Douglas Niles - Circle at center

The course was set, the speed fantastic, as the little sailboat-with its sharp metal prow-angled toward the hull of the massive galley. The wind in the distance was a moaning howl, and whitecaps lashed the lake around the Osprey, swelling the sails with powerful pressure. The captain of the galley obviously recognized the danger, as the big ship started a slow turn, wheeling in an attempt to meet the audacious attack head-on. But the galley was too slow, barely starting to swerve as the Osprey, like some deadly missile, raced into the inevitable collision.

The impact against the hull of the galley was a thunderous crunch, accompanied by a flash of fire and an explosive concussion. Timbers flew, and the Osprey vanished in the instant of destruction. A moment later the galley, fatally holed, was settling into the water, sinking quickly by the bow.

B y the time Karkald climbed to the top of the tower the sun was receding. He found Natac staring expressionlessly across the lake, where smoke still smudged the water. The dwarf’s first reaction was that the raft was horribly close, already through the patch of lake where so many elven ships had died. The surviving caravels were limping back to port, several of the damaged ships being towed by their full-masted comrades.

“I’ve given Gallupper a few instructions,” Karkald said. “I don’t want to use him unless we have to, but this new invention might work.”

“I’ll leave that to you, then,” Natac said. The dwarf was surprised-he had expected the army commander to make some inquiry, probe a bit to find out about the new device. Instead, the human warrior stared into the growing darkness.

“How many died out there?” Natac asked after a moment’s silence. “Roland, for certain… and brave captains, and young sailors… sons and daughters. And still they come. Are we doomed, like Mexico?”

Karkald cleared his throat. He knew the tale of the conquest-Natac frequently used it as a lesson for all of his lieutenants. But he couldn’t think of an encouraging reply.

“Or like my Yellow Hummingbird… is there no point to any of this?” the warrior continued. Karkald didn’t understand the question, but he wasn’t going to ask for an explanation.

As darkness thickened, the two veterans looked at each other. “The war still comes, closer every minute,” Natac noted.

“And we’re drawing close to the Delver Hour,” Karkald said grimly.

“Are you ready?” the human asked.

“Almost,” Karkald replied. “I’m going to go up the street and talk to Darann for a moment-make sure she’s safe, let her know what’s happening. I’ll be back here before those bastards touch ground.”

T he great raft moved with stately, implacable force. Zystyl felt the progress with his feet, and with every other sense, just as he could feel the full darkness of Nayve’s night. The lightless air was a cool embrace, wonderfully soothing against his skin. He rode near the center of the flat surface, under a metal roof that protected him from the rays of the sun, and from the flaming missiles that the city’s defenders hurled with such vexing persistence. Awnings had covered the Delvers during the day, but now these had been taken down as, with the Hour of Darken past, the Unmirrored were ready to go into battle.

Zystyl tried to get a sense for the location of the enemy ships, the causeway, and the city, but in the chaos of battle noise it was too confusing to try and determine ranges by sounds. And any echo he cast would have been instantly swallowed in the clamor.

“How far to the shore?” demanded the Delver of a nearby giant.

“Five hundred paces.”

“And the causeway?”

“The same distance to the side, Lord Blind One.”

Zystyl stiffened, hearing the insolence in this Crusader’s tone. Yet this was not the time for a confrontation.

“Make ready to attack. I will have this city ablaze before Lighten.”

R awknuckle plucked another arrow from his shoulder and bellowed in anger as he snapped the missile like a twig and tossed the pieces into the lake. The shower of arrows from the raft had pelted his company the whole grueling march back to the city. Every one of the giants was bleeding from dozens of wounds, and several had been blinded, or had collapsed from loss of blood.

The Crusader giants were pursuing them steadily, but seemed content to hold back a few dozen paces, just far enough to ensure that they didn’t fall into the scatter range of the massive volleys launched from the raft.

The elven archers had already made it back to the city, Rawknuckle was relieved to see. The surviving giants broke into a lumbering run, hurrying along the causeway toward the welcoming shelter of the two great towers erected on the island’s shore. Many elves had fallen, and their bodies remained on the causeway, but the gruesome obstacles didn’t slow the retreating giants.

And then the giant chieftain stumbled to a halt, staring down at the road in shock. A body lay before him, face down. It was one of many elves who had perished on this retreat, but this one was marked by a broken harp jutting upward from his pack. Slowly, reluctantly, Rawknuckle turned the body over.

It was Deltan Columbine. The archer and poet lay on the road, pierced by a dozen arrows. His blood formed a circle around him, a great pool of drained life that seemed too red, too rich, to have flowed from this lifeless form.

“Where’s Darann?” Karkald pushed his way through the rank of gnomes, shouting his question, roughly shoving several of the rotund warriors aside. Ignoring their howls of protest, he made his way to Fionn, grabbing the Irishman by his arm and pulling him roughly around. “Have you seen Darann?”

“Your wife?” Fionn scowled, and gestured to the raft gliding inexorably closer, the armored prow separated from the shore by a steadily narrowing gap of water. “Shouldn’t you be thinkin’ about them, right now?”

Karkald turned around in anguish, then looked down at the note in his hand.

I’m sorry-if I fail, you will not see me again. But if I succeed, our lives have hope of a new, bright future.

He had found the paper in their apartment, when he had gone there earlier in the day. She could not have been expecting him, would have left the message thinking that he wouldn’t discover it at least until after the imminent battle.

Now she was gone, but where? And she spoke of success or failure, but he didn’t even know what task she had undertaken. How could she influence the future, change the course of history? She was only one person-his wife, of course, but she was not even a warrior.

His eyes turned to the lake, which he could clearly see across the plaza. The raft was surging closer-in minutes the fight would reach the very shores of the city. He imagined the teeming ranks of Unmirrored and Crusaders, their twin captains of evil. Karkald had seen the Knight Templar in battle, knew his fearsome powers of command. Furthermore, he vividly remembered Zystyl, with terrifying memories of the two instances where he had come so close to capturing Darann.

And with that memory he understood what his wife was trying to do. By the Goddess, she had suggested the thing to him a few days before! Instead of listening, he had rebuked her, forbidden her to discuss it, only to have her ignore him.

Pretty much as he had ignored her, he realized. He stared at the raft, knew that Zystyl was there, that somehow Darann was going to try to reach him, attack him. Of course she would fail-the villainous Delver was too well protected, both by his allies and by the power of his own arcane senses. Her courage awed him, even as the futility and waste of her actions infuriated him.