meandering stream, marked a shiny ribbon in the center of this verdant lowland.
If he could reach that river, and if he found the druids there, they might just have a chance.
The sailboats of the Metalfleet, those that survived the frenzied battle with the armada, had withdrawn into the harbor. Less than five hundred hulls gathered in the placid water, and nearly all of these were scorched from the fight, gashed and gouged, with torn sails and grimy, soot-stained surfaces.
But at least they were alive.
Roland Boatwright gathered with his captains on the shore. Crazy Horse was here, as well as Richard Rudolph and the elfmaid, Sirien Saramayd. The Sioux chief was despondent, reporting that his druid and lover, Cloudwalking Moon, had perished in the fight. “I killed the bastard who stabbed her, but there was naught I could do for her,” he said, his eyes filled with tears. “Brendal was there in a moment, using her druid’s healing magic, but even she was too late.”
“I am sorry, my friend,” said Roland. “All we can do now is to seek revenge, so that she has not died in vain.”
“Aye,” agreed Crazy Horse. His eyes were suddenly dry, and the boatbuilder sensed that desire for vengeance already burning there.
“The invaders have moved inland,” Roland reported. “We can’t affect them with our boats, but we have five hundred druids and more than a thousand warriors here. This is too valuable a force to waste.”
“I agree,” said Rudolph. “We gave them a jolly good rush, but it wasn’t enough. So where do we go from here?”
“Let’s march to Circle at Center,” Crazy Horse said. “I think that’s where the next fight will be.”
“Aye,” Roland agreed. “And if we lose that one, there will be no more.”
This was already the worst war Awfulbark had ever seen, and it wasn’t about to get any better. These horrible fighters were tearing his trolls to pieces, and every time the king’s warriors killed one, it seemed that three or four lunged forward to take the place of the slain one. The battle had raged for more than a day, and still the black ships pulled up and disgorged more attackers.
“Come this way!” he shouted. “Get away!”
Every instinct of his being urged him to lead the way, to turn tail and run as fast as he could toward… well, it wouldn’t be so much toward something as it was away from here. His sword arm was weary, and his body ached in a dozen places where his flesh had been pierced by spear or sword and was slow to knit itself under these frantic conditions.
But there were others, including Roodcleaver, who were far worse off than the king, so Awfulbark resolved to stay and fight long enough for the rest of his fellows to get away.
“Run!” he urged Roodcleaver, who was sinking her teeth into the throat of a squirming ghost warrior. Her right arm had grown back, but the king winced to see the red slash across her back, the deep cut still bleeding. “Take trolls away from here!”
He seized her shoulder and pulled her away, slashing his blade down onto the head of an attacking Hoplite who lunged after. She blinked at him, but then bobbed her head and took up his call. “Run! Come away!” she brayed.
One by one the trolls fell back from the line until they were streaming away from the beach. The attackers charged forward, rushing past him on both sides. Awfulbark was nearly surrounded, but he hacked his way through a dozen primitive spearmen, leaving all of them torn, bleeding their ghost blood into the ground. Only then did he lope after the rest of the trolls, hearing the ghastly wails rising from the horde behind him.
Fortunately, his own warriors were much faster than the attackers, and in a short time the mob of fleeing trolls had put more than a mile between themselves and their enemy. Furthermore, they were capable of great feats of endurance. Awfulbark knew they could run all night and through the next Lighten, if they needed to. He was grateful, for he guessed that it would take him at least that long to figure out what to do next.
He was spared this decision making as the shadows thickened and the sun was already well advanced on its nightly ascent into the heavens. He heard a buzz of wings and turned to see a small faerie flying along beside him and eyeing him warily.
“What you want?” he asked, loping along at the rear of his army.
“I bring word from General Natac,” said the faerie. “Keep going toward the Center, away from the sea. He wants you to do your best to get to the Swansleep River.”
“The Swansleep River?” snorted the troll, not having the faintest idea where this body of water could be found. “We try to make it to river-but first, we gotta make it through the night.”
Miradel was in the temple when she heard the horn. She ran out onto the plaza, saw that Darken was well advanced, and discovered druids streaming from the Grove, from the gardens around the lake, and from the loom. They were coming to gather around Cillia, who stood in the circle of stones and once again sounded the horn.
“What does this mean?” Shandira made her way through the crowd and whispered the question into Miradel’s ear.
“A general alarm,” she replied. “Cillia will tell us more. But look-the enchantresses are coming from the College. This is something unusual.”
As the throng of white-robed elven sages mingled with the druids in their colorful tunics, Miradel spotted Belynda and, with Shandira in tow, made her way to her friend.
“There must be word from Natac,” the sage-ambassador told the two druids. “Quilene warned us to be ready for this.”
“What have you seen of him-in your Globe?” asked Miradel. “And of Tamarwind?”
“They are well,” Belynda replied, “insofar as they have survived the battle on the beaches. But the attackers were too many; the elves have fallen back through the hills. The gnomes, I am sorry to say, were not so fortunate.”
Miradel felt a rush of guilt for, in that moment of brutal honesty, the fate of the army meant much less to her than the safety of her lover. But in another instant she acknowledged the despair brought about by the dire situation. If the Deathlord’s horde was unstoppable, how much longer could Natac, or anyone else on Nayve, hope to survive?
“Druids and sages,” Cillia declared, commanding in her position in the center of the ring. Immediately the gathered throng fell silent. “Our efforts are needed in this new war, at the Swansleep River. General Natac has sent a messenger… a not-unexpected summons, to be sure. Sages, we will need you to generate the teleports. We will use the whirlpools in the garden. Druids, the hundred of you that I have spoken to about this plan: make yourselves ready for war. We depart with the first glimmer of Lighten.”
Immediately there was murmuring among the gathered druids, knowing looks between the sages. Such a mass teleport was not unprecedented, but it was a very complicated undertaking, requiring careful coordination and a great concentration of magic. Everyone had much to do, and quickly the group broke up as individuals and pairs went about their tasks.
Miradel turned to Belynda. “You knew about this plan?” said the druid. “You are helping with the teleport spell?”
“Why, yes,” replied the sage-ambassador. “We were told that it might be necessary. But you didn’t know?”
“My work is here, in the temple; there was no need to inform me,” Miradel said. She glanced at Shandira before turning back to Belynda. “But listen, I need you to do us a favor.”
“Of course.”
“You must send the two of us tonight, when the great teleport spell is cast.”
“But your place is here, isn’t it? Why do you want to go to the Swansleep River?”
“My place… I am still trying to find it,” Miradel said. “As is Shandira. But I have concluded that place is not here. We can do good work elsewhere.”
“But there are a hundred druids, all practiced in the art of water and wind magic, going to serve at the river. Why must you join them?”
“I never said I was joining them,” Miradel answered, lowering her voice and meeting the elfwoman’s eyes directly. “I want you to send us someplace else altogether.”
“Where is that?” Belynda looked a little alarmed, which didn’t surprise her old friend.
“Later,” said the druid. “I will tell you when we come here for the spell casting.”
