and Vikingman. One went to Tamarwind, and I have the other.”

“Good-and thank you!” Natac replied. Before he could say more, shouts of alarm rang through the hall.

“The inn is on fire! We’re burning!” The alarm spread quickly, and by the time Natac raced through the several connecting halls he found one wing of the Blue Swan nearly engulfed by flames. Elves frantically poured buckets of water onto the blaze, but the fire continued to consume the wooden structure. Interior walls glowed red, and smoke belched into the hallway from the open doors of several rooms.

Jared Innkeeper was there, sooty and gasping. The elf directed the firefighting efforts, even lending his slight body to the task of hauling buckets. But a quick glance showed the courageous elves forced to fall back, retreating in the face of intense heat.

“You-all of you! Help fight the fire!” Natac shouted, mustering a dozen elves who were milling about, wide-eyed and near panic, at the top of the wide stairway. They hastened to obey as the warrior rushed onto the outer balcony to get a view of the damage.

He saw that the roof was ablaze over the entire wing, with cheering Crusaders gathered around to watch. Turning back to the door, Natac was startled to find that Miradel had followed him onto the balcony. “Go back inside!” he ordered, but immediately saw that she was paying no attention to him. Instead, her eyes were fixed upon the sky.

She raised her hands and shouted. The voice that boomed from that frail and elderly form was a shocking pulse of pure power, and when she lowered her voice, the cry sank to a rumble that reminded the warrior of distant thunder. He stared in wonder, awed by her power, her calm majesty.

And then real thunder crackled through the night, exploding from dark clouds that were just now churned into being. Abruptly rain pummeled Natac, the inn, and the ground in a torrential deluge. Miradel wove the magic with her hands, threads pulled from fingers to palm in delicate motions. And while she worked her spell, the rain poured into the flames, sizzling and hissing into steam, dousing the fire wherever a finger of flame dared to rise-at least, on the outside of the great building.

However, when he went back inside, Natac saw by the smoke-filled halls that the conflagration continued to spread. He encouraged Jared’s efforts with a report of Miradel’s spell, then started for the stairs to check on the battle at the ground floor.

“Natac!” Tamarwind met him on the steps. The elf’s eyes were wild, and there was an edge of panic in his voice.

“What is it?”

“Over there-at the bridge. You have to see!”

Natac followed the elf back to the balcony and looked toward the other part of the battle. Torches flared in the darkness, and it looked to him as though the bridge still held. But there was churning movement beyond, dark forms coming from the mouth of the great tunnel.

Abruptly the night was split by a brilliant light, a glow of whiteness that seemed somehow even brighter than the sun. At the same time, it was a cold sort of illumination, suggestive more of a bright star than any kind of fire. Natac saw that the dwarf Karkald was holding his spear over his head, and it was the point of the spear that was aglow.

In the light the warrior could see that the gnomes were in full flight, running from the Metal Highway tunnel. Behind them came other figures, dark and crablike in the way they moved. They rushed after the routed gnomes in what was clearly an aggressive pursuit.

And Natac saw the grim truth in an instant: With this new attack, the whole defense of the causeway was outflanked.

“Fall back!” he shouted. He seized Tamarwind by the shoulder. “Go through the inn-get word to the far wings first. We’ll retreat to the courtyard, then make a rush from the gates-we have to reach the causeway, and soon. Now, move!”

The elf raced away, while Natac found Deltan Columbine. “Give them a few quick volleys-then get down to the courtyard!”

The poet nodded in understanding, then turned to shout orders to his archers. “You elves-go for the kill, now! Shoot three!”

Arrows whispered outward, but Natac was already down the stairs. He found Jared Innkeeper still leading the valiant, but failing, battle against the fire.

“The inn is lost,” the warrior said bluntly. “Gather your clan in the courtyard-we’re going to fight our way to the causeway while we still have a chance.”

With a gasp of utter despair, quickly contained, the elven patrician nodded and threw down his bucket. His eyes, rimmed with soot, were moist but his voice was strong. “All you of the Blue Swan-this way! Follow the warrior!”

In moments they had gathered before the main gates, which still stood intact. Miradel was there, and Darryn Forgemaster, as well as nearly all the elves of the company. Tamarwind arrived with the defenders of the far wing, and they gathered in the courtyard, waiting for word.

“Go to the stream!” Miradel shouted to him. “The druids will let us pass!”

The warrior nodded in understanding. “Open the gates and charge for the causeway!” shouted Natac. “Don’t stop for anything.”

The gates parted swiftly to reveal a few startled goblins. These wretched Crusaders hastily scampered away, as Natac led the elves out. Here and there a giant or centaur moved to intercept, but the sheer number of elves allowed them to brush these obstacles aside. However, as Natac looked ahead, he saw that the attackers still pressed against the bridge. Remembering Miradel’s instructions, he led the elves not toward the bridge, but toward the high, roiling stream.

Before the defenders reached the water’s edge the druids across the stream abruptly dropped their hands, ceasing the weaving motions they had maintained for so long. Immediately the roiling waters spilled away, leaving a shallow and placid waterway no more than a foot or two deep.

Swiftly the elves pushed across, the stronger helping the weaker. Churning over the muddy bottom, they climbed up the far bank, then turned to pull their comrades out behind them. Natac stood on the bank, watching as several centaurs galloped toward them.

“Get your bowmen ready to shoot!” he cried to Deltan Columbine. In the confusion of the retreat, however, the archer was able to assemble only a half dozen of his men. “Take aim-make each shot count!”

Most of the elves were across. Where was Miradel?

The warrior was shocked to see her just moving down to the stream, aided by Darryn Forgemaster. Natac went to her other side, but then Christopher’s centaurs galloped up, undeterred by the few arrows launched by Deltan’s archers. The warrior slashed back and forth, holding the first of the hoofed attackers at bay, but others circled around, out of range of his steel.

“Away with you!” cried Darryn, stabbing with his sword.

“Damned tooth!” cried a centaur, as the tip gouged his flank. Another of the big creatures reached down, seized the blacksmith by the wrist and pulled him out of the stream. Natac, holding Miradel with one arm, dragged her across the waterway and into the grasp of their comrades. Darryn tried to break free, to come after, but the centaur’s big hand was too strong. The smith raised his sword, but another centaur lunged at him to snatch the weapon away.

“Fine weapon!” roared Darryn’s captor, lifting the blacksmith off the ground and flicking his black tail. “You can tell our lord knight where you got it!”