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.
Her thoughts returned to the present, and to her immediate future. It was true at last: Sir Christopher was dead. That was the thing she had wanted, the goal that had risen before her, more important than anything else. She had watched him die, and his passing had been as brutal as any being could have imagined. Why, then, didn’t she feel something, anything, more than this ennui that so deadened her now? Surely horror, anger, frustration- some kind of powerful emotion-should be arising within her.
The room in the great pavilion was filled with Delvers, and she could see from the illumination in the halls beyond that Lighten had come, the sun descended to full brightness. The dwarves were restive, cramped and confined in here. Already the faceless helmets were turning toward her, with silent but ominous attention. Zystyl, meanwhile, stood over Christopher’s mangled corpse, pacing a slow circle around the remains of his victim. The arcane was fondling the Stone of Command, swinging it from its golden chain, obviously assessing its power and capabilities.
Suddenly she heard a commotion, shouts of alarm and cries of warning. Trumpets blared outside the pavilion, a brassy, rising sound that was unlike anything Belynda had heard from either the Nayvian army or their enemies. Weapons clashed as fighting erupted in many places, with some of the violent engagements right outside the main hall.
“We’re attacked! From the causeway!” Delvers shouted the warning, scrambling to gather weapons, to garrison the doors of the pavilion. Instinctively, Zystyl seemed to seize control of the situation-the arcane didn’t speak, but his flaring nostrils turned this way and that, his hands made curt gestures that were translated into actions by his rushing troops. Despite their blindness, the Unmirrored moved with discipline and precision, forming ranks across the numerous entrances to the makeshift shelter.
Only then did Belynda realize that the Delvers were turning their attention toward the lake, as if a new enemy approached from their rear. She recalled the sounds of alarm-“an attack from the causeway.” But an attack by what, by whom? Had the Crusaders turned on their allies? Belynda doubted that-it was not likely, not while Zystyl held the Stone of Command. But who was the new enemy?
The sage-ambassador felt a tug on her hands, which remained bound behind her. Perhaps she would die now-fortunate to be killed quickly at the onset of battle, spared the anguish she had just seen inflicted on the Knight Templar. She froze, waiting for the cut of a knife, the blow of some blunt weapon.
“This way! Quickly!”
The voice in her ear was no Delver. Instead, she recognized the sound of her companion-Darann had found her! Belynda’s arms came free as the dwarfwoman somehow unfastened the chain, allowing the freed prisoner to stumble back. Expecting an alarm, the sage-ambassador saw that the Unmirrored seemed fully occupied responding to their leader’s commands. Hand in hand, the two women darted away from Zystyl, picking their way past the blind, milling dwarves, making for the escape promised by a nearby doorway.
“W e’ve got to attack!” Karkald said, frenziedly speaking to Natac. “Fight our way into their pavilion, right now! It’s the only chance she’s got!”
“If you won’t lead the charge, I will!” Tamarwind added, his face twisted by anguish and fear.
“That’s enough of that!” Natac snapped. “Yes, we will charge-but let’s do it right!”
“Hurry!” cried the dwarf, leaping down the stairs. Natac followed him and quickly found Gallupper.
“Yes, Warrior Natac?” said the centaur, with a crisp salute.
“Your mobile batteries-I want you to wheel them to the edge of the terrace, and start shooting. Punch a hole in those Crusaders lined up over there. Rawknuckle!”
“Yes?” The giant was there, with two dozen of his fellows. They were bandaged and battered, but their grim expressions and ready weapons clearly indicated their willingness to attack.
“As soon as the batteries have cleared a path, I want you to charge into the breach. The rest of us will be right behind-but you need to try and get to the pavilion. Belynda and Darann are in there. We’re going to try and bring them out!”
“It will be a pleasure,” promised the big warrior, his voice an anticipatory growl. “You can count on us.”
“General Natac! Look at this! You’ve got to see!”
The cry came from one of the lookouts still on the balcony overhead. Seeing that his troops were moving into position for the attack, Natac raced up the stairs and looked over the teeming plaza, past the awnings and buildings of the enemy pavilion, to the causeway beyond.
“What is that?” Natac asked, squinting into the distance.
A column of warriors, sunlight glinting off their steel caps and metal breastplates, was marching across the causeway. They seemed to be emerging from the Metal Tunnel, far away on the mainland, and the file was so long that it clearly included many thousands of warriors. His first thought was that the Crusaders were receiving overwhelming reinforcements, but then-seeing the way the enemy troops scrambled to get a line of defense set across the end of the road-he deduced these were not additional allies of the invaders.
“Let us go now!” came the plea from below. He looked down to see Gallupper rearing, pawing the pavement and snorting eagerly.
Natac looked across the front of his army, and knew that the Goddess-or someone-was granting them a unique opportunity. The newcomers were attacking the enemy rear, throwing the large army into utter confusion.
“Bugler-sound the charge!” he cried.
And the Nayvian army surged forward.
D arann and Belynda moved silently through a narrow corridor. The commotion from the rooms beyond was as loud as ever, Delvers and Crusaders hastening to take up defensive positions, to prevent the new attackers from entering the pavilion. Already they could hear the clash of weapons, the shouts of battle as savage melees raged to all sides. A dozen steps later the two women reached a wooden screen which gave them the chance to see into the main hall.
Zystyl’s voice rose above the din, shouting orders, calling for reinforcements at the gate. They could see him standing on a table, directing troops this way and that, sometimes calling out his orders, other times conveying commands with those bizarre nonverbal thoughts. Many giants hastened to follow an order in response to the arcane’s gesture, and Darann shook her head. “I’m astonished they’ll obey him!”
