“That’s no guarantee that they’ll always stay away.” In fact, Natac too had noticed that the enemy troops had so far assiduously avoided the stretch of shore below Miradel’s villa. He drew little consolation from this observation, since it was something beyond his control, and a fact that could change at any time.
“This has been my home for hundreds of years,” the druidess declared. “Ever since I came here from the Seventh Circle… from our birth-world.” She looked at him directly and he nodded.
“I have plucked the Wool of Time. I am ready for the casting, if you want to see,” she said quietly.
“Is it finished yet?” he asked, looking at the door into the darkened viewing chamber.
“Soon… soon it will be over.”
It had become a place of horror for him, that room. Natac knew that he would have to go in there, to watch the final scene in a terrible story of violence and treachery, of theft on an incomprehensible scale, and of the end of the world that had been his home. But each time now, that watching, that remote observation, was a brutally agonizing affair.
Through the past few years, the warrior had observed the tragedy unfolding as an inexorable progression. He had insisted that Miradel show him every moment, each step in the destruction of everything he had left behind. The story held an intense, if horrifying, fascination. Unlike the people of his native land, he had some awareness of the power of European weapons, and he had at least a vague understanding of the invaders’ passion for gold. Furthermore, he had witnessed the power of European religion, in the belief in one god, in whose name works both good and evil were consecrated.
But he had been awed and enraged by the audacity of the man called Cortez. Natac had watched the captain general of conquistadores sink his own ships on the coast of Mexico so that his tiny army would have no means of retreat. Even as Natac hated them, he admired the Spaniards’ discipline in battle, felt the courage of a small force facing overwhelming numbers. The efficacy of metal armor against weapons of stone was proved and proved again, and he saw the sweeping power of a cavalry charge against men who, though they were bold warriors, had never seen horses.
His own Tlaxcalans, the bravest fighters in all the world, had waged a frenzied battle, a full day of fighting against the small band of invaders. Hundreds of warriors, including one of Natac’s sons, had perished during the savage fray. Cannons had roared fire and iron, and whole swaths of brave fighters fell. And at the end of that long and bloody day, only three of the conquistadores had been wounded-wounded-by the full might of the armies of Tlaxcala.
So his homeland had surrendered to Cortez, and now Tlaxcalan warriors fought under the command of Spanish masters, slowly choking a ring of death around the heart of the Aztec realm. In that army they had been part of the Aztecs’ destruction, but to Natac it was a hollow victory for, at the same time, they were helping to obliterate their own world. Now Moctezuma was dead, and a terrible pox-another gruesome weapon of the insurmountable invaders-had decimated the ranks of the surviving Mexicans.
Miradel lit her candle and once again the pictures played across the wall. The great temples and pyramids, structures that had risen like mountains into the sky above the Aztec capital, were already gone, razed by the deliberate pounding of Spanish guns. Most of the city was a ruin, and in the rest the defenders fought like madmen, and were slaughtered like dogs. Lancers charged on horseback, picking off any Aztec who showed himself. Arquebuses blasted lethal volleys, and each fortified building was simply smashed to rubble by thundering artillery. It would be a matter of days, Natac saw, before the world of the Aztecs and Tlaxcalans was gone, replaced by something he couldn’t imagine.
The picture began to fade, and he noticed that Miradel had drifted off to sleep, her head resting on her frail- looking hand. Gently the warrior lifted her up and carried her to her bed. He thought for a long time of simply carrying her away, taking her to the boat, but in the end he carried her to the same sleeping chamber-the room that held his first memories of Nayve-and laid her gently on the bed.
Fallon escorted him back to the stairway. Natac clasped the elf by the arm, then looked upward to see that the sun had just barely begun its descent toward daylight. It glowed as a star bright enough to cast a faint illumination on the flagstones of the courtyard, but the hillside below was still cloaked in shadow.
“Take good care of her,” said the warrior.
“Of course-now, make haste,” Fallon encouraged, and Natac nodded.
