“I saw the way you clenched your fists, tightened your jaw, when the picture was upon him. Also the way many other druids looked in your direction, quickly and secretly, when the picture moved to him.”
“You are right. I love him very much… have loved him for more than four hundred years.”
“You brought him here, with your Spell of Summoning?”
“I did, though it cost me my youth. And I had no regrets. It was the mercy of the goddess that I returned to earth and lived through seven more lives there, before again returning to Nayve in this young woman’s body.”
“But if your goddess was to command you to give yourself to another, to work the magic to bring a warrior here, you would do so?”
Miradel stared at Shandira, astounded by the question-and by the rush of outrage that arose within her at the thought of giving herself to another man. “I told you… one druid can only summon one warrior. Natac is my warrior,” she said, sensing the evasion even as she tried to sound decisive.
“That is no answer.” The black woman’s tone was not accusing, but blunt. “Anyway, I know the answer: you would not. Because you love this man, and the love you share is a treasure. Can you not know this about me: the love I hold for my Savior is as precious, or more, to me. I cannot betray it by performing this carnal act!”
“Even though you know that Savior, the promise of Heaven and the threat of Hell, are myths, created by humans to explain that which they did not know? Cannot you see that this is real, here… the truth lies with the Worldweaver, at the Center of Everything? Do you deny the existence of Nayve?”
Shandira shook her head sadly. “My faith has been shaken in so many ways, yet I feel that it is all I have left. Perhaps this is a test of that faith… a temptation to deny the real truth.” She raised her head, looked at Miradel from beneath that great mane of hair, then extended a hand and placed it on the shorter woman’s shoulder. “I believe that there is evil here, just as there was upon earth. And I will devote myself to fighting that evil. But I cannot do it in the way you ask. Is there not some other means with which I may wage my battle?”
Miradel felt those strong fingers squeeze her shoulder, and she was surprised by the comfort she derived from that touch. She placed her own hand over Shandira’s and nodded, watching the druids in the garden start filing back into the viewing chamber. “There will be a way,” she promised. “I don’t know what it is, but we will find it.”
T HE coast of the Blue Coral Sea was obscured by smoke, a thick dark cloud that rolled from the water onto the land, stinging the eyes and nostrils of the elves arrayed above the beaches. Tamarwind Trak stood on the highest sand dune, a wet kerchief pulled across his face in an effort to alleviate the pain of each breath. One eye was closed, the other pressed to the viewpiece of a telescope.
“I can’t see any more of our boats,” he said grimly to Gallupper.
With an angry snort, the centaur pawed one of his fore-hooves through the sandy ground. “It was as brave an attack as I’ve ever seen or imagined,” he said, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. “They deserved a better fate.”
“Just because I can’t see them doesn’t mean that no one escaped,” the elf demurred hopefully.
In truth, however, there was little hope. The two arms of the armada had simply been too large, hundreds of ships surging in front of Fritzi Koeppler’s wing, blocking the advance even as the fire-bolts tore through their hulls. The valiant warriors and druids had found themselves trapped by fiery wreckage before them as well as offshore, while land itself blocked flight toward the center. Thus, when the death ships had surged around behind the wing of druid boats, the Prussian’s vessels had no route of escape.
For more than two hours Tam had watched the black ships closing in. He lost count of how many had burned, but even this had been a vain tactic: the flaming ships of the enemy had been blown right into the mass of sailboats as the defenders had been packed into tighter and tighter quarters. At last, the entire surface of the sea was obscured by smoke, broken only by bright plumes of crackling fire.
“I don’t see how any of them could have survived,” the elf said, his words hushed by awe.
“But they have managed to buy us some time,” the centaur pointed out. He indicated behind them, where a long column of warriors-centaurs, giants, and elves-was marching into view, pouring out of the gap between two mountain ridges. “And that will allow us to give them a real pounding, once they try to land.”
