Douglas Niles - Circle at center

The dagger glanced across the arcane’s nostrils and he tumbled to the floor and scuttled, crablike, away from the women. Other dwarves moved in, forming a protective circle, instinctively gathering to their injured leader.

“Let’s get out of here!” Belynda hissed, as Darann hesitated, obviously ready to pursue the wounded dwarf. But finally, reluctantly, the dwarfwoman turned and accompanied the sage-ambassador toward the wide gate and the bright daylight beyond.

They darted past a Delver who apparently sensed their presence and lashed out with his dagger. The dwarfwoman stabbed with her own blade and, with a groan, the Blind One fell back. A moment later they were outside, facing a long column of warriors marching off the Metal Causeway.

“Who are they?” Belynda asked, as she saw the metal-armored warriors surging onto the plaza.

“They look like… no, it’s impossible!” Darann gasped, then shouted in delight. “It’s my own people, the Seers of Axial-come here from the First Circle!”

E ach of the mobile batteries cast a single silvery sphere, the balls bouncing across the paving stones, rolling into the rank of Crusader elves who formed a barrier before the Nayvian onslaught. Knocking some of the elves out of the way, the spheres abruptly ruptured, spilling a spray of white liquid fire across everything within a dozen feet of the erupting missile. The flames were brilliant, difficult to watch even in bright daylight.

“Now-go!” shouted Natac.

Rawknuckle had already anticipated the command, responding instantly by leading his giants in a rush toward the elves who were scattering away from the lethal fires. Wounds and fatigue were forgotten as these veterans attacked with a fury that stunned and terrified their enemies.

Natac came behind, leading his whole army, riding a wave of savage joy, propelled by thousands of voices joining in a ground-shaking roar. Goblins whooped, gnomes cheered, and more fire bombs clattered and burst as the mobile batteries fired again. The warrior’s steel sword felt hungry in his hand, and he was ready to kill, braced for the shock of imminent battle.

But instead, the enemy troops scattered, breaking away even before the first shock of combat. Many of the Crusaders threw down their weapons and raised their hands, pleading for mercy. Others simply ran away, vanishing into the pavilion, along the city streets, or even splashing into the lake. Natac stopped before two Crusader elves who were looking around in confusion. They stood numb and silent as he took away their swords, and even as he ran on they stayed in place, like heavy sleepers awakening from a long nightmare.

“P apa!” Darann threw her arms around the shoulders of a burly, gray-bearded dwarf. Belynda found herself crying tears of delight as she watched the reunion, saw the rest of the Seer Dwarves pursuing the Delvers who frantically sought shelter in the tunnels under the Mercury Terrace.

Other Seers were looking around in wonder, or coming up to greet the woman from the First Circle. “These are my brothers!” Darann declared, delightedly hugging two muscular warriors who crushed her in a return embrace. The sage-ambassador received a rib-cracking hug from her friend’s father, and only barely heard the snatches of rapid explanation.

“Axial wasn’t destroyed-just cut off by a cave-in? I knew it!”

“… Delvers, here?”

“And we’re here, too! Karkald-Papa, he’s a hero! He brought coolfyre to Nayve, and showed the elves how to make batteries! We’d have lost the war without him.”

“We found the message left by you both,” the patriarch said. His eyes narrowed. “Your husband is well, then… he survived…?”

“He’s alive, somewhere over there,” Darann exclaimed breathlessly. Already the Nayvian troops were coming into view, rushing through the pavilion, rounding up the confused Crusaders who had lost all inclination to fight. “Karkald!”

The dwarf rushed up to them, his eyes frantic. “Darann! By the Goddess, I was so afraid… I though t…” He couldn’t complete his thought, instead wrapping his wife in a long-armed embrace.

“Ahem… Darann tells me you’re something of a hero.” The gray-bearded veteran spoke awkwardly, but his pride was obvious.

“No,” Karkald said sincerely. “Not really… it’s your girl, here. She’s the real hero!”

Belynda, holding the Stone of Command, uttered a silent prayer to the Goddess, thanking her for the victory. Then she went to look for Tamarwind.

T he tunnel led down, and Zystyl led the remnants of his force into the cool blackness. It was a narrow passage, but for now it promised escape.

“There are wells and mineshafts here, lord!” declared one of his underlings. “Routes the sun-lovers would never dare to follow.”

“Very well-keep going,” declared the arcane. Around him were the remnants of his army, but he could tell from the sounds and smells, and from the deeper auras of fury and despair, that many thousands of the Unmirrored still survived. “We shall seek escape in the tunnels under the Fourth Circle.”

And later, he would plan for revenge.

N atac and Karkald watched the Darken Hour settle over the lake. The crest of the distant hills still glowed bright even as the valleys, the streets and byways of the city, fell into thickening shadow. The two old veterans, joined by a shared sense of melancholy and reflection, had climbed to the top of the tallest battle tower, where they could look over Circle at Center and so much of Nayve.

Sounds of revelry reached them from the terrace, where the enemy’s pavilion had been torn down and thousands of elves, goblins, dwarves, giants, centaurs, and humans mixed in a frenzied whirl of dancing. Natac had seen Tamarwind and Belynda gliding like soaring birds, while Darann and Karkald had swung each other about with acrobatic enthusiasm.

“I’m thinkin’ I might be going back to the Greens,” Rawknuckle said after a period of comfortable silence. “I kind of miss the forests, you know… and the quiet.”

Natac nodded. He looked across the lake, toward the hilltop were he had once found something like a home. That place had no appeal now-it was instead a storehouse of haunting memories, physical reminders of the sorrow and misery that had come to this world with him.

“What about you?” the giant asked softly. “Going anywhere special?”

“No,” replied the warrior from Tlaxcala. “I think I’ll be here forever.”

The small village lay on the western shore of a great inland sea. The horizon-spanning lake was full of sweet, fresh water, home to trout and sturgeon, fertile feeding grounds for the two hundred people who dwelled in the long wooden lodges, who survived by the bounty of the lake and forest. They were part of a tribe calling themselves the Winnebago, and they were a clan of the vast nation known as the Algonquin.

Life and death had been experienced by these people, on this lake, for many generations. Mysteries had been pondered, discoveries made, and always fathers and mothers had tried to make the existence of their offspring just a little easier, a little safer and softer, than had been their own. Rites of many kinds had been practiced, and if none could claim to ultimate knowledge of the supernatural, people knew many rituals that made them feel better, and added a sense of continuity to their lives.

Now a man was embarked upon such a celebration. The proud father carried the little bundle of his newborn daughter, walking through the forest night until he came to a high bluff overlooking the water. The babe, a scarce six hours old, slumbered against his chest while he stared out at the freshwater sea, seeing the dark and misty surface slowly lighten, bluing in anticipation of the slowly rising run. For a time he sat and watched rosy dawn pale the sky, relishing the feel of the tiny body against his chest. Hopes and aspirations entered his mind, and he let them float away… for now, it was enough that there was new life, and that he could feel joy.