Douglas Niles - Circle at center

Darann nodded. Both of them knew, though neither of them put it into words, what their fate would be if they failed.

U lfgang loped through the night, following the network of trails around the slopes below Miradel’s villa. He had maintained his post here for many days, ever since Natac had left him following the warrior’s last visit. Familiar by scent, by sight, and by sound with every inch of the ground, the white dog patrolled tirelessly, seeking any sign of something out of the ordinary.

During this time, the elf Fallon had cared for the dog well, providing a spread of meats, bread, cheese, eggs, and milk with each Lighten. During the day Ulf generally rested, finding comfort in one of the shady grottoes or cool, stream-washed ravines that dotted the rough landscape around the great white house. Even then he slept just below the surface of consciousness, every chirping bird or rustle of wind bringing his head up, ears pricked and clear eyes open, searching. But it was at night that the dog went to work, constantly circling the hill, ensuring that nothing approached unnoticed. He moved quickly, endlessly roving around the elevation of rough, isolated ground.

He padded through a shallow stream and shook himself quickly on the far bank, then raised his nose and sniffed at the air. The wind was behind him, unfortunately, pushing his own scent into the stretch of hill he had yet to explore-and at the same time, carrying the spoor of any possible intruder away from him.

But this was inevitable, on every windy night-when he searched through a circular path, there was always going to be one part of the patrol where the breeze worked against him. Ulf didn’t hesitate. Springing up the rocks flanking the stream’s narrow ravine, he emerged on the brush-covered hillside and trotted along a low trail he had worn here over the last tenday. The cloaking branches formed a roof over his head, allowing the dog to move through a tunnel of vegetation. Even if he couldn’t smell what lay in front of him, at least he knew he was invisible to observers who might be looking at the hillside from overhead.

Ulfgang moved steadily along the trail, panting slightly as he quickly covered a long uphill stretch. He broke from the brush near the top of a ridge and stopped on a shoulder of rock. From here he could look down to the lakeshore, follow the course of two adjacent ravines, and look all the way up the slope to where Miradel’s torchlit house beckoned so brightly in the night.

He heard a sudden sound that immediately caused him to stop panting, to lift up his ears and listen intently. Something scuffled across smooth stone, and then he heard a thud, as of a heavy body falling. The sounds came from above, from a source either at or very near the villa. He sniffed, mentally cursing the wind that still continued to blow from behind him, and then leaped upward. Ulfgang ran as fast as he could, streaking toward the top of the hill, racing along the crest of the ridge in long, bounding strides. The white body was a ghostly shape in the night, slashing quickly toward the grand stairway below the villa.

At last he could smell the wrong smells, proof that danger was abroad in this dark night. His nose brought to him traces of metal and sweat, the acrid smell of unwashed dwarves. Shapes moved on that stairway, and Ulf wondered if he should shout a warning. But he was so close now-instead, he opted to charge in silence, to maximize the confusion his sudden arrival would have on the intruders.

Racing up the stairs, he smelled the ferrous stench of fresh blood, a great deal of blood to judge from the intensity of the odor. Atop the steps he almost groaned audibly at the sight of a crumpled form lying motionless on the flagstones, pouring lifeblood in a crimson-black flowage down the smooth white stairs.

“Fallon!” he whispered, gently nudging the faithful servant with his nose. The elf’s eyes were open wide, but they saw nothing, and no faint breath rasped through a throat that had been cruelly sliced.

Ulfgang heard a heavy blow, a splintering of wood in the villa, and he raced across the plaza toward the shadowy alcove leading into the house. He saw an eyeless dwarf there, suppressed the instinctive growl that tried to rumble from his chest. Racing toward the enemy, he leapt.

But he did not see the second dwarf, the Delver crouching against the wall of the house. Nor did Ulfgang see the blunt-ended club of metal that whistled toward the sound of his approach.

His skull met the weapon with full force, and the white dog smashed into the ground. Once again metal struck downward, and Ulfgang knew nothing more.

T hey came from the darkness, moving in almost perfect silence. Still, the aged druid continued to listen to their approach. She had been admiring the sprouting plants in her small spice garden when she heard Fallon’s gasp of alarm, and then the shocking, gurgling sound of air bubbling through his slashed throat. Instantly knowing her faithful assistant was dead, Miradel had forced herself to put off her grieving, to think, to make a plan so that she might not meet the same fate.

But she was so old. It was work just to lift her arms, to weave her fingers through remembered patterns of magic. She heard the splintering of her door, a violent sound of crude power and arrogant destruction. The intruders were in the garden, pounding at the front entrance. How could she resist?

She moved toward the garden, following the connecting corridor behind the kitchen. Some remembered sense of power drove her motions, guided her crooked digits through the incantation. Hoping to conceal her location until the last minute, she whispered the words of power under her breath, virtually silent.

Even so, she sensed the intruders halt in their surreptitious movement, knew they were locating her by the faint noise of her breathy speech. But she had reached the garden, saw her objective glimmering in the starlight. She didn’t hesitate-instead, she spoke with growing force, tightened her hands into fists, pulled the threads of magic together until, in another instant, the spell was done. Advancing into the garden, she brought the power with her.

Immediately a roar like the pounding of a waterfall thundered from the basin in the midst of the garden. A figure rose there, a foaming, gray-limbed creature of liquid power. Water compacted into solid form, dropping one wave-tipped foot onto the ground, then another. The being rose far above the frail druid’s head, with two arms of ice-like silver and a face capped by white, frothy hair, marked by a whirlpool mouth and eyes as black as the limitless depths of the Worldsea. Looming like a mountain before her, the watery guardian turned toward the front door.

A moment later Miradel saw small, dark figures rushing around the garden. She backed away, conscious of her frail legs, the tenuous balance of her retreat. The intruders were fanning out to come at her from both sides, wicked metallic warriors with helmets covering their entire faces. Immediately, she knew these were the deadly Unmirrored Dwarves.

The water-creature lashed out, a clublike fist crushing a Delver to the floor, shattering the metal helmet and the skull beneath with a deadly hammer blow. More dwarves attacked, and the great foot kicked brutally, denting metal and crushing flesh and bone. She heard groans, sensed the fear as her attackers shrank back, hesitating.

“Go-drive them back!” Miradel ordered, her voice strong and commanding. The water creature took a step toward the door, and another, reaching to smash another dwarf to the floor.

But then sparks flashed through the darkness, stuttering and trailing to the floor. In the sudden brightness Miradel saw a stout female dwarf, her grotesque face revealed by a partially open helmet, raise a metal club. Red nostrils flared on this Delver, and magic pulsed through her arms and into the coppery shaft. The end of the weapon touched the water-creature, and abruptly the room flared into fiery brilliance. The guardian threw back its head, gurgling a sound of unmistakable pain. A second later, the being dissipated, cold water sloshing chaotically across the floor, running over limp Delvers, splashing past Miradel’s feet.