“I lost a hundred or more boats before pulling back,” Crazy Horse announced grimly. “There were too many death ships; I could not break through to Fritzi’s wing, though we charged four times. They have coordination and tactics, these ghost warriors, for they closed ranks to prevent our advance and paid no heed to the numbers they lost-five hundred ships ablaze, just in the last hour.”
“They are well led, it seems,” Natac noted, not surprised by the observation. Even so, it was a chilling realization, for he couldn’t imagine the nature of the enemy general.
“But by the goddess, what a blow,” the Sioux warrior continued, his eyes moist. “To hear that Fritzi’s fleet perished to the last vessel! Even that Prussian-I thought he would live forever!”
“He fought and died as well as any man could,” Natac replied. “I saw it from the sky. He had a death ship to either side, ghosts swarming onto his deck. Faerwind wielded a sword like a master, guarding his back while he launched volleys from his two batteries, canister blasts into the hulls rising up to either side of him. Only then did he fall, and the druid perished on top of him-but not before the black ship to each side was engulfed by flame.”
Darken had come to the warriors gathered on the wide beach. A large bonfire, fueled by driftwood, illuminated a ring of grim-faced men and women. Dick Rudolph was here with his druid, Christina, who stood beside Cloudwalking Moon, the windcaster for the Sioux’s boat. Tamarwind Trak had ridden Gallupper to the meeting on the beach, and now the lanky elf stood beside the grim-faced centaur. Roland Boatwright and Sirien Saramayd were also in the circle, while Regillix Avatar was coiled on the dunes above the beach, extending his long neck so that his crocodilian face loomed just above the conference.
“And the armada?” asked Roland. “Will they wait for Lighten to move in?”
“We saw a dozen death ships crash on the reefs,” Natac reported, “and then the rest of them drew back. I think we have until morning.”
“We have ten thousand elves of Argentian entrenched above the beaches,” Tamarwind offered. “All the batteries in the centaur arsenal are there in support, and we have two regiments of giants held in reserve, ready to strike at the first sign of a breakthrough.”
“Then we need to make another attack at first light,” Rudolph said. “Follow up on Fritzi’s blow, wreck as many of them as we can.”
“I agree,” Natac said, “though I will not order such an assault. Whatever gains are made must surely be offset by another day of grievous losses.”
“We have a lot of strength on the beach,” Tam reminded them. “You can let them land, and we’ll try to stop them at the water’s edge.”
“We’re here to fight,” Cloudwalking Moon said. She was a plump, round-faced woman of bronze brown skin, like Crazy Horse, of Native American heritage. Her ancestors had dwelled among the Nez Perce tribe. “No point in standing back now, when the issue will be decided. If we perish, we know we give ourselves to a great cause.”
“I think we are all agreed on that,” Christina said, her head held high. “We are here, and we can hurt them. No matter the cost, we need to strike, and strike hard.”
Natac had a hard time speaking, so tight was his throat. He loved these warriors and druids, loved them all with a passion that he could not even begin to comprehend. It grieved him to know that, tomorrow, so many of them would die. But he also knew that Christina and Cloudwalking Moon were right: there was nothing for it but to continue the battle, no matter what the cost.
“You have the admiration and respect of all Nayve,” he said thickly. “Try to get a good night’s rest; then do what you have to do tomorrow.
T HE druid boats came on in two waves, white sails aloft, magical winds propelling the sleek hulls through the coast waters. When the first rank drew close to the fringe of the armada they began to shoot, and once again the heavy steel fire-bolts wreaked havoc on the black ships of the Deathlord. One after another of the ghost-crewed ships burst into flame, breaking apart, sinking, or careening wildly as the small, nimble sailboats darted between them and drove deep into the crowded seas at the great fleet’s heart.
Natac and Regillix flew overhead, knowing there could be no retreat, not anymore. This time they would have to press home the attack, inflict as much damage as they could. The serpent tightened his wings, arrowing toward the skies over the armada.
Again the harpies sallied forth, a great squawking formation in the sky. This time, the serpent had a new
