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.
More lightning crackled, a bolt of brightness that slashed across the front. Blinking his eyes against the residual glare, Natac saw that Cillia had again unleashed her elemental magic, this time scoring a bloody swath through no less than a hundred Crusaders. But as quickly as she cast the spell, she fell back and was again carried off by her assisting giant. Natac could only imagine the debilitating effect of this explosive enchantment, knew that they would have to win the battle with courage, sinew, and blood.
A band of fanatical enemy elves hurled themselves at the juncture between the gnome and goblin regiments. Owen stepped in to hold the breach, his great war hammer smashing back and forth, driving back the Crusaders in a tangle of broken limbs and bruised flesh. Natac cheered the human warrior, awed at the display of skill-until a spear snaked out from the elves to bury itself in the Viking’s brawny chest.
By the time Natac reached the scene, Owen lay in a pool of bloody gore and Fionn stood over his body, sobbing like a baby. Around the Irishman lay a scattering of Crusader corpses-obviously Fionn had already avenged his friend.
Gasping for breath, the Tlaxcalan looked for another enemy, an elf or a giant, any of Sir Christopher’s lackeys upon whom to exact his own vengeance.
But gradually he noticed that there was a strange respite to the battle. The Crusaders were not pressing the attack along the line, instead drawing back to regroup, tighten their ranks, regard the defenders from a short distance away.
And they were waiting.
You must break through in the center-be the tip of the blade, and slice into our enemy’s flesh!
Zystyl’s groping thoughts found Kerriastyn, entered her mind in the midst of the fray, and now he sent her his command.
Master, I shall.
His own senses absorbed the violent urges of a thousand dwarves, felt the will of his lieutenant as she summoned the Delvers to her side. Zystyl remained safely in the rear, vicariously relishing the sensations of battle. The Blind Ones formed a tight wedge, as the companies of their allies fell away to either side. The enemy was a hot image of blood and the promise of glory, a sensation etched in the awareness of every one of the Unmirrored.
In moments a phalanx of steel had formed around Kerriastyn, and Zystyl felt its weight, its power in his own mind. Tightly packed, with shields and weapons ready, they waited for the command.
Go. Kill. Win.
He felt the rush of anticipation as Kerriastyn commenced the advance, sensing that she drove into the joint between the goblins and gnomes. Beyond, straight as an arrow piercing directly into the city’s guts, the Avenue of Wood offered easy access to the Center of Everything.
F or a moment, Natac thought that the lull indicated a real halt to the enemy onslaught. He momentarily considered ordering a sudden counterattack, but quickly saw that his troops were too fatigued, too shocked and frightened and plainly exhausted, to make more than a token effort. Better to let them breathe, drink water, recover spirit and morale while they pondered the knowledge that they had checked the enemy’s most vigorous attack ever.
Yet even before this fact could sink in, Natac saw the Delvers gathering in the center of the enemy rank. Great dark files of armored dwarves moved through the night, gathering in a mass directly before him. They formed with precision and discipline so that within a few minutes a huge rank of sturdy fighters faced the center of the Nayvian line. As if in response to some unspoken command, they started forward, black breastplates and blank face masks arrayed in a wall of steel. Each Delver carried two knives, and these blades were extended forward, whirling back and forth in rhythmic cycles. Natac was forced to admire the way that the dwarves in the middle advanced, outer ranks joining in until the formation marched like a great spearhead, a triangle with the tip pointed directly between the gnomes and goblins.
Where Natac stood. He took comfort from knowing that Fionn stood at his left and Tamarwind at his right. Nistel and Hiyram shouted encouragement to their troops, and Natac was further heartened as those great formations stood firm in the face of the deliberate, measured attack.
Some innate sense of discipline guided the blind fighters toward the defenders, and rank after rank of savage, armored dwarves rushed forward. Their weapons whirled like scythes, and they came at the Nayvians like a deadly and purposeful killing machine.
Natac knocked away the blades of a pair of eyeless dwarves, slicing through their metal shirts with the point