He trotted down the path, and quickly found the white dog sitting in a clump of underbrush. “Let’s go,” the warrior whispered.
“You go,” Ulf replied. “I think I’ll stay over here for a while, to keep an eye on things.”
Natac was touched. “Thanks, friend. I’ll feel better knowing that you’re here.”
“I’ve already spoken to Fallon about it-he’s quite a good cook, you know. He said he’d be delighted to keep me fed.”
Laughing quietly, Natac ruffled the dog’s fur with an affectionate pat. “You’ll eat better than most of us, I wager,” he said, before starting down the trail, directing his footsteps toward the Osprey, Circle at Center, and the war.
“C ome up here, where we can get a good view,” Karkald urged Tamarwind, gesturing toward the tall stone tower that flanked the end of the causeway. The dwarf had found his elven comrade on the harbor dock, where Tamarwind was inspecting the modifications to his caravel, the Swallow. Though the Lighten Hour already brightened the sky, the lakeshore and causeway were still illuminated by the coolfyre globes mounted on tall poles all across the area.
“I’ll come too,” said Deltan Columbine. The two elves followed the dwarf off the dock, to the base of the tower, then up the steep stairway ascending to the upper parapet. Finally they reached the top, Karkald pushing through the trapdoor to the upper rampart. From here the trio looked across the lake.
The detritus of war was all around. Masts jutted from the water where the last naval skirmish had carried the enemy almost to the shores of Circle at Center. These were like ghostly trunks in the growing light of day. Karkald looked at the steel-springed battery atop the tower, feeling a flush of pride. In the most recent fight, it had been the fireballs launched from here that had destroyed Sir Christopher’s lead galleys only two hundred yards from the harbor.
Both attacking armies were visible in their encampments across the lake. Sir Christopher’s Crusaders, now numbering some twenty thousand elves, centaurs, goblins, and giants, occupied more than a mile of the lakeshore. The surroundings, once pastoral forest, were now a barren landscape of muddy hills. Crude barracks huts dotted the slopes above the flat ground. A hulking structure of sooty stone crouched beside a muddy stream, black smoke billowing from its tall chimney.
Beyond, near the mouth of the Metal Tunnel, they saw the bristling barricade of the Delvers’ camp. During the hours of daylight, most Delvers remained in the darkness of the tunnel while others moved about only with elaborate precautions to ensure constant shade. At night, however, the Nayvian warriors had learned that there were no more savage fighters than the Unmirrored.
When the blind dwarves and the savage crusaders had first encountered each other twenty-five years earlier, it had taken only a few days before it became obvious to those in Circle at Center that Zystyl and Sir Christopher had formed an alliance. The two forces had linked in dire purpose, both dedicating themselves to the capture and destruction of the city, the island, and the Center of Everything. In a series of ensuing campaigns the attackers had closed the ends of both causeways, and destroyed many of the villages, harbors, and settlements on the shore of the lake. Though they had never made it onto the island for more than a quick raid, the enemy had developed a fleet of large, powerful galleys. The great ships were slow and cumbersome, but conversely they had proven virtually unstoppable in the attack. For at least a dozen years they had patrolled the waters of the lake with virtual immunity.
It had only been an interval ago when the fleet of Crusader galleys, fifteen ships strong, had attempted to land the largest raiding party of the war right on the shores of Circle at Center. Karkald’s batteries, completed only during the last year, had seen their first action, launching balls of incinerating shot into the massed galleys from the two closest towers. Five of the ships had burned completely, while the survivors had beat a hasty retreat.
“That bastard blacksmith’s forge is roaring,” Karkald grunted, pointing to the plume.
Tamarwind nodded, not surprised. For all the years since his capture, Darryn Forgemaster had apparently labored nonstop to provide the Crusaders with metal weapons. The druid had been scorned as a traitor by Karkald and many others, but the elven scout suspected that Darryn’s apparent betrayal had a deeper explanation. Still, it galled him to know that without the smith’s weapons and armor, the Crusaders would be less deadly foes.
