Douglas Niles - Circle at center

The big warrior cursed as he plucked a missile from his hamstring, then snorted in disgust as another pricked his cheek, nearly taking his eye. Beside him Forestcap, a rugged specimen who had joined the company at its inception twenty-five years before, howled in rage as a volley of deadly barbs rendered his arms and shoulders into an approximation of a porcupine. Rawknuckle offered his old comrade a brawny arm and aided him limping backward, crossing the islet as the Crusaders rushed forward.

“The green flag is up-Natac is calling us back!” shouted a giant. The chieftain took the time to glance toward the city, ensuring that his comrade’s eyes were not being deceived, and he, too, saw the signal to retreat.

Bellowing for the rest of his giants to follow, seeing that Deltan’s company was already hastening toward Circle at Center, Rawknuckle Barefist led his bloodied company in a hasty withdrawal along the causeway.

D arann went to Belynda’s chambers and was surprised to find that the outer door was closed and locked. Still, the dwarfwoman knocked without hesitation. She was startled when, without perceptible sound, the portal glided open to reveal an empty antechamber.

“Come in, Darann.” Belynda’s voice flowed from the main room, and the dwarf followed the sound down the short hallway. She found the sage-ambassador and another elf she recognized by her silver robe as a sage-enchantress. There was a third chair, currently empty, beside them.

“This is Quilene,” Belynda said. “She is the greatest of our enchantresses.”

“And you’ll help us?” Darann asked, taking the elfwoman’s hand.

“I will,” Quilene replied.

“We were expecting you,” said Belynda, gesturing to the extra chair.

“But how did you know I was coming tonight?” asked Darann as she joined them.

“Because we share your purpose… and we all sense that time is growing short,” the sage-ambassador said, looking directly into the dwarfwoman’s eyes. Darann felt as though she were laid naked, bared even beyond her skin. She settled into her seat with a sense of warmth and belonging, a lightening of the lowering cloud that had been hanging over her.

“So tell me,” she began, relieved enough to speak bluntly. “How are we going to save Circle at Center?”

“The battles that rage with such endless repetition are fruitless,” Quilene began. “At best they are short-term exercises in courage that, perhaps, will win us a little more time. At worst, they are a waste of lives-the lives of bold defenders, and the lives of misguided attackers who, all unwitting, have become the tools of evil. And no matter how many of those attackers are killed, they are only nettlesome pinpricks, tiny blows against the body of a beast that must be killed by a strike to that brain.”

“And that brain is in two parts-Sir Christopher, and Zystyl,” Darann said grimly.

“Two parts linked by a single soul. I don’t know if either of you realize it,” Quilene said, “but the real key to the enemy’s destruction lies in the Stone of Command.”

“There’s the blue flag-make sail!” cried Tamarwind, who had been watching Natac’s command post as the mist-shrouded Lighten began to grow into full daylight.

Within seconds wind gusted into the sails of each caravel. Tam felt the deck shift slightly underfoot as the vessel quickly, smoothly gained speed. Juliay whirled her spoons, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her skill was proved again as the Swallow, by a nose, pulled out in the lead of her sister ships.

The other eleven caravels raced to either side, white wakes frothing back from the narrow prows. Tamarwind stood next to the battery, peering across the lake at the vast expanse of the enemy raft. He tilted his head back, spotted his lookout perched high in the rigging.

“What can you see?” the elf shouted.

“They’re falling back on the causeway-that raft must have a thousand archers on it!”

“Let’s burn ’em out of there!” retorted Tamarwind with a fierce grin. He turned and hollered along the line of ships. “We’re taking the war to them!”

Druids worked at their posts below the after masts of each of the caravels. Elven sailors worked their lines, climbed into the rigging with bows and arrows, or lined the gunwales with weapons drawn while the humans continued their magical casting, windspoons stirring the wooden bowls, local gusts of air filling out the sails, propelling the nimble ships across the lake.

All around Tamarwind sails strained as the twelve valiant caravels surged toward the battle. A smaller hull streaked just to starboard, and Tam grinned at Roland, seeing that the steel-prowed Osprey accompanied the fleet. “Just stay out of the way!” the elf shouted cheerfully.

Roland waved back with a quick gesture of his wooden spoon, then returned his full attention to sailing. Unlike the captains of the larger caravels-who employed a helmsman at the wheel in addition to the wind-caster-the druid shipbuilder raised his wind with one hand, whirling the spoon through the bowl with swift precision, while he held the tiller of the sailboat clenched in the fist of the other. Even so, the nimble Osprey bobbed and glided amid the larger craft, keeping pace with no difficulty.

For the first time, Tam turned his attention to their enemy. He felt a momentary puzzlement as he looked across the lake, for he had been told the raft was quite big and yet he could see no sign of their enemy-there was just a stretch of shoreline before him. And then he realized that the shore was moving.

“It’s huge!” breathed a crewman, coming to the same realization.

“Let’s trim it down to size, then,” Tamarwind declared, suppressing his own misgivings. In truth, he had to wonder how much damage they could inflict on the massive raft. He felt like one of a few mosquitoes who had been sent to sting an elephant to death.

Nevertheless, each ship, with wind filling the sails and a white wake frothing from the hull, turned toward the attack. Tamarwind’s Swallow soared in the lead as the whole fleet swept in from the direction of metal.

“Fire the batteries-now!” cried the elven commander, his order underscored by the trumpeter’s blare.

Springs snapped and the ships lurched from the force of the launch. Sunlight glinted on orbs of steel as all the caravel batteries lobbed their shot toward the enemy. Most of the globes clattered onto the raft, and Tam immediately saw columns of smoke churning into the air. At least a dozen fires sprang into life across the deck and the elven captain felt a simultaneous flaring of his own hopes. If they could destroy that raft, sink it into the lake, they would annihilate a great portion of the enemy forces. Could it be that the knight had given them this opportunity?

But as quickly as his hopes ignited they were doused, like the splashing waves that spilled through great slots in the deck of the raft. Here and there Delvers and Crusaders shrieked and died, burned by the caustic flare of Karkald’s missiles. But the flames that might have ignited the deck quickly fizzled away. Some of the crewmen took up buckets or manned huge, bellows-driven pumps, directing sprays of water on every budding conflagration and thoroughly dousing the larger fires. Other Crusaders flocked to the gunwales of the raft. Volleys of arrows darkened the sky, the missiles tearing into the sails, thunking into the decks and hulls of the valiant caravels, here and there piercing elven crewmen.

Tamarwind remained undaunted. He signaled his helmsman to make a hard turn to port, and braced himself as the deck heeled and the caravel carved a tight arc into the water’s surface. Following his lead, the other captains mirrored the Swallow’s maneuver, sweeping in unison away from the huge raft. Meanwhile, the elven gunners worked hard to crank back the springs and load another salvo of ammunition, readying the batteries for another shot.