Douglas Niles - Circle at center

“Proof!” repeated Zystyl, his voice rising hysterically. “You touch in my presence.”

“It was the witch!” cried Christopher. He backed away, reaching under his shirt to pull out the white stone on its golden chain. He clutched it in his hand, eyes wild as he regarded his ally with growing fear.

“Do not think you can flee!” declared Zystyl. He uttered no other words or sounds that Belynda could tell, but several other Delvers advanced, apparently summoned by some unseen, unheard command.

“Halt!” cried Sir Christopher. “All of you dwarves-stay where you are!”

Surprisingly, the Blind Ones ceased their advance, several twisting in place as if their feet had been glued to the floor.

“You will stay here,” Christopher shouted, clutching the stone with a white-knuckled grip. “Leave me in peace-”

A sudden, violent blow interrupted the knight as Darryn Forgemaster struck him from behind. Christopher twisted and fell, trying to strike back at the enraged blacksmith. The smith clawed at the knight, reaching for his throat, grunting inarticulately. The white stone, held by its chain, slipped from Christopher’s fingers as he drew a dagger and drove the blade again and again into the chest of the smith.

A second later Darryn collapsed onto the floor, swaying weakly on his hands and knees as crimson lifeblood spurted from a wound in his breast. Sir Christopher, still wielding the bloody dagger, scrambled to his feet, stood over the man who had served him so well, raising the blade for a killing strike. The stone on its golden chain swung loosely against him, tangled in the strands of his beard, apparently forgotten.

But now the Delvers were moving, a half dozen of the blind dwarves rushing in, grabbing the knight by his legs and arms, dragging him down. In seconds the man’s limbs were bound, and his fear-maddened attention had returned to the hideous dwarf who had once been his ally.

“I tell you-the witch is lying!” shrieked Sir Christopher, struggling vainly against Zystyl’s bonds.

Darryn Forgemaster lay dead, his blood already congealing on the slick paving stones. His eyes were open, staring sightlessly, and the sage-ambassador wished she could close them, could bring the man, at long last, some peace. But she was still held by another Delver.

Belynda turned to look at Christopher, watching coldly. This was her moment, her triumph-and though it would be the last thing she saw in her life, she would bear witness to the death of this monstrous creature who had so unspeakably violated her.

Yet why, then, could she take no pleasure in the victory?

The sky over the Mercury Terrace was an angry red, fiery and full of smoke, unlike any sky Natac had ever seen on Nayve. He watched from the balcony of the old Iron Gallery, the building that had served as his headquarters. Tamarwind and Karkald were here with him, not talking for now, just watching the growing daylight illuminate the scene. Rawknuckle Barefist and Fionn had just departed, and Natac could see them making their way forward along the crowded street, moving among the waiting troops, encouraging and steadying by their very presence.

Around the lakeshore terrace teemed tens of thousands of Crusaders and Delvers, the latter gathering in the shadows below buildings and trees as the sun descended toward full Lighten. Vast, tentlike shelters had been raised, casting much of the terrace into protective shade for the blind dwarves. Below Natac’s position he could see the massive blocks of his own warriors, gnomes and goblins waiting restively in the city’s streets. After their valiant stand on the terrace he knew that, when the enemy attacked, the big regiments would again be ready to fight.

On the flanks of the gnomes and goblins waited the remnants of his elven and giant forces, while directly below Natac’s balcony Gallupper and his small detachment of centaurs and horse-riders waited beside a trio of Karkald’s newest weapon. The mobile batteries were each mounted on a carriage between a pair of large wheels. From above they looked like huge crosses, with steel springs coiled back and small magazines full of silver shot waiting for the release of the trigger.

“Natac!” The shout was barked from the street with unmistakable urgency, and the warrior looked down to see a white dog racing toward the building.

“Ulfgang-up here!” he called, and was immediately seized with a sense of terrible apprehension. He tried to shake off the feeling, suggesting that he was only remembering when Ulf had brought him the news of Miradel’s death, but found that he was barely breathing as the dog leaped up the outer stairway, arriving on the high balcony after a half dozen long bounds.

Natac met him at the top of the stairs, kneeling. “What is it?” asked the man.

The dog’s brown eyes met his, and he saw the sadness there, an emotion that grew to despair as Ulf lifted his head to look at Tamarwind and Karkald. “It’s about Darann and Belynda,” he said. “They’ve gone!”

Tamarwind gasped and Karkald grunted a bitter, inarticulate sound. “I knew it!” the dwarf exclaimed. “Did they…?” He couldn’t seem to finish the question.

Ulfgang nodded, clearly understanding. “They went by magic into the enemy camp. They will try and kill Zystyl and Sir Christopher, and steal away with the Stone of Command.”

B elynda stared into the gaping, gory sockets that had once held Sir Christopher’s eyes. There was no movement there, no indication of vitality save for the blood that still seeped slowly onto the floor. At last he was dead.

The killing had taken a very long time. Zystyl had been content to let his whole army stand idle for the rest of the night, while he took his vengeance on his former ally. After taking the Stone of Command from the terrified knight, the arcane had ordered his prisoner secured between two massive pillars. With obvious relish the Unmirrored Dwarf had proceeded to demonstrate the full scope of his fiendish skill. No minute source of pain, no excruciating technique for inflicting agony, had been bypassed in slowly, gradually bringing the human warrior to a quivering, pain-racked end.

The sage-ambassador, her hands now confined behind her by a length of supple chain, had watched it all. Seeing the knight bleed, listening to him scream, beg, whimper through the hours, finally observing the gory, eyeless mess that he became, she had felt strangely detached from the scene, the experience. She knew that this had been her goal, her purpose in life for the past twenty-five years, and yet now she was untouched by the fulfillment of that objective. Her enemy’s agony had been like a living thing, some grotesque serpent writhing and dancing for her pleasure, a performance enacted with her as the only seeing member of the audience-and yet she could find no shred of satisfaction in the watching.

The sage-ambassador knew that it would be her turn next, and that knowledge was vaguely depressing, but not terrifying. She was too tired even for dread, too drained to grasp the horror she knew she should be feeling. For some reason she thought, instead, of Tamarwind, regretting the curt way she had sent him off the last time she had seen him. He deserved better, she knew, and she was sad that she hadn’t realized it sooner. Ironically, that regret was the strongest emotion she felt right now.