during her next intake of breath she saw the concern on Tam’s face, realized the hurt she would cause him, and Nistel, if they knew the truth of what had happened. Furthermore, she felt a sudden, engulfing shame that choked her throat and froze her tongue. She vowed that she would never reveal what Christopher had done to her, not to Tamarwind or anyone else.
“I… I could sense the power of his evil,” she began lamely, but then found more conviction as she continued. “He is the root of the violence in the Greens, in all of Nayve. If he didn’t kill Caranor and the other enchantresses, then the killers were his minions, operating under his orders.”
Even as she spoke, she formed the conviction in her mind: Christopher had certainly been the agent of Caranor’s death. She recalled the spark of worry she’d felt when she hadn’t been able to contact the enchantress through her seeing globe. Now that spark had grown into a blaze greater than any conflagration she could have imagined. And the knight would die, she vowed-but she would find a way to kill him with her own hand. It was not only a mistake, it was a great wrong, to expect Natac or someone else to do this task for her.
“He bears the Stone of Command, and is using it to bind the soft-willed among our people-and goblins, centaurs, and giants as well-to him. He tried to use the stone on me… I think it is only my long years as a sage that gave me the strength to resist.”
The others were still pondering her statement when they heard a soft sound from within the cave.
“Excuse me… Are you elves?”
Tam and Natac leaped to their feet, the warrior with his sword extended toward the shadows. Three figures moved slowly forward, to be gradually revealed as they approached the fire.
“Dwarves!” gasped Tamarwind Trak.
“And a goblin!” Nistel added, pointing at the figure that held back from its two companions.
The dwarf in the lead was heavily bearded, and carrying many items of equipment, including a spear that was pointed toward the ground. A thick rope was coiled from his shoulder to his hip, and a hammer and cleaver swung from his belt. Other less readily identifiable implements were slung from various parts of his tunic.
The other dwarf was a female, full-breasted with a pretty face that was quite round by elven standards. She carried a knapsack and several waterskins and strode confidently beside the male. When they paused near the fire, she took his arm in her hand.
The goblin grinned foolishly, at last coming around the dwarves so that he, too, could absorb some of the fire’s radiance. He nodded his big head atop its skinny neck, snuffled loudly, and then spoke to the dwarves.
“See. I tole ya. Here we are. Dis Nayve, I’m bettin’ fer sure.”
“I am Karkald and this is my bride, Darann,” said the bearded dwarf. “And this is Hiyram.”
“Did you come from the First Circle?” Belynda asked in wonder. There were no dwarves on Nayve, though the inhabitants of the Underworld were known from legend and the teachings of druids, who had observed them through the Tapestry. “How did you get here?”
“We climbed, at least we two dwarves did,” said the male. “For more cycles than we could count. Ever since the great quake.”
“The quake?” Tamarwind did some mental arithmetic. “We felt that here-that was five intervals, half of a year ago!”
“Intervals… ten per year,” Karkald mused. “They must be the same thing here as in the First Circle. We have forty cycles per interval… is that your pattern, too?”
“Forty days per interval,” Tam replied.
“Days are when you see the sun, right?”
Hiyram sighed. “I tole him about the sun, but he don’t believe… even saw it today, from cave.”
“It was terribly bright, even from inside,” Darann observed.
Belynda nodded. “Welcome to the Fourth Circle,” she said. “Please enjoy the warmth of our fire, and share our food.”
The three travelers wasted no time in sitting down, and were clearly famished-they ate as much bread as they were given, and quickly devoured the apples and dried meat that other elves, attracted by the visitors, brought over to the fire to share.
After they had eaten, the dwarves told their story. Karkald began bluntly.
“I regret to tell you that we bring warning of a grave threat to your world, an army on the march from our own circle, bringing the promise of violence and destruction.”
“You speak of the Unmirrored Dwarves, the Delvers?” asked Belynda.
“You guess correctly, wise elf. We fled the First Circle because of two things,” Karkald explained. “The attack of the Delvers, which drove us out of our home, and the destruction of Axial because of the quake.”
“Axial… gone?” asked Belynda. The great center of the Underworld was known to her only by reputation, but that reputation invariably labeled it as one of the great cities of the Seven Circles.
“At least… it looked like it disappeared,” Darann said, despair written across her features. “We could see the lights from the watch station, until the earthquake. Then there was just the darkness.
“And the Delvers were already on the march?” asked Natac.
Karkald replied. “They number in the thousands, and I believe their original objective was Axial. But in that they were thwarted by the great quake. Since then they have turned their march upward, through the midrock. We last saw them three or four cycles ago, and they did not have far to go before they reached the surface.”
“What are these Delvers like?”
“They wear armor of metal, and carry sharp blades in each hand. They fight shoulder to shoulder, and advance in an unstoppable line. Their master is an arcane called Zystyl.”
“What is an arcane?” Natac probed further.
“They are the cruelest, and mightiest, of the Unmirrored,” Karkald explained. “Arcanes are chosen for the talents of their senses… they are sightless, but possess the ability to feel the presence of living beings. There are tales that each arcane is tested at a young age… that they immerse their mouths and noses in molten steel. The effect layers the jaws in metal, and burns away the outer portion of the nostrils-presumably to enhance the creature’s sense of smell.”
“I only know that Zystyl is the most frightening thing I have ever seen,” Darann said with a shudder. “I thought of ending my own life when it seemed as though I would be his prisoner.”
It was a somber group of travelers that settled down for a few hours’ sleep, knowing that they would be back on the march even before the Lighten Hour. Tamarwind suggested that Belynda have the most comfortable bed they could find, a small, mossy niche between the burls of a great oak’s roots. Someone lent her a cloak she could use for a pillow, and Tam offered his poncho as a blanket. Nistel, Tamarwind, and Natac were all nearby.
In the darkness the sage-ambassador could not get warm, despite Tam’s heavy poncho. She shivered under the chill import of two grave threats now converging on her world. The future was as dark as the night, and seemingly equally dangerous.
Belynda tried to encourage herself. At least her testimony would force the Senate to confront the reality of the Crusaders. Nayve would have to take action! And the presence of the two dwarves would certainly provide evidence of their own story.
Even so, pain was everywhere in her body as she settled against the ground. And when she slept, too briefly, that pain twisted its way into her dreams, bringing nightmares that jolted her awake and left her trembling, anxiously praying for the sun.
T o Zystyl’s ear, the army of Delvers moved not so much with a cadence of marching feet as with the soft, scuffing slither made by thousands of leather soles. For this stretch Kerriastyn led the way so that the army commander could stand off to the side and experience the passage of this great horde.
First sense was in the sound, of course. For an hour he had relished the almost liquid noise made by the army’s passage. Considering their numbers, the Delvers were in reality very, very quiet. Occasionally a stone would rattle through the cavern, or a warrior would grunt or rasp for breath over a tricky part of the trail, but for the most part there was just that sibilant, dry rasp of moving feet.
And the smell of the army was a profound pleasure. The arcane absorbed every spoor, of sweat and grime, of urine and feces and blood and the hundred other taints that marked individuals and groups within the great mass of dwarves. If the sounds of his army established its vastness for the commander, then the smells individualized his men, brought them closer to him. Of course, he often reached out to touch the Unmirrored warriors as they passed-a pat on a shoulder, fingers stroked over an eyeless face, an arm firmly squeezed. Each contact provoked a
