Douglas Niles - Circle at center

Again he was aware of movement around him. Trumpets blared and signals dipped. Several elven companies filed out of side streets and courtyards, forming lines of spears across the routes from the waterfront. A small unit of giants, many of them bandaged and limping, took up arms at the very fringe of the Mercury Terrace, which looked to be in the center of the raft’s landing frontage. Great gaps in the line yawned to the right and left of the giants, extending along the shore toward the causeway, and opening across much of the terrace.

Around Karkald the gnomes whispered nervously, pulling together into a knot of bristling beards and wide-eyed stares. “We’ll be ready for ’em, you bet!” Nistel declared cheerfully, his voice cracking on the last word.

Then, even more amazing, the dwarf saw the command flag dip, knew immediately what Natac had ordered. Fionn and Nistel recognized the signal at the same time. The human uttered a whoop, while Blinker raised his voice to shout orders to his fellow warriors.

And the Gnome Regiment started forward.

N atac trotted across the Mercury Terrace, a hundred paces back from the lakeshore. He was making his way from unit to unit, checking readiness for the battle, knowing there was little time left. The raft surged closer with an almost animal eagerness, pushing ripples of water out of the way, forcing wavelets against the rocky shore. The front of the craft was a wooden wall high enough to conceal any Delvers behind it, as well as most of the Crusaders except for the giants. Some of those hulking warriors hurled boulders at the plaza, sending big stones clattering through the Nayvians who stood ready to meet the attack. But those companies bore the bombardment stoically, and even the skittish gnomes avoided panic when a rock tore through the tight ranks and scattered the diminutive warriors like tenpins. Druids tended those who were injured, while other gnomes hastened to fill the gap left in the line. A howling sound rose along the waterfront, and abruptly lake water surged against the raft, splashing and foaming, driven by a sudden and unnatural wind. Dozens of druids stood amid the defenders, and in unison they called upon their power to raise a small gale. The raft staggered to a halt as larger and larger waves churned against the blunt prow, rising in cascades of spray to wash over the troops huddled behind the walls.

At the same time black clouds roiled overhead, gathering in the center of the defensive position. Natac could see Cillia, mistress of druids, handmaiden to the Goddess Worldweaver herself, holding a wooden staff over her head and chanting sounds of deep magic. The dark mass of cloud churned and billowed upon her command, and suddenly tongues of orange fire blasted from the tenebrous belly of the stratus, gouging and crackling along the face of the raft.

Natac halted in his tracks, watching awestruck as lightning bolts exploded, one after the other, against the face of the raft. Each time the druid gestured with her staff another blast erupted from the cloud, smashing against the wall and tearing away great chunks of the wooden barrier, forcing the huge craft, by inches, away from the shore. Bolts of lethal energy sizzled into the packed troops, burning and searing, killing in great swaths. But still the raft pushed, rising and surging with that almost sentient eagerness to reach land. For a long interval the two forces battled, with countless attackers charred and blasted by lightning, great pieces of the raft exploding away or burning furiously. The warrior allowed himself to hope that magic alone might hold the enemy at bay.

But no human could sustain such an outpouring of strength, and finally Cillia lowered her arms, dropped the staff from numb fingers. She swayed weakly and was caught by a nearby giant before she fell to the ground.

And in the absence of the lightning strikes, the raft surged forward with renewed speed. Despite the gusting winds, the craft floated into the shallows, the blunt prow crushing through the marshy fringe of shore, shuddering slightly as the massive transport was firmly grounded. Volleys of arrows, launched by unseen archers in the center of the raft, showered the defenders. The wooden wall at the front of the attackers’ vessel-except where it had been blasted away by lightning-suddenly toppled forward, dropping into the shallow water to form a ramp leading from the deck of the raft to the shoreline of Circle at Center. Immediately, roars and shouts emerged from thousands of throats, and the Crusaders and Delvers rushed into the attack.

The enemy giants were the first to charge ashore, followed immediately by swarms of Crusader elves, and then the masses of goblins, centaurs, and Unmirrored Dwarves who spilled into the attack. Howling madly, smashing weapons against their shields to increase the level of the din, the whole army surged toward the Nayvian defense. Giants strode through the shallows, knocking aside brave elves who tried to stand at the water’s edge.

“Bring your left up!” Natac shouted to Hiyram, who tried to yelp orders to thousands of goblins organized into three long ranks.

On the other end of the line Owen roared his commands. Hundreds of goblin voices yodeled agreement, though an equal number of the flop-eared warriors looked askance at each other, and at the swarm of attackers.

“Stand here!” cried Natac, waving his sword and turning his back to the approaching enemy. He tried to meet the goblins’ eyes, to force them to acknowledge his presence and his authority. He was somewhat surprised to see the big regiment stabilize, fists clutching weapons, faces marked now by determined snarls.

The Nayvian warriors formed a line at the shore, but there were too few of them to stem the tide. Natac rushed to help, charging into a gap and standing alone with his steel sword flashing back and forth in the direction of suddenly hesitant giants. One of the huge Crusaders swung a big club, but the human ducked under the blow and then stabbed upward, piercing his enemy’s guts with the razor of steel. But moments later he saw that the giants had ruptured the defensive line in several places. Centaurs raced through the gaps, charging toward the companies of brave elves who tried to resist.

A quick glance showed that the Gnome Regiment was in place, a rank of the short warriors forming a solid wall of shields, bristling with big knives. As the attackers rushed forward the gnomes stood firm, meeting the weight of the heavier enemy troops with sturdy stances and a rank packed so tightly it proved to be all but immobile. As the elves and goblins reeled back, a few giants tried to create a breach, and Natac watched in astonishment as each of the brawny warriors toppled like felled trees, hulking bodies vanishing into the melee.

A look in the other direction, however, showed him that more and more of the goblins were backing away. One turned on his heel, big ears flapping as he started to sprint away.

“You there-Ratlock!”

Owen’s voice cut through the fight and froze the cowardly warrior in his tracks. “Stay there-be a man, not a worm!” demanded the Viking. He strode along the rank, glaring at the scruffy, pot-bellied troops. One after another the quailing goblins started to swell, to swagger, and make ready for battle.

“All goblins-dress your lines!” Again the Viking shouted, striding back and forth before the line, his back to the enemy. The warriors hastened to obey, apparently more frightened of their captain than of the teeming enemy.

And moments later, when the rush of Crusaders spilled past the gnomes and smashed up against the goblin wall, that regiment, too, stood firm.

The Tlaxcalan raised his sword and led a contingent of elves forward. He slashed to the right, cutting a giant’s hamstring, then plunged forward to disembowel a rearing centaur. Beside him Tamarwind Trak thrust with his own steel, dropping a goblin by piercing his heart. Everywhere fighters cut and slashed, banged, bled, and died, and across the whole breadth of the plaza the Nayvian defenders held firm and the attackers milled about in a packed mass of confusion